Alastair

Reynolds

The Revelation

Space

Collection

Praise for Alastair Reynolds:

‘Alastair Reynolds is a name to watch. Mixing shades of Banks and Gibson with gigatons of originality’    Guardian

‘Intensely compelling; darkly intelligent; hugely ambitious’    Paul McAuley

‘Reynold's narrative is truly breathtaking in scope and intricate in detail, making him a mastersinger of the space opera’    The Times

‘When word of mouth builds up the head of steam that Reynolds's massive SF epic has created, attention needs to be paid. Like many of the best novels in the hard SF genre, the span here is mindboggling, with a comprehensively realised protagonist’    Good Book Guide

‘[Alastair Reynolds] has a genius for big-concept SF’    Publishers Weekly

‘Dark, gothic and graphic, with tightly composed narratives full of shocks and jaw-dropping moments’    BBC Focus

‘Reynolds is currently the best exponent of this “Sense of Wonder” school.’    Daily Telegraph

‘Alastair Reynolds occupies the same frenzied imaginative space as Philip K. Dick or A. E. Van Vogt’    M. John Harrison, Guardian

‘He is taking the stuff of space opera and making it into something new … the most exciting space opera writer working today’    Locus

Alastair Reynolds was born in Barry, South Wales, in 1966, and studied at Newcastle and St Andrews Universities. He has a Ph.D. in astronomy and works part-time as an astrophysicist for the European Space Agency. His ‘Revelation Space’ series, Revelation Space, shortlisted for the Arthur C. Clarke and the BSFA Awards, Redemption Ark and Absolution Gap, shortlisted for the British Science Fiction Award, and his SF thrillers, Chasm City, winner of the British Science Fiction Award, and Century Rain, are all Gollancz bestsellers.

Also by Alastair Reynolds from Gollancz:

Chasm City

Revelation Space

Redemption Ark

Absolution Gap

Century Rain

Pushing Ice

Diamond Dogs, Turquoise Days

Galactic North

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Praise for Alastair Reynolds

About the Author

Also By Alastair Reynolds

Revelation Space

Chasm City

Redemption Ark

Absolution Gap

Diamond Dogs, Turquoise Days

Galactic North

The Prefect

Copyright

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Praise for Alastair Reynolds

About the Author

Also By Alastair Reynolds

Revelation Space

Cover

Title Page

Contents

ONE - Mantell Sector, North Nekhebet, Resurgam, Delta Pavonis system, 2551

TWO - Aboard a lighthugger, interstellar space, 2543

THREE - Cuvier, Resurgam, 2561

FOUR - Carousel New Brazilia, Yellowstone, Epsilon Eridani, 2546

FIVE - Carousel New Brazilia, Yellowstone, Epsilon Eridani, 2546

SIX - En Route to Delta Pavonis, 2546

SEVEN - En Route to Delta Pavonis, 2546

EIGHT - En Route to Delta Pavonis, 2546

NINE - Mantell, North Nekhebet, Resurgam, 2566

TEN - Approaching Delta Pavonis, 2564

ELEVEN - Approaching Delta Pavonis, 2565

TWELVE - Sky’s Edge, 61 Cygni-A, 2483 (simulated)

THIRTEEN - Resurgam Orbit, 2566

FOURTEEN - Mantell, North Nekhebet, Resurgam, 2566

FIFTEEN - Mantell, North Nekhebet, 2566

SIXTEEN - North Nekhebet, 2566

SEVENTEEN - Rendezvous Point, Resurgam, 2566

EIGHTEEN - Resurgam Orbit, 2566

NINETEEN - Delta Pavonis system, 2566

TWENTY - Approaching Cerberus/Hades, 2566

TWENTY-ONE - Approaching Cerberus/Hades, 2566

TWENTY-TWO - Cerberus/Hades Orbit, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-THREE - Cerberus/Hades Orbit, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-FOUR - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-FIVE - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-SIX - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-SEVEN - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-EIGHT - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-NINE - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

THIRTY - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

THIRTY-ONE - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

THIRTY-TWO - Approaching Cerberus Surface, 2566

THIRTY-THREE - Cerberus/Hades Orbit, 2566

THIRTY-FOUR - Cerberus/Hades Orbit, 2566

THIRTY-FIVE - Cerberus, Interior, 2567

THIRTY-SIX - Cerberus/Hades Orbit, 2567

THIRTY-SEVEN - Cerberus Interior, 2567

THIRTY-EIGHT - Cerberus Interior, 2567

THIRTY-NINE - Cerberus Interior, Final Chamber, 2567

Chasm City

Cover

Title Page

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

Redemption Ark

Cover

Title Page

Contents

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

EPILOGUE

Absolution Gap

Cover

Title Page

Contents

Dedication

PROLOGUE

ONE - Ararat, p Eridani A System, 2675

TWO - Lighthugger Gnostic Ascension, Interstellar Space, 2615

THREE - Lighthugger Gnostic Ascension, Interstellar Space, 2615

FOUR - Ararat, 2675

FIVE - Ararat, 2675

SIX - Ararat, 2675

SEVEN - Approaching Hela, 2615

EIGHT - Hela, 2727

NINE - Hela Surface, 2615

TEN - Hela, 2615

ELEVEN - Hela, 2727

TWELVE - Hela, 2727

THIRTEEN - Ararat, 2675

FOURTEEN - Ararat, 2675

FIFTEEN - Ararat, 2675

SIXTEEN - Ararat, 2675

SEVENTEEN - Hela, 2727

EIGHTEEN - Ararat, 2675

NINETEEN - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY - Hela, 2727

TWENTY-ONE - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY-TWO - p Eridani 40, 2675

TWENTY-THREE - Hela, 2727

TWENTY-FOUR - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY-FIVE - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY-SIX - Hela, 2727

TWENTY-SEVEN - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY-EIGHT - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY-NINE - Ararat, 2675

THIRTY - Ararat, 2675

THIRTY-ONE - Near Ararat, 2675

THIRTY-TWO - Hela, 2727

THIRTY-THREE - Near Ararat, 2675

THIRTY-FOUR - Interstellar Space, Near p Eridani 40, 2675

THIRTY-FIVE - Hela, 2727

THIRTY-SIX - Interstellar Space, Near Epsilon Eridani, 2698

THIRTY-SEVEN - Interstellar Space, Epsilon Eridani, 2698

THIRTY-EIGHT - Hela, 2727

THIRTY-NINE - Hela Surface, 2727

FORTY - Hela Surface, 2727

FORTY-ONE - Hela, 2727

FORTY-TWO - Hela, 2727

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

EPILOGUE

Diamond Dogs, Turquoise Days

Cover

Title Page

Contents

Dedication

DIAMOND DOGS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

TURQUOISE DAYS

ONE

TWO

THREE

Galactic North

Cover

Title Page

Contents

Dedication

GREAT WALL OF MARS

GLACIAL

A SPY IN EUROPA

WEATHER

DILATION SLEEP

GRAFENWALDER’S BESTIARY

NIGHTINGALE

GALACTIC NORTH

AFTERWORD

The Prefect

Cover

Title Page

Contents

Dedication

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

Copyright

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Contents

ONE - Mantell Sector, North Nekhebet, Resurgam, Delta Pavonis system, 2551

TWO - Aboard a lighthugger, interstellar space, 2543

THREE - Cuvier, Resurgam, 2561

FOUR - Carousel New Brazilia, Yellowstone, Epsilon Eridani, 2546

FIVE - Carousel New Brazilia, Yellowstone, Epsilon Eridani, 2546

SIX - En Route to Delta Pavonis, 2546

SEVEN - En Route to Delta Pavonis, 2546

EIGHT - En Route to Delta Pavonis, 2546

NINE - Mantell, North Nekhebet, Resurgam, 2566

TEN - Approaching Delta Pavonis, 2564

ELEVEN - Approaching Delta Pavonis, 2565

TWELVE - Sky’s Edge, 61 Cygni-A, 2483 (simulated)

THIRTEEN - Resurgam Orbit, 2566

FOURTEEN - Mantell, North Nekhebet, Resurgam, 2566

FIFTEEN - Mantell, North Nekhebet, 2566

SIXTEEN - North Nekhebet, 2566

SEVENTEEN - Rendezvous Point, Resurgam, 2566

EIGHTEEN - Resurgam Orbit, 2566

NINETEEN - Delta Pavonis system, 2566

TWENTY - Approaching Cerberus/Hades, 2566

TWENTY-ONE - Approaching Cerberus/Hades, 2566

TWENTY-TWO - Cerberus/Hades Orbit, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-THREE - Cerberus/Hades Orbit, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-FOUR - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-FIVE - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-SIX - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-SEVEN - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-EIGHT - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-NINE - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

THIRTY - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

THIRTY-ONE - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

THIRTY-TWO - Approaching Cerberus Surface, 2566

THIRTY-THREE - Cerberus/Hades Orbit, 2566

THIRTY-FOUR - Cerberus/Hades Orbit, 2566

THIRTY-FIVE - Cerberus, Interior, 2567

THIRTY-SIX - Cerberus/Hades Orbit, 2567

THIRTY-SEVEN - Cerberus Interior, 2567

THIRTY-EIGHT - Cerberus Interior, 2567

THIRTY-NINE - Cerberus Interior, Final Chamber, 2567

ONE

Mantell Sector, North Nekhebet, Resurgam, Delta Pavonis system, 2551

There was a razorstorm coming in.

Sylveste stood on the edge of the excavation and wondered if any of his labours would survive the night. The archaeological dig was an array of deep square shafts separated by baulks of sheer-sided soil: the classical Wheeler box-grid. The shafts went down tens of metres, walled by transparent cofferdams spun from hyperdiamond. A million years of stratified geological history pressed against the sheets. But it would take only one good dustfall - one good razorstorm - to fill the shafts almost to the surface.

‘Confirmation, sir,’ said one of his team, emerging from the crouched form of the first crawler. The man’s voice was muffled behind his breather mask. ‘Cuvier’s just issued a severe weather advisory for the whole North Nekhebet landmass. They’re advising all surface teams to return to the nearest base.’

‘You’re saying we should pack up and drive back to Mantell?’

‘It’s going to be a hard one, sir.’ The man fidgeted, drawing the collar of his jacket tighter around his neck. ‘Shall I issue the general evacuation order?’

Sylveste looked down at the excavation grid, the sides of each shaft brightly lit by the banks of floodlights arrayed around the area. Pavonis never got high enough at these latitudes to provide much useful illumination; now, sinking towards the horizon and clotted by great cauls of dust, it was little more than a rusty-red smear, hard for his eyes to focus on. Soon dust devils would come, scurrying across the Ptero Steppes like so many overwound toy gyroscopes. Then the main thrust of the storm, rising like a black anvil.

‘No,’ he said. ‘There’s no need for us to leave. We’re well sheltered here - there’s hardly any erosion pattering on those boulders, in case you hadn’t noticed. If the storm becomes too harsh, we’ll shelter in the crawlers.’

The man looked at the rocks, shaking his head as if doubting the evidence of his ears. ‘Sir, Cuvier only issue an advisory of this severity once every year or two - it’s an order of magnitude above anything we’ve experienced before.’

‘Speak for yourself,’ Sylveste said, noticing the way the man’s gaze snapped involuntarily to his eyes and then off again, embarrassed. ‘Listen to me. We cannot afford to abandon this dig. Do you understand?’

The man looked back at the grid. ‘We can protect what we’ve uncovered with sheeting, sir. Then bury transponders. Even if the dust covers every shaft, we’ll be able to find the site again and get back to where we are now.’ Behind his dust goggles, the man’s eyes were wild, beseeching. ‘When we return, we can put a dome over the whole grid. Wouldn’t that be the best, sir, rather than risk people and equipment out here?’

Sylveste took a step closer to the man, forcing him to step back towards the grid’s closest shaft. ‘You’re to do the following. Inform all dig teams that they carry on working until I say otherwise, and that there is to be no talk of retreating to Mantell. Meanwhile, I want only the most sensitive instruments taken aboard the crawlers. Is that understood?’

‘But what about people, sir?’

‘People are to do what they came out here to do. Dig.’

Sylveste stared reproachfully at the man, almost inviting him to question the order, but after a long moment of hesitation the man turned on his heels and scurried across the grid, navigating the tops of the baulks with practised ease. Spaced around the grid like down-pointed cannon, the delicate imaging gravitometers swayed slightly as the wind began to increase.

Sylveste waited, then followed a similar path, deviating when he was a few boxes into the grid. Near the centre of the excavation, four boxes had been enlarged into one single slab-sided pit, thirty metres from side to side and nearly as deep. Sylveste stepped onto the ladder which led into the pit and moved quickly down the side. He had made the journey up and down this ladder so many times in the last few weeks that the lack of vertigo was almost more disturbing than the thing itself. Moving down the cofferdam’s side, he descended through layers of geological time. Nine hundred thousand years had passed since the Event. Most of that stratification was permafrost - typical in Resurgam’s subpolar latitudes; permanent frost-soil which never thawed. Deeper down - close to the Event itself - was a layer of regolith laid down in the impacts which had followed. The Event itself was a single, hair-fine black demarcation - the ash of burning forests.

The floor of the pit was not level, but followed narrowing steps down to a final depth of forty metres below the surface. Extra floods had been brought down to shine light into the gloom. The cramped area was a fantastical hive of activity, and within the shelter of the pit there was no trace of the wind. The dig team was working in near-silence, kneeling on the ground on mats, working away at something with tools so precise they might have served for surgery in another era. Three were young students from Cuvier - born on Resurgam. A servitor skulked beside them awaiting orders. Though machines had their uses during a dig’s early phases, the final work could never be entirely trusted to them. Next to the party a woman sat with a compad balanced on her lap, displaying a cladistic map of Amarantin skulls. She saw Sylveste for the first time - he had climbed quietly - and stood up with a start, snapping shut the compad. She wore a greatcoat, her black hair cut in a geometric fringe across her brow.

‘Well, you were right,’ she said. ‘Whatever it is, it’s big. And it looks amazingly well-preserved, too.’

‘Any theories, Pascale?’

‘That’s where you come in, isn’t it? I’m just here to offer commentary.’ Pascale Dubois was a young journalist from Cuvier. She had been covering the dig since its inception, often dirtying her fingers with the real archaeologists, learning their cant. ‘The bodies are gruesome, though, aren’t they? Even though they’re alien, it’s almost as if you can feel their pain.’

To one side of the pit, just before the floor stepped down, they had unearthed two stone-lined burial chambers. Despite being buried for nine hundred thousand years - at the very least - the chambers were almost intact, with the bones inside still assuming a rough anatomical relationship to one another. They were typical Amarantin skeletons. At first glance - to anyone who happened not to be a trained anthropologist - they could have passed as human remains, for the creatures had been four-limbed bipeds of roughly human size, with a superficially similar bone-structure. Skull volume was comparable, and the organs of sense, breathing and communication were situated in analogous positions. But the skulls of both Amarantin were elongated and birdlike, with a prominent cranial ridge which extended forwards between the voluminous eye-sockets, down to the tip of the beaklike upper jaw. The bones were covered here and there by a skein of tanned, desiccated tissue which had served to contort the bodies, drawing them - or so it seemed - into agonised postures. They were not fossils in the usual sense: no mineralisation had taken place, and the burial chambers had remained empty except for the bones and the handful of technomic artefacts with which they had been buried.

‘Perhaps,’ Sylveste said, reaching down and touching one of the skulls, ‘we were meant to think that.’

‘No,’ Pascale said. ‘As the tissue dried, it distorted them.’

‘Unless they were buried like this.’

Feeling the skull through his gloves - they transmitted tactile data to his fingertips - he was reminded of a yellow room high in Chasm City, with aquatints of methane icescapes on the walls. There had been liveried servitors moving through the guests with sweetmeats and liqueurs; drapes of coloured crêpe spanning the belvedered ceiling; the air bright with sickly entoptics in the current vogue: seraphim, cherubim, hummingbirds, fairies. He remembered guests: most of them associates of the family; people he either barely recognised or detested, for his friends had been few in number. His father had been late as usual; the party already winding down by the time Calvin deigned to show up. This was normal then; the time of Calvin’s last and greatest project, and the realisation of it was in itself a slow death; no less so than the suicide he would bring upon himself at the project’s culmination.

He remembered his father producing a box, its sides bearing a marquetry of entwined ribonucleic strands.

‘Open it,’ Calvin had said.

He remembered taking it; feeling its lightness. He had snatched the top off to reveal a bird’s nest of fibrous packing material. Within was a speckled brown dome the same colour as the box. It was the upper part of a skull, obviously human, with the jaw missing.

He remembered a silence falling across the room.

‘Is that all?’ Sylveste had said, just loud enough so that everyone in the room heard it. ‘An old bone? Well, thanks, Dad. I’m humbled.’

‘As well you should be,’ Calvin said.

And the trouble was, as Sylveste had realised almost immediately, Calvin was right. The skull was incredibly valuable; two hundred thousand years old - a woman from Atapuerca, Spain, he soon learned. Her time of death had been obvious enough from the context in which she was buried, but the scientists who had unearthed her had refined the estimate using the best techniques of their day: potassium-argon dating of the rocks in the cave where she’d been buried, uranium-series dating of travertine deposits on the walls, fission-track dating of volcanic glasses, thermoluminescence dating of burnt flint fragments. They were techniques which - with improvements in calibration and application - remained in use among the dig teams on Resurgam. Physics allowed only so many methods to date objects. Sylveste should have seen all that in an instant and recognised the skull for what it was: the oldest human object on Yellowstone, carried to the Epsilon Eridani system centuries earlier, and then lost during the colony’s upheavals. Calvin’s unearthing of it was a small miracle in itself.

Yet the flush of shame he felt stemmed less from ingratitude than from the way he had allowed his ignorance to unmask itself, when it could have been so easily concealed. It was a weakness he would never allow himself again. Years later, the skull had travelled with him to Resurgam, to remind him always of that vow.

He could not fail now.

‘If what you’re implying is the case,’ Pascale said, ‘then they must have been buried like that for a reason.’

‘Maybe as a warning,’ Sylveste said, and stepped down towards the three students.

‘I was afraid you might say something like that,’ Pascale said, following him. ‘And what exactly might this terrible warning have concerned?’

Her question was largely rhetorical, as Sylveste well knew. She understood exactly what he believed about the Amarantin. She also seemed to enjoy needling him about those beliefs; as if by forcing him to state them repeatedly, she might eventually cause him to expose some logical error in his own theories; one that even he would have to admit undermined the whole argument.

‘The Event,’ Sylveste said, fingering the fine black line behind the nearest cofferdam as he spoke.

‘The Event happened to the Amarantin,’ Pascale said. ‘It wasn’t anything they had any say in. And it happened quickly, too. They didn’t have time to go about burying bodies in dire warning, even if they’d had any idea about what was happening to them.’

‘They angered the gods,’ Sylveste said.

‘Yes,’ Pascale said. ‘I think we all agree that they would have interpreted the Event as evidence of theistic displeasure, within the constraints of their belief system - but there wouldn’t have been time to express that belief in any permanent form before they all died, much less bury bodies for the benefit of future archaeologists from a different species.’ She lifted her hood over her head and tightened the drawstring - fine plumes of dust were starting to settle down into the pit, and the air was no longer as still as it had been a few minutes earlier. ‘But you don’t think so, do you?’ Without waiting for an answer, she fixed a large pair of bulky goggles over her eyes, momentarily disturbing the edge of her fringe, and looked down at the object which was slowly being uncovered.

Pascale’s goggles accessed data from the imaging gravitometers stationed around the Wheeler grid, overlaying the stereoscopic picture of buried masses on the normal view. Sylveste had only to instruct his eyes to do likewise. The ground on which they were standing turned glassy, insubstantial - a smoky matrix in which something huge lay entombed. It was an obelisk - a single huge block of shaped rock, itself encased in a series of stone sarcophagi. The obelisk was twenty metres tall. The dig had exposed only a few centimetres of the top. There was evidence of writing down one side, in one of the standard late-phase Amarantin graphicforms. But the imaging gravitometers lacked the spatial resolution to reveal the text. The obelisk would have to be dug out before they could learn anything.

Sylveste told his eyes to return to normal vision. ‘Work faster,’ he told his students. ‘I don’t care if you incur minor abrasions to the surface. I want at least a metre of it visible by the end of tonight.’

One of the students turned to him, still kneeling. ‘Sir, we heard the dig would have to be abandoned.’

‘Why on earth would I abandon a dig?’

‘The storm, sir.’

‘Damn the storm.’ He was turning away when Pascale took his arm, a little too roughly.

‘They’re right to be worried, Dan.’ She spoke quietly, for his benefit alone. ‘I heard about that advisory, too. We should be heading back toward Mantell.’

‘And lose this?’

‘We’ll come back again.’

‘We might never find it, even if we bury a transponder.’ He knew he was right: the position of the dig was uncertain and maps of this area were not particularly detailed; compiled quickly when the Lorean had made orbit from Yellowstone forty years earlier. Ever since the comsat girdle had been destroyed in the mutiny, twenty years later - when half the colonists elected to steal the ship and return home - there had been no accurate way of determining position on Resurgam. And many a transponder had simply failed in a razorstorm.

‘It’s still not worth risking human lives for,’ Pascale said.

‘It might be worth much more than that.’ He snapped a finger at the students. ‘Faster. Use the servitor if you must. I want to see the top of that obelisk by dawn.’

Sluka, his senior research student, muttered a word under her breath.

‘Something to contribute?’ Sylveste asked.

Sluka stood for what must have been the first time in hours. He could see the tension in her eyes. The little spatula she had been using dropped on the ground, beside the mukluks she wore on her feet. She snatched the mask away from her face, breathing Resurgam air for a few seconds while she spoke. ‘We need to talk.’

‘About what, Sluka?’

Sluka gulped down air from the mask before speaking again. ‘You’re pushing your luck, Dr Sylveste.’

‘You’ve just pushed yours over the precipice.’

She seemed not to have heard him. ‘We care about your work, you know. We share your beliefs. That’s why we’re here, breaking our backs for you. But you shouldn’t take us for granted.’ Her eyes flashed white arcs, glancing towards Pascale. ‘Right now you need all the allies you can find, Dr Sylveste.’

‘That’s a threat, is it?’

‘A statement of fact. If you paid more attention to what was going on elsewhere in the colony, you’d know that Girardieau’s planning to move against you. The word is that move’s a hell of a lot closer than you think.’

The back of his neck prickled. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘What else? A coup.’ Sluka pushed past him to ascend the ladder up the side of the pit. When she had a foot on the first rung, she turned back and addressed the other two students, both minding their own business, heads down in concentration as they worked to reveal the obelisk. ‘Work for as long as you want, but don’t say no one warned you. And if you’ve any doubts as to what being caught in a razorstorm is like, take a look at Sylveste.’

One of the students looked up, timidly. ‘Where are you going, Sluka?’

‘To speak to the other dig teams. Not everyone may know about that advisory. When they hear, I don’t think many of them will be in any hurry to stay.’

She started climbing, but Sylveste reached up and grabbed the heel of her mukluk. Sluka looked down at him. She was wearing the mask now, but Sylveste could still see the contempt in her expression. ‘You’re finished, Sluka.’

‘No,’ she said, climbing. ‘I’ve just begun. It’s you I’d worry about.’

Sylveste examined his own state of mind and found - it was the last thing he had expected - total calm. But it was like the calm that existed on the metallic hydrogen oceans of the gas giant planets further out from Pavonis - only maintained by crushing pressures from above and below.

‘Well?’ Pascale said.

‘There’s someone I need to talk to,’ Sylveste said.

Sylveste climbed the ramp into his crawler. The other was crammed with equipment racks and sample containers, with hammocks for his students pressed into the tiny niches of unoccupied space. They had to sleep aboard the machines because some of the digs in the sector - like this one - were over a day’s travel from Mantell itself. Sylveste’s crawler was considerably better appointed, with over a third of the interior dedicated to his own stateroom and quarters. The rest of the machine was taken up with additional payload space and a couple of more modest quarters for his senior workers or guests: in this case Sluka and Pascale. Now, however, he had the whole crawler to himself.

The stateroom’s décor belied the fact that it was aboard a crawler. It was walled in red velvet, the shelves dotted with facsimile scientific instruments and relics. There were large, elegantly annotated Mercator maps of Resurgam dotted with the sites of major Amarantin finds; other areas of wall were covered in slowly updating texts: academic papers in preparation. His own beta-level was doing most of the scut-work on the papers now; Sylveste had trained the simulation to the point where it could imitate his style more reliably than he could, given the current distractions. Later, if there was time, he would need to proof those texts, but for now he gave them no more than a glance as he moved to the room’s escritoire. The ornate writing desk was decorated in marble and malachite, inset with japanwork scenes of early space exploration.

Sylveste opened a drawer and removed a simulation cartridge, an unmarked grey slab, like a ceramic tile. There was a slot in the escritoire’s upper surface. He would only have to insert the cartridge to invoke Calvin. He hesitated, nonetheless. It had been some time - months, at least - since he had brought Calvin back from the dead, and that last encounter had gone spectacularly badly. He had promised himself he would only invoke Calvin again in the event of crisis. Now it was a matter of judging whether the crisis had really arrived - and if it was sufficiently troublesome to justify an invocation. The problem with Calvin was that his advice was only reliable about half the time.

Sylveste pressed the cartridge into the escritoire.

Fairies wove a figure out of light in the middle of the room: Calvin seated in a vast seigneurial chair. The apparition was more realistic than any hologram - even down to subtle shadowing effects - since it was being generated by direct manipulation of Sylveste’s visual field. The beta-level simulation represented Calvin the way fame best remembered him, as he had been when he was barely fifty years old, in his heyday on Yellowstone. Strangely, he looked older than Sylveste, even though the image of Calvin was twenty years younger in physiological terms. Sylveste was eight years into his third century, but the longevity treatments he had received on Yellowstone had been more advanced than any available in Calvin’s time.

Other than that, their features and build were the same, both of them possessing a permanent amused curve to the lips. Calvin wore his hair shorter and was dressed in Demarchist Belle Epoque finery, rather than the relative austerity of Sylveste’s expeditionary dress: billowing frock shirt and elegantly chequered trousers hooked into buccaneer-boots, his fingers aglint with jewels and metal. His impeccably shaped beard was little more than a rust-coloured delineation along the line of his jaw. Small entoptics surrounded his seated figure, symbols of Boolean and three-valued logics and long cascades of binary. One hand fingered the bristles beneath his chin, while the other toyed with the carved scroll that ended the seat’s armrest.

A wave of animation slithered over the projection, the pale eyes gaining a glisten of interest.

Calvin raised his fingers in lazy acknowledgement. ‘So . . .’ he said. ‘The shit’s about to match coordinates with the fan.’

‘You presume a lot.’

‘No need to presume anything, dear boy. I just tapped into the net and accessed the last few thousand news reports.’ He craned his neck to survey the stateroom. ‘Nice pad you’ve got here. How are the eyes, by the way?’

‘They’re functioning as well as can be expected.’

Calvin nodded. ‘Resolution’s not up to much, but that was the best I could do with the tools I was forced to work with. I probably only reconnected forty per cent of your optic nerve channels, so putting in better cameras would have been pointless. Now if you had halfway decent surgical equipment lying around on this planet, I could perhaps begin to do something. But you wouldn’t give Michelangelo a toothbrush and expect a great Sistine Chapel.’

‘Rub it in.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Calvin said, all innocence. ‘I’m just saying that if you had to let her take the Lorean, couldn’t you at least have persuaded Alicia to leave us some medical equipment?’

His wife had led the mutiny against him twenty years earlier; a fact Calvin never allowed Sylveste to forget.

‘So I made a kind of self-sacrifice.’ Sylveste waved an arm to silence the image. ‘Sorry, but I didn’t invoke you for a fireside chat, Cal.’

‘I do wish you’d call me Father.’

Sylveste ignored him. ‘Do you know where we are?’

‘A dig, I presume.’ Calvin closed his eyes briefly and touched his fingers against his temples, affecting concentration. ‘Yes. Let me see. Two expeditionary crawlers out of Mantell, near the Ptero Steppes . . . a Wheeler grid . . . how inordinately quaint! Though I suppose it suits your purpose well enough. And what’s this? High-res gravitometer sections . . . seismograms . . . you’ve actually found something, haven’t you?’

At that moment the escritoire popped up a status fairy to tell him there was an incoming call from Mantell. Sylveste held a hand up to Calvin while he debated whether or not to accept the call. The person trying to reach him was Henry Janequin, a specialist in avian biology and one of Sylveste’s few outright allies. But while Janequin had known the real Calvin, Sylveste was fairly sure he had never seen Calvin’s beta-level . . . and most certainly not in the process of being solicited for advice by his son. The admission that he needed Cal’s help - that he had even considered invoking the sim for this purpose - could be a crucial sign of weakness.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Cal said. ‘Put him on.’

‘He doesn’t know about you . . . about us.’

Calvin shook his head, then - shockingly - Janequin appeared in the room. Sylveste fought to maintain his composure, but it was obvious what had just happened. Calvin must have found a way to send commands to the escritoire’s private-level functions.

Calvin was and always had been a devious bastard, Sylveste thought. Ultimately that was why he remained of use.

Janequin’s full-body projection was slightly less sharp than Calvin’s, for Janequin’s image was coming over the satellite network - patchy at best - from Mantell. And the cameras imaging him had probably seen better days, Sylveste thought - like much else on Resurgam.

‘There you are,’ Janequin said, noticing only Sylveste at first. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you for the last hour. Don’t you have a way of being alerted to incoming calls when you’re down in the pit?’

‘I do,’ Sylveste said. ‘But I turned it off. It was too distracting.’

‘Oh,’ Janequin said, with only the tiniest hint of annoyance. ‘Very shrewd indeed. Especially for a man in your position. You realise what I’m talking about, of course. There’s trouble afoot, Dan, perhaps more than you . . .’ Then Janequin must have noticed Cal for the first time. He studied the figure in the chair for a moment before speaking. ‘My word. It is you, isn’t it?’

Cal nodded without saying a word.

‘This is his beta-level simulation,’ Sylveste said. It was important to clear that up before the conversation proceeded any further; alphas and betas were fundamentally different things and Stoner etiquette was very punctilious indeed about distinguishing between the two. Sylveste would have been guilty of an extreme social gaffe had he allowed Janequin to think that this was the long-lost alpha-level recording.

‘I was consulting with him . . . with it,’ Sylveste said.

Calvin pulled a face.

‘About what?’ Janequin said. He was an old man - the oldest person on Resurgam, in fact - and with each passing year his appearance seemed to approach fractionally closer to some simian ideal. His white hair, moustache and beard framed a small pink face in the manner of some rare marmoset. On Yellowstone, there had been no more talented expert in genetics outside of the Mixmasters, and there were some who rated Janequin a good deal cleverer than any in that sect, for all that his genius was of the undemonstrative sort, accumulating not in any flash of brilliance, but through years and years of quietly excellent work. He was well into his fourth century now, and layer upon layer of longevity treatment was beginning to crumble visibly. Sylveste supposed that before very long Janequin would be the first person on Resurgam to die of old age. The thought filled him with sadness. Though there was much upon which Janequin and he disagreed, they had always seen eye to eye on all the important things.

‘He’s found something,’ Cal said.

Janequin’s eyes brightened, years lifting off him in the joy of scientific discovery. ‘Really?’

‘Yes, I . . .’ Then something else odd happened. The room was gone now. The three of them were standing on a balcony, high above what Sylveste instantly recognised as Chasm City. Calvin’s doing again. The escritoire had followed them like an obedient dog. If Cal could access its private-level functions, Sylveste thought, he could also do this kind of trick, running one of the escritoire’s standard environments. It was a good simulation, too: down to the slap of wind against Sylveste’s cheek and the city’s almost intangible smell, never easy to define but always obvious by its absence in more cheaply done environments.

It was the city from his childhood: the high Belle Epoque. Awesome gold structures marched into the distance like sculpted clouds, buzzing with aerial traffic. Below, tiered parks and gardens stepped down in a series of dizzying vistas towards a verdant haze of greenery and light, kilometres beneath their feet.

‘Isn’t it great to see the old place?’ Cal said. ‘And to think that it was almost ours for the taking; so much within reach of our clan . . . who knows how we might have changed things, if we’d held the city’s reins?’

Janequin steadied himself on the railing. ‘Very nice, but I didn’t come to sight-see, Calvin. Dan, what were you about to tell me before we were so . . .’

‘Rudely interrupted?’ Sylveste said. ‘I was going to tell Cal to pull the gravitometer data from the escritoire, as he obviously has the means to read my private files.’

‘There’s really nothing to it for a man in my position,’ Cal said. There was a moment while he accessed the smoky imagery of the buried thing, the obelisk hanging in front of them beyond the railing, apparently life-size.

‘Oh, very interesting,’ Janequin said. ‘Very interesting indeed!’

‘Not bad,’ Cal said.

‘Not bad?’ Sylveste said. ‘It’s bigger and better preserved than anything we’ve found to date by an order of magnitude. It’s clear evidence of a more advanced phase of Amarantin technology . . . perhaps even a precursor phase to a full industrial revolution.’

‘I suppose it could be quite a significant find,’ Cal said, grudgingly. ‘You - um - are planning to unearth it, I assume?’

‘Until a moment ago, yes.’ Sylveste paused. ‘But something’s just come up. I’ve just been . . . I’ve just found out for myself that Girardieau may be planning to move against me a lot sooner than I had feared.’

‘He can’t touch you without a majority in the expeditionary council,’ Cal said.

‘No, he couldn’t,’ Janequin said. ‘If that was how he was going to do it. But Dan’s information is right. It looks as if Girardieau may be planning on more direct action.’

‘That would be tantamount to some kind of . . . coup, I suppose.’

‘I think that would be the technical term,’ Janequin said.

‘Are you sure?’ Then Calvin did the concentration thing again, dark lines etching his brow. ‘Yes . . . you could be right. A lot of media speculation in the last day concerning Girardieau’s next move, and the fact that Dan’s off on some dig while the colony stumbles through a crisis of leadership . . . and a definite increase in encrypted comms among Girardieau’s known sympathisers. I can’t break those encryptions, of course, but I can certainly speculate on the reason for the increase in traffic.’

‘Something’s being planned, isn’t it?’ Sluka was right, he thought to himself. In which case she had done him a favour, even as she had threatened to abandon the dig. Without her warning he would never have invoked Cal.

‘It does look that way,’ Janequin said. ‘That’s why I was trying to reach you. My fears have only been confirmed by what Cal says about Girardieau’s sympathisers.’ His grip tightened on the railing. The cuff of his jacket - hanging thinly over his skeletal frame - was patterned with peacocks’ eyes. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any point my staying here, Dan. I’ve tried to keep my contact with you below suspicious levels, but there’s every reason to think this conversation is being tapped. I shouldn’t really say any more.’ He turned away from the cityscape and the hanging obelisk, then addressed the seated man. ‘Calvin . . . it’s been a pleasure to meet you again, after such a long time.’

‘Look after yourself,’ Cal said, elevating a hand in Janequin’s direction. ‘And good luck with the peacocks.’

Janequin’s surprise was evident. ‘You know about my little project?’

Calvin smiled without answering; Janequin’s question had been superfluous after all, Sylveste thought.

The old man shook his hand - the environment ran to full tactile interaction - and then stepped out of range of his imaging suite.

The two of them were left alone on the balcony.

‘Well?’ Cal asked.

‘I can’t afford to lose control of the colony.’ Sylveste had still been in nominal command of the entire Resurgam expedition, even after Alicia’s defection. Technically, those who had chosen to stay behind on the planet rather than return home with her should have been his allies, meaning that his position should have been strengthened. But it had not worked like that. Not everyone who was sympathetic to Alicia’s side of the argument had managed to get aboard the Lorean before it left orbit. And amongst those who had stayed behind, many previously sympathetic to Sylveste felt he had handled the crisis badly, or even criminally. His enemies said that the things the Pattern Jugglers had done to his head before he met the Shrouders were only now emerging into the light; pathologies that bordered on madness. Research into the Amarantin had carried on, but with slowly lessening momentum, while political differences and enmities widened beyond repair. Those with residual loyalty to Alicia - chief among them Girardieau - had amalgamated into the Inundationists. Sylveste’s archaeologists had become steadily embittered, a siege-mentality setting in. There had been deaths on both sides which were not easily explained as accidents. Now things had reached a head, and Sylveste was in nowhere like the right place to resolve the crisis. ‘But I can’t let go of that, either,’ he said, indicating the obelisk. ‘I need your advice, Cal. I’ll get it because you depend on me absolutely. You’re fragile; remember that.’

Calvin stirred uneasily in the chair. ‘So basically you’re putting the squeeze on your old dad. Charming.’

‘No,’ Sylveste said, through clenched teeth. ‘What I’m saying is that you could fall into the wrong hands unless you give me guidance. In mob terms you’re just another member of our illustrious clan.’

‘Although you wouldn’t necessarily agree, would you? By your reckoning I’m just a program, just evocation. When are you going to let me take over your body again?’

‘I wouldn’t hold your breath.’

Calvin raised an admonishing finger. ‘Don’t get stroppy, son. It was you who invoked me, not the other way around. Put me back in the lantern if you want. I’m happy enough.’

‘I will. After you’ve advised me.’

Calvin leaned forward in the seat. ‘Tell me what you did with my alpha-level simulation and I might consider it.’ He grinned, impishly. ‘Hell, I might even tell you a few things about the Eighty you don’t know.’

‘What happened,’ Sylveste said, ‘is seventy-nine innocent people died. There’s no mystery to it. But I don’t hold you responsible. It would be like accusing a tyrant’s photograph of war crimes.’

‘I gave you sight, you ungrateful little sod.’ The seat swivelled so that its high solid back was facing Sylveste. ‘I admit your eyes are hardly state of the art, but what could you expect?’ The seat spun round. Calvin was dressed like Sylveste now, his hair similarly styled and his face possessing the same smooth cast. ‘Tell me about the Shrouders,’ he said. ‘Tell me about your guilty secrets, son. Tell me what really happened around Lascaille’s Shroud, and not the pack of lies you’ve been spinning since you got back.’

Sylveste moved to the escritoire, ready to flip out the cartridge. ‘Wait,’ Calvin said, holding up his hands suddenly. ‘You want my advice?’

‘Finally, we’re getting somewhere.’

‘You can’t let Girardieau win. If a coup’s imminent, you need to be back in Cuvier. There you can muster what little support you may have left.’

Sylveste looked through the crawler’s window, towards the box grid. Shadows were crossing the baulks - workers deserting the dig, moving silently towards the sanctuary of the other crawler. ‘This could be the most important find since we arrived.’

‘And you may have to sacrifice it. If you keep Girardieau at bay, you’ll at least have the luxury of returning here and looking for it again. But if Girardieau wins, nothing you’ve found here will matter a damn.’

‘I know,’ Sylveste said. For a moment there was no animosity between them. Calvin’s reasoning was flawless, and it would have been churlish to pretend otherwise.

‘Then will you be following my advice?’

He moved his hand to the escritoire, ready to eject the cartridge. ‘I’ll think about it.’

TWO

Aboard a lighthugger, interstellar space, 2543

The trouble with the dead, Triumvir Ilia Volyova thought, was that they had no real idea when to shut up.

She had just boarded the elevator from the bridge, weary after eighteen hours in consultation with various simulations of once-living figures from the ship’s distant past. She had been trying to catch them out, hoping one or more of them would disclose some revealing fact about the origins of the cache. It had been gruelling work, not least because some of the older beta-level personae could not even speak modern Norte, and for some reason the software which ran them was unwilling to do any translating. Volyova had been chain-smoking for the entire session, trying to get her head around the grammatical peculiarities of middle Norte, and she was not about to stop filling her lungs now. In fact, back stiff from the nervous tension of the exchanges, she needed it more than ever. The elevator’s air-conditioning was functioning imperfectly, so it took only a few seconds for her to veil the interior with smoke.

Volyova hoisted the cuff of her fleece-lined leather jacket and spoke into the bracelet which wrapped around her bony wrist. ‘The Captain’s level,’ she said, addressing the Nostalgia for Infinity, which would in turn assign a microscopic aspect of itself to the primitive task of controlling the elevator. A moment later, the floor plunged away.

‘Do you wish musical accompaniment for this transit?’

‘No, and as I’ve had to remind you on approximately one thousand previous occasions, what I wish is silence. Shut up and let me think.’

She rode the spinal trunk, the four-kilometre-long shaft which threaded the entire length of the ship. She had boarded somewhere near the nominal top of the shaft (there were only 1050 levels that she knew of) and was now descending at ten decks a second. The elevator was a glass-walled, field-suspended box, and occasionally the lining of the trackless shaft turned transparent, allowing her to judge her location without reference to the elevator’s internal map. She was descending through forests now: tiered gardens of planetary vegetation grown wild with neglect, and dying, for the UV lamps which had once supplied the forest with sunlight were mostly broken now, and no one could be bothered repairing them. Below the forests, she ghosted through the high eight hundreds; vast realms of the ship which had once been at the disposal of the crew, when the crew numbered thousands. Below 800 the elevator passed through the vast and now immobile armature which spaced the ship’s rotatable habitat and nonrotatable utility sections, and then dropped through two hundred levels of cryogenic storage bays; sufficient capacity for one hundred thousand sleepers - had there been any.

Volyova was now more than a kilometre below her starting point, but the ship’s ambient pressure remained constant, life-support one of the rare systems which still functioned as intended. Nonetheless some residual instinct told her that ears should be popping with the rush of descent.

‘Atrium levels,’ said the elevator, accessing a long-redundant record of the ship’s prior layout. ‘For your enjoyment and recreation needs.’

‘Very droll.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘I mean, you’d need a pretty odd definition of recreation. Unless your idea of relaxation happened to be suiting-up in full vacuum-rated armour and dosing on a bowel-loosening regimen of anti-radiation therapies. Which doesn’t strike me as being particularly pleasurable.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Forget it,’ Volyova said, sighing.

For another kilometre she passed through only sparsely pressurised districts. Volyova felt her weight lessen and knew she was passing the engines - braced beyond the hull on elegant, swept-back spars. Gape-mouthed, they sucked in tiny amounts of interstellar hydrogen and subjected the harvest to some frankly unimaginable physics. No one, not even Volyova, pretended to know how the Conjoiner engines worked. What mattered was that they functioned. What also mattered was that they gave off a steady warm glow of exotic particle radiation, and while most would have been mopped up by the ship’s hull shielding, some of it would get through. That was why the elevator sped up momentarily as it dropped past the engines, and then slowed down to its normal descent speed once it had passed out of danger.

Now she was two-thirds of the way down the ship. She knew this district better than any of the other crew members: Sajaki, Hegazi and the others seldom came down this far unless they had excellent reason. And who could blame them? The further down they went, the closer they got to the Captain. She was the only one who was not terrified by the very idea of his proximity.

No; far from fearing this realm of the ship, she had made an empire of it. At level 612 she could have disembarked, navigated to the spider-room and taken it outside the hull, where she could listen to the ghosts which haunted the spaces between the stars. Tempting - always so. But she had work to do - she was on a specific errand - and the ghosts would still be there another time. At level 500, she passed the floor which contained the gunnery, and thought of all the problems which it represented, and had to resist stopping to carry out a few new investigations. Then the gunnery was gone and she was falling through the cache chamber - one of several huge, non-pressurised inclusions within the ship.

The chamber was enormous; the best part of half a kilometre from end to end, but it was dark now and Volyova had to imagine for herself the forty things which it contained. That was never hard. While there were many unanswered questions relating to the functions and origins of the things, Volyova knew their shapes and relative positions perfectly, as if they were the carefully positioned furnishings of a blind person’s bedroom. Even in the elevator she felt she could reach out and stroke the alloy husk of the nearest of them, just to reassure herself that it was still there. She had been learning what she could of the things for most of the time since she had joined the Triumvirate, but she would not have claimed to have been at ease with any of them. She approached them with the nervousness of a new lover, knowing that the knowledge she had gleaned to date was entirely skin-deep, and that what lay below might shatter every illusion she had.

She was never entirely sorry to exit the cache.

At 450 she shot through another armature, spacing the utility section from the ship’s tapering conic tail, which extended below for another kilometre. Again a surge as the elevator rode through a rad-zone, then the beginning of prolonged deceleration which would eventually bring it to a halt. It was passing through the second set of cryogenic storage decks, two hundred and fifty levels capable of holding one hundred and twenty thousand, though of course there was currently only one sleeper, if one was so generously inclined as to describe the Captain’s state as sleep. The elevator was slowing now. Midway through the cryo levels it stopped, cordially announcing that it had reached her destination.

‘Passenger cryogenic sleep level concierge,’ said the elevator. ‘For your in-flight reefersleep requirements. Thank you for using this service.’

The door opened and she stepped across the threshold, glancing down at the converging, illuminated walls of the shaft framed by the gap. She had travelled almost the entire length of the ship (or height - it was difficult not to think of the ship as a tremendously tall building) and yet the shaft seemed to drop down to infinite depths below. The ship was so large - so stupidly large - that even its extremities beggared the mind.

‘Yes, yes. Now kindly piss off.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Go away.’

Not that the elevator would, of course - at least not for any real purpose other than placating her. It had nothing else to do but wait for her. Being the sole person awake, Volyova was the only one who had any cause to use the elevators at all.

It was a long hike from the spinal shaft to the place where they kept the Captain. She could not take the most direct route either, since whole sections of the ship were inaccessible, riddled with viruses which were causing widespread malfunction. Some districts were flooded with coolant, while others were infested with rogue janitor-rats. Others were patrolled by defence drogues which had gone berserk and so were best avoided, unless Volyova felt in the mood for sport. Others were filled with toxic gas, or vacuum, or too much high-rad, or were rumoured to be haunted.

Volyova did not believe in hauntings, (though of course she had her own ghosts, accessed via the spider-room), but the rest she took very seriously indeed. Some parts of the ship she would not enter unless armed. But she knew the Captain’s surroundings well enough not to take excessive precautions. It was cold, though, and she hiked up the collar of her jacket, tugged the bill of her cap tighter down, its mesh fabric crunching against her scalp stubble. She lit another cigarette, hard sucks perishing the vacuum in her head, replacing it with a frosty military alertness. Being alone suited her. She looked forward to human company, but not with any great fervour. And certainly not if that company also entailed dealing with the Nagorny situation. Perhaps when they reached the Yellowstone system she would consider locating a new Gunnery Officer.

Now, how had that worry escaped from her mental partitioning?

It was not Nagorny that concerned her now, but the Captain. And here he was, or at least the outermost extent of what he had now become. Volyova composed herself. That composure was necessary. What she had to examine always made her sick. It was worse for her than for the others; her repulsion stronger. She was brezgati; squeamish.

The miracle was that the reefersleep unit which cased Brannigan was still functional. It was a very old model, Volyova knew - sturdily built. It was still striving to hold the cells of his body in stasis, even though the shell of the reefer had ruptured in great Palaeolithic cracks, fibrous metallic growth spilling out. The growth came from within the reefer, like a fungal invasion. Whatever remained of Brannigan remained at its heart.

It was bitterly cold near the reefer, and Volyova soon found herself shivering. But there was work to do. She fished a curette from her jacket and used it to burn off slivers of the growth for analysis. Back in her lab she would attack them with various viral weapons, hoping to find one which had an edge on the growth. She knew from experience that the routine was largely futile - the growth had a fantastic capacity for corrupting the molecular tools with which she probed it. Not that there was any pressing hurry: the reefer kept Brannigan at only a few hundred millikelvin above absolute zero, and that cold did appear to offer some hindrance to the spread. On the negative side, Volyova knew that no human being had ever survived revival from such a cold, but that seemed oddly irrelevant against the Captain’s condition.

She spoke into her bracelet, voice hushed. ‘Open my log file on the Captain and append this entry.’

The bracelet chirped to indicate readiness.

‘Third check on Captain Brannigan since my revival. Extent of spread of the . . .’

She hesitated, aware that an ill-judged phrase might anger Triumvir Hegazi; not that she particularly cared. Dared she call it the Melding Plague, now that the Yellowstoners had given it a name? Perhaps that would be unwise.

‘. . . of the illness, seems unchanged since last entry. No more than a few millimetres of encroachment. Cryogenic functions are still green, miraculously. But I think we should resign ourselves to the inevitability of the unit’s failure at some point in the future . . .’ Thinking to herself, that when it did fail, if they were not speedy in transferring the Captain to a new reefer (exactly how was an unanswered question), then he would certainly be one less problem for them to worry about. His own problems would be over as well - she sincerely hoped.

She told the bracelet: ‘Close log file.’ And then added, wishing devoutly that she had spared herself one smoke for this moment: ‘Warm Captain’s brain core by fifty millikelvins.’

Experience had told her that this was the minimum necessary temperature increase. Short of it, his brain would remain locked in glacial stasis. Above, the plague would begin to transform him too rapidly for her tastes.

‘Captain?’ she said. ‘Can you hear me? It’s Ilia.’

Sylveste stepped down from the crawler and walked back towards the grid. During his meeting with Calvin the wind had increased appreciably; he could feel it stinging his cheeks, the scouring dust a witch’s caress.

‘I hope that little conversation was beneficial,’ Pascale said, snatching away her mask to bellow into the wind. She knew all about Calvin, even though she had never spoken to him directly. ‘Have you agreed to see sense now?’

‘Get Sluka for me.’

Ordinarily she might have rejected an order like that; now she just accepted his mood and returned to the other crawler, emerging shortly afterwards with Sluka and a handful of other workers.

‘You’re ready to listen to us, I take it?’ Sluka stood before him, the wind whipping a loose strand of hair across her goggles. She took periodic inhalations from her mask, cupped in one hand, while the other hand rested on her hip. ‘If so, I think you’ll find we can be reasonable. We all have your reputation in mind. None of us will speak of this matter once we return to Mantell. We’ll say you gave the order to withdraw once the advisory came in. The credit will be yours.’

‘And you think any of that matters in the long term?’

Sluka snarled: ‘What’s so damned important about one obelisk? For that matter, what’s so damned important about the Amarantin? ’

‘You never really saw the big picture, did you?’

Discreetly - but not so discreetly that he missed her doing it - Pascale had begun taping the exchange, standing to one side with her compad’s detachable camera in one hand. ‘Some people might say there never was one to see,’ Sluka said. ‘That you inflated the significance of the Amarantin just to keep the archaeologists in business.’

‘You’d say that, wouldn’t you, Sluka? But then again, you were never exactly one of us to begin with.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning that if Girardieau had wanted to plant a dissenter in our midst, you’d have made an excellent candidate.’

Sluka turned back to what Sylveste was increasingly thinking of as her mob. ‘Listen to the poor bastard - sinking into conspiracy theories already. Now we’re getting a taste of what the rest of the colony has seen for years.’ Then her attention snapped back to him. ‘There’s no point talking to you. We’re leaving as soon as we have the equipment packed - sooner, if the storm intensifies. You can come with us.’ She caught her breath from the mask, colour returning to her cheeks. ‘Or you can take your chances out here. The choice is entirely yours.’

He looked beyond her, to the mob. ‘Go on, then. Leave. Don’t allow anything as trivial as loyalty to get in your way. Unless one of you has the guts to stay here and finish the job they came to do.’ He looked from face to face, meeting only awkwardly averted gazes. He barely knew any of their names. He recognised them, but only from recent experience; certainly none of them had come on the ship from Yellowstone; certainly none had known anything other than Resurgam, with its handful of human settlements strewn like a few rubies across otherwise total desolation. To them he must have seemed monstrously atavistic.

‘Sir,’ one of them said - possibly the one who had first alerted him to the storm. ‘Sir; it’s not that we don’t respect you. But we have to think of ourselves as well. Can’t you understand that? Whatever’s buried here, it isn’t worth this risk.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Sylveste said. ‘It’s worth more risk than you can possibly imagine. Don’t you understand? The Event didn’t happen to the Amarantin. They caused it. They made it happen.’

Sluka shook her head slowly. ‘They made their sun flare up? Is that what you actually believe?’

‘In a word, yes.’

‘Then you’re a lot further gone than I feared.’ Sluka turned her back to him to address her mob. ‘Power up the crawlers. We’re leaving now.’

‘What about the equipment?’ Sylveste said.

‘It can stay here and rust for all I care.’ The mob began to disperse towards the two hulking machines.

‘Wait!’ Sylveste shouted. ‘Listen to me! You only need to take one crawler - there’s enough room for all of you in one, if you leave the equipment behind.’

Sluka faced him again. ‘And you?’

‘I’ll stay here - finish the work myself, along with anyone else who wants to stay.’

She shook her head, snatching off her mask to spit on the ground in disgust. But when she left, she caught up with the rest of her brigade and directed them towards the nearest crawler, leaving the other - the one containing his stateroom - for him alone. Sluka’s mob entered the machine, some of them carrying small items of equipment or boxed artefacts and bones recovered from the dig: scholarly instincts prevailing even in rebellion. He watched the crawler’s ramps and hatches fold shut, then the machine rose on its legs, shuffled around and moved away from the dig. In less than a minute it had passed out of view completely, and the noise of its engines was no longer audible above the roar of the wind.

He looked around to see who was still with him.

There was Pascale - but that was almost inevitable; he suspected she would dog him to his grave if there was a good story in it. A handful of students who had resisted Sluka; ashamedly he could not place their names. Perhaps half a dozen more still down in the Wheeler grid, if he was lucky.

Composing himself, he snapped his fingers towards two of those who had stayed. ‘Start dismantling the imaging gravitometers; we won’t need them again.’ He addressed another pair. ‘Begin at the back of the grid and start collecting all the tools left behind by Sluka’s deserters, together with field notes and any boxed artefacts. When you’re done, you can meet me at the base of the large pit.’

‘What are you planning now?’ Pascale said, turning off her camera and allowing it to whisk back into her compad.

‘I would have thought it was obvious,’ Sylveste said. ‘I’m going to see what it says on that obelisk.’

Chasm City, Yellowstone, Epsilon Eridani system, 2524

The suite console chimed as Ana Khouri was brushing her teeth. She came out of the bathroom, foam on her lips.

‘Morning, Case.’

The hermetic glided into the apartment, his travelling palanquin decorated in ornate scrollwork, with a tiny, dark window in the front side. When the light was right she could just make out K. C. Ng’s deathly pale face bobbing behind an inch of green glass.

‘Hey, you look great,’ he said, voice rasping through the box’s speaker grille. ‘Where can I get hold of whatever perks you up?’

‘It’s coffee, Case. Too much of the damned stuff.’

‘I was joking,’ Ng said. ‘You look like shit warmed over.’

She drew her palm across her mouth, removing the foam. ‘I’ve only just woken up, you bastard.’

‘Excuses.’ Ng managed to sound as if the act of waking up was an outmoded physical affectation he had long since discarded, like owning an appendix. Which was entirely possible: Khouri had never got a good look at the man inside the box. Hermetics were one of the more peculiar post-plague castes to emerge in the last few years. Reluctant to discard the implants which the plague might have corrupted, and convinced that traces of it still lingered even in the relative cleanliness of the Canopy, they never left their boxes unless the environment itself was hermetically sealed; limiting their mobility to a few orbital carousels.

The voice rasped again, ‘Pardon me, but we do have a kill scheduled for this morning, if I’m not very much mistaken. You remember this fellow Taraschi we’ve been trying to take out for the last two months? Ring any bells in there? It’s rather crucial that you do, because you happen to be the individual assigned to put him out of misery.’

‘Off my back, Case.’

‘Anatomically problematic even if I desired to locate myself thus, dear Khouri. But seriously, we have a probable kill location pegged, and an estimated time of demise. Are you sharpness personified?’

Khouri poured herself a final few sips of coffee and then left the rest of it on the stove for when she got back. Coffee was her only vice, one acquired in her soldiering days on the Edge. The trick was to reach a knife-edge of alertness, but not be so buzzing that she could not point the weapon without shaking.

‘I think I’ve reduced the amount of blood in my caffeine system to an acceptable level, if that’s what you mean.’

‘Then let us discuss matters of a terminal nature, at least where Taraschi is concerned.’

Ng began to hit her with the final details for the kill. Most of it was already in the plan, or stuff that she had guessed for herself, based on her experience of previous kills. Taraschi was to be her fifth consecutive assassination, so she was beginning to grasp the wider scope of the game. Though they were not always obvious, the game had its own rules, subtly reiterated in the grand movements of each kill. The media attention was even picking up, her name being bandied around Shadowplay circles with increasing frequency, and Case was apparently setting up some juicy, high-profile targets for her next few hunts. She was, she felt, on the way to becoming one of the top hundred or so assassins on the planet; élite company indeed.

‘Right,’ she said. ‘Under the Monument, plaza level eight, west annexe, one hour. Couldn’t be easier.’

‘Aren’t you forgetting one thing?’

‘Right. Where’s the kill weapon, Case?’

Ng’s form nodded behind her. ‘Where the tooth fairy left it, dear girl.’

And then he turned his box and retreated from the room, leaving only a faint whiff of lubricant. Khouri, frowning, reached a hand slowly beneath the pillow on her bed. There was something, just as Case had said. There had been nothing there when she went to sleep, but this sort of thing hardly bothered her these days. The company always had moved in mysterious ways.

Soon, she was ready.

She called a cable-car from the roof, the kill weapon snuggling under her coat. The car detected the weapon and the presence of implants in her head, and would have refused to carry her had she not shown it her Omega Point ident, grafted beneath the nail of her right index finger, making a tiny holographic target symbol seem to dance beneath the keratin. ‘Monument to the Eighty,’ Khouri said.

Sylveste stepped off the ladder and walked across the stepped base of the pit until he reached the pool of light around the obelisk’s exposed tip. Sluka and one of the other archaeologists had deserted him, but the one remaining worker - assisted by the servitor - had managed to uncover nearly a metre of the object, peeling away the nested layers of the stone sarcophagi to reach the massive block of obsidian, skilfully carved, on which Amarantin graphicforms had been engraved in precise lines. Most of it was textual: rows of ideopicts. The archaeologists understood the basics of Amarantin language, though there had been no Rosetta Stone to aid them. The Amarantin were the eighth dead alien culture discovered by humanity within fifty light-years of Earth, but there was no evidence that any of those eight species had come into contact with each other. Nor could the Pattern Jugglers or the Shrouders offer assistance: neither had revealed anything remotely resembling a written language. Sylveste, who had come into contact with both the Jugglers and the Shrouders - or at least the latter’s technology - appreciated that as well as anyone.

Instead, computers had cracked the Amarantin language. It had taken thirty years - correlating millions of artefacts - but finally a consistent model had been evolved which could determine the broad meaning of most inscriptions. It helped that, at least towards the end of their reign, there had only been one Amarantin tongue, and that it had changed very slowly, so that the same model could interpret inscriptions which had been made tens of thousands of years apart. Of course, nuances of meaning were another thing entirely. That was where human intuition - and theory - came in.

Amarantin writing was not, however, like anything in human experience. All Amarantin texts were stereoscopic - consisting of interlaced lines which had to be merged in the reader’s visual cortex. Their ancestors had once been something like birds - flying dinosaurs, but with the intelligence of lemurs. At some point in their past their eyes had been situated on opposite sides of their skulls, leading to a highly bicameral mind, each hemisphere synthesising its own mental model of the world. Later, they had become hunters and evolved binocular vision, but their mental wiring still owed something to that earlier phase of development. Most Amarantin artefacts mirrored their mental duality, with a pronounced symmetry about the vertical axis.

The obelisk was no exception.

Sylveste had no need for the special goggles his co-workers needed to read Amarantin graphicforms: the stereoscopic merging was easily accommodated within his own eyes, employing one of Calvin’s more useful algorithms. But the act of reading was still tortuous, requiring strenuous concentration.

‘Give me some light here,’ he said, and the student unclipped one of the portable floods and held it by hand over the side of the obelisk. From somewhere above lightning strobed: electricity coursing between dust planes in the storm.

‘Can you read it, sir?’

‘I’m trying,’ Sylveste said. ‘It isn’t the easiest thing in the world, you know. Especially if you don’t keep that light steady.’

‘Sorry sir. Doing my best. But it is getting windy here.’

He was right: vortices were forming, even in the pit. It would soon get very much windier, and then the dust would begin to thicken, until it formed sheets of grey opacity in the air. They would not be able to work for very long in those conditions.

‘I apologise,’ Sylveste said. ‘I appreciate your help.’ Feeling that something more was called for, he added: ‘And I’m grateful that you chose to stay with me, rather than Sluka.’

‘It wasn’t difficult, sir. Not all of us are ready to dismiss your ideas.’

Sylveste looked up from the obelisk. ‘All of them?’

‘We at least accept they should be investigated. After all, it’s in the colony’s best interests to understand what happened.’

‘The Event, you mean?’

The student nodded. ‘If it really was something the Amarantin caused to happen . . . and if it really did coincide with them achieving spaceflight - then it might be of more than academic interest.’

‘I despise that phrase. Academic interest - as if any other kind were automatically more worthy. But you’re right. We have to know.’

Pascale came closer. ‘Know what, exactly?’

‘What it was they did that made their sun kill them.’ Sylveste turned to face her, pinning her down with the oversized silvery facets of his artificial eyes. ‘So that we don’t end up making the same mistake.’

‘You mean it was an accident?’

‘I very much doubt that they did it deliberately, Pascale.’

‘I realise that.’ He had condescended to her, and she hated that, he knew. He also hated himself for doing it. ‘I also know that stone-age aliens just don’t have the means to influence the behaviour of their star, accidentally or otherwise.’

‘We know they were more advanced than that,’ Sylveste said. ‘We know they had the wheel and gunpowder; a rudimentary science of optics and an interest in astronomy for agrarian purposes. Humanity went from that level to spaceflight in no more than five centuries. It would be prejudiced to assume another species was not capable of the same, wouldn’t it?’

‘But where’s the evidence?’ Pascale stood to shake rivulets of settled dust from her greatcoat. ‘Oh, I know what you’re going to say - none of the high-tech artefacts survived, because they were intrinsically less durable than earlier ones. But even if there was evidence - how does that change things? Even the Conjoiners don’t go around tinkering with stars, and they’re a lot more advanced than the rest of humanity, us included.’

‘I know. That’s precisely what bothers me.’

‘Then what does the writing say?’

Sylveste sighed and looked back at it again. He had hoped that the distraction would allow his subconscious to work at the piece, and that now the meaning of the inscription would snap into clarity, like the answer to one of the psychological problems they had been posed before the Shrouder mission. But the moment of revelation stubbornly refused to come; the graphicforms were still not yielding meaning. Or perhaps, he thought, it was his expectations that were at fault. He had been hoping for something momentous; something that would confirm his ideas, terrifying as they were.

But instead, the writing seemed only to commemorate something that had happened here - something that might have been of great importance in Amarantin history, but which - set against his expectations - was bound to be parochial in the extreme. It would take a full computer analysis to be sure, and he had only been able to read the top metre or so of the text - but already he could feel the crush of disappointment. Whatever this obelisk represented, it was no longer of interest to him.

‘Something happened here,’ Sylveste said. ‘Maybe a battle, or the appearance of a god. That’s all it is - a marker stone. We’ll know more when we unearth it and date the context layer. We can run a TE measurement on the artefact itself, too.’

‘It’s not what you were looking for, is it?’

‘I thought it might be, for a while.’ Then Sylveste looked down, towards the lowest exposed part of the obelisk. The text ended a few inches above the highest layer of cladding, and something else began, extending downwards out of sight. It was a diagram, of some sort - he could see the topmost arcs of several concentric circles, and that was all. What was it?

Sylveste could not - would not - begin to guess. The storm was growing stronger. No stars at all were visible now, only a single occluding sheet of dust, roaring overhead like a great bat’s wing. It would be a kind of hell when they left the pit.

‘Give me something to dig with,’ he said. And then started scraping away at the permafrost around the topmost layer of the sarcophagus, like a prisoner who had until dawn to tunnel from his cell. Only a few moments passed before Pascale and the student joined him in the work, while the storm howled above.

‘I don’t remember much,’ the Captain said. ‘Are we still around Bloater?’

‘No,’ Volyova said, trying not to make it seem as if she had already explained this to him a dozen times, each time she had warmed his mind. ‘We left Kruger 60A some years ago, once Hegazi negotiated us the shield ice we needed.’

‘Oh. Then where are we?’

‘Heading towards Yellowstone.’

‘Why?’ The Captain’s basso voice rumbled out of speakers arranged some distance from his corpse. Complex algorithms scanned his brain patterns and translated the results into speech, fleshing out the responses when required. He had no real right to be conscious at all, really - all neural activity should have ended when his core temperature had dropped below freezing. But his brain was webbed by tiny machines, and in a way it was the machines which were thinking now, even though they were doing so at less than half a kelvin above absolute zero.

‘That’s a good question,’ she said. Something was bothering her now and it was more than just this conversation. ‘The reason we’re going to Yellowstone is . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘Sajaki thinks there’s a man there who can help you.’

The Captain pondered this. On her bracelet she had a map of his brain: she could see colours squirming across it like armies merging on a battlefield. ‘That man must be Calvin Sylveste,’ the Captain said.

‘Calvin Sylveste is dead.’

‘The other one, then. Dan Sylveste. Is that the man Sajaki seeks?’

‘I can’t imagine it’s anyone else.’

‘He won’t come willingly. He didn’t last time.’ There was a moment of silence; quantum temperature fluctuations pushing the Captain back below consciousness. ‘Sajaki must be aware of that,’ he said, returning.

‘I’m sure Sajaki has considered all the possibilities,’ Volyova said, in a manner which made it clear she was sure of anything but that. But she would be careful of speaking against the other Triumvir. Sajaki had always been the Captain’s closest adjutant - the two of them went back a long way; times long before Volyova had joined the crew. To the best of her knowledge, no one else - including Sajaki - ever spoke to the Captain, or even knew that there was a way to do so. But there was no point taking stupid risks - even given the Captain’s erratic memory.

‘Something’s troubling you, Ilia. You’ve always been able to confide in me. Is it Sylveste?’

‘It’s more local than that.’

‘Something aboard the ship, then?’

It was not something to which she was ever going to become totally accustomed, Volyova knew, but in recent weeks visiting the Captain had begun to take on definite tones of normality. As if visiting a cryogenically cooled corpse infected with a retarded but potentially all-consuming plague was merely one of life’s unpleasant but necessary elements; something that, now and again, everyone had to do. Now, though, she was taking their relationship a step further - about to ignore the same risk which had stopped her expressing her misgivings about Sajaki.

‘It’s about the gunnery,’ she said. ‘You remember that, don’t you? The room from which the cache-weapons can be controlled?’

‘I think so, yes. What about it?’

‘I’ve been training a recruit to become Gunnery Officer; to assume the gunnery seat and interface with the cache-weapons through neural implants.’

‘Who was this recruit?’

‘Someone called Boris Nagorny. No; you never met him - he came aboard only recently, and I tended to keep him away from the others when I could help it. I would never have brought him down here, for obvious reasons.’ Namely that the Captain’s contagion might have reached Nagorny’s implants if she had allowed the two of them to get too close. Volyova sighed. She was getting to the crux of her confession now. ‘Nagorny was always slightly unstable, Captain. In many ways, a borderline psychopath was more useful to me than someone wholly sane - at least, I thought so at the time. But I underestimated the degree of Nagorny’s psychosis.’

‘He got worse?’

‘It started not long after I put the implants in and allowed him to tap into the gunnery. He began to complain of nightmares. Very bad ones.’

‘How unfortunate for the poor fellow.’

Volyova understood. What the Captain had undergone - what the Captain was still in the process of undergoing - would make most people’s nightmares seem very tame phantasms indeed. Whether or not he experienced pain was a debatable point, but what was pain anyway, compared to the knowledge that one was being eaten alive - and transformed at the same time - by something inexpressibly alien?

‘I can’t guess what those nightmares were really like,’ Volyova said. ‘All I know is that for Nagorny - a man who already had enough horrors loose in his head for most of us - they were too much.’

‘So what did you do?’

‘I changed everything - the whole gunnery interface system, even the implants in his head. None of it worked. The nightmares continued.’

‘You’re certain they had something to do with the gunnery?’

‘I wanted to deny it at first, but there was a clear correlation with the sessions when I had him in the seat.’ She lit herself another cigarette, the orange tip the only remotely warm thing anywhere near the Captain. Finding a fresh packet of cigarettes had been one of the few joyful moments of recent weeks. ‘So I changed the system again, and still it didn’t work. If anything, he just got worse.’ She paused. ‘That was when I told Sajaki of my problems.’

‘And Sajaki’s response was?’

‘That I should discontinue the experiments, at least until we’d arrived around Yellowstone. Let Nagorny spend a few years in reefersleep, and see if that cured his psychosis. I was welcome to continue tinkering with the gunnery, but I wasn’t to put Nagorny in the seat again.’

‘Sounds like very reasonable advice to me. Which of course you disregarded.’

She nodded, paradoxically relieved that the Captain had guessed her crime, without her having to spell it out.

‘I woke a year ahead of the others,’ Volyova said. ‘To give me time to oversee the system and keep an eye on how you were doing. That was what I did for a few months, too. Until I decided to wake Nagorny as well.’

‘More experiments?’

‘Yes. Until a day ago.’ She sucked hard on the cigarette.

‘This is like drawing teeth, Ilia. What happened yesterday?’

‘Nagorny disappeared.’ There; she’d said it now. ‘He had a particularly bad episode and tried to attack me. I defended myself, but he escaped. He’s elsewhere in the ship. I have no idea where.’

The Captain pondered this for long moments. She could tell what he must be thinking. It was a big ship and there were whole regions of it through which nothing could be tracked, where sensors had stopped working. It would be even harder trying to find someone who was actively hiding.

‘You’re going to have to find him,’ the Captain said. ‘You can’t have him still at large when Sajaki and the others awaken.’

‘And then what?’

‘You’ll probably have to kill him. Do it cleanly, and you can put his body back in the reefersleep unit and then arrange for the unit to fail.’

‘Make it look like an accident, you mean?’

‘Yes.’ There was, as usual, absolutely no expression on the part of the Captain’s face she could see through the casket window. He was no more capable of altering his expression than a statue.

It was a good solution - one that, in her preoccupation with the nature of the problem, she had failed to devise herself. Until then, she had feared any confrontation with Nagorny because it might put her in the position of having to kill him. Such an outcome had seemed unacceptable - but as always, no outcome was unacceptable if you looked at it the right way.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ Volyova said. ‘You’ve been very helpful. Now - with your permission - I’m going to cool you again.’

‘You’ll be back again, won’t you? I do so enjoy our little conversations, Ilia.’

‘I wouldn’t miss them for the world,’ she said, and then told her bracelet to drop his brain temperature by fifty millikelvin; all it would take to send him to dreamless, thoughtless oblivion. Or so she hoped.

Volyova finished her cigarette in silence and then looked away from the Captain, along the dark curve of the corridor. Somewhere out there - somewhere else in the ship - Nagorny was waiting, bearing her what she knew to be the deepest of grudges. He was ill himself now; sick in the head.

Like a dog that had to be put down.

‘I think I know what it is,’ Sylveste said, when the last obstructing block of stone had been removed from the obelisk’s cladding, revealing the upper two metres of the object.

‘Well?’

‘It’s a map of the Pavonis system.’

‘Something tells me you’d already guessed that,’ Pascale said, squinting through her goggles at the complex motif, which resembled two slightly offset groups of concentric circles. Stereo-scopically merged, they fell into one group which seemed to hang some distance above the obsidian. And they were planetary orbits; no doubt of that. The sun Delta Pavonis lay at the centre, marked with the appropriate Amarantin glyph - a very human-looking five-pointed star. Then came correctly sized orbits for all the major bodies in the system, with Resurgam marked with the Amarantin symbol for world. Any doubts that this was just a coincidental arrangement of circles was banished by the carefully marked moons of the major planets.

‘I had my suspicions,’ Sylveste said. He was fatigued, but the night’s work - and the risk - had surely been worthwhile. It had taken them much longer to unearth the second metre of the obelisk than the first, and at times the storm had seemed like a squadron of banshees, only ever a moment away from inflicting shrieking death. But - as had happened before, and would certainly happen again - the storm had never quite reached the fury that Cuvier had predicted. Now the worst of it was done, and though streaks of dust were still rippling in the sky like dark banners, pink dawnlight was beginning to chase away the night. It seemed they had survived after all.

‘But it doesn’t change anything,’ Pascale said. ‘We always knew they had astronomy; this just shows that at some point they discovered the heliocentric universe.’

‘It means more than that,’ Sylveste said, carefully. ‘Not all of these planets are visible to the naked eye, even allowing for Amarantin physiology.’

‘So they used telescopes.’

‘Not long ago you described them as stone-age aliens. Now you’re ready to accept that they knew how to make telescopes?’

He thought she might have smiled, but it was hard to tell when she wore the breather mask. Instead, she looked skywards. Something had crossed between the baulks; a bright deltoid moving under the dust.

‘I think someone’s here,’ she said.

They climbed the ladder quickly, out of breath when they reached the top. Though the wind had lessened from its peak of several hours earlier, it was still an ordeal to move around topside. The dig was in disarray, with floods and gravitometers toppled and broken, equipment strewn around.

The aircraft was hovering above them, veering to and fro as it scouted landing sites. Sylveste recognised it immediately as one of Cuvier’s; Mantell had nothing as large. Aircraft were in short supply on Resurgam: the only means of crossing distances more than a few hundred kilometres. All the aircraft in existence now had been manufactured during the early days of the colony by servitors working from local raw materials. But the constructional servitors had been destroyed or stolen during the mutiny, and consequently the artefacts they had left behind were of incalculable value to the colony. The aircraft regenerated themselves if they were involved in minor accidents, and never needed maintainance - but they could still be ruined by sabotage or recklessness. Over the years the colony had steadily depleted its supply of flying machines.

The deltoid hurt his eyes. The underside of the plane’s wing was sewn with thousands of heat elements which glowed white-hot, generating lift thermally. The contrast was too much for Calvin’s algorithms.

‘Who are they?’ one of his students asked.

‘I wish I knew,’ Sylveste said. But the fact that this plane had originated in Cuvier entirely failed to cheer him. He watched it lower, casting actinic shadows across the ground before the heat elements slid down the spectrum and the plane settled onto skids. After a moment a ramp folded out and a cluster of figures trooped from the plane. His eyes snapped to infrared - he could see the figures clearly now, even as they moved away from the plane towards him. Clad in dark clothes, they wore breather masks, helmets and what looked like strap-on armour, flashed with the Administration insignia: the closest the colony came to a fully-fledged militia. And they were carrying things - long, evil-looking rifles held in double-grips, with a torch slung under each barrel.

‘This doesn’t look good,’ Pascale said, accurately.

The squad halted a few metres from them. ‘Doctor Sylveste?’ called a voice, attenuated by the wind, which was still considerable. ‘I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid, sir.’

He had been expecting nothing else. ‘What is it?’

‘The other crawler, sir - the one that left earlier tonight?’

‘What about it?’

‘They never made it back to Mantell, sir. We found them. There’d been a landslide - dust had built up on the ridge. They didn’t have a chance, sir.’

‘Sluka?’

‘They’re all dead, sir.’ The Administration man’s heavy breather mask made him look like an elephantine god. ‘I’m sorry. It’s lucky not all of you tried to get back at the same time.’

‘It’s more than luck,’ Sylveste said.

‘Sir? There’s one other thing.’ The guard tightened his grip on his rifle, emphasising its presence rather than aiming it. ‘You’re under arrest, sir.’

K. C. Ng’s rasp of a voice filled the cable-car’s cockpit like a trapped wasp. ‘You developing a taste for it yet? Our fair city, I mean.’

‘What would you know?’ Khouri said. ‘I mean, when was the last time you set foot outside of that damned box, Case? It can’t have been in living memory.’

He was not with her, of course - there was nowhere near enough room for a palanquin aboard her cable-car. The car was necessarily small; nothing that would attract attention so close to the conclusion of a hunt. Parked on the roof, the vehicle had looked like a tailless helicopter which had partially furled its rotors. But rather than blades, the cable-car’s arms were slender telescopic appendages, each terminating in a hook as viciously curved as a sloth’s foreclaw.

Khouri had entered the car, and the door had slumped shut, barriering the rain and the low background noise of the city. She had stated her destination, which was the Monument to the Eighty, down in the deep Mulch. The car had paused momentarily, undoubtedly calculating the optimum route based on current traffic conditions and the generally shifting topology of the cableways which would carry it there. The process took a moment because the car’s computer brain was not especially smart.

Then Khouri had felt the car’s centre of gravity shift slightly. Through the upper window of the gullwing door, she had seen one of the car’s three arms extend to more than twice its previous length, until the clawed end was able to grasp one of the cables which overran the top of the building. Now one of the other arms found a similar grasping point on an adjacent cable, and with a sudden heave they were, in a manner, airborne. For a moment the car slid down the two cables to which it had attached itself, but after a few seconds the latter of the two cables had diverged too far for the car to reach. Smoothly, it released its grasp, but before it could fall the car’s third arm swooped out and grabbed another handy cable which happened to cross their approximate path. And then they slid for another second or so, and then fell again, and then rose again, and Khouri began to recognise a too-familiar feeling in her gut. What failed to assist matters was that the car’s pendulous progress felt arbitrary, as if it was just making up its trajectory as it proceeded, luckily finding cables when it needed them. To compensate, Khouri ran through breathing exercises, restlessly tightening each finger of her black leather gloves in sequence.

‘I admit,’ Case said, ‘that I haven’t exposed myself to the city’s native fragrances for some time now. But you shouldn’t knock it. The air isn’t quite as filthy as it seems. The purifiers were one of the few things still running after the plague.’

Now that the cable-car had lofted itself past the huddle of buildings which defined her neighbourhood, a much greater expanse of Chasm City was coming slowly into view. It was strange to think that this twisted forest of malformed structures had once been the most prosperous city in human history; the place from which - for nearly two centuries - a welter of artistic and scientific innovations had sprung. Now even the locals were admitting that the place had seen better days. With little in the way of irony they were calling it the City That Never Wakes Up, because so many thousands of its one-time rich were now frozen in cryocrypts, skipping centuries in the hope that this period was only an aberration in the city’s fortunes.

Chasm City’s border was the natural crater which hemmed the city, sixty kilometres from edge to edge. Within the crater the city was ring-shaped, encircling the central maw of the chasm itself. The city sheltered under eighteen domes which spanned the crater wall and reached inwards to the chasm’s rim. Linked at their edges, supported here and there by reinforcing towers, the domes resembled sagging drapery covering the furniture of the recently deceased. In local parlance it was the Mosquito Net, though there were at least a dozen other names, in as many languages. The domes were vital to the city’s existence. Yellowstone’s atmosphere - a cold, chaotic mix of nitrogen and methane, spiced with long-chain hydrocarbons - would have been instantly deadly. Fortunately the crater sheltered the city from the worst of the winds and liquid methane flash-floods, and the broth of hot gases belching from the chasm itself could be cracked for breathable air with relatively cheap and rugged atmospheric processing technology. There were a few other settlements elsewhere on Yellowstone, much smaller than Chasm City, and they all had to go to much more trouble to keep their biospheres running.

Sometimes, in her early days on Yellowstone, Khouri had asked a few of the locals why anyone had ever bothered settling the planet in the first place if it was so inhospitable. Sky’s Edge might have its wars, but at least you could live there without domes and atmosphere-cracking systems. She had quickly learned not to expect anything resembling a consistent answer, if the question itself was not deemed an outsider’s impudence. Evidently, though, this much was clear: the chasm had drawn the first explorers and around them had accreted a permanent outpost, and then something like a frontier town. Lunatics, chancers and wild-eyed visionaries had come, driven by vague rumours of riches deep within the chasm. Some had gone home disillusioned. Some had died in the chasm’s hot, toxic depths. But a few had elected to stay because something about the nascent city’s perilous location actually appealed to them. Fast forward two hundred years and that huddle of structures had become . . . this.

The city stretched away infinitely in all directions, it seemed, a dense wood of gnarled interlaced buildings gradually lost in murk. The very oldest structures were still more or less intact: boxlike buildings which had retained their shapes during the plague because they had never contained any systems of self-repair or redesign. The modern structures, by contrast, now resembled odd, up-ended pieces of driftwood or wizened old trees in the last stages of rot. Once those skyscrapers had looked linear and symmetrical, until the plague made them grow madly, sprouting bulbous protrusions and tangled, leprous appendages. The buildings were all dead now, frozen into the shapes which seemed calculated to induce disquiet. Slums adhered to their sides, lower levels lost in a scaffolded maze of shanty towns and ramshackle bazaars, aglow with naked fires. Tiny figures were moving in the slums, walking or rickshawing to business along haphazard roadways laid down over old ruins. There were very few powered vehicles, and most of the contraptions Khouri saw looked like they were steam-driven.

The slums never reached more than ten levels up the sides of the buildings before collapsing under their own weight, so for two or three hundred further metres the buildings rose smoothly, relatively unscathed by plague transformations. There was no evidence of occupation in these mid-city levels. It was only near the very tops that human presence again re-asserted itself: tiered structures perched like cranes’ nests among the branches of the malformed buildings. These new additions were aglow with conspicuous wealth and power; bright apartment windows and neon advertisements. Searchlights swept down from the eaves, sometimes picking out the tiny forms of other cable-cars, navigating between districts. The cable-cars picked their way through a network of fine branches, lacing the buildings like synaptic threads. The locals had a name for this high-level city-within-a-city: the Canopy.

It was never quite daytime, Khouri had noticed. She could never feel fully awake in this place, not while the city seemed caught in an eternal twilight gloom.

‘Case, when are they going to get around to scraping the muck off the Mosquito Net?’

Ng chuckled, a sound like gravel being stirred around in a bucket. ‘Never, probably. Unless someone figures a way of making some money out of it.’

‘Now who’s bad-mouthing the city?’

‘We can afford to. When we finish our business we can hightail it back to the carousels with all the other beautiful people.’

‘In their boxes. Sorry, Case, count me out of that particular party. The excitement might kill me.’ She could see the chasm now, since the car was skirting close to the sloping inner rim of the toroidal dome. The chasm was a deep gully in the bedrock, weathered sides curving lazily over from horizontal before plunging vertically down, veined by pipes which reached down into belching vapour, towards the atmospheric cracking station which supplied air and heat to the city. ‘Talking of which . . . being killed, I mean - what’s the deal with the weapon?’

‘Think you can handle it?’

‘You pay me to, I’ll handle it. But I’d like to know what I’m dealing with.’

‘If you have a problem with that you’d better talk to Taraschi.’

‘He specified this thing?’

‘In excruciating detail.’

The car was over the Monument to the Eighty now. Khouri had never seen it from this precise angle. In truth, without the grandeur that it attained from street level, it looked weatherworn and sad. It was a tetrahedral pyramid, slatted so that it resembled a stepped temple, its lower levels barnacled in slums and reinforcements. Near the apex the marble cladding gave way to stained-glass windows, but portions of glass were shattered or sheeted-over in metal; damage one never saw from the street. This was to be the venue for the kill, apparently. It was unusual to know that in advance, unless it was another thing that Taraschi had actually had written into his contract. Contracting to be hunted by a Shadowplay assassin was only usually done if the client thought that they stood a good chance of evading the pursuer over the period determined by the contract. It was the way the virtually immortal rich kept ennui at bay, forcing their behaviour patterns out of predictable ruts - and ending up with something to brag about when they outlived the contract, as the majority did.

Khouri could date her involvement in Shadowplay very precisely; it was the day she was revived in Yellowstone orbit in a carousel run by an order of Ice Mendicants. Although there had been no Ice Mendicants around Sky’s Edge, she had heard stories of them and knew something of their function. They were a voluntary religious organisation who dedicated themselves to assisting those who had suffered some form of trauma while crossing interstellar space, such as the revival amnesia which was a common side-effect of reefersleep.

That in itself was very bad news. Perhaps her amnesia was so bad that it had erased years of her previous life, but Khouri had no recollection even of embarking on an interstellar journey. Her last memories were quite specific, in fact. She had been in a medical tent on the surface of Sky’s Edge, lying in a bed next to her husband Fazil. They had both been wounded in a firefight; injuries which - while not actually life-threatening - could best be treated in one of the orbital hospitals. An orderly had come around and prepped them both for a short immersion in reefersleep. They would be cooled, carried to orbit in a shuttle, then stacked up in a cryogenic holding facility until surgical slots were available in the hospital. The process might take months, but - as the orderly smilingly assured them - there was every chance that the war would still be going on when they were again fit for duty. Khouri and Fazil had trusted the orderly. They were both professional soldiers, after all.

Later, she was revived. But instead of coming around in the recuperation ward in the orbital hospital, Khouri was confronted by Ice Mendicants with Yellowstone accents. No, they explained, she was not amnesiac. Nor had she suffered any kind of injury in the reefersleep process. It was considerably worse than that.

There had been what the lead Mendicant chose to call a clerical error. It had happened around Sky’s Edge, after the cryogenic holding facility was hit by a missile. Khouri and Fazil had been among the lucky few not to have been killed by the missile, but the attack had still wiped all the data records in the facility. The locals had done their best to identify the frozen, but inevitably they had made mistakes. In Khouri’s case they had confused her with a Demarchist observer who had come to Sky’s Edge to study the war and who had been ready to return home to Yellowstone when she was caught in the same missile attack. Khouri had been fast-tracked for surgery and then placed aboard a starship scheduled for immediate departure. They had, unfortunately, not made the same mistake in Fazil’s case. While Khouri was asleep, winging her way across the light-years to Epsilon Eridani, Fazil was growing older, one year for every year that she flew. Of course, said the Mendicants, the error was discovered quickly - but by then it was much too late. There were no other ships due to follow that route for decades. And even if Khouri had immediately returned to Sky’s Edge (which was again impossible given the stated destinations of all the ships now parked around Yellowstone), the best part of forty years would have passed before she met Fazil again. And during most of that time Fazil could have no knowledge that she was coming home; nothing to prevent him picking up the pieces of his life, remarrying, having children and perhaps even grand-children before she returned, a ghost from a part of his life he might have nearly consigned to oblivion by then. Assuming, of course, that he had not died as soon as he returned to combat.

Until that moment when the Ice Mendicant explained the situation to her, Khouri had never really given much thought to the slowness of light. There was nothing in the universe that moved faster . . . but, as she now saw, it was glacial compared to the speed that would be needed to keep their love alive. In one instant of cruel clarity, she understood that it was nothing less than the underlying structure of the universe, its physical laws, which had conspired to bring her to this moment of horror and loss. It would have been so much easier, infinitely easier, if she had known he was dead. Instead, there was this terrible gulf of separation, as much in time as in space. Her anger had become something sharp inside her, something that needed release if it was not going to kill her from within.

Later that day, when the man came to offer her a job as a contract assassin, she found it surprisingly easy to accept.

The man’s name was Tanner Mirabel; like her he was an ex-soldier from the Edge. He was a kind of talent scout for potential new assassins. His network taps had flagged her soldiering skills as soon as she was defrosted. Mirabel gave her a business contact: a Mr Ng, a prominent hermetic. An interview with Ng swiftly followed, then a spread of psychometric tests. Assassins, it turned out, had to be among the sanest, most analytic people on the planet. They had to know exactly when a kill would be legal - and when it would cross the sometimes blurred line into murder and send a company’s stocks crashing into the Mulch.

She passed all these tests with ease.

There were other kinds of tests, too. The contractees sometimes specified arcane modes of execution for themselves, while secretly assuring themselves that it would never actually come to that, because they imagined themselves clever and resourceful enough to outrun the assassin, even over weeks or months. But Khouri had to learn an easy familiarity with all manner of weapons, and that turned out to be a talent she had never even suspected in herself.

But she had never seen anything quite like the weapon which the tooth fairy had left.

It had only taken her a minute or so to figure out how the gun’s precision parts fitted together. Assembled, it had the form of a sniper’s rifle with a ridiculously fat perforated barrel. The clip contained a number of dartlike slugs: black swordfishes. Near the snout of each slug was a tiny biohazard symbol. It was that holographic death’s head which had set her wondering. She had never used toxins against a target before.

And what was this business with the Monument?

‘Case,’ Khouri said. ‘There’s one more thing . . .’

But then the car thumped down on the street, rickshaw drivers peddling furiously to avoid its descent. The toll burst onto her retina. She swiped her little finger through the credit slot, debiting a secure Canopy account which had no traceable links to Omega Point. That was vital, for any well-connected target could have easily traced the movements of their assassin via the ripples they left in the planet’s ragged financial systems. Screens and blinds had to be maintained.

Khouri pushed back the gullwing and hopped out. It was, as ever down here, softly raining. Interior rain, they called it. The smell of the Mulch assailed her instantly, a mélange of sewage and sweat, cooking spices, ozone and smoke. The noise was just as inescapable. The constant trundling of rickshaws and the ringing of their bells and horns created a steady clamorous background, spiced with the cries of vendors and caged animals, bursts of song from singers and holograms voicing languages as diverse as Modern Norte and Canasian.

She pulled on a wide-brimmed fedora and closed the raised collar of her kneelength coat. The cable-car rose, grasping high for a dangling cable. It was soon lost among the other specks swinging through the brown depths of the roofed sky.

‘Well, Case,’ she said. ‘It’s your show now.’

His voice came through her skull now. ‘Trust me. I have a very good feeling about this one.’

The Captain’s advice had been excellent, Ilia Volyova thought. Killing Nagorny really had been her only viable option. And Nagorny had made the task that much easier by trying to kill her first, neatly obviating any moral considerations.

All that had happened some months of shiptime ago, and she had delayed attending to the job that now confronted her. But very shortly the ship would arrive around Yellowstone, and the others would emerge from reefersleep. When that happened, her options would be severely limited by the need to maintain the lie that Nagorny had died while sleeping, via some plausible malfunction of his reefersleep casket.

Now she had to steel herself to act. She sat silently in her lab and willed the strength to do what had to be done. Volyova’s quarters were not large, by the standards of the Nostalgia for Infinity: she could have allocated herself a mansion of rooms, had she wished. But what would have been the point? Her waking hours were consumed with weapon systems, and little else. When she slept, she dreamed of weapon systems. She allowed herself what few luxuries she had time to use - enjoy was too strong a term - and she had sufficient space for her needs. She had a bed and some furniture, utilitarian in design, even though the ship could have outfitted her with any style imaginable. She had a small annexe which contained a laboratory, and it was only here that much in the way of attention to detail had been lavished. In the lab, she worked on putative cures for the Captain; modes of attack too speculative to share with the other crew, for fear of raising their hopes.

It was here, also, that she had kept Nagorny’s head since killing him.

It was frozen, of course; entombed within a space helmet of old design which had gone into emergency cryopreservation mode the instant it detected that its occupant was no longer living. Volyova had heard of helmets with razor-sharp irises built into the neck, which quickly and cleanly detached the head from the rest of the body in dire circumstances - but this had not been one of those.

He had died in an interesting manner, though.

Volyova had woken the Captain and explained the whole Nagorny situation to him: how the Gunnery Officer had appeared to have lost his mind as a consequence of her experiments. She had told the Captain about the problems she had encountered in linking Nagorny into the gunnery systems via the implants she had put in his head. She had even mentioned the fact that Nagorny had been somewhat troubled by recurrent nightmares, before getting quickly to the point that the recruit had attacked her and disappeared into the depths of the ship. The Captain had not drawn her on the subject of the nightmares, and at the time Volyova had been glad of that, for she was not entirely comfortable with discussing them herself, much less analysing their content.

Afterwards, however, she had found it much harder to ignore the subject. The problem lay in the fact that these were not simply random nightmares, however disturbing that might have been. No, from what she could gather, Nagorny’s nightmares had been highly repetitious and detailed. For the most part they had concerned an entity called Sun Stealer. Sun Stealer was Nagorny’s private tormentor, it seemed. It was not at all clear how Sun Stealer had manifested to Nagorny, but what was beyond doubt was the sense of overwhelming evil the apparition had brought. She had glimpsed something of this in sketches she had found in Nagorny’s quarters once: feverish pencil marks limning hideous birdlike creatures, skeletal and empty-socketed. If that was a glimpse into Nagorny’s madness, a glimpse was more than adequate. How were these phantasms related to the gunnery sessions? What unsuspected glitch in her neural interface was leaking current into the part of the mind which sparked terrors? With hindsight, it was obvious that she had pushed too hard, too fast. Equally, she had only been following Sajaki’s orders to bring the weaponry to a state of full readiness.

So Nagorny had snapped, escaping into the ship’s unmonitored warrens. The Captain’s recommendation - that she hunt down and kill the man - had tallied with her own instincts. But it had taken many days, Volyova deploying webs of sensor gear through as many corridors as she could manage, listening to her rats for any evidence of Nagorny’s whereabouts. It had begun to look hopeless. Nagorny would be still at large when the ship arrived in the Yellowstone system and the other crew were woken . . .

Then, however, Nagorny had made two mistakes: the final flourishes of his madness. The first mistake had been to break into her quarters and leave a message daubed in his own arterial blood on her wall. The message was very simple. She could have guessed in advance the two words Nagorny would choose to leave her.

SUN STEALER.

Afterwards, on the edge of rationality, he had stolen her space helmet, leaving the rest of her suit. The break-in had drawn Volyova to her cabin, and while she had taken precautions, Nagorny had still managed to ambush her. He had relieved her of the gun she was carrying, and then frogmarched her down a long curving corridor to the nearest elevator shaft. Volyova had tried resisting, but Nagorny’s strength was that of the psychotic and his hold on her might as well have been steel. Still, she assumed a chance for escape would present itself as Nagorny took her to wherever he had in mind, once the elevator arrived.

But Nagorny had no intention of waiting for the elevator. With her gun, he forced the door, revealing the echoing depths of the shaft. With nothing in the way of ceremony - not even a goodbye - Nagorny pushed Volyova into the hole.

It was a dreadful mistake.

The shaft threaded the ship from top to bottom; she had kilometres to fall before she hit the bottom. And for a few almost heart-stopping moments, she had assumed that was exactly what would happen. She would drop until she hit - and whether it took a few seconds or the better part of a minute was of no consequence at all. The walls of the shaft were sheer and frictionless; there was no way to gain a purchase or arrest her fall in any way whatsoever.

She was going to die.

Then - with a detachment which later shocked her - part of her mind had re-examined the problem. She had seen herself, not falling through the ship, but stationary: floating in absolute rest with respect to the stars. What moved, instead, was the ship: rushing upwards around her. She was not accelerating at all now - and the only thing that made the ship accelerate was its thrust.

Which she could control from her bracelet.

Volyova had not had time to ponder the details. An idea had formed - exploded - in her mind, and she knew that either she executed the idea almost immediately or accepted her fate. She could stop her fall - her apparent fall - by ramping the ship’s thrust into reverse for however long it took to achieve the desired effect. Nominal thrust was one gee, which was why Nagorny had found it so easy to mistake the ship for something like a very tall building. She had fallen for perhaps ten seconds while her mind processed things. What was it to be, then? Ten second of reverse thrust at one gee? No - too conservative. She might not have enough shaft to fall through. Better to ramp up to ten gees for a second - she knew the engines were capable of that. The manoeuvre would not harm the other crew, safely cocooned in reefersleep. It would not harm her, either - she would just see the rushing walls of the shaft slow down rather violently.

Nagorny, though, was not so well protected.

It had not been easy - the rush of air had almost drowned out her voice as she screamed the appropriate instructions into the bracelet. Agonising moments had followed before the ship seemed to take any notice of her.

Then - dutifully - it had moved to her whim.

Later, she had found Nagorny. The ten gees of thrust, sustained for a second, would not ordinarily have been fatal. Volyova had, however, not whittled her speed down to zero in one go. She had achieved that through trial and error, and with each impulse Nagorny had been flung between ceiling and floor.

She had been hurt herself; the impacts with the side of the shaft as she fell had broken one leg, but that was healed now and the pain no more than a foggy memory. She remembered using the laser-curette to remove Nagorny’s head, knowing that she would need to open it to get at the dedicated implants buried in his brain. They were delicate, those implants, and because they had come into being through laborious processes of mediated molecular growth, she would not be best pleased if they had to be duplicated.

Now it was time to remove them.

She took the head out of the helmet, immersing it in a bath of liquid nitrogen. Then she pushed her hands into two pairs of gauntlets suspended above the workbench within a scaffold of pistons. Tiny, glistening medical instruments whirred into life and descended on the skull, ready to slice it open in pieces which would later lock back together with fiendish precision. Before reassembling the head, Volyova would insert dummy implants so that - if the head were ever examined - it would not seem as if she had removed anything from it. It would have to be re-attached to the body, too - but there was no need to worry herself too much over that. By the time the others found out what had happened to Nagorny - what she was going to convince them had happened - they would not be in a hurry to examine him in any kind of detail. Sudjic might be a problem, of course - she and Nagorny had been lovers, until Nagorny went insane.

Like many others that remained before her, Ilia Volyova would cross that bridge when she came to it.

In the meantime, as she delved deep into Nagorny’s head for what was hers, she began to give the first thought to who was going to replace him.

Certainly no one now aboard the ship.

But perhaps around Yellowstone she would find a new recruit.

‘Case, are we getting warm?’

The voice came back, blurred and trembly through the mass of the building above her. ‘So warm we’re incandescent, dear girl. Just hold on and make sure you don’t waste those toxin darts.’

‘Yes, about those, Case, I—’

Khouri dived aside as three New Komuso trooped past, their heads enveloped in basketlike wicker helmets. Shakuhachi - bamboo flutes - cut the air ahead of them like majorettes’ staffs, dispersing a gang of capuchin monkeys into the shadows. ‘I mean,’ she continued, ‘what if we take out a collateral?’

‘It can’t happen,’ Ng said. ‘The toxin’s keyed directly to Taraschi’s biochemistry. Hit anyone else on the planet and what they’ll have to show for it is a nasty puncture wound.’

‘Even if I hit Taraschi’s clone?’

‘You think you might?’

‘Just a question.’ It struck her that Case was unusually jumpy.

‘Anyway, if Taraschi had a clone, and we killed him by mistake, that would be Taraschi’s problem, not ours. It’s all in the fine print. You should read it sometime.’

‘When I’m gripped by existential boredom,’ Khouri said, ‘I might try it.’

She stiffened, then, because all of a sudden it was different. Ng was silent, and in place of his voice was a clear pulsing tone. It was soft and evil, like the echolocation pulse of a predator. She had heard that tone a dozen times in the last six months, each time signifying her proximity to the target. It meant that Taraschi was no more than five hundred metres away. That fact, coupled with the onset of the pulse, strongly suggested that he was within the Monument itself.

The moves of the game were now public property. Taraschi would know it, for an identical device - implanted in a secure Canopy clinic - was generating similar pulses in his own head. Across Chasm City, the various media networks which concentrated on Shadowplay would even now be sending their field teams across town to the location of the kill. A lucky few would already be in the vicinity.

The tone hastened as they walked further under the Monument’s concourse, but not quickly. Taraschi must have been overhead - actually in the Monument - so that the relative distance between them was not changing swiftly.

The concourse beneath was cracked by land subsidence, lying perilously close to the chasm. Originally there had been an underground mall complex beneath the structure, but the Mulch had infiltrated it. The lowest levels were flooded, sunken walkways emerging from water the colour of caramel. The tetrahedron of the Monument was elevated well above the concourse and the flooded plaza by a smaller inverted pyramid abutted deep into rock foundations. There was only one entrance to the structure. That meant that Taraschi was as good as dead already, if she caught him aside. But to reach it she had to cross a bridge across the plaza, and her approach would be obvious to the man inside. She wondered what kind of primal thoughts were slipping through his mind now. In her dreams, she had often found herself in some half-deserted city being chased by some implacable hunter, but Taraschi was experiencing that terror in reality. She remembered that in those dreams the hunter never had to move quickly. That was part of its unpleasantness. She would run desperately, as if through thickened air with weighted-down legs, and the hunter would move with a slowness born of great patience and wisdom.

The pulsing quickened as she crossed the bridge, the ground beneath her feet wet and gritty. Occasionally the pulsing would slow and requicken, evidence that Taraschi was moving around in the structure. But there was no real escape for him now. He could arrange to be met on the roof of the Monument, perhaps, but in utilising aerial transport he would forfeit the terms of the contract. In the parlours of the Canopy, the shame of that might be less desirable than being killed.

She walked through into the atrium within the Monument’s supporting pyramid. It was dark inside and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. She slipped the toxin gun out of her coat and checked the exit in case Taraschi had planned to sneak out. His absence was unsurprising, the atrium almost empty, ransacked by looters. Rain drummed on metal. She looked up into a suspended cloud of rusted, damaged sculptures hung on copper cables from the ceiling. A few had fallen to the marbled terrazzo, metal birds’ wings stabbing into the ground with the impact. They were softly defined in dust, its whiteness like mortar between the primary feathers.

She looked towards the ceiling.

‘Taraschi?’ she called. ‘Can you hear me yet? I’m coming.’

She wondered, briefly, why the television people had not yet arrived. It was strange to be this close to the termination of the kill and not have them baying for blood around her, along with the usual impromptu crowd which they invariably drew.

He had not answered her. But she knew he was above the ceiling, somewhere. She walked across the atrium, towards the spiral staircase that led higher. She climbed quickly, then cast around for large objects she could budge, to obstruct Taraschi’s escape route. There were plenty of ruined exhibits and pieces of furniture. She began to assemble an obstructing pile atop the staircase. It would hinder Taraschi more than block his exit completely, but that was all she needed.

By the time it was half done she was sweating and her back was stiff. She took a moment to collect herself and take in her surroundings; the constant arpeggiating note in her head confirming that Taraschi was still nearby.

The upper part of the pyramid had been dedicated to individual shrines to the Eighty. These little memorials were set in recesses within the impressive black marble walls which rose partway to the dizzyingly high ceilings, framed by pillars adorned with suggestively posed caryatids. The walls, pierced by corniced archways, blocked her view for a few tens of metres in any direction. The three triangular sides of the ceiling had been punctured in places; sepia shafts of light entering the chamber. Rain fell in steady streamers from the larger rents. Khouri saw that many of the recesses were empty; evidently, those shrines had either been looted or the families of those members of the Eighty had decided to remove their memorials to some safer place. Perhaps half remained. Of those, roughly two-thirds had been arranged in a similar manner - images, biographies and keepsakes of the dead, placed in a standard fashion. Other exhibits were more elaborate. There were holograms or statues, even, in one or two grisly cases, the embalmed corpses of the actual people being celebrated, doubtless subjected to some skilled taxidermy to offset the worst damage wrought by the procedure which had killed them.

She left the well-tended shrines alone, plundering only those that were obviously derelict, even then uncomfortable with the act of vandalism. The busts were useful - just large enough to move if she got both fingers under the base. Rather than placing them in an ordered pile at the top of the stairs, she just let them drop. Most of them had had their jewelled eyes gouged out already. The full-size statues were much harder to move, and she managed to shift only one of them.

Soon her barricade was done. For the most part it was a rubble-like pile of toppled heads, dignified faces unembarrassed by what she had done to them. The pile was surrounded by smaller, foot-tangling bric-à-brac: vases, Bibles and loyal servitors. Even if Taraschi began to dismantle the pile to reach the stairs, she was sure she would hear him doing it and be able to reach the site long before he was finished. It might even be good to kill him on that pile of heads, since it did slightly resemble Golgotha.

All this time she had been listening to his ponderous footsteps somewhere behind the black dividing walls.

‘Taraschi,’ she called. ‘Make this easy for yourself. There’s no escape from here.’

His reply sounded remarkably strong and confident. ‘You’re so wrong, Ana. The escape’s why we’re here.’

Shit. He was not supposed to know her name.

‘Escape is death, right?’

He sounded amused. ‘Something like that.’

It was not the first time she had heard such eleventh-hour bravado. She rather admired them for it. ‘You want me to come find you, is that it?’

‘Now that we’ve come this far, why not?’

‘I understand. You want your money’s worth. A contract with as many clauses in it as this one couldn’t have come cheap.’

‘Clauses?’ - the pulse in her head shifting minutely, rhapsodically.

‘This weapon. The fact that we’re alone.’

‘Ah,’ Taraschi said. ‘Yes. That did cost. But I wanted this to be a personal matter. When it came to finalities.’

Khouri was getting edgy. She had never had an actual conversation with one of her targets. Usually it would have been impossible, in the roaring bloodlust of the crowd she generally attracted. Readying the toxin gun, she began to walk slowly down the aisle. ‘Why the privacy clause?’ she asked, unable to sever the contact.

‘Dignity. I may have played this game, but I didn’t have to dishonour myself in the process.’

‘You’re very close,’ Khouri said.

‘Yes, very close.’

‘And you’re not frightened?’

‘Naturally. But of living, not dying. It’s taken me months to reach this state.’ His footsteps stopped. ‘What do you think of this place, Ana?’

‘I think it needs a bit of attention.’

‘It was well chosen, you must admit.’

She turned the aisle. Her target was standing next to one of the shrines, looking preternaturally calm, almost calmer than one of the statues which watched the encounter. The interior rain had darkened the burgundy fabric of his Canopy finery, his hair was plastered unglamorously to his forehead. In person he looked younger than any of her previous kills, which meant he was either genuinely younger or rich enough to afford the best longevity therapies. Somehow she knew it was the former.

‘You do remember why we’re here?’ he asked.

‘I do, but I’m not sure I like it.’

‘Do it anyway.’

One of the shafts of light falling from the ceiling shifted magically onto him. It was only an instant, but long enough for her to raise the toxin gun.

She fired.

‘You did well,’ Taraschi said, no pain showing in his voice. He reached out with one hand to steady himself against the wall. The other touched the swordfish protruding from his chest and prised it free, as if picking a thistle from his clothes. The pointed husk dropped to the floor, serum glistening from the end. Khouri raised the toxin gun again, but Taraschi warded her off with a blood-smeared palm. ‘Don’t overdo it,’ he said. ‘One should be sufficient. ’

Khouri felt nauseous.

‘Shouldn’t you be dead?’

‘Not for a little while. Months, to be precise. The toxin is very slow-acting. Plenty of time to think it over.’

‘Think what over?’

Taraschi raked his wet hair and wiped dust and blood from his hands onto the shins of his trousers.

‘Whether I follow her.’

The pulsing stopped and the sudden absence of it was enough to make Khouri dizzy. She fell in a half-faint to the floor. The contract was over, she grasped. She had won - again. But Taraschi was still alive.

‘This was my mother,’ Taraschi said, gesturing at the nearest shrine. It was one of the few that were well-tended. There was no dust at all on the woman’s alabaster bust, as if Taraschi had cleaned it himself just before their meeting. Her skin was uncorrupted and her jewelled eyes were still present, aristocratic features unmarred by dent or blemish. ‘Nadine Weng-da Silva Taraschi.’

‘What happened to her?’

‘She died, of course, in the process of being scanned. The destructive mapping was so swift that half her brain was still functioning normally while the other half was torn apart.’

‘I’m sorry - even though I know she volunteered for it.’

‘Don’t be. She was actually one of the lucky ones. Do you know the story, Ana?’

‘I’m not from around here.’

‘No; that was what I heard - that you were a soldier once, and that something terrible happened to you. Well, let me tell you this much. The scannings were all successful. The problem lay in the software which was supposed to execute the scanned information; to allow the alphas to evolve forward in time and experience awareness, emotion, memory - everything that makes us human. It worked well enough until the last of the Eighty had been scanned, a year after the first. But then strange pathologies began to emerge amongst the early volunteers. They crashed irrecoverably, or locked themselves in infinite loops.’

‘You said she was lucky?’

‘A few of the Eighty are still running,’ Taraschi said. ‘They’ve managed to keep doing so for a century and a half. Even the plague didn’t hurt them - they’d already migrated to secure computers in what we now call the Rust Belt.’ He paused. ‘But they’ve been out of direct contact with the real world for some time now - evolving themselves in increasingly elaborate simulated environments.’

‘And your mother?’

‘Suggested I join her. Scanning technology’s better now; it doesn’t even have to kill you.’

‘Then what’s the problem?’

‘It wouldn’t be me, would it? Just a copy - and my mother would know it. Whereas now . . .’ He fingered the tiny wound again. ‘Whereas now, I will definitely die in the real world, and the copy will be all that’s left of me. There’s time enough for me to be scanned before the toxin leads to any measurable deterioration in my neural structure.’

‘Couldn’t you just have injected it?’

Taraschi smiled. ‘That would have been too clinical. I am killing myself, after all - nothing anyone should take lightly. By involving you, I prolonged the decision and introduced an element of chance. I might decide life was preferable and resist you, and yet you might still win.’

‘Russian roulette would have been cheaper.’

‘Too quick, too random, and not nearly so stylish.’ He stepped towards her and - before she could draw back - reached for her hand and shook it, for all the world like someone concluding an auspicious business deal. ‘Thank you, Ana.’

‘Thank you?’

Without answering he walked past her, towards noise. The sacrificial mound of heads was tumbling, footsteps clattering on the staircase. A cobalt vase shattered as the barricade gave way. Khouri heard the whisper of floatcams, but when the people emerged, they had none of the faces she expected. They were respectably dressed without being ostentatious, old-money Canopy. Three older men wore ponchos and fedoras and tortoiseshell floatcam glasses, the cameras hovering above them like attendant familiars. Two bronze palanquins rose behind them, one small enough to have held a child. A man with a plum matador’s jacket carried a tiny hand-held camera. Two teenage girls carried umbrellas painted with watercolour cranes and Chinese pictograms. Between the girls was an older woman, her face so colourless she might as well have been a lifesize origami toy, infolded, white and easily crushed. She fell to her knees in front of Taraschi, weeping. Khouri had never seen the woman before, but she knew intuitively that this was Taraschi’s wife and that the little toxin-filled swordfish had robbed her of him.

She looked at Khouri, her eyes limpid smoke-grey. Her voice, when she spoke, was bleached of anger. ‘I hope they paid you well.’

‘I just did my job,’ Khouri said, but she hardly managed to force the words out. The people were helping Taraschi towards the stairs. She watched them descend out of sight, the wife turning to direct one last reproachful glance at Khouri. She heard the reverberation of their retreat and the sound of footsteps across the terrazzo. Minutes passed, and then she knew that she was completely alone.

Until something moved behind her. Khouri spun round, automatically bringing the toxin gun to bear, another dart in the chamber.

A palanquin emerged from between two shrines.

‘Case?’ She lowered the gun - it was of little use anyway, with the toxin keyed so precisely to Taraschi’s biochemistry.

But this was not Case’s palanquin: it was unmarked, unornamented black. And now it opened - she had never seen a palanquin do that - divulging a man who stepped fearlessly towards her. He wore a plum matador’s jacket; not the hermetic clothing she might have expected from someone who feared the plague. In one hand he carried a fashion accessory: a tiny camera.

‘Case has been taken care of,’ the man said. ‘He’s of no concern to you from now on, Khouri.’

‘Who are you - someone connected to Taraschi?’

‘No - I just came along to see if you were as efficient as your reputation implied.’ The man spoke with a soft accent which was not local - not from this system, nor the Edge. ‘And, I’m afraid, you were. Which means - as of now - you’re working for the same employer as myself.’

She wondered if she could put a dart in his eye. It would not kill him, but it might take the edge off his cockiness. ‘And who would that be?’

‘The Mademoiselle,’ the man said.

‘I’ve never heard of her.’

He raised the lensed end of the little camera. It split open like a particularly ingenious Fabergé egg, hundreds of elegant jade fragments sliding to new positions. Suddenly she was looking down the barrel of a gun.

‘No, but she’s heard of you.’

THREE

Cuvier, Resurgam, 2561

He was woken by shouting.

Sylveste checked his tactile bedside clock, feeling the position of the hands. He had an appointment today; in less than hour. The commotion outside had beaten the alarm by a few minutes. Curious, he threw aside the sheets of his bunk and fumbled towards the high, barred window. He was always half-blind first thing in the morning, as his eyes stammered through their wake-up systems check. They threw planar sheets of primary colour across his surroundings, making it seem as if the room had been redecorated overnight by a squad of overenthusiastic cubists.

He pulled aside the curtain. Sylveste was tall, but he could not see through the little window - at least not at a useful angle - unless he stood on a pile of books appropriated from his shelves; old printed facsimile editions. Even then the view was less than inspiring. Cuvier was built in and around a single geodesic dome, most of which was occupied with six- or seven-storey rectangular structures thrown up in the first days of the mission, designed for durability rather than aesthetic appeal. There had been no self-repairing structures, and the need to safeguard against a dome failure had resulted in buildings which were not only able to withstand razorstorms, but which could also be pressurised independently. The grey, small-windowed structures were linked by roadways, along which a few electric vehicles would normally be moving.

Not today, though.

Calvin had given the eyes a zoom/record facility, but it took concentration to use, rather like that needed to invert an optical illusion. Stick figures, foreshortened by the angle, enlarged and became agitated individuals rather than amorphous elements of a swarm. It was not so that he could now read their expressions or even identify their faces, but the people in the street defined their own personalities in the way they moved, and he had become acutely good at reading such nuances. The main mob was moving down Cuvier’s central thoroughfare behind a barricade of slogan boards and improvised flagstaffs. Apart from a few daubed store-fronts and an uprooted japonica sapling down the mall, the mob had caused little damage, but what they failed to see was the troop of Girardieau militia mobilising at the far end of the mall. They had just disgorged from a van and were buckling on chameleoflage armour, flicking through colour modes until they all wore the same calming shade of chrome-yellow.

He washed with warm water and a sponge, then carefully trimmed his beard and tied back his hair. He dressed, slipping on a velvet shirt and trousers followed by a kimono, decorated with lithographic Amarantin skeletons. Then he breakfasted - the food was always there in a little slot by the time the alarm rang - and checked the time again. She would be here shortly. He made the bed and upended it so that it formed a couch, in dimpled scarlet leather.

Pascale, as always, was accompanied by a human bodyguard and a couple of armed servitors, but they did not follow her into the room. What did was a tiny buzzing blur like a clockwork wasp. It looked harmless, but he knew that if he so much as broke wind in the biographer’s direction, what he would have to show for it would be an additional orifice in the centre of his forehead.

‘Good morning,’ she said.

‘I’d say it’s anything but,’ Sylveste said, nodding towards the window. ‘Actually, I’m surprised you made it here at all.’

She sat down on a velvet-cushioned footstool. ‘I have connections in security. It wasn’t difficult, despite the curfew.’

‘It’s come to a curfew, now?’

Pascale wore a pillbox hat in Inundationist purple, the geometric line of her blunt black fringe beneath emphasising the pale expressionless cast of her face. Her outfit was tight-fitting, striped purple and black jacket and trousers. Her entoptics were dewdrops, seahorses and flying fish, trailing pink and lilac glitter. She sat with her feet angled together, touching at the toes, her upper body leaning slightly towards him, as his did towards hers.

‘Times have changed, Doctor. You of all people should appreciate that.’

He did. He had been in prison, in the heart of Cuvier, for ten years now. The new regime which had succeeded his after the coup had become as fragmentary as the old, in the time-honoured way of all revolutions. Yet while the political landscape was as divided as ever, the underlying topology was quite different. In his time, the schism had been between those who wanted to study the Amarantin and those who wanted to terraform Resurgam, thereby establishing the world as a viable human colony rather than a temporary research outpost. Even the Inundationist terraformers had been prepared to admit that the Amarantin might once have been worthy of study. These days, however, the extant political factions differed only in the rates of terraforming they advocated, ranging from slow schemes spread across centuries to atmospheric alchemies so brutal that humans might have to evacuate the planet’s surface while they were being wrought. One thing was clear enough: even the most modest proposals would destroy many Amarantin secrets for eternity. But few people seemed particularly bothered by that - and for the most part those who did care were too scared to raise their voices. Apart from a skeleton staff of bitter, underfunded researchers, hardly anyone admitted to an interest in the Amarantin at all now. In ten years, study of the dead aliens had been relegated to an intellectual backwater.

And things would only get worse.

Five years earlier, a trade ship had passed through the system. The lighthugger had furled its ramscoop fields and moved into orbit around Resurgam; a bright and temporary new star in the heavens. Its commander, Remilliod, had offered a wealth of technological marvels to the colony: new products from other systems, and things which had not been seen since before the mutiny. But the colony could not afford everything Remilliod had to sell. There had been bloody arguments in favour of buying this over that; machines rather than medicine; aircraft rather than terraforming tools. Rumours, too, of underhand deals; trade in weapons and illegal technologies, and while the general standard of living on the colony was higher than in Sylveste’s time - witness the servitors, and the implants Pascale now took for granted - unhealable divisions had opened amongst the Inundationists.

‘Girardieau must be frightened,’ Sylveste said.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ she said, a touch too hastily. ‘All that matters to me is that we have a deadline.’

‘What is it you want to talk about today?’

Pascale glanced down at the compad she balanced on her knees. In six centuries computers had assumed every shape and architecture imaginable, but something like a simple drawing slate - flat, with a handwritten entry-mode - had seldom been out of fashion for long. ‘I’d like to talk about what happened to your father,’ Pascale said.

‘You mean the Eighty? Isn’t the whole thing already sufficiently well documented for your needs?’

‘Almost.’ Pascale touched the tip of her stylus against her cochineal-dark lips. ‘I’ve examined all the standard accounts, of course. For the most part they’ve answered my questions. There’s just one small matter I haven’t been able to resolve to my total satisfaction.’

‘Which is?’

He had to hand it to Pascale. The way she answered, without the slightest trace of real interest in her voice, it really was just as if this were a loose end that needed clearing up. It was a skill; one that almost lulled him into carelessness. ‘It’s about your father’s alpha-level recording,’ Pascale said.

‘Yes?’

‘I’d like to know what really happened to it afterwards.’

In the soft interior rain, the man with the trick gun directed Khouri to a waiting cable-car. It was as unmarked and inconspicuous as the palanquin he had abandoned in the Monument.

‘Get in.’

‘Just a moment—’ But as soon as Khouri opened her mouth, he pushed the end of the gun into the small of her back. Not painfully - it was done firmly, not to hurt - but to remind her that it was there. Something in that gentleness told her the man was a professional, and that he was far more likely to use the gun than someone who would have prodded her aggressively. ‘All right; I’m moving. Who is this Mademoiselle anyway? Someone behind a rival Shadowplay house?’

‘No; I’ve already told you; stop thinking so parochially.’

He was not going to tell her anything useful; she could see that. Certain it would not get her far, she said: ‘Who are you, then?’

‘Carlos Manoukhian.’

That worried her more than the way he handled the gun. He said it too truthfully. It was not a cover-name. And now that she knew it - and guessed that this man was at best some kind of criminal, laughable as that category seemed in Chasm City’s lawlessness - it meant he planned to kill her later.

The cable-car’s door clammed shut. Manoukhian pressed a button on the console which purged the Chasm City air, blasting out in steam jets below the car as it lofted itself via a nearby cable.

‘Who are you, Manoukhian?’

‘I help the Mademoiselle.’ As if that was not blindingly obvious. ‘We have a special relationship. We go back a long way.’

‘And what does she want with me?’

‘I would have thought it was obvious by now,’ Manoukhian said. He was still keeping the gun on her, even as he kept one eye on the car’s navigation console. ‘There’s someone she wants you to assassinate.’

‘That’s what I do for a living.’

‘Yeah.’ He smiled. ‘Difference is, this guy hasn’t paid for it.’

The biography, needless to say, had not been Sylveste’s idea. Instead, the initiative had come from the one man Sylveste would have least suspected. It had been six months earlier; during one of the very few occasions when he had spoken face to face with his captor. Nils Girardieau had brought up the subject almost casually, mentioning that he was surprised no one had taken on the task. After all, the fifty years on Resurgam virtually amounted to another life, and even though that life was now capped by an ignominious epilogue, it did at least put his earlier life into a perspective it had lacked during the Yellowstone years. ‘The problem was,’ Girardieau said, ‘your previous biographers were too close to the events - too much part of the societal milieu they were attempting to analyse. Everyone was in thrall to either Cal or yourself, and the colony was so claustrophobic there was no room to step back and see the wider perspective.’

‘You’re saying Resurgam is somehow less claustrophobic?’

‘Well, obviously not - but at least we have the benefit of distance, both in time and space.’ Girardieau was a squat, muscular man with a shock of red hair. ‘Admit it, Dan - when you think back to your life on Yellowstone, doesn’t it sometimes seem like it all happened to someone else, in a century very remote from our own?’

Sylveste was about to laugh dismissively, except that - for once - he found himself in complete agreement with Girardieau. It was an unsettling moment, as if a basic rule of the universe had been violated.

‘I still don’t see why you’d want to encourage this,’ Sylveste said, nodding towards the guard who was presiding over the conversation. ‘Or are you hoping you can somehow profit from it?’

Girardieau had nodded. ‘That’s part of it - maybe most of it, if you want the truth. It probably hasn’t escaped your attention that you’re still a figure of fascination to the populace.’

‘Even if most of them would be fascinated to see me hung.’

‘You’ve a point, but they’d probably insist on shaking your hand first - before helping you to the gibbet.’

‘And you think you can milk this appetite?’

Girardieau had shrugged. ‘Obviously, the new regime determines who gains access to you - and we also own all your records and archival material. That gives us a headstart already. We have access to documents from the Yellowstone years which no one beyond your immediate family even knows exist. We’d exercise a certain discretion in using them, of course - but we’d be fools to ignore them.’

‘I understand,’ Sylveste said, because suddenly it was all very clear to him. ‘You’re actually going to use this to discredit me, aren’t you.’

‘If the facts discredit you . . .’ Girardieau left the remark hanging in the air.

‘When you deposed me . . . wasn’t that good enough for you?’

‘That was nine years ago.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning long enough for people to forget. Now they need a gentle reminder.’

‘Especially as there’s a new air of discontent abroad.’

Girardieau winced, as if the remark was in spectacularly poor taste. ‘You can forget about True Path - especially if you think they might turn out to be your salvation. They wouldn’t have stopped at imprisoning you.’

‘All right,’ Sylveste said, boring rapidly. ‘What’s in it for me?’

‘You assume there has to be something?’

‘Generally, yes. Otherwise, why bother telling me about it?’

‘Your co-operation might be in your best interest. Obviously, we could work from the material we’ve seized - but your insights would be valuable. Especially in the more speculative episodes.’

‘Let me get this straight. You want me to authorise a hatchet job? And not just give it my blessing but actually help you assassinate my character?’

‘I could make it worth your while.’ Girardieau nodded around the confines of the room in which Sylveste was held. ‘Look at the freedom I’ve given Janequin, to continue his peacock hobby. I could be just as flexible in your case, Dan. Access to recent material on the Amarantin; the ability to communicate with your colleagues; share your opinions - perhaps even the occasional excursion beyond the building.’

‘Field work?’

‘I’d have to consider it. Something of that magnitude . . .’ Sylveste was suddenly, acutely aware that Girardieau was acting. ‘A period of grace might be advisable. The biography’s in development now, but it’ll be several months before we need your input. Maybe half a year. What I propose is that we wait until you’ve begun to give us what we need. You’ll be working with the biography’s author, of course, and if that relationship is successful - if she considers it successful - then perhaps we’ll be ready to enter into discussions about limited field work. Discussions, mind - no promises.’

‘I’ll try and contain my enthusiasm.’

‘Well, you’ll be hearing from me again. Is there anything you need to know before I leave?’

‘One thing. You mentioned that the biographer would be a woman. Might I ask who it’ll be?’

‘Someone with illusions waiting to be shattered, I suspect.’

Volyova was working near the cache one day, thinking of weapons, when a janitor-rat dropped gently onto her shoulder and spoke into her ear.

‘Company,’ said the rat.

The rats were a peculiar quirk of the Nostalgia for Infinity; quite possibly unique aboard any lighthugger. They were only fractionally more intelligent than their feral ancestors, but what made them useful - what turned them from pest into utility - was that they were biochemically linked into the ship’s command matrix. Every rat had specialised pheromonal receptors and transmitters which allowed it to receive commands and transmit information back to the ship, encoded into complex secreted molecules. They foraged for waste, eating virtually anything organic which was not nailed down or still breathing. Then they ran some rudimentary preprocessing in their guts before going elsewhere in the ship, excreting pellets into larger recycler systems. Some of them had even been equipped with voiceboxes and a small hardwired lexicon of useful phrases, triggered into vocalisation when external stimuli satisfied biochemically programmed conditions.

In Volyova’s case, she had programmed the rats to alert her as soon as they began to process human detritrus - dead skin cells, and the like - which had not come from her. She would know when the other crew members were awake, even if she was in a completely different district of the ship.

‘Company,’ the rat squeaked again.

‘Yes, I heard first time.’ She lowered the little rodent to the deck, and then swore in all the languages at her disposal.

The defensive wasp which had accompanied Pascale buzzed a little nearer to Sylveste as it picked up the stress overtones in his voice. ‘You want to know about the Eighty? I’ll tell you. I don’t feel the slightest hint of remorse for any of them. They all knew the risks. And there were seventy-nine volunteers, not eighty. People conveniently forget that the eightieth was my father.’

‘You can hardly blame them.’

‘Assuming stupidity is an inherited trait, then no, I can’t.’ Sylveste tried to relax himself. It was difficult. At some point in the conversation, the militia had begun to dust the domed-in air outside with fear gas. It was staining the reddened daylight to something nearer black. ‘Look,’ Sylveste said evenly. ‘The government appropriated Calvin when I was arrested. He’s quite capable of defending his own actions.’

‘It isn’t his actions I want to ask you about.’

Pascale made an annotation in her compad. ‘It’s what became of him - his alpha-level simulation - afterwards. Now, each of the alphas comprised in the region of ten to the power eighteen bytes of information,’ she said, circling something. ‘The records from Yellowstone are patchy, but I was able to learn a little. I found that sixty-six of the alphas resided in orbital data reservoirs around Yellowstone; carousels, chandelier cities and various Skyjack and Ultra havens. Most had crashed, of course, but no one was going to erase them. Another ten I traced to corrupted surface archives, which leaves four missing. Three of those four are members of the seventy-nine, affiliated to either very poor or very extinct family lines. The other is the alpha recording of Calvin.’

‘Is there a point to this?’ he asked, trying not to sound as if the issue particularly concerned him.

‘I just can’t accept that Calvin was lost in the same way as the others. It doesn’t add up. The Sylveste Institute didn’t need creditors or trustees to safeguard their heirlooms. It was one of the wealthiest organisations on the planet right up until the plague hit. So what became of Calvin?’

‘You think I brought it to Resurgam?’

‘No; the evidence suggests it was already long lost by then. In fact, the last time it was definitely present in the system was more than a century before the Resurgam expedition departed.’

‘I think you’re wrong,’ Sylveste said. ‘Check the records more closely and you’ll see that the alpha was moved into an orbital data cache in the late twenty-fourth. The Institute relocated premises thirty years later, so it was certainly moved then. Then in ’39 or ’40 the Institute was attacked by House Reivich. They wiped the data cores.’

‘No,’ Pascale said. ‘I excluded those instances. I’m well aware that in 2390 around ten to the eighteen bytes of something was moved into orbit by the Sylveste Institute, and the same amount relocated thirty-seven years later. But ten to the eighteen bytes of information doesn’t have to be Calvin. It could as easily be ten to the eighteen bytes of metaphysical poetry.’

‘Which proves nothing.’

She passed him the compad, her entourage of seahorses and fish scattering like fireflies. ‘No, but it certainly looks suspicious. Why would the alpha vanish around the time you went to meet the Shrouders, unless the two events were related?’

‘You’re saying I had something to do with it?’

‘The subsequent data-movements could only have been faked by someone within the Sylveste organisation. You’re the obvious suspect.’

‘A motive wouldn’t go amiss.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ she said, returning the compad to her lap. ‘I’m sure I’ll think of one.’

Three days after the janitor-rat had warned her of the crew’s awakening, Volyova felt sufficiently prepared to meet them. It was never something she particularly looked forward to, for although she did not actively dislike human company, neither had Volyova ever had any difficulty in adjusting to solitude. But things were worse now. Nagorny was dead, and by now the others would be well aware of that fact.

Ignoring the rats, and subtracting Nagorny, the ship now carried six crew members. Five, if one elected not to include the Captain. And why include him, when - as far as the other crew were aware, he was not even capable of consciousness, let alone communication? They carried him only because they hoped to make him well. In all other respects the ship’s real centre of power was vested in the Triumvirate. That was Yuuji Sajaki, Abdul Hegazi and - of course - herself. Below the Triumvirate there were currently two more crew, of equal rank. Their names were Kjarval and Sudjic; chimerics who had only recently joined ship. Finally - the lowest rank of all - was the Gunnery Officer, the role Nagorny had filled. Now that he was dead the role had a certain potentiality, like a vacant throne.

During their periods of activity, the other crew tended to stay within certain well-defined districts of the ship, leaving the rest to Volyova and her machines. It was morning now, by shiptime: here up in the crew levels, the lights still followed a diurnal pattern, slaved to a twenty-four hour clock. She went first to the reefersleep room and found it empty, with all but one of the sleep caskets open. The other one, of course, belonged to Nagorny. After reattaching his head Volyova had placed the body in the casket and cooled it down. Later, she had arranged for the unit to malfunction, allowing Nagorny to warm. He had been dead already, but it would take a skilled pathologist to tell that now. Clearly none of the crew had felt much inclined to examine him closely.

She thought about Sudjic again. Sudjic and Nagorny had been close, for a while. It would not pay to underestimate Sudjic.

Volyova left the reefersleep chamber, explored several other likely places of meeting, and then found herself entering one of the forests, navigating through immense thickets of dead vegetation until she neared a pocket where UV lamps were still burning. She approached a glade, making her way unsteadily down the rustic wooden stairs which led to the floor. The glade was quite idyllic - more so now that the rest of the forest was so bereft of life. Shafts of yellow sunlight knifed through a shifting bower of palm trees overhead. There was a waterfall in the distance, feeding a steep-walled lagoon. Parrots and macaws occasionally kited from tree to tree or made ratcheting calls from their perches.

Volyova gritted her teeth, despising the artificiality of the place.

The four living crew were eating breakfast around a long wooden table, piled high with bread, fruit, slices of meat and cheese, jars of orange juice and flasks of coffee. Across the glade, two holographically projected jousting knights were doing their best to disembowel each other.

‘Good morning,’ she said, stepping from the staircase onto the authentically dewy grass. ‘I don’t suppose there’s any coffee left?’

They looked up, some of them twisting around on their stools to meet her. She registered their reactions as their cutlery clinked discreetly down, three of them murmuring a hushed greeting. Sudjic said nothing at all, while only Sajaki actually raised his voice.

‘Glad to see you, Ilia.’ He snatched a bowl from the table. ‘Care for some grapefruit?’

‘Thanks. Perhaps I will.’

She walked towards them and took the plate from Sajaki, the fruit glistening with sugar. Deliberately she sat between the two other women: Sudjic and Kjarval. Both were currently black-skinned and bald, apart from fiery tangles of dreadlocks erupting from their crowns. Dreadlocks were important to Ultras: they symbolised the number of reefersleep stints that each had done; the number of times each had almost kissed the speed of light. The two women had joined after their own ship had been pirated by Volyova’s crew. Ultras traded loyalties as easily as the water ice, monopoles and data they used for currency. Both were overt chimerics, although their transformations were modest compared to Hegazi. Sudjic’s arms vanished below her elbows into elaborately engraved bronze gauntlets, inlaid with ormoluwork windows which revealed constantly shifting holographics, diamond nails projecting from the too-slender fingers of her mock hands. Most of Kjarval’s body was organic, but her eyes were feline crosshatched red ellipses, and her flat nose exhibited no nostrils; merely sleekly rilled apertures, as if she was partially adapted to aquatic living. She wore no clothes, but apart from eyes, nostrils, mouth and ears, her skin was seamless, like an all-enveloping sheath of ebony neoprene. Her breasts lacked nipples; her fingers were dainty but without nails, and her toes were little more than vague suggestions, as if she had been rendered by a sculptor anxious to begin another commission. As Volyova sat down, Kjarval observed her with indifference that was a little too studied to be genuine.

‘It’s good to have you with us,’ Sajaki said. ‘You’ve been very busy while we were sleeping. Anything much happen?’

‘This and that.’

‘Intriguing.’ Sajaki smiled. ‘This and that. I don’t suppose that between “this” and “that” you noticed anything which might shed some light on Nagorny’s death?’

‘I wondered where Nagorny was. Now you’ve answered my question.’

‘But you haven’t answered mine.’

Volyova dug into her grapefruit. ‘The last time I saw him he was alive. I have no idea . . . how did he die, incidentally?’

‘His reefersleep unit warmed him prematurely. Various bacteriological processes ensued. I don’t suppose we need to go into the details, do we?’

‘Not over breakfast, no.’ Evidently they had not examined him closely at all: if they had, they might have noticed the injuries he had sustained during his death, for all that she had tried to disguise them. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, flashing a glance towards Sudjic. ‘I meant no disrespect.’

‘Of course not,’ Sajaki said, tearing a hunk of bread in half. He fixed Sudjic with his close-set ellipsoidal eyes, like someone staring down a rabid dog. The tattoos which he had applied during his infiltration of the Bloater Skyjacks were gone now, but there were fine whitish trails where they had been, despite the patient ministrations which had been visited upon him in reefersleep. Perhaps, Volyova thought, Sajaki had instructed his medichines to retain some trace of his exploits among the Bloaterians; a trophy of the economic gains he had wrested from them. ‘I’m sure we all absolve Ilia of any responsibility for Nagorny’s death - don’t we, Sudjic?’

‘Why should I blame her for an accident?’ Sudjic said.

‘Precisely. And there’s an end to the matter.’

‘Not quite,’ Volyova said. ‘Now may not be the best time to raise the matter, but . . .’ She trailed off. ‘I was going to say that I wanted to extract the implants from his head. But even if I was allowed to do so, they’d probably be damaged.’

‘Can you make new ones?’ Sajaki said.

‘Given time, yes.’ She said it with a sigh of resignation. ‘I’ll need a new candidate, too.’

‘When we lay over around Yellowstone,’ Hegazi said, ‘you can search for someone there, can’t you?’

The knights were still clashing across the glade, but no one was paying them very much attention now, even though one of them seemed to be having difficulties with an arrow inserted through his faceplate.

‘I’m sure someone suitable will turn up,’ Volyova said.

The cold air in the Mademoiselle’s house was the cleanest Khouri had tasted since arriving on Yellowstone. Which was really saying very little. Clean, but not fragrant. More like the smells she remembered from the hospital tent on Sky’s Edge, redolent of iodine and cabbage and chlorine, the last time she had seen Fazil.

Manoukhian’s cable-car had carried them across the city, through a partially flooded subsurface aqueduct. They had arrived in an underground cavern. From there, Manoukhian had ushered Khouri into a lift which ascended with ear-popping speed. The lift had brought them to this dark, echoey hallway. More than likely it was just a trick of acoustics, but Khouri felt as if she had just stepped into a huge unlit mausoleum. Filigreed windows floated overhead, but the light which leaked through them was midnight pale. Given that it was still day outside, the effect was subtly disturbing.

‘The Mademoiselle has no passion for daylight,’ Manoukhian said, leading her on.

‘You don’t say.’ Khouri’s eyes were starting to adjust to the gloom. She began to pick out big hulking things standing in the hall. ‘You’re not from around here, are you, Manoukhian?’

‘I guess that makes two of us.’

‘Was it a clerical error that brought you to Yellowstone as well?’

‘Not quite.’ She could tell that Manoukhian was deciding how much he could get away with telling. That was his one weakness, Khouri thought. For a hit-man, or whatever he was, the man liked to talk too much. The trip over had been one long series of brags and boasts about his exploits in Chasm City - stuff, which, if it had been coming from anyone other than this cool customer with the foreign accent and trick gun, she would have dismissed out of hand. But with Manoukhian, the worrying thing was that a lot of it might have been true. ‘No,’ he said, his urge to spin a story obviously triumphing over his professional instincts towards surliness. ‘No; it wasn’t a clerical error. But it was a kind of mistake - or an accident, at any rate.’

There were lots of the hulking things. It was difficult to make out their overall shapes, but they all rested on slim poles jutting from black plinths. Some were like sections of smashed eggshell, while others more resembled delicate husks of brain coral. Everything had a metallic sheen, rendered colourless in the sallow light of the hallway.

‘You had an accident?’

‘No . . . not me. She did. The Mademoiselle. That’s how we met each other. She was . . . I shouldn’t be telling you any of this, Khouri. She finds out, I’m dead meat. Pretty easy to dispose of bodies in the Mulch. Hey, you know what I found there the other day? You’re not going to believe any of this, but I found a whole fucking . . .’

Manoukhian went off on a boast. Khouri brushed her fingers against one of the sculptures, feeling its cool metal texture. The edges were very sharp. It was as if she and Manoukhian were two furtive art lovers who had broken into a museum in the middle of the night. The sculptures seemed to be biding their time. They were waiting for something - but not with infinite reserves of patience.

She was perplexingly glad of the gunman’s company.

‘Did she make these?’ Khouri asked, interrupting Manoukhian’s flow.

‘Perhaps,’ Manoukhian said. ‘In which case you could say she suffered for her art.’ He stopped, touching her on the shoulder. ‘All right. You see those stairs?’

‘I guess you want me to use them.’

‘You’re learning.’

Gently, he stuck the gun in her back - just to remind her it was still there.

Through a porthole in the wall next to the dead man’s quarters Volyova could see a tangerine-coloured gas giant planet, its shadowed southern pole flickering with auroral storms. They were deep inside the Epsilon Eridani system now; coming in at a shallow angle to the ecliptic. Yellowstone was only a few days away; already they were within light-minutes of local traffic, threading through the web of line-of-sight communications which linked every significant habitat or spacecraft in the system. Their own ship had changed, too. Through the same window Volyova could just see the front of one of the Conjoiner engines. The engines had automatically hauled in their scoop fields as the ship dropped below ramming speed, subtly altering their shapes to in-system mode, the intake maw closing like a flower at dusk. Somehow the engines were still producing thrust, but the source of the reaction mass or the energy to accelerate it was just another mystery of Conjoiner technology. Presumably there was a limit on how long the drives could function like this, or else they would never have needed to trawl space for fuel during interstellar cruise mode . . .

Her mind was wandering, trying to focus on anything but the issue at hand.

‘I think she’s going to be trouble,’ Volyova said. ‘Serious trouble.’

‘Not if I read her correctly.’ Triumvir Sajaki dispensed a smile.

‘Sudjic knows me too well. She knows I wouldn’t take the trouble of actually reprimanding her if she made a move against a member of the Triumvirate. I wouldn’t even give her the luxury of leaving the ship when we get to Yellowstone. I’d simply kill her.’

‘That might be a little harsh.’

She sounded weak and despised herself for it, but it was how she felt. ‘It’s not as if I don’t sympathise with her. After all Sudjic had nothing personal against me until I . . . until Nagorny died. If she does anything, couldn’t you just discipline her?’

‘It’s not worth it,’ Sajaki said. ‘If she has the mind to do something to you, she won’t stop at petty aggravation. If I just discipline her she’ll find a way to hurt you permanently. Killing her would be the only reasonable option. Anyway - I’m surprised that you see her side of things. Hasn’t it occurred to you that some of Nagorny’s problems might have rubbed off on her?’

‘You’re asking me whether I think she’s completely sane?’

‘It doesn’t matter. She won’t move against you - you have my word on that.’ Sajaki paused. ‘Now, can we get this over with? I’ve had enough of Nagorny for one life.’

‘I know exactly how you feel.’

It was several days after her first meeting with the crew. They were standing outside the dead man’s quarters, on level 821, preparing to enter his rooms. They had remained sealed since his death - longer, as far as the others were concerned. Even Volyova had not entered them, wary of disturbing something which might place her there.

She spoke into her bracelet. ‘Disable security interdict, personal quarters Gunnery Officer Boris Nagorny, authorisation Volyova.’

The door opened before them, emitting a palpable draught of highly chilled air.

‘Send them in,’ Sajaki said.

The armed servitors took only a few minutes to sweep the interior, certifying that there were no obvious hazards. It would have been unlikely, of course, since Nagorny had probably not planned to die quite when Volyova had arranged it. But with characters like him, one could never be sure.

They stepped in, the servitors having already activated the room lights.

Like most of the psychopaths she had encountered, Nagorny had always seemed perfectly happy with the smallest of personal spaces. His quarters were even more determinedly cramped than her own. A fastidious neatness had been at work there, like a poltergeist in reverse. Most of his belongings - there were not many - had been securely racked down, and so had not been disturbed by the ship’s manoeuvres when she killed him.

Sajaki grimaced and held a sleeve up to his nose. ‘That smell.’

‘It’s borscht. Beetroot. I think Nagorny was partial to it.’

‘Remind me not to try it.’

Sajaki closed the door behind them.

There was a residual frigidity to the air. The thermometers said that it was now room temperature, but it seemed as if the molecules in the air carried an imprint of the months of cold. The room’s overpowering spartanness did not offset this chill. Volyova’s quarters seemed opulent and luxurious by comparison. It was not simply a case of Nagorny neglecting to personalise his space. It was just that in so doing he had so miserably failed by normal standards that his efforts actually contradicted themselves and made the room seem even bleaker than had it been empty.

What failed to help matters was the coffin.

The elongated object had been the only thing in the room not lashed down when she killed Nagorny. It was still intact, but Volyova sensed that the thing had once stood upright, dominating the room with a fearful premonitory grandeur. It was huge and probably made of iron. The metal was as ebon and light-sucking as the surface of a Shrouder emboîtement. All its surfaces had been carved in bas-relief, too intricately rendered to give up all their secrets in one glance. Volyova stared in silence. Are you trying to say, she thought, that Boris Nagorny was capable of this?

‘Yuuji,’ she said. ‘I don’t like this at all.’

‘I don’t very much blame you.’

‘What kind of madman makes his own coffin?’

‘A very dedicated one, I’d say. But it’s here, and it’s probably the only glimpse into his mind we have. What do you make of the embellishments?’

‘Undoubtedly a projection of his psychosis, a concretisation.’ Now that Sajaki was forcing calm she was slipping into subservience. ‘I should study the imagery. It might give me insight.’ She paused, added: ‘So that we don’t make the same mistake twice, I mean.’

‘Prudent,’ Sajaki said, kneeling down. He stroked his gloved forefinger over the intagliated rococo surface. ‘We were very lucky you were not forced to kill him, in the end.’

‘Yes,’ she said, giving him an odd look. ‘But what are your thoughts on the embellishments, Yuuji-san?’

‘I’d like to know who or what Sun Stealer was,’ he said, drawing her attention to those words, etched in Cyrillic on the coffin. ‘Does that mean anything to you? Within the terms of his psychosis, I mean. What did it mean to Nagorny?’

‘I haven’t the faintest.’

‘Let me hazard a guess, anyway. I’d say that in Nagorny’s imagination Sun Stealer represented somebody in his day-to-day experience, and I see two obvious possibilities.’

‘Himself or me,’ Volyova said, knowing that Sajaki was not to be easily distracted. ‘Yes, yes, that much is obvious . . . but this doesn’t in any way help us.’

‘You’re quite sure he never mentioned this Sun Stealer?’

‘I would remember a thing like that.’

Which was quite true. And of course she did remember: he had written those words on the wall in her quarters, in his own blood. The expression meant nothing to her, but that did not mean she was in any sense unfamiliar with it. Towards the unpleasant termination of their professional relationship, Nagorny had spoken of little else. His dreams were thick with Sun Stealer, and - like all paranoiacs - he saw evidence of Sun Stealer’s malignant work in the most humdrum of daily annoyances. When one of the ship’s lights failed unaccountably or a lift directed him to the wrong level, this was Sun Stealer’s doing. It was never a simple malfunction, but always evidence of the deliberate machinations of a behind-the-scenes entity only Nagorny could detect. Volyova had stupidly ignored the signs. She had hoped - in fact come as close to praying as was possible for her - that his phantom would return to the netherworld of his unconscious. But Sun Stealer had stayed with Nagorny; witness the coffin on the floor.

Yes . . . she would remember a thing like that.

‘I’m sure you would,’ Sajaki said, knowingly. Then he returned his attention to the engravings. ‘I think first we should make a copy of these marks,’ he said. ‘They may help us, but this damned Braille effect isn’t easy to make out with the eye. What do you think these are?’ He moved his palm across a kind of radial pattern. ‘Birds’ wings? Or rays of sunlight shining from above? They look more like birds’ wings to me. Now why would he have bird wings on his mind? And what kind of language is this meant to be?’

Volyova looked, but the crawling complexity of the coffin was too much to take in. It was not that she was uninterested - not at all. But what she wanted was the thing to herself, and Sajaki as far away from it as possible. There was too much evidence here of the canyon depths to which Nagorny’s mind had plummeted.

‘I think it merits more study,’ she said carefully. ‘You said “first”. What do you intend to do after we make a copy of it?’

‘I would have thought that was obvious.’

‘Destroy the damned thing,’ she surmised.

Sajaki smiled. ‘Either that or give it to Sudjic. But personally I’d settle for destroying it. Coffins aren’t good things to have on a ship, you know. Especially home-made ones.’

The stairs went up for ever. After a while - already in the two hundreds - Khouri lost count. But just when her knees felt as if they were going to buckle, the staircase came to an abrupt end, presenting her with a long, long white corridor whose sides were a series of recessed arches. The effect was like standing in a portico under moonlight. She walked along the corridor’s echoey length until she arrived at the double doors which ended it. They were festooned with organic black scrollwork, inset with faintly tinted glass. A lavender light poured through them from the room beyond.

Evidently she had arrived.

It was entirely possible that this was a trap of some kind, and that to enter the room beyond would be a form of suicide. But turning back was not an option either - Manoukhian, for all his charm, had made that abundantly clear. So Khouri grasped the handle and let herself in. Something in the air made her nose tickle pleasantly, a blossomy perfume negating the sterility of the rest of the house. The smell made Khouri feel unwashed, although it was only a few hours since Ng had woken her and told her to go and kill Taraschi. In the meantime she had accumulated a month’s worth of dirt from the Chasm City rain, suffused with her own sweat and fear.

‘I see Manoukhian managed to get you here in one piece,’ said a woman’s voice.

‘Me or him?’

‘Both, dear girl,’ the invisible speaker said. ‘Your reputations are equally formidable.’

Behind her the double doors clicked shut. Khouri began to take in her surroundings; difficult in the strange pink light of the room. The enclosure was kettle-shaped, with two eyelike shuttered windows set into one concave wall.

‘Welcome to my place of residence,’ the voice said. ‘Make yourself at home, won’t you.’

Khouri walked to the shuttered windows. To one side of the windows sat a pair of reefersleep caskets, gleaming like chromed silverfish. One of the units was sealed and running, while the other was open; a chrysalis ready to enfold the butterfly.

‘Where am I?’

The shutters whisked open.

‘Where you always were,’ the Mademoiselle said.

She was looking out across Chasm City. But it was from a higher vantage point than she had ever known. She was actually above the Mosquito Net, perhaps fifty metres from its stained surface. The city lay below the Net like a fantastically spiny sea-creature preserved in formaldehyde. She had no idea where she was; except that this had to be one of the tallest buildings; one that she had probably assumed was uninhabited.

The Mademoiselle said: ‘I call this place the Château des Corbeaux; the House of Ravens; by virtue of its blackness. You’ve undoubtedly seen it.’

‘What do you want?’ Khouri said, finally.

‘I want you to do a job for me.’

‘All this for that? I mean, you had to kidnap me at gunpoint just to ask me to do a job? Couldn’t you go through the usual channels?’

‘It isn’t the usual sort of job.’

Khouri nodded towards the open reefersleep unit. ‘Where does that come into it?’

‘Don’t tell me it alarms you. You came to our world in one, after all.’

‘I just asked what it meant.’

‘All in good time. Turn around, will you?’

Khouri heard a slight bustle of machinery behind her, like the sound of a filing cabinet opening.

A hermetic’s palanquin had entered the room. Or had it been here all along, concealed by some artifice? It was as dark and angular as a metronome, lacking ornamentation, and with a roughly welded black exterior. It had no appendages or obvious sensors, and the tiny viewing monocle set into its front was as dark as a shark’s eye.

‘You are doubtless already familiar with my kind,’ said the voice emanating from the palanquin. ‘Do not be disturbed.’

‘I’m not,’ Khouri said.

But she was lying. There was something disturbing about this box; a quality she had never experienced in the presence of Ng or the other hermetics she had known. Perhaps it was the austerity of the palanquin, or the sense - entirely subliminal - that the box was seldom unoccupied. None of this was helped by the smallness of the viewing window, or the feeling that there was something monstrous behind that dark opacity.

‘I can’t answer all your questions now,’ the Mademoiselle said. ‘But obviously I didn’t bring you here just to see my predicament. Here. Perhaps this will assist matters.’

A figure grew to solidity next to the palanquin, imaged by the room itself.

It was a woman, of course - young, but paradoxically clothed in the kind of finery which no one had worn on Yellowstone since the plague; enrobed in swirling entoptics. The woman’s black hair was raked back from a noble forehead, held in a clasp inwoven with lights. Her electric-blue gown left her shoulders bare, cut away in a daring décolletage. Where it reached the floor it blurred into nothingness.

‘This is how I was,’ the figure spoke. ‘Before the foulness.’

‘Can’t you still be like that?’

‘The risk of leaving enclosure is too great - even in the hermetic sanctuaries. I distrust their precautions.’

‘Why have you brought me here?’

‘Didn’t Manoukhian explain things fully?’

‘Not exactly, no. Other than explaining how it wouldn’t be good for my health not to go along with him.’

‘How indelicate of him. But not inaccurate, it must be admitted.’ A smile upset the pale composure of the woman’s face. ‘What do you suppose were my reasons for bringing you here?’

Khouri knew that, whatever else had happened, she had seen too much to return to normal life in the city.

‘I’m a professional assassin. Manoukhian saw me at work and told me I was as good as my reputation. Now - maybe I’m jumping to conclusions here - but it occurs to me you might want someone killed.’

‘Yes, very good.’ The figure nodded. ‘But did Manoukhian tell you this would not be the same as your usual contracts?’

‘He mentioned an important difference, yes.’

‘And would this trouble you?’ The Mademoiselle studied her intensely. ‘It’s an interesting point, isn’t it? I’m well aware that your usual targets consent to be assassinated before you go after them. But they do so in the knowledge that they will probably evade you and live to boast about it. When you do catch them, I doubt that many of them go gently.’

She thought of Taraschi. ‘Usually not, no. Usually they’re begging me not to do it, trying to bribe me, that kind of thing.’

‘And?’

Khouri shrugged. ‘I kill them anyway.’

‘The attitude of a true professional. You were a soldier, Khouri?’

‘Once.’ She did not really want to think about that now. ‘How much do you know about what happened to me?’

‘Enough. That your husband was a soldier as well - a man named Fazil - and that you fought together on Sky’s Edge. And then something happened. A clerical error. You were put aboard a ship destined for Yellowstone. No one realised the error until you woke up here, twenty years later. Too late by then to return to the Edge - even if you knew Fazil was still alive. He would be forty years older by the time you got back.’

‘Now you know why becoming an assassin didn’t exactly give me any sleepless nights.’

‘No; I can imagine how you felt. That you owed the universe no favours - nor anyone living in it.’

Khouri swallowed. ‘But you don’t need an ex-soldier for a job like this. You don’t even need me: I don’t know who you want to take out, but there are better people around than me. I mean, I’m technically good - I only miss one shot in twenty. But I know people who only miss one in fifty.’

‘You suit my needs in another manner. I need someone who is more than willing to leave the city.’ The figure nodded towards the open reefersleep casket. ‘And by that, I mean a long journey.’

‘Out of the system?’

‘Yes.’ Her voice was patient and matronly, as if the rudiments of this conversation had been rehearsed dozens of times. ‘Specifically, a distance of twenty light-years. That’s how far away Resurgam is.’

‘I can’t say I’ve heard of it.’

‘I would be troubled if you had.’ The Mademoiselle extended her left hand, and a little globe sprang into existence a few inches above her palm. The world was deathly grey - there were no oceans, rivers or greenery. Only a skein of atmosphere - visible as a fine arc near the horizon - and a pair of dirty-white icecaps suggested this was anything other than some airless moon. ‘It’s not even one of the newer colonies - not what we’d call a colony, anyway. There are only a few tiny research outposts on the whole planet. Until recently Resurgam has been of no significance whatsoever. But all that has changed.’ The Mademoiselle paused, seeming to collect her thoughts, perhaps debating how much to reveal at this stage. ‘Someone has arrived on Resurgam - a man called Sylveste.’

‘That’s not a very common name.’

‘Then you are aware of his clan’s standing in Yellowstone. Good. That simplifies matters enormously. You will have no difficulty finding him.’

‘There’s more to it than just finding him, isn’t there?’

‘Oh yes,’ the Mademoiselle said. Then she snatched at the globe with her hand, crushing it between her fingers, rivulets of dust pouring between them. ‘Very much more.’

FOUR

Carousel New Brazilia, Yellowstone, Epsilon Eridani, 2546

Volyova disembarked from the lighthugger’s shuttle and followed Triumvir Hegazi down the exit tunnel. Via twisting gaskets, the tunnel led them into the weightless hub of a spherical transit lounge at the heart of the carousel.

Every fractured strain of humanity was there; a bewildering free-floating riot of colour, like tropical fish in a feeding frenzy. Ultras, Skyjacks, Conjoiners, Demarchists, local traders, intrasystem passengers, freeloaders, mechanics, all following what seemed to be completely random trajectories, but never quite colliding, no matter how perilously close they came. Some - where their bodyplans allowed it - had diaphanous wings sewn under their sleeves, or attached directly to the skin. The less adventurous made do with slim thrust-packs, or allowed themselves to be pulled along by tiny rented tugs. Personal servitors flew through the throng, carrying baggage and folded spacesuits, while liveried, winged capuchin monkeys foraged for litter, tucking what they found into marsupial pouches under their chests. Chinese music tinkled pervasively through the air, sounding to Volyova’s untutored ear like windchimes stirred by a breeze with a particular taste for dissonance. Yellowstone, thousands of kilometres below, was an ominous yellow-brown backdrop to all this activity.

Volyova and Hegazi reached the far side of the transit sphere and moved through a matter-permeable membrane into a customs area. It was another free-fall sphere, wall festooned with autonomic weapons which tracked each arrival. Transparent bubbles filled the central volume, each three metres wide and split open along an equatorial bisector. Sensing the newcomers, two bubbles drifted through the airspace and clamped themselves around them.

A small servitor hung inside Volyova’s bubble, shaped like a Japanese Kabuto helmet, with various sensors and readout devices projecting from beneath the rim. She felt a neural tingle as the thing trawled her, like someone daintily rearranging flowers in her head.

‘I detect residual Russish linguistic structures but determine that Modern Norte is your standard tongue. Will this suffice for bureaucratic processing?’

‘It’ll do,’ Volyova said, miffed that the thing had detected the rustiness of her native language.

‘Then I shall continue in Norte. Apart from reefersleep mediation systems, I detect no cerebral implants or exosomatic perceptual modification devices. Do you require the loan of an implant before the continuation of this interview?’

‘Just give me screen and a face.’

‘Very well.’

A face resolved beneath the rim. The face was female and white, with just a hint of Mongolism, hair as short as Volyova’s own. She guessed that Hegazi’s interviewer would appear male, moustached, dark-skinned and heavily chimeric, just like the man himself.

‘State your identity,’ the woman said.

Volyova introduced herself.

‘You last visited this system in . . . let me see.’ The face looked down for a moment. ‘Eighty-five years ago; ’461. Am I correct?’

Against her best instincts, Volyova leaned nearer the screen. ‘Of course you’re correct. You’re a gamma-level simulation. Now dispense with the theatrics and just get on with it. I’ve wares to trade and every second you detain me is a second more we have to pay to park our ship around your useless dog-turd of a planet.’

‘Truculence noted,’ the woman said, seeming to jot a remark in a notebook just out of sight. ‘For your information, Yellowstone records are incomplete in many areas owing to the data corruption of the plague. When I asked you the question I did so because I wanted to confirm an unverified record.’ She paused. ‘And by the way; my name is Vavilov. I’m sitting with a rancid cup of coffee and my last cigarette in a draughty office eight hours into a ten-hour shift. My boss will assume I was dozing if I don’t turn back ten people today and so far I’ve only notched up five. With two hours to go I’m looking at ways to fill my quota, so please, think very carefully before your next outburst.’ The woman took a drag and blew the smoke in Volyova’s direction. ‘Now. Shall we continue?’

‘I’m sorry, I thought—’ Volyova trailed off. ‘Your people don’t use simulations for this kind of work?’

‘We used to,’ Vavilov said, with a long-suffering sigh. ‘But the trouble with simulations is that they put up with far too much shit.’

From the carousel’s hub Volyova and Hegazi rode a house-sized elevator down one of the wheel’s four radial spokes, their weight mounting until they reached the circumference. Gravity there was Yellowstone normal, not perceptibly different to the standard Earth gravity adopted by Ultras.

Carousel New Brazilia orbited Yellowstone every four hours, in an orbit which meandered to avoid the ‘Rust Belt’ - the debris rings which had come into existence since the plague. It had a wheel configuration: one of the commonest carousel designs. This one was ten kilometres in diameter and eleven hundred metres wide, all human activity wound on the thirty-kilometre strip around the wheel. It was sufficient size for a scattering of towns, small hamlets and bonsai landscape features, even a few carefully horticultured forests, with azure snowcapped mountains carved into the rising valley sides of the strip to give the illusion of distance. The curved roof around the concave part of the wheel was transparent, rising half a kilometre above the strip. Metal rails were fretted across its surface, from which hung billowing artificial clouds, choreographed by computer. Apart from simulating planetary weather, the clouds served to break up the upsetting perspectives of the curved world. Volyova supposed they were realistic, but having never seen real clouds with her own eyes, at least not from below, she could not be wholly sure.

They had emerged from the elevator onto a terrace above the carousel’s main community, a collision of buildings piled between stepped valley sides. Rimtown, they called it. It was an eyesore of architectural styles reflecting the succession of different tenants which the carousel had enjoyed throughout its history. A line of rickshaws waited at ground level, the driver of the closest quenching his thirst from a can of banana juice which sat in a holder rigged to the taxi’s handlebars. Hegazi passed the driver a piece of paper marked with their destination. The driver held it closely to his black, close-set eyes, then grunted acknowledgement. Soon they were trundling through the traffic, electric and pedal vehicles barging recklessly around each other, pedestrians diving bravely between openings in the seemingly random flow. At least half the people Volyova saw were Ultranauts, evidenced by their tendency towards paleness, spindly build, flaunted body augmentations, swathes of black leather and acres of glinting jewellery, tattoos and trade-trophies. None of the Ultras she saw were extreme chimerics, with the possible exception of Hegazi, who probably qualified as one of the half-dozen most augmented people in the carousel. But the majority wore their hair in the customary Ultra manner, fashioned in thick braids to indicate the number of reefersleep stretches they had done, and many of them had their clothes slashed to expose their prosthetic parts. Looking at these specimens, Volyova had to remind herself that she was part of the same culture.

Ultras, of course, were not the only spacegoing faction spawned by humanity. Skyjacks - at least here - made up a significant portion of the others she saw. They were spacedwellers to be sure, but they did not crew interstellar ships and so their outlook was very different to the wraithlike Ultras, with their dreadlocks and old-fashioned expressions. There were others still. Icecombers were a Skyjack offshoot; psychomodified for the extreme solitude which came from working the Kuiper belt zones, and they kept themselves to themselves with ferocious dedication. Gillies were aquatically modified humans who breathed liquid air; capable of crewing short-range, high-gee ships: they constituted a sizeable fraction of the system’s police force. Some gillies were so incapable of normal respiration and locomotion that they had to move around in huge robotic fishtanks when not on duty.

And then there were Conjoiners: descendants of an experimental clique on Mars who had systematically upgraded their minds, swapping cells for machines, until something sudden and drastic had happened. In one moment, they had escalated to a new mode of consciousness - what they called the Transenlightenment - precipitating a brief but nasty war in the process. Conjoiners were easy to pick out in crowds: recently they had bio-engineered huge and beautiful cranial crests for themselves, veined to dissipate the excess heat produced by the furious machines in their heads. There were fewer of them these days, so they tended to draw attention. Other human factions - like the Demarchists, who had long allied themselves with the Conjoiners - were acutely aware that only Conjoiners knew how to build the engines which powered lighthuggers.

‘Stop here,’ Hegazi said. The rickshaw darted to the streetside, where wizened old men sat at folding tables playing card games and mah-jong. Hegazi slapped payment into the driver’s fleshy palm and then followed Volyova onto the streetside. They had arrived at a bar.

‘The Juggler and the Shrouder,’ Volyova said, reading the holographic sign above the door. It showed a naked man emerging from the sea, backdropped by strange, phantasmagoric shapes among the surf. Above him, a black sphere hung in the sky. ‘This doesn’t look right.’

‘It’s where all the Ultras hang out. You’d better get used to it.’

‘All right, point made. I suppose I wouldn’t feel at home in any Ultra bar, come to think of it.’

‘You wouldn’t feel at home in anything that didn’t have a navigational system and a lot of nasty firepower, Ilia.’

‘Sounds like a reasonable definition of common sense to me.’

Youths barged out into the street, plastered in sweat and what Volyova hoped was spilt beer. They had been arm wrestling: one of their number was nursing a prosthetic which had ripped off at the shoulder, another was riffling a wad of notes he must have won inside. They had the regulation sleep-stretch locks and the standard-issue star-effect tattoos, making Volyova feel simultaneously ancient and envious. She doubted that their anxieties extended much beyond the troubling question of where their next drink or bed was coming from. Hegazi gave them a look - he must have seemed intimidating to them, even given their chimeric aspirations, since it was difficult to tell which parts of Hegazi were not mechanical.

‘Come on,’ he said, pushing through the disturbance. ‘Grin and bear it, Ilia.’

It was dark and smoky inside, and with the combined synergistic effects of the noise from the music - pulsing Burundi rhythms overlaid with something that might have been human singing - and the perfumed, mild hallucinogens in the smoke, it took Volyova a few moments to get her bearings. Then Hegazi pointed to a miraculously spare table in the corner and she followed him to it with the minimum of enthusiasm.

‘You’re going to sit down, aren’t you?’

‘I don’t suppose I have much choice. We have to look as if we at least tolerate each other’s company or people will get suspicious.’

Hegazi shook his head, grinning. ‘I must like something about you, Ilia, otherwise I’d have killed you ages ago.’

She sat down.

‘Don’t let Sajaki hear you talking like that. He doesn’t take kindly to threats being made against Triumvir members.’

‘I’m not the one who has a problem with Sajaki, in case you forgot. Now, what are you drinking?’

‘Something my digestive system can process.’

Hegazi ordered some drinks - his physiology allowed that - waiting until the overhead delivery system brought them.

‘You’re still annoyed by that business with Sudjic, aren’t you?’

‘Don’t worry,’ Volyova said, crossing her arms. ‘Sudjic isn’t anything I can’t handle. Besides, I’d be lucky to lay a finger on her before Sajaki finished her off.’

‘He might let you have second pickings.’ The drinks arrived in a little perspex cloud with a flip-top, the cloud suspended from a trolley which ran along rails mounted on the ceiling. ‘You think he’d actually kill her?’

Volyova attacked her drink, glad of something to wash away the dust of the rickshaw ride. ‘I wouldn’t trust Sajaki not to kill any of us, if it came to that.’

‘You used to trust him. What made you change your mind?’

‘Sajaki hasn’t been the same since the Captain fell ill again.’ She looked around nervously, well aware that Sajaki might not be very far from earshot. ‘Before that happened, they both visited the Jugglers, did you know that?’

‘You’re saying the Jugglers did something to Sajaki’s mind?’

She thought back to the naked man stepping from the Juggler ocean. ‘That’s what they do, Hegazi.’

‘Yes, voluntarily. Are you saying Sajaki chose to become crueller? ’

‘Not just cruel. Single-minded. This business with the Captain . . .’ She shook her head. ‘It’s emblematic.’

‘Have you spoken to him recently?’

She read his question. ‘No; I don’t think he’s found who he’s looking for, though doubtless we’ll find out shortly.’

‘And your own quest?’

‘I’m not looking for a specific individual. My only constraint is that whoever I find should be saner than Boris Nagorny. That ought not to pose any great difficulties.’ She let her gaze drift around the drinkers in the bar. Although none of the people looked definitely psychotic, neither was there anyone who exactly looked stable and well-adjusted. ‘At least I hope not.’

Hegazi lit a cigarette and offered Volyova a second. She took it gratefully and smoked it solidly for five minutes, until it resembled a glowing speck of fissile material wrapped in glowing embers. She made a mental note to replenish her supply of cigarettes during this stopover. ‘But my search is only just beginning,’ she said. ‘And I have to handle it delicately.’

‘You mean,’ Hegazi said with a knowing smile, ‘that you’re not actually going to tell people what the job is before you recruit them.’

Volyova smirked. ‘Of course not.’

The sapphire-hulled shuttle he was riding had not come far: only a short inter-orbital hop from the Sylvestes’ familial habitat. Even so, it had been difficult to arrange. Calvin strongly disapproved of his son having any contact with the thing which now resided in the Institute, as if the thing’s state of mind might infect Sylveste by some mysterious process of sympathetic resonance. Yet Sylveste was twenty-one. He chose his own associations now. Calvin could go hang, or burn his neurons to ash in the madness he was about to inflict on himself and his seventy-nine disciples . . . but he was not going to dictate who Sylveste could see.

He saw SISS looming ahead, and thought, none of this is real; just a narrative strand from his biography. Pascale had given him the rough-cut and asked for his comments. Now he was experiencing it, still walled in his prison in Cuvier, but moving like a ghost through his own past, haunting his younger self. Memories, long buried, were welling up unbidden. The biography, still far from complete, would be capable of being accessed in many ways, from many viewpoints, and with varying degrees of interactivity. It would be an intricately faceted thing, detailed enough that one could easily spend more than a lifetime exploring only a segment of his past.

SISS looked as real as he remembered. The Sylveste Institute for Shrouder Studies had its organisational centre in a wheel-shaped structure dating from the Amerikano days, although there was not a single cubic nanometre which had not been reprocessed many times over the intervening centuries. The wheel’s hub sprouted two grey, mushroom-shaped hemispheres, pocked with docking interfaces and the modest defence systems permitted by Demarchist ethics. The wheel’s edge was a hectic accretion of living modules, labs and offices, embedded in a matrix of bulk chitin polymer, linked by a tangle of access tunnels and supply pipes walled in shark-collagen.

‘It’s good.’

‘You think so?’ Pascale’s voice was distant.

‘That’s how it was,’ Sylveste said. ‘How it felt when I visited him.’

‘Thanks, I . . . well, this was nothing - the easy part. Fully documented. We had blueprints for SISS, and there are even some people in Cuvier who knew your father, like Janequin. The hard part’s what happened afterwards - where we have so little to go on except what you told them on your return.’

‘I’m sure you’ve done an excellent job of it.’

‘Well, you’ll see - sooner rather than later.’

The shuttle coupled with the docking interface. Institute security servitors were waiting beyond the lock, validating his identity.

‘Calvin won’t be thrilled,’ said Gregori, the Institute’s housekeeper. ‘But I suppose it’s too late to send you home now.’

They had been through this ritual two or three times in the last few months, Gregori always washing his hands of the consequences. It was no longer necessary to have someone escort Sylveste through the shark-collagen tunnels to the place where they kept him; the thing.

‘You’ve nothing to worry about, Gregori. If Father gives you any trouble, just tell him I ordered you to show me around.’

Gregori arched his eyebrows, the emotionally attuned entoptics around him registering amusement.

‘Isn’t that just what you’re doing, Dan?’

‘I was trying to keep things amicable.’

‘Utterly futile, dear boy. We’d all be much happier if you just followed your father’s lead. You know where you are with a good totalitarian regime.’

It took twenty minutes to navigate the tunnels, moving radially outwards to the rim, passing through scientific sections where teams of thinkers - human and machine - grappled endlessly with the central enigma of the Shrouds. Although SISS had established monitoring stations around all the Shrouds so far discovered, most of the information-processing and collating took place around Yellowstone. Here elaborate theories were assembled and tested against the facts, which were scant, but unignorable. No theory had lasted more than a few years.

The place where they kept him, the thing Sylveste had come to see, was a guarded annexe on the rim; a generously large allocation of volume given the lack of evidence that the thing within was actually capable of appreciating the gift. The thing’s name - his name - was Philip Lascaille.

He did not have many visitors now. There had been lots in the early days, shortly after his return. But interest had dwindled when it became clear that Lascaille could tell his inquisitors nothing, useful or otherwise. But, as Sylveste had quickly appreciated, the fact that no one paid Lascaille much attention these days could actually work to his advantage. Even Sylveste’s relatively infrequent visits - once or twice a month - had been sufficiently far from the norm to enable a kind of rapport to form between the two of them . . . between himself and the thing Lascaille had become.

Lascaille’s annexe contained a garden, under an artificial sky glazed the deep blue of cobalt. A breeze had been created, sufficient to finger the windchimes suspended from the bower of over-arching trees which fringed the garden.

The garden had been landscaped with paths, rockeries, knolls, trellises and goldfish ponds, the effect being of a rustic maze, so that it always took a minute or so to find Lascaille. When Sylveste did find him the man was usually in the same state: naked or half-naked, filthy to some degree, his fingers smeared with the rainbow shades of crayons and chalks. Sylveste would always know he was getting warm when he saw something scrawled on the stone path; either a complex symmetrical pattern, or what looked like an attempt at mimicking Chinese or Sanskrit calligraphy, without actually knowing any real letters. At other times the things which Lascaille marked on the path looked like Boolean algebra or semaphore.

Then - it was always only a question of time - he would round a corner and Lascaille would be there, working on another marking, or carefully erasing one he had worked on previously. His face would be frozen in a rictus of total concentration, and every muscle in his body would be rigid with the exertion of the drawing, and the process would take place in complete silence, except for the stirring of the windchimes, the quiet whisper of the water or the scraping of his crayons and chalks against stone.

Sylveste would often have to wait hours for Lascaille to even register his presence, which would generally amount to nothing more than the man turning his face to him for an instant, before continuing. Yet the same thing always happened in that instant. The rictus would soften, and in its place would be - if only for a moment - a smile; one of pride or amusement or something utterly beyond Sylveste’s fathoming.

And then Lascaille would return to his chalks. And there would be nothing to suggest that this was a man - the only man - the only human being - to ever touch the surface of a Shroud and return alive.

‘Anyway,’ Volyova said, quenching what remained of her thirst, ‘I’m not expecting it to be easy, but I have no doubts that I will find a recruit sooner or later. I’ve begun to advertise, stating our planned destination. As far as the work is concerned, I say only that it requires someone with implants.’

‘But you’re not going to take the first one that comes along,’ Hegazi said. ‘Surely?’

‘Of course not. Though they won’t know it, I’ll be vetting my candidates for some kind of military experience in their backgrounds. I don’t want someone who’s going to crack up at the first hint of trouble, or someone unwilling to submit to discipline.’ She was beginning to relax now, after all her difficulties with Nagorny. A girl was playing on stage, working a gold teeconax through endlessly spiralling ragas. Volyova did not greatly care for music; never had done. But there was something mathematically beguiling about the music which for a moment worked against her prejudices. She said: ‘I’m confident of success. We need only concern ourselves with Sajaki.’

At that moment Hegazi nodded towards the door, where bright daylight forced Volyova to squint. A figure stood there, majestically silhouetted in the glare. The man was garbed in a black anklelength cloak and a vaguely defined helmet, the light making it resemble a halo cast around his head. His profile was split diagonally by a long smooth stick which he gripped two-handedly.

The Komuso stepped into the darkness. What looked like a kendo stick was only his bamboo shakuhachi; a traditional musical instrument. With well-rehearsed rapidity he slid the thing into a sheath concealed behind the folds of his cloak. Then, with imperial slowness, he removed the wicker helmet. The Komuso’s face was difficult to make out. His hair was brilliantined, slickly tied back in a scythe-shaped tail. His eyes were lost behind sleek assassin’s goggles, infrared sensitive facets dully catching the room’s tinted light.

The music had come to an abrupt stop, the girl with the teeconax vanishing magically from the stage.

‘They think it’s a police bust,’ Hegazi breathed, the room quiet enough now that he didn’t need to raise his voice. ‘The local cops send in the basket-cases when they don’t want to bloody their own hands.’

The Komuso swept the room, flylike eyes targeting the table where Hegazi and Volyova sat. His head seemed to move independently of the rest of his body, like some species of owl. With a bustle of his cloak he cruised towards them, appearing to glide more than locomote. Nonchalantly Hegazi kicked a spare seat out from under the table, simultaneously taking an unimpressed drag on his cigarette.

‘Good to see you, Sajaki.’

He dropped the wicker helmet next to their drinks, ripping the goggles away from his eyes as he did so. He lowered himself into the vacant chair, then turned casually around to the rest of the bar. He made a drinking gesture, imploring the people to get on with their own business while he attended to his. Gradually the conversation rumbled back into life, although everyone was keeping half an eye on the three of them.

‘I wish the circumstances merited a celebratory drink,’ Sajaki said.

‘They don’t?’ Hegazi said, looking as crestfallen as his extensively modified face permitted.

‘No, most certainly not.’ Sajaki examined the nearly spent glasses on the table and lifted Volyova’s, downing the few drops which remained. ‘I’ve been doing some spying, as you might gather from my disguise. Sylveste isn’t here. He isn’t in this system any more. As a matter of fact, he hasn’t been here for somewhere in the region of fifty years.’

‘Fifty years?’ Hegazi whistled.

‘That’s quite a cold trail,’ Volyova said. She tried not to sound gloating, but she had always known this risk existed. When Sajaki had given the order to steer the lighthugger towards the Yellowstone system, he had done so on the basis of the best information available to him at the time. But that was decades ago, and the information had been decades old even when he received it.

‘Yes,’ Sajaki said. ‘But not as cold as you might think. I know exactly where he went to, and there’s no reason to assume he’s ever left the place.’

‘And where would this be?’ Volyova asked, with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

‘A planet called Resurgam.’ Sajaki placed Volyova’s glass down on the table. ‘It’s quite some distance from here. But I’m afraid, dear colleagues, that it must be our next port of call.’

He fell into his past again.

Deeper this time; back to when he was twelve. Pascale’s flashbacks were non-sequential; the biography was constructed with no regard for the niceties of linear time. At first he was disorientated, even though he was the one person in the universe who ought not to have been adrift in his own history. But the confusion slowly gave way to the realisation that her way was the right one; that it was right to treat his past as shattered mosaic of interchangeable events; an acrostic embedded with numerous equally legitimate interpretations.

It was 2373; only a few decades after Bernsdottir’s discovery of the first Shroud. Whole academic disciplines had sprung up around the central mystery, as well as numerous government and private research agencies. The Sylveste Institute for Shrouder Studies was only one of dozens of such organisations, but it also happened to be backed by one of the wealthiest - and most powerful - families in the whole human bubble. But when the break came, it was not via the calculated moves of large scientific organisations. It was through one man’s random and dedicated madness.

His name was Philip Lascaille.

He was a SISS scientist working at one of the permanent stations near what was now called Lascaille’s Shroud, in the trans Tau Ceti sector. Lascaille was also one of a team kept on permanent standby should there ever be a need for human delegates to travel to the Shroud, although no one considered that this was very likely. But the delegates existed, with a ship kept in readiness to carry them the remaining five hundred million kilometres to the boundary, should the invitation ever arrive.

Lascaille decided not to wait.

Alone, he boarded and stole the SISS contact craft. By the time anyone realised what was happening, it was far too late to stop him. A remote destruct existed, but its use might have been construed by the Shroud as an act of aggression, something no one wanted to risk. The decision was to let fate take its course. No one seriously expected to see Lascaille come back alive. And though he did eventually return, his doubters had in a sense been right, because a large portion of his sanity had not come back with him.

Lascaille had come very close indeed to the Shroud before some force had propelled him back out again - perhaps only a few tens of thousands of kilometres from the surface, although at that range there was no easy way of telling where space ended and the Shroud began. No one doubted that he had come closer than any other human being, or for that matter any living creature.

But the cost had been horrific.

Not all of Philip Lascaille - not even most of him - had come back. Unlike those who had gone before him, his body had not been pulped and shredded by incomprehensible forces near the boundary. But something no less final appeared to have happened to his mind. Nothing remained of his personality, except for a few residual traces which served only to heighten the almost absolute obliteration of everything else. Enough brain function remained for him to keep himself alive without machine assistance, and his motor control seemed completely unimpaired. But there was no intelligence left; no sense that Lascaille perceived his surroundings except in the most simplistic manner; no indication that he had any grasp of what had happened to him, or was even aware of the passage of time; no indication that he retained the ability to memorise new experiences or retrieve those that had happened to him before his trip to the Shroud. He retained the ability to vocalise, but while Lascaille occasionally spoke well-formed words, or even fragments of sentences, nothing he uttered made the slightest sense.

Lascaille - or what remained of Lascaille - was returned to the Yellowstone system, and then to the SISS habitat, where medical experts desperately tried to construct a theory for what might have happened. Eventually - and it was more out of desperation than logic - they decided that the fractal, restructured spacetime around the Shroud had not been able to support the information density of his brain. In passing through it, his mind had been randomised on the quantum level, although the molecular processes of his body had not been noticeably affected. He was like a text which had been transcribed imprecisely - so that much of the meaning was lost - and then retranscribed.

Yet Lascaille was not the last person to attempt such a suicide mission. A cult had grown up around him, its chief rumour being that, despite his exterior signs of dementia, the passage close to the Shroud had bestowed on him something like Nirvana. Once or twice every decade, around the known Shrouds, someone would attempt to follow Lascaille into the boundary, and the results were miserably uniform, and no improvement on what Lascaille himself had achieved. The lucky ones came back with half their minds gone, while the unlucky ones never made it back at all, or did so in ships so mangled that their human remains resembled a salmon-coloured paste.

While Lascaille’s cult bloomed, people soon forgot about the man himself. Perhaps the salivating, mumbling reality of his existence was a touch too uncomfortable.

Sylveste, however, did not forget. More than that, he had become obsessed with teasing a last, vital truth out of the man. His familial connections guaranteed him an audience with Lascaille whenever he wanted - provided he ignored Calvin’s forebodings. And so he had taken to visiting, and waiting in absolute patience while Lascaille attended to his pavement drawings, ever watchful for the one, transient clue which he knew the man would eventually bequeath him.

In the end, it was a lot more than a clue.

It was difficult to remember how long he had waited, on that day when the waiting finally paid off. For all that he intended to focus his mind with absolute attentiveness on what Lascaille was doing, he had been finding it increasingly difficult. It was like staring intently at a long series of abstract paintings - one’s concentration inevitably began to wane, no matter how much one tried to keep it fresh. Lascaille had been halfway through the sixth or seventh hopeless chalk mandala of the day, executing the task with the same fervent dedication he brought to every mark he made.

Then, with no forewarning, he had turned to Sylveste and said, with complete clarity: ‘The Jugglers offer the key, Doctor.’

Sylveste was too shocked to interrupt.

‘It was explained to me,’ Lascaille continued blithely. ‘While I was in Revelation Space.’

Sylveste forced himself to nod, as naturally as possible. Some still-calm part of his mind recognised the phrase which Lascaille had spoken. As far as anyone had ever been able to tell, it was what Lascaille now called the Shroud boundary - ‘space’ in which he had been granted certain ‘revelations’ too abstruse to relate.

Yet now his tongue seemed to have been loosened.

‘There was a time when the Shrouders travelled between the stars,’ Lascaille said. ‘Much as we do now - although they were an ancient species and had been starfaring for many millions of years. They were quite alien, you know.’ He paused to switch a blue chalk for a crimson one, placing it between his toes. With that, he continued his work on the mandala. But with his hand - now free from that task - he began to sketch something on an adjacent patch of ground. The creature he drew was multi-limbed, tentacled, armour-plated, spined, barely symmetrical. It looked less like a member of a starfaring alien culture than something which might have flopped and oozed its way across the bed of a Precambrian ocean. It was utterly monstrous.

‘That’s a Shrouder?’ Sylveste said, with a shiver of anticipation. ‘You actually met one?’

‘No; I never truly entered the Shroud,’ Lascaille said. ‘But they communicated with me. They revealed themselves to my mind; imparted much of their history and nature.’

Sylveste tore his gaze away from the nightmarish creature. ‘Where do the Jugglers come into it?’

‘The Pattern Jugglers have been around for a long time and they’re to be found on many worlds. All starfaring cultures in this part of the galaxy encounter them sooner or later.’ Lascaille tapped his sketch. ‘Just like we did, so did the Shrouders, only very much earlier. Do you understand what I’m saying, Doctor?’

‘Yes . . .’ He thought he did, anyway. ‘But not the point of it.’

Lascaille smiled. ‘Whoever - or whatever - visits the Jugglers is remembered by them. Remembered absolutely, that is - down to the last cell; the last synaptic connection. That’s what the Jugglers are. A vast biological archiving system.’

This was true enough, Sylveste knew. Humans had gleaned very little of significance concerning the Jugglers, their function or origin. But what had become clear almost from the outset was that the Jugglers were capable of storing human personalities within their oceanic matrix, so that anyone who swam in the Juggler sea - and was dissolved and reconstituted in the process - would have achieved a kind of immortality. Later, those patterns could be realised again; temporarily imprinted in the mind of another human. The process was muddy and biological, so the stored patterns were contaminated by millions of other impressions, each subtly influencing the other. Even in the early days of Juggler exploration it had been obvious that the ocean had stored patterns of alien thought; hints of otherness bleeding into the thoughts of the swimmers - but these impressions had always remained indistinct.

‘So the Shrouders were remembered by the Jugglers,’ Sylveste said. ‘But how does that help us?’

‘More than you realise. The Shrouders may look alien, but the basic architectures of their minds were not completely dissimilar to our own. Ignore the bodyplan; realise instead that they were social creatures with a verbal language and the same perceptual environment. To some degree, a human could be made to think like a Shrouder, without becoming completely inhuman in the process.’ He looked at Sylveste again. ‘It would be within the capabilities of the Jugglers to instil a Shrouder neural transform within a human neocortex.’

It was a chilling thought: achieve contact not by meeting an alien, but by becoming it. If that was what Lascaille meant. ‘How would that help us?’

‘It would stop the Shroud from killing you.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

‘Understand that the Shroud is a protective structure. What lies within are . . . not just the Shrouders themselves, but technologies which are simply too powerful to be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. Over millions of years, the Shrouders combed the galaxy seeking harmful things left over by extinct cultures - things which I can almost not even begin to describe to you. Things which may once have served good, but which are also capable of being used as weapons of unimaginable horror. Technologies and techniques which may only be deployed by ascended races: means of manipulating spacetime, or of moving faster-than-light . . . other things which your mind literally can’t encompass.’

Sylveste wondered if that really were the case. ‘Then the Shrouds are - what? Treasure chests, where only the most advanced races get the keys?’

‘More than that. They defend themselves against intruders. A Shroud’s boundary is almost a living thing. It responds to the thought patterns of those who enter it. If the patterns do not resemble those of the Shrouders . . . it fights back. It alters spacetime locally, creating vicious eddies of curvature. Curvature equals gravitational sheer stress, Doctor. It rips you apart. But the right kinds of mind . . . the Shroud admits them; guides them closer, protects them in a pocket of quiet space.’

The implications, Sylveste saw, were shattering. Think like a Shrouder and one could slip past those defences . . . into the glittering heart of the treasure box. So what if humans were not advanced enough by Shrouder reckoning to behold that treasure? If they were clever enough to break open the box, were they not entitled to take what they found? According to Lascaille, the Shrouders had assumed the role of galactic matron when they secreted those harmful technologies . . . but had anyone asked them to do it? Then another question ghosted into his mind.

‘Why did they let you know this, if what was inside the Shrouds had to be protected at all costs?’

‘I don’t know if it was intentional. The barrier around the Shroud that bears my name must have failed to identify me as alien, if only fleetingly. Perhaps it was damaged, or perhaps my . . . state of mind . . . confused it. Once I had begun to penetrate the Shroud, information began to flow between us. That was how I learned these things. What the Shroud contained, and how its defences might be circumvented. It’s not a trick machines can learn, you know.’ The last remark seemed to have come from nowhere; for a moment it hung there before Lascaille continued. ‘But the Shroud must have begun to suspect that I was foreign. It rejected me; flung me back out into space.’

‘Why didn’t it just kill you?’

‘It must not have been completely confident in its judgement.’ He paused. ‘In Revelation Space, I did sense doubt. Vast arguments taking place around me, quicker than thought. In the end, caution must have won the day.’

Now another question; the one he had wanted to ask since the moment Lascaille had opened his mouth.

‘Why have you waited until now to tell us these things?’

‘I apologise for my earlier reticence. But first I had to digest the knowledge that the Shrouders had placed in my mind. It was in their terms, you see - not ours.’ He hesitated, his attention seemingly drawn to a smudge of chalk which was marring the mathematical purity of his mandala. He licked his finger and rubbed it away. ‘That was the easy part. Then I had to remember how humans communicate.’ Lascaille looked at Sylveste, his animal eyes veiled by a Neanderthal tangle of uncombed hair. ‘You’ve been kind to me, not like the others. You had patience with me. I thought this might help you.’

Sylveste sensed that this window of lucidity might soon be closing. ‘How exactly do we persuade the Jugglers to imprint the Shrouder consciousness pattern?’

‘That’s the easy part.’ He nodded at the chalk drawing. ‘Memorise this figure, and hold it in mind when you swim.’

‘That’s all?’

‘It will suffice. The internal representation of this figure in your mind will instruct the Jugglers as to your needs. You’d better take them a gift, of course. They don’t do something of this magnitude for free.’

‘A gift?’

Sylveste was wondering what kind of gift one could possibly offer to an entity which resembled a floating island of seaweed and algae.

‘You’ll think of something. Whatever it is, make sure it’s information-dense. Otherwise you’ll bore them. You wouldn’t want to bore them.’ Sylveste wanted to ask further questions, but Lascaille’s attention had returned to his chalk drawings. ‘That’s all I have to say,’ the man said.

It turned out to be the case.

Lascaille never spoke to Sylveste, or anyone else again. A month later they found him dead, drowned in the fishpond.

‘Hello?’ Khouri said. ‘Is there anyone here?’

She had awoken, that was all she knew. Not from a catnap, either, but from something much deeper, longer and colder. A reefersleep fugue, almost certainly - they were not something you forgot, and she had woken from one before, around Yellowstone. The physiological and neural signs were exactly right. There was no sign of a reefersleep casket - she was lying, fully-clothed, on a couch - but someone could easily have moved her before she was properly conscious. Who, though? And where was she? It seemed as if someone had tossed a grenade into her memory, blowing it into frags. The place where she found herself now was only teasingly familiar.

Someone’s hallway? Wherever it was, it was filled with ugly sculptures. She had either walked past these things a matter of hours ago, or else they were recessive figments from the depths of her childhood; nursery horrors. Their curved, jagged and burnt shapes loomed over her, casting demonlike shadows. Groggily she intuited that these things fitted together in some way, or had once done so, though they were perhaps too warped and torn for that now.

Footsteps padded unsteadily across the hallway.

She twisted her head to view the approaching person. Her neck felt stiffer than cured wood. Years of experience had told her that the rest of her body would be no more supple after the sleep fugue.

The man stopped a few paces from her bed. In the moonlight glow of the chamber it was hard to read his features, but there was a familiarity within the shadowed jowliness that tugged at her memory. Someone she had known, many years ago.

‘It’s me,’ he said, the voice wet and phlegmatic. ‘Manoukhian. The Mademoiselle thought you might appreciate a familiar face when you woke up.’

The names meant something to her, but exactly what, it was hard to say. ‘What happened?’

‘Simple. She made you an offer you couldn’t refuse.’

‘How long have I been asleep?’

‘Twenty-two years,’ Manoukhian said, offering her a hand. ‘Now, shall we go and see the Mademoiselle?’

Sylveste woke facing a wall of black which swallowed half the sky - a black so total that it seemed like a nullification of existence itself. He had never noticed it before, but now he saw - or imagined he saw - that the ordinary darkness between the stars was in fact aglow with its own milky luminosity. But there were no stars in the circular pool of emptiness which was Lascaille’s Shroud; no source of any light whatsoever, no photons arriving from any part of the detectable electromagnetic spectrum; no neutrinos of any flavour, no particles, exotic or otherwise. No gravity waves, electrostatic or magnetic fields - not even the slight whisper of Hawking radiation which, according to the few extant theories of Shroud mechanics, ought to be bleeding out of the boundary, reflecting the entropic temperature of the surface.

None of these things happened. The only thing a Shroud did - so far as anyone had ever been able to tell - was to comprehensively obstruct all forms of radiation attempting to pass through it. That, of course, and the other thing: which was to shred any object daring to pass too close to its boundary.

They had woken him from reefersleep, and now he was in the state of sickening disorientation which accompanied the crash revival, yet young enough to weather the effects: his physiological age was only thirty-three, despite the fact that more than sixty years had passed since his birth.

‘Am I . . . all right?’ he struggled to ask the revival medicos, while all the time his attention was being snared by the nothingness beyond the station window, like someone staring into the black counterpart of a snowstorm.

‘You’re almost clear,’ said the medico next to him, watching neural readouts scroll through midair, digesting their import with quiet taps of a stylus against his lower lip. ‘But Valdez faded. That means Lefevre’s bumped up to primary. Think you can work with her?’

‘Bit late for doubts now, isn’t it?’

‘It’s a joke, Dan. Now, how much do you remember? Revival amnesia’s the one thing I haven’t scanned for.’

It seemed like a stupid question, but as soon as he interrogated his memory, he found it responding sluggishly, like a document retrieval system in an inefficient bureaucracy.

‘Do you remember Spindrift?’ the medico asked, with a note of concern in his voice. ‘It’s vital that you remember Spindrift . . .’

He remembered it, yes - but for a moment he could not connect it with any other memories. What he remembered - the last thing he remembered which was not adrift - was Yellowstone. They left it twelve years after the Eighty; twelve years after Calvin’s corporeal death; twelve years after Philip Lascaille had spoken to Sylveste; twelve years after the man had drowned himself, his purpose seemingly fulfilled.

The expedition was small but well equipped - a lighthugger crew, partially chimeric, Ultranauts who seldom mingled with the other humans; twenty scientists largely culled from SISS, and four potential contact delegates. Only two of the four would actually travel to the surface of the Shroud.

Lascaille’s Shroud was their objective, but not their first port of call. Sylveste had heeded what Lascaille had told him; the Pattern Jugglers were vital to the success of his mission. It was first necessary to visit them on their own world, tens of light-years from the Shroud. Even then Sylveste had little idea of what to expect. But, rash as it seemed, he trusted Lascaille’s advice. The man would not have broken his silence for nothing.

The Jugglers had been a curiosity for more than a century. They existed on a number of worlds, all of them dominated by single planet-sized oceans. The Jugglers were a biochemical consciousness distributed through each ocean, composed of trillions of co-acting micro-organisms, arranged into island-sized clumps. All the Jugglers’ worlds were tectonically active, and it was theorised that the Jugglers drew their energy from hydrothermal outlet vents on the seabed; that the heat was converted to bioelectrical energy and transferred to the surface via tendrils of organic superconductor draping down through kilometres of black cold. The Jugglers’ purpose - assuming they had a purpose - remained completely unknown. It was clear that they had the ability to mediate the biospheres of the worlds in which they had been seeded, acting like a single, intelligently acting mass of phytoplankton - but no one knew if this was merely secondary to some hidden, higher function. What was known - and again not properly understood - was that the Jugglers had the capacity to store and retrieve information, acting like a single, planet-wide neural net. This information was stored on many levels, from the gross connectivity patterns of surface-floating tendrils, down to free-floating strands of RNA. It was impossible to say where the oceans began and the Jugglers ended - just as it was impossible to say whether each world contained many Jugglers or merely one arbitrarily extended individual, for the islands themselves were linked by organic bridges. They were world-sized living repositories of information; vast informational sponges. Almost anything entering a Juggler ocean would be penetrated by microscopic tendrils, partially dissolved, until its structural and chemical properties had been revealed, and that information would then be passed into the biochemical storage of the ocean itself. As Lascaille had intimated, the Jugglers could imprint these patterns as well as encode them. Supposedly those patterns could include the mentalities of other species which had come into contact with the Jugglers - such as the Shrouders.

Human study teams had been investigating the Pattern Jugglers for many decades. Humans swimming in the Juggler-infested ocean were able to enter rapport states with the organism, as Juggler micro-tendrils filtered temporarily into the human neocortex, establishing quasi-synaptic links between the swimmers’ minds and the rest of the ocean. It was, they said, like communing with sentient algae. Trained swimmers reported feeling their consciousness expand to include the entire ocean, their memories becoming vast, verdant and ancient. Their perceptual boundaries became malleable, although at no point was there any sense that the ocean itself was truly self-aware; more that it was a mirror, massively reflecting human consciousness: the ultimate solipsism. Swimmers made startling breakthroughs in mathematics, as if the ocean had enhanced their creative faculties. Some even reported that these boosts persisted for some time after they had left the oceanic matrix and returned to dry land or orbit. Was it possible that some physical change had taken place in their minds?

So it was that the concept of the Juggler transform arose. With additional training, the swimmers learned how to select specific forms of transform. Neurologists stationed on the Juggler world attempted to map the brain alterations wrought by the aliens, but with only partial success. The transformations were extraordinarily subtle, more akin to retuning a violin than ripping it apart and building it from scratch. They were rarely permanent - days, weeks or, very occasionally, years later, the transform would fade.

Such was the state of knowledge when Sylveste’s expedition reached the Juggler world Spindrift. Now he remembered it, of course - the oceans; the tides; the volcanic chains and the constant, overpowering seaweedy stench of the organism itself. Smell unlocked the rest. All four potential Shrouder contact delegates had learnt the chalk diagram on a deep level of recall. After months of training with expert swimmers, the four entered the ocean and filled their minds with the form Lascaille had given them.

The Juggler had reached into them, partially dissolved their minds, and then restructured them according to its own embedded templates.

When the four emerged, it seemed at first that Lascaille had been crazy after all.

They did not exhibit freakishly alien modes of behaviour, nor had they suddenly gained answers to the great cosmic mysteries. Questioned, none of them reported feeling particularly different, nor were they any the wiser about the identity or nature of the Shrouders. But sensitive neurological tests probed deeper than human intuition. The spatial and cognitive skills of the four had changed, though in ways that were perplexingly difficult to quantify. As days passed, they reported experiencing states of mind that were - paradoxically - both familiar and yet utterly alien. Evidently something had changed, though no one could be sure that the states of mind they were experiencing had any connection with the Shrouders.

Nonetheless, they had to move quickly.

As soon as the initial tests were complete, the four delegates entered reefersleep. The cold prevented the Juggler transforms from decaying, though they would inevitably begin to fade once the four were awakened, despite a complicated regimen of experimental neuro-stabilising drugs. They were kept asleep throughout the voyage to Lascaille’s Shroud, then for weeks in the vicinity of the object itself, as their study station was manoeuvred closer, within the nominal 3 AU safe distance which it had maintained until that point. Even then, the delegates were not awoken until the eve of their trip to the surface.

‘I . . . remember,’ Sylveste said. ‘I remember Spindrift.’ And then there was a moment while the medico kept tapping his stylus against his lips, assimilating the reams of information pouring from the medical analysis systems, before nodding and passing him fit for the mission.

‘The old place has changed a bit,’ Manoukhian said.

He was right, Khouri saw. She was looking out over something she hardly recognised as Chasm City. The Mosquito Net was gone. Now the city was open to the elements once more, its buildings rising nakedly into Yellowstone’s atmosphere where once they had sheltered beneath the merged drapery of the domes. The Mademoiselle’s black château was no longer amongst the tallest structures. Tiered, aeroformed monsters knifed into the broiling brown sky, like sharks’ fins, or blades of spinifex, slashed by countless scores of tiny windows, emblazoned with the giant Boolean-logic symbols of the Conjoiners. Like yacht sails, the buildings rose from what remained of the Mulch on slim masts so that their leading edges cut into the wind. Only a scattering of the old gnarled architecture remained, and only a vestigial remnant of the Canopy. The old city forest had been slashed into history by the shining bladelike towers.

‘They grew something in the chasm,’ Manoukhian said. ‘Right down in the depths. They call it the Lilly.’ His voice took on a tone of fascinated repulsion. ‘People who’ve seen it say it’s like a huge piece of breathing viscera, like a piece of God’s stomach. It’s fastened to the walls of the chasm. The stuff belching out of the depths is poisonous, but by the time it’s been through the Lilly it’s just about breathable.’

‘All this in twenty-two years?’

‘Yes,’ someone answered. Movement played in the gloss-black armour of the shutters. Khouri turned around in time to catch a palanquin resting silently. Seeing it, she remembered the Mademoiselle, and much else too. It was as if no more than a minute had elapsed since their last meeting.

‘Thank you for bringing her here, Carlos.’

‘Will that be all?’

‘I think so.’ Her voice echoed slightly. ‘Time is of the essence, you see. Even after all these years. I’ve located a crew who need someone like Khouri, but they won’t wait for more than a few days before leaving the system. She will need to be educated, primed in her role, and introduced to them before we lose this opportunity.’

‘What if I say no?’ Khouri said.

‘But you won’t, will you? Not now that you know what I can do for you. You do remember, don’t you?’

‘It’s not something you forget very easily.’ She remembered clearly now what the Mademoiselle had shown her: that the other reefersleep casket held someone. The person inside had been Fazil, her husband. Despite what she had been told, she had never been separated from him. The two of them had both come from Sky’s Edge, the clerical error more benign than she had imagined. Yet she had still been deceived. Evidence of the Mademoiselle’s handiwork was clear from the outset. Khouri’s job working as a Shadowplay assassin had come about a little too easily: in hindsight, the role had served only to demonstrate her fitness for the task ahead. As for ensuring her compliance, that was simplicity itself. The Mademoiselle had Fazil. If Khouri refused to do what was required of her, she would never see her husband again.

‘I knew you would see sense,’ the Mademoiselle said. ‘What I ask of you is really not so difficult, Khouri.’

‘What about the crew you’ve found?’

‘They’re just traders,’ Manoukhian said soothingly. ‘I used to be one myself, you know. That’s how I came to rescue . . .’

‘Enough, Carlos.’

‘Sorry.’ He looked back at the palanquin. ‘All I’m saying is, how bad can they be?’

By accident or subconscious design - it was never entirely clear - the SISS contact craft resembled an infinity symbol: two lobelike modules packed with life support equipment, sensors and comms gear, spaced by a collar rimmed with thrusters and additional sensor arrays. Two people could fit into either of the lobes, and in the event of a mid-mission neural fadeout, one or both of the lobes could be ejected.

Ramping up thrust, the contact craft fell towards the Shroud, while the station made a retreat back beyond the safe range, towards the waiting lighthugger. Pascale’s narrative showed the craft dwindling to ever-smaller size, until only the livid glare of its thrust and the pulsing red and green of its running lights remained, and then grew steadily fainter; the surrounding blackness seeming to occlude it like spreading ink.

No one could be certain of what happened thereafter. In the events which followed, most of the information gleaned by Sylveste and Lefevre on their approach was lost, including the data transmitted back to the station and the lighthugger. Not only were the timescales uncertain, but even the precise order of events was questionable. All that was known was what Sylveste himself remembered - and as Sylveste, by his own admission, underwent periods of altered or diminished consciousness in the vicinity of the Shroud, his memories could not be taken as the literal truth of events.

What was known was this.

Sylveste and Lefevre approached closer to the Shroud than any human being had ever done, even Lascaille. If what Lascaille had told them was true, then their transforms were fooling the Shroud’s defences; forcing it to envelop them in a pocket of flattened spacetime while the rest of the boundary seethed with vicious gravitational riptides. No one, even now, pretended to understand how this might be happening: how the Shroud’s buried mechanisms were able to curve spacetime through such insanely sharp geometries, when a folding a billion times less severe should have required more energy than was stored in the entire rest-mass of the galaxy. Nor did anyone understand how consciousness could bleed into the spacetime around the Shroud, so that the Shroud itself could recognise the sorts of minds which were attempting to gain passage into its heart, and at the same time reshape the thoughts and memories of those same minds. Evidently there was some hidden link between thought itself and the underlying processes of spacetime; the one influencing the other. Sylveste had found references to an antiquated theory, centuries dead, which had proposed a link between the quantum processes of consciousness and the quantum-gravitational mechanisms which underpinned spacetime, through the unification of something called the Weyl curvature tensor . . . but consciousness was no better understood now; the theory was as speculative as it had ever been. Perhaps, though, in the vicinity of the Shroud, any faint linkage between consciousness and spacetime was massively amplified. Sylveste and Lefevre were thinking their way through the storm, their reshaped minds calming the gravitational forces which seethed around them, only metres from the skin of their ship. They were like snake-charmers, moving through a pit of cobras, their music defining a tiny region of safety. Safe, that was, until the music stopped playing - or began to grow discordant - and the snakes began to break out of their hypnotic placidity. It would never be entirely clear how close Sylveste and Lefevre got to the Shroud before the music soured and the cobras of gravity began to stir.

Sylveste claimed they were never within the Shroud boundary itself - by his own visual evidence, more than half of the sky remained full of stars. Yet what little data was salvaged from the study ship suggested that the contact module was by then well inside the fractal foam surrounding the Shroud - well within the object’s own infinitely blurred boundary, well within what Lascaille had called Revelation Space.

She knew when it began to happen. Terrified, but icily calm, she told Sylveste the news. Her Shrouder transform was breaking up, her veil of alien perception beginning to thin, leaving only human thoughts. It was what they had feared all along, but prayed would not happen.

Quickly they informed the study station and ran psych tests to verify what she was saying. The truth was appallingly clear. Her transform was collapsing. In a few minutes, her mind would lack the Shrouder component and would be unable to calm the snakes through which they walked. She was forgetting the music.

Even though they had prayed this would not happen, they had taken precautions. Lefevre retreated into the opposite half of the module and fired the separation charges, amputating her part of the ship from Sylveste’s. By then her transform was almost gone. Via the audio-visual link between the two separated parts of the craft, she informed Sylveste that she could feel gravitational forces building, twisting and pulling at her body in viciously unpredictable ways.

Thrusters sought to move her module away from the curdled space around the Shroud, but the object was just too large, and she too small. Within minutes the stresses were tearing at the craft’s thin hull, though Lefevre remained alive, huddled foetally in the last dwindling pocket of quiet space focused on her brain. Sylveste lost contact with her just as the craft burst asunder. Her air was sucked quickly out, but the decompression did not happen quickly enough to entirely snatch away her screams.

Lefevre was dead. Sylveste knew it. But his transform was still holding the snakes at bay. Bravely, more alone than any human being in history, Sylveste continued his descent into the Shroud boundary.

Some time later Sylveste awoke in the silence of his craft. Disorientated, he tried to contact the study station which was supposedly awaiting his return. But there was no answer. The study station and the lighthugger were lifeless, almost destroyed. Some kind of gravitational spasm had passed him by and peeled them open, eviscerating them just as thoroughly as Lefevre’s craft had been. The crew and back-up members of his team had been killed instantly, along with the Ultras. He alone had survived.

But for what? To die, only far more slowly?

Sylveste steered his module back to what remained of the station and the lighthugger. For a moment his thoughts were empty of the Shrouders, focused only on survival.

Working alone, living within the cramped confines of the pod, Sylveste spent weeks learning how to jump-start the lighthugger’s crippled repair systems. The Shroud spasm had vaporised or shredded thousands of tonnes of the lighthugger’s mass, but it only had to carry one man home now. When the recuperative processes were in swing he was able to sleep, finally - not daring to believe that he would actually succeed. And in those dreams, Sylveste gradually became aware of a momentous, paralysing truth. After Carine Lefevre was killed, and before he regained consciousness, something had happened. Something had reached into his mind and spoken to him. But the message that was imparted to him was so brutally alien that Sylveste could not begin to put it into human terms.

He had stepped into Revelation Space.

FIVE

Carousel New Brazilia, Yellowstone, Epsilon Eridani, 2546

‘I’m at the bar,’ Volyova said into her bracelet, pausing at the entrance to the Juggler and the Shrouder. She regretted suggesting that this be the meeting point - she despised the establishment almost as much as she despised its clientele - but when she had arranged a rendezvous with the new candidate she had not been able to suggest an alternative.

‘Is the recruit there yet?’ Sajaki’s voice said.

‘Not unless she’s very early. If she arrives on time, and our meeting proceeds favourably, we should be leaving in an hour.’

‘I’ll be ready.’

Squaring her shoulders she pushed on in, instantly assembling a mental map of the occupants. The air was still full of cloying pink perfume. Even the girl playing the teeconax was making the same nervous moves. Disturbingly liquid sounds emanated from the girl’s cortex, amplified by the instrument and then modulated by the pressure of her fingers on its complex, spectrally coloured touch-sensitive fretboard. Her music toiled up staircase-like ragas, then splintered into nerve-shredding atonal passages which sounded like a pride of lions dragging their foreclaws down sheets of rusty iron. Volyova had heard that you had to have specialised neuro-auditory implants before teeconax music made any sense.

She found a barside stool and ordered a single vodka; a hypo was stashed in her pocket ready to blast her back to sobriety when she needed it. She was resigned to the fact that it might be a very long evening waiting for the recruit to show up. Usually this would have made her impatient but - to her surprise - she felt relaxed and attentive, despite the surroundings. Perhaps the air was spiked with psychotropic chemicals, but she felt better than she had in months, even allowing for the news that the crew were now to journey to Resurgam. Yet it was good to be around humans again, even the specimens who frequented the bar. Whole minutes passed while she watched their animated faces, serenely entranced by conversations she could not hear, imagining for herself the travellers’ tales they were imparting. A girl inhaled from a hookah and blew out a long jetstream of smoke before cracking up as her partner reached the punchline in some outlandish joke. A bald man with a dragon tattoo on his scalp was boasting about how he had flown through a gas giant’s atmosphere with his autopilot dead, his Juggler-configured mind solving atmospheric flow equations like he had been born to it. Another group of Ultras, turned ghostly by the wan blue lighting above their alcove, played a heated card game. One man was having to pay off his debt by losing a lock from his hair. His friends were holding him down while the winner claimed his pleated prize, slicing through the man’s braid with a pocket knife.

What did Khouri look like again?

Volyova fished the card from her jacket, palming it unobtrusively and taking a last look at it. Ana Khouri, the name said, along with a few terse lines of biographical data. There was nothing about this woman that would make her stand out in any normal bar, but here her very ordinariness would have the same effect. Judging by the photograph, she would look slightly more out of place than Volyova herself, if that was possible.

Not that Volyova was complaining. Khouri looked like a remarkably suitable candidate for the vacant position. Volyova had already hacked into the system’s remaining data-networks - those which still functioned after the plague - and drawn up a shortlist of individuals who might suit her needs. Khouri had been among that number; an ex-soldier from Sky’s Edge. But Khouri had been impossible to trace, and eventually Volyova had given up, concentrating on other candidates. None of the others had really been what she was looking for, but she had kept searching anyway, growing steadily more despondent as each candidate failed to fit the bill. More than once Sajaki had suggested they just kidnap someone - as if recruiting someone under false pretences was somehow less of a crime. But kidnapping was too random: it still did not guarantee she would end up with someone she could work with.

Then Khouri had approached them out of the blue. She had heard that Volyova’s crew were looking for someone to join their ship, and she was ready to leave Yellowstone. She had not mentioned her military background, but Volyova already knew about that; doubtless Khouri was just being cautious. The odd thing was, Khouri had not actually approached them until Sajaki - in accordance with the standard protocols of trade - had announced the change of destination.

‘Captain Volyova? It’s you, isn’t it?’

Khouri was small, wiry and dourly dressed, and did not subscribe to any recognisable Ultra fashions. Her black hair was cut only an inch longer than Volyova’s; short enough to make it obvious that her skull was not pierced by any clumsy input jacks or nerve-link interfaces. No guarantee that her head was not jam-packed with humming little machines, but it was certainly nothing she flaunted. The woman’s face was a neutral composite of the gene-types which predominated on her homeworld, Sky’s Edge; harmonious without being striking. Her mouth was small, straight and inexpressive, but that blandness was counterbalanced by the woman’s eyes. They were dark, almost colourlessly so, but they glistened with a disarming inner prescience. For a tiny fraction of a moment, Volyova believed that Khouri had already seen through her tawdry skein of lies.

‘Yes,’ Volyova said. ‘You must be Ana Khouri.’ She kept her voice low, for having reached Khouri, the last thing she wanted was any other hopefuls within earshot trying to barge aboard. ‘I understand you contacted our trade persona regarding possibilities for crewing with us.’

‘I only just reached the carousel. I thought I’d try you first, before I went on to the crews who are advertising now.’

Volyova sniffed at her vodka. ‘Odd strategy, if you don’t mind my saying so.’

‘Why? The other crews are getting so many applicants they’re only interviewing via sim.’ She took a perfunctory sip of her water. ‘I prefer dealing with humans. It was just a question of going after a different crew.’

‘Oh,’ Volyova said. ‘Ours is very different, believe me.’

‘But you’re traders, right?’

Volyova nodded enthusiastically. ‘We’ve almost finished our dealings around Yellowstone. Not too productive, I must say. Economy’s in the doldrums. We’ll probably pop back in a century or two and see if things have picked up, but personally, I wouldn’t mind if I never saw the place again.’

‘So if I wanted to sign up for your ship I’d have to make my mind up pretty soon?’

‘Of course, we’d have to make our minds up about you first.’

Khouri looked at her closely. ‘There are other candidates?’

‘I’m not really at liberty to discuss that.’

‘I imagine there would be. I mean, Sky’s Edge . . . there must be plenty of people who’d want to hop a lift there, even if they had to crew to pay their way.’

Sky’s Edge? Volyova tried to keep a straight face, marvelling at their luck. The only reason Khouri had come forward was because she still thought they were going to the Edge, rather than Resurgam. Somehow she remained unaware of Sajaki’s announced change of destination.

‘There are worse places one could imagine,’ Volyova said.

‘Well, I’m keen to jump to the head of the line.’ A perspex cloud sailed between them, dangling from its ceiling track, wobbling with its cargo of drinks and narcotics. ‘What exactly is this position you have open?’

‘It would be a lot easier if I explained things aboard the ship. You didn’t forget that overnight bag, did you?’

‘Of course not. I want this position, you know.’

Volyova smiled. ‘I’m very glad to hear it.’

Cuvier, Resurgam, 2563

Calvin Sylveste was manifesting in his luxurious seigneurial chair at one end of the prison room. ‘I’ve got something interesting to tell you,’ he said, stroking his beard. ‘Though I don’t think you’re going to like it.’

‘Make it quick; Pascale will be here shortly.’

Calvin’s permanent look of amusement deepened. ‘Actually, it’s Pascale I’m talking about. You’re rather fond of her, aren’t you?’

‘It’s no concern of yours whether I am or not.’ Sylveste sighed; he had known this would lead to difficulties. The biography was nearing completion now and he had been privy to most of it. For all its technical accuracies, for all the myriad ways in which it could be experienced, it remained what Girardieau had always planned: a cunningly engineered weapon of precision propaganda. Through the biography’s subtle filter, there was no way to view any aspect of his past in a light which was not damaging to him; no way to avoid his depiction as an egomaniacal, single-minded tyrant: capacious of intellect, but utterly heartless in the way he used people around him. In this, Pascale had been undoubtedly clever. If Sylveste had not known the facts himself, he would have accepted the biography’s slant uncritically. It had the stamp of truth.

That was hard enough to accept, but what made it immeasurably harder was how much of this harming portrait had been shaped by the testimonials of people who had known him. And chief among these - the most hurting of all - had been Calvin. Reluctantly, Sylveste had allowed Pascale access to the beta-level simulation. He had done so under duress, but there had been - at the time - what appeared to be compensations.

‘I want the obelisk relocated and excavated,’ Sylveste said. ‘Girardieau promised me access to field data if I assisted in destroying my own character. I’ve kept my side of the deal handsomely. How about the government reciprocating?’

‘It won’t be easy . . .’ Pascale had begun.

‘No; but neither will it be a massive drain on Inundationist resources.’

‘I’ll speak to him,’ she said, without much in the way of assurance. ‘Provided you let me talk to Calvin whenever I want.’

It was the devil of all deals; he had known so at the time. But it had seemed worth it, if only to see the obelisk again, and not just the tiny part which had been uncovered before the coup.

Remarkably, Nils Girardieau had kept his word. It had taken four months, but a team had found the abandoned dig and removed the obelisk. It had not been painstakingly done, but Sylveste had not expected otherwise. It was enough that the thing had been unearthed in one piece. Now a holographic representation of it could be called into existence in his room at his whim; any part of the surface enlarged for inspection. The text had been beguiling; difficult to parse. The complicated map of the solar system was still unnervingly accurate to his eyes. Below it - too deep to have been seen before - was what looked like the same map, on a much larger scale, so that it encompassed the entire system out to the cometary halo. Pavonis was actually a wide binary; two stars spaced by ten light-hours. The Amarantin seemed to have known that, for they had marked the second star’s orbit conspicuously. For a moment, Sylveste wondered why he had never seen the other star at night: it would be dim, but still much brighter than any of the other stars in the sky. Then he remembered that the other star no longer shone. It was a neutron star; the burnt-out corpse of a star which would once have shone hot and blue. It was so dark that it had not been detected before the first interstellar probes. A cluster of unfamiliar graphicforms attended the neutron star’s orbit.

He had no idea what it meant.

Worse, there were similar maps lower down the obelisk which were at least consistent with other solar systems, although it was nothing he could prove. How could the Amarantin have obtained such data - the other planets, the neutron star, other systems - without a spacefaring capability comparable to humankind’s?

Perhaps the crucial question was the age of the obelisk. The context layer suggested nine hundred and ninety thousand years, placing the burial within a thousand years of the Event - but in terms of validating his theory, he needed a much more precise estimate than that. On her last visit he had asked Pascale to run a TE measurement on the obelisk; he hoped she was going to give him the answer when she arrived.

‘She’s been useful to me,’ he said to Calvin, who responded with a look of derision. ‘I don’t expect you to understand that.’

‘Perhaps not. I could still tell you what I’ve learned.’

There was no point delaying it. ‘Well?’

‘Her surname isn’t Dubois.’ Calvin smiled, drawing out the moment. ‘It’s Girardieau. She’s his daughter. And you, dear boy, have been had.’

They exited the Juggler and the Shrouder into the carousel’s sweaty impression of planetary night. Outlaw capuchin monkeys were descending from the trees which lined the mall, ready for a session of prehensile pickpocketing. Burundi drums pounded from somewhere around the curve. Neon lightning strobed in serpentlike shapes in the billowing clouds which hung from the rafters. Khouri had heard that it sometimes rained, but so far she had been spared this particular piece of meteorological verisimilitude.

‘We’ve a shuttle docked at the hub,’ Volyova said. ‘We’ll just need to take a spoke elevator and clear outbound customs.’

The elevator car they rode in was rattling, unheated, piss-smelling and empty, apart from a helmeted Komuso who sat pensively on a bench, his shakuhachi resting between his knees. Khouri assumed that his presence had made other people decide to wait for the next car in the endless paternoster which rode between the hub and the rim.

The Mademoiselle stood next to the Komuso, hands clasped matronly behind her back, dressed in a floorlength electric-blue gown, black hair pulled into a severe bun.

‘You’re much too tense,’ she said. ‘Volyova will suspect you have something to hide.’

‘Go away.’

Volyova glanced in her direction. ‘Did you say something?’

‘I said it’s cold in here.’

Volyova seemed to take far too long to digest the statement. ‘Yes. I suppose it is.’

‘You don’t have to speak out loud,’ the Mademoiselle replied. ‘You don’t even have to subvocalise. Just imagine yourself speaking what you wish me to hear. The implant detects the ghost impulses generated in your speech area. Go on; try it.’

‘Go away,’ Khouri said, or rather imagined herself thinking it. ‘Get the hell out of my head. This was never in the contract.’

‘My dear,’ the Mademoiselle said, ‘there never was any contract, merely a - what shall I say? A gentlewomen’s agreement?’ She looked directly at Khouri as if expecting some kind of response. Khouri merely stared, venomously. ‘Oh, very well,’ the woman said. ‘But I promise you I shall be back before very long.’

She popped out of existence.

‘Can’t wait,’ Khouri said quietly.

‘Pardon?’ Volyova asked.

‘I said I can’t wait,’ Khouri answered. ‘I mean until we get out of this damn elevator.’

Before very long they reached the hub, cleared customs and boarded the shuttle, a non-atmospheric craft consisting of a sphere with four thruster pods splayed out at right angles. The ship was called the Melancholia of Departure, the kind of ironic name Ultras favoured for their craft. The interior had the ribbed look of a whale’s gut. Volyova told her to go forward through a series of bulkheads and gullet-like crawlspaces until they reached the thing’s bridge. There were a few bucket seats, together with a console displaying reams of avionics gibberish, latticed by delicate entoptics. Volyova thumbed one of the visual readouts, causing a small, traylike device to chug out of a black recess in the side of the console. The tray was gridded with an oldstyle keyboard. Volyova’s fingers danced on the keys, causing a subtle change to sweep through the avionics data.

Khouri realised with a tingling feeling that the woman had no implants; that her fingers were actually one of the ways by which she communicated.

‘Buckle in,’ Volyova said. ‘There’s so much garbage floating round Yellowstone we might have to pull some gee-loads.’

Khouri did as she was told. For all the discomfort which ensued, it was her first chance to relax in days. Much had happened since her revival, all of it hectic. In all the time she had been asleep in Chasm City, the Mademoiselle had been waiting for a ship to arrive which was carrying on to Resurgam, and - given Resurgam’s lack of importance in the ever-shifting web of interstellar commerce - the wait had been a long one. That was the trouble with lighthuggers. No individual, no matter how powerful, could ever own one now unless it had already been in their possession for centuries. The Conjoiners were no longer manufacturing drives and people who already owned ships were in no mind to sell them.

Khouri knew that the Mademoiselle had not been searching passively. Nor had Volyova. Volyova - so the Mademoiselle said - had unleashed a search program into Yellowstone’s data network, what she called a bloodhound. A mere human - even a mere computerised monitor - could not have detected the dog’s elaborate sniffing. But the Mademoiselle was seemingly neither of these things, and she sensed the dog the way a pond-skater feels ripples in the membrane on which it walks.

What she did next was clever.

She whistled to the bloodhound until it came bounding towards her. Then she casually broke the thing’s neck, but not before she had flensed it open and examined its informational innards, working out just what it was that the dog had been sent to find. The gist was that the dog had been sent to retrieve supposedly secret information relating to individuals who had had slaver experience; exactly what one would have expected from a group of Ultras who were searching for a crewperson to fill a vacancy on their ship. But there was something else. Something a tiny bit strange, which pricked the Mademoiselle’s curiosity.

Why were they looking for someone with military activity in their backgrounds?

Perhaps they were disciplinarians: professional traders who were operating one level above the normal state of play of commerce, ruthless experts who used slippery constructs to glean the knowledge they wanted, and who were not averse to travelling to backwater colonies like Resurgam when they saw a chance of some massive reward, perhaps centuries hence. It was probable that their entire organisation was structured along military lines, rather than the quasi-anarchy which existed on most trade craft. So by searching for military experience in the backgrounds of their candidates, what they were doing was ensuring themselves that the candidate would fit into their crew.

That was it, naturally.

Things had gone well so far, even allowing for the strange way in which Volyova had not corrected Khouri when she made obvious her ignorance of the ship’s true destination. Khouri had known all along that the destination was Resurgam, of course - but if the Ultras knew this was where she really wanted to go to, she would have been forced to use one of several cover stories to explain her motivations for visiting the backwater colony. She had been ready to employ one of the stories as soon as Volyova corrected her - except she had failed to do so, seemingly willing to let her recruit keep on thinking they were really travelling to Sky’s Edge.

That was indeed odd, though understandable if one assumed they were now desperate to recruit anyone who came forward. It said little for their honesty, of course, but then again, it saved Khouri using a cover story. It was, she decided, nothing to worry about. It would, in fact, all have been roses, were it not for what the Mademoiselle had placed in her head while she was sleeping. The implant was tiny and would not elicit suspicion from the Ultras, designed to resemble - and function as - a standard entoptic splice. If they got too inquisitive and removed the damn thing, all its incriminating parts would self-erase or reorganise. But that was not the point. Khouri’s objection to the implant was not on the grounds that it was risky or unnecessary, but rather that the last person she wanted in her head on a daily basis was the Mademoiselle. Of course, it was just a beta-level simulation constructed to mimic her personality, projecting an image of the Mademoiselle into Khouri’s visual field and tickling her aural centre to allow her to hear what the ghost said. No one else would be privy to the woman’s apparitions, and Khouri would be able to communicate silently with her.

‘Call it need to know,’ the ghost had said. ‘As an ex-soldier, I’m certain you understand this principle.’

‘Yes, I understand it,’ Khouri said with sullen acceptance. ‘And it stinks, but I don’t suppose you’re about to take the damned thing out of my head just because I don’t like it.’

The Mademoiselle smiled. ‘To burden you with too much knowledge at this point would be to risk a momentary indiscretion in the presence of the Ultras.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Khouri said. ‘I already know you want me to kill Sylveste. What more could there possibly be to find out?’

The Mademoiselle repeated her smile, maddeningly. Like many beta-level sims, her compendium of facial expressions was small enough to make repetition inevitable, like a bad actor constantly falling into the same characterisations.

‘I’m afraid,’ she said, ‘that what you now know is not even a fragment of the whole story. Not even a splinter.’

When Pascale arrived, Sylveste made a point of studying her face, matching it against his memories of Nils Girardieau. As usual he rammed against the limitations of his vision. His eyes were poor at curves, tending to approximate the nuances of the human face as a series of stepped edges.

But what Calvin had said was not obviously untrue. Pascale’s hair was Bible-black and straight; Girardieau’s curly and red. But the bone structure had too many points of similarity for coincidence. If Calvin had not made the remark, perhaps Sylveste would never have guessed . . . but now that the idea was there, it explained far too much.

‘Why did you lie to me?’ he said.

She seemed genuinely taken aback. ‘About what?’

‘Everything. Starting with your father.’

‘My father?’ She was quiet now. ‘Ah. Then you know.’

He nodded, tight-lipped. Then, ‘That was one of the risks you ran by collaborating with Calvin. Calvin is very clever.’

‘He must have established some kind of data link with my compad; accessed private files. The bastard.’

‘Now you know how I feel. Why did you do it, Pascale?’

‘At first, because I had no choice. I wanted to study you. And the only way I could earn your trust was under another name. It was possible; few people even knew I existed, much less what I looked like.’ She paused. ‘And it worked, didn’t it? You did trust me. And I did nothing to betray that trust.’

‘Is that the truth? You never told Nils anything that might have helped him?’

She looked wounded. ‘You had forewarning of the coup, remember? If anyone was betrayed in all this, it was my father.’

He tried to find an angle that would prove her wrong, without really being sure he wanted to. Perhaps what she said was true. ‘And the biography?’

‘That was my father’s idea.’

‘A tool to discredit me?’

‘There’s nothing in the biography which isn’t truthful - unless you know otherwise.’ She paused. ‘It’s nearly ready for release, actually. Calvin’s been very helpful. It’ll be the first major work of indigenous art produced on Resurgam, do you realise? Since the Amarantin, of course.’

‘It’s a piece of art all right. Are you going to release it under your real name?’

‘That was always the idea. I was hoping you wouldn’t find out until then, of course.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that. None of this will change our working relationship, believe me. After all, I always knew Nils was the real author behind it.’

‘That makes it easier for you, doesn’t? To write me off as an irrelevance?’

‘Do you have the TE dates you promised me?’

‘Yes.’ She passed a card to him. ‘I don’t break my promises, Doctor. But I’m afraid the little respect I have for you is in serious danger of vanishing altogether.’

Sylveste glanced at the trapped-electron summary scrolling down the card as he flexed it between thumb and forefinger. Some part of his mind was entirely unable to detach itself from what the numbers represented, even as he spoke to Pascale. ‘When your father told me about the biography, he said the woman who would be authoring it was someone whose illusions were on the point of being shattered.’

She stood up. ‘I think we should leave this until another time.’

‘No; wait.’ Sylveste reached out and held her hand. ‘I’m sorry. I need to talk to you about this, do you understand?’

She flinched at the contact, then slowly relaxed. Her expression was still watchful. ‘About what?’

‘This.’ He tapped his thumb against the TE summary. ‘It’s very interesting.’

Volyova’s shuttle was approaching a shipyard; up near the Lagrange point between Yellowstone and its moon, Marco’s Eye. About a dozen lighthuggers were parked in the yard; more ships than Khouri had ever seen in her life. At the yard’s hub was a major carousel, smaller in-system vessels attached to the wheel’s rim like suckling pigs. A few of the lighthuggers were encased in skeletal support structures for major ice-shield or Conjoiner-drive overhauls (Conjoiner ships were here, too: sleek and black, as if chiselled from space itself); but the rest of the starships were basically drifting, following lazy and slow orbits around the Lagrange point’s centre of gravity. Khouri guessed that there must be complex rules of etiquette governing the way those ships were parked; who had to move out the way of whom to avoid a collision which a computer might predict days in advance. The expenditure of fuel which might have to be burned to nudge a ship off a collision course would be tiny against the profit margin of a typical trade stopover . . . but the loss of face would be much harder to amortise. There had never been as many ships as this parked around Sky’s Edge, but even then she had heard of skirmishes between crews over issues of parking priority and trade rights. It was a common groundsider’s misapprehension that Ultras were a homogeneous splinter of humanity. In truth, they were as factional, and as paranoid about one another, as any other human strain.

Now they were approaching Volyova’s ship.

The thing, like all the other lighthuggers, was improbably streamlined. Space only approximated a vacuum at slow speeds. Up near lightspeed - which was where these ships spent most of their time - it was like cutting through a howling gale of atmosphere. That was why they looked like daggers: conic hull tapering to a needle-sharp prow to punch the interstellar medium, with two Conjoiner engines braced at the back on spars like an ornate hilt. The ship was sheathed in ice, so glisteningly pure that it looked like diamond. The shuttle swooped in low over Volyova’s ship, and for a moment Khouri apprehended the ship’s vastness. It was like flying over a city, not another vessel. Then a door irised open in the hull, revealing a glowing docking bay. Volyova guided the shuttle home with expert taps on her thruster controls, latching onto a berthing cradle. Khouri heard thumps as umbilicals and docking connectors thudded home.

Volyova was first out of her seat restraints. ‘Shall we step aboard?’ she asked, with something that was not quite the politeness Khouri had been expecting.

They propelled themselves through the shuttle and out into the spacious environment of the ship. They were still in free-fall, but at the end of the corridor they were facing Khouri could see a complex arrangement where the stationary and rotating sections were joined together.

She was beginning to feel nauseous, but she was damned if she was going to let Volyova see this.

‘Before we go ahead,’ the Ultra woman said, ‘there’s someone you have to meet.’

She was looking over Khouri’s shoulder, back towards the corridor that led to the shuttle which had brought them aboard. Khouri heard the shuffling sound of someone working hand-over-hand along the rails which ribbed the passage. But that could only mean that there had been another person aboard the shuttle.

Something was wrong here.

Volyova’s attitude was not that of someone who was trying to impress a potential recruit. It was more as if she cared little what Khouri thought; as if it was of no consequence at all. Khouri looked around, in time to see the Komuso who had come with them in the elevator. His face was lost under the expressionless wicker helmet they all wore. He carried his shakuhachi in the crook of his arm.

Khouri started to speak, but Volyova silenced her. ‘Welcome aboard the Nostalgia for Infinity, Ana Khouri. You’ve just become our new Gunnery Officer.’ Then she nodded towards the Komuso. ‘Do me a favour, will you, Triumvir?’

‘Anything particular?’

‘Knock her out before she tries to kill either one of us.’

The last thing Khouri saw was a golden blur of bamboo.

Sylveste thought he smelt Pascale’s perfume before his eyes separated her from the crowd outside the prison building. He made a reflex move towards her, but the two burly militiamen who had escorted him from his room quickly restrained him. Catcalls and muffled insults came from the cordoned-off crowd, but Sylveste barely noticed them.

Pascale kissed him diplomatically, half hiding the conjunction of their mouths behind her lace-gloved hand.

‘Before you ask,’ she said, her voice barely audible above the noise of the crowd, ‘I have no more idea what this is about than you.’

‘Is Nils behind it?’

‘Who else? Only he’s got the clout to get you out of that place for more than a day.’

‘Pity he’s not so keen to prevent me returning.’

‘Oh, he might - if he didn’t have to placate his own people, and the opposition. It’s about time you stopped thinking of him as your worst enemy, you know.’ They stepped into the sterile hush of the waiting car. The vehicle was adapted from one of the smaller surface exploration buggies, four balloon wheels at the extremities of its air-smoothed body, comms gear stowed in a matt-black hump on the roof. It was painted Inundationist purple, with Hokusai wave pendants mounted on the front.

‘If it wasn’t for my father,’ Pascale continued, ‘you’d have died during the coup. He protected you from your worst enemies.’

‘That doesn’t make him a very competent revolutionary.’

‘And what does that say about the regime he managed to overthrow?’

Sylveste shrugged. ‘Fair point, I suppose.’

A guard climbed into the front seat, behind a partition of armoured glass, and then they were moving, rushing through the crowd, speeding towards the edge of the city. They passed through one of the arboreta, then descended down one of the ramps which passed beneath the perimeter. Two other government cars accompanied them, also modified from surface buggies, but painted black and with masked militia riding postilion, holding rifles to their shoulders. After travelling for a kilometre along an unlit tunnel, the convoy arrived in an airlock and halted while the breathable city air was exchanged for Resurgam’s atmosphere. The guards remained at their posts, pausing only to adjust their breather masks and goggles. Then the vehicles moved on, ascending back towards the surface. They arrived in greyish daylight, surrounded by concrete blast walls, driving across a surface patterned in red and green lights.

An aircraft was waiting for them, parked on the apron on a tripod of skids, the undersides of its wings already uncomfortably bright to look at, already beginning to ionise the boundary layer of air below them. The driver reached into a dashboard compartment and removed breather masks, passing them back through the security grill, motioning for them to place them over their faces.

‘Not that you have to,’ he said. ‘Oxygen’s up two hundred per cent since you were last outside Resurgam City, Doctor Sylveste. Some people have breathed naked atmosphere for tens of minutes with no longterm effects.’

‘Those must be the dissidents I keep hearing about,’ Sylveste said. ‘The renegades Girardieau betrayed during the coup. The ones that are supposed to be communicating with True Path’s leaders in Cuvier. I don’t envy them. The dust must clog their lungs almost as much as it clogs their minds.’

The escort looked unimpressed. ‘Scavenger enzymes process the dust particles. It’s old Martian biotech. Anyway; dust levels are down. All the moisture we pumped into the atmosphere allowed the dust particles to bind into bigger grains which aren’t so easily transported by the wind.’

‘Very good,’ Sylveste applauded. ‘Pity it’s still such a miserable hellhole.’

He palmed the mask to his face and waited for the door to open. A moderate wind was blowing, no more than a stinging abrasion.

They dashed across the ground.

The aircraft was a welcome oasis of space and quiet, its sumptuous interior outfitted in governmental purple. The occupants of the other two cars boarded by a different door, Sylveste catching a glimpse of Nils Girardieau crossing the apron. Girardieau walked with a swaying motion that began somewhere near his shoulders, like a pair of architect’s dividers being walked across a drawing board point to point. There was a momentum to him, like a glacier compressed into a man’s volume. The leader vanished out of sight and then a few minutes later the visible edge of the closest wing turned violet, enveloped in a nimbus of excited ions, and the aircraft climbed from the apron.

Sylveste sketched a window for himself and watched Cuvier - or Resurgam City, as they now called it - grow small beneath him. It was the first time he had seen the place in its entirety since the coup, back before the statue of the French naturalist had been toppled. The old simplicity of the colony was gone. A froth of human habitation extended messily beyond the dome perimeters; air-sealed structures linked by covered roads and walkways. There were many smaller outlying domes, emerald-green with plantations. Even a few undomed strips of trial organisms laid out in eye-hurting geometric patterns, waiting to be unleashed far beyond the city.

They circled the city and then took off on a northerly course. Lacework canyons furled below. Occasionally they overflew a small settlement, usually just an opaque dome or streamlined shack, the glare from the wings momentarily illuminating whatever they overflew. Mostly it was wilderness, uncrossed by road, pipe or power line.

Sylveste catnapped intermittently, waking to see tropical deserts of ice and imported tundra washing below. Presently a settlement came over the horizon and the aircraft made loitering spirals towards the ground. Sylveste moved his window to get a better look.

‘I recognise this area. It’s where we found the obelisk.’

‘Yes,’ Pascale said.

The landscape was craggy and mostly unvegetated, the horizon ruined by uprearing broken arches and improbable rock pillars, all of which looked on the point of imminent collapse. There was little flat ground, just deep fissures, like a calcified unmade bed. They came in over a solidified lava stream then landed on a flat hexagonal pad surrounded by armoured surface buildings. It was only midday, yet the dust in the air attenuated the sunlight so severely that it was necessary to bathe the pad in floodlights. Militia dashed across the ground to meet the flight, hiding their eyes against the light from the aircraft’s underside.

Sylveste grabbed his mask, regarded it disdainfully, then left it on the seat. He needed no help making it the short distance to the building, and if he did, no one was going to know about it.

The militia escorted them into the shack. It was years since Sylveste had been this close to Girardieau. He was shocked at how small his adversary now seemed. Girardieau was built like some piece of squat mining machinery. He looked capable of scrabbling his way through solid basalt. His red hair was short and wirelike, sprinkled with white. His eyes were wide and quizzical, like a startled Pekinese pup.

‘Strange allegiances,’ he said, as one of the guards sealed the door behind them. ‘Who’d have thought you and I would ever find ourselves with so much in common, Dan?’

‘Less than you imagine,’ Sylveste said.

Girardieau led the team forward through a ribbed corridor lined with discarded machines, grimed beyond recognition. ‘I suppose you’re wondering what all this is about.’

‘I have my suspicions.’

Girardieau’s laughter boomed off the derelict equipment around them. ‘Remember that obelisk they dug up hereabouts? Of course - it was you who pointed out the phenomenological difficulty with the TE dating method used on the rock.’

‘Yes,’ Sylveste said tartly.

The implications of the TE dating had been enormous. No natural crystalline structure was ever completely perfect in its lattice geometry. There would always be gaps in the lattice where atoms were missing, and in those holes, electrons would gradually build up over time, knocked out of the rest of the lattice by cosmic-ray bombardments and natural radioactivity. Since the holes tended to fill up with electrons at a steady rate, the number of trapped electrons provided a dating method which could be used on inorganic artefacts. There was a catch, of course: the TE method was only useful if the traps had been emptied at some point in the past. Luckily, firing or exposure to light was enough to bleach - empty - the outermost traps in the crystal. TE analysis of the obelisk had shown that all the surface-layer traps had been bleached at the same time, which happened to be nine hundred and ninety thousand years earlier, within the errors of the measurement. Only something like the Event could have bleached an object as large as the obelisk.

There was nothing new in this; thousands of Amarantin artefacts had been dated back to the Event using the same technique. But none of them had been buried deliberately. The obelisk, on the other hand, had been emplaced deliberately in a stone sarcophagus after it had been bleached.

After the Event.

Even in the new regime, this realisation had been enough to draw attention to the obelisk. It had stimulated renewed interest in the inscriptions over the last year. On his own, Sylveste’s interpretation had been sketchy at best, but now what remained of the archaeological community came to his aid. There was a new freedom in Cuvier; Girardieau’s regime had relaxed some of its proscriptions on Amarantin research, even as the True Path opposition grew more fanatical.

Strange allegiances, as Girardieau had said.

‘Once we had an idea of what the obelisk was telling us,’ Girardieau said, ‘we sectioned the whole area and excavated down sixty or seventy metres. We found dozens more of them - all bleached prior to burial, all carrying basically the same inscriptions. It isn’t a record of something that happened in this area at all. It’s a record of something buried here.’

‘Something big,’ Sylveste said. ‘Something they must have planned before the Event - perhaps even buried before it, and then placed the markers afterwards. The last cultural act of a society poised on annihilation. Just how big, Girardieau?’

‘Very.’ And then Girardieau told him how they had surveyed the area first using an array of thumpers: devices for generating ground-penetrating Rayleigh waves, sensitive to the density of buried objects. They’d had to use the largest thumpers, Girardieau said, which meant that the depth of the object had to be at the extreme range of the technique; hundreds of metres down. Later they had brought in the colony’s most sensitive imaging gravitometers, and only then had they gained any idea of what it was they were seeking.

It was nothing small.

‘Is this dig connected with the Inundationist program?’

‘Completely independent. Pure science, in other words. Does that surprise you? I always promised we’d never abandon the Amarantin studies. Maybe if you’d believed me all those years ago we’d be working together now, opposing the True Pathers - the real enemy.’

Sylveste said, ‘You showed no interest in the Amarantin until the obelisk was discovered. But that scared you, didn’t it? Because for once it was incontrovertible evidence; nothing I could have faked or manipulated. For once you had to allow the possibility that I might have been right all along.’

They stepped into a capacious elevator, outfitted with plush seats, Inundationist aquatints on the walls. A thick metal door hummed shut. One of Girardieau’s aides flipped open a panel and palmed a button. The floor fell away sickeningly, their bodies only sluggishly catching up.

‘How far down are we going?’

‘Not far,’ Girardieau said. ‘Only a couple of kilometres.’

When Khouri awakened they had already left orbit around Yellowstone. She could see the planet through a porthole in her quarters, much smaller than it had looked before. The region around Chasm City was a freckle on the surface. The Rust Belt was only a tawny smoke ring, too far away for any of its component structures to be visible. There would be no stopping the ship now: it would accelerate steadily at one gee until it had left the Epsilon Eridani system completely, and it would not stop accelerating until it was moving barely a whisker below the speed of light. It was no accident that they called these vessels lighthuggers.

She had been tricked.

‘It’s a complication,’ the Mademoiselle said, after long minutes of silence. ‘But no more than that.’

Khouri rubbed at the painful lump on her skull where the Komuso - Sajaki was his name, she now knew - had knocked her out with his shakuhachi.

‘What do you mean, a complication?’ she shouted. ‘They’ve kidnapped me, you stupid bitch!’

‘Keep your voice down, dear girl. They don’t know about me now and there’s no reason they have to in the future.’ The entoptic image smiled jaggedly. ‘In fact, I’m probably your best friend right now. You should do your best to safeguard our mutual secret.’ She examined her fingernails. ‘Now, let’s approach this rationally. What was our objective?’

‘You know damn well.’

‘Yes. You were to infiltrate this crew and travel with them to Resurgam. What is now your status?’

‘The Volyova bitch keeps calling me her recruit.’

‘In other words, your infiltration has been spectacularly successful. ’ She was strolling nonchalantly around the room now, one hand on her hip, the other tapping an index finger against her lower lip. ‘And where exactly are we now headed?’

‘I’ve no reason to suspect it isn’t still Resurgam.’

‘So in all the essential details, nothing has happened to compromise the mission.’

Khouri wanted to strangle the woman, except it would have been like strangling a mirage. ‘Has it occurred to you that they might have their own agenda? You know what Volyova said just before I was knocked out? She said I was the new Gunnery Officer. What do you suppose she meant by that?’

‘It explains why they were looking for military experience in your background.’

‘And what if I don’t go along with her plans?’

‘I doubt it matters to her.’ The Mademoiselle stopped her strolling, adopting an expression of seriousness from her internal compendium of facial modes. ‘They’re Ultras, you see. Ultras have access to technologies considered taboo on colony worlds.’

‘Such as?’

‘Instruments for manipulating loyalty might be among them.’

‘Well, thanks for giving me this important information well in advance.’

‘Don’t worry - I always knew there was a chance of this.’ The Mademoiselle paused and touched the side of her own head. ‘I took precautions accordingly.’

‘That’s a relief.’

‘The implant I put inside you will fabricate antigens for their neural medichines. More than that, it will also broadcast subliminal reinforcement messages into your subconscious mind. Volyova’s loyalty therapies will be completely neutralised.’

‘So why bother even telling me this is going to happen?’

‘Because, dear girl, once Volyova begins the treatment, you’ll have to let her think it’s working.’

The descent took only a few minutes, the air-pressure and temperature stabilised at surface normal. The shaft which the car descended was walled in diamond, ten metres wide. Occasionally there were recesses, stash-holes for equipment or small operations shacks, or switching points where two elevators could squeeze past one another before continuing their journeys. Servitors were working the diamond, extruding it in atomic-thickness filaments from spinnerettes. The filaments zipped neatly into place under the action of protein-sized molecular machines. Looking through the glass ceiling, the faintly translucent shaft seemed to reach towards infinity.

‘Why didn’t you tell me you’d found this?’ Sylveste asked. ‘You must have been here for months at the very least.’

‘Let’s just say your input wasn’t critical,’ Girardieau said, and then added, ‘until now, that is.’

At the shaft’s bottom, they exited into another corridor, silver-clad, cleaner and cooler than the one they had walked through at ground level. Windows along its length offered glimpses into a disarmingly large cavern filled with geodesic scaffolding and industrial structures. Sylveste was able to freezeframe the view with his eyes, then do some image-processing and expand the captured view when he was ten paces further along the corridor. For that he offered grudging thanks to Calvin.

What he saw was enough to quicken his heartbeat.

Now they pushed through a pair of armoured doors ghosted by security entoptics, writhing snakes which seemed to hiss and spit at the group. They trooped on through into an ante-room with another set of doors at the far end, flanked by militia. Girardieau waved them aside, then turned to Sylveste. The roundness of his eyes, the Pekinese aspect of his features, suddenly made him think of a painted Japanese devil on the point of belching fire.

‘Now this,’ Girardieau said, ‘is where you either ask for your money back or stand in awed silence.’

‘Impress me,’ Sylveste said, with as much droll nonchalance as he could muster, despite his racing pulse and feverish internal excitement.

Girardieau opened the rear doors. They walked into a room half the size of the freight elevator, empty apart from a row of simple escritoires inlaid into the wall. A headset and wraparound mike lay on one of them, next to a compad displaying pencil-sketch engineering diagrams. The walls sloped outwards, the area of the ceiling greater than the floor. Combined with the huge glass windows set in three of the walls, it made Sylveste feel as if he was in the gondola of an airship, cruising under a starless night sky across an unnavigated ocean.

Girardieau killed the lights, enabling them to see what lay beyond the glass.

Floods swung from the roof of the chamber beyond, curving down towards the Amarantin object which lay below. It was emerging from one nearly sheer wall of the cave; a hemisphere of pure black, hemmed by gantries and geodesic scaffolding. Scabrous lumps of hardened magma still clung to it, yet across the large areas where the magma had been chipped away, the thing was as smooth and dark as obsidian. The underlying shape was spherical; at least four hundred metres wide, although more than half still lay entombed.

‘You know who made this?’ Girardieau said, finally whispering. He did not wait for an answer: ‘It’s older than human language, but my goddamn wedding ring has more scratches on it.’

Girardieau led the party back to the elevator shaft for the final short descent down to the operations floor of the hollowed-out chamber. The ride lasted no more than thirty seconds, but for Sylveste it seemed like a grindingly slow Homeric odyssey. The object felt like his own personal prize; as hard-won as if he had unearthed it with his own bloodied fingernails. It loomed over them now, its curved, rock-encrusted side jutting unsupported into the air. There was a faint groove scored around the object, running obliquely from one side to the other. It looked like little more than a shallow hairline fracture from where he was, but it was a metre or so wide, and probably just as deep.

Girardieau led them into the nearest chock: a concrete structure with its own inner rooms and operations levels abutting the object. Inside they took another elevator, rising up through the building into the haze of scaffolding which erupted from it. Sylveste’s stomach crawled with conflicting impulses of claustro-and agoraphobia. He felt hemmed in by the unthinkable megatonnes of rock looming hundreds of metres over his head, while simultaneously racked with vertigo as they ascended the scaffolding high up the side of the object.

Small shacks and equipment huts floated in the geodesic framework. The lift connected with one of these structures and they trooped out into a complex of rooms still abuzz with the afterhum of recently curtailed activity. All the warning signs and notices were decals or painted, the area too makeshift for entoptic generators.

They walked over a tremoring girderwork bridge which extended through a loom of scaffolding towards the black skin of the Amarantin object. They were halfway up the object’s height, level with the groove. The object no longer seemed spherical; they were too close for that. It was a single black wall blocking their progress, as vast and depthless as the view of Lascaille’s Shroud he remembered after he had travelled from Spindrift. They walked onwards, until the bridge took them into the groove.

The path immediately swung to the right. On three sides - to the left, and above and below - they were hemmed in by the eerily unmarked black substance of the artefact. They walked on a trelliswork path fixed to the underlying floor via suction pads, since the alien material was nearly frictionless. To the right was a waist-high safety railing and then several hundred metres of nothing. Every five or six metres on the inside wall was a lamp, attached via epoxy pads, and every twenty or so metres was a panel marked with cryptic symbols.

They continued along the steep incline of the groove for three or four minutes until Girardieau brought them to a halt. The place where they had arrived was a tangled nexus of power lines, lamps and communications consoles. The left-hand wall of the groove folded inwards here.

‘Took us weeks to find the way in,’ Girardieau said. ‘Originally the trench was plugged by basalt. It was only after we’d chipped it all out that we found this one place where the basalt seemed to continue inwards, as if it were plugging some kind of radial tunnel which emerged in the trench.’

‘You’ve been busy little beavers, I can see.’

‘Digging it out was hard work,’ Girardieau said. ‘Excavating the trench was easy by comparison, but here we had to drill and remove material through the same tiny hole. Some of us wanted to use boser torches to cut a few secondary tunnels in to make the job easier, but we never went that far. And our mineral-tipped drills couldn’t touch the stuff.’

Sylveste’s scientific curiosity momentarily beat his urge to belittle Girardieau’s attempts at impressing him. ‘You know what this material is?’

‘Basically carbon, with some iron and niobium and a few rare metals as trace elements. But we don’t know the structure. It’s not simply some allotropic form of diamond we haven’t invented yet, or even hyperdiamond. Maybe the top few tenths of a millimetre are close to diamond, but the stuff seems to undergo some kind of complex lattice transformation deeper down. The ultimate form - far deeper then we’ve yet sampled - may not even be a true crystal at all. It could be that the lattice breaks up into trillions of carbon-heavy macromolecules, locked together in a co-acting mass. Sometimes these molecules seem to work their way to the surface along lattice flaws, which is the only time we see them.’

‘You’re talking as if it’s purposeful.’

‘Maybe it is. Maybe the molecules are like little enzymes tooled-up to repair the diamond crust when it becomes damaged.’ He shrugged. ‘But we’ve never isolated one of the macromolecules, or at least not in a stable form. They seem to lose coherence as soon as they’re removed from the lattice. They fall apart before we can get a look inside them.’

‘What you’re describing,’ Sylveste said, ‘sounds very much like a form of molecular technology.’

Girardieau smiled at Sylveste, seeming to acknowledge the private game in which they were enmeshed.

‘Except we know that the Amarantin were far too primitive for such a thing.’

‘Of course.’

‘Of course.’ Girardieau smiled again, only this time to the group as a whole. ‘Shall we forge inwards?’

Navigating the tunnel system which led from the groove was trickier than Sylveste had at first imagined. He had assumed that the radial tunnel would continue inwards for the necessary distance to traverse the shell of the object, and they would then enter the thing’s hollow interior. But it was not like that at all. The thing was a deliberate labyrinth. The path did progress radially, for perhaps ten metres, but then it jerked to the left and soon branched into multiple tunnel systems. The routes were colour-coded with adhesive markers, but the coding system was too cryptic to make much sense to Sylveste. Within five minutes he was thoroughly disorientated, though he had the suspicion that they had not strayed very deep into the object. It was as if the tunnel system was the work of a demented maggot which preferred the part of the apple immediately under the skin. Eventually, however, they crossed what seemed to be a regular fissure in the fabric of the object. Girardieau explained that the thing was structured in a series of concentric shells. They continued to worm their way through another confusing tunnel system while Girardieau regaled them with dubious stories about the initial exploration of the object.

They had known about it for two years - ever since Sylveste had drawn Pascale’s attention to the oddity of the obelisk’s burial sequence. Excavating the chamber had taken most of that time, detailed study of the object’s warrenlike interior only happening in the last few months. There had been a few deaths in those early days. Nothing mysterious, it eventually transpired - just teams getting lost in unmapped sections of the labyrinth and stumbling into vertical shafts in the tunnel system where the safety flooring had not yet been fixed. One worker had starved to death when she ventured too far without laying a breadcrumb trail behind her - servitors found her two weeks after she went missing. She had been wandering in a series of doodle-like circles, at times only a few minutes from the safe zones.

Progress through the final concentric shell was slower and more deliberate than the four they traversed before it. They worked downwards, eventually reaching a gratifyingly horizontal stretch of tunnel, the far end of which was milky with light.

Girardieau spoke to his sleeve and the light dimmed.

They moved on in semi-darkness. Gradually their breathing ceased to echo from the walls as the confining space opened out. The only sound came from the laboured purring of nearby air pumps.

‘Hold on,’ Girardieau said. ‘Here it comes.’

Sylveste steeled himself for the inevitable disorientation when the lights returned. For once he did not mind Girardieau’s theatrics. It permitted him a sense of discovery, albeit at second hand. Of course, he alone understood this surrogacy for what it was. But he did not begrudge the others the moment. That would have been churlish, for after all, they would never know what true discovery felt like. He almost pitied them, though in that moment the sight revealed in the lights purged all normal thought.

It was an alien city.

SIX

En Route to Delta Pavonis, 2546

‘I expect,’ Volyova said, ‘that you’re one of those otherwise rational people who pride themselves on not believing in ghosts.’

Khouri looked at her, frowning slightly. Volyova had known from the outset that the woman was no fool, but it was still interesting to see how she reacted to the question.

‘Ghosts, Triumvir? You can’t be serious.’

‘One thing you’ll quickly learn about me,’ Volyova said, ‘is that I’m very seldom anything other than completely serious.’ And then she indicated the door at which they had arrived, set unobtrusively into one rusty-red interior wall of the ship. The door was of heavy construction, a stylised drawing of a spider discernible through layers of corrosion and staining. ‘Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you.’

Khouri did as she was told without hesitation. Volyova was satisfied. In the three weeks since the woman had been snared - or recruited, if one wanted to be polite about it - Volyova had administered a complex regimen of loyalty-altering therapies. The treatment was almost complete, apart from the top-up doses which would continue indefinitely. Soon the woman’s loyalty would be so strongly instilled that it would transcend mere obedience and become an animating compulsion, a principle to which she could no more fail to adhere than a fish could choose to stop breathing water. Taken to an extreme which Volyova hoped would prove unnecessary, Khouri could be made not only to desire to do the crew’s will, but to love them for giving her the chance. But Volyova would relent before she programmed the woman that deeply. After her less than fruitful experiences with Nagorny, she was wary of creating another unquestioning guinea pig. It would not displease her if Khouri retained a trace of resentment.

Volyova did as she had promised, following Khouri into the door. The recruit had halted a few metres beyond the threshold, realising that there was no way to go further.

Volyova sealed the great iron iris of a door behind them.

‘Where are we, Triumvir?’

‘In a little private retreat of my own,’ Volyova said. She spoke into her bracelet and made a light come on, but the interior remained shadowy. The room was shaped like a fat torpedo, twice as long as it was wide. The interior was sumptuously outfitted, with four scarlet-cushioned seats installed on the floor, next to each other, and space for another two behind, though nothing remained but their anchor-points. Where they were not upholstered in cushioned velvet, the room’s brass-ribbed walls were curved and glossily dark, as if made of obsidian or black marble. There was a console of black ebony, attached to the armrest of the front seat in which Volyova now sat. She folded down the console, familiarising herself with the inset dials and controls, all of which were tooled in brass or copper, with elaborately inscribed labels, offset by flowered curlicues of differently inlaid woods and ivories. Not that it took much familiarising, since she visited the spider-room with reasonable regularity, but she enjoyed the tactile pleasure of stroking her fingertips across the board.

‘I suggest you sit down,’ she said. ‘We’re about to move.’

Khouri obeyed, sitting next to Volyova, who threw a number of ivory-handled switches, watching some of the dials on the panel light up with roseate glows, their needles quivering as power entered the spider-room’s circuits. She extracted a certain sadistic pleasure in observing Khouri’s disorientation, for the woman clearly had no idea where she was in the ship, nor what was about to happen. There were clunking sounds, and a sudden shifting, as if the room were a lifeboat which had just come adrift from a mother vessel.

‘We’re moving,’ Khouri diagnosed. ‘What is this - some kind of luxury elevator for the Triumvirate?’

‘Nothing so decadent. We’re in an old shaft which leads to the outer hull.’

‘You need a room just to take you to the hull?’ Some of Khouri’s scornful disregard for the niceties of Ultra life was coming to the fore again. Volyova liked that, perversely. It convinced her that the loyalty therapies had not destroyed the woman’s personality, only redirected it.

‘We’re not just going to the hull,’ Volyova said. ‘Otherwise we’d walk.’

The motion was smooth now, but there were still occasional clunks as airlocks and traction systems assisted their passage. The shaft walls remained utterly black, but - Volyova knew - all that was about to change. Meanwhile, she watched Khouri, trying to guess whether the woman was scared or merely curious. If she had sense she would have realised by now that Volyova had invested too much time in her simply to kill her - but on the other hand, the woman’s military training on Sky’s Edge must have taught her to take absolutely nothing for granted.

Her appearance had changed considerably since her recruitment, but little of that was due to the therapies. Her hair had always been short, but now it was absent entirely. Only up close was the peachy fuzz of regrowth visible. Her skull was quilted with fine, salmon-coloured scars. Those were the incision marks where Volyova had opened her head in order to emplace the implants which had formerly resided in Boris Nagorny.

There had been other surgical procedures, too. Khouri’s body was peppered with shrapnel from her soldiering days, in addition to the almost invisibly healed scars of beam-weapon or projectile impact points. Some of the shrapnel shards lay deep - too deep, it seemed, for the Sky’s Edge medics to retrieve. And for the most part they would have caused her no harm, for they were biologically-inert composites not situated close to any vital organs. But the medics had been sloppy, too. Near the surface, dotted under Khouri’s skin, Volyova found a few shards they really should have removed. She did it for them, examining each in turn before placing it in her lab. All but one of the shards would have caused no problems to her systems; non-metallic composites which could not interfere with the sensitive induction fields of the gunnery’s interface machinery. But she catalogued and stored them anyway. The metal shard she frowned at, cursing the medics’ procedures, and then laid it next to the rest.

That had been messy work, but not nearly as bad as the neural work. For centuries, the commonest forms of implant had either been grown in situ or were designed to self-insert painlessly via existing orifices, but such procedures could not be applied to the unique and delicate gunnery interface implants. The only way to get them in or out was with a bone-saw, scalpel and a lot of mopping up afterwards. It had been doubly awkward because of the routine implants already resting in Khouri’s skull, but after giving them a cursory examination Volyova had seen no reason to remove them. Had she done so, she would sooner or later have had to re-implant very similar devices just so Khouri could function normally beyond the gunnery. The implants had grafted well, and within a day - with Khouri unconscious - Volyova had placed her in the gunnery seat and verified that the ship was able to talk to her implants and vice versa. Further testing had to wait until the loyalty therapies were complete. That would mainly be done while the rest of the crew were asleep.

Caution: that was Volyova’s current watchword. It was incaution that had resulted in the whole unpleasantness with Nagorny.

She would not make that mistake again.

‘Why do I get the idea this is some kind of test?’ Khouri said.

‘It isn’t. It’s just—’ Volyova waved a hand dismissively. ‘Indulge me, will you? It’s not much to ask.’

‘How do I oblige - by claiming to see ghosts?’

‘Not by seeing them, Khouri, no. By hearing them.’

A light was visible now, beyond the black walls of the moving room. Of course, the walls were nothing but glass, and until that moment they had been surrounded only by the unlit metal of the shaft in which the room rested. But now illumination was shining from the shaft’s approaching end. The rest of the short journey took place in silence. The room pushed itself towards the light, until the chill blue luminance was flooding in from all angles. Then the room pushed itself beyond the hull.

Khouri upped from her seat and went to the glass, edging towards it with trepidation. The glass was, of course, hyperdiamond, and there was no danger that it would shatter or that Khouri would stumble and plunge through it. But it looked ridiculously thin and brittle, and the human mind was able to take only so many things on trust. Looking laterally, she would have seen the articulated spider-legs, eight of them, anchoring the room to the exterior hull of the ship. She would have understood why Volyova called this place the spider-room.

‘I don’t know who or what built it,’ Volyova said. ‘My guess is that they installed it when the ship itself was constructed, or when it was due to change hands, assuming anyone could ever afford to buy it. I think this room was a very elaborate ploy for impressing potential clients - hence the general level of luxury.’

‘Someone used it to make a sales pitch?’

‘It makes a kind of sense - assuming one has any need in the first place to actually be outside a vessel like this. If the ship’s under thrust, then any observation pod sent outside also has to match that level of thrust, or else it gets left behind. No problem if that pod’s just a camera system, but as soon as you put people aboard it it gets a lot more complicated; someone actually has to fly the damned thing, or at the very least know how to program the autopilot to do what you want. The spider-room avoids that difficulty by physically attaching itself to the ship. It’s child’s play to operate; just like crawling around on all-eights.’

‘What happens if . . .’

‘It loses its grip? Well, it’s never happened - even if it did, the room has various magnetic and hull-piercing grapples it can deploy; and even if those failed - which they wouldn’t, I assure you - the room can propel itself independently; certainly for long enough to catch up with the ship. And even if that failed . . .’ Volyova paused. ‘Well, if that failed, I’d consider having a word with my deity-of-choice.’

Although Volyova had never taken the room more than a few hundred metres from its exit point on the hull, it would have been possible to crawl all around the ship. Not necessarily wise, however, for at relativistic speed the ship pushed through a blizzard of radiation which was normally screened by the hull insulation. The spider-room’s thin walls only shielded a fraction of the flux, lending the whole exercise of being outside an odd and hazardous glamour.

The spider-room was her little secret; it was absent from the major blueprints, and to the best of her knowledge none of the others knew anything about it at all. In an ideal world, she would have kept it that way, but the problems with the gunnery had forced her into some necessary indiscretions. Even given the state of the ship’s decay, Sajaki’s network of surveillance devices was extensive, leaving the spider-room as one of the few places where Volyova could guarantee absolute privacy when she needed to discuss something sensitive with one of her recruits; something that she did not want the other Triumvirs to know about. She had been forced to reveal the spider-room to Nagorny so that she could talk with him frankly about the Sun Stealer problem, and for months - as his condition deteriorated - she had regretted that decision, always fearful that he would reveal the room’s existence to Sajaki. But she need not have worried. By the end, Nagorny had been far too occupied with his nightmares to indulge in any subtleties of shipboard politick. Now he had taken the secret to his grave and for the time being Volyova had been able to sleep easy, safe in the knowledge that her sanctuary was not about to be betrayed. Perhaps what she was doing now was an error she would later regret - she had certainly sworn to herself not to violate the room’s secrecy again - but as always, current circumstances had forced her to amend an earlier decision. There was something she needed to discuss with Khouri; the ghosts were merely a pretext so that Khouri would not become overly suspicious of Volyova’s deeper motives.

‘I’m not seeing any ghosts yet,’ the recruit said.

‘You’ll see, or rather hear them, shortly,’ Volyova said.

The Triumvir was acting oddly, Khouri thought. More than once she had hinted that this room was her private retreat aboard the ship, and that the others - Sajaki, Hegazi, and the other two women - were not even aware that it existed. It seemed strange indeed that Volyova was prepared to reveal the room to Khouri so soon in their working relationship. Volyova was a solitary, obsessive figure, even aboard a ship crewed by militaristic chimerics - not someone with a natural instinct for trustfulness, Khouri would have thought. Volyova was going through the motions of friendliness towards her, but there was something artificial about all her efforts . . . they were too planned, too lacking in anything resembling spontaneity. When Volyova made some kind of friendly overture to Khouri - a piece of smalltalk, shipboard gossip or a joke - there was always the feeling that Volyova had spent hours rehearsing, hoping she would sound off-the-cuff. Khouri had known people like that in the military; they seemed genuine at first, but they were usually the ones who turned out to be foreign spies or intelligence-gathering stooges from high command. Volyova was doing her best to act casually about the whole spider-room business, but it was obvious to Khouri that the ghost thing was not all that it appeared. A number of disquieting thoughts struck Khouri, prime among them the idea that perhaps Volyova had brought her to this room with no intention of her ever leaving . . . alive, anyway.

But that turned out not to be the case.

‘Oh, something I’ve been meaning to ask you,’ Volyova said, breezily. ‘Does the phrase Sun Stealer mean anything to you yet?’

‘No,’ Khouri said. ‘Should it?’

‘Oh; there’s no reason it should - just a question, that’s all. Too tedious to explain why, of course - don’t worry about it, will you?’

She was about as convincing as a Mulch fortune-teller.

‘No,’ Khouri said. ‘I won’t worry, no . . .’ And then added: ‘Why did you say “yet”?’

Volyova cursed inwardly: had she blown it? Perhaps not; she had delivered the question as blithely as she dared, and there was nothing in Khouri’s demeanour to suggest that she had taken it as anything other than a casual enquiry . . . and yet . . . now was emphatically not the time to start making errors.

‘Did I say that?’ she said, hoping to inject the right degree of surprise-mingled-with-indifference into her voice. ‘Slip of the tongue, that’s all.’ Volyova groped for a change of subject, quickly. ‘See that star, the faint red one?’

Now that their eyes had adjusted to the ambient light-levels of interstellar space, with even the blue radiance of the engine exhausts no longer seeming to blot out everything, a few stars were visible.

‘That’s Yellowstone’s sun?’

‘Epsilon Eridani, yes. We’re three weeks beyond the system. Pretty soon you wouldn’t have such an easy time finding it. We’re not moving relativistically now - only a few per cent of light - but we’re accelerating all the time. Soon the visible stars will move, the constellations warping, until all the stars in the sky are bunched ahead and behind us. It’ll be as if we’re poised midway down a tunnel, with light streaming in from either end. The stars will change colour as well. It isn’t simple, since the final colour depends on the spectral type of each star; how much energy it emits in different wavelengths, including the infrared and ultraviolet. But the tendency will be for those stars ahead of us to shift to the blue; those behind us to the red.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be very pretty,’ Khouri said, somewhat spoiling the moment. ‘But I’m not quite sure where the ghosts come into it.’

Volyova smiled. ‘I’d almost forgotten about them. That would have been a shame.’

And then she spoke into her bracelet, vocalising softly so that Khouri would not hear what it was she had to ask the ship.

Voices of the damned filled the chamber.

‘Ghosts,’ Volyova said.

Sylveste hovered in midair above the buried city, bodyless.

The encaging walls rose around him, densely engraved with the equivalent of ten thousand printed volumes of Amarantin writing. Although the graphicforms of the writing were mere millimetres high and he floated hundreds of metres from the wall, he only had to focus on any one part of it for the words to slam into clarity. As he did so, parallel translating algorithms processed the text into something approaching Canasian, while Sylveste’s own quick semi-intuitive thought processes did likewise. More often than not he came to broad agreement with the programs, but occasionally they missed what might have been a crucial, context-dependent subtlety.

Meanwhile in his quarters in Cuvier, he made rapid, cursive notes, filling page after page of writing pad. These days, he favoured pen and paper over modern recording devices where possible. Digital media were too susceptible to later manipulation by his enemies. At least if his notes were pulped they would be lost for ever, rather than returning to haunt him in a guise warped to suit somebody else’s ideology.

He finished translating a particular section, coming to one of the folded-wing glyphs which signified the end of a sequence. He pulled back from the dizzying textual precipice of the wall.

He slipped a blotter into the pad and closed it. By touch he slipped the pad back into a rack and removed the next pad along. He opened it at the page marked by its own blotter, then ran his fingers down the page until he felt the roughness of the ink vanish. Positioning the book exactly parallel with the desk, he stationed the pen at the start of the first new blank line.

‘You’re working too hard,’ Pascale said.

She had entered the room unheard; now he had to visualise her standing at his side - or sitting, whichever was the case.

‘I think I’m getting somewhere,’ Sylveste said.

‘Still banging your head against those old inscriptions?’

‘One of us is beginning to crack.’ He turned his bodyless point of view away from the wall, towards the centre of the enclosed city. ‘Still, I didn’t think it would take this long.’

‘Me neither.’

He knew what she meant. Eighteen months since Nils Girardieau had shown him the buried city; a year since their wedding had been mooted and then put on hold until he had made significant progress on the translating work. Now he was doing exactly that - and it scared him. No more excuses, and she knew it as well as he did.

Why was that such a big problem? Was it only a problem because he chose to classify it as such?

‘You’re frowning again,’ Pascale said. ‘Are you having problems with the inscriptions?’

‘No,’ Sylveste said. ‘They aren’t the problem any more.’ And it was the truth; it was now second nature for him to merge the bimodal streams of Amarantin writing into their implied whole, like a cartographer studying a stereographic image.

‘Let me look.’

He heard her move across the room and address the escritoire, instructing it to open a parallel channel for her sensorium. The console - and, indeed, Sylveste’s whole access to the data-model of the city - had come not long after that first visit. For once the idea had not been Girardieau’s, but something Pascale had initiated. The success of Descent into Darkness, the recently published biography, and the upcoming wedding had increased her leverage over her father, and Sylveste had known better than to argue when she had offered him - literally - the keys to the city.

The wedding was the talk of the colony now. Most of the gossip which reached its way back to Sylveste assumed that the motives were purely political; that Sylveste had courted Pascale as a way of marrying his way back into something close to power; that - seen cynically - the wedding was only a means to an end, and that the end was a colonial expedition to Cerberus/Hades. Perhaps, for the briefest of instants, Sylveste had wondered that himself; wondered if his subconscious had not engineered his love for Pascale with this deeper ambition in mind. Perhaps there was the tiniest grain of truth in that, as well. But from his current standpoint, it was mercifully impossible to tell. He certainly felt as if he loved her - which, as far as he could tell, was the same thing as loving her - but he was not blind to the advantages that the marriage would bring. Now he was publishing again; modest articles based on tiny portions of translated Amarantin text; co-authorship with Pascale; Girardieau himself acknowledged as having assisted in the work. The Sylveste of fifteen years ago would have been appalled, but now he found it hard to stir up much self-disgust. What mattered was that the city was a step towards understanding the Event.

‘I’m here,’ Pascale said - louder now, but just as bodyless as Sylveste. ‘Are we sharing the same point of view?’

‘What are you seeing?’

‘The spire; the temple - whatever you call it.’

‘That’s right.’

The temple was at the geometric centre of the quarter-scale city, shaped like the upper third of an egg. Its topmost point extended upwards, becoming a spiriform tower which ascended - narrowing as it did - towards the roof of the city chamber. The buildings around the temple had the fused look of weaver-bird nests; perhaps the expression of some submerged evolutionary imperative. They huddled like misshapen orisons before the vast central spire which curled from the temple.

‘Something bothering you about this?’

He envied her. Pascale had visited the real city dozens of times. She had even climbed the spire on foot, following the gulletlike spiral passage which wound up its height.

‘The figure on the spire? It doesn’t fit.’

It looked like a small, daintily carved figurine by comparison with the rest of the city, but was still ten or fifteen metres tall, comparable to the Egyptian figures in the Temple of Kings. The buried city was built to an approximate quarter-scale, based on comparisons with other digs. The full-size counterpart of the spire figure would have been at least forty metres tall. But if this city had ever existed on the surface, it would have been lucky to survive the firestorms of the Event, let alone the subsequent nine hundred and ninety thousand years of planetary weathering, glaciation, meteorite impacts and tectonics.

‘Doesn’t fit?’

‘It isn’t Amarantin - at least not any kind I’ve ever seen.’

‘Some kind of deity, then?’

‘Maybe. But I don’t understand why they’ve given it wings.’

‘Ah. And this is problematic?’

‘Take a look around the city wall if you don’t believe me.’

‘Better lead me there, Dan.’

Their twin points of view curved away from the spire, dropping down dizzyingly.

Volyova watched the effect the voices had on Khouri, certain that somewhere in Khouri’s armour of self-assurance was a chink of fearful doubt - the thought that maybe these really were ghosts after all, and that Volyova had found a way to tune into their phantom emanations.

The sound that the ghosts made was moaning and cavernous; long drawn-out howls so low that they were almost felt rather than heard. It was like the eeriest winter night’s wind imaginable; the sound that a wind might make after blowing through a thousand miles of cavern. But this was clearly no natural phenomenon, not the particle wind streaming past the ship, translated into sound; not even the fluctuations in the delicately balanced reactions in the engines. There were souls in that ghost-howl; voices calling across the night. In the moaning, though not one word was understandable, there remained nonetheless the unmistakable structure of human language.

‘What do you think?’ Volyova asked.

‘They’re voices, aren’t they? Human voices. But they sound so . . . exhausted; so sad.’ Khouri listened attentively. ‘Every now and then I think I understand a word.’

‘You know what they are, of course.’ Volyova diminished the sound, until the ghosts formed only a muted, infinitely pained chorus. ‘They’re crew. Like you and me. Occupants of other vessels, talking to each other across the void.’

‘Then why—’ Khouri hesitated. ‘Oh, wait a minute. Now I understand. They’re moving faster than us, aren’t they? Much faster. Their voices sound slow because they are, literally. Clocks run slower on ships moving near the speed of light.’

Volyova nodded, the tiniest bit saddened that Khouri had understood so swiftly. ‘Time dilation. Of course, some of those ships are moving towards us, so doppler-blueshifting acts to reduce the effect, but the dilation factor usually wins . . .’ She shrugged, seeing that Khouri was not yet ready for a treatise on the finer principles of relativistic communications. ‘Normally, of course, Infinity corrects for all this; removes the doppler and dilatory distortions, and translates the result into something which sounds perfectly intelligible.’

‘Show me.’

‘No,’ Volyova said. ‘It isn’t worth it. The end product is always the same. Trivia, technical talk, boastful old trade rhetoric. That’s the interesting end of the spectrum. At the boring end you get paranoid gossip or brain-damaged cases baring their souls to the night. Most of the time it’s just two ships handshaking as they pass in the night; exchanging bland pleasantries. There’s hardly ever any interaction since the light-travel times between ships are seldom less than months. And anyway, half the time the voices are just prerecorded messages, since the crew are usually in reefersleep. ’

‘Just the usual human babble, in other words.’

‘Yes. We take it with us wherever we go.’

Volyova relaxed back in her seat, instructing the sound-system to pump out the sorrowful, time-stretched voices even louder than before. This signal of human presence ought to have made the stars seem less remote and cold, but it managed to have exactly the opposite effect; just like the act of telling ghost stories around a campfire served to magnify the darkness beyond the flames. For a moment - one that she revelled in, no matter what Khouri made of it - it was possible to believe that the interstellar spaces beyond the glass were really haunted.

‘Notice anything?’ Sylveste asked.

The wall consisted of chevron-shaped granite blocks, interrupted at five points by gatehouses. The gatehouses were surmounted by sculptural Amarantin heads, in a not-quite-realistic style reminiscent of Yucatán art. A fresco ran around the outer wall, made from ceramic tiles, depicting Amarantin functionaries performing complex social duties.

Pascale paused before answering, her gaze tracking over the different figures in the fresco.

They were shown carrying farming implements which looked almost like actual items from human agricultural history, or weapons - pikes, bows and a kind of musket, although the poses were not those of warriors engaged in combat, but were far more formalised and stiff, like Egyptian figurework. There were Amarantin surgeons and stoneworkers, astronomers - they had invented reflecting and refracting telescopes, recent digs had confirmed - and cartographers, glassworkers, kitemakers and artists, and above each symbolic figure was a bimodal chain of graphicforms picked out in gold and cobalt-blue, naming the flock which assumed the duty of the representational figure.

‘None of them have wings,’ Pascale said.

‘No,’ Sylveste said. ‘What used to be their wings turned into their arms.’

‘But why object to a statue of a god with a pair of wings? Humans have never had wings, but that’s never stopped us investing angels with them. It strikes me that a species which really did once have wings would have even fewer qualms.’

‘Yes, except you’re forgetting the creation myth.’

It was only in the last years that the basic myth had been understood by the archaeologists; unravelled from dozens of later, embroidered versions. According to the myth, the Amarantin had once shared the sky with the other birdlike creatures which still existed on Resurgam during their reign. But the flocks of that time were the last to know the freedom of flight. They made an agreement with the god they called Birdmaker, trading the ability to fly for the gift of sentience. On that day, they raised their wings to heaven and watched as consuming fire turned them to ash, for ever excluding them from the air.

So that they might remember their arrangement, the Birdmaker gave them useless, clawed wing-stubs - enough to remind them of what they had forsaken, and enough to enable them to begin writing down their history. Fire burned in their minds too, but this was the unquenchable fire of being. That light would always burn, the Birdmaker told them - so long as they did not try to defy the Birdmaker’s will by once more returning to the skies. If they did that, it was promised, the Birdmaker would take back the souls they had been given on the Day of Burning Wings.

It was, Sylveste knew, simply the understandable attempt of a culture to raise a mirror to itself. What made it significant was the complete extent to which it had permeated their culture - in effect, a single religion which had superseded all others and which had persisted, through different tellings, for an unthinkable span of centuries. Undoubtedly it had shaped their thinking and behaviour, perhaps in ways too complex to begin guessing.

‘I understand,’ Pascale said. ‘As a species, they couldn’t deal with being flightless, so they created the Birdmaker story so they could feel some superiority over the birds which could still fly.’

‘Yes. And while that belief worked, it had one unexpected side-effect: to deter them from ever taking flight again: much like the Icarus myth, only exhibiting a stronger hold over their collective psyche.’

‘But if that’s the case, the figure on the spire . . .’

‘Is a big two-fingered salute to whatever god they used to believe in.’

‘Why would they do that?’ Pascale said. ‘Religions just fade away; get replaced by new ones. I can’t believe they’d build that city, everything in it, just as an insult to their old god.’

‘Me neither. Which suggests something else entirely.’

‘Like what?’

‘That a new god moved in. One with wings.’

Volyova had decided it was time to show Khouri the instruments of her profession. ‘Hold on,’ she said, as the elevator approached the cache chamber. ‘People don’t generally like this the first time it happens.’

‘God,’ Khouri said, instinctively pressing herself against the rear wall as the vista suddenly expanded shockingly; the elevator a tiny beetle crawling down the side of the vast space. ‘It looks too big to fit inside!’

‘Oh, this is nothing. There are another four chambers this large. Chamber two is where we train for surface ops. Two are empty or semi-pressurised; the fourth holds shuttles and in-system vehicles. This is the only one dedicated to holding the cache.’

‘You mean those things?’

‘Yes.’

There were forty cache-weapons in the chamber, though none exactly resembled any other. Yet in their general style of construction, a certain affinity was betrayed. Each machine was cased in alloy of a greenish-bronze hue. Though each of the devices was large enough to be a medium-sized spacecraft in its own right, none exhibited any indication that this was their function. There were no windows or access doors visible in what would have been their hulls, no markings or communications systems. While some of the objects were studded with what might have been vernier jets, they were only there to assist in the moving around and positioning of the devices, much as a battleship was only there to assist in moving around and positioning its big guns.

Of course, that was exactly what the cache devices were.

‘Hell-class,’ Volyova said. ‘That was what their builders called them. Of course, we’re going back a few centuries here.’

Volyova watched as her recruit appraised the titanic size of the nearest cache-weapon. Suspended vertically, its long axis aligned with the ship’s axis of thrust, it looked like a ceremonial sword dangling from a warrior-baron’s ceiling. Like all the weapons, it was surrounded by a framework which had been added by one of Volyova’s predecessors, to which were attached various control, monitoring and manoeuvring systems. All the weapons were connected to tracks - a three-dimensional maze of sidings and switches - which merged lower down in the chamber, feeding into a much smaller volume directly below, large enough to contain a single weapon. From there, the weapons could be deployed beyond the hull, into space.

‘So who built them?’ Khouri said.

‘We don’t know for sure. The Conjoiners, perhaps, in one of their darker incarnations. All we know is how we found them - hidden away in an asteroid, circling a brown dwarf so obscure it has only a catalogue number.’

‘You were there?’

‘No; this was long before my time. I only inherited them from the last caretaker - and he from his. I’ve been studying them ever since. I’ve managed to access the control systems of thirty-one of them, and I’ve figured out - very roughly - about eighty per cent of the necessary activation codes. But I’ve only tested seventeen of the weapons, and of that number, only two in what you might term actual combat situations.’

‘You mean you’ve actually used them?’

‘It wasn’t something I rushed into.’

No need, she thought, to burden Khouri with details of past atrocities - at least, not immediately. Over time, Khouri would come to know the cache-weapons as well as Volyova knew them - perhaps even more intimately, since Khouri would know them via the gunnery, through direct neural-interface.

‘What can they do?’

‘Some of them are more than capable of taking planets apart. Others . . . I don’t even want to guess. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if some of them did unpleasant things to stars. Exactly who’d want to use such weapons . . .’ She trailed off.

‘Who did you use them against?’

‘Enemies, of course.’

Khouri regarded her for long, silent seconds.

‘I don’t know whether to be horrified that such things exist . . . or relieved to know that at least it’s us who have our fingers on the triggers.’

‘Be relieved,’ Volyova said. ‘It’s better that way.’

Sylveste and Pascale returned to the spire, hovering. The winged Amarantin was just as they had left it, but now it seemed to brood over the city with imperious disregard. It was tempting to think that a new god really had moved in - what else could have inspired the building of such a monument, if not fear of the divine? But the accompanying text on the spire was maddeningly hard to unscramble.

‘Here’s a reference to the Birdmaker,’ Sylveste said. ‘So chances are good the spire had some bearing on the Burning Wings myth, even though the winged god clearly isn’t a representation of the Birdmaker.’

‘Yes,’ Pascale said. ‘That’s the graphicform for fire, next to the one for wings.’

‘What else do you see?’

Pascale concentrated for a few long moments. ‘There’s some reference here to a renegade flock.’

‘Renegade in what sense?’ He was testing her, and she knew it, but the exercise was valuable in itself, for Pascale’s interpretation would give him some indication of how subjective his own analysis had been.

‘A renegade flock which didn’t agree to the deal with the Birdmaker, or reneged on the deal afterwards.’

‘That’s what I thought. I was worried I might have made an error or two.’

‘Whoever they were, they were called the Banished Ones.’ She read back and forth, testing hypotheses and revising her interpretation as she went. ‘It looks like they were originally part of the flock who agreed to the Birdmaker’s terms, but that they changed their minds sometime later.’

‘Can you make out the name of their leader?’

She began: ‘They were led by an individual called . . .’ But then Pascale trailed off. ‘No, can’t translate that string; at least not right now. What does all this mean, anyway? Do you think they really existed?’

‘Perhaps. If I had to take a guess, I’d say they were unbelievers who came to realise that the Birdmaker myth was just that - myth. Of course, that wouldn’t have gone down very well with the other fundamentalist flocks.’

‘Which is why they were banished?’

‘Assuming they ever existed in the first place. But I can’t help thinking, what if they were some kind of technological sect, like an enclave of scientists? Amarantin who were prepared to experiment, to question the nature of their world?’

‘Like mediaeval alchemists?’

‘Yes.’ He liked the analogy immediately. ‘Perhaps they even tried experimenting with flight, the way Leonardo did. Against the backdrop of general Amarantin culture, that would have been like spitting in God’s eye.’

‘Agreed. But assuming they were real - and were banished - what happened to them? Did they just die out?’

‘I don’t know. But one thing’s clear. The Banished Ones were important - more than just a minor detail in the overall story of the Birdmaker myth. They’re mentioned all over the spire; all over this damned city, in fact - far more frequently than in any other Amarantin relics.’

‘But the city is late,’ Pascale said. ‘Apart from the marker obelisk, it’s the most recent relic we’ve found. Dating from near the Event. Why would the Banished Ones suddenly crop up again, after so long an absence?’

‘Well,’ Sylveste said. ‘Maybe they came back.’

‘After - what? Tens of thousands of years?’

‘Perhaps.’ Sylveste smiled privately. ‘If they did return - after that long away - it might be the kind of thing to inspire statue-building. ’

‘Then the statue - do you think it might portray their leader? The one called—’ Pascale took another stab at the graphicform. ‘Well, this is the symbol for the sun, isn’t it?’

‘And the rest?’

‘I’m not sure. Looks like the glyph for the act of . . . theft - but how can that be?’

‘Put the two together, what have you got?’

He imagined her shrugging, noncommittally. ‘One who steals suns? Sun Stealer? What would that mean?’

Sylveste shrugged himself. ‘That’s what I’ve been asking myself all morning. That and one other thing.’

‘Which would be?’

‘Why I think I’ve heard that name before.’

After the weapons chamber, the three of them rode another elevator further into the ship’s heart.

‘You’re doing well,’ the Mademoiselle said. ‘Volyova honestly believes that she’s turned you to her side.’

She had, more or less, been with them the whole time - silently observing Volyova’s guided tour, only occasionally interjecting with remarks or prompts for Khouri’s ears only. This was extremely disquieting: Khouri was never able to free herself of the feeling that Volyova was also privy to these whispered asides.

‘Maybe she’s right,’ Khouri answered, automatically thinking her response. ‘Maybe she’s stronger than you.’

The Mademoiselle scoffed. ‘Did you listen to anything I told you?’

‘As if I had any choice.’

Shutting out the Mademoiselle when she wanted to say something was like trying to silence an insistent refrain playing in her head. There was no respite from her apparitions.

‘Listen,’ the woman said. ‘If my countermeasures were failing, your loyalty to Volyova would force you to tell her of my existence.’

‘I’ve been tempted.’

The Mademoiselle looked at her askance, and Khouri felt a brief frisson of satisfaction. In some respects the Mademoiselle - or rather, her implant-distilled persona - seemed omniscient. But apart from the knowledge which had been instilled in it upon its creation, the implant’s learning was restricted entirely to what it could perceive through Khouri’s own senses. Maybe the implant could hook into data networks even if Khouri herself were not interfaced, but while that might have been possible, it seemed unlikely; there was too much risk of the implant itself being detected by the same systems. And although it could hear her thoughts when Khouri chose to communicate with it, it could not read her state of mind, other than by the most superficial biochemical cues in the neural environment in which it floated. So for the implant, there was a necessary element of doubt concerning the efficacy of its countermeasures.

‘Volyova would kill you. She killed her last recruit, if you haven’t worked that out for yourself.’

‘Maybe she had good reason.’

‘You don’t know anything about her - or any of them. Neither do I. We haven’t even met her Captain yet.’

There was no arguing with that. Captain Brannigan’s name had come up once or twice when Sajaki or one of the others had been indiscreet in Khouri’s presence, but in general they did not speak often of their leader. Clearly they were not Ultras in the usual sense, although they maintained a meticulous front even the Mademoiselle had not seen through. The fiction was so absolute that they went through the motions of trade just like all the other Ultra crews.

But what was the reality behind the façade?

Gunnery Officer, Volyova had said. And now Khouri had seen something of the cache of weapons stored within the ship. It was rumoured that many trade vessels carried discreet armaments, for resolving the worst sorts of breakdown in client-customer relations, or for staging acts of blatant piracy against other ships. But these weapons looked far too potent to be used in mere squabbles, and in any case, the ship clearly had an extra layer of conventional weaponry for just those circumstances. So what exactly was the point behind this arsenal? Sajaki must have had some long-term plan in mind, Khouri thought, and that was disturbing enough - but even more worrying was the thought that perhaps there was no plan at all; that Sajaki was carrying the cache around until he found an excuse for using it, like a tooled-up thug stumbling around in search of a fight.

Over the weeks, Khouri had considered and discarded numerous theories, without coming close to anything that sounded plausible. It was not the military side of the ship’s nature that troubled her, of course. She had been born to war; war was her natural environment, and while she was ready to consider the possibility that there were other, more benign states of being, there was nothing about war that felt alien to her. But, she had to admit, the kinds of wars which she had known on Sky’s Edge were hardly comparable to any of the scenarios in which the cache-weapons might be used. Though Sky’s Edge had remained linked to the interstellar trade network, the average technological level of the combatants in the surface battles had been centuries behind the Ultras who sometimes parked their ships in orbit. A campaign could be won just by one side gaining one item of Ultra weaponry . . . but those items had always been scarce; sometimes too valuable even to use. Even nukes had been deployed only a few times in the colony’s history, and never in Khouri’s lifetime. She had seen some vile things - things that still haunted her - but she had never seen anything capable of instant, genocidal death. Volyova’s cache-weapons were much worse than that.

And perhaps they had been used, once or twice. Volyova had said as much - pirate operations, perhaps. There were plenty of thinly populated systems, only loosely connected to the trade nets, where it would be entirely possible to exterminate an enemy without anyone ever finding out. And some of those enemies might be as amoral as any of Sajaki’s crew; their pasts littered with acts of random atrocity. So, yes, it was quite likely that parts of the cache had been tested. But Khouri suspected that this would only have ever been a means to an end; self-preservation, or tactical strikes against enemies with resources they needed. The heavier cache-weapons would not have been tested. What they eventually planned to do with the cache - how they planned to discharge the world-wrecking power they possessed - was not yet clear, perhaps not even to Sajaki. And perhaps Sajaki was not the man in whom the ultimate power lay vested. Perhaps, in some way, Sajaki was still serving Captain Brannigan.

Whoever the mysterious Brannigan was.

‘Welcome to the gunnery,’ Volyova said.

They had arrived somewhere near the middle of the ship. Volyova had opened a hole in the ceiling, folded down a telescopic ladder and beckoned Khouri to climb its sharp-edged rungs.

Her head was poking into a large spherical room full of curved, jointed machinery. At the centre of this halo of bluish-silver was a rectilinear hooded black seat, festooned with machinery and a seemingly random tangle of cables. The seat was fixed within a series of elegant gyroscopic axes, arranged so that its motion would be independent of that of the ship. The cables passed into sliding armatures which transmitted power between each concentric shell, before the final thigh-thick clump dove into the machinery-clotted spherical wall of the room. The room reeked of ozone.

There was nothing in the gunnery which looked much newer than a few hundred years old, and plenty that looked as if it had been around for considerably longer. All of it, though, had been scrupulously cared for.

‘This is what it’s all been building up to, isn’t it?’ Khouri pushed herself through the trapdoor into the heart of the chamber, slithering between the curved skeletal shells until she reached the seat. Massive as it was, it seemed to beckon to her with promises of comfort and security. She could not stop herself from sliding into it, letting its cumbersome black bulk softly encase her with a whir of buried servomechanisms.

‘How does it feel?’

‘Like I’ve been here before,’ she said wonderingly, voice distorted by the bulk of the studded black helmet which had slid over her head.

‘You have,’ Volyova answered. ‘Before you were properly conscious. Besides, the gunnery implant in your head already knows its way around here - that’s where half the sense of familiarity comes from.’

What Volyova said was true. Khouri felt as if the chair were some familiar piece of furniture she had grown up around, its every wrinkle and scratch known to her. She already felt powerfully relaxed and calm, and the urge to actually do something - to use the power that the chair bestowed on her - was building by the second.

‘I can control the cache-weapons from here?’

‘That’s the intention,’ Volyova said. ‘But not just the cache, of course. You’ll also be directing every other major weapon system aboard the Infinity - with as much fluency as if these instruments were simply extensions of your own anatomy. When you’re fully subsumed by the gunnery, that’s how it’ll feel - your own body image swelling out to take in the ship itself.’

Khouri had already begun to feel something similar; the sense at least that her body was blurring into the chair. Tantalising as it was, she had no wish for the sense of subsumption to continue any further. With a conscious effort she eased herself from the chair, its enfolding panels whirring aside to release her.

‘I’m not sure I like this,’ the Mademoiselle said.

SEVEN

En Route to Delta Pavonis, 2546

Never quite forgetting that she was aboard a ship (it was the ever-so-slightly irregular pattern of the induced gravity, caused by tiny imbalances in the thrust stream, which in turn reflected mysterious quantum capriciousness in the bowels of the Conjoiner drives) Volyova entered the green seclusion of the glade alone and hesitated at the top of the rustic staircase which led down to the grass. If Sajaki was aware of her presence, he chose not to show it, kneeling silently and motionlessly next to the gnarled tree stump which was their informal meeting place. But he undoubtedly sensed her. Volyova knew that Sajaki had visited the Pattern Jugglers on the aquatic world Wintersea, accompanying Captain Brannigan, back when Captain Brannigan was capable of leaving the ship. She did not know what the purpose of that trip had been - for either of them - but there had been rumours that the Pattern Jugglers had tampered with his neocortex, embossing neural patterns which configured an unusual degree of spatial awareness: the ability to think in four or five dimensions. The patterns had been the rarest kind of Juggler transform: one that lingered.

Volyova ambled down the staircase and allowed her foot to creak on the lowest tread. Sajaki turned to regard her with no visible hint of surprise.

‘Something up?’ he asked, reading her expression.

‘It concerns the stavlennik,’ she said, momentarily lapsing back into Russish. ‘The protégée, I mean.’

‘Tell me about it,’ Sajaki said absently. He wore an ash-grey kimono, damp grass darkening his knees to olive-black. His Komuso’s shakuhachi rested on the stump’s mirror-smooth, elbow-polished surface. He and Volyova were now the only two crewmembers yet to enter reefersleep, two months out from Yellowstone.

‘She’s one of us now,’ Volyova said, kneeling opposite him. ‘The core of her indoctrination is complete.’

‘I welcome this news.’

Across the glade a macaw screeched, then left its perch in a flurry of clashing primary colours. ‘We can introduce her to Captain Brannigan.’

‘No time like the present,’ Sajaki said, smoothing a wrinkle from his kimono. ‘Or do you have second thoughts?’

‘About meeting the Captain?’ She clucked nervously. ‘None at all.’

‘Then it’s deeper than that.’

‘What?’

‘Whatever’s on your mind, Ilia. Come on. Spit it out.’

‘It’s Khouri. I’m no longer willing to risk her suffering the same kind of psychotic episodes as Nagorny.’ She stopped, expecting - hoping, even - for some response from Sajaki. But instead all she got was the white-noise of the waterfall, and a total absence of expression on her crewmate’s face. ‘What I mean,’ she continued - almost stammering with her own uncertainty - ‘is that I’m no longer sure she’s a suitable subject at this stage.’

‘At this stage?’ Sajaki spoke so softly she largely read his lips.

‘I mean, to go into the gunnery immediately after Nagorny. It’s too dangerous, and I think Khouri is too valuable to risk.’ She stopped, swallowed, and drew breath into her lungs for what she knew would be the hardest thing to say. ‘I think we need another recruit - someone less gifted. With an intermediate recruit I can iron out the remaining wrinkles before going ahead with Khouri as primary candidate.’

Sajaki picked up his shakuhachi and sighted along it thoughtfully. There was a little raised burr at the end of the bamboo, perhaps from the time when he had used the stick on Khouri. He rubbed it with his thumb, smoothing it back down.

When he spoke, it was with a calm so total that it was worse than any possible display of anger.

‘You’re suggesting we look for another recruit?’

He made it sound as if what she was proposing was easily the most absurd, deranged thing he had ever heard uttered.

‘Only in the interim,’ she said, aware that she was speaking too quickly, hating herself for it, despising her sudden deference to the man. ‘Just until everything’s stable. Then we can use Khouri.’

Sajaki nodded. ‘Well, that sounds sensible. Goodness knows why we didn’t think of it earlier, but I suppose we had other things on our minds.’ He put down the shakuhachi, although his hand did not stray far from its hollow shaft. ‘But that can’t be helped. What we have to do now is find ourselves another recruit. Shouldn’t be too hard, should it? I mean, we hardly taxed ourselves recruiting Khouri. Admittedly we’re two months into interstellar space and our next port of call is a virtually unheard-of outpost - but I don’t envisage any great problem in finding another subject. I expect we’ll have to turn them away in droves, don’t you?’

‘Be reasonable,’ she said.

‘In what sense am I being anything other than reasonable, Triumvir?’

A moment ago she had been scared; now she was angry. ‘You haven’t been the same, Yuuji-san. Not since . . .’

‘Not since what?’

‘Not since you and the Captain visited the Jugglers. What happened there, Yuuji? What did the aliens do to your head?’

He looked at her oddly, as if the question were a perfectly valid one which it had never struck him to ask himself. It was, fatefully, a ruse. Sajaki moved quickly with the shakuhachi, so that all Volyova really saw was a teak-coloured blur in the air. The blow was relatively soft - Sajaki must have pulled at the last moment - but, gashing into her side, it was still sufficient to send her sprawling into the grass. For the first instant, it was not the pain or the shock of being attacked by Sajaki that overwhelmed her, but the prickly cold wetness of the grass brushing against her nostrils.

He stepped casually round the stump.

‘You’re always asking too many questions,’ Sajaki said, and then drew something from his kimono that might have been a syringe.

Nekhebet Isthmus, Resurgam, 2566

Sylveste reached anxiously into his pocket, feeling for the vial which he felt sure would be missing.

He touched it; a minor miracle.

Down below, dignitaries were filing into the Amarantin city, moving slowly towards the temple at the city’s heart. Snatches of their conversation reached him with perfect clarity, though never long enough for him to hear more than a few words. He was hundreds of metres above them, on the human-installed balustrade which had been grafted to the black wall of the city-englobing egg.

It was his wedding day.

He had seen the temple in simulations many times, but it had been so long since he had actually visited the place that he had forgotten how overpowering its size could be. That was one of the odd, persistent defects of simulations: no matter how precise they became, the participant remained aware that they were not reality. Sylveste had stood beneath the roof of the Amarantin spire-temple, gazing up to where the angled stone arches intersected hundreds of metres above, and had felt not the slightest hint of vertigo, or fear that the age-old structure would choose that moment to collapse upon him. But now - visiting the buried city for only the second time in person - he felt a withering sense of his own smallness. The egg in which it was encased was itself uncomfortably large, but that at least was the product of a recognisably mature technology - even if the Inundationists elected to ignore the fact. The city which rested within, on the other hand, looked more like the product of some fifteenth-century fever-dream fantasist, not least because of the fabulous winged figure which rested atop the temple spire. And all of it - the more he looked - seemed to exist only to celebrate the return of the Banished Ones.

None of it made sense. But at least it forced his mind off the ceremony ahead.

The more he looked, the more he realised - against his first impression - that the winged thing really was an Amarantin, or, more accurately, a kind of hybrid Amarantin/angel, sculpted by an artist with a deep and scholarly understanding of what the possessing of wings would actually entail. Seen without his eyes’ zoom facility, the statue was cruciform, shockingly so. Enlarged, the cruciform shape became a perched Amarantin with glorious, outspread wings. The wings were metalled in different colours, each small trailing feather sparkling with a slightly different hue. Like the human representation of an angel, the wings did not simply replace the creature’s arms, but were a third pair of limbs in their own right.

But the statue seemed more real than any representation of an angel Sylveste had ever seen in human art. It appeared - the thought seemed absurd - anatomically correct. The sculptor had not just grafted the wings onto the basic Amarantin form, but had subtly re-engineered the creature’s underlying physique. The manipulatory forelimbs had been moved slightly lower down the torso, elongated to compensate. The chest of the torso swelled much wider than the norm, dominated by a yokelike skeletal/ muscular form around the creature’s shoulder area. From this yoke sprouted the wing, forming a roughly triangular shape, kitelike. The creature’s neck was longer than normal, and the head seemed even more streamlined and avian in profile. The eyes still faced forwards - though like all Amarantin, its binocular vision was limited - but were set into deep, grooved bone channels. The creature’s upper mandible nostril parts were flared and rilled, as if to draw the extra air into the lungs required for the beating of the wings. And yet not everything was right. Assuming that the creature’s body was approximately similar in mass to the Amarantin norm, even those wings would have been pitifully inadequate for the task of flying. So what were they - some kind of gross ornamentation? Had the Banished Ones gone in for radical bioengineering, only to burden themselves with wings of ridiculous impracticality?

Or had there been another purpose?

‘Second thoughts?’

Sylveste was jolted suddenly from his contemplation.

‘You still don’t think this is a good idea, do you?’

He turned around from the balustrade which looked across the city.

‘It’s a little late to voice my objections, I think.’

‘On your wedding day?’ Girardieau smiled. ‘Well, you’re not home and dry yet, Dan. You could always back out.’

‘How would you take that?’

‘Very badly indeed, I suspect.’

Girardieau was dressed in starched city finery, cheeks lightly rouged for the attendant swarms of float-cams. He took Sylveste by the forearm and led him away from the edge.

‘How long have we been friends, Dan?’

‘I wouldn’t exactly call it friendship; more a kind of mutual parasitism.’

‘Oh come on,’ Girardieau said, looking disappointed. ‘Have I made your life any more of a misery these last twenty years than was strictly necessary? Do you think I took any great pleasure in locking you away?’

‘Let’s say you approached the task with no little enthusiasm.’

‘Only because I had your best interests at heart.’ They stepped off the balcony into one of the low tunnels which threaded the black shell around the city. Cushioned flooring absorbed their footsteps. ‘Besides,’ Girardieau continued, ‘if it wasn’t transparently obvious, Dan, there was something of a feeding frenzy at the time. If I hadn’t put you in custody, some mob would eventually have taken out their anger on you.’

Sylveste listened without speaking. He knew much of what Girardieau said was true on a theoretical level, but that there was no guarantee that it reflected the man’s actual motives at the time.

‘The political situation at the time was much simpler. Back then we didn’t have True Path making trouble.’ They reached an elevator shaft and entered the carriage, its interior antiseptically clean and new. Prints hung on the wall, showing various Resurgam vistas before and after the Inundationist transformations. There was even one of Mantell. The mesa in which the research outpost was embedded was draped in foliage, a waterfall running off the top, blue, cloud-streaked skies beyond it. In Cuvier, there was a whole sub-industry devoted to creating images and simulations of the future Resurgam, ranging from water-colour artists to skilled sensorium designers.

‘And on the other hand,’ Girardieau said, ‘there are radical scientific elements coming out of the woodwork. Only last week, one of True Path’s representatives was shot dead in Mantell, and believe me, it wasn’t one of our agents who did it.’

Sylveste felt the carriage begin to convey them down, towards the city level.

‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying that with fanatics on both sides, you and I are beginning to look like distinct moderates. Depressing thought, isn’t it?’

‘Out-radicalised on both fronts, you mean.’

‘Something like that.’

They emerged through the black, graven wall of the city-shell into a small crowd of media types who were running through last-minute preparations for the event. Reporters wore buff-coloured float-cam glasses, choreographing the cams which hovered around them like drab party balloons. One of Janequin’s genetically engineered peacocks was pecking around the group, its tail hissing behind it. Two security officers stepped forwards garbed in black with gold Inundationist sigils on their shoulders, surrounded by flocks of deliberately threatening entoptics. Servitors loitered behind them. They ran full-spectrum ident scans on Sylveste and Girardieau, then motioned them to a small temporary structure which had been placed near a nestlike froth of Amarantin dwellings.

The inside was almost bare, apart from a table and two skeletal chairs. There was a bottle of Amerikano red wine on the table, next to a pair of wine goblets, engraved with frosted-glass landscapes.

‘Sit down,’ Girardieau said. He swaggered around the table and decanted measures of wine into both glasses. ‘I don’t know why you’re so damned nervous. It isn’t as if this is your first time.’

‘My fourth, actually.’

‘All Stoner ceremonies?’

Sylveste nodded. He thought of the first two: small-scale affairs, to minor-league Stoner women, the faces of whom he could almost not separate in his memory. Both had withered under the glare of publicity that the family name attracted. By contrast, his marriage to Alicia - his last wife - had been sculpted as a publicity move from the onset. It had focused attention on the upcoming Resurgam expedition, giving it the final monetary push it needed. The fact that they had been in love had been almost inconsequential, merely a happy addendum to the existing arrangement.

‘That’s a lot of baggage to be carrying around in your head now,’ Girardieau said. ‘Don’t you ever wish you could be rid of the past each time?’

‘You find the ceremony unusual.’

‘Perhaps I do.’ Girardieau wiped a red smear of wine from his lips. ‘I was never part of Stoner culture, you see.’

‘You came with us from Yellowstone.’

‘Yes, but I wasn’t born there. My family were from Grand Teton. I only arrived on Yellowstone seven years before the Resurgam expedition departed. Not really enough time to become culturally adapted to Stoner tradition. My daughter, on the other hand . . . well, Pascale’s never known anything but Stoner society. Or at least the version of it we imported when we came here.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You must have the vial with you now, I suppose. May I see it?’

‘I could hardly refuse you.’

Sylveste reached in his pocket and removed the little glass cylinder he had been carrying with him all day. He passed it to Girardieau, who nervously tinkered with it, tipping it this way and that. He watched the bubbles within, slipping to and fro as if in a spirit level. Something darker hung within the fluid, fibrous and tendrilled.

He placed the vial down; it made a delicate glassy chime as it settled on the tabletop. Girardieau studied it with barely masked horror.

‘Was it painful?’

‘Of course not. We’re not sadists, you know.’ Sylveste smiled, secretly enjoying Girardieau’s discomfort. ‘Would you rather we exchanged camels, perhaps?’

‘Put it away.’

Sylveste slipped the vial back into his pocket. ‘Now tell me who’s the nervous one, Nils.’

Girardieau poured himself another measure of wine. ‘Sorry. Security are edgy as hell. Don’t know what’s got them so bothered, but it’s rubbing off on me, I suppose.’

‘I didn’t notice anything.’

‘You wouldn’t.’ Girardieau shrugged; a bellows-like movement that began somewhere below his abdomen. ‘They claim everything’s normal, but after twenty years I read them better than they imagine.’

‘I wouldn’t worry. Your police are very efficient people.’

Girardieau shook his head briefly, as if he had taken a bite from a particularly sour lemon. ‘I don’t expect the air between us to ever be completely cleared, Dan. But you could at least give me the benefit of the doubt.’ He nodded towards the open door. ‘Didn’t I give you complete access to this place?’

Yes, and all that had done was to replace a dozen questions with a thousand more. ‘Nils . . .’ he began, ‘how are the colony’s resources these days?’

‘In what sense?’

‘I know things have been different since Remilliod came through. Things which would have been unthinkable in my day . . . could be done now, if the political will was there.’ ‘What kinds of things?’ Girardieau asked dubiously.

Sylveste reached into his jacket again, but this time, instead of the vial, he removed a piece of paper which he spread before Girardieau. The paper was marked with complex circular figures.

‘You recognise these marks? We found them on the obelisk and all over the city. They’re maps of the solar system, made by the Amarantin.’

‘Somehow, having seen this city, I find that easier to believe now than I once did.’

‘Good, then hear me out.’ Sylveste drew his finger along the widest circle. ‘This represents the orbit of the neutron star, Hades.’

‘Hades?’

‘That was the name it was given when they first surveyed the system. There’s a lump of rock orbiting it, too - about the size of a planetary moon. They called it Cerberus.’ Then he brushed his finger across the cluster of graphicforms attending the neutron star/planet double system. ‘Somehow, this was important to the Amarantin. And I think it might have some bearing on the Event.’

Girardieau buried his head in his hands theatrically, then looked back at Sylveste. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

‘Yes.’ Carefully - never allowing his gaze to move from Girardieau’s eyes - he folded away the paper and replaced it in his pocket. ‘We have to explore it, and find out what killed the Amarantin. Before it kills us as well.’

When Sajaki and Volyova came to Khouri’s quarters, they told her to put on something warm. Khouri noticed that they were both wearing heavier than usual shipwear - Volyova in a zipped-up flying jacket, Sajaki in muffled, high-collared thermals, quilted in a mosaic of nova-diamond patches.

‘I’ve screwed up, haven’t I?’ Khouri said. ‘This is where I get the airlock treatment. My scores in the combat simulations haven’t been good enough. You’re going to ditch me.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Sajaki said, only his nose and forehead protruding above the furline of his collar. ‘If we were going to kill you, do you think we’d worry about you catching a chill?’

‘And,’ Volyova said, ‘your indoctrination finished weeks ago. You’re now one of our assets. To kill you now would be a form of treason against ourselves.’ Beneath the bill of her cap only her mouth and chin were visible; she exactly complemented Sajaki, the two of them forming one bland composite face.

‘Nice to know you care.’

Still unsure of her position - the possibility that they might be planning something nasty was still looming large - she dug through what passed for her belongings until she found a thermal jacket. Manufactured by the ship, it was similar to Sajaki’s harlequin job, except that it fell almost to her knees.

An elevator journey took them into an unexplored region of the ship - at least, well away from what Khouri considered known territory. They had to change elevators several times, walking through interconnecting tunnels which Volyova said were necessary because of virus damage taking out large sections of the transit system. The décor and technological level of the walk-through areas was always subtly different, suggesting to Khouri that whole districts of the ship had been left fallow at different stages over the last few centuries. She remained nervous, but something in Sajaki and Volyova’s demeanour told her that what they had in mind was more akin to an initiation ceremony than a cold execution. They reminded her of children embarked on some piece of malicious tomfoolery - Volyova at least, though Sajaki looked and acted a good deal more authoritarian, like a functionary carrying out a grim civic duty.

‘Since you’re part of us now,’ he said, ‘it’s time you learnt a little more about the set-up. You might also appreciate knowing our reason for going to Resurgam.’

‘I assumed it was trade.’

‘That was the cover story, but let’s face it, it was never very convincing. Resurgam doesn’t have much in the way of an economy - the purpose of the colony is pure research - and it certainly lacks the resources to buy much from us. Of course, our data on the colony is necessarily old, and once we’re there we’ll trade what we can, but that could never be the sole reason for our voyage there.’

‘So what is?’

The lift they were in was decelerating. ‘The name Sylveste mean anything to you?’ Sajaki asked.

Khouri did her best to act normally, as if the question were reasonable, and not one which had gone off in her cranium like a magnesium flare.

‘Well, of course. Everyone on Yellowstone knew about Sylveste. Guy was practically a god to them. Or maybe the devil.’ She paused, hoping her reactions sounded normal. ‘Wait though; which Sylveste are we talking about here? The older one, the guy who botched up those immortality experiments? Or his son?’

‘Technically speaking,’ Sajaki said, ‘both.’

The lift thundered to a halt. When the doors opened it was like being slapped in the face with a cold wet cloth. Khouri was glad for the advice about the warm clothes, although she still felt mortally chilled. ‘Thing was,’ she continued, ‘they weren’t all bastards. Lorean was the old guy’s father, and he was still some kind of a folk hero, even after he died, and the old guy - what was his name again?’

‘Calvin.’

‘Right. Even after Calvin killed all those people. Then Calvin’s son came along - Dan, that would have been - and he tried to make amends, in his own way, with the Shrouder thing.’ Khouri shrugged. ‘I wasn’t around then, of course. I only know what people told me.’

Sajaki led them through gloomy grey-green lit corridors, huge and perhaps mutant janitor-rats scrabbling away as their footfalls neared. What he took them into resembled the inside of a choleraic’s trachea - corridors thick and glutinous with dirty carapacial ice; venous with buried tentacular ducts and power lines, slick with something nastily like human phlegm. Ship-slime, Volyova called it - an organic secretion caused by malfunctioning biological recycler systems on an adjacent level.

Mostly, though, it was the cold of which Khouri took heed.

‘Sylveste’s part in things is rather complex,’ Sajaki said. ‘It’ll take a while to explain. First, though, I’d like you to meet the Captain.’

Sylveste walked around himself, checking that nothing was seriously out of place. Satisfied, he cancelled the image and joined Girardieau in the pre-fab’s ante-room. The music reached a crescendo, then settled into a burbling refrain. The pattern of lights altered, voices dropping to a hush.

Together, they stepped into the glare, into the basso sound-field of the organ’s drone. A meandering path led to the central temple, carpeted for the occasion. Chime-trees lined it, cased in protective domes of clear plastic. The chime-trees were spindly, articulated sculptures, their many arms tipped with curved, coloured mirrors. At odd times, the trees would click and reconfigure themselves, moved by what seemed to be million-year-old clockwork buried in pedestals. Current thinking had it that the trees were elements of some city-wide semaphore system.

The organ’s noise magnified as they stepped into the temple. Its egg-shaped dome was permeated by petal-shaped expanses of elaborate stained-glass, miraculously intact despite the slow predations of time and gravity. Filtered through the toplights, the air in the temple seemed suffused with a calming pink radiance. The central portion of the enormous room was taken up by the rising foundation of the spire which rose above the temple; wide and flared like the base of a sequoia. Temporary seating for a hundred top-level Cuvier dignitaries bowed out in a fan-shape from one side of the pillar; easily accommodated by the building, despite its one-quarter scale. Sylveste scanned the racks of watchers, recognising about a third of them. Perhaps a tenth had been his allies before the coup. Most of them wore heavy outer garments, plump with furs. He recognised Janequin amongst them, sagelike with his smoke-white goatee and long silvery hair waterfalling from his bald pate. He looked more simian than ever. Some of his birds were in the hall, released from a dozen bamboo boxes. Sylveste had to admit that they were now strikingly good facsimiles, even down to the bobbed crest and the speckle-shimmer of their turquoise plumage. They had been adapted from chickens by careful manipulation of homeobox genes. The audience, many of whom had not seen the birds before today, applauded. Janequin turned the colour of bloodied snow, and seemed anxious to sink into his brocade overcoat.

Girardieau and Sylveste reached a sturdy table at the focus of the audience. The table was ancient: its woodwork eagle and Latinate inscriptions dated back to the Amerikano settlers on Yellowstone. Its corners were chipped. A varnished mahogany box sat on the table, sealed by delicate gold clasps.

A woman of serious demeanour stood behind the table, dressed in an electric-white gown. The gown’s clasp was a complex dual sigil, combining the Resurgam City/Inundationist governmental seal with the emblem of the Mixmasters: two hands holding a cat’s cradle of DNA. She was, Sylveste knew, not a true Mixmaster. The Mixmasters were a cliquish guild of Stoner bioengineers and geneticists, and none of their sanctum had journeyed to Resurgam. Yet their symbol - which had travelled - denoted general expertise in life-sciences: genesculpting, surgery or medicine.

Her unsmiling face was sallow in the stained light, hair collected in a bun, pierced by two syringes.

The music quietened.

‘I am Ordinator Massinger,’ she said, voice ringing out across the chamber. ‘I am empowered by the Resurgam expeditionary council to marry individuals of this settlement, unless such union conflicts with the genetic fitness of the colony.’

The Ordinator opened the mahogany box. Just below the lid lay a leather-bound object the size of a Bible. She removed it and placed it on the table, then folded it open with a creak of leather. The exposed surfaces were matt grey, like wet slate, glistening with microscopic machinery.

‘Place one hand each on the page nearest you, gentlemen.’

They placed their palms on the surface. There was a fluorescent sweep as the book took their palm-prints, followed by a brief tingle as biopsies were taken. When they were done, Massinger took the book and pressed her own hand against the surface.

Massinger then asked Nils Girardieau to state his identity to the gathered. Sylveste watched faint smiles ghost the audience. There was something absurd about it, after all, though Girardieau made no show of this himself.

Then she asked the same of Sylveste.

‘I am Daniel Calvin Lorean Soutaine-Sylveste,’ he said, using the form of his name so rarely employed that it almost took an effort of memory to bring it to mind. He went on, ‘The only biological son of Rosalyn Soutaine and Calvin Sylveste, both of Chasm City, Yellowstone. I was born on the seventeenth of January, in the hundred and twenty-first standard year after the resettlement of Yellowstone. My calendrical age is two hundred and twenty-three. Allowing for medichine programs, I have a physiological age of sixty, on the Sharavi scale.’

‘How do you knowingly manifest?’

‘I knowingly manifest in one incarnation only, the biological form now speaking.’

‘And you affirm that you are not wittingly manifested via alpha-level or other Turing-capable simulacra, in this or any other solar system?’

‘None of which I am aware.’

Massinger made small annotations in the book using a pressure stylus. She had asked Girardieau precisely the same questions: standard parts of the Stoner ceremony. Ever since the Eighty, Stoners had been intensely suspicious of simulations in general, particularly those that purported to contain the essence or soul of an individual. One thing they especially disliked was the idea of one manifestation of an individual - biological or otherwise - making contracts to which the other manifestations were not bound, such as marriage.

‘These details are in order,’ Massinger said. ‘The bride may step forward.’

Pascale moved into the roseate light. She was accompanied by two women wearing ash-coloured wimples, a squad of float-cams and personal security wasps and a semi-transparent entourage of entoptics: nymphs, seraphim, flying-fish and hummingbirds, star-glitter dew-drops and butterflies, in slow cascade around her wedding dress. The most exclusive entoptic designers in Cuvier had created them.

Girardieau raised his thick, hauserlike arms and bid his daughter forward.

‘You look beautiful,’ he murmured.

What Sylveste saw was beauty reduced to digital perfection. He knew that Girardieau saw something incomparably softer and more human, like the difference between a swan and a hard glass sculpture of a swan.

‘Place your hand on the book,’ the Ordinator said.

An imprint of moisture from Sylveste’s hand was still visible, like a wider shoreline around Pascale’s island of pale flesh. The Ordinator asked her to verify her identity, in the same manner as she had asked Girardieau and Sylveste. Pascale’s task was simple enough: not only had she been born on Resurgam, but she had never left the planet. Ordinator Massinger delved deeper into the mahogany box. While she did so, Sylveste’s eyes worked the audience. He saw Janequin, looking paler than ever, fidgety. Deep within the box, polished to a bluish antiseptic lustre, lay a device like a cross between an old-style pistol and a veterinarian’s hypodermic.

‘Behold the wedding gun,’ the Ordinator said, holding the box aloft.

Bone-splinteringly cold as it was, Khouri soon stopped noticing the temperature except as an abstract quality of the air. The story that her two crewmates was relating was far too strange for that.

They were standing near the Captain. His name, she now knew, was John Armstrong Brannigan. He was old, inconceivably so. Depending on the system one adopted in measuring his age, he was anywhere between two hundred and half a thousand years old. The details of his birth were unclear now, hopelessly tangled in the countertruths of political history. Mars, some said, was the place where he had been born, yet it was equally possible that he had been born on Earth, Earth’s city-jammed moon or in any one of the several hundred habitats which drifted through cislunar space in those days.

‘He was already over a century old before he ever left Sol system,’ Sajaki said. ‘He waited until it was possible to do so, then was among the first thousand to leave, when the Conjoiners launched the first ship from Phobos.’

‘At least, someone called John Brannigan was on that ship,’ Volyova said.

‘No,’ Sajaki said. ‘There’s no doubt. I know it was him. Afterwards . . . it becomes less easy to place him, of course. He may have deliberately blurred his own past, to avoid being tracked down by all the enemies he must have made in that time. There are many sightings, in many different systems, decades apart . . . but nothing definite.’

‘How did he come to be your Captain?’

‘He turned up centuries later - after several landfalls elsewhere, and dozens of unconfirmed apparitions - on the fringe of the Yellowstone system. He was ageing slowly, due to the relativistic effects of starflight, but he was still getting older, and longevity techniques were not as well developed as in our time.’ Sajaki paused. ‘Much of his body was now prosthetic. They said that John Brannigan no longer needed a spacesuit when he left his ship; that he breathed vacuum, basked in intolerable heat and quenching cold, and that his sensory range encompassed every spectrum imaginable. They said that little remained of the brain with which he had been born; that his head was merely a dense loom of intermeshed cybernetics, a stew of tiny thinking machines and precious little organic material.’

‘And how much of that was true?’

‘Perhaps more of it than people wished to believe. There were certainly lies: that he had visited the Jugglers on Spindrift years before they were generally discovered; that the aliens had wrought wondrous transformations on what remained of his mind, or that he had met and communicated with at least two sentient species so far unknown to the rest of humanity.’

‘He did meet the Jugglers eventually,’ Volyova said, in Khouri’s direction. ‘Triumvir Sajaki was with him at the time.’

‘That was much later,’ Sajaki snapped. ‘All that’s germane here is his relationship with Calvin.’

‘How did they cross paths?’

‘No one really knows,’ Volyova said. ‘All that we know for sure is that he became injured, either through an accident or some military operation that went wrong. His life wasn’t in danger, but he needed urgent help, and to go to one of the official groups in the Yellowstone system would have been suicide. He’d made too many enemies to be able to place his life in the hands of any organisation. What he needed were loosely scattered individuals in whom he could place personal trust. Evidently Calvin was one of them.’

‘Calvin was in touch with Ultra elements?’

‘Yes, though he would never have admitted so in public.’ Volyova smiled, a wide toothy crescent opening beneath the bill of her cap. ‘Calvin was young and idealistic then. When this injured man was delivered to him, he saw it as a godsend. Until then he had had no means of exploring his more outlandish ideas. Now he had the perfect subject, the only requirement being total secrecy. Of course, they both gained from it: Calvin was able to try out his radical cybernetic theories on Brannigan, while Brannigan was made well and became something more than he had been before Calvin’s work. You might describe it as the perfect symbiotic relationship.’

‘You’re saying the Captain was a guinea pig for that bastard’s monstrosities?’

Sajaki shrugged, the movement puppetlike within his swaddling clothes.

‘That was not how Brannigan saw it. As far as the rest of humanity was concerned, he was already a monster before the accident. What Calvin did was merely take the trend further. Consummate it, if you like.’

Volyova nodded, although there was something in her expression which suggested she was not quite at ease with her crewmate. ‘And in any case, this was prior to the Eighty. Calvin’s name was unsullied. And among the more overt extremes of Ultra life, Brannigan’s transformation was only slightly in excess of the norm.’ She said it with tart distaste.

‘Carry on.’

‘Nearly a century passed before his next encounter with the Sylveste clan,’ Sajaki said. ‘By which time he was commanding this ship.’

‘What happened?’

‘He was injured again. Seriously, this time.’ Gingerly, like someone testing himself against a candle flame, he whisked his fingers across the limiting extent of the Captain’s silvery growth. The Captain’s outskirts looked frothy, like the brine left on a rockpool by the retreating tide. Sajaki delicately swabbed his fingers against the front of his jacket, but Khouri could tell that they did not feel clean; that they itched and crawled with subepidermal malignance.

‘Unfortunately,’ Volyova said, ‘Calvin was dead.’

Of course. He had died during the Eighty; had in fact been one of the last to lose his corporeality.

‘All right,’ Khouri said. ‘But he died in the process of having his brain scanned into a computer. Couldn’t you just steal the recording and persuade it to help you?’

‘We would, had that been possible.’ Sajaki’s low voice reverberated from the throated curve of the corridor. ‘His recording, his alpha-level simulation, had vanished. And there were no duplicates - the alphas were copy-protected.’

‘So basically,’ Khouri said, hoping to shatter the morguelike atmosphere of the proceedings, ‘you were up shit creek without a Captain.’

‘Not quite,’ Volyova said. ‘You see, all this took place during a rather interesting period in Yellowstone’s history. Daniel Sylveste had just returned from the Shrouders, and was neither insane nor dead. His companion hadn’t been so lucky, but her death only gave additional poignancy to his heroic return.’ She halted, then asked, with birdlike eagerness: ‘Did you ever hear of his “thirty days in the wilderness”, Khouri?’

‘Maybe once. Remind me.’

‘He vanished for a month a century ago,’ Sajaki said. ‘One minute the toast of Stoner society, the next nowhere to be found. There were rumours that he’d gone out of the city dome; jammed on an exosuit and gone to atone for the sins of his father. Shame it isn’t true; would have been quite touching. Actually,’ Sajaki nodded at the floor, ‘he came here for a month. We took him.’

‘You kidnapped Dan Sylveste?’ Khouri almost laughed at the audaciousness of it all. Then she remembered they were talking about the man she was meant to kill. Her impulse to laugh evaporated quickly.

‘Invited aboard is probably a preferable term,’ Sajaki said. ‘Though I admit he didn’t have a great deal of choice in the matter.’

‘Let me get this straight,’ Khouri said. ‘You kidnapped Cal’s son? What good was that going to do you?’

‘Calvin took a few precautions before he subjected himself to the scanner,’ Sajaki said. ‘The first was simple enough, although it had to be initiated decades before the culmination of the project. Simply put, he arranged to have every subsequent second of his life monitored by recording systems. Every second: waking, sleeping, whatever. Over the years, machines learnt to emulate his behaviour patterns. Given any situation, they could predict his responses with astonishing accuracy.’

‘Beta-level simulation.’

‘Yes, but a beta-level sim orders of magnitude more complex than any previously created.’

‘By some definitions,’ Volyova said, ‘it was already conscious; Calvin had already transmigrated. Calvin may or may not have believed that, but he still kept on refining the sim. It could project an image of Calvin which was so real, so like the actual man, that you had the forceful sense that you were really in his presence. But Calvin took it a step further. There was another mode of insurance available to him.’

‘Which was?’

‘Cloning.’ Sajaki smiled, nodded almost imperceptibly in Volyova’s direction.

‘He cloned himself,’ she said. ‘Using illegal black genetics techniques, calling in favours from some of his shadier clients. Some of them were Ultra, you see - otherwise we wouldn’t know any of this. Cloning was embargoed technology on Yellowstone; young colonies almost always outlaw it in the interests of ensuring maximum genetic diversity. But Calvin was cleverer than the authorities, and wealthier than those he was forced to bribe. That way he was able to pass off the clone as his son.’

‘Dan,’ Khouri said, the monosyllabic word carving its own angular shape in the refrigerated air. ‘You’re telling me Dan is Calvin’s clone?’

‘Not that Dan knows any of this,’ Volyova said. ‘He’d be the last person Calvin wanted to know. No; Sylveste is as much party to the lie as any of the populace ever were. He thinks he’s his own man.’

‘He doesn’t realise he’s a clone?’

‘No, and as time goes by his chances of ever finding out get smaller and smaller. Beyond Calvin’s Ultra allies, almost no one knew, and Calvin set up incentives to keep those that did quiet. There were a few unavoidable weak links - Calvin had no choice but to recruit one of Yellowstone’s top geneticists - and Sylveste picked the same man for the Resurgam expedition, not realising the intimate connection they shared. But I doubt that he’s learnt the truth since, or even come close to guessing it.’

‘But every time he looks in a mirror . . .’

‘He sees himself, not Calvin.’ Volyova smiled, evidently enjoying the way their revelation was upsetting some of Khouri’s basic certainties. ‘He was a clone, but that didn’t mean he had to resemble Cal down to the last skin pore. The geneticist - Janequin - knew how to induce cosmetic differences between Cal and Dan’s makeup, enough so that people would see only the expected familial traits. Obviously, he also incorporated traits from the woman who was supposed to be Dan’s mother, Rosalyn Soutaine.’

‘The rest was simple,’ Sajaki said. ‘Cal raised his clone in an environment carefully structured to emulate the surroundings he had known as a boy - even down to the same stimuli at certain periods in the boy’s development, because Cal couldn’t be sure which of his own personality traits were due to nature or nurture.’

‘All right,’ Khouri said. ‘Accepting for the moment that all of this is true - what was the point? Cal must have known Dan wouldn’t follow the same developmental path, no matter how closely he manipulated the boy’s life. What about all those decisions that take place in the womb?’ Khouri shook her head. ‘It’s insane. At the very best, all he’d end up with would be a crude approximation to himself.’

‘I think,’ Sajaki said, ‘that that was all that Cal hoped for. Cal cloned himself as a precaution. He knew the scanning process that he and the other members of the Eighty would have to endure would destroy his material body, so he wanted a body to which he could return if life in the machine turned out not to be to his liking.’

‘And did it?’

‘Maybe, but that was beside the point. At the time of the Eighty, the retransfer operation was still beyond the technology of the day. There was no real hurry: Cal could always have the clone put in reefersleep until he needed it, or simply reclone another one from the boy’s cells. He was thinking well ahead.’

‘Assuming the retransfer ever became possible.’

‘Well, Calvin knew it was a long shot. The important thing was that there was a second fall-back option apart from retransfer.’

‘Which was?’

‘The beta-level simulation.’ Sajaki’s voice had become as slow, cold and icy as the breezes in the Captain’s chamber. ‘Although not formally capable of consciousness, it was still an incredibly detailed facsimile of Calvin. Its relative simplicity meant it would be easier to encode its rules into the wetware of Dan’s mind. Much easier than imprinting something as volatile as the alpha.’

‘I know the primary recording - the alpha - disappeared,’ she said. ‘There was no Calvin left to run the show. And I guess Dan began to act a little more independently than Calvin might have wished.’

‘To put it mildly,’ Sajaki said, nodding. ‘The Eighty marked the beginning of the decline of the Sylveste Institute. Dan soon escaped its shackles, more interested in the Shrouder enigma than cybernetic immortality. He kept possession of the beta-level sim, though he never realised its exact significance. He thought of it more as an heirloom than anything else.’ The Triumvir smiled. ‘I think he would have destroyed it had he realised what it represented, which was his own annihilation.’

Understandable, Khouri thought. The beta-level simulation was like a trapped demon waiting to inhabit a new host body. Not properly conscious, but still dangerously potent, by virtue of the subtle ingenuity with which it mimicked true intelligence.

‘Cal’s precautionary measure was still useful to us,’ Sajaki said. ‘There was enough of Cal’s expertise encoded in the beta to mend the Captain. All we had to do was persuade Dan to let Calvin temporarily inhabit his mind and body.’

‘Dan must have suspected something when it worked so easily.’

‘It was never easy,’ Sajaki admonished. ‘Far from it. The periods when Cal took over were more akin to some kind of violent possession. Motor control was a problem: in order to suppress Dan’s own personality, we had to give him a cocktail of neuro-inhibitors. Which meant that when Cal finally got through, the body he found himself in was already half-paralysed by our drugs. It was like a brilliant surgeon performing an operation by giving orders to a drunk. And - by all accounts - it wasn’t the most pleasant of experiences for Dan. Quite painful, he said.’

‘But it worked.’

‘Just. But that was a century ago, and now it’s time for another visit to the doctor.’

‘Your vials,’ said the Ordinator.

One of the wimpled aides from Pascale’s party stepped forward, brandishing a vial identical in size and shape to the one which Sylveste removed from his pocket. They were not the same colour: the fluid in Pascale’s vial had been tinted red, against the yellow hue of Sylveste’s. Similar darkish fronds of material orbited within. The Ordinator took both vials and held them aloft for a few moments before placing them side by side on the table, in clear view of the audience.

‘We are ready to begin the marriage,’ she said. She then performed the customary duty of asking if there were anyone present who had any bioethical reasons as to why the marriage should not take place.

There was, of course, no objection.

But in that odd, loaded moment of branching possibilities, Sylveste noted a veiled woman in the audience reach into a purse and uncap a dainty, jewel-topped amber perfume jar.

‘Daniel Sylveste,’ said the Ordinator. ‘Do you take this woman to be your wife, under Resurgam law, until such time as this marriage is annulled under this or any prevailing legal system?’

‘I do,’ Sylveste said.

She repeated the question to Pascale.

‘I do,’ Pascale said.

‘Then let the bonding be done.’

Ordinator Massinger took the wedding gun from the mahogany box and snapped it open. She loaded the reddish vial - the one Pascale’s party had delivered - into the breech, then reclosed the instrument. Status entoptics briefly haloed it. Girardieau placed his hand on Sylveste’s upper arm, steadying him as the Ordinator pressed the conic end of the instrument against his temple, just above his eye-level. Sylveste had been right when he told Girardieau that the ceremony was not painful, but neither was it entirely pleasant. What it was was a sudden flowering of intense cold, as if liquid helium were being blasted into his cortex. The discomfort was brief, however, and the thumb-sized bruise on his skin would not last more than a few days. The brain’s immune system was weak by comparison with the body as a whole, and Pascale’s cells - floating as they did in a stew of helper medichines - would soon bond with Sylveste’s own. The volume was tiny - no more than a tenth of one per cent of the brain’s mass - but the transplanted cells carried the indelible impression of their last host: ghost threads of holographically distributed memory and personality.

The Ordinator removed the spent red vial and slotted the yellow one in its place. It was Pascale’s first wedding under the Stoner custom, and her trepidation was not well disguised. Girardieau held her hands as the Ordinator delivered the neural material, Pascale visibly flinching as it happened.

Sylveste had let Girardieau think the implant was permanent, but this was never the case. The neural tissue was tagged with harmless radioisotope trace elements, enabling it to be routed out and destroyed, if necessary, by divorce viruses. So far, Sylveste had never taken that option, and imagined he never would, no matter how many marriages down the line he was. He carried the smoky essences of all his wives - as they carried him - as he would carry Pascale. Indeed, on the faintest level, Pascale herself now carried traces of his previous wives.

That was the Stoner way.

The Ordinator carefully replaced the wedding gun in its box. ‘According to Resurgam law,’ she began, ‘the marriage is now formalised. You may—’

Which was when the perfume hit Janequin’s birds.

The woman who had uncapped the amber jar was gone, her seat glaringly vacant. Fragrant, autumnal, the odour from the jar made Sylveste think of crushed leaves. He wanted to sneeze.

Something was wrong.

The room flashed turquoise blue, as if a hundred pastel fans had just opened. Peacocks’ tails, springing open. A million tinted eyes.

The air turned grey.

‘Get down!’ Girardieau screamed. He was scrabbling madly at his neck. There was something hooked in it, something tiny and barbed. Numbly, Sylveste looked at his tunic and saw half a dozen comma-shaped barbs clinging to it. They had not broken the fabric, but he dared not touch them.

‘Assassination tools!’ Girardieau shouted. He slumped under the table, dragging Sylveste and his daughter with him. The auditorium was chaos now, a frenzied mass of agitated people trying to escape.

‘Janequin’s birds were primed!’ Girardieau said, virtually screaming in Sylveste’s ear. ‘Poison darts - in their tails.’

‘You’re hit,’ Pascale said, too stunned for her voice to carry much emotion. Light and smoke burst over their heads. They heard screams. Out of the corner of his eye, Sylveste saw the perfume woman holding a sleekly evil pistol in a two-handed grip. She was dousing the audience with it, its fanged barrel spitting cold pulses of boser energy. The float-cams swept round her, dispassionately recording the carnage. Sylveste had never seen a weapon like the one the woman used. He knew it could not have been manufactured on Resurgam, which left only two possibilities. Either it had arrived from Yellowstone with the original settlement, or it had been sold by Remilliod, the trader who had passed through the system since the coup. Glass - Amarantin glass that had survived ten thousand centuries - broke shrilly above. Like pieces of shattered toffee, it crashed down in jagged shards into the audience. Sylveste watched, powerless, as the ruby planes buried themselves in flesh, like frozen lightning. The terrified were already screaming loud enough to drown out the cries of those in pain.

What remained of Girardieau’s security team was mobilising, but terribly slowly. Four of the militia were down, their faces punctured by the barbs. One had reached the seating, struggling with the woman who had the gun. Another was opening fire with his own sidearm, scything through Janequin’s birds.

Girardieau meanwhile was groaning. His eyes were rolling, bloodshot, hands grasping at thin air.

‘We have to get out of here,’ Sylveste said, shouting in Pascale’s ear. She seemed still dazed from the neural transfer, blearily oblivious to what was happening.

‘But my father . . .’

‘He’s gone.’

Sylveste eased Girardieau’s dead weight onto the cold floor of the temple, careful to keep behind the safety of the table.

‘The barbs were meant to kill, Pascale. There’s nothing we can do for him. If we stay, we’ll just end up following him.’

Girardieau croaked something. It might have been ‘Go’, or it might only have been a final senseless exhalation.

‘We can’t leave him!’ Pascale said.

‘If we don’t, his killers end up winning.’

Tears slashed her face. ‘Where can we go?’

He looked around frantically. Smoke from concussion shells was filling the chamber, probably from Girardieau’s own people. It was settling in lazy pastel spirals, like scarves tossed from a dancer. Just when it was almost too dark to see, the room plunged into total blackness. The lights beyond the temple had obviously been turned off, or destroyed.

Pascale gasped.

His eyes slipped into infrared mode, almost without him having to think about it.

‘I can still see,’ he whispered to her. ‘As long as we stay together, you don’t have to worry about the darkness.’

Praying that the danger from the birds was gone, Sylveste rose slowly to his feet. The temple glowed in grey-green heat. The perfume woman was dead, a fist-sized hot hole in her side. Her amber jar was smashed at her feet. He guessed it had been some kind of hormonal trigger, keyed to receptors Janequin had put in the birds. He had to have been part of it. He looked - but Janequin was dead. A tiny dagger sat in his chest, trailing hot rivulets down his brocade jacket.

Sylveste grabbed Pascale and shoved her along the ground towards the exit, a vaulted archway gilded with Amarantin figurines and bas-relief graphicforms. It seemed that the perfume woman had been the only assassin actually present, if one discounted Janequin. But now her friends were entering, garbed in chameleoflage. They wore close-fitting breather masks and infrared goggles.

He pushed Pascale behind a jumble of upturned tables.

‘They’re looking for us,’ he hissed. ‘But they probably think we’re already dead.’

Girardieau’s surviving security people had fallen back and taken up defensive positions, kneeling within the fan-shaped auditorium. It was no match: the newcomers carried much heavier weapons, heavy boser-rifles. Girardieau’s militia countered with low-yield lasers and projectile weapons, but the enemy were cutting them apart with blithe, impersonal ease. At least half the audience were unconscious or dead; they had caught the brunt of the peacock venom salvo. Hardly the most surgically precise of assassination tools, those birds - but they had been allowed into the auditorium completely unchecked. Sylveste observed that two were still alive, despite what he had at first imagined. Still triggered by trace molecules of the perfume which remained aloft, their tails were flicking open and shut like the fans of nervous courtesans.

‘Did your father carry a weapon?’ Sylveste said, instantly regretting his use of the past tense. ‘I mean, since the coup.’

‘I don’t think so,’ Pascale said.

Of course not; Girardieau would never have confided such a thing to her. Quickly Sylveste felt around the man’s still body, hoping to find the padded hardness of a weapon beneath his ceremonial clothes.

Nothing.

‘We’ll have to do without,’ Sylveste said, as if the stating of this fact would somehow alleviate the problem it encapsulated. ‘They’re going to kill us if we don’t run,’ he said, finally.

‘Into the labyrinth?’

‘They’ll see us,’ Sylveste said.

‘But maybe they won’t think it’s us,’ Pascale said. ‘They might not know you can see in the dark.’ Though she was effectively blind, she managed to look him square in the face. Her mouth was open, an almost circular vacancy of expression or hope. ‘Let me say goodbye to my father first.’

She found his body in the darkness, kissed him for the last time. Sylveste looked to the exit. At that moment the soldier guarding it was hit by a shot from what remained of Girardieau’s militia. The masked figure crumpled, his body heat pooling liquidly into the floor around his body, spreading smoky white maggots of thermal energy into the stonework.

The way was clear, for the moment. Pascale found his hand and together they began to run.

EIGHT

En Route to Delta Pavonis, 2546

‘I take it you’ve heard the news concerning the Captain,’ Khouri said, when the Mademoiselle coughed discreetly from behind her. Other than the Mademoiselle’s illusory presence, she was alone in her quarters, digesting what Volyova and Sajaki had told her of the mission.

The Mademoiselle’s smile was patient. ‘Rather complicates matters, doesn’t it? I’ll admit I considered the possibility that the crew might have some connection with him. It seemed logical, given their intention of travelling to Resurgam. But I never extrapolated anything this convoluted.’

‘I suppose that’s one word for it.’

‘Their relationship is . . .’ The ghost seemed to take a moment to choose her words, though Khouri knew it was all annoying fakery. ‘Interesting. It may limit our options in the future.’

‘Are you still sure you want him killed?’

‘Absolutely. This news merely heightens the urgency. Now there is the danger that Sajaki will try to bring Sylveste aboard.’

‘Won’t it be easier for me to kill him then?’

‘Certainly, but at that point killing him would not suffice. You would then have to find a way of destroying the ship itself. Whether or not you found a way to save yourself in the process would be your problem.’

Khouri frowned. Perhaps it was her, but very little of this made very much sense.

‘But if I guarantee that Sylveste’s dead . . .’

‘That would not suffice,’ said the Mademoiselle, with what Khouri sensed was a new candour. ‘Killing him is part of what you must do, but not the entirety. You must be specific in the manner of killing.’

Khouri waited to hear what the woman had to say.

‘You must allow him absolutely no warning; not even seconds. Furthermore, you must kill him in isolation.’

‘That was always part of the plan.’

‘Good - but I mean precisely what I say. If it isn’t possible to ensure solitude at any given moment, you must delay his death until it is. No compromises, Khouri.’

This was the first time they had discussed the manner of his death in any detail. Evidently the Mademoiselle had decided that Khouri was now fit to know slightly more than before, if not the whole picture.

‘What about the weapon?’

‘You may use any which suits you, provided the weapon incorporates no cybernetic components above a certain level of complexity, which I will stipulate at a later date.’ Before Khouri could object she added, ‘A beam weapon would be acceptable, provided the weapon itself was not brought into proximity with the subject at any stage. Projectile and explosive devices would also serve our purpose.’

Given the nature of the lighthugger, Khouri thought, there ought to be enough suitable weapons lying around for her use. When the time came, she should be able to appropriate something moderately lethal and allow herself time to learn its nuances before deploying it against Sylveste.

‘I can probably find something.’

‘I’m not finished. You must not approach him, nor must you kill him when he is in the proximity of cybernetic systems - again, I will stipulate my requirements nearer the time. The more isolated he is, the better. If you can manage to do it when he is alone and far from help, on Resurgam’s surface, you will have accomplished your task to my complete satisfaction.’ She paused. Evidently all this was hugely important to the Mademoiselle, and Khouri was doing her best to remember it, but so far it sounded no more logical than the incantations of a Dark Age prescription against fever. ‘But on no account must he be allowed to leave Resurgam. Understand that, because when a lighthugger arrives around Resurgam - even this lighthugger - Sylveste will try and find a way to get himself aboard. That must not be allowed to happen, under any circumstances.’

‘I get the message,’ Khouri said. ‘Kill him down below. Is that everything?’

‘Not quite.’ The ghost made a smile; a ghoulish one Khouri had never seen before. Maybe, she thought, the Mademoiselle had yet to exhaust her reservoir of expressions, keeping a few in store for moments such as this. ‘Of course I want proof of his death. This implant will record the event, but on your return to Yellowstone I also want physical evidence to corroborate what the implant records. I want remains, and more than just ashes. Preserve what you can in vacuum. Keep the remains sealed and isolated from the ship. Bury them in rock if that suits you, but just bring them back to me. I must have proof.’

‘And then?’

‘Then, Ana Khouri, I will give you your husband.’

Sylveste did not stop to catch his breath until he and Pascale had reached and passed the ebony shell encasing the Amarantin city, taking several hundred footsteps into the tangled maze which wormholed through it. He chose his directions as randomly as was humanly possible, ignoring the signs added by the archaeologists, desperately trying to avoid following a predictable path.

‘Not so quickly,’ Pascale said. ‘I’m worried about getting lost.’

Sylveste put a hand to her mouth, even though he knew that her need to talk was only a way to obliterate the fact of her father’s assassination.

‘We have to be quiet. There must be True Path units in the shell, waiting to mop up escapees. We don’t want to draw them down on us.’

‘But we’re lost,’ she said, her voice now hushed. ‘Dan, people died in this place because they couldn’t find their way out before they starved.’

Sylveste pushed Pascale down a constricting bolthole into steadily thickening darkness. The walls were slippery here; no friction flooring had been installed. ‘The one thing that isn’t going to happen,’ he said, more calmly than he felt, ‘is that we get lost.’ He tapped his eyes, though it was already much too gloomy for Pascale to notice the gesture. Like a seeing person among the blind, he had trouble remembering that much of his nonverbal communication was wasted. ‘I can replay every step we take. And the walls reflect infrared from our bodies reasonably well. We’re safer here than back in the city.’

She panted along behind him, saying nothing for long minutes. Finally she mumbled, ‘I hope this isn’t one of the rare occasions when you’re wrong. That would be a particularly inauspicious start to our marriage, don’t you think?’

He did not much feel like laughing; the hall’s carnage was still garishly fresh in his mind. He laughed all the same, and the gesture seemed to lessen the reality of it all. Which was all for the better, because when he thought about it rationally, Pascale’s doubts were perfectly justified. Even if he knew the precise way out of the maze, that knowledge might be unusable, if the tunnels were too slippery to climb, or if, as rumour had it, the labyrinth occasionally changed its own configuration. Then, magic eyes or no, they would starve along with all the other poor fools who had wandered away from the marked path.

They worked deeper into the Amarantin structure, feeling the lazy curve of the tunnel as it wound its way maggottishly through the inner shell. Panic was as much an enemy as disorientation, of course. But forcing oneself to stay calm was never easy.

‘How long do you think we should stay here?’

‘A day,’ Sylveste said. ‘Then we leave after them. By then, reinforcements will have arrived from Cuvier.’

‘Working for whom?’

Sylveste shouldered into a wasp-waist in the tunnel. Beyond, it bottled out into a triple-junction; he made a mental coin-flip and took the left way. ‘Good question,’ he said, too softly for his wife to hear him.

But what if the incident had merely been part of a colony-wide coup, rather than an isolated act of publicly visible terrorism? What if Cuvier was now out of Girardieau government control, fallen to True Path? Girardieau’s death left behind a lumbering party machine, but many of its cogs had been removed in the wedding hall. In this moment of weakness, blitzkrieg revolutionaries might accomplish much. Perhaps it was already over, Sylveste’s former enemies dethroned, strange new faces assuming power. In which case, waiting in the labyrinth might be completely futile. Would True Path regard him as an enemy, or as something infinitely more ambiguous; an enemy’s enemy?

Not that Girardieau and he had even been enemies, at the end.

Finally, they came to a wide, flat-bottomed throat where a number of tunnels converged. There was room to sit down, and the air was fresh and breezy; pumped air currents reached this far. In infrared, Sylveste watched Pascale slump cautiously down, hands scrabbling the frictionless floor for rats, sharp stones or grinning skulls.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘We’re safe here.’ As if by the very act of saying as much, he made it more likely. ‘If anyone comes, we can pick our escape routes. We’ll lie low and see what happens.’

Of course, now that the immediate flight was over, she would begin thinking about her father again. He did not want that; not now.

‘Stupid dumb Janequin,’ he said, hoping to steer her thoughts at least tangentially away from what had happened. ‘They must have blackmailed him. Isn’t that the way it always happens?’

‘What?’ Pascale asked labouredly. ‘Isn’t that the way what always happens?’

‘The pure becomes corrupted.’ His voice was so low it threatened to crack into a whisper. The gas used in the auditorium attack had not properly reached his lungs, but he could still feel its effect on his larynx. ‘Janequin was working on those birds for years; all the time I knew him in Mantell. They started as innocent living sculptures. He said any colony orbiting a star named Pavonis ought to have a few peacocks around the place. Then someone thought of a better use for them.’

‘Perhaps they were all poisonous,’ Pascale said, stretching the final word into a long slither of sibilant esses. ‘Primed like little walking bombs.’

‘Somehow I doubt he tampered with more than a few of them.’ Maybe it was the air, but Sylveste felt suddenly weary, needful of immediate sleep. He knew they were safe for now. If the killers had been following them - and the killers might not even realise they were not among the dead - they would have reached this part of the shell already.

‘I never believed he had real enemies,’ Pascale said, her sentence seeming to writhe unattached in the confined space. He imagined her fear: without vision, with only his assurances, this dark place must be exquisitely frightening. ‘I never thought anyone would kill him for what they wanted. I didn’t think anything was worth that much.’

Along with the rest of the crew, Khouri would eventually enter reefersleep for the bulk of the time that the ship took to reach Resurgam. But before then she spent much of her waking time in the gunnery, being subjected to endless simulations.

After a while it began to invade her dreams, to the point where boredom was no longer an adequate term to encompass the repetitiousness of the exercises Volyova had conceived for her. Yet losing herself in the gunnery environment was something she began to welcome, since it offered temporary respite from her worries. In the gunnery, the whole Sylveste problem became a small anxious itch, nothing more. She remained aware that she was in an impossible situation, but that fact no longer seemed critical. The gunnery was all, and that was why she no longer feared it. She was still herself after the sessions, and she began to think that the gunnery hardly mattered at all; that it would not ultimately make any difference to the outcome of her mission.

All that changed when the dogs came home.

They were the Mademoiselle’s bloodhounds: cybernetic agents she had unleashed into the gunnery during one of Khouri’s sessions. The dogs had clawed their way into the system itself via the neural interface, exploiting the system’s one forgivable weakness. Volyova had hardened it against software attack, but had obviously never imagined that the attack might come from the brain of the person hooked into the gunnery. The dogs barked back safe assurances that they had entered the gunnery’s core. They had not returned to Khouri during the session in which they were unleashed, since it would take more than a few hours for them to sniff every nook and cranny of the gunnery’s Byzantine architecture. So they had stayed in the system for more than a day, until Volyova once again hooked Khouri in.

Then the dogs returned to the Mademoiselle, and she decrypted them and unravelled the prey they had located.

‘She has a stowaway,’ the Mademoiselle said when she and Khouri were alone after a session. ‘Something has hidden itself in the gunnery system, and I’m prepared to bet she knows nothing about it at all.’

Which was when Khouri stopped regarding the gunnery chamber with such total equanimity. ‘Go on,’ she said, feeling her body temperature plummet.

‘A data entity; that’s as well as I can describe it.’

‘Something the dogs encountered?’

‘Yes, but . . .’ Once again the Mademoiselle sounded lost for words. Occasionally Khouri suspected it was genuine: the implant was having to deal with a situation light-years away from anything in the real Mademoiselle’s expectations. ‘It’s not that they saw it, or even saw a part of it. It’s too subtle for that, or else Volyova’s own counter-intrusion systems would have caught it. It’s more that they sensed the absences where it had just been; sensed the breeze it stirred when it moved around.’

‘Do me a favour,’ Khouri said. ‘Try not to make it sound so damned scary, will you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ the Mademoiselle answered. ‘But I can’t deny that the thing’s presence is disturbing.’

‘Disturbing to you? How do you think I feel?’ Khouri shook her head, stunned at the casual viciousness of reality. ‘All right; what do you think it is? Some kind of virus, like all the others which are eating away this ship?’

‘The thing seems much too advanced for that. Volyova’s own defences have kept the ship operational despite the other viral entities, and she’s even kept the Melding Plague at bay. But this . . .’ The Mademoiselle looked at Khouri with a convincing facsimile of fear. ‘The dogs were frightened by it, Khouri. In the way it evaded them, it revealed itself to be much cleverer than almost anything in my experience. But it didn’t attack them, and that troubles me even more.’

‘Yes?’

‘Because it suggests that the thing is biding its time.’

Sylveste never found out how long they had slept. It might only have been minutes, packed with fevered, adrenalin-charged dreams of chaos and flight, or it might have been hours, or even a whole portion of the day. No way of knowing. Whatever the case, it had not been natural fatigue that sent them under. Roused by something, Sylveste realised with a stunned jolt that they had been breathing sleeping gas, pumped into the tunnel system. No wonder the air had seemed so fragrant and breezy.

There was a sound like rats in the attic.

He pawed Pascale awake; she came to consciousness with a plaintive moan, assimilating her surroundings and predicament in a few troubled seconds of reality-denial. He studied the heat-signature of her face, watching waxy neutrality cave in to an expressive mélange of remorse and fear.

‘We have to move,’ Sylveste said. ‘They’re after us - they gassed the tunnels.’

The scrabbling sound grew closer by the second. Pascale was still somewhere between wakefulness and dream, but she managed to open her mouth - it sounded as if she were speaking through cotton wool - and ask him, ‘Which way?’

‘This way,’ Sylveste said, grabbing her and propelling her forwards, down the nearest valvelike opening. She stumbled on the slipperiness. Sylveste helped her up, squeezed beyond her and took her hand. Gloom lay ahead, his eyes revealing only a few metres of the tunnel beyond their position. He was, he realised, only slightly less blind than his wife.

Better than nothing.

‘Wait,’ Pascale said. ‘There’s light behind us, Dan!’

And voices. He could hear their wordless, urgent babble now. The rattle of sterile metal. Chemosensor arrays were probably already tracking them; pheromonal sniffers were reading the airborne human effluent of panic, graphing data directly into the sensoria of the chasers.

‘Faster,’ Pascale said. He snatched a glance back, his eyes momentarily overloaded by the new light. It was a bluish radiance limning the shaft’s far reach, quivering, as if someone were holding a torch. He tried to increase speed, but the tunnel was steepening, making it harder to find traction on the glassily smooth sides: too much like trying to scramble up an ice chimney.

Panting sounds, metal scraping against the walls, barked commands.

Too steep now. It was now a constant battle just to hold balance, just to keep from slipping backwards. ‘Get behind me,’ he said, turning to face the blue light.

Pascale rushed past him.

‘What now?’

The light wavered, crept in intensity. ‘We have no choice,’ Sylveste said. ‘We can’t outrun them, Pascale. Have to turn and face them.’

‘That’s suicide.’

‘Maybe they won’t kill us if they see our faces.’

He thought to himself that four thousand years of human civilisation put the lie to that hope, but, given that it was the only one he had, it hardly mattered that it was forlorn. His wife locked her arms round his chest and pressed her head against his, looking the same way. Her breathing was pulsed and terrified. Sylveste had no doubt that his own sounded much the same.

The enemy could probably smell their fear, quite literally.

‘Pascale,’ Sylveste said. ‘I need to tell you something.’

‘Now?’

‘Yes, now.’ He could no longer separate his own rapid breathing from hers, each exhalation a quick hard beat against the skin. ‘In case I don’t get a chance to tell anyone else. Something I’ve kept a secret for too long.’

‘You mean in case we die?’

He avoided answering her question directly, one half of his mind trying to guess how many seconds or tens of seconds they had left. Perhaps not enough for what had to be said. ‘I lied,’ he said. ‘About what happened around Lascaille’s Shroud.’

She started to say something.

‘No, wait,’ Sylveste said. ‘Hear me out. I have to say this. Have to get it out.’

Her voice was barely audible. ‘Say it.’

‘Everything that I said happened out there was true.’ Her eyes were wide now; oval voids in the heat-map of her face. ‘It just happened in reverse. It wasn’t Carine Lefevre’s transform that began to break down when we were close to the Shroud.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘That it was mine. I was the one who nearly got both of us killed.’ He paused, waiting either for her to say something, or for the chasers to erupt from the blue light which was slowly creeping closer. When neither happened he continued, lost in the momentum of confession. ‘My Juggler transform started to decay. The gravity fields around the Shroud began to lash at us. Carine was going to die unless I separated my half of the contact module from hers.’

He could imagine the way she was trying to fit this over the existing template she carried in her mind, part of the consensus history with which she had been born. What he was saying was not, could not, should not be the truth. The way it was was very simple. Lefevre’s transform had begun to decay; Lefevre had made the supreme sacrifice, jettisoning her half of the contact module so that Sylveste stood a chance at surviving this bruising encounter with the totally alien. It could not be any other way. It was what she knew.

Except it was all untrue.

‘Which is what I should have done. Easy to say now, after the fact. But I couldn’t, not there and then.’ She could not read his expression, and he was unsure whether this pleased or displeased him at this moment. ‘I couldn’t blow the separation charges.’

‘Why not?’

And he thought: what she wants me to say is that it was not physically possible; that the quiet space had become too restricted for physical movement; that the gravity vortices were pinning him immobile, even as they worked to rip him flesh from bone. But that would have been a lie, and he was beyond that now.

‘I was scared,’ Sylveste said. ‘More scared than I’ve ever been in my life. Scared of what dying in an alien place would mean. Scared of what would happen to my soul, around that place. In what Lascaille called Revelation Space.’ He coughed, knowing there wasn’t much time left. ‘Irrational, but that was how I felt. The simulations hadn’t prepared us for the terror.’

‘Yet you made it.’

‘Gravity torsions ripped the craft apart; did the job the explosive charges were meant to do. I didn’t die . . . and that I don’t understand, because I should have.’

‘And Carine?’

Before he could answer - as if he even had an answer - a sickly-sweet smell hit them. Sleeping gas again, only this time in a much thicker dose. It flooded his lungs. He wanted to sneeze. He forgot about Lascaille’s Shroud, forgot Carine, forgot his own part in whatever had become of her. Sneezing was suddenly the most important thing in his universe.

That and clawing his skin off with his fingers.

A man stood against the blue. His expression was unreadable beneath his mask, but his stance conveyed nothing more than bored indifference. Languidly, he raised his left arm. At first it appeared that he was holding a trigger-grip megaphone, but the way he held the device was infinitely more purposeful. Calmly he sighted until the flared weapon was pointed straight at Sylveste’s eyes.

He did something - it was completely silent - and molten agony spiked into Sylveste’s brain.

NINE

Mantell, North Nekhebet, Resurgam, 2566

‘Sorry about the eyes,’ the voice said, after an eternity of pain and motion.

For a moment Sylveste drifted in confused thought, trying to arrange the order of recent events. Somewhere in his recent past lay the wedding, the murders, their flight into the labyrinth, the tranquilliser gas, but nothing connected with anything else. He felt as if he were trying to reassemble a biography from a handful of unnumbered fragments, a biography whose events seemed tantalisingly familiar.

The unbelievable pain in his head when the man had pointed the weapon at him—

He was blind.

The world was gone, replaced by an unmoving grey mosaic; the emergency shutdown mode of his eyes. Severe damage had been wrought on Calvin’s handiwork. The eyes had not merely crashed; they had been assaulted.

‘It was better that you not see us,’ said the voice, very close now. ‘We could have blindfolded you, but we weren’t sure what those little beauties could do. Maybe they could see through any fabric we used. It was simpler this way. Focused mag pulse . . . probably hurt a bit. Blitzed a few circuits. Sorry for that.’

He managed not to sound sorry at all.

‘What about my wife?’

‘Girardieau’s kid? She’s okay. Nothing so drastic was required in her case.’

Perhaps because he was blind, Sylveste was more sensitive to the motion of his environment. They were in an aircraft, he guessed, steering through canyons and valleys to avoid dust storms. He wondered who owned the aircraft, who was now in charge. Were Girardieau government forces still holding Cuvier, or had the whole colony fallen to the True Path uprising? Neither was particularly appealing. He might have struck an alliance with Girardieau, but he was dead now and Sylveste had always had enemies in the Inundationist power structure; people who resented the way Girardieau had allowed Sylveste to live after the first coup.

Still, he was alive. And he had been blind before. The state was not unfamiliar to him; he knew it was something he could survive.

‘Where are we going?’ he asked. They had bound him with tight, circulation-inhibiting restraints. ‘Back to Cuvier?’

‘What if we were?’ asked the voice. ‘I’m surprised you’d be in much of a hurry to get there.’

The aircraft tilted and banked sickeningly, plummeting and jerking aloft like a toy yacht in a squall. Sylveste tried to relate the turns to his mental map of the canyon systems around Cuvier, but it was hopeless. He was probably much closer to the buried Amarantin city than home, but he could also be anywhere on the planet by now.

‘Are you . . .’ Sylveste hesitated. He wondered if he ought to fake some ignorance about his situation, then crushed the idea. There was little he needed to fake. ‘Are you Inundationists?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you’re True Path.’

‘Give the man a round of applause.’

‘Are you running things now?’

‘The whole show.’ The guard tried to put some swagger into his answer, but Sylveste caught the momentary hesitation. Uncertainty, Sylveste thought. Probably they had no real idea how well their takeover was going. What he said could have been true, but, given that communications across the planet might have been damaged, there was no way of knowing; no way of confirming the thoroughness of their control. It could easily be that Girardieau-loyal forces retained the capital, or another faction entirely. These people must be acting out of faith, hoping that their allies had also succeeded.

They could, of course, be completely right.

Fingers placed the mask over his face, its hard edges knifing into his skin. The discomfort was tolerable, though: against the permanent pain from his damaged eyes it hardly registered at all.

Breathing with the mask in place took some effort. He had to work hard to draw air through the dust-collector built into the mask’s snout. Two-thirds of the oxygen which entered his lungs would now come from Resurgam’s atmosphere, while the remaining third came from a pressurised canister slung beneath the proboscis. It was doped with enough carbon dioxide to trigger the body’s breathing response.

He had barely felt the aircraft touch down - had not even been certain that they had arrived somewhere until the door was opened. Now the guard undid his restraints and shoved him peremptorily towards the coldness and the wind of the exit.

Was it dark or daytime out there?

He had no idea; no way of telling.

‘Where are we?’ he called. The mask muffled his voice and made him sound moronic.

‘You imagine it makes any difference?’ The guard’s voice was not distorted. He was breathing the air directly, Sylveste realised. ‘Even if the city was within walking distance - which it isn’t - you wouldn’t get beyond spitting distance of where you are now without killing yourself.’

‘I want to speak to my wife.’

The guard grabbed his arm and pivoted it back to the point where Sylveste felt it was going to be dislocated. He stumbled, but the guard refused to let him fall. ‘You’ll speak to her when we’re good and ready. Told you she was fine, didn’t I? You don’t trust me or something?’

‘I just watched you kill my new father-in-law. What do you think?’

‘I think you should keep your head down.’

A hand ducked him, forcing him into shelter. The wind ceased stinging his ears; voices suddenly had an echoey quality. Behind, a pressure door hove shut and amputated the sound of the storm. Though blind, he sensed that Pascale was nowhere near him, and hoped that that meant she had been escorted separately, and that his captors were not lying when they said she was safe.

Someone snatched the mask away.

What followed was a forced march down narrow, shoulder-bruising corridors which stank of brutal hygiene. His escort helped him descend rattling stairwells and ride two lurching elevators down an unguessable distance. They exited into an echoey subterranean space, the air metallic and breezy. They walked past a gusting air duct; from the surface came the shrill proclamation of the wind. Intermittently he heard voices, and though he thought he recognised intonations, he could not begin to put names to the sounds.

Finally there was a room.

He was sure it was painted white. He could almost sense the blank cubic pressure of its walls.

Someone stepped next to him; cabbage breath. He felt fingers touch his face, delicately. They were sheathed in something textureless, reeking faintly of disinfectant. The fingers touched his eyes, tapping their facets with something hard.

Each tap was a small nova of pain behind his temples.

‘Fix them when I say,’ said a voice which, beyond any doubt, he knew. It was female, but with a throaty quality which rendered it almost masculine. ‘For now keep him blind.’

Footsteps left; the speaker must have dismissed the escort with a silent gesture. Alone now, with no reference points, Sylveste felt his balance go. No matter how he moved, the grey matrix remained in front of him. His legs felt weak, but there was nothing with which to support himself. For all he knew he was standing on a plank of wood ten storeys above the floor.

He began to topple, arms flailing pathetically.

Something snatched at his forearm and stabilised him. He heard a pulsing rasp, like someone sawing through timber.

His breathing.

He heard a moist click, and knew that she had opened her mouth to speak again. Now she must be smiling, contemplating.

‘Who are you?’ he asked.

‘You hopeless bastard. You don’t even remember my voice.’

Her fingers gouged his forearm, expertly locating nerves and pinching them in the appropriate place. He let out a doglike yelp; it was the first stimulus which had made him forget the pain in his eyes. ‘I swear,’ Sylveste said, ‘I don’t know you.’

She released the pressure. As his nerves and tendons sprang back into place there was more pain, subsiding into a numb discomfort which gloved his entire arm and shoulder.

‘You should,’ said the wrecked voice. ‘I’m someone you think died a long time ago, Dan, buried under a landslide.’

‘Sluka,’ he said.

Volyova was on her way to the Captain when the disturbing thing happened. Now that the rest of the crew were sleeping out the journey to Resurgam - including Khouri - Volyova had again fallen into her old habit of conversing with the slightly warmed Captain; elevating his brain temperature by the fraction of a kelvin necessary to allow him some kind of consciousness, however fragmentary. This had been her routine now for the better part of two years, and would continue for another two and half, until the ship arrived around Resurgam and the others came out of reefersleep. Of course, the conversations were infrequent - she could not risk warming the Captain too often, for with each warming the plague claimed a little more of both him and the surrounding matter - but they were little oases of human interaction in weeks otherwise filled only with the contemplating of viruses, weapons and the general matter of the ship’s ailing fabric.

So, in her own way, Volyova looked forward to their talks, even though the Captain seldom showed much sign of remembering what they had talked about previously. Worse, a certain frostiness had entered their relationship of late. Partly this was due to Sajaki’s lack of fortune in locating Sylveste in the Yellowstone system, condemning the Captain to another half-decade of torment at the very least - or longer, if Sylveste could not be found on Resurgam either, which struck Volyova as an at least theoretical possibility. What made matters difficult was that the Captain kept asking her how the search for Sylveste was going, and she kept having to break the news to him that it was not going as auspiciously as one might wish. The Captain would become sullen at that point - she could hardly blame him for that - and the tone of the conversation would darken, often to the point where the Captain became completely incommunicative. When, days or weeks later, she tried to speak to him again, he would have forgotten what she had told him before and they would go through the same process again, except this time Volyova would do her best to break the bad news more gently, or put some kind of optimistic spin on it.

The other thing that was casting a shadow over their talks stemmed from Volyova’s side, which was her nagging insistence on probing the Captain about the visit he and Sajaki had made to the Pattern Jugglers. It was only in the last few years that Volyova had become interested in the details of the visit, for it now seemed to her that Sajaki’s change of personality had occurred around the same time. Of course, having one’s mind altered was the whole point of visiting the Jugglers - but why would Sajaki have allowed the aliens to change him for the worse? He was crueller than he had been before; despotic and single-minded where once he had been a firm but fair leader; a valued member of the Triumvirate. Now she hardly trusted him at all. And yet - instead of casting some light on the change - the Captain deflected her questions aggressively, and left her even more obsessed with what had happened.

She was on her way to speak to him, then, with these things foremost in her mind; wondering how she would deal with the inevitable question about Sylveste, and what new approach she would take when probing the Captain about the Jugglers. And, because she was taking her usual route, she was obliged to pass through the cache-chamber.

And she saw that one of the weapons - one of the most feared, as it happened - appeared to have moved.

‘There have been developments,’ said the Mademoiselle. ‘Both fortuitous and otherwise.’

It was a surprise to be conscious at all; let alone to hear the Mademoiselle. The very last thing Khouri remembered was climbing into a reefersleep casket with Volyova looking down on her, tapping commands into her bracelet. Now she could neither see nor feel anything, not even a sense of cold, yet she knew she was still - somehow - in the reefer, and still by some measure asleep.

‘Where - when - am I?’

‘Still aboard the ship; about halfway to Resurgam. We are moving very quickly now; less than one per cent slower than light. I have raised your neural temperature slightly - enough for conversation.’

‘Won’t Volyova notice?’

‘Her noticing may be the least of our problems, I am afraid. Do you remember the cache, how I found something hiding in the gunnery architecture?’ The Mademoiselle did not wait for an answer. ‘The message that the bloodhounds brought back was not easy to decipher. Over the subsequent three years . . . their auguries have become clearer, now.’

Khouri had a vision of the Mademoiselle disembowelling her dogs, studying the topology of the outspilled entrails.

‘So is the stowaway real?’

‘Oh yes. And hostile too, though we’ll come to that in a moment.’

‘Any idea what it is?’

‘No,’ she said, though the answer was guarded. ‘But what I have learnt is almost as interesting.’

What the Mademoiselle had to say related to the gunnery’s topology. The gunnery was an enormously complex assemblage of computers: layers accreted over decades of shiptime. It was doubtful that any one mind - even Volyova’s - could have grasped more than the very basics of that topology; how the various layers interpenetrated each other and folded back on themselves. But in one sense the gunnery was easy to visualise, since it was almost totally disconnected from the rest of the ship, which was why most of the higher cache-weapon functions could only be accessed by someone physically present in the gunnery seat. The gunnery was surrounded by a firewall, and data could only pass from the rest of the ship to the gunnery. The reasons for this were tactical; since the gunnery’s weapons (and not just those in the cache) would project outside the ship when they were used, they potentially offered routes for enemy weapons to penetrate the ship by viral means. So the gunnery was isolated: protected from the rest of the ship’s dataspace by a one-way trapdoor. The door only allowed data to enter the gunnery from the rest of the ship; nothing within the gunnery could traverse it.

‘Now,’ said the Mademoiselle, ‘given that we have discovered something in the gunnery, I invite you to draw the logical conclusion.’

‘Whatever it was got there by mistake.’

‘Yes.’ The Mademoiselle sounded pleased, almost as if the thought had not struck her. ‘I suppose we must consider the possibility that the entity found its way into the gunnery via the weapons, but I think it is far more likely it entered via the trapdoor. I also happen to know when the door was last traversed.’

‘How long ago?’

‘Eighteen years ago.’ Before Khouri could interject, the Mademoiselle added, ‘Shiptime, that is. In worldtime, I estimate between eighty and ninety years prior to your recruitment.’

‘Sylveste,’ Khouri said, wonderingly. ‘Sajaki said that the reason Sylveste went missing was because they brought him aboard this ship, to fix Captain Brannigan. Do the dates tie together?’

‘Conclusively, I would say. This would have been 2460 - twenty or so years after Sylveste returned from the Shrouders.’

‘And you think he brought - whatever it is - with him?’

‘All we know is what Sajaki told us, which is that Sylveste accepted the Calvin simulation in order to heal Captain Brannigan. At some point during the operation Sylveste must have been connected to the ship’s dataspace. Perhaps that was how the stowaway gained access. Thereafter - very soon after, I suspect - it entered the gunnery through the one-way door.’

‘And it’s been there ever since?’

‘So it appears.’

This seemed to be a pattern: whenever Khouri felt she had things ordered in her head, or at least approximately so, some new fact would dash her scheme to shreds. She felt like a mediaeval astronomer, creating ever more intricate clockwork cosmologies to incorporate every new observational oddity. Now, in some way she could not begin to guess, Sylveste was related to the gunnery. At least she could take comfort in her ignorance. Even the Mademoiselle was foxed.

‘You mentioned the thing was hostile,’ she said carefully, not really sure she wanted to ask any more questions, in case the answers were too difficult to assimilate.

‘Yes.’ Hesitating now. ‘The dogs were a mistake,’ she said. ‘I was too impetuous. I should have realised that Sun Stealer—’

‘Sun Stealer?’

‘What it calls itself. The stowaway, I mean.’

This was bad. How did she know the thing’s name? Fleetingly, Khouri remembered that Volyova had once asked her if that name meant anything to her. But there was more to it than that. It was as if she had been hearing that name in her dreams for some time now. Khouri opened her mouth to speak, but the Mademoiselle was already talking. ‘It used the dogs to escape, Khouri. Or at least for a part of itself to escape. It used them to get into your head.’

Sylveste had no reliable way of marking the time in his new prison. All he remained certain of was that many days had passed since his capture. He suspected he was being drugged, forced into comalike sleep, barren of dreams. When he did dream, which was rarely, he had sight, but his dreams always revolved around his imminent blindness and the preciousness of the sight he retained. When he awoke he saw only grey, but after some time - days, he guessed - the grey had lost its geometric structure. The pattern had been imposed on his brain for too long; now his brain was simply filtering it out. What remained was a colourless infinity, no longer even recognisably grey, but simply a bright absence of hue.

He wondered what he was missing. Perhaps his actual surroundings were so dull and Spartan that his mind would sooner or later have performed the same filtering trick, even if he still had his sight. He sensed only the echoless enclosure of rock; many megatonnes of it. He thought constantly of Pascale, but it became harder by the day to hold her in his mind. The grey seemed to be seeping into his memories, smearing over them like wet concrete. Then there came a day, just after Sylveste had finished his rations, when the cell door was unlocked and two voices joined him.

The first was that of Gillian Sluka.

‘Do what you can with him,’ her croak of a voice said. ‘Within limits.’

‘He should be put under while I operate,’ said the other voice, male and treacle-thick. Sylveste recognised the cabbagy smell of the man’s breath.

‘He should, but he won’t be.’ The voice hesitated, then added: ‘I’m not expecting any miracles, Falkender. I just want the bastard to see me.’

‘Give me a few hours,’ Falkender said. There was a thump as the man placed something down on the cell’s blunt-edged table. ‘I’ll do my best,’ he said, almost mumbling. ‘But from what I know, these eyes were nothing special before you had him blinded.’

‘One hour.’

She slammed the door as she exited. Sylveste, cocooned in silence since his capture, felt its reverberations jar his skull. For too long he had been striving to pick up the softest of noises, clues to his fate. There had been none, but in the process he had become sensitised to silence.

He smelled Falkender loom nearer. ‘A pleasure to work with you, Dr Sylveste,’ he said, almost diffidently. ‘I’m confident I can undo most of the damage she had inflicted on you, given time.’

‘She gave you one hour,’ Sylveste said. His own voice sounded foreign; it had been too long since he had done much except mumble incoherently to himself in his sleep. ‘What can you possibly do in one hour?’

He heard the man rummage through his tools. ‘At the very least improve things for you.’ He punctuated his remarks with clucking noises. ‘Of course, I can do more if you don’t struggle. But I can’t promise that this will be pleasant for you.’

‘I’m sure you’ll do your best.’

The man’s fingers skated over his eyes, lightly probing.

‘I always admired your father, you know.’ Another cluck, reminding Sylveste of one of Janequin’s chickens. ‘It’s well known that he fashioned these eyes for you.’

‘His beta-level simulation,’ Sylveste corrected.

‘Of course, of course.’ He could visualise Falkender waving aside this vaporous distinction. ‘And not the alpha, either - we all know that vanished years ago.’

‘I sold it to the Jugglers,’ Sylveste said blankly. After years of holding it in, the truth had popped out of his mouth like a small sour pip.

Falkender made an odd tracheal sound which Sylveste eventually decided might be the man’s mode of chuckling. ‘Of course, of course. You know, I’m surprised no one ever accused you of that. But that’s human cynicism for you.’ A shrill whirring sound filled the air, followed by a nerve-searing vibration. ‘I think you can say goodbye to colour perception,’ Falkender said. ‘Monochrome’s going to be about the best I can manage.’

Khouri had been hoping for some mental breathing-space, some time in which to collect her thoughts, in which to listen quietly for the breathing of the invasive presence in her head. But the Mademoiselle was still speaking.

‘I believe Sun Stealer has already attempted this once before,’ she said. ‘I’m speaking of your predecessor, of course.’

‘You mean the stowaway tried to get into Nagorny’s head?’

‘Exactly that. Except in Nagorny’s case, there would have been no bloodhounds on which to hitch a ride. Sun Stealer must have had to resort to something cruder.’

Khouri considered what she had learnt from Volyova about this whole incident.

‘Crude enough to drive Nagorny mad?’

‘Evidently so,’ her companion nodded. ‘And perhaps Sun Stealer only attempted to impose his will on the man. Escape from the gunnery was impossible, so Sun Stealer merely tried to make Nagorny his puppet. Perhaps it was all done via subconscious suggestion, while he was in the gunnery.’

‘Exactly how much trouble am I in?’

‘Little, for now. There were only a few dogs - not enough for him to do much damage.’

‘What happened to the dogs?’

‘I decrypted them, of course - learnt their messages. But in doing so, I opened myself up to him. To Sun Stealer. The dogs must have limited him somewhat, because his attack on me was far from subtle. Fortunately, because otherwise I might not have deployed my defences in time. He was not particularly hard to defeat, but of course I was only dealing with a tiny part of him.’

‘Then I’m safe?’

‘Well, not quite. I ousted him - but only from the implant in which I reside. Unfortunately my defences do not extend to your other implants, including those Volyova installed in you.’

‘He’s still in my head?’

‘He may not have even needed the dogs,’ the Mademoiselle said. ‘He might have entered Volyova’s implants as soon as she placed you in the gunnery for the first time. But he certainly found the dogs advantageous. If he hadn’t tried to invade me with them, I might not have sensed his presence in your other implants.’

‘I feel the same.’

‘Good. It means my countermeasures are effective. You recall how I used countermeasures against Volyova’s loyalty therapies?’

‘Yes,’ Khouri said, gloomily uncertain that those had worked quite as well as the Mademoiselle liked to imagine.

‘Well, these are much the same. The only difference is, I’m using them against those sites in your mind which Sun Stealer has occupied. For the last two years, we’ve been waging a kind of . . .’ She paused, and then seemed to experience a moment of epiphany. ‘I suppose you could call it a cold war.’

‘It would have to be cold.’

‘And slow,’ the Mademoiselle said. ‘The cold robbed us of the energies for anything more. And, of course, we had to be careful that we did not harm you. Your being injured was no use to either myself or Sun Stealer.’

Khouri remembered why this conversation was possible in the first place.

‘But now that I’m warmed . . .’

‘You understand well. Our campaign has intensified since the warming. I think Volyova may even suspect something. A trawl is reading your brain even now, you see. It may have detected the neural war Sun Stealer and I are waging. I would have relented - but Sun Stealer would have used the moment to overwhelm my counter-measures.’

‘But you can hold him at bay . . .’

‘I believe so. But should I not succeed in holding Sun Stealer at bay, I felt you needed to know what happened.’

That much was reasonable: better to know that Sun Stealer was in her than to suffer the delusion that she was clean.

‘I also wished to warn you. The bulk of him remains in the gunnery. I’ve no doubt that he will try to enter you fully, or as fully as is possible, when he finds the chance.’

‘You mean, next time I’m in the gunnery?’

‘I admit the options are limited,’ the Mademoiselle said. ‘But I thought it best that you knew the entirety of the situation.’

Khouri was, she thought, still a long way from anything that approximated that. But what the ghost said was correct. Better to appreciate the danger than ignore it.

‘You know,’ she said, ‘if Sylveste really was responsible for this thing, killing him won’t pose too many problems for me.’

‘Good. And the news is not unremittingly bad, I assure you. When I sent those dogs into the gunnery I also sent in an avatar of myself. And I know from the reports that the dogs returned that my avatar remained undetected by Volyova, at least during those early days. That was, of course, more than two years ago . . . but I’ve no reason to suspect that the avatar has been found since.’

‘Assuming it hasn’t been destroyed by Sun Stealer.’

‘A reasonable point,’ she conceded. ‘But if Sun Stealer is as intelligent as I suspect, he won’t do anything that might draw attention to himself. He can’t know for certain that this avatar isn’t something Volyova has sent into the system. She has enough doubts of her own, after all.’

‘Why did you do it?’

‘So that, if necessary, I might gain control of the gunnery.’

If Calvin had had any grave, Sylveste thought, then his father would be spinning in it faster than Cerberus spun around the neutron star Hades, aggrieved at the abuse of his own handiwork. Except Calvin had already been dead, or at least non-corporeal, long before his simulation had engineered Sylveste’s vision. Such thought-games held the pain at bay, at least part of the time. And, in truth, there had never really been a time since his capture when he had not been in pain. Falkender was flattering himself if he imagined his surgery was exacerbating Sylveste’s agony to any significant degree.

Eventually - miraculously - it began to abate.

It was like a vacuum opening in his mind, a cold, void-filled ventricle which had not been there before. Taking the pain away was like taking away some inner buttress. He felt himself collapsing, whole eavestones of his psyche grinding loose under their suddenly unsupported weight. It took an effort to restore some of his own internal equilibrium.

And now there were colourless, evanescent ghosts in his vision. By the second they hardened into distinct shapes. The walls of a room - as bland and unfurnished as he had imagined - and a masked figure crouched low over him. Falkender’s hand was immersed in a kind of chrome glove which ended not in fingers but in a crayfish-like explosion of tiny glistening manipulators. One of the man’s eyes was monocled by a lens system, connected to the glove by a segmented steel cable. His skin had the pallor of a lizard’s underbelly: his one visible eye was unfocused and cyanotic. Dried specks of blood sprinkled his brow. The blood was grey-green, but Sylveste knew well enough what it was.

In fact, now that he noticed, everything was grey-green.

The glove retracted, and Falkender pulled it from his wrist with the other hand. A caul of lubricant sheened the hand which had been under the glove.

He began to pack his kit away. ‘Well, I never promised miracles,’ he said. ‘And you shouldn’t have been expecting any.’

When he moved, it was jerkily, and it took moments for Sylveste to grasp that his eyes were only perceiving three of four images a second. The world moved with the stuttering motion of the pencil cartoons children made in the corners of books, flicked into life between thumb and forefinger. Every few seconds there were upsetting inversions of depth, when Falkender would appear to be a man-shaped recess carved into the cell’s wall, and sometimes part of his visual field would jam, not changing for ten or more seconds, even if he looked to another part of the room.

Still, it was vision, or at least vision’s idiot cousin.

‘Thank you,’ Sylveste said. ‘It’s . . . an improvement.’

‘I think we’d better move,’ said Falkender. ‘We’re five minutes behind schedule as it is.’

Sylveste nodded, and just the action of tipping his head was enough to spark pulsing migraines. Still, they were nothing compared with what he had endured until Falkender’s work.

He helped himself from the couch and stepped towards the door. Maybe it was because he now moved to the door with a purpose - because, for the first time, he actually expected to step through it - but the action suddenly seemed perverse and alien. He felt as if he were casually stepping off a precipice. He now had no balance. It was as if his inner equilibrium had become accustomed to no vision, and was now thrown by its return. The dizziness faded, though, just as two True Path heavies emerged from the outer corridor and took him by the elbows.

Falkender trailed behind. ‘Be careful. There may be perceptual glitches . . .’

But though Sylveste heard his words, they meant nothing to him. He knew where he was now, and that knowledge was momentarily too overpowering. He was back home, after more than twenty years of exile.

His prison was Mantell, a place he had not seen - and barely even visited in his memory - since the coup.

TEN

Approaching Delta Pavonis, 2564

Volyova sat alone in the huge sphere of the bridge, under the holographic display of the Resurgam system. Her seat, like the other vacant ones around her, was mounted on a long, telescopic, highly articulated arm, so that it could be steered to almost any point in the sphere. Hand under chin, she had been staring into the orrery for hours, like a child transfixed by some glittery toy.

Delta Pavonis was a chip of warm-red ambergris fixed at the middle, the system’s eleven major planets spaced around it on their respective orbits, positioned at their true positions; smears of asteroidal debris and comet-shards following their own ellipses; the whole orrery haloed by a tenuous Kuiper belt of icy flotsam; tugged into slight asymmetry by the presence of the neutron star which was Pavonis’s dark twin. The picture was a simulation, rather than an enlargement of what lay ahead. The ship’s sensors were acute enough to glean data at this range, but the view would have been distorted by relativistic effects, and - worse - would have been a snapshot of the system as it was years earlier, with the relative positions of the planets bearing no resemblance to the present situation. Since the ship’s approach strategy would depend critically on using the system’s larger gas giants for camouflage and gravitational braking, Volyova needed to know where things would be when they got there, not how they had been five years ago. And not only that. Before the ship arrived in the Resurgam system, its advance envoys would already have skimmed by invisibly, and it was just as crucial to arrange their passage at the optimum planetary alignment.

‘Release pebbles,’ she said, satisfied now that she had run enough simulations. Heeding her, Infinity deployed one thousand of the tiny probes, firing them ahead of the decelerating ship in a slowly spreading pattern. Volyova spoke a command into her bracelet and a window opened ahead of her, captured by a camera on the hull. The entire ensemble of pebbles contracted into the distance, apparently tugged away by an invisible force. The cloud diminished as it fell further and further ahead of the ship, until all Volyova could see was a blurred nimbus, diminishing quickly. The pebbles were moving at almost the speed of light, and would reach the Resurgam system months ahead of the ship. The swarm, by then, would be wider than the orbit of Resurgam around the sun. Each tiny probe would align itself towards the planet and catch photons across the electromagnetic spectrum. The data from each pebble would be sent in a tightly focused laser pulse back towards the ship. The resolution of any one unit in the swarm would be tiny, but by combining their results, a very sharp and detailed picture of Resurgam could be assembled. It would not tell Sajaki where Sylveste was, but it would give him an idea of the likely centres of power on the planet, and - more importantly - what kind of defences they were capable of mustering.

That was one thing on which Sajaki and Volyova had been in complete agreement. Even if they found Sylveste, it seemed unlikely that he would agree to come aboard without coercion.

‘Do you know what they did to Pascale?’ Sylveste said.

‘She’s safe,’ said the eye surgeon, as he led Sylveste along tracheal, rock-clad tunnels deep in Mantell. ‘That’s what I’ve heard, at least,’ he added, lessening Sylveste’s ease. ‘But I could be wrong. I don’t think Sluka would have killed her without good reason, but she may have had her frozen.’

‘Frozen?’

‘Until she’s useful. You’ll understand by now that Sluka thinks long-term.’

Continual waves of nausea kept threatening to overwhelm him. His eyes hurt, but, as he kept reminding himself, it was vision. That at least was something. Without it he was powerless, not even capable of effective disobedience. With it, escape might still be impossible, but at least he was spared the stumbling indignity of the blind. What vision he had, though, would have shamed the lowliest invertebrate. Spatial perception was haphazard, and colour existed in his world now only via nuances of grey-greens.

What he knew - what he remembered - was this.

He had not seen Mantell since the night of the coup twenty years earlier. The first coup, he corrected himself. Now that Girardieau had been overthrown, Sylveste had to get used to thinking of his own dethronement in purely historical terms. Girardieau’s regime had not immediately closed the place down, even though its Amarantin-directed research conflicted with their Inundationist agenda. For five or six years after the coup they had kept the place running, but one by one they had moved Sylveste’s best researchers back to Cuvier, replacing them with eco-engineers, botanists and geopower specialists. Finally, Mantell had been reduced to a skeleton-crewed test station, whole portions moth-balled or derelict. It should have stayed that way, but trouble was already looming from outside elements. For years it had been rumoured that True Path’s leaders in Cuvier, Resurgam City, or whatever they were calling it now, were under direction from individuals beyond, a clique of one-time Girardieau sympathisers who had fallen out of favour during the machinations of the first coup. Supposedly, these brigands had altered their physiologies to cope with the dusty, oxygen-depleted atmosphere beyond the domes, using biotech purchased from Captain Remilliod.

Stories like that could be expected. But after sporadic attacks against a number of outposts, they began to look far less speculative. Mantell had been abandoned at some point, Sylveste knew, which meant that the current occupants might have been here for much longer than the time since Girardieau’s assassination. Months, or possibly even years.

Certainly they acted as if they owned the place. He knew when they entered a room that it was the one where Gillian Sluka had addressed him upon his arrival, however long ago that was. He failed to recognise it, though: it was entirely possible that during his tenancy in Mantell he had known this room intimately, but there were no longer any points of reference to aid him. The room’s décor and furnishings - such as there were - had been completely replaced. She stood with her back to him, next to a table, gloved hands knitted primly above her hip. She wore a kneelength fluted jacket with leather shoulder patches, the colour rendered as murky olive by his eyes. Her hair was collected in a braided tail which hung between her shoulder blades. She was not projecting entoptics. On either side of the room, planetary globes orbited on slender, swan-necked plinths. Something approximating daylight slatted down from the ceiling, though his eyes leeched it of any warmth.

‘When we first spoke after your imprisonment,’ she said, in her croak of a voice, ‘I almost had the impression you couldn’t place me.’

‘I’d always assumed you were dead.’

‘That was what Girardieau’s people wished you to think. The story about our crawler being hit by a landslide - all lies. We were attacked - they thought you were aboard, of course.’

‘Why didn’t they kill me later, when they found me at the dig?’

‘They realised you were more useful to them alive than dead, of course. Girardieau was no fool - he always used you profitably.’

‘If you’d stayed with the dig, none of it would have happened. How did you survive, anyway?’

‘Some of us got out of the crawler before Girardieau’s henchmen reached it. We took what equipment we could; made it into the Bird’s Claw canyons and set up bubbletents. That’s all I saw for a year, you know: the inside of a bubbletent. I was hurt quite badly in the attack.’

Sylveste brushed his fingers over the mottled surface of one of Sluka’s pedestal-mounted globes. What they represented, he saw now, was the topography of Resurgam at different epochs during the planned Inundationist terraforming program. ‘Why didn’t you join Girardieau in Cuvier?’ he asked.

‘He considered me too embarrassing to admit back into his fold. He was prepared to let us live, but only because killing us would have attracted too much attention. There were lines of communication, but they broke down.’ She paused. ‘Fortunately we took some of Remilliod’s trinkets with us. The scavenger enzymes were the most useful. The dust doesn’t hurt us.’

He studied the globes again. With his impaired vision, he could only guess at the colours of the planetscapes, but he assumed that the spheres represented a steady march towards blue-green verdure. What were now merely upraised plateaux would become landmasses limned by ocean. Forests would fester across steppes. He looked to the furthest globes, which represented some remote version of Resurgam several centuries hence. Nightside, cities glistened in chains, and a spray of tinkertoy habitats girdled the planet. Gossamer starbridges reached from the equator towards orbit. How would that delicate future vision fare, he wondered, if Resurgam’s sun again erupted, as it had done nine hundred and ninety thousand years ago, just when Amarantin civilisation was approaching a human level of sophistication?

Not, he ventured, terribly well.

‘Apart from the biotech,’ he said, ‘what else did Remilliod give you? You appreciate I’m curious.’

She seemed ready to humour him.

‘You haven’t asked me about Cuvier. That surprises me.’ She added: ‘Or your wife.’

‘Falkender told me Pascale was safe.’

‘She is. Perhaps I’ll allow you to join her at some point. For now, I wish your attention. We haven’t secured the capital. The rest of Resurgam is ours, but Girardieau’s people still hold Cuvier.’

‘The city’s still intact?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘We . . .’ She looked over his shoulder, directly at Falkender. ‘Fetch Delaunay, will you? And have him bring one of Remilliod’s gifts.’

Falkender left, leaving them alone.

‘I understand there was some agreement between you and Nils,’ Sluka said. ‘Although the rumours I’ve heard are too contradictory to make much sense. Do you mind enlightening me?’

‘There was never anything formal,’ Sylveste said. ‘No matter what you may have heard.’

‘I understand his daughter was brought in to paint you in an unflattering light.’

‘It made sense,’ Sylveste said wearily. ‘There’d be a certain cachet in having the biography scripted by a member of the family who was holding me prisoner. And Pascale was young, but not so young that it wasn’t time for her to make her mark. There were no losers: Pascale could hardly fail, though in fairness she applied herself to the task excellently.’ He winced inwardly, remembering how close she had come to exposing the truth about Calvin’s alpha-level simulation. More than ever he was convinced that she had correctly guessed the facts, but had held back from committing them to the biography. Now, of course, she knew much more: what had happened around Lascaille’s Shroud, and how Carine Lefevre’s death was not the clear-cut thing he had made it seem upon his return to Yellowstone. But he had not spoken to her since that announcement. ‘As for Girardieau,’ he said, ‘he had the satisfaction of seeing his daughter associated with a genuinely important project. Not to mention the fact that I was opened to the world for closer scrutiny. I was the prize butterfly in his collection, you see - but until the biography, he’d had no easy means of showing me off.’

‘I’ve experienced the biography,’ Sluka said. ‘I’m not entirely sure Girardieau got what he wanted.’

‘All the same, he promised to keep his word.’ His eyes faltered, and for a moment the woman he was addressing seemed to be a woman-shaped hole cut in the fabric of the room’s volume, a hole through which infinities lay.

The odd moment passed. He continued, ‘I wanted access to Cerberus/Hades. I think - towards the end - Nils was almost ready to give it to me, provided the colony had the means.’

‘You think there’s something out there?’

‘If you’re acquainted with my ideas,’ Sylveste said, ‘then you must bow to their logic.’

‘I find them intriguing - like any delusional construct.’

As she spoke, the door opened and a man Sylveste had not seen before entered, shadowed by Falkender. The new man - whom he assumed to be Delaunay - was bulldog-stocky. His wore several days’ growth of beard, a purple beret resting on his scalp. There were red weals around his eyes and a pair of dust goggles around his neck. His chest was crossed by webbing and his feet vanished into ochre mukluks.

‘Show the nasty little thing to our guest,’ Sluka said.

Delaunay was carrying an obviously heavy black cylinder in one hand, gripped in a thick handle.

‘Take it,’ Sluka told Sylveste.

He did; it was as heavy as he had expected. The handle was attached to the top of the cylinder; beneath it was a single green key. Sylveste put the cylinder down on the table; it was too heavy to hold comfortably for any length of time.

‘Open it,’ Sluka said.

He pressed the key - it was the obvious thing to do - and the cylinder split open like a Russian doll, the top half rising on four metal supports which surrounded a slightly smaller cylinder hidden until now. Then the inner cylinder split open similarly, revealing another nested layer, and the process continued until six or seven shells had been revealed.

Inside was a thin silver column. There was a tiny window set into the column’s side, showing an illuminated cavity. Cradled in the cavity was what looked like a bulbous-headed pin.

‘I assume by now you understand what this is,’ Sluka said.

‘I can guess it wasn’t manufactured here,’ Sylveste said. ‘And I know nothing like this was brought with us from Yellowstone. Which leaves our excellent benefactor Remilliod. He sold this to you?’

‘This and nine others,’ she said. ‘Eight now, since we used the tenth against Cuvier.’

‘It’s a weapon?’

‘Remilliod’s people called it hot-dust,’ she said. ‘Antimatter. The pinhead contains only a twentieth of a gramme of antilithium, but that’s more than sufficient for our purposes.’

‘I didn’t realise such a weapon was possible,’ he said. ‘Something so small, I mean.’

‘That’s understandable. The technology’s been outlawed for so long almost nobody remembers how to actually make one.’

‘What yield does this have?’

‘About two kilotonnes. Enough to put a hole in Cuvier.’

Sylveste nodded, absorbing the implication of what she had said. In his mind’s eye he tried to imagine what it must have been like, for those who had either died in or had been blinded by the pinhead True Path had used against the capital. The slight pressure differential between the domes and the outside air would have led to ferocious winds combing through the ordered municipal spaces. He imagined the trees and plants of the arboreta uprooted and shredded by the force of it, the birds and other animals carried aloft on the hurricane. Those people who survived the initial breach - no guessing how many - would have had to seek shelter underground, quickly, before the choking outside air replaced the leaking dome air. Admittedly the air was closer to being breathable now than it had been twenty years ago, but it took skill to learn how to do it, even for a few minutes only. Most of the inhabitants of the capital had never left it. He did not greatly value their chances.

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘It was a . . .’ She paused. ‘I was going to call it a mistake, but you could argue that there are no mistakes in war, only fortunate and less fortunate events. The intention, at least, was not to use the pinhead. Girardieau’s loyals were to surrender the city once they knew we possessed the weapon. But it didn’t work like that. Girardieau himself had known of the existence of the pinheads, but he hadn’t communicated that knowledge to his subordinates. No one would believe we had it.’

It was not necessary for her to tell him the rest; what had taken place was clear enough. Frustrated by the fact that their weapon was not taken seriously, the brigands had used it anyway. Yet the capital was still inhabited; Sluka had made that clear early on. Girardieau’s loyals still held it. He imagined them running things from subsurface bunkers, while overhead dust storms fingered through the open latticework of the ruined domes.

‘So you see,’ the woman said, ‘no one should underestimate us, much less anyone who retains any lingering attachment to Girardieau’s rule.’

‘What do you plan to use the others for?’

‘Infiltration. Remove the shrouding, and the pinhead itself is tiny enough to be implanted in a tooth. You’d never find it, except with the most detailed medical scan.’

‘Is that your plan?’ he asked. ‘To find eight volunteers, and have those things surgically implanted? Then have your eight infiltrate the capital again? This time they’d believe you, I think.’

‘Except we don’t even need volunteers,’ Sluka said. ‘They might be preferable, but they’re not necessary.’

Ignoring his own better judgement, Sylveste said, ‘Gillian, I think I liked you better fifteen years ago.’

‘You can take him back to his cell,’ she said to Falkender. ‘I’m bored with him for now.’

He felt the surgeon tug at his sleeve.

‘May I spend more time with his eyes, Gillian? There was more I could do, but at the expense of greater discomfort.’

‘Do what you like,’ Sluka said. ‘But don’t feel any obligation. Now that I have him, I have to confess I’m a little disappointed. I think I liked him better in the past as well, before Girardieau turned him into a martyr.’ She shrugged. ‘He’s too valuable to throw away, but in the absence of anything better, I might just have him frozen, until I find a use for him. That might be a year from now, or it might be five years. All I’m saying is, it would be a shame to invest very much time in something we might soon tire of, Dr Falkender.’

‘Surgery has its own rewards,’ the man said.

‘I can see well enough now,’ Sylveste said.

‘Oh no,’ Falkender answered. ‘There’s much more I can do for you, Dr Sylveste. Very much more. I’ve barely begun.’

Volyova was down with Captain Brannigan when a janitor-rat informed her that the pebbles had sent back their reports. She was gathering fresh samples from the Captain’s periphery, encouraged by recent successes of one of her retrovirus strains against the plague. Her virus was adapted from one of the military cyberviruses which had struck the ship, suitably modifed for Plague-compatibility. Amazingly, it actually seemed to be working - at least against the tiny samples she had so far tried it against. How irritating to be snatched from this by something she had set in motion nine months earlier, and had in the meantime all but forgotten. For a moment she refused to believe that so much time could possibly have passed. Yet she was excited by what she might learn.

She took the lift upship. Nine months, yes. It hardly seemed possible - but that was what happened when you were working. And she should have been expecting it. Rationally she had known that so much time had passed - but the information had managed not to tunnel into the part of her mind where she actually acknowledged such things and began to deal with them. But the clues had been there all along. The ship was now cruising at only one quarter of lightspeed. In about a hundred days they would be making final insertion into Resurgam orbit, and they would need a strategy when they got there. That was where the pebbles came in.

Snapshots of Resurgam and near-Resurgam space were assembling in the bridge, in various EM and exotic-particle bands. It was the first recent glimpse of a possible enemy. Volyova let the salient facts mole deep into her consciousness, so that she could recall them with instinctive ease during a crisis. The pebbles had whipped past either side of Resurgam so that there was data from both its day and night sides. Additionally, the pebble cloud had elongated itself in the line of flight until fifteen hours spaced the passage of its first and last unit through the system, enabling the entire surface of Resurgam to be glimpsed under both illumination and darkness. The dayside pebbles were looking away from Delta Pavonis, so they snooped for neutrino leakage from fusion and antimatter power units on the surface. The nightside pebbles snooped for the heat signatures of population centres and orbital facilities. Other sensors sniffed the atmosphere, measuring oxygen, ozone and nitrogen levels; sensing the extent to which the colonists had tampered with the native biome.

Given that the colonists had been here for more than half a century, it was striking how much they had managed to live without. There were no large structures in orbit; no evidence of local spaceflight within the system. Only a few comsats girdled the planet, and given the lack of large-scale industrialisation on the surface, it was doubtful whether they could be repaired or replaced if any were damaged. It would be a simple matter to disable or confuse those that remained, if that fitted in with the as yet unformulated plan.

Yet they had not been entirely idle; the atmosphere showed signs of extensive modification, with free oxygen now well above what Volyova would have expected. The infrared sensors revealed geothermal taps aligned along what were certainly continental subduction zones. Neutrino leakage from the polar zones hinted at oxygen factories; fusion-powered units which would crack open water-ice molecules to extract oxygen and hydrogen. The oxygen would be bled into the atmosphere - or pumped to domed-over communities - while the hydrogen was cycled back into the fusors. Volyova identified upwards of fifty communities, but most were small affairs, and none approximated the size of the main settlement. She assumed there were other, tinier outposts - family-tended stations and homesteads - but the pebbles would miss these.

So what did she have to report? No orbital defences, almost certainly no capability for spaceflight, and most of the planet’s inhabitants still crammed into one community. At least from a standpoint of relative strengths, persuading the Resurgamites to give up Sylveste ought to be the simplest of matters.

But there was something else.

The Resurgam system was a wide binary. Delta Pavonis was the life-giving star, but - as she had known - it possessed a dead twin. The dark companion was a neutron star, separated by ten light-hours from Pavonis, far enough for stable planetary orbits to be possible around both stars. And indeed, the neutron star had claimed a planet of its own. The fact of the planet’s existence was known to her in advance of the information from the pebbles. All it warranted in the ship’s database was a line of comment and a scrawl of terse numerics. These worlds were invariably chemically dull, atmosphereless and biologically inert, flensed sterile by the wind that the neutron star had blown when it was a pulsar. Little more, Volyova thought, than lumps of stellar slag-iron, and about as interesting.

But near this world was a neutrino source. It was weak - almost at the limit of detectability - but nothing she could ignore. Volyova digested this knowledge for a few moments before regurgitating it as a tiny, troublesome cud of certainty. Only a machine could create such a signature.

And that worried her.

‘You’ve really been awake all this time?’ Khouri asked, shortly after waking herself, as she and Volyova journeyed down to see the Captain.

‘Not literally,’ Volyova said. ‘Even my body needs sleep occasionally. I tried dispensing with it once; there are drugs you can take. And implants which can be put into the RAS . . . that’s the reticular activating system, the region of the brain which mediates sleep - but you still need to clean out those fatigue poisons.’ She winced. It was evident to Khouri that Volyova found the topic of implants about as pleasant as toothache.

‘Much happen?’ Khouri asked.

‘Nothing you need concern yourself with,’ Volyova said, taking a drag on a cigarette. Khouri assumed that would be the end of it, but then her tutor fixed her with an uneasy expression. ‘Well, now you mention it, there was something. Two things, in fact, though I’m not sure to which I should attach the greater significance. The first need not concern you immediately. As for the second . . .’

Khouri searched Volyova’s face for concrete evidence of the seven additional years the woman had aged since their last meeting. There was nothing; not a hint of it, which meant that she had balanced the seven years with infusions of anti-senescence drugs. She looked different, but only because she had permitted her hair to grow out from her usual crop. It was still short, but the extra volume served to ameliorate the sharp lines of her jaw and cheekbones. If anything, Khouri thought, Volyova looked seven years younger, rather than older. Not for the first time, she attempted to assess the woman’s actual physiological age, and failed miserably.

‘What was it?’

‘There was something unusual about your neural activity while you were in reefersleep. There shouldn’t have been any. But what I saw didn’t even look normal for someone awake. It looked like a small war going on in your head.’

The elevator had arrived at the Captain’s level. ‘That’s an interesting analogy,’ Khouri said, stepping into the chill of the corridor.

‘Assuming it is one. I doubted that you’d have been aware of much, of course.’

‘I don’t remember anything,’ Khouri said.

Volyova was silent until they reached the human nebula which was the Captain. Glittering and uncomfortably mucoid, he less resembled a human being than an angel which had dropped from the sky onto a hard, splattering surface. The antiquated reefer which had until recently cased him was now shattered and fissured. It still functioned, but only barely, and the cold it offered was no longer adequate to stifle the plague’s relentless encroachment. Captain Brannigan had sunk dozens of tendril-like roots into the ship now, roots which Volyova tracked but was powerless to prevent spreading. She could sever them, but what effect would that have on the Captain? For all she knew, the roots were all that was keeping him alive, if she dared dignify his state with the word. Eventually, Volyova said, the roots would permeate the whole vessel, and by then it would probably be unwise to make much of a distinction between the ship and the Captain. Of course, she could arrest that spread if she wished, by the simple expedient of ejecting this portion of the ship; cutting it entirely free from the rest of the vessel, the way an oldtime surgeon might have dealt with a particularly voracious tumour. The volume Brannigan had subsumed was tiny now, and the ship would certainly not miss it. Undoubtedly his transformations would continue, but lacking sustaining material they would be turned incestuously inwards, until entropy drove the life from what he had become.

‘You’d consider doing that?’ Khouri asked.

‘Consider it, yes,’ Volyova replied. ‘But I’m hoping it won’t come to that. All these samples I’ve been taking - I think I’m actually getting somewhere. I’ve found a counteragent - a retrovirus which seems stronger than the plague. It subverts the plague machinery faster than the plague subverts it. Only tested it on tiny pieces so far - and there’s really no way I can do any better than that, because testing it on the Captain would be a medical matter, and I’m not qualified to do that.’

‘Of course,’ Khouri said hastily. ‘But if you won’t do that, you’re really trusting all on Sylveste, aren’t you?’

‘Maybe, but one shouldn’t underestimate his skills. Or Calvin’s, I should say.’

‘And he’ll help you, just like that?’

‘No, but he didn’t willingly help us the first time either, and we still found a way.’

‘Persuasion, you mean?’

Volyova took a moment to take a scraping from one of the pipelike tendrils, just before it dove into an intestinal mass of ship plumbing. ‘Sylveste is a man with obsessions,’ she said. ‘And people like that are more easily manipulated than they imagine. They’re so intent on whatever goal it is they have in mind that they don’t always notice that they’re being bent to someone else’s will.’

‘Like yours, for instance.’

She took the sliver-thin sample and popped it away for analysis. ‘Sajaki told you that we brought him aboard during his missing month?’

‘Thirty days in the wilderness.’

‘Stupid name, that,’ Volyova said, gritting her teeth. ‘Did they have to make it sound so damned Biblical? Wasn’t as if he didn’t already have a messiah complex, if you ask me. Anyway, yes, that was when we brought him aboard. And the interesting thing was, this was fully thirty years before the Resurgam expedition ever left Yellowstone. Now, I’ll let you in on a secret. Until we returned to Yellowstone and recruited you, we didn’t even know of the existence of this expedition. We still expected to find Sylveste on Yellowstone.’

Khouri knew well enough from her own experience with Fazil the kind of difficulty Volyova’s crew must have faced, but she decided a little fake ignorance would seem more plausible.

‘Careless of you not to check firsthand.’

‘Not at all. In fact we did - it was just that our best information was already decades old before we obtained it. And then by the time we’d acted on it - made the hop to Yellowstone - it was twice as old again.’

‘I suppose it wasn’t a bad gamble. The family had always been associated with Yellowstone, so you’d have expected to find the rich young brat still hanging around the old place.’

‘Except we were wrong. But the interesting thing is, it looks as if we could have spared ourselves the bother all along. Sylveste may have had the Resurgam expedition in mind when we first brought him aboard. If only we’d listened, we could have gone there directly.’

As they traversed the complicated series of elevators and access tunnels which led from the Captain’s corridor to the glade, Volyova spoke beneath audibility into the bracelet which she never let slip from her wrist. Khouri knew that she must be addressing one of the ship’s many artificial personae, but Volyova gave no hint of what it was she was arranging.

The green light of the glade was a sensual feast after the unremitting cold and gloom of the Captain’s corridor. The air was warm and bouquet-fresh, and the painted birds which owned the aerial spaces of the chamber were almost too gaudy for Khouri’s dark-adapted eyes. For a moment she was too overwhelmed to notice that Volyova and she were not alone. Then she saw the three other people who were present. The trio sat facing each other around a stump of wood, kneeling in the dew-moistened grass. Sajaki was one of them, though he wore his hair in a different style from those Khouri had seen before: he was entirely bald apart from a topknot. The second person she recognised was Volyova herself - hair short now, which accentuated the angular form of her skull and made her look older than the version of Volyova which was standing next to Khouri. The third person, Khouri realised, was Sylveste himself.

‘Shall we join them?’ Volyova said, leading the way down the rickety staircase which descended to the lawn.

Khouri followed. ‘This dates from . . .’ She paused and recalled the date when Sylveste had gone missing from Chasm City. ‘Around 2460, right?’

‘Spot on,’ Volyova said, turning to fix Khouri with a look of mild amazement. ‘What are you, an expert on Sylveste’s life and times? Oh, never mind. The point is, we recorded his entire visit, and I knew there was one particular remark he made which . . . well, in the light of what we now know, I find curious.’

‘Intriguing.’

Khouri jumped, because it was not she who had spoken, and the voice had appeared to come from behind her. It was then that she became conscious of the Mademoiselle, loitering some distance up the staircase.

‘I should have known you’d show your ugly face,’ Khouri said, not even bothering to subvocalise, since the constant chatter of the songbirds served to mask her words from Volyova, who had gone on ahead to the others. ‘You’re like a bad penny, you know.’

‘At least you know I’m still around,’ she said. ‘If I weren’t, you’d have real grounds to worry. It would mean Sun Stealer had overwhelmed my countermeasures. Your sanity would be next, and I hate to speculate about what that would do for your employment prospects where Volyova’s concerned.’

‘Shut up and let me concentrate on what Sylveste has to say.’

‘Be my guest,’ the Mademoiselle said curtly, not straying from her vantage point.

Khouri joined Volyova next to the trio.

‘Of course,’ the standing Volyova said, addressing Khouri, ‘I could have replayed this conversation from any point in the ship. But it took place here, so this is where I chose to re-enact it.’ As she spoke, she reached into her jacket pocket and slipped out a pair of smoke-coloured goggles which she proceeded to place over her eyes. Khouri understood: lacking implants, Volyova could only witness this playback with the aid of direct retinal projection. Until she slipped on the goggles, she would not have seen the figures at all.

‘So you see,’ Sajaki was saying, ‘it’s in your best interests to do what we want. You’ve made use of Ultra elements in the past - your trip out to Lascaille’s Shroud, for instance - and it’s highly probable you’ll want to do so in the future.’

Sylveste placed his elbows on the tree stump. Khouri studied the man. She had seen plenty of lifelike evocations of Sylveste before, but this image seemed more real than any she had yet experienced. She guessed it was because Sylveste was in conversation with two people she knew, rather than anonymous figures from Yellowstone’s history. That made a lot of difference. He was handsome; improbably so, in her opinion, but she doubted that the image had been cosmetically doctored. His long hair hung in tangles either side of his magisterial brow; his eyes were acutely green. Even if she had to look him in the eyes before killing him - and the Mademoiselle’s specifications about the killing did not make that unlikely - it would be something to see those eyes for real.

‘That sounds awfully like blackmail,’ Sylveste said, his voice the lowest of those present. ‘You talk as if you Ultras have some kind of binding agreement. It might fool some people, Sajaki, but I’m afraid I’m not one of them.’

‘Then you may be in for a surprise the next time you attempt to enlist Ultra assistance,’ Sajaki answered, toying with a splinter of wood. ‘Let’s be quite clear on this. If you refuse us - in addition to whatever else that might bring upon yourself - you’d ensure that you never leave your home planet.’

‘I doubt that that would greatly inconvenience me.’

Volyova - the seated version - shook her head. ‘Not what our spies tell us. Rumour has it you’re trying to find funding for an expedition to the Delta Pavonis system, Dr Sylveste.’

‘Resurgam?’ Sylveste snorted. ‘I don’t think so. There’s nothing there.’

The real, standing Volyova said, ‘He’s clearly lying. It’s obvious now, though at the time I just assumed the rumour I had heard was false.’

Sajaki had replied to Sylveste, and now Sylveste was speaking again, defensively. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘I don’t care what rumours you’ve heard - you’d better ignore them. There’s not a scrap of a reason to go there. Check the records if you don’t believe me.’

‘But that’s the odd thing,’ the standing Volyova said. ‘I did just that, and damned if he wasn’t right. Based on what was known at the time, there was absolutely no reason to consider an expedition to Resurgam.’

‘But you just said he was lying . . .’

‘And he was, of course - hindsight proves that much.’ She shook her head. ‘You know, I’ve never really thought about this, but it’s actually very strange - paradoxical, even. Thirty years after this meeting took place the expedition left for Resurgam, which means the rumour was correct after all.’ She nodded at Sylveste, embroiled in heated discussion with her seated image. ‘But back then nobody knew about the Amarantin! So what in hell’s name gave him the idea to go to Resurgam in the first place?’

‘He must have known he’d find something there.’

‘Yes, but where did that information come from? There were automated surveys of the system prior to his expedition, but none of them were thorough. As far as I know, none of them scanned the planetary surfaces close enough to find evidence that there’d once been intelligent life on Resurgam. Yet Sylveste knew.’

‘Which makes no sense.’

‘I know,’ Volyova said. ‘Believe me, I know.’

At which point she joined her twin next to the stump and leant so close to the image of Sylveste that Khouri could see the reflection of his unwavering green eyes in the smoky facets of her goggles. ‘What did you know?’ she asked. ‘More to the point, how did you know?’

‘He isn’t going to tell you,’ Khouri said.

‘Maybe not now,’ Volyova said. And then smiled. ‘But before very long it’ll be the real one sitting there. And then we may get some answers.’

As she was speaking, her bracelet began to emit a sonorous chiming. The sound was unfamiliar, but it obviously connoted alarm. Above, without any fuss, the synthetic daylight turned blood-red and began to pulse in rhythm with the chiming.

‘What’s that?’ Khouri asked.

‘An emergency,’ Volyova said, holding the bracelet close to her jaw. She snatched the retinal-projection goggles from her face and studied a little display inset into the bracelet. It was also pulsing red, in perfect time with the sky and the chiming. Khouri could see words trickling onto the display, but not clearly enough to read them.

‘What sort of emergency?’ Khouri breathed, wary of disturbing the woman’s attention. Though she had not noticed their departure, the trio had vanished quietly back into whatever portion of the ship’s memory had tricked them to life.

Volyova looked up from the bracelet, face quite pale. ‘One of the cache-weapons.’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s arming itself.’

ELEVEN

Approaching Delta Pavonis, 2565

They were running down a curving corridor, one that led from the glade towards the nearest radial elevator shaft.

‘What do you mean?’ Khouri shouted, straining to be heard above the klaxon. ‘What do you mean it’s arming itself?’

Volyova wasted no breath replying, not until they had reached the waiting elevator car, and she had ordered the thing to shuttle them straight to the nearest spinal-trunk elevator shaft, ignoring all the usual acceleration limits. When the car began to move she and Khouri were rammed back into its glass walling, almost knocking what wind they had left from their chests. The car’s interior lights were pulsing red; Volyova could feel her heart starting to pulse in sympathy. But somehow she managed to talk.

‘Exactly what I said. There are systems monitoring each cache-weapon - and one has just detected a power-surge in its weapon.’

Volyova did not add that the reason she had installed those monitors in the first place was because of the weapon which had appeared to move. Ever since, she had clung to the hope that the move had been imagined - a hallucination brought on by the loneliness of her vigil - but she now knew that it had been nothing of the sort.

‘How can it arm itself?’

The question was perfectly reasonable. It was one for which Volyova had a decided absence of glib answers.

‘I’m just hoping the glitch is in the monitoring systems,’ she said, if only to be saying something. ‘Not the weapon itself.’

‘Why would it be arming itself?’

‘I don’t know! Haven’t you noticed I’m not exactly taking this calmly?’

The axial lift decelerated abruptly, transitioning to the trunk shaft with a series of nauseous lurches. Then they were dropping quickly, so fast that their apparent weight dwindled almost to nothing.

‘Where are we going?’

‘The cache chamber, of course.’ Volyova glared at the recruit. ‘I don’t know what’s going on, Khouri, but whatever it is, I want visual confirmation. I want to see what the damned things are actually doing.’

‘It arms itself, what else can it do?’

‘I don’t know,’ Volyova said, as calmly as possible. ‘I’ve tried all the shutdown protocols - nothing worked. This isn’t exactly a situation I anticipated.’

‘But surely it can’t deploy? It can’t actually find a target and go off?’

Volyova glanced down at her bracelet. Maybe the readings were going haywire; maybe there really had been a glitch in the watchdog systems. She hoped that was the case, because what the bracelet was telling her now was very bad news indeed.

The cache-weapon was moving.

Falkender was true to his word: the operations he performed on Sylveste’s eyes were seldom pleasant and frequently much worse, with occasional forays into absolute agony. For days now Sluka’s surgeon had been exploring the envelope of his skill, promising to restore such basic human functions as colour perception and the ability to sense depth and smooth movement, but not quite convincing Sylveste that he had the means or the expertise to do so. Sylveste had told Falkender that the eyes had never been perfect in the first place; Calvin’s tools had been too limited for that. But even the crude vision which Calvin had given him would have been preferable to the insipidly coloured, flicker-motion parody of the world through which he now moved. Not for the first time, Sylveste found himself doubting that the discomfort of the repair was likely to be justified by the results.

‘I think you should give up,’ he said.

‘I fixed Sluka,’ Falkender said, a lividly coloured laminate of flat, man-shaped apertures dancing into Sylveste’s visual field. ‘You’re no great challenge.’

‘So what if you restore my vision? I can’t see my wife because Sluka won’t let us be together. And a cell wall’s a cell wall, no matter how clearly you see it.’ He stopped as waves of pain lashed his temples. ‘Matter of fact, I’m not sure it isn’t better being blind. At least that way you don’t have reality rammed down your optic nerve every time you open your eyes.’

‘You don’t have eyes, Doctor Sylveste.’ Falkender twisted something, sending pink pain-rosettes into his vision. ‘So stop feeling sorry for yourself, please; it’s most unbecoming. Besides, it’s possible you won’t have to stare at these particular walls for very much longer.’

Sylveste perked up.

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning things may soon start moving, if what I’ve heard is halfway to the truth.’

‘Very informative.’

‘I’ve heard that we may soon have visitors,’ Falkender said, punctuating his remark with another stab of pain.

‘Stop being cryptic. When you say “we”, which faction do you mean? And what kind of visitors?’

‘All I’ve heard is rumour, Doctor Sylveste. I’m sure Sluka will tell you in good time.’

‘Don’t count on it,’ Sylveste said, who happened to be under no illusions as to his usefulness from Sluka’s point of view. Since the time of his arrival in Mantell he had come to the forcible conclusion that Sluka was retaining him only because he offered her some transient entertainment; that he was some fabulous captured beast of dubious use but undoubted novelty. It was not at all clear that she would ever confide in him regarding any matter of true seriousness - and even if she did, it would be for only one of two reasons: either because she wanted something other than a wall to talk to, or because she had devised some new means of tormenting him verbally. More than once she had spoken of putting him to sleep until she thought of a use for him. ‘I was right to capture you,’ she would say. ‘And I’m not saying you don’t have your uses - they’re just not immediately apparent to me. But I don’t see why anyone else should be allowed to exploit you.’ From that point of view, as Sylveste had soon realised, it mattered little to Sluka whether or not she kept him alive. Alive, he provided her with some amusement - and there was always the possibility he might become more useful to her in the future, as the colony’s balance of power shifted. But, equally, it would not greatly inconvenience her to have him killed now. At least that way he would never become a liability; could never turn against her.

Eventually there came an end to the tenderly administered agonies, a passage into calmer light and almost plausible colours. Sylveste held his own hand before his gaze and turned it slowly, absorbing its solidity. There were furrows and traceries embossed into his skin which he had almost forgotten, yet it could not be more than tens of days - a few weeks - since he had been blinded in the Amarantin tunnel system.

‘Good as new,’ Falkender said, placing his tools back into their wooden autoclave. The strange, ciliated glove went last of all; as Falkender peeled it from his womanly fingers, it twitched and spasmed like a beached jellyfish.

‘Get some illumination here,’ Volyova said into her bracelet as the elevator entered the cache chamber.

Weight rushed back as the box slowed to a halt. Immediately they had to squint as the chamber lights glared on, shining on the enormous, cradled shapes of the weapons.

‘Where is it?’ Khouri asked.

‘Wait,’ Volyova said. ‘I have to get my orientation.’

‘I don’t see anything moving.’

‘Me neither . . . yet.’

Volyova was squashed flat against the glass side of the elevator, straining to peer around the corner of the weapon which bulked largest. Swearing, she made the elevator descend another twenty, thirty metres, then found the order which killed the pulsing red lighting and the interior klaxon.

‘Look,’ Khouri said, in the relative calm which followed. ‘Is that something moving?’

‘Where?’

She pointed, almost vertically downwards. Volyova squinted after her, then spoke into the bracelet again. ‘Auxiliary lighting - cache chamber quadrant five.’ Then to Khouri: ‘Let’s see what the svinoi’s up to.’

‘You weren’t really serious, were you?’

‘About what?’

‘A glitch in the monitoring systems.’

‘Not really,’ Volyova said, squinting even more as the auxiliaries came online, spotlighting a portion of the chamber far beneath their feet. ‘It’s called optimism - but I’m losing the hang of it fast.’

The weapon, Volyova said, was one of the planet-killers. She was not really sure how it functioned; still less exactly what it was capable of doing. But she had her suspicions. She had tested it years ago at the very lowest range of its destructive settings . . . against a small moon. Extrapolating - and she was very good at extrapolating - the weapon would have no trouble dismantling a planet even at a range of hundreds of AU. There were things inside it which had the gravitational signatures of quantum black holes, yet which, strangely, refused to evaporate. Somehow the weapon created a soliton - a standing-wave - in the geodesic structure of spacetime.

And now the weapon had come alive, without her bidding. It was gliding through the chamber, riding the network of tracks which would eventually deliver it to open space. It was like watching a skyscraper crawl through a city.

‘Can we do anything?’

‘I’m open to suggestions. What did you have in mind?’

‘Well, you have to appreciate I haven’t given this a hell of a lot of thought . . .’

‘Say it, Khouri.’

‘We could try blocking it.’ Khouri’s forehead was furrowed, as if, on top of all this, she was battling with a sudden migraine attack. ‘You’ve got shuttles on this thing, haven’t you?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Then use one to block the exit. Or is that too crude for you?’

‘Right now, the expression “too crude” isn’t in my vocabulary.’

Volyova glanced at her bracelet. All the while the weapon was moving down the chamber wall, for all the world like an armoured slug retracing its own slime-trail. At the bottom of the chamber a vast iris was opening; the track led through the aperture into the dark chamber nested below this one. The weapon was almost level with the aperture.

‘I can move one of the shuttles . . . but it’ll take too long to get it outside the ship. I don’t think we’d get there in time . . .’

‘Do it!’ Khouri said, every muscle in her face screaming tension. ‘Piss around any more and we won’t even have this option!’

Volyova nodded, regarding the recruit suspiciously. What did Khouri know about all this? She seemed less bewildered than Volyova, although she also looked far more agitated than Volyova would have expected. But she had a point; the shuttle idea was worth a try, even though it was unlikely to succeed.

‘We need something else,’ she said, calling up the shuttle-control subpersona.

The weapon was halfway through the transfer iris, sliding into the second chamber.

‘Something else?’

‘In case this doesn’t work. The problem’s in the gunnery, Khouri - and maybe that’s where we should attack it.’

She blanched. ‘What?’

‘I want you in the seat.’

While they dropped towards the gunnery, accelerating so hard that the floor inverted to become the ceiling - and Khouri’s stomach felt like it had done something similar - Volyova whispered frantic, breathless instructions into her bracelet. It took a maddening few seconds to access the right subpersona, another few to bypass the safeguards which prevented unauthorised remote control of the shuttles. Still more to warm up the engines of one of the shuttles, and then longer still while the machine declamped from the docking restraints and vectored out of its holding bay, beyond the hull, handling - Volyova said - like the damn thing was still half asleep. The lighthugger was still under thrust, so the manoeuvre was doubly tricky.

‘What worries me,’ Khouri said, ‘is what the weapon plans to do once it gets outside. Are we in range of anything?’

‘Resurgam, conceivably.’ Volyova raised her eyes from the bracelet. ‘But maybe now it won’t get a chance.’

The Mademoiselle chose that moment to blink into existence, somehow managing to accommodate herself within the elevator without intruding on the volume already claimed by Khouri and the Triumvir. ‘She’s wrong. This isn’t going to work. I control more than just the cache-weapon.’

‘Admitting it now, are you?’

‘What’s to deny?’ The Mademoiselle smiled pridefully. ‘You recall that I downloaded an avatar of myself into the gunnery? Well my avatar now controls the cache. Nothing I can do can influence her actions. She’s as far beyond my reach as I am beyond the reach of my original self on Yellowstone.’

The elevator was slowing now, Volyova engrossed by the complex little readouts patterning her bracelet. A schematic holo showed the shuttle moving along the lighthugger’s hull; a tiny remora nosing along the smooth flank of a basking shark.

‘But you gave her orders,’ Khouri said. ‘You know what the hell she’s up to, don’t you.’

‘Oh, her orders were very simple. If control of the gunnery placed at her disposal any systems which could quicken the completion of the mission, she was to make whatever arrangements were necessary to hasten that end.’

Khouri shook her head in abject disbelief.

‘I thought you wanted me to kill Sylveste.’

‘The weapon may now make that end achievable rather sooner than I anticipated.’

‘No,’ Khouri said, after the Mademoiselle’s remark had had time to settle in. ‘You wouldn’t wipe out a planet just to kill one man.’

‘Discovered a conscience all of a sudden, have we?’ The Mademoiselle shook her head, lips pursed. ‘You exhibited no qualms over Sylveste. Why should the deaths of others trouble you so much? Or is it simply a question of scale?’

‘It’s just . . .’ Khouri hesitated, knowing what she was about to say would not trouble the Mademoiselle. ‘Inhuman. But I don’t expect you to understand that.’

The elevator halted, door opening to reveal the semi-flooded access way which led to the gunnery. Khouri took a moment to get her bearings. Ever since the descent had begun, she had been suffering the worst headache imaginable. It seemed to be lessening now, but she had no wish to dwell on what might have caused it.

‘Quickly,’ Volyova said, traipsing out.

‘What you don’t understand,’ the Mademoiselle said, ‘is why I would go to the trouble of destroying an entire colony just to ensure one man’s death.’

Khouri followed Volyova, boots disappearing to the knees in the flood.

‘Damn right I don’t. And I’d try and stop you whether I did or not.’

‘Not if you grasped the facts, Khouri. You’d actually be urging me on.’

‘Then it’s your fault for not telling me.’

They pushed through bulkhead seals, dead janitor-rats bobbing by as the water levels equalised, loosened from the little crannies where they had curled up to expire.

‘Where’s the shuttle?’ Khouri called.

‘Parked over the space-door,’ Volyova said, turning back to look Khouri in the eye. ‘And the weapon hasn’t emerged yet.’

‘Does that mean we won?’

‘Means we haven’t lost yet. But I still want you in the gunnery.’

The Mademoiselle had gone now, but her disembodied voice lingered, wrongly echoless in the cramped corridor.

‘It won’t do you any good. There’s no system in the gunnery that I can’t override, so your presence would be futile.’

‘So why are you obviously so keen to talk me out of going in there?’

The Mademoiselle did not answer.

Two bulkheads further, they reached the ceiling access point which led to the chamber. They were running by that point, and it took a few moments for the water to stop sloshing up and down the angled sides of the corridor. When it did, Volyova frowned.

‘Something’s up,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Can’t you hear it? There’s a noise.’ She angled her head. ‘Seems to be coming from the gunnery itself.’

Khouri could hear it for herself now. It was a high-pitched mechanical sound, like ancient industrial machinery going haywire.

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know.’ Volyova paused. ‘At least, I hope I don’t. Let’s get inside.’

Volyova reached up and tugged at the overhead access door, budging it open, a small shower of ship-sludge loosening from its seals, spattering their shoulders. The alloy ladder descended, the industrial noise intensifying. It was clearly coming from the gunnery itself. The gunnery’s bright internal lights were on, but they appeared to be unsteady, as if something were moving around up there interrupting the light-beams. Whatever it was was moving quickly as well.

‘Ilia,’ she said. ‘I’m not sure I like this.’

‘Join the club.’

Her bracelet chimed. Volyova was bending to examine it when an almighty shudder rammed through the entire fabric of the ship. The two of them slipped into the floodwater, falling against the slippery corridor-sides. Khouri was struggling to her feet when a tiny tidal wave of viscous sludge upended her. She hit the deck. For a moment she was swallowing the stuff, the closest to eating shit since her army days. Volyova hooked her by the elbows, hauling her to her feet. Khouri gagged and spat out the sludge, though the awful taste lingered.

Volyova’s bracelet was in scream-mode again.

‘What the hell . . .’

‘The shuttle,’ Volyova said. ‘We just lost it.’

‘What?’

‘I mean it just got blown up.’ Volyova coughed. Her face was wet; she must have taken a good mouthful of the stuff herself. ‘Far as I can tell, the cache-weapon didn’t even have to push its way out. Secondary weapons did the job - turned on the shuttle.’

Above, the gunnery was still making frightening noises.

‘You want me to go up there, don’t you?’

Volyova nodded. ‘Right now, getting you in the chair is the only option we have left. But don’t worry. I’m right behind you.’

‘Listen to her,’ the Mademoiselle said, quite suddenly. ‘All ready to have you do what she hasn’t the guts to do herself.’

‘Or the implants,’ Khouri shouted, aloud.

‘What?’ Volyova said.

‘Nothing.’ Khouri planted one foot on the lowest rung. ‘Just telling an old friend to go stuff herself.’ Her foot slid off the slime-encrusted rung. Next attempt, she found something approximating a grip and planted her second foot on the same rung. Her head was poking into the little access tunnel which fed into the gunnery, no more than two metres above.

‘You won’t get in,’ the Mademoiselle said. ‘I’m controlling the chair. As soon as you put your head into the chamber, you lose it.’

‘I’d love to see the look on your face, in that case.’

‘Khouri, haven’t you grasped things yet? The loss of your head would be no more than a minor inconvenience.’

Her head was just below the chamber entrance now. She could see the gimballed chair, moving in whiplash arcs through the chamber’s volume. It had never been designed for such acrobatics; Khouri could smell the ozone of fried power-systems greasing the air. ‘Volyova,’ she called, shouting above the din. ‘You built this set-up. Can you cut the power to the chair from below?’

‘Cut power to the chair? Certainly - but what good would it do us? I need you linking in to the gunnery.’

‘Not everything - just enough to stop the bastard moving around.’

There was a brief pause, during which Khouri imagined Volyova summoning ancient wiring diagrams to mind. The woman had constructed the gunnery herself - but it might have been decades and decades of subjective time ago, and something as vulgarly functional as the main power trunk had probably never needed to be upgraded since.

‘Well,’ Volyova said, eventually. ‘There’s a main feed line here - suppose I could sever it . . .’

Volyova left, trudging quickly out of sight below. It sounded simple; severing the power feed. Maybe, Khouri thought, Volyova would have to fetch a specialised cutter from elsewhere. Surely there was not that much time. But no; Volyova had something. There was that little laser, the one she used to flense away samples from Captain Brannigan. She always carried it. Agonising seconds passed, Khouri thinking of the cache-weapon, easing slowly beyond the hull, entering naked space. By now it would be locking on target - Resurgam - going to final power-up, preparing to unleash a pulse of gravitational death.

Above, the noise stopped.

All was still, the light steady. The chair hung motionless within its gimbals, a throne imprisoned within an elegantly curved cage.

Volyova shouted, ‘Khouri, there’s a secondary power-source. The gunnery can tap it, if it senses a drain from the main feed. Means you might not have much time to reach the chair . . .’

Khouri sprang into the gunnery, heaving her body weight out of the hole in the floor. The slender alloy gimbals now looked sharper than before. She moved fast, monkeying through the feed lines, hopping under or above the gimbals. The chair was still static, but the closer she got, the less room she would have if the apparatus swung into motion again. If it happened now, she thought, the walls would be rapidly redecorated in sticky, coagulating red.

And then she was in. Khouri buckled, and the instant she closed the clasp, the chair whined and shot forwards. The gimbals rolled about her, swerving the chair backwards and forwards, upside down and sideways, until all sense of orientation was lost. The motion was neck-breaking, and Khouri felt her eyeballs bulging out of their sockets with each hairpin reversal - but the motion was surely less vicious than before.

She wants to deter me, Khouri thought, but not kill me . . . yet.

‘Don’t attempt to hook in,’ the Mademoiselle said.

‘Because it might screw up your little plan?’

‘Not at all. Might I remind you of Sun Stealer? He’s waiting in there.’

The chair was still bucking, but not so violently as to hinder conscious thought.

‘Maybe he doesn’t exist,’ Khouri said, subvocalising. ‘Maybe you invented him to have more leverage over me.’

‘Go ahead then.’

Khouri made the helmet lower itself down over her head, masking the whirling motion of the chamber. Her palm rested on the interface control. All it would take was slight pressure to initiate the link; to close the circuit which would result in her psyche being sucked into the military data-abstraction known as gunspace.

‘You can’t do it, can you? Because you believe me. Once you open that connection, there’s no going back.’

She increased the pressure, feeling the slight give as the control threatened to close. Then - either via some unconscious neuromuscular twitch, or because part of her knew it had to be done, she closed the connection. The gunnery environment enfolded around her, as it had done in a thousand tactical simulations. Spatial data came first: her own body-image become nebulous, replaced by the lighthugger and its immediate surroundings, and then a series of hierarchical overlays conveying the tactical/strategic situation, constantly updating, self-checking its own assumptions, running frantic realtime-extrapolated simulations.

She assimilated.

The cache-weapon was holding station, several hundred metres away from the hull. Its prong was pointed in the direction of flight, straight towards Resurgam - allowing, Khouri knew, for the tiny relativistic light-bending effects caused by their moderate velocity. Near the space-door from which the weapon had emerged, the shuttle had left a black smear along the side of the hull. There were damage-points there; Khouri felt them as little pricks of discomfort, numbing as auto-repair systems phased in. Gravity sensors felt ripples emanating from the weapon; Khouri felt periodic - and quickening - breezes wash over her. The black holes in the weapon must be spinning up, orbiting quicker and quicker around the torus.

A presence sniffed her, not from outside, but from within the gunnery itself.

‘Sun Stealer’s detected your entry,’ the Mademoiselle said.

‘No problem.’ Khouri reached out into gunspace, slipping abstract hands into cybernetically realised gauntlets. ‘I’m accessing ship’s defences. A few seconds is all I need.’

But something was wrong. The weapons felt differently from the way they had in simulation; unwilling to budge to her whims. Quickly she intuited: they were being fought over, and she was merely joining in the struggle.

The Mademoiselle - or rather, her avatar - was trying to block the hull defences, prevent them from being turned on the cache-weapon. The weapon itself was firmly out of Khouri’s reach, veiled by numerous firewalls. But who - or what - was resisting the Mademoiselle, trying to bring those weapons to bear? Sun Stealer, of course. She could sense him now. Vast, powerful, but also intent on invisibility and slyness, careful to camouflage his actions behind routine data movements. For years that had worked, and Volyova had known nothing of his presence. But now Sun Stealer was driven to recklessness, like a crab forced to scuttle from one hideaway to another by the retreating tide. Nothing remotely human; no sense that this third presence in the gunnery was anything so mundane as another downloaded personality simulation; what Sun Stealer felt like was pure mentality, as if this data-representation was all that he had ever been; all that he ever would be.

It felt like absolutely nothing - but a locus of nothingness which had somehow achieved a terrifying degree of organisation.

Was she seriously contemplating joining forces with this thing?

Maybe. If that was what it took to stop the Mademoiselle.

‘You can still back out,’ the woman said. ‘He’s busy at the moment - can’t spare his energies to invade you. But in a moment that won’t be the case.’

Now the aiming systems were at least under her control, although they operated sluggishly. She bracketed the cache-weapon, encasing the whole bulk in a potential sphere of annihilation. Now all that had to happen was for the Mademoiselle to surrender control of the weapons, if only for the microsecond necessary for them to slew, target and fire.

She felt them loosen. She - or rather, she and Sun Stealer - seemed to be winning.

‘Don’t do this, Khouri. You don’t know what’s at stake . . .’

‘Then clue me in, bitch. Tell me what’s so important.’

The cache-weapon was moving away from the hull, surely a sign that the Mademoiselle was worried about its safety. But the pulses of gravitational radiation were quickening, now coming almost too rapidly to separate. No guessing how long it would be before the cache-weapon fired, but Khouri suspected it could only be seconds away.

‘Listen,’ the Mademoiselle said. ‘You want the truth, Khouri?’

‘Damn right I do.’

‘Then you’d better brace yourself. You’re about to get the whole thing.’

And then - as soon as she had adjusted to being sucked into gunspace - she felt herself being sucked somewhere else entirely. The odd thing was that it seemed to be a part of herself she had until that moment completely overlooked.

They were on a battlefield, surrounded by the chameleoflaged bubbletents, the temporary enclosures of some hospital or forward command post. The sky above the compound was azure, cloud-streaked, but littered with dirty, intermingling vapour trails. It was as if some world-spanning squid were spilling its viscera into the stratosphere. Sowing the trails, and darting between them, were numerous arrow-winged jet aircraft. Lower, there were drone-dirigibles and, lower still, bulbous-bodied transport helicopters, tilt-wings and veetols, skimming the periphery of the compound, occasionally dropping to disgorge armoured personnel carriers or walking troops, ambulances or armed servitors. There was a scorched, grass-covered apron to one side of the compound, where six delta-winged, windowless aircraft were parked on skids, their upper surfaces precisely mimicking the sun-bleached hue of the ground, their VTOL irises open for inspection.

Khouri felt herself stumbling, falling towards the grass at her feet. She wore chameleoflage fatigues, currently emitting in dappled khaki. There was a lightweight projectile weapon in her hands, its alloy grip contour-moulded to match her palm. She was helmeted, a two-d readout monocle dangling down from the helmet’s rim, showing a false-colour heat-map of the battlezone, telemetered from one of the dirigibles.

‘This way, please.’

A whitehat was directing her into one of the bubbletents. Inside, an aide took her gun, ident-chipped it and racked it with eight other weapons, varying in firepower from projectile units like her own to medium-yield party-poopers and a ferocious shoulder-held ack-am weapon, something one would really not want to use on the same continent as one’s adversary. The feed from the dirigibles fuzzed and vanished, occluded by the anti-surveillance shroud around the bubbletent. She reached up with her now free hand and flicked the monocle back over the helmet rim, raking a strand of sweaty hair away from her eye with the same movement.

‘Through here, Khouri.’

They led her into a partitioned back area of the tent, through a room filled with bunkbeds, injured, and quietly humming medservitors, craning over their patients like mechanised green swans. From outside she heard a shriek of jets, then a series of concussive explosions, but no one inside the tent seemed to even notice the sound.

Finally they let her into a tiny, square-walled room outfitted with a single desk. The walls were draped with the transnational flags of the Northern Coalition and there was a large bronze-mounted globe of Sky’s Edge on one corner of the desk. The globe was currently in geological mode, showing only the varying landmasses and terrain-types on the surface, rather than the hotly contested political boundaries. But Khouri paid it no more than cursory attention, because what snared her attention was the person sitting behind the desk, in full military dress: cross-buttoned olive-drab tunic, gold epaulettes, a conspicuous panoply of NC medals ranked across his chest, his black hair slicked back in brilliant grooves.

‘I’m sorry,’ Fazil said. ‘That it had to happen this way. But now that you’re here . . .’ He motioned across the room. ‘Have a seat; we need to talk. Rather urgently, as it happens.’

Khouri recalled, distantly, another place. She remembered a chamber, metallic, containing a seat, but while there was something about the memory that made her nervous - as if time were precious - it felt unreal compared to the present, which was this room. Fazil absorbed her attention totally. He looked exactly as she remembered him (remembered him from where, she wondered?), although his cheek bore evidence of a scar she did not recall, and he had grown a moustache, or at least (she could not be sure) changed something about the one he had worn last time; thickened it or allowed it to grow out from simply thick black stubble, to the point where it now had the onset of a rakish droop on either side of his upper lip.

She did as he had suggested, easing herself into a folding chair.

‘She - the Mademoiselle - worried that it might come to this,’ Fazil said, his lips barely moving, or seeming to move, beneath the moustache. ‘So she took certain measures. While you were still on Yellowstone, she implanted a series of closed-access memories. They were tagged to activate - to become accessible to your conscious mind - only when she deemed them useful.’ He reached across the desk and spun the globe, allowing it to whir before stopping it abruptly. ‘As a matter of fact, the process of unlocking those memories began some while ago. Do you remember a slight migraine attack in the elevator?’

Khouri grasped for some anchor-point; some objective reality she could place her trust in.

‘What is this?’

‘A convenience,’ Fazil said. ‘Woven partially out of existing memory patterns the Mademoiselle appropriated and found useful. This meeting, for instance - isn’t it a little like how we first met, darling? That time in the ops unit on Hill Seventy-Eight, in the central provinces campaign, before the second red-peninsula offensive? You’d been sent to me because I needed someone for an infiltration mission; someone with knowledge of the unshielded SC-controlled sectors. We made a great team, didn’t we? In more ways than one.’ He fondled his moustache and tapped the globe again. ‘Of course, I didn’t - or rather she didn’t - bring you here just to reminisce. No; the mere fact that this memory has been accessed means that certain truths have to be revealed to you. The question is, are you ready for them?’

‘Of course I’m . . .’ Khouri trailed off. What Fazil was saying made no sense, but she was being troubled by that memory of the other place; of the brutal chair in the metallic room. She had the feeling something was unresolved there - even, possibly, in the process of being resolved. She felt that, wherever that room was, she was meant to be there, adding her weight to the struggle. Whatever that struggle concerned, she had the sense that there was not much time left, and certainly not enough for this diversion.

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ Fazil said, appearing to read her mind. ‘None of this is really taking place in realtime; not even the accelerated realtime of the gunnery. Haven’t you ever had it happen to you that someone wakes you abruptly from a dream, and yet somehow their actions were incorporated into the dream’s narrative, long before they actually woke you? You know what I mean: your dog licks your face to wake you, and in your dream you fall overboard from a ship into the sea. Yet you’d been on that ship for the entirety of the dream.’ He paused. ‘Memory, Khouri. Memory being laid down instantaneously. The dream felt real, but it was created in an instant when the dog began licking your face. Back-constructed. You never actually lived through it. It’s the same with these memories.’

Fazil’s mention of the gunnery had crystallised the concept of the room. More than ever she felt as if she had to be back there, engaging in a struggle. The details of it still escaped her, it seemed very important that she rejoin it.

‘The Mademoiselle,’ Fazil continued, ‘could have selected any venue from your past, or manufactured one from scratch. But she felt that - in some way - it would assist matters if you were put in a frame of mind where the discussion of military matters seemed natural.’

‘Military matters?’

‘Specifically, a war.’ He smiled then, causing the tips of his moustache to angle momentarily upwards, like a demonstration of the engineering principles of a cantilever bridge. ‘But not one you’re likely to have ever read about. No; I’m afraid it happened rather too long ago for that.’ He stood without warning, pausing to straighten his tunic, tugging down the belt. ‘It might help if we adjourned to the briefing room, actually.’

TWELVE

Sky’s Edge, 61 Cygni-A, 2483 (simulated)

The briefing room into which Fazil escorted Khouri was unlike any she had ever visited. It was clearly far too large for the bubbletent to have ever held it. And while Khouri had experienced many projection devices, none of them would have been capable of displaying the thing that was now being presented to her. It covered the entire floor, across a space about twenty metres wide, and was circumnavigated by a metal-railinged walkway.

It was a map of the entire galaxy.

And what made it impossible that the map could ever have been projected by the devices with which she was familiar was one simple fact. Looking at it, she apprehended - saw, and, somehow noted - every single star in the galaxy, from the coolest, barely fusing brown dwarf up to the brightest, transient white-hot supergiant. And it was not just that every star in the galaxy was there to be noticed, if her gaze chanced upon it. It went beyond that. It was, simply, that the galaxy was knowable in one glance. She was assimilating it in its entirety.

She counted the stars.

There were four hundred and sixty-six billion, three hundred and eleven million, nine hundred and twenty-two thousand, eight hundred and eleven of them. As she watched, one of the white supergiants expired in a supernova, so she revised her count down by one.

‘It’s a trick,’ Fazil said. ‘A codification. There are more stars in the galaxy than there are cells in the human brain, so for you to know them all would tie up an undesirable fraction of your total connective memory. Which doesn’t mean that the sensation of omniscience can’t be simulated, of course.’

The galaxy was in fact too perfectly detailed to really be described as a map. Not only had every star been accorded due prominence - colours, sizes, luminosities, binary associations, positions and space velocities all represented with absolute fidelity - but there were also star-forming regions, wispish, gently glowing veils of condensing gas, in which were embedded the hottening embers of embryo suns. There were newly formed stars surrounded by disks of protoplanetary material, and - where she cared to apprehend them - planetary systems themselves, ticking round their central suns like microscopic orreries, at a vastly accelerated rate. There were also aged stars which had ejected shells of their own photospheres into space, enriching the tenuous interstellar medium: the basic protoplasmic reservoir from which future generations of stars, worlds and cultures would eventually be created. There were regular or irregular supernova remnants, cooling as they expanded and shed their energy to the interstellar medium. Sometimes, at the heart of one of these stellar death-events, she observed a newly forged pulsar, emitting radio bursts with ever-slowing but stately precision, like the clocks in some forgotten imperial palace which had been wound one final time and would now tick until they died, the time between each tick lengthening towards some chill eternity. There were also black holes in the hearts of some of these remnants, and one massive (though now dormant) one at the heart of the galaxy, surrounded by an attendant shoal of doomed stars which would one day spiral into its event-horizon and fuel an apocalyptic burst of X-rays as they were ripped asunder.

But there was more to this galaxy than astrophysics. As if a new layer of memories had been quietly overlaid over her previous ones, Khouri found herself knowing something more. That the galaxy was teeming with life; a million cultures dispersed pseudo-randomly across its great slowly rotating disk.

But this was the past - the deep, deep past.

‘Actually,’ Fazil said, ‘somewhere in the region of a billion years ago. Given that the Universe is only about fifteen times older than that, that’s quite a hefty chunk of time, especially on the galactic timescale.’ He was leaning over the railinged walkway next to her, as if they were a couple pausing to stare at their reflections in a dark, bread-strewn duckpond. ‘To give you some perspective, humanity didn’t exist a billion years ago. In fact, neither did the dinosaurs. They didn’t get around to evolving until less than two hundred million years ago; a fifth of the time we’re dealing with here. No; we’re deep into the Precambrian here. There was life on Earth, but nothing multicellular - a few sponges if you were lucky.’ Fazil looked at the galaxy representation again. ‘But that wasn’t the case everywhere.’

The million or so cultures (although she could be infinitely precise about the number, it suddenly struck her as childishly pedantic to do so, like specifying one’s age to the nearest month) had not all arisen at the same time, nor they did all hang around for the same length of time. According to Fazil (though she understood it on some basic level) it had taken until four billion years ago for the galaxy to reach the required state at which intelligent cultures could begin to arise. But once that point of minimal galactic maturity had been reached, the cultures had not all suddenly appeared in unison. It had been a progressive emergence of intelligence, some cultures having arisen on worlds where, for one reason or another, the pace of evolutionary change was slower than the norm, or life’s ascendancy was subject to more than the usual quota of catastrophic setbacks.

But eventually - two or three billion years after life had first arisen on their homeworlds - some of these cultures had become spacefaring. When that point was reached, most cultures expanded rapidly into the galaxy, although there were always a few stay-at-homes who preferred to colonise only their own solar systems, or sometimes even just their own circum-planetary environments. But generally the pace of expansion was rapid, with a mean drift rate between one tenth and one hundredth of the speed of light. That sounded slow, but was in fact blindingly fast, given that the galaxy was billions of years old and only a hundred thousand light-years wide. Unrestricted, any of these spacefarers could have dominated the entire galaxy in the totally inconsequential time of a few tens of millions of years. And maybe if it had happened like that - a neatly imperialist domination by one power - things would have been very different.

But instead, the first culture had been at the slower end of the expansionist speed-range, and had impacted on the expansion wave of a second, younger upstart. And while younger, the second civilisation was not technologically inferior to the first, nor less capable of mustering aggression when it was required. There was what - for want of a better word - one might describe as a galactic war; a sudden sparking friction where these two swelling empires brushed against one another, grinding like vast flywheels. Soon, other ascendant cultures were embroiled in the conflict. Eventually - to one degree or another - several thousand spacefaring civilisations fell into the fray. They had many names for it, in the thousand primary languages of the combatants. Some of these names could not easily be translated into any meaningful human referent. But more than one culture called it something which might - with due allowance for the crudities of interspecies communication - be termed the Dawn War.

It was a war encompassing the entire galaxy (and the two smaller satellite galaxies which orbited the Milky Way) - one which consumed not just planets, but whole solar systems, whole star systems, whole clusters of stars, and whole spiral arms. She understood that evidence of this war was visible even now, if one knew where to look. There were anomalous concentrations of dead stars in some regions of the galaxy, and still-burning stars in odd alignments; husked components of weapons-systems light-years wide. There were voids where there ought to have been stars, and stars which - according to the accepted dynamics of solar-system formation - ought to have had worlds, but which lacked them: only rubble, cold now. The Dawn War had lasted a long, long time - longer even than the evolutionary timescale of the hottest stars. But on the timescale of the galaxy, it had indeed been mercifully brief; a transforming spasm.

It was possible that no culture emerged intact; that none of the players who entered the Dawn War actually emerged, victorious or otherwise. The lengthscale of the war, while short by galactic time, was nonetheless hideously long by species-time. It was long enough for species to self-evolve, to fragment, to coalesce with other species or assimilate them, to remake themselves beyond recognition, or even to jump from organic to machine-life substrates. Some had even made the return trip, becoming machine, then returning to the organic when it suited their purposes. Some had sublimed, vanishing from the theatre of the war entirely. Some had converted their essences to data and found immortal storage in carefully concealed computer matrices. Others had self-immolated.

Yet in the aftermath, one culture emerged stronger than the others. Possibly they had been a fortunate small-time player in the main fray, now rising to supremacy amongst the ruins. Or possibly they were the result of a coalition, a merging of several battle-weary species. It hardly mattered, and they themselves probably had no hard data on their absolute origin. They were - at least then - a hybrid machine-chimeric species, with some residual vertebrate traits. They did not bother giving themselves a name.

‘Still,’ Fazil said, ‘they acquired one, whether they liked it or not.’

Khouri looked at her husband. As he had been relating to her the story of the Dawn War, she had come to a kind of understanding about where she was, and the unreality of it all. What Fazil had said about the Mademoiselle had finally connected with some lingering memory of the true-present. She remembered the gunnery room clearly now, and knew that this place, this tampered-with shard of her past - was no more than an interlude. And this was not properly Fazil, though - because he had been resurrected from her memories - he was at least as real as the Fazil she recalled.

‘What were they called?’ she asked.

He waited before answering, and when he did, it was with almost theatrical gravity. ‘The Inhibitors. For a very good reason, which will shortly become apparent.’

And then he told her, and she knew. The knowledge crashed home, vast and impassive as a glacier, something she could never begin to forget. And she knew something else, which was, she supposed, the whole point of this exercise. She understood why Sylveste had to die.

And why - if it took the death of a planet to ensure his death - that was an entirely reasonable price to pay.

Guards came just as Sylveste was falling into shallow dreams, exhausted by the latest operation.

‘Wake up, sleepy-head,’ said the taller of the two, a stocky man with a drooping grey moustache.

‘What have you come for?’

‘Now that would spoil the surprise,’ said the other guard, a weaselly individual hefting a rifle.

The route along which they took him was clearly intended to disorientate, its convolutions too frequent to be accidental. Quickly they succeeded in their aim. The sector where they arrived was unfamiliar; either an old part of Mantell extensively refurbished by Sluka’s people, or else a completely new set of tunnel workings dug since the occupation. For a moment he wondered if he were being moved permanently to a differerent cell, but that seemed unlikely - they had left his other clothes in the first room, and had only just changed the bedsheets. But Falkender had spoken of the possibility of his status altering, in connection with the visitors he had mentioned, so maybe there had been a sudden change of plan.

But there been no change of plan, as he soon discovered.

The room where they left him was no less Spartan than his own; a virtual duplicate down to the same blank walling and food hatch; the same crushing sense that the walls were infinitely thick, reaching endlessly back into the mesa. So similar, in fact, that for a moment he wondered if his senses had deceived him, and all that had happened was the guards had frogmarched him in a loop which eventually returned to his own place of imprisonment. He would not have put it past them . . . and at least it was exercise.

But as soon as he had absorbed the room’s contents fully, he knew it was not his own. Pascale was sitting on her bed - and when she glanced up, he could tell she was just as astonished as Sylveste.

‘You’ve got an hour,’ the moustachioed guard said, patting his partner on the back.

And then he closed the door, Sylveste having already entered the room without their bidding.

The last time he had seen her, she had been wearing the wedding dress; her hair sculpted in brilliant purple waves, entoptics adorning her like an army of attendant fairies. He might as well have dreamt that. Now she wore overalls, as drab and shapeless as those Sylveste himself was dressed in. Her hair was a lank black bowl, eyes rouged by sleeplessness or bruising, possibly both. She looked thinner and smaller than he remembered - probably because she was hunched over, bare feet hooked under her calves, and the room’s whiteness seemed so large.

He was unable to remember a time when she had looked more fragile or beautiful; when it had been harder to believe that she was his wife. He thought back to the night of the coup, when she had waited in the dig with her patient, probing questions; questions which would later open a wound into the very core of who he was; what he had done and was capable of doing. It seemed very strange indeed that a confluence of events had brought them together, in this loneliest of rooms.

‘They kept telling me you were alive,’ he said. ‘But I don’t think I ever really believed them.’

‘They told me you’d been hurt,’ Pascale said, her voice quiet, as if she dared not shatter a dream by speaking aloud. ‘They wouldn’t say what - and I didn’t want to ask too much - in case they told me the truth.’

‘They blinded me,’ Sylveste said, touching the hard surface of his eyes; the first time he had done so since the surgery. Instead of the little nova of pain to which he had become accustomed there was only a vague fog of discomfort which faded as soon as he removed his fingers.

‘But you can see now?’

‘Yes. As a matter of fact you’re the first thing it’s been worth having sight for.’

And then she rose from the bed, slipping into his arms, hooking a leg round his own. He felt her lightness and delicacy; was almost afraid to return her embrace in case he crushed her. Yet he drew her nearer, and she reciprocated, seemingly just as nervous of damaging him, as if the two of them were spectres uncertain of each other’s reality. They held each other for what seemed like many more hours than the one they had been allocated; not because time dragged, but because for now time was unimportant; it was in abeyance, and it seemed as if it could be held that way by the act of will alone. Sylveste drank in the vision of her face; her eyes found something human even in the blankness of his own. There had been a time when Pascale had lacked the courage to look at him face-on, let alone stare into his eyes - but that time had long passed. And for Sylveste, gazing into Pascale’s eyes had never been difficult, since she need never be aware of his scrutiny. Now, though, he wished she could tell when he was staring; wished her the vicarious pleasure of knowing that he found her intoxicating.

Soon they were kissing, and then they slumped awkwardly to the bed. In a moment they were free of their Mantell clothes, shucking them in drab heaps beside the bed. Sylveste wondered if they were being observed. It seemed possible - likely even. It also seemed possible not to care. For now - for as long as this hour lasted - he and Pascale were absolutely alone; the room’s walls really infinite; the room the only open enclosure in the whole universe. It was not the first time they had made love, though the previous occasions had been rare indeed; in those few instances when the opportunity for privacy had arisen. Now - the thought almost made Sylveste laugh - they were married, and there was even less need for any subterfuge. And yet here they were again, once more snatching what intimacy they could. He felt an edge of guilt, and for a long time he wondered where it came from. Eventually, as they lay together, his head buried softly in her chest, he realised why he felt that way. Because there was so much to speak about, and instead they had squandered their time in the fevered archaeology of their bodies. But it had to be that way, Sylveste knew.

‘I wish there was longer,’ he said, when his sense of time had returned to something like normality, and he began to wonder how much of the hour remained.

‘The last time we spoke,’ Pascale said, ‘you told me something.’

‘About Carine Lefevre, yes. It was something I had to tell you, do you understand? It sounds ridiculous, but I thought I was going to die. I had to tell you; tell anyone. It was something I’d kept inside me for years.’

Pascale’s thigh was a cool pressure against his own. She drew her hand across his chest, mapping it. ‘Whatever happened out there, there’s no way I or anyone else can begin to judge you.’

‘It was cowardice.’

‘No, it wasn’t. Just instinct. You were in the most terrifying place in the universe, Dan, don’t forget that. Philip Lascaille went there without a Juggler transform - look what happened to him. That you stayed sane at all was a kind of bravery. Insanity would have been a lot easier on you.’

‘She could have lived. Hell, even leaving her to die the way I did - even that would have been acceptable if I’d had the courage to tell the truth about it afterwards. That would have been some atonement; God knows she deserved better than to be lied about, even after I’d killed her.’

‘You didn’t kill her; the Shroud did.’

‘I don’t even know that.’

‘What?’

He leant on his side, momentarily pausing to study Pascale. Before, his eyes could have frozen her image for posterity. But that feature no longer functioned.

‘What I mean is,’ Sylveste said, ‘I don’t even know she died out there - I mean, not at first. I survived, after all - and I was the one who lost the Juggler transform. Her chances would have been better, though not by much. But what if she came through it, the way I did? What if she found a way to stay alive, but just couldn’t communicate her presence to me? She might have drifted halfway to the edge of the Shroud before I came round. After I’d repaired the lighthugger, I never thought to look for her. It never crossed my mind she might still be alive.’

‘For a very good reason,’ Pascale said. ‘She wasn’t. You can question what you did now, but back then intuition told you she was dead. And if she didn’t die - she’d have found a way to get in touch with you.’

‘I don’t know that. I never can.’

‘Then stop dwelling on it. Or else you’ll never escape the past.’

‘Listen,’ he said, thinking of something else Falkender had said. ‘Do you ever speak to anyone apart from the guards? Like Sluka, or anyone like that?’

‘Sluka?’

‘The woman who’s holding us here.’ Sylveste realised with a yawning sensation that they had told her next to nothing. ‘There isn’t time for me to explain in anything but the simplest terms. The people who killed your father were True Path Inundationists, as near as I can tell, or at least one offshoot of the movement. We’re in Mantell.’

‘I knew it had to be somewhere outside Cuvier.’

‘Yes, and from what they told me Cuvier has been attacked.’ He held back from telling her the rest, which was that the city had most probably been rendered uninhabitable above ground. She did not have to know that - not just yet, when it was the only place she had ever known properly. ‘I’m not really sure who’s running it now - whether people loyal to your father, or a rival group of True Pathers. The way Sluka tells it, your father didn’t exactly welcome her with open arms once he’d gained control of Cuvier. Seems there was enough enmity there for her to arrange his assassination. ’

‘That’s a long time to hold a grudge.’

‘Which is why Sluka is possibly not the most stable person on this planet. Actually, I don’t think capturing us figured in her plans - but now she’s got us, she isn’t quite sure what to do. Clearly we’re too potentially valuable to discard . . . but in the meantime—’ Sylveste paused. ‘Anyway, something may be about to change. The man who fixed my eyes told me there was a rumour about visitors.’

‘Who?’

‘My question as well. But that’s as much as he said.’

‘It’s tempting to speculate, isn’t it?’

‘If anything was likely to change things on Resurgam, it would be the arrival of Ultras.’

‘It’s a bit soon for Remilliod to return.’

Sylveste nodded. ‘If there really is a ship coming in, you can bet it isn’t Remilliod. But who else would want to trade with us?’

‘Maybe trade isn’t what they’ve come for.’

Possibly it was a sign of arrogance, but Volyova was not physically capable of letting someone else do her work, no matter how absurd the alternative. She was perfectly happy - if happy was the word - to let Khouri sit in the gunnery and do her best at shooting the cache-weapon out of the sky. She was also willing to admit that using Khouri was the only sensible option available. But that did not mean that she was prepared to sit calmly by and await the outcome. Volyova knew herself too well for that. What she needed - what she craved - was some way to attack the problem from another angle.

‘Svinoi,’ she said, because, no matter how hard she tried, an answer obdurately failed to pop into her mind. Every time she thought she had hit on an approach, a way to circumvent the weapon’s progress, another part of her mind had already jumped ahead and found some impasse further down the logical chain. It was, in a way, a testament to the fluidity of her thought that she was able to critique her own solutions as soon as they came to mind; in fact, almost before she became consciously aware of them. But it also felt - maddeningly - as if she was doing her level best to sabotage her own chances of success.

And now there was this aberration to deal with.

She called it that now, because the word served to contain the mélange of incomprehension and disgust she felt whenever she forced her mind onto the topic. The topic was whatever was going on inside Khouri’s head. And, now that Khouri was immersed in the abstracted mental landscape of gunspace, the aberration necessarily included the gunnery itself, and by extension Volyova, since it was her handiwork. She was monitoring the situation closely, via neural readouts on her bracelet. There was quite a storm going on in that woman’s skull; no doubt about it. And the storm was extending troubled, flickering tendrils into gunspace.

Volyova knew that, somehow, all of this had to be related. The whole problem with the gunnery, from the beginning: Nagorny’s madness, the Sun Stealer business, and latterly the self-activation of the cache-weapon. Somehow, also, the storm in Khouri’s head - the aberration - also fitted in with things. But knowing that a solution existed, or at the very least an answer - a unifying picture which would explain everything - did not help at all.

Perhaps the most annoying aspect was that, even in a moment like this, part of her mind was dwelling on that problem, not giving itself over fully to the more pressing issue at hand. Volyova felt as if her brain consisted of a room full of precocious schoolchildren: individually bright, and - if only they would pool themselves - capable of shattering insights. But some of those schoolchildren were not paying attention; they were staring dreamily out of the window, ignoring her protestations to focus on the present, because they found their own obsessions more intellectually attractive than the dull curriculum she was intent on dispensing.

A thought budged to the front of her mind; a recollection. It concerned a series of firewall systems she had installed in the ship, upwards of four decades earlier by shiptime. She had intended that they be called into use as a final countermeasure against incursion by subversive viruses. It had not occurred to her that they would ever really be needed, and most certainly not under circumstances like this.

But all the same, she remembered them.

‘Volyova,’ she said, almost gasping, into her bracelet, straining to tug the requisite commands from her memory. ‘Access counterinsurgent protocols; lambda-plus severity, maximum battle-readiness concurrence and counter-check to be assumed, full autonomous denial-suppression, criticality-nine Armageddon defaults, red-one-alpha security-bypass, all Triumvirate privileges invoked at all levels; all non-Triumvirate privileges rescinded.’ She collected her breath; hoping that the string of incantations had opened enough doors for her into the heart of the ship’s operational matrix. ‘Now,’ she said. ‘Retrieve and run the executable coded Palsy.’ To herself she muttered, ‘And do it damned quickly!’

Palsy was the program which initiated the sealing of the firewalls she had installed. She had written Palsy herself - but it was so long ago that she barely remembered what Palsy did, or how much of the ship Palsy was liable to affect. It was a gamble - she wanted to immobilise enough to inconvenience the cache-weapon, but most certainly not enough to hamper her own attempts at stopping it.

‘Svinoi, svinoi, svinoi . . .’

Error-messages were scrolling across her bracelet. They were telling her, very helpfully, that the various systems which Palsy had attempted to access and disable were no longer within Palsy’s remit; they were out-of-bounds to the program’s interference. Most of them, anyway - especially the deeper ship systems. If Palsy had functioned correctly, it would have had the same general effect on the ship as a blow on the head had to a human being - massive shut-down of all nonessential systems, and a general collapse into a state of recuperative immobility. Real damage would have been done, but mostly on a superficial level, and of a sort that Volyova would have been able to fix, disguise or invent lies about before the other crewmembers were awakened. But Palsy had worked differently. If likened to a human affliction, what the ship had suffered was more akin to an episode of mild paralysis immobilising only the epidermal layers, and then only partially. That was not at all in accordance with Volyova’s plans.

But, she realised, it would have immobilised the autonomous hull weapons, those which were not directly slaved to the gunnery and which had already blown up the shuttle. Now at least she could try the same gambit again. Of course, the weapon would have advanced further now; there was no longer an option of simply obstructing it. But if she could at least get another shuttle out into space, certain possibilities presented themselves.

A second or so later, her optimism had been shattered into a few dismal crumbs of dejection. Maybe Palsy had been meant to work this way, or maybe in the intervening forty years various ship-systems had become tangled up and interconnected, so that Palsy killed certain parts Volyova had never meant it to touch . . . but, for whatever reason, the shuttles were inoperative, locked out by firewalls. She tried, perfunctorily, the usual Triumvirate-level bypass commands, but none of them worked. Hardly surprising: Palsy had set up physical breaks in the command network, chasms that no amount of software intervention could possibly bridge. To get the shuttles online, Volyova would have to physically reset all those breaks - and to do that, she would have to find the map she had made, four decades earlier, of the installations. That would entail, conservatively, several days’ work.

Instead, she had minutes in which to act.

She was sucked into - not so much a pit of despondency, as a bottomless, endlessly plummeting gravitational well. But, when she had dropped deep into its maw - and several of those precious minutes had elapsed - she remembered something; something so obvious she should have thought of it long before.

Volyova began running.

Khouri crashed back into the gunnery.

A quick check on the status-clocks confirmed what Fazil had promised her, which was that no real time had passed. That was some trick; she really felt as if she had spent the best part of an hour in the bubbletent, when in fact the whole experience had just been laid down a fraction of a second earlier. She had lived through none of it, but that was almost impossible to accept. Yet she could not now relax - events had been frantic enough even before the memories had been triggered. The situation had not lost any of its urgency.

The cache-weapon must be nearly ready to blow now: its gravitational emissions were no longer detectable by the ship, like a whistle which had passed into the ultrasonic. Maybe the weapon was already able to fire. Was the Mademoiselle actually holding back? Was it important to her that Khouri come over to her side? If the weapon failed, Khouri would again be her only means of acting.

‘Relinquish,’ the Mademoiselle said. ‘Relinquish, Khouri. You must realise by now that Sun Stealer is something alien! You’re assisting it!’

The mental effort involved in subvocalising was almost too much for her now.

‘Yeah, I’m quite prepared to believe that it’s alien. The trouble is, what does that make you?’

‘Khouri, we don’t have time for this.’

‘Sorry, but now seems as good a time as ever to get this into the open.’ While she communicated her thoughts, Khouri kept up her side in the struggle, though part of her - the part that had been swayed by what she had been shown in the memories - implored her to give up; to let the Mademoiselle assume total control of the cache-weapon. ‘You led me into thinking Sun Stealer was something Sylveste brought back from the Shrouders.’

‘No; you saw the facts and jumped to the only logical conclusion. ’

‘Did I hell.’ Khouri found new strength now, though it remained insufficient to tip the balance. ‘All along, you were desperate to turn me against Sun Stealer. Now, that may or may not have been justified - maybe he is an evil bastard - but it does beg a question. How would you know? You wouldn’t. Not unless you were alien yourself.’

‘Assuming - for the moment - that that were the case—’

Something new snared Khouri’s attention. Even given the severity of the battle she was waging, this new thing was sufficiently important for her to relax momentarily; allocating some additional part of her conscious mind to assess the situation.

Something else was joining the fray.

This newcomer was not in gunspace; it was not another cybernetic entity, but a physical object, one which until now had not been present - or at least not noticed - in the arena of battle. At the moment Khouri had detected it, it was very close to the lighthugger; dangerously close by her reckoning - in fact, so close that it seemed to be physically attached, parasitic.

It was the size of a very small spacecraft, its central mass no more than ten metres from end to end. It resembled a fat, ribbed torpedo, sprouting eight articulated legs. It was walking along the hull of the ship. Most miraculously, it was not being shot at by the same defences which had destroyed the shuttle.

‘Ilia . . .’ Khouri breathed. ‘Ilia, you aren’t seriously thinking—’ And then, a moment later, ‘Oh shit. You were, weren’t you?’

‘What foolishness,’ the Madmemoiselle said.

The spider-room had detached itself from the hull, each of its eight legs releasing its grip simultaneously. Since the ship was still decelerating, the spider-room seemed to fall forwards with increasing speed. Ordinarily, so Volyova had said, the room would have fired its grapples at that point, to reestablish contact with the ship. Volyova must have disabled them, because the room kept falling, until its thrusters kicked in. Although Khouri was perceiving the scene via many different routes, and in some modes which would not have been assimilable to someone lacking the gunspace implants, a small aspect of that sensory stream was devoted to the optical, relayed from the external cameras on the ship. Via that channel she saw the thrusters burn violet-hot, jetting from pinprick-apertures around the midsection of the spider-room, where the torpedo-shaped body was attached to the turret from which sprouted the now purchaseless legs. The glare underlit the legs, picking them out in rapid strobing flashes as the room adjusted its fall, negated it and began to heave-to alongside the ship once more. But Volyova did not use the thrusters to bring the room within grasping range. After loitering for a few seconds, the room fell laterally away, accelerating towards the weapon.

‘Ilia . . . I really don’t think—’

‘Trust me,’ the Triumvir’s voice replied, cutting into gunspace as if she were speaking from halfway across the universe, not merely a few kilometres from Khouri’s position. ‘I’ve got what you might charitably refer to as a plan. Or at the very least an option on going out fighting.’

‘I’m not sure I liked the last bit.’

‘Me neither, in case you were wondering.’ Volyova paused. ‘Incidentally, Khouri, when all this is over - assuming we both survive all of this, which I admit isn’t exactly guaranteed at this juncture . . . I rather think we ought to set aside time for a little chat.’

Maybe she was talking to blank out the fear she must be feeling. ‘A little chat?’

‘About all of this. The whole problem with the gunnery. It might also be a chance for you to ease yourself of any . . . niggling little burdens you might have been well advised to share with me much earlier.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like who you are, for a start.’

The spider-room covered the distance to the weapon rapidly, using its thrusters to slow down, but still holding station relative to the ship, maintaining a standard one-gee aft burn. Even with its legs splayed, the spider-room was less than a third the size of the cache-weapon. It looked less like a spider now, and more like a hapless squid, about to vanish into the maw of a slowly cruising whale.

‘That’s going to take more than a little chat,’ Khouri said, feeling - with, she suspected, no little justification - that there was really no point holding much back from Volyova any more.

‘Good. Now excuse me for a moment; what I’m about to try is somewhat on the tricky side of downright impossible.’

‘She means suicidal,’ the Mademoiselle said.

‘You’re enjoying all this, aren’t you?’

‘Immensely - more so given that I have no control over anything that transpires.’

Volyova had positioned the spider-room near the projecting spike of the cache-weapon, although she was too far from it for the wriggling mechanical legs to gain a scramblehold on the pitted surface. In any case, the weapon was moving around now, oscillating slowly and randomly from side to side with fierce bursts of its own thrusters, seemingly trying to evade Volyova’s approach, but restricted in its movements by its own inertia - just as if the mighty hell-class weapon was scared of a tiny little spider. Khouri heard four rapid pops, almost too closely spaced to discriminate, as if a projectile weapon had emptied its chamber.

She watched as four grapple lines whipped out from the body of the spider-room, impacting silently with the cache-weapon’s spike. The grapples were penetrators; designed to burrow a few tens of centimetres into their target before widening, so once they had bitten home there was no possibility of their breaking loose. The guy lines were illuminated by the arcing thrusters, taut now, and the spider-room was already hauling itself in, even though the weapon had kept up its ponderous evasions.

‘Great,’ Khouri said. ‘I was all ready to shoot the bastard - now what do I do?’

‘You get a chance, you shoot,’ Volyova said. ‘If you can focus the blast away from me, I’ll take my chances - this room’s better armoured than you’d think.’ A moment’s silence, then: ‘Ah, good. Got you, you vicious piece of junk.’

She had the legs of the spider-room wrapped around the spike now. The weapon appeared to have given up all hope of dislodging her, and perhaps with good reason: it struck Khouri that Volyova had not achieved much, despite her valiant attempt. In all probability, the cache-weapon was not going to be greatly hindered by the arrival of the spider-room.

The struggle for control of the hull weapons had, meanwhile, resumed in earnest. Occasionally Khouri felt them budge slightly, the Mademoiselle’s systems momentarily losing the battle, but these tiny slippages were never enough to allow Khouri to target and deploy. And if Sun Stealer was assisting her, she did not feel it, although possibly that absence of presence was simply an artefact of his extreme cunning. Perhaps if Sun Stealer had not been there, she would have lost the battle completely, and - freed of this diversion - the Mademoiselle would already have unleashed whatever it was that the weapon held. Right now the distinction felt rather irrelevant. She had just noticed what it was that Volyova was doing. The spider-room’s thrusters were firing in concert now, resisting the thrust that the larger but clumsier weapon was applying.

Volyova was dragging the weapon downship, towards the spewing blue-white radiance that was the lighthugger’s nearest thrust-beam. She was going to kill the damned thing by taking it into the searing exhaust of the Conjoiner drive.

‘Ilia,’ Khouri said. ‘Are you sure this is . . . considered?’

‘Considered?’ This time there was no mistaking the woman’s clucking laughter, even though it sounded institutional. ‘It’s the most ill-considered thing I’ve ever done, Khouri. But right now I don’t see many alternatives. Not unless you get those guns online damn quickly.’

‘I’m . . . working on it.’

‘Well work on it some more and stop bothering me. In case it hadn’t occurred to you, I’ve got rather a lot on my mind right now.’

‘Her whole life flashing before her eyes, I should imagine.’

‘Oh, you again.’ Khouri ignored the Mademoiselle, realising by now that her interjections served the sly purpose of distracting her; that by doing so she was indeed interfering in the course of the battle; not nearly so ineffective a bystander as she maintained.

Volyova had now less than five hundred metres to go before she dragged the cache-weapon into the flames. It was putting up a fight, thrusters going haywire, but its overall thrust capacity was less than that of the spider-room. Understandable, Khouri thought. When its designers had conceived the ancillary systems which would be required to move and position the device, the idea that it would also have to fend for itself in a wrestling match had probably not been uppermost in their minds.

‘Khouri,’ Volyova said, ‘in about thirty seconds I’m going to release the svinoi. Assuming my sums are right, no amount of corrective thrust will be able to stop it drifting into the beam.’

‘That’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Well, sort of. But I feel I ought to warn you . . .’ Volyova’s voice faded in and out of clarity, reception compromised by the broiling energies of the propulsion beam, which she was now approaching at distances not usually considered wise for the organic. ‘It’s occurred to me that even if I succeed in destroying the cache-weapon . . . some part of the blast - something exotic, perhaps - might get sent back up the drive beam, into the propulsion core.’ A pause that was definitely intentional. ‘If that happens, the results might not be . . . optimal.’

‘Well, thanks,’ Khouri said. ‘I appreciate the morale-building.’

‘Damn,’ Volyova said, quietly and calmly. ‘There’s a slight flaw in my plan. The weapon must have hit the spider-room with some kind of defensive EM-pulse; either that or the radiation from the drive is interfering with the hardware.’ There was the sound - possibly - of someone making repeated attempts to throw antique metal switches on a console. ‘What I mean,’ Volyova said, ‘is that I don’t seem to be able to break free. I’m stuck to the bastard.’

‘Then shut off the damned drive - you can do that, can’t you?’

‘Of course; how do you think I killed Nagorny?’ But she didn’t sound optimistic. ‘Nyet - I’m locked out of the drive; must have blocked my intercession pathways when I ran Palsy . . .’ She was practically gabbling now. ‘Khouri, this is getting a tiny bit desperate . . . if you have those weapons . . .’

The Mademoiselle spoke now, sounding appropriately smug. ‘She’s dead, Khouri. And at the angle you’d now have to fire, half those weapons would be disabled to prevent them inflicting damage on the ship. You’ll be lucky to scorch the cache-weapon’s hull with what remains.’

She was right - almost without Khouri noticing, whole blocks of potentially available armament had safed themselves, since she was now requesting them to point dangerously close to critical ship components. What remained were the lightest armaments, almost by definition incapable of doing any serious damage.

Perhaps sensing this, something relented.

The weapons were suddenly more under Khouri’s control than not, and - she realised - the fact that the remaining systems were limited in their firepower was actually to her advantage. Her plan had changed. What she needed now was surgical precision, not brute force.

In the hiatus, before the weapons were regained by the Mademoiselle, Khouri ditched the prior target pattern and issued re-aiming orders. Her instructions were specific in the extreme. Now, oozing into position as if immersed in toffee, the weapons aligned themselves on the impact points she had selected. Not the cache-weapon now, but something else entirely . . .

‘Khouri,’ the Mademoiselle began, ‘I really think you should consider this . . .’

But by then Khouri had already fired.

Gouts of plasma streamed out towards the cache-weapon connecting - not with the weapon itself, but with the spider-room, neatly severing all eight of its legs, and then all four of its grapple-lines. The room flung itself away from the lancing spear of the drive, its legs truncated abruptly at the knees.

The cache-weapon drifted into the beam, like a moth brushing into an incandescent lamp.

What happened thereafter took place in an inhumanly brief series of instants; almost too rapid for Khouri to comprehend until afterwards. The physical exterior of the cache-weapon evaporated in a millisecond, boiling away in a gasp of predominantly metallic vapour. It was impossible to tell whether it was the touching of the beam which led to what followed, or whether, at the instant of its destruction, the cache-weapon was already committed to the act of turning itself inside out.

Either way, things did not proceed quite as its builders had intended.

Simultaneously - or as near as mattered - what was left of the cache-weapon beneath its eviscerated hide emitted a prolonged gravitational eruction, a burp of shearing spacetime. Something very horrible was happening to the fabric of reality in the immediate vicinity of the weapon, but not in the way which had been planned. A rainbow of bent starlight flickered around the curdling mass of plasma-energy. For a millisecond the rainbow was approximately spherical and stable, but then it began to wobble, oscillating unevenly like a soap-bubble on the point of bursting. A fraction of a millisecond later, it collapsed inwards, and accelerating exponentially, vanished.

For another moment there was nothing left, not even debris, just the normal star-speckled backdrop of space.

Then a glint of light appeared, shading to ultraviolet. The glint magnified and swelled, bloating into an intense, malignant sphere. The wave of expanding plasma hit the ship, juddering it so violently that Khouri felt the impact even with the cushioning gimbals of the gunnery. Data rushed in, telling her - not that she was particularly keen on knowing - that the blast had not seriously compromised any hull-based systems, and that the brief spike of background radiation from the flash was within tolerable norms. Gravimetric scans had abruptly returned to normal.

Spacetime had been punctured, penetrated at the quantum level, releasing a minuscule glint of Planck energy. Minuscule, that is, compared with the normally seething energies present in the spacetime foam. But beyond normal confinement that negligible release had been like a nuke going off next door. Spacetime had instantly healed itself, knitting back together before any real damage was done, leaving only a few surplus monopoles, low-mass quantum black holes and other anomalous/exotic particles as evidence that anything untoward had happened.

The cache-weapon had malfunctioned, badly.

‘Oh, very good,’ the Mademoiselle said, sounding more disappointed than anything. ‘I hope you’re proud of what you’ve done.’

But what had Khouri’s attention now was the absence streaking towards her, rushing through gunspace. She tried to back out in time; tried to disengage the link—

But she was not quite fast enough.

THIRTEEN

Resurgam Orbit, 2566

‘Seat,’ Volyova said, entering the bridge.

A chair craned eagerly towards her. She buckled herself in and then gunned the seat away from the bridge’s tiered walls, until she was orbiting the enormous holographic projection sphere which occupied the room’s middle.

The sphere was showing a view of Resurgam, although one might have easily concluded that it was really the desiccated eyeball of an ancient and mummified corpse, magnified several hundred times. But Volyova knew that the image was more than just an accurate portrayal of Resurgam dredged from the ship’s database. It was being imaged in realtime; captured by the cameras which were even now pointing down from the lighthugger’s hull.

Resurgam was not a beautiful planet, by anyone’s standards. Apart from the sullied white of the polar caps, the overall colour was a skullish grey, offset by scabs of rust and a few desultory chips of powder-blue near the equatorial zones. The larger oceanic water masses were still mostly cauled under ice, and those motes of exposed water were almost certainly being artificially warmed against freeze-over; either by thermal energy grids or carefully tailored metabolic processes. There were clouds, but they were wispy plumes rather than the great complex features Volyova knew one could usually expect from planetary weather systems. Here and there they thickened towards white opacity, but only in small gangliar knots near the settlements. Those were the places where the vapour factories were working, sublimating polar ice into water, oxygen and hydrogen. There were few patches of vegetation large enough to be seen without magnification down to kilometre-resolution, and by the same token no obvious visible evidence of human presence, save for a sprinkling of settlement lights when the planet’s nightside rolled around every ninety minutes. Even with the zoom, the settlements were elusive, since - with the exception of the capital - they tended to be sunk into the ground. Often, very little projected beyond the surface apart from antennae, landing pads and air-smoothed greenhouses. Of the capital . . .

Well, that was the disturbing part.

‘When does our window with Triumvir Sajaki open?’ she asked, snapping her gaze across the faces of the other crewmembers, whose seats were arranged in a loosely defined cluster, facing each other beneath the ashen light of the imaged planet.

‘Five minutes,’ Hegazi said. ‘Five tortuous minutes and then we’ll know what delights dear Sajaki has to share with us regarding our new colonist friends. Are you sure you can bear the agony of waiting?’

‘Why don’t you have a guess, svinoi?’

‘That wouldn’t be much of a challenge, would it?’ Hegazi was grinning, or at least trying very hard to approximate the gesture; no mean feat given the amount of chimeric accessories which encrusted his face. ‘Funny, if I didn’t know you better, I’d say you weren’t exactly enthralled by any of this.’

‘If he hasn’t found Sylveste . . .’

Hegazi raised a gauntleted hand. ‘Sajaki hasn’t even made his report yet. No sense jumping the gun . . .’

‘You’re confident he’ll have found him, then?’

‘Well, no. I didn’t say that.’

‘If there’s one thing I hate,’ Volyova said, looking coldly at the other Triumvir, ‘it’s mindless optimism.’

‘Oh, cheer up. Worse things happen.’

Yes, she had to admit, they did. And with an annoying regularity, they seemed to have decided to keep happening to her. What was astonishing about her recent run of misfortune was that it had managed to keep escalating with each new bout of bad luck. It had reached the point where she was beginning to look back nostalgically on the merely irksome problems she had encountered with Nagorny; when all she had to deal with was someone trying to kill her. It made her wonder - without a great deal of enthusiasm - if there would soon come a day when she would look back even on this period with longing.

The trouble with Nagorny had been the precursor, of course. It was obvious now; at the time she had regarded the whole thing as an isolated incident, but what it had really been was just the initial indications of something far worse in the future, like a heart murmur presaging an attack. She had killed Nagorny - but in doing so, she had not come to any understanding of the problem that had driven him psychotic. Then she had recruited Khouri, and the problems had not so much repeated themselves as reiterated a grander theme, like the second movement of a grim symphony. Khouri was not obviously mad - yet. But she had become a catalyst for a worse, less localised madness. There had been the storms in her head, beyond anything Volyova had ever seen. And then there had been the incident with the cache-weapon, which had almost killed Volyova, and might have gone on to kill all of them, and perhaps a significant number of the people on Resurgam as well.

‘It’s time for some answers, Khouri,’ she had said, before the others were revived.

‘Answers about what, Triumvir?’

‘Forget the charade of innocence,’ Volyova said. ‘I’m far too tired for it, and I assure you I will get to the truth one way or the other. During the crisis with the cache-weapon, you gave too much away. If you were hoping I would forget some of the things you said, you were mistaken.’

‘Like what?’ They were down in one of the rat-infested zones; it was, Volyova reckoned, as safe from Sajaki’s listening devices as any area of the ship save the spider-room itself.

She shoved Khouri against the wall, hard enough to knock some wind out of the woman; letting her know Volyova’s wiry strength should not be underestimated, nor her patience stretched too far. ‘Let me make something clear to you, Khouri. I killed Nagorny, your predecessor, because he failed me. I successfully concealed the truth of his death from the rest of the crew. Be under no illusions that I will do the same to you, if you give me sufficient justification.’

Khouri pushed herself back from the wall, regaining some colour. ‘What is it you want to know, exactly?’

‘You can start by telling me who you are. Begin with the assumption that I know you are an infiltrator.’

‘How can I be an infiltrator? You recruited me.’

‘Yes,’ Volyova said, for she had already thought this through. ‘That was the way it was made to seem, of course . . . but it was deception, wasn’t it? Whatever agency is behind you managed to manipulate my search procedure, making it seem as if I had selected you . . . whereas the choice was ultimately not mine at all.’ Volyova had to admit to herself that she had no direct evidence to support this, but it was the simplest hypothesis which fitted all the facts. ‘So, are you going to deny this?’

‘Why would you think I was an infiltrator?’

Volyova paused to light up a cigarette; one of those she had bought from the Stoners in the carousel where Khouri had been recruited, or found. ‘Because you seem to know too much about the gunnery. You seem to know something about Sun Stealer . . . and that troubles me deeply.’

‘You mentioned Sun Stealer shortly after you brought me aboard, don’t you remember?’

‘Yes, but your knowledge goes deeper than can be explained by the information you could have gleaned from me. In fact there are times when you seem to know somewhat more about the whole situation than I do.’ She paused. ‘There’s more to it than that, of course. The neural activity in your brain, during reefersleep . . . I should have examined the implants you came aboard with more carefully. They obviously aren’t all that they seem. Do you want to have a stab at explaining any of this?’

‘All right . . .’ Khouri’s tone of voice was different now. It was clear that she had given up any hope of bluffing her way out of this one. ‘But listen carefully, Ilia. I know you’ve got your little secrets, too - things you really don’t want Sajaki and the others to find out about. I’d already guessed about Nagorny, but there’s also the business with the cache-weapon. I know you don’t want that to become common knowledge, or you wouldn’t be going to such lengths to cover up the whole thing.’

Volyova nodded, knowing it would be fruitless to deny these things. Maybe Khouri even had an inkling of her relationship with the Captain. ‘What are you saying?’

‘I’m saying, whatever I say to you now, it had better stay between us. Isn’t that reasonable of me?’

‘I just said I could kill you, Khouri. You’re not exactly in a strong bargaining position.’

‘Yes, you could kill me - or at least have a go - but despite what you said, I doubt you’d manage to cover up my death as easily as you did Nagorny’s. Losing one Gunnery Officer is bad luck. Two begins to look like carelessness, doesn’t it?’

A rat scampered by, splashing them. Irritatedly, Volyova flicked her cigarette butt towards the animal, but it had already vanished through a duct in the wall. ‘So you’re saying I don’t even tell the others I know you’re an infiltrator?’

Khouri shrugged. ‘You do what you like. But how do you think Sajaki would take that? Whose fault would it have been that the infiltrator ever came aboard in the first place?’

Volyova took her time before answering. ‘You’ve got it all worked out, haven’t you?’

‘I knew you’d want to ask me some questions sooner or later, Triumvir.’

‘So let’s start with the obvious one. Who are you, and who are you working for?’

Khouri sighed and spoke with resignation. ‘A lot of what you already know is the truth. I’m Ana Khouri and I was a soldier on Sky’s Edge . . . although about twenty years earlier than you thought. As for the rest . . .’ She paused. ‘You know, I could really use some coffee.’

‘There isn’t any, so get used to it.’

‘All right. I was in the pay of another crew. I don’t know their names - there was never any direct contact - but they’ve been trying to get their hands on your cache-weapons for some time.’

Volyova shook her head. ‘Not possible. No one else knows about them.’

‘That’s what you’d like to think. But you have used parts of the cache, right? There must have been survivors, witnesses, you never knew about. Gradually word got about that your ship was carrying some serious shit. Maybe no one knew the whole picture, but they knew enough of it to want to have their own slice of the cache.’

Volyova was silent. What Khouri was saying was shocking - like finding out that her most private of habits was public knowledge - but, she had to admit, not beyond the bounds of possibility. Conceivably there had been a leak. Crew had left the ship, after all - not always willingly - and while those who had done so were not supposed to have had access to anything sensitive - certainly nothing pertaining to the cache - there was always the chance that an error had been made. Or perhaps, as Khouri had said, someone had witnessed the cache being used and had lived to pass on that information.

‘This other crew - you may not have known their names, but did you know what their ship was called?’

‘. . . no. That would have been just as sloppy as letting me know who they were, wouldn’t it?’

‘What did you know, in that case? How were they expecting to steal the cache from us?’

‘That’s where Sun Stealer comes into it. Sun Stealer was a military virus they snuck aboard your ship when you were last in the Yellowstone system. A very smart, adaptive piece of infiltration software. It was designed to worm its way into enemy installations and wage psychological warfare on the occupants, driving them mad through subliminal suggestion.’ Khouri paused, giving Volyova time to digest that. ‘But your own defences were too good. Sun Stealer was weakened, and the strategy never really worked. So they bided their time. They didn’t get another chance until you were back in the Yellowstone system, nearly a century later. I was the next line of attack: get a human infiltrator aboard.’

‘How was the original viral attack made?’

‘They got it in via Sylveste. They knew all about you bringing him aboard to fix up your Captain. They planted the software on him without him knowing, then let it infect your systems while he was hooked in to your medical suite, fixing the Captain.’

There was, Volyova thought, something deeply and worryingly plausible about that. It was just an example of another crew being as predatory as they were. It would be arrogance in the extreme to assume that only Sajaki’s Triumvirate were capable of such subterfuge.

‘And what was your function?’

‘To assess the state of Sun Stealer’s corruption of your gunnery systems. If possible, to gain control of the ship. Resurgam was a good destination for that - sufficiently out of the way not to be under any kind of system-wide police jurisdiction. If a takeover could be staged, there would be no one to observe it except maybe a few colonists.’ Khouri sighed. ‘But believe me, that plan’s well and truly shit-canned. The Sun Stealer program was flawed; too dangerous and too adaptive. It drew too much attention to itself when it drove Nagorny mad - but on the other hand, he was the only one it could reach. Then it started screwing around with the cache itself . . .’

‘The rogue weapon.’

‘Yeah. That scared me, as well.’ Khouri shivered. ‘I knew Sun Stealer was too powerful by then. There was nothing I could do to control it.’

Over the next few days, Volyova would ask Khouri more questions, testing different aspects of her story against what passed for the known facts. Certainly, Sun Stealer could have been some kind of infiltration software . . . even if it was more subtle, more insidious, than anything she had heard of in all her years of experience. But did that mean she could dismiss it? No; of course not. After all, she knew the thing existed. Khouri’s story, in fact, was the first explanation she had encountered that made any kind of objective sense at all. It explained why her attempts to cure Nagorny had failed. He had not been sent mad by any subtle combination of effects stemming from her gunnery implants. He had been driven mad, purely and simply, by an entity that had been designed for just that purpose. No wonder it had been so hard to find any explanation for Nagorny’s problems. Of course, there remained the irksome question of why exactly Nagorny’s madness had expressed itself so forcefully in the manner it had - all those fevered sketches of nightmarish birds’ parts, and the designs on his coffin - but who was to say that Sun Stealer had not simply amplified some pre-existing psychosis, letting Nagorny’s subconscious work with whatever imagery suited it?

The mysterious other crew could also not be dismissed too easily. Shipboard records revealed that another lighthugger - the Galatea - had been present in Yellowstone on both occasions when they had last visited the system. Could they have been the crew responsible for sending Khouri aboard?

For now, it was as good an explanation as any. And one thing was absolutely clear. Khouri was quite right in saying that none of this information could be presented to the rest of the Triumvirate. Sajaki would indeed blame Volyova totally for what was a grievous lapse in security. He would punish Khouri, of course . . . but Volyova could also expect some kind of retribution. The way their relationship had been strained of late, it was entirely possible that Sajaki would try and kill her. He might succeed, too - he was at least as strong as Volyova. It would not greatly trouble him that he would be losing his chief weapons expert and the only person who had any real insight into the cache. His argument would no doubt be that she had already demonstrated her incompetence in that regard. But there was something else, too: something Volyova could not entirely dismiss. No matter what had really transpired with the cache-weapon, the unavoidable truth was that Khouri had saved Volyova’s life.

Hateful though the thought was, she owed the infiltrator.

Her only option, when she considered the situation dispassionately, was to proceed as if nothing had happened. Khouri’s mission was in any case no longer viable; there would be no attempted takeover now. The woman’s hidden reason for being aboard the ship had no impact on the upcoming attempt to bring Sylveste aboard again, and in many respects Khouri would be needed simply as a crewmember. Now that Volyova knew the truth, and now that the original purpose of Khouri’s mission had been abandoned, Khouri would surely do everything in her power to fit into her pre-assigned position. It hardly mattered whether the loyalty treatments were working or not: Khouri would have to behave as if they were, and gradually the act would become indistinguishable from the truth. She might not even want to leave the ship when the opportunity arose to do so. After all, there were worse places to be. Over months or years of subjective time, she would become one of the crew, and her past duplicity could remain a secret shared only by her and Volyova. In time, it might even be something Volyova almost forgot.

Eventually, Volyova managed to convince herself that the infiltration question had been settled. Sun Stealer would remain a problem, of course - but now Khouri would be working with her to conceal it from Sajaki. And in the meantime, there were other things that needed to be concealed from the Triumvir. Volyova had set herself the task of eradicating every shred of evidence that the cache-weapon incident had ever happened. She had intended to do this before Sajaki and the others were revived, but it had not proved easy. Her first task had been to repair the damage to the lighthugger itself, patching the areas of the hull which had been hurt by the weapon’s detonation. Largely this consisted of coaxing the auto-repair routines to work faster, but she also had to ensure that all pre-existing scars, impact-craters, or areas of imperfect repair were precisely duplicated. She then had to hack into the auto-repair memory and erase the knowledge that the repairs had been orchestrated at all. She had to repair the spider-room, even though Sajaki and the others were not meant to know it even existed. Better to be safe than sorry, though, and that had been by far the simplest of the repairs. Next, she had to erase all evidence that the Palsy routine had been run; at least a week’s work.

The loss of the shuttle was much harder to hide. For a while, she considered making a new one: harvesting tiny amounts of raw materials from all over the ship, until she had what she needed. She would only have to use one ninety-thousandth of the entire mass of the ship. But it was too risky, and she doubted her ability to weather the shuttle authentically; to make it look as old as it should have been. Instead, she took the simpler option of editing the ship’s database so that it would always look as if there had been one shuttle fewer aboard. Sajaki might notice - all the crew might notice - but there would be absolutely nothing that anyone could prove. Finally, of course, she remade the cache-weapon. It was only a façade; a replica designed to lurk in the cache chamber and look threatening on the rare occasions when Sajaki paid a visit to her domain. Covering her tracks took six days of manic work. On the seventh day she rested, and endeavoured to compose herself, so that none of the others would guess what labours she had been through. On the eighth day Sajaki had awakened and asked her what she had been up to in the years he had been in reefersleep.

‘Oh,’ she had said. ‘Nothing to write home about.’

His reaction - like much else about Sajaki these days - had been difficult to judge. Even if she had succeeded this time, she thought, she could not risk another mistake. Yet, already - though they had not even made contact with the colonists - things were drifting beyond the arena of her understanding. Her thoughts returned to the neutrino signature she had detected around the system’s neutron star, and of the feeling of unease which had been with her ever since. The source was still there, and while it remained weak, she had now studied it well enough to know that it was in orbit not just around the neutron star, but also around the moon-sized rocky world which attended the star. It had certainly not been present when the system had been surveyed decades earlier, immediately suggesting that it was something to do with the colony on Resurgam. But how could they have sent it? The colonists did not even seem capable of reaching orbit, let alone sending some kind of probe to the edge of their system. Even the ship which should have brought them here was missing; she had expected to find the Lorean in orbit around Resurgam, but there was no sign of it. Now, no matter what the evidence said, she kept in the back of her mind the possibility that the colonists might be capable of something completely unexpected. It was another burden to add to her mounting stockpile of worries.

‘Ilia?’ said Hegazi. ‘We’re almost ready now. The capital’s about to emerge from nightside.’

She nodded. The ship’s high-magnification cameras, dotted around the hull, would be zooming in on a very specific site several kilometres beyond the city boundary, focusing on a spot which had been identified and agreed upon before Sajaki’s departure. If no misfortune had befallen him, he should now be waiting at that spot, standing on the upper surface of an unshielded mesa, looking directly towards the rising sun. Timing was critical here, but Volyova did not doubt that Sajaki would be on the mark.

‘Got him,’ Hegazi said. ‘Image stabilisers phasing in . . .’

‘Show us.’

A window opened in the globe near the capital, rapidly swelling. At first what lay within the window was unclear; a blurred smear that might have been a man standing on a rock. But the image quickly sharpened, until the figure was recognisably Sajaki. In place of the bulky adaptive armour which Volyova had last seen him wearing, Sajaki wore an ash-coloured overcoat, its long tails flapping around his booted legs, evidencing the mild wind playing over the mesa’s topside. The suit’s collar was drawn up around his ears, but his face was unobstructed.

It was not quite his own. Prior to leaving the ship, Sajaki’s features had been subtly remoulded, according to an averaged ideal derived from the genetic profiles of the original expedition members who had travelled to Resurgam from Yellowstone, in turn reflecting the Franco-Sino genes of the Yellowstone settlers. Sajaki would arouse nothing more than a curious glance if he chose to walk through the capital’s streets at midday. There was nothing to betray him as a newcomer, not even his accent. Linguistic software had analysed the dozen or so Stoner dialects carried by the expedition members, applying complex lexicostatistic models to merge these modes of speech into a new, planetwide dialect for Resurgam as a whole. If Sajaki chose to communicate with any of the settlers, his look, cover-story and manner of speaking would convince them that he was merely from one of the remoter planetary settlements, not an offworlder.

That at least was the idea.

Sajaki carried no technological implements which would give him away, save the implants beneath his skin. A conventional surface-to-orbit communication system would have been too susceptible to detection, and far too difficult to explain had he been captured for some reason or other. Yet now he was speaking; reciting a phrase repeatedly, while the ship’s infrared sensors examined the bloodflow around Sajaki’s mouth region, assembling a model of his underlying muscular and jaw movements. By correlating these movements against the extensive archives of actual conversation already recorded, the ship could begin to guess the sounds he was making. The final step was to include grammatical, syntactical and semantic models for the words Sajaki was likely to be saying. It sounded complex - it was - but to Volyova’s ears there was no perceptible timelag between his lip movements and the simulated voice she was hearing, eerily clear and precise.

‘I must presume you can now hear me,’ he said. ‘For the record, let this be my first report from the surface of Resurgam after landing. You will forgive me if I occasionally digress from the point, or express myself with a certain inelegance. I did not write this report down beforehand; it would have constituted too great a security risk if I were found with it while leaving the capital. Things are very different than we expected.’

True enough, Volyova thought. The colonists - or at least a faction of them - certainly knew that a ship had arrived around Resurgam. They had bounced a radar beam off it, surreptitiously. But they had made no attempt to contact Infinity - no more so than the ship had attempted to contact anyone on the ground. As much as the neutrino source, that worried her. It spoke of paranoia, and hidden intentions - and not just her own. But she forced herself not to think about that now, for Sajaki was still speaking, and she did not want to miss any of what he had to report.

‘I have much to tell concerning the colony,’ he said, ‘and this window is short. So I will begin with the news you are undoubtedly waiting for. We have located Sylveste; now it is simply a matter of bringing him into our custody.’

Sluka was pushing coffee down her throat, sitting across from Sylveste with a black oblong table positioned between them. Early morning Resurgam sun was filtering into the room via half-closed jalousies, casting fiery contours across her skin.

‘I need your opinion on something.’

‘Visitors?’

‘How astute.’ She poured him a cup, offered the palm of her hand towards the chair. Sylveste sank down into the seat, until he was the lower of the two. ‘Indulge my curiosity, Doctor Sylveste, and tell me exactly what you’ve heard.’

‘I’ve heard nothing.’

‘Then it won’t take much of your time.’

He smiled through the fog of tiredness. For the second time in a day he had been awakened by her guards, dragged in a state of semi-consciousness and disorientation from his room. He still smelt Pascale, her scent cloaking him, and wondered if she was still sleeping in her own cell somewhere across Mantell. As lonely as he now felt, the feeling was tempered by the gladdening news that she was alive and unharmed. They had told him as much in the days before their meeting, but he had had no reason to believe Sluka’s people were telling the truth. What use, after all, was Pascale to the True Pathers? Even less than he - and it was already clear enough that Sluka had been debating the value of retaining him alive.

Yet now, perceptibly, things were changing. He had been allowed time with Pascale, and he believed that this would not be the only occasion. Did this development stem from some basic humanity on Sluka’s behalf, or did it imply something entirely different - perhaps that she might have need of one of them in the near future, and that now was the time when she had to begin winning favour?

Sylveste swigged the coffee, blasting away his residual tiredness. ‘All I’ve heard is that there may be visitors. From then on I drew my own conclusions.’

‘Which I presume you’d care to share with me.’

‘Perhaps we could discuss Pascale for a moment?’

She peered at him over the rim of her cup, before nodding with the delicacy of a clockwork marionette. ‘You’re venturing an exchange of knowledge in return for - what? Certain relaxations in the regime under which you’re held?’

‘That wouldn’t be unreasonable, I feel.’

‘It would all depend on the quality of your speculations.’

‘Speculations?’

‘As to who these visitors might be.’ Sluka glanced towards the slatted rising sun, eyes narrowed against the ruby-red glare. ‘I value your point of view, though heaven knows why.’

‘First you’d have to tell me what it is you know.’

‘We’ll come to that.’ Sluka bit on a smile. ‘First I should admit that I have you at something of a disadvantage.’

‘In what way?’

‘Who are these people, if they aren’t Remilliod’s crew?’

Her remark meant that his conversations with Pascale - and by implication everything that had gone on between them - had been monitored. The knowledge shocked him less than he would have expected. He had obviously suspected it must be so the whole time, but perhaps he had preferred to ignore his own qualms.

‘Very good, Sluka. You ordered Falkender to mention the visitors, didn’t you? That was quite clever of you.’

‘Falkender was just doing his job. Who are they, then? Remilliod already has experience trading with Resurgam. Wouldn’t it make sense for him to return here for a second bite?’

‘Much too soon. He’ll have barely had time to reach another system, let alone anything with trading prospects.’ Sylveste freed himself of the chair’s embrace, strolling to the slatted window. Through the iron jalousies he watched the northerly faces of the nearest mesas radiate cool orange, like stacked books on the point of bursting into flame. The thing he noticed now was the bluer tone of the sky; no longer crimson. That was because megatonnes of dust had been removed from the winds; replaced with water vapour. Or maybe it was a trick of his impaired colour perception.

Fingering the glass, he said, ‘Remilliod would never return so quickly. He’s among the shrewdest of traders, with very few exceptions.’

‘Then who is it?’

‘It’s the exceptions I’m bothered about.’

Sluka called an aide to remove the coffee. With the table bare, she invited Sylveste back to his seat. Then she printed a document from the table and offered it to him.

‘The information you’re about to see reached us three weeks ago, from a contact in the East Nekhebet flare-watch station.’

Sylveste nodded. He knew about the flare-watches. He had pushed to set them up himself; small observatories dotted around Resurgam, monitoring the star for evidence of abnormal emission.

Reading was too much like trying to decipher Amarantin script: creeping letter by letter along a word until the meaning snapped into his mind. Cal had known that much of reading boiled down to mechanics - the physiology of eye movement along the line. He had built routines into Sylveste’s eyes to accommodate this need, but it had not been within Falkender’s gift to restore everything.

Still, this much was clear:

The flare-watch in East Nekhebet had picked up an energy pulse, much brighter than anything seen previously. Briefly, there was the worrying possibility that Delta Pavonis was about to repeat the flare which had wiped out the Amarantin: the vast coronal mass ejection known as the Event. But closer examination revealed that the flare did not originate from the star, but rather from something several light-hours beyond it, on the edge of the system.

Analysis of the spectral pattern of the gamma-ray flash indicated that it was subject to a small but measurable Doppler shift; a few per cent of the speed of light. The conclusion was inescapable: the flash originated from a ship, on the final phase of deceleration from interstellar cruising speed.

‘Something happened,’ Sylveste said, absorbing the news of the ship’s demise with calm neutrality. ‘Some kind of malfunction in the drive.’

‘That was our guess as well.’ Sluka tapped the paper with her fingernail. ‘A few days later we knew it couldn’t possibly be the case. The thing was still there - faint, but unmistakable.’

‘The ship survived the blast?’

‘Whatever it was. By then we were getting a detectable blueshift off the drive flame. Deceleration was continuing normally, as if the explosion had never happened.’

‘You’ve got a theory for this, I presume.’

‘Half of one. We think the blast originated from a weapon. What kind, we haven’t a clue. But nothing else could have liberated so much energy.’

‘A weapon?’ Sylveste tried to keep his voice completely calm, allowing only natural curiosity to show, purging it of the emotions he really felt, which were largely variations on pure dread.

‘Odd, don’t you think?’

Sylveste leant forwards, a damp chill along his spine.

‘These visitors - whoever they are, I presume they understand the situation here.’

‘The political picture, you mean? Unlikely.’

‘But they’d have attempted contact with Cuvier.’

‘That’s the funny thing. Nothing from them. Not a squeak.’

‘Who knows this?’

His voice by now was almost inaudible, even to himself, as if someone were standing on his windpipe.

‘About twenty people on the colony. People with access to the observatories, a dozen or so of us here; somewhat fewer in Resurgam City . . . Cuvier.’

‘It isn’t Remilliod.’

Sluka let the paper be reabsorbed by the table, its sensitive content digested away.

‘Then do you have any suggestions as to who it might be?’

Sylveste wondered how close to hysteria his laugh sounded. ‘If I’m right about this - and I’m not often wrong - this isn’t just bad news for me, Sluka. This is bad news for all of us.’

‘Go on.’

‘It’s a long story.’

She shrugged. ‘I’m not going anywhere in a hurry. Nor are you.’

‘Not for now, certainly.’

‘What?’

‘Just a suspicion of my own.’

‘Stop playing games, Sylveste.’

He nodded, knowing there was no real point in holding back. He had shared the deepest of his fears with Pascale already, and for Sluka it would now be just a case of filling in the gaps; things which were unobvious from her eavesdropping. If he resisted, he knew, she would find a way to learn what she wished, either from him or - worse - Pascale.

‘It goes back a long way,’ he said. ‘Way back, to the time when I’d just returned to Yellowstone from the Shrouders. You recall that I disappeared back then, don’t you?’

‘You always denied anything had happened.’

‘I was kidnapped by Ultras,’ Sylveste said, not waiting to observe her reaction. ‘Taken aboard a lighthugger in orbit around Yellowstone. One of their number was injured, and they wanted me to . . . “repair” him, I suppose.’ ‘Repair him?’

‘The Captain was an extreme chimeric.’

Sluka shivered. It was clear that - like most colonialists - her experience with the radically altered fringes of Ultra society had been confined largely to lurid holo-dramas.

‘They were not ordinary Ultras,’ Sylveste said, seeing no reason not to play on Sluka’s phobias. ‘They’d been out there too long; too long away from what we’d think of as normal human existence. They were isolated even by normal Ultra standards; paranoid; militaristic . . .’

‘But even so . . .’

‘I know what you’re thinking - that, even if these were some outlandish offshoot culture, how bad could they be?’ Sylveste deployed a supercilious smile and shook his head. ‘That’s exactly what I thought, at first. Then I found out more about them.’

‘Such as?’

‘You mentioned a weapon? Well, they have them. They have weapons which could comfortably dismantle this planet, should they wish.’

‘But they wouldn’t use them without reason.’

Sylveste smiled. ‘We’ll find out when they reach Resurgam, I think.’

‘Yes . . .’ Sluka said this last word on a falling note. ‘Actually, they’re already here. The explosion happened three weeks ago, but the - um - significance of it was not immediately clear. In the meantime they’ve decelerated and assumed orbit around Resurgam. ’

Sylveste took a moment to regulate his breathing, wondering just how deliberate Sluka’s piecewise revelation was. Had she really neglected to mention this detail - or had she spared it, disclosing the facts in a manner calculated to keep him permanently disorientated?

If so, she was succeeding admirably.

‘Wait a minute,’ Sylveste said. ‘Just now you said only a few people knew about this. But how easy would it be to miss a lighthugger orbiting a planet?’

‘Easier than you imagine. Their ship’s the darkest object in the system. It radiates in the infrared, of course - it must do - but it seems able to tune its emissions to the frequencies of our atmospheric vapour bands; the frequencies which don’t penetrate down to the surface. If we hadn’t spent the last twenty years putting so much water into the atmosphere . . .’ Sluka shook her head ruefully. ‘In any case, it doesn’t matter. Right now, no one’s paying much attention to the sky. They could have arrived lit up in neon and no one would have noticed.’

‘But instead they haven’t even announced their presence.’

‘Worse than that. They’ve done everything possible not to let us know they’re here. Except for that damn weapon blast . . .’ For a moment she trailed off, looking towards the window, before snapping her attention back to Sylveste. ‘If these people are who you think, you must have an idea what it is they want.’

‘That’s easy enough, I think. What they want is me.’

Volyova listened intently to the rest of Sajaki’s report from the surface. ‘Very little information had reached Yellowstone from Resurgam; even less after the first mutiny. We now know that Sylveste survived the mutiny, but was ousted in a coup ten years later; ten years ago from the present date. He was imprisoned - in some luxury, I might add - at the expense of the new regime, who saw him as a useful political tool. Such a situation would have suited us extremely well, since Sylveste’s whereabouts would have been easy to deduce. We would also have been in the fortunate position of being able to negotiate with people who might have had few qualms about turning him over to us. Now, however, the situation is immeasurably more complex.’

Sajaki paused at this point, and Volyova noticed that he had turned slightly, bringing a new background into view behind him. Their angle of sight was altering as they passed overhead and to the south, but Sajaki was aware of this and was making the necessary adjustments in his position to keep his face in view of the ship at all times. To an observer on one of the other mesas he would have looked strange indeed: a silent figure facing the horizon, whispering unguessable incantations, slowly pivoting on his heels with almost watchlike precision. No one could have guessed that he was engaged in one-way communication with an orbiting spacecraft, rather than lost in the observances of some private madness.

‘As we ascertained as soon as we were in scan range, the capital Cuvier has been gutted by a number of large explosions. As we were also able to deduce by examining the degree of reconstruction, these events happened very recently on the colonial timescale. My investigations here have established that the second coup - when these weapons were used - took place barely eight months ago. However, the coup was not entirely successful. The old regime still control what remains of Cuvier, though their leader - Girardieau - was killed during the disturbance. The True Path Inundationists - those responsible for the attacks - control many of the outlying settlements, but they seem to lack cohesion, and may even have fallen into factional squabbles. In the week in which I have been here there have been nine attacks against the city, and some suspect internal saboteurs: True Path infiltrators working from within the ruins.’ Sajaki collected his thoughts at this point, and Volyova wondered if he felt some distant kinship with the infiltrators he had mentioned. If so, there was not a hint of it in his expression.

‘Concerning my own actions, my first task, of course, was to order the suit to dismantle itself. It would have been tempting to use it to make the journey overland to Cuvier, but the risk would have been excessive. Yet the journey was easier than I had feared, and on the outskirts I hitched a ride with a gang of pipeline technicians returning from the north, using them as cover to enter Cuvier. They were suspicious at first, but the vodka soon persuaded them to take me aboard their vehicle. I told them we distilled it in Phoenix, the settlement where I said I’d come from. They’d never heard of Phoenix, but they were more than happy to drink to it.’

Volyova nodded. The vodka - along with a satchel-full of trinkets - had been manufactured aboard ship shortly before Sajaki’s departure.

‘People mostly live underground now, in catacombs which were dug fifty or sixty years ago. Of course, the air is tolerably adapted for breathing, but you have my assurance that the procedure is not exactly comfortable, and one is never far away from the onset of hypoxia. The exertion which was required to reach this mesa was considerable.’

Volyova smiled to herself. If Sajaki even admitted such a thing, his ascent of the mesa must have been close to torture.

‘They say that the True Pathers have access to Martian genetic technology,’ he continued, ‘which facilitates easier breathing, though I’ve seen nothing to prove this. My pipeline friends helped me find a room in a hostel used by miners from beyond the city, which of course fitted in perfectly with my cover story. I wouldn’t describe the accommodation as salubrious, but it suited my purpose well enough, which was of course to gather data. In the course of my enquiries,’ Sajaki added, ‘I learnt much that was contradictory, or at best vague.’

Sajaki had now turned almost from horizon to horizon. The sun was now beyond his right shoulder, making his image increasingly difficult to interpret. The ship, of course, would simply switch to infrared, reading Sajaki’s speech in the shifting blood-patterns of his face.

‘Eyewitnesses say Sylveste and his wife managed to escape the assassination attempt which killed Girardieau, but they have not resurfaced since. That was eight months ago. The people I have spoken to, and the covert data sources I have intercepted, lead me to one conclusion. Sylveste is someone’s prisoner again, except this time he is being held outside the city, probably by one of the True Path cells.’

Volyova was tense now. She could see where all this was leading: there had always been a kind of inevitability to it. The only difference was that in this case it stemmed from what she knew about Sajaki, rather than the man he sought.

‘It would be futile to negotiate with the official powers here - whoever they are,’ Sajaki said. ‘I doubt that they could give us Sylveste even if they wanted to hand him over, which of course they wouldn’t. Which unfortunately leaves us only one option.’

Volyova bridled. Here it was.

‘We must arrange things so that it is in the best interests of the colony as a whole to give us Sylveste.’ Sajaki smiled again, teeth flashing against the shadow of his face. ‘Needless to say, I have already begun laying the necessary groundwork.’ And now he really was addressing her directly, no doubt about it. ‘Volyova; you may make the necessary formal overtures at your discretion.’

Ordinarily she might have felt some consolatory pleasure at having judged Sajaki’s intentions so accurately. Not now. All she felt was a slow-burning horror, the realisation that, after all this time, he was going to ask her to do it again. And the worst component of her horror stemmed from the realisation that she would probably do what he wanted.

‘Go on,’ Volyova said. ‘It won’t bite.’

‘I do know suits, Triumvir.’ Khouri paused, and took a step into the room’s whiteness. ‘It’s just I didn’t think I’d see one again. Let alone get to actually wear the bastard.’

The four waiting suits rested against the wall in the oppressively white storage room, six hundred levels below the bridge, adjacent to Chamber Two, where the training session would take place.

‘Listen to her,’ one of the two other women present said. ‘Talking as if she’s going to do more than just wear the damn thing for a few minutes. It’s not like you’re going down with us, Khouri, so don’t wet yourself.’

‘Thanks for the advice, Sudjic - I’ll bear it it in mind.’

Sudjic shrugged - a sneer would have been too much of an emotional expenditure, Khouri figured - and stepped towards her designated suit, followed by her companion, Sula Kjarval. Preparing to welcome their occupants, the suits resembled frogs which had been exsanguinated, eviscerated, dissected, stretched and pinned out on a vertical table. In their current configurations the suits were at their most androform, with well-defined legs and outstretched arms. There were no fingers on the ‘hands’ - for that matter, no obvious hands at all, simply streamlined flippers - although at the user’s wish the suits could extrude the necessary manipulators and digits.

Khouri did indeed know suits, just as she had claimed. The suits on Sky’s Edge had been rare imports, purchased from Ultra traders who made stopover around the war-torn planet. No one on the Edge had the expertise to actually duplicate them, which meant that those units which her side had bought were fabulously valuable: powerful totems dispensed from gods.

The suit scanned her, assessing her bodily dimensions before adjusting its own interior to precisely match her contours. Khouri then allowed it to step forward and surround her, suppressing the tinge of claustrophobia that accompanied the process. Within a few seconds the suit had locked tight and filled itself with gel-air, enabling manoeuvres which would otherwise have crushed its occupant. The suit’s persona interrogated Khouri regarding small details she might wish changed, allowing her to customise her weapons suite and adjust its autonomous routines. Of course, none but the lightest weapons would actually be deployed in Chamber Two; the combat scenarios which were to be enacted would be a seamless mixture of real, physical action and simulated weapons-usage, but it was the point that counted. One had to treat every aspect of the enterprise with the utmost seriousness, including the limitless choices which the suit offered for the convenience of despatching any enemies who might have the misfortune to stray into its sphere of superiority.

There were three of them, apart from Khouri herself, but she was the only one who was not in serious contention for the surface operation. Volyova took the lead. Although her conversations with Khouri suggested that she had been born in space, she had visited planets on more than one occasion, and had acquired the appropriate, near-instinctive reflexes which bettered the chances of surviving a planetary excursion; not least amongst these being a profound respect for the law of gravitation. The same went for Sudjic; she had been born in a habitat, or possibly a lighthugger, but had visited enough worlds to gain the right moves. Her bladelike thinness, which made it look as if she could not possibly have taken a footstep on a large planet without breaking every bone in her body, did not fool Khouri for a moment; Sudjic was like a building designed by a master architect, who knew the precise stresses which had to be obeyed by every articulation and strut, and took an aesthetic pride in allowing for no additional tolerances. Kjarval, the woman who was always with Sudjic, was different again. Unlike her friend, she exhibited no extreme chimeric traits; all her limbs her own. But she resembled no human Khouri had ever known. Her face was sleek, as if optimised for some unspecified aquatic environment. Her catlike eyes were gridded red orbs with no pupils. Her nostrils and ears were rilled apertures, and her mouth was a largely expressionless slot; one that barely moved when the woman spoke, but was permanently curved in an expression of mild exaltation. She wore no clothes; not even in the relative cool of the suit storage room, yet to Khouri’s eyes she did not seem truly naked. Rather, she looked like a naked woman who had been dipped in some infinitely flexible, quick-drying polymer. A true Ultra, in other words, of uncertain and almost certainly non-Darwinian provenance. Khouri had heard tales of bioengineered human splinter-species cultured under the ice of worlds like Europa, or of merpeople, bio-adapted for life in totally flooded spacecraft. Kjarval seemed to be the living, freakishly hybrid embodiment of these myths. Alternatively, she might be something else entirely. Maybe she had wrought these transformations on herself for a whim. Maybe they were purposeless, or served only the deeper purpose of masking another identity entirely. Whatever; she knew worlds, and that - seemingly - was all that mattered.

Sajaki knew worlds as well, of course, but he was already on Resurgam, and it was not clear what role he would play in the recovery of Sylveste, if and when it happened. Of Triumvir Hegazi Khouri knew little, but through chance remarks, she had gleaned enough to know that the man had never set foot on anything which had not been manufactured. It was no wonder that Sajaki and Volyova had relegated Triumvir Hegazi to the more clerical aspects of their profession. He would not be allowed - nor did he even wish - to make the journey to Resurgam’s surface, when the time came.

Which left Khouri. There was no arguing with her experience; unlike any of the crew, she had demonstrably been born and raised on a planet, and - vitally - had seen action on one. It was probable - nothing she had heard led her to doubt the fact - that the Sky’s Edge war had placed her in situations far graver than any the crew had experienced beyond their ship. Their excursions had been shopping trips, trade missions or simple tourism; coming down to gloat at the compressed lives of ephemerals. Khouri had been in situations where, at times, it had seemed very unlikely that she would survive. Yet - because she had never been anything less than a competent soldier, and she was also lucky - she had come through relatively unscathed.

No one aboard the ship actually argued with this.

‘It’s not that we wouldn’t want you along,’ Volyova had said, not long after the incident with the cache-weapon. ‘Far from it. I’ve no doubt that you’d handle a suit as well as any of us, and you wouldn’t be likely to freeze under fire.’

‘Well, then . . .’

‘But I can’t risk losing my Gunnery Officer again.’ They had been having the discussion in the spider-room, but Volyova had lowered her voice all the same. ‘Only three people need to go down to Resurgam, and that means we don’t have to use you. Apart from me, Sudjic and Kjarval can handle the suits. In fact we’ve already begun training up.’

‘Then at least let me join in the sessions.’

Volyova had raised an arm, apparently to dimiss this suggestion. But as soon as she had done so she relented. ‘All right, Khouri. You get to train with us. But it doesn’t mean anything, understand?’

Oh yes, she understood. Things were different between Khouri and Volyova now - they had been ever since Khouri had told Volyova the lie about being an infiltrator for another crew. The Mademoiselle had long ago primed her for that particular little chat and it seemed to have worked perfectly, even down to the sly way the Galatea - completely innocent, of course - had deliberately not been mentioned, leaving Volyova to make that deduction herself, and thereby allowing her to feel some quiet satisfaction in the process. It was a red herring, but it mattered only that Volyova found it a plausible one. Volyova had also accepted the story about Sun Stealer being a piece of human-designed infiltration software, and for now her curiosity seemed satisfied. Now they were almost equals, both having something to hide from the rest of the crew, even if what Volyova thought she had on Khouri was not even close to the truth.

‘I understand,’ Khouri said.

‘Still, it’s a shame, though.’ Volyova smiled. ‘I get the impression you always wanted to meet Sylveste. You’ll get your chance, of course, once we bring him aboard . . .’

Khouri smiled. ‘That’ll have to do then, won’t it?’

Chamber Two was an empty twin of the chamber where the cache-weapons were kept.

Unlike the weapon-filled chamber, it had been pressurised up to one standard atmosphere. This was no mere extravagance; it constituted the largest single pocket of breathable air aboard the lighthugger, and was therefore used as a reservoir for supplying normally vacuum-filled regions of the ship with air when they needed to be entered by unsuited humans.

Usually the drive would have supplied an illusory one-gee of gravity, acting along the long axis of the ship, which was also the long axis of the roughly cylindrical chamber. But now that the drive had been quenched - now that the ship was in orbit around Resurgam - the illusion of gravity came from rotating the whole chamber, which meant that gravity acted at ninety degrees to the long axis, pushing radially outwards from the chamber’s middle. Near the middle, there was almost no gravity at all; objects could free-float there for minutes before their inevitable small initial drift slowly pushed them away from the middle. Thereafter, the increasing wind-pressure of the co-rotating air would tug them faster and lower. But nothing ‘fell’ in straight lines in the chamber, at least not from the point of view of someone standing on the rotating wall.

They entered at one end of the cylinder, via an armoured clamshell door whose inner face was pitted with blast-marks and projectile impact-craters. Every visible surface of the chamber was similarly weathered; as far as Khouri could see (and the suit’s vision-augmentation routines meant she could see as far as she wished) there was no square metre of the chamber’s skin which had not been harried, scarred, gouged, buckled, assaulted, melted or corroded by some kind of weapon. It might once have been silver; now it was purple, like an all-enveloping metallic bruise. Illumination was supplied not from a stationary light source, but from dozens of free-floating drones, each of which picked out a spot on the chamber’s wall with a floodlight of actinic brilliance. The drones were constantly moving around, like a swarm of agitated glow-worms. The result was that no shadow in the chamber stayed still for more than a second or so, and it was impossible to look in any direction for more than a second before a blinding light-source entered it, washing everything else out.

‘You sure you can handle this?’ Sudjic said, as the door locked shut behind them. ‘You wouldn’t want to damage that suit. You break it, you bought it, you know?’

‘Concentrate on not damaging your own,’ Khouri said. Then she switched to the private channel, addressing Sudjic alone. ‘Maybe it’s just my imagination, but do I get the impression you don’t like me very much?’

‘Now why would you think that?’

‘I think it might have something to do with Nagorny.’ Khouri paused. It had occured to her that the private channels might not be private at all, but then again, nothing she was about to say would not already be completely obvious to anyone listening in; most especially not to Volyova. ‘I don’t know exactly what happened with him, except that you were close.’

‘Close isn’t the word for it, Khouri.’

‘Lovers, then. I wasn’t going to say that in case I offended you.’

‘Don’t worry about offending me, kid. It’s way too late for that.’

Volyova’s voice interrupted them. ‘Kick off and descend to the chamber wall, you three.’

They obeyed her, using their suits on mild amplification to jump away from the plate which capped the end of the cylinder. They had been in freefall from the moment they entered the place, but now, as they descended towards the wall/floor, and picked up circumferential speed, their sense of weight mounted. The change was small, cushioned within the gel-air, but it gave enough small cues to engender a sense of up and down.

‘I understand why you resent me,’ Khouri said.

‘Bet you do.’

‘I took his position. Filled his role. After . . . whatever happened to him, you suddenly had me to deal with.’ Khouri did her best to sound reasonable, as if she was taking none of this personally. ‘If I was in your shoes, I think I’d feel the same. In fact I’m sure of it. But that doesn’t make it right, either. I’m not your enemy, Sudjic.’

‘Don’t delude yourself.’

‘About what?’

‘That you understand one tenth of what this is about.’ Sudjic had positioned her suit close to Khouri’s now: seamless white armour stark against the damaged wall of the chamber. Khouri had seen images of ghostly white whales which lived - or used to live; she wasn’t sure - in Earth’s seas. Belugas, they were called, and they came to mind now. ‘Listen,’ Sudjic said. ‘Do you think I’m simplistic enough that I’d hate you just because you fill the space Boris left? Don’t insult me, Khouri.’

‘Not my intention, believe me.’

‘If I hate you, Khouri, it’s for a perfectly good reason. It’s because you belong to her.’ She emitted the last word as a gasp of pure animosity. ‘Volyova. You’re her trinket. I hate her, so naturally I hate her possessions. Especially those whom she values. And of course - if I found a way to harm one of her possessions - do you imagine I wouldn’t do it?’

‘I’m nobody’s possession,’ Khouri said. ‘Not Volyova’s; not anyone’s.’ She immediately hated herself for protesting so vigorously, and then began to hate Sudjic for pushing her to the cusp of this defensiveness. ‘Not that it’s any of your business. You know what, Sudjic?’

‘I’m dying to hear.’

‘From what I heard, Boris wasn’t the sanest individual who ever lived. From what I hear, Volyova didn’t so much drive him mad as try and use his madness for something constructive.’ She felt her suit decelerate, softly depositing her feet-first on the crumpled wall. ‘So it didn’t work. Big deal. Maybe you two deserved each other.’

‘Yeah, maybe we did.’

‘What?’

‘I don’t necessarily like anything that you just said, Khouri. Fact is, if we didn’t have company, and if we weren’t suited up, I might take a few moments to teach you how easily I could break your neck. Might still do it, one of these days. But I’ve got to admit. You’ve got spite. Most of her puppets usually lose that straight away; if she doesn’t fry them first.’

‘You’re saying you misjudged me? Excuse me if I don’t sound grateful.’

‘I’m saying maybe you aren’t as much her possession as she imagines.’ Sudjic laughed. ‘It’s not a compliment, kid - just an observation. It might be worse for you once she realises. It doesn’t mean you’re off my shit-list, either.’

Khouri might have replied, but anything she intended to say was drowned out by Volyova, who was again speaking over the general suit channel, addressing the three of them from her vantage point high above, near the chamber’s middle. ‘There is no structure to this exercise,’ she said. ‘At least none that you need know about. Your sole obligation is to stay alive until the scenario is over. That’s all there is to it. The exercise begins in ten seconds. I won’t be available for questions during the course of it.’

Khouri absorbed this without any undue worry. There had been many unstructured exercises on the Edge, and many more in the gunnery. All it meant was that the deeper purpose of the scenario was masked, or that it was - literally - an exercise in disorientation intended to represent the chaos which might follow an operation which had gone badly wrong.

They began with warm-up exercises. Volyova watched them from on high while a variety of drone-targets emerged from previously concealed trapdoors in the wall of the chamber. The targets were not much of a challenge; at least, not at first. At the beginning the suits retained enough autonomy to detect and react to the targets before the wearer had even noticed them, so that all the wearer needed to do was issue consent for the kill. But it became harder. The targets stopped being passive and began to shoot back - usually indiscriminately, but with steadily mounting firepower, so that even wide-shots posed a threat. The targets also got smaller and faster, popping out of the trapdoors with increasing frequency. And - keeping pace with the increasing danger posed by the enemy - the suits suffered progressive losses of functionality. By the sixth or seventh round most of the suit autonomy had been eroded, and the sensor webs which each suit draped around itself were breaking up, so that the wearers had to rely increasingly on their own visual cues. Yet though the exercise had increased in difficulty, Khouri had worked through similar scenarios so often that she did not begin to lose her cool. One had to remember how much of the suit functionality remained: one still had the weapons, the suit power and flight-capability.

The three of them did not communicate during the initial exercises; they were too intent on finding their own mental edges. Eventually it was like getting a second wind; a state of stability which lay beyond what at first seemed like the limits of normal performance. Getting there was a little like entering a trance state. There were certain tricks of concentration one could call into play: rote mantras which mediated the transition. It was never just a matter of wishing it and being there; it was more like climbing onto some awkward ledge. But as one did it - and did it over again - one found that the move became more fluid, and the ledge no longer seemed quite so high or inaccessible. But it was never reached simply, or without some expenditure of mental effort.

It was during the ascension to that state that Khouri half thought she had seen the Mademoiselle.

It was not even a glimpse, just a peripheral awareness that - momentarily - there had been another body out there in the chamber, and that its shape might have been that of the Mademoiselle. But the sensation vanished as quickly as it had come.

Could it have been her?

Khouri had not seen or heard from the Mademoiselle since the incident in the gunnery room. The Mademoiselle’s last communiqué to her had been more pique than anything else; delivered after Khouri had helped Volyova finish off the cache-weapon. She had warned her that by remaining in the gunnery so long she had brought Sun Stealer on herself. And - indeed - the moment that Khouri tried to leave gunspace, she had felt something rushing towards her. It had come at her like a largening shadow, but she had not felt anything when the shadow seemed to engulf her. It was if a hole had opened in the shadow and she had passed unscathed through it, but she doubted that that had really been the case. The truth was almost certainly less palatable. Khouri did not want to consider the possibility that the shadow might have been Sun Stealer, but it was a conclusion she could not ignore. And in accepting that, she also had to accept the likelihood that Sun Stealer had now managed to ensconce a much larger part of himself in her skull.

It had been bad enough knowing that a small part of that thing had come back with the Mademoiselle’s bloodhounds. But that at least had been contained; it had been within the Mademoiselle’s powers to hold him at bay. Now Khouri had to accept that a more substantial fragment of Sun Stealer had reached her. And the Mademoiselle had been curiously absent ever since - until this voiceless half-glimpse, which might have been nothing at all; less than a figment of her imagination; something which any sane person would have dismissed as a trick of the light at the edge of vision.

If it had been her . . . what did it mean, after all this time?

Eventually the initial phase of exercises finished, and some of the suit functionality was reinstated. Not everything, but enough to let the three of them know that a certain slate had been wiped clean, and that from now the rules would be different.

‘All right,’ Volyova said. ‘I’ve seen worse.’

‘I’d take that as a compliment,’ Khouri said, hoping to elicit some vague camaraderie from her compatriots. ‘But the trouble with Ilia is she means it literally.’

‘At least one of you gets it,’ Volyova said. ‘But don’t let it go to your head, Khouri. Especially as it’s about to get serious.’

At the far end of the chamber another clamshell door was easing open. Because of the constantly shifting light, Khouri saw what happened more as a series of frozen, glare-saturated images than actual motion. Things were spilling out: an expanding mass of ellipsoidal objects, each perhaps half a metre long, metallic-white in colour, with various protrusions, gun-nozzles, manipulators and apertures interrupting its surface.

Sentry drones. She knew them - or something similar - from the Edge. They had called them wolfhounds, because of the ferocity of their attack, and the fact they always moved in packs. Although their main military use was as an instrument of demoralisation, Khouri knew what they could do, and she knew that wearing a suit was no guarantee of safety. Wolfhounds were built for viciousness, not intelligence. They carried relatively light weapons - but they did so in large numbers, and, more to the point, they acted in unison. A pack of wolfhounds could collectively target their fire against a single individual, if their pooled-processors deemed that the action was strategically useful. It was that singlemindedness which made them terrifying.

But there was more. Embedded in the mass of erupting drones were several larger objects, also metallic-white in colour, but lacking the spherical symmetry of the wolfhounds. It was difficult to make them out clearly in the intermittent bursts of illumination, but Khouri thought she knew what they were. They were other suits, and they were very unlikely to be friendly.

The wolfhounds and the enemy suits were dropping away from the central axis now, vectoring towards the three waiting trainees. Perhaps two seconds had elapsed since the other door had opened, but it had seemed much longer as Khouri’s mind easily switched to the mode of rapid consciousness which combat demanded. Many of the suit’s higher autonomous functions were disabled, but its target-acquisition routines were still operable, so she ordered the suit to lock onto the wolfhounds, not actually firing, but keeping a bead on each one. She knew that her suit would confer with its two partners; between them devising a moment-by-moment strategy and allocating targets to each other, but that process was largely invisible to the wearer.

Where the hell was Volyova?

Was it possible she could have moved from one end of the chamber to the other, in time to appear in the pack? Yes, probably - motion in a suit, at least on a scale this compressed, could be so rapid that a person might seem to disappear from one point and appear hundreds of metres further away an eyeblink later. But the enemy suits Khouri had seen had definitely come through the other door, which would have necessitated Volyova leaving the chamber and making her way to the other end through normal ship corridors and accessways. Even in a suit, even with the route keyed in beforehand, Khouri doubted that anyone could do that so quickly; not without becoming liquid en route. But maybe Volyova had a short-cut; a clear shaft through which she could move much more rapidly . . .

Shit.

Khouri was being shot at.

The wolfhounds were firing, lancing her with small-grade laser fire, emerging in twin beams from malignant, closely spaced eyes in the upper hemisphere of their ellipsoid shells. By now their chameleoflage had adapted to the floor metal, turning them into purple lozenges which seemed to dance in and out of clarity. Her suit skin had silvered to an optically perfect mirror, deflecting most of the energy, but some of the initial blasts had done real damage to the suit integrity. She would lose points for that - she had been too busy cogitating on Volyova’s vanishing act to pay attention to the attack. That diversion, of course, had almost certainly been Volyova’s intention. She looked around, confirming what the suit readouts were telling her, which was that her compatriots had all survived. Flanking her, Sudjic and Kjarval resembled androform blobs of mercury, but they were not hurt and were returning fire.

Khouri set her escalation protocols to stay one offensive step ahead of the enemy, but not to obliterate them. Her suit sprouted low-yield lasers, popping up on both shoulders, pivoting on turrets. She watched the beams converge ahead of her, knifing forwards, each burst leaving a lilac contrail of ionised air. When hit, the shining, flying purple wolfhounds tended to crash out of the sky, bouncing to the ground or just exploding in hot blossoms. It would have been unwise in the extreme to be out in the chamber without a suit.

‘You were slow,’ Sudjic said, on the general-suit, even as the attack continued. ‘This was real, we’d be hosing you off the walls.’

‘How many times you seen close-quarters action, Sudjic?’

Kjarval - who until then had said next to nothing - cut in on them. ‘We’ve all seen action, Khouri.’

‘Yeah? And did you ever get close enough to the enemy to hear them scream for mercy?’

‘What I mean is . . . fuck.’ Kjarval had just taken a hit. Her suit spasmed momentarily, flicking through a series of incorrect chameleoflage modes: space-black; snow-white and then florid, tropical foliage, making it look as if Kjarval were a door leading out of the chamber into the heart of some remote planetary jungle.

Her suit stammered, and then regained its reflective sheen.

‘I’m worried about those other suits.’

‘That’s what they’re for. To make you worry, and louse up.’

‘We need help to louse up? That’s a new one.’

‘Shut it, Khouri. Just concentrate on the damned war.’

She did. That part was easy.

Roughly a third of the attacking wolfhounds had been shot down, and no new forces were emerging through the chamber’s still-open end door. But the other suits - there were three of them, Khouri saw - had done nothing so far except loiter near the hole, and were now slowly moving towards the floor, correcting their descent with bursts of needle-thin thrust from their heels. As they did so they too assumed a colour and texture which matched the shot-up floor. It was impossible to tell which - if any - were occupied.

‘This is part of the scenario; those suits - they’ve got to mean something.’

‘I said shut it, Khouri.’

But she continued, ‘We’re on a mission, right? We have to assume that much. We have to impose some structure on the damned thing or we don’t know who the hell’s the enemy!’

‘Good idea,’ Sudjic said. ‘Let’s schedule a meeting.’

By now the wolfhounds, and their fire-returning suits, were using particle-beams. Maybe the lasers had been real - it was just within the bounds of possibility - but it seemed certain that any significantly more powerful weapon would be only simulated. After all, it would not be an auspicious end to the exercise if one of them blasted a hole in the chamber wall and vented all the air into space.

‘Let’s assume,’ Khouri said, ‘that we know who the hell we are and why we’re here - wherever here happens to be. The next question is, do we know those bastards in the other three suits?’

‘This is getting way too philosophical for me,’ Kjarval said, loping away to draw fire.

‘If we’re having this conversation,’ Khouri said, doggedly talking over Sudjic’s interjections, ‘then we have to assume we don’t know who they are. That they’re hostile. And that means we should shoot the scum first, before they do whatever they’re going to do to us.’

‘I think you could be fucking up big-time, Khouri.’

‘Yeah, well, as you kindly pointed out, I’m the one who isn’t going down anyway.’

‘Amen to that.’

‘Er . . . people . . .’ This was Kjarval, who had noticed what it took Khouri and Sudjic another moment to absorb. ‘I don’t like the look of that.’

What she had seen was that the wrists of the three other suits were morphing, each extruding an as yet unformed weapon. The process was unnervingly rapid, like watching a party balloon inflate into the shape of an animal.

‘Shoot the fuckers,’ Khouri said, with a voice so calm it almost scared her. ‘Full fire-convergence on the leftmost suit. Go to minimum-yield ack-am pulse mode, conic dispersal with lateral cross-sweep.’

‘Since when are you giving . . .’

‘Just fucking do it, Sudjic!’

But she was already firing, Kjarval too; the three of them were now standing apart by ten metres, directing their suits’ fire towards the enemy. The accelerated antimatter pulses were simulated . . . of course. If they had been real, there would have been little of the chamber left to stand on.

There was a flash, one so bright that Khouri felt it reach out and push taloned fingers into her eyes. It felt too intense to have been properly simulated . . . too concussive. The noise of the blast hit with a force that seemed almost gentle by comparison, but the shock was still enough to throw her backwards, keeling into the mottled chamber wall. The bump was like bouncing onto a mattress in an expensive hotel room. For a moment her suit was out cold; even when her eyes began to clear she could see that the readouts had either died or turned to unreadably cryptic mush. They lingered in that state for a few agonising seconds before the suit’s back-up brain staggered on line, reinstating what it could. A simpler - but at least comprehensible - display returned to life, detailing what remained and what had been destroyed. Most of the major weapons were out. Suit autonomy was down by fifty per cent, the persona slipping towards machine autism. There was extensive loss of servo-assistance in three articulation points. Flight capability was impaired, at least until the repair protocols could get to work, and they needed a minimum two hours to finesse a bypass solution.

Oh, and - according to the bio-medical readout - she was now minus one upper limb, from the elbow down.

She struggled to a sitting position and - though every instinct told her to spend the time getting safe and assessing the surroundings - she had to look at the shot-away limb. Her right arm ended just where the med-readout said it would; truncating in a crumpled mass of scorched bone, flesh and intermingled metal. Further up the stump, the gel-air would have shock-congealed to prevent pressure and blood loss, but that was a detail she had to take for granted. There was no pain, of course - another aspect in which the simulation was utterly realistic, since the suit would be telling her pain centre to shut down for the time being.

Assess, assess . . .

She had lost her orientation completely in the blast. She looked around, but the suit’s head articulation was jammed. There was suddenly an awful lot of smoke out there; hanging in coils in the air venting from the chamber itself. The intermittent illumination provided by the aerial drones was now only a stuttering strobe-effect. There were the wrecks of two suits over there, suffering the kind of comprehensive damage which might indicate that they had been hit by combined ack-am pulses. But the suits were too mangled up for her to tell if they had - or had ever had - occupants. A third suit - less critically damaged, and perhaps only stunned, as her own had been - rested ten or fifteen metres away around the great curve of the chamber’s scarred wall. The wolfhounds were gone, or destroyed; it was impossible to tell which.

‘Sudjic? Kjarval?’

Silence; not even her own voice properly audible, and certainly nothing resembling a reply. Intersuit comms were compromised, she saw now - a detail on the damage readout she had ignored until then. Bad, Khouri. Very bad.

Now she had no idea who the enemy was.

The ruined suit arm was fixing itself by the second, scorched parts sloughing to the ground, while the exterior skin crawled forwards to envelop the stump. It was faintly disgusting to watch, even though Khouri had seen it happen many times before, in other simulation scenarios on the Edge. What was really nauseating was knowing that no such immediate repair was possible for her own wounds; that they would have to wait until she was medevacked out of the zone.

The other suit, the one less damaged, was moving now, raising itself to a standing position, just as she was doing. The other suit had a full complement of limbs, and many of its weapons were still deployed, jutting from various apertures. They were locking onto Khouri, like a dozen vipers poising for the strike.

‘Who’s that?’ she asked, before remembering that the comms were offline, probably for good. Out of the corner of her eye she saw another two suits off to one side, emerging from banners of languid, charcoal-dark smoke. Who were they? Remnants of the original three which had come down with the wolfhounds, or her comrades?

The single suit with the weapons was approaching her, very slowly, as if she were a bomb which might go off at any moment. The suit stopped, motionless. Its skin was trying to mimic the combination of the background colour of the chamber wall and the smoke screens, with only moderate success. Khouri wondered how her own suit was doing. Was her faceplate opaque or transparent? It was impossible to tell from inside, and the minimalist readout told her nothing. If the one with the weapons saw a human face within, would that incite it to kill or hold fire? Khouri had locked her own usable weapons on the figure, but nothing she had seen told her whether she was pointed at the enemy or a mute comrade.

She moved to raise her good arm, to indicate her face, asking the other to make its faceplate transparent.

The other fired.

Khouri was blown back into the wall, an invisible piledriver ramming into her stomach. Her suit started screaming, all manner of gibberish scrolling across her vision. There was a roar of sound before she hit the wall, the compressed burst of a frantic return-fire from her own available weapons.

Fuck, Khouri thought. That actually hurt, at the visceral level which somehow betrayed it as not having been simulated.

She struggled to her feet again, just as another charge from the attacker slammed past and the third caught her on the thigh. She started wheeling back, both arms flailing at the periphery of vision. There was something wrong with her arms; or more accurately, something not wrong where something should have been. They were completely intact; no sign that one of them had just been blasted off.

‘Shit,’ she said. ‘What the fuck is happening?’

The attack was continuing, each blast impacting her and driving her back.

‘This is Volyova,’ said a voice, not in any way calm and detached. ‘Listen to me carefully, all of you! Something’s going wrong with the scenario! I want you all to stop firing—’

Khouri had hit the deck again, this time with enough force that she felt it through the gel-air cushion, like a slap against her spine. Her thigh felt injured, and the suit was doing nothing to ameliorate the discomfort.

It’s gone live, she thought.

The weapons were for real now; or at least those which belonged to the suit attacking her.

‘Kjarval,’ Volyova said. ‘Kjarval! You have to stop firing! You’re killing Khouri!’

But Kjarval - Khouri guessed that she was the attacker - was not listening, or not capable of listening, or, more terrifyingly, not capable of stopping.

‘Kjarval,’ the Triumvir said again, ‘if you don’t stop, I’m going to have to disarm you!’

But Kjarval did not stop. She kept on firing, Khouri feeling each impact like a lash, writhing under the assault, desperate to claw her way through the tortured alloy of the chamber into the sanctuary beyond.

And then Volyova descended from the chamber’s middle, where she had apparently been all along, unseen. As she descended, she opened fire on Kjarval, at first with the lightest weapons she had, but with steadily mounting force. Kjarval countered by directing some portion of her fire upwards, towards the lowering Triumvir. The blasts hit Volyova, gouging black scars into her armour, chipping fragments from the flexible integument, slicing off weapons as her suit tried to extrude and deploy them. But Volyova maintained an edge on the trainee. Kjarval’s suit began to wilt, losing integrity. Its weapons went haywire, missing their targets and then shooting haphazardly around the chamber.

Eventually - it could not have been more than a minute after she had first started firing on Khouri - Kjarval dropped to the ground. Her suit, where it was not blackened by the hits it had sustained, was a quilt of mismatched psychedelic colours and rapidly morphing hyper-geometric textures, sprouting half-realised weapons and devices. Her limbs were thrashing crazily. The ends of the limbs had gone berserk, extruding - and then budding off - various manipulators and rough, baby-sized approximations of human hands.

Khouri got to her feet, stifling a scream of pain as her thigh protested against the movement. Her suit was a stiffening deadweight around her, but somehow she managed to walk, or at least totter, to the place where Kjarval lay.

Volyova and another suited figure - she had to be Sudjic - were already there, leaning over what remained of the suit, trying to make some sense of its medical diagnostic readouts.

‘She’s dead,’ Volyova said.

FOURTEEN

Mantell, North Nekhebet, Resurgam, 2566

On the day that the newcomers announced their presence, Sylveste was woken by a stab of unforgiving white light. He held his arm up in supplication while he waited for his eyes to cycle through their initialisation routines. It was almost useless speaking to him in those moments; Sluka evidently realised this. With so many of their original functions gone, the eyes took longer than ever now to reach functionality. Sylveste experienced a slow rote of errors and warnings, little spectral prickles of pain as the eyes investigated critically impaired modes.

He was half aware of Pascale sitting up in bed next to him, lifting the sheets around her chest.

‘You’d better wake up,’ Sluka said. ‘Both of you. I’ll wait outside while you dress.’

The two of them struggled into clothes. Beyond the room, Sluka stood patiently with two guards, neither conspicuously armed. Sylveste and his wife were escorted towards Mantell’s commons, where the morning shift of True Path Inundationists were gathered around an oblong wallscreen. Flasks of coffee and breakfast rations lay undisturbed on the commons table. Whatever was going on, Sylveste surmised, was enough to kill any normal appetite. And the screen evidently held the key. He could hear a voice speaking, amplified and harsh, as if from a loudspeaker. There was so much background conversation taking place that he could do no more than snatch the odd word from the narrative. Unfortunately, that odd word tended to be his own name, spoken at too-frequent intervals by whoever was booming from the screen.

He pushed to the front, aware that the watchers deferred to him with more respect than he’d felt for several decades. But was it possibly only pity being afforded to a condemned man?

Pascale joined him at his side. ‘Do you recognise that woman?’ she asked.

‘What woman?’

‘On the screen. The one you’re standing in front of.’

What Sylveste saw was only an oblong of pointillist silver-grey pixels.

‘My eyes don’t read video too well,’ he said, addressing Sluka as much as Pascale. ‘And I can’t hear a damned thing. Maybe you’d better tell me what I’m missing.’

Falkender had appeared out of the crowd. ‘I’ll patch you in neurally, if you wish. It’ll only take a moment.’ He shunted Sylveste away from the watchers, towards a private alcove in one corner of the commons, Pascale and Sluka following. There, he opened his toolkit and removed a few glistening instruments.

‘Now you’re going to tell me this won’t hurt at all,’ Sylveste said.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Falkender said. ‘After all, it wouldn’t be the complete truth, would it?’ Then he clicked his fingers, either at an aide or Pascale; Sylveste was unsure, and his visual field was now too restricted to discriminate. ‘Get the man a mug of coffee; that’ll take his mind off it. In any case, when he’s able to read that screen, I think he’ll need something stronger.’

‘That bad?’

‘I’m afraid Falkender isn’t joking,’ Sluka said.

‘My, aren’t you all enjoying yourselves.’ Sylveste bit his lip at the first cascade of pain from Falkender’s probings, although, as the minor operation proceeded, the pain never worsened. ‘Are you going to put me out of my misery? After all, it seemed important enough to wake me.’

‘The Ultras have announced themselves,’ Sluka said.

‘That much I extrapolated for myself. What have they done? Landed a shuttle in the middle of Cuvier?’

‘Nothing so obtrusive. Yet. There may be worse to come.’

Someone pushed a mug of coffee into his hands; Falkender relented in his ministrations long enough for Sylveste to sip a mouthful. It was acrid and not entirely warm, but sufficed to propel him fractionally closer towards alertness. He heard Sluka say, ‘What we’re showing on the screen is a repeating audiovisual message, one that’s been transmitting continuously now for about thirty minutes.’

‘Transmitted from the ship?’

‘No, seems they’ve managed to tap straight into our comsat girdle, piggybacking their message on our routine transmissions.’

Sylveste nodded, then regretted the movement. ‘Then they’re still edgy about being detected.’ Or else, he thought, they merely want to reaffirm their absolute technological superiority over us; their ability to tap into and manipulate our existing data systems. That seemed more likely: it smacked not only of the arrogant Ultra way of doing things, but of one Ultra crew in particular. Why announce your presence in a mundane way, when you can do a full burning bush and impress the natives? But he hardly needed confirmation that he knew these people. He had known ever since the ship had entered the system.

‘Next question,’ he said. ‘Who was the message directed to? Do they still think there’s some kind of planetary authority with whom they can deal?’

‘No,’ Sluka said. ‘The message was addressed to the citizens of Resurgam, irrespective of political or cultural affiliation.’

‘Very democratic,’ Pascale said.

‘Actually,’ Sylveste said, ‘I rather doubt that democracy comes into it. Not if I know who we’re dealing with.’

‘Regarding that,’ Sluka said, ‘you never did quite explain to my total satisfaction why these people might . . .’

Sylveste cut her off. ‘Before we go into any detailed analysis, do you think I could see the message for myself? Particularly as I seem to hold something of a personal stake in the matter.’

‘There.’ Falkender retreated and closed his toolkit with a decisive snap. ‘I told you it wouldn’t take a moment. Now you can jack straight into the screen.’ The surgeon smiled. ‘Now, do me a favour and be sure not to kill the messenger, won’t you?’

‘Let me see the message,’ Sylveste said. ‘Then I’ll decide.’

It was far worse than he had feared.

He pushed to the front again, though by now the watchers had thinned out, dispersed reluctantly to duties elsewhere in Mantell. It was much easier to hear the speaker now, and he recognised cadences in the woman’s speech as she repeated phrases which had cycled around a few minutes earlier. The message was not a long one, then. Which was ominous in itself. Who crossed light-years of interstellar space, only to announce their arrival around a colony in terms which were, frankly, curt? Only those who had no interest whatsoever in ingratiating themselves, and whose demands were supremely clear. And again that suspicion accorded well with what he already knew of the crew he believed had come for him. They had never been talkative.

He could not yet see the face, although the voice was already whispering across the years to him. When vision came - when Falkender completed the neural interface - he remembered.

‘Who is she?’ Sluka asked.

‘Her name - when last we met - was Ilia Volyova.’ Sylveste shrugged. ‘It may or may not have been real. All I do know is that whatever threats she goes on to make, she’s fully capable of backing them up.’

‘And she’s - what? The Captain?’

‘No,’ Sylveste said, distracted. ‘No, she’s not.’

The woman’s face was unremarkable. Almost monochromatically pale of complexion, short dark hair, and a facial structure somewhere between elfin and skeletal, framing deepset, narrow, slanted eyes which dispensed little compassion. She had hardly changed at all. But then, that was the point of Ultras. If subjective decades had passed for Sylveste since their last meeting, then for Volyova it might only have been a handful of years; a tenth or a twentieth of the time. For her, their last meeting would be a thing of the relatively recent past, whereas for Sylveste it felt like an event consigned to the dusty annals of history. It placed him at a disadvantage, of course. For Volyova, his mannerisms - the more predictable aspects of his behaviour - would still be fresh in her mind; he would be an adversary not long met. But Sylveste had barely recognised Volyova’s voice until now, and when he tried to recall whether she had been more or less sympathetic to him on their previous meeting, his memory failed him. Of course, it would all come back, but it was that very slowness of recall which gave Volyova her undoubted edge.

Odd, really. He had assumed - stupidly, perhaps - that it would be Sajaki who was making this announcement. Not the true Captain, of course, or else why would they have come for him? The Captain had to be ill again.

But then where was Sajaki?

He forced his mind to disregard these questions and concentrate on what Volyova had to say.

After two or three repetitions, he had the whole of her monologue assembled in his head, and was almost certain he could have regurgitated it word for word. It was indeed curt. They knew what they wanted, these Ultras. And they knew what it would take to get it. ‘I am Triumvir Ilia Volyova of the lighthugger Nostalgia for Infinity’ was how she introduced herself. No helloes; not even a perfunctory admission of gratitude for the fates having allowed them to cross space to Resurgam.

Such niceties, Sylveste knew, were not exactly Ilia Volyova’s style. He had always thought of her as the quiet one; more concerned with housekeeping her hideous weapons than condescending to engage in anything resembling normal social intercourse. More than once he had heard the other crewmembers joke - and they hardly ever joked - about how Volyova preferred the company of the vessel’s indigenous rats over her human crewmates.

Perhaps they had not really been joking.

‘I am addressing you from orbit,’ was how she continued. ‘We have studied your state of technological advancement and concluded that you pose us no military threat.’ And then she paused, before continuing in what to Sylveste sounded like the tones of a schoolteacher warning pupils against committing an act of minor disobedience, like gazing out the window, or not keeping their compads well organised. ‘However, should any act be construed as a deliberate attempt at inflicting damage on us, we will retaliate in a massively disproportionate sense.’ She almost smiled at that point. ‘Not so much an eye for an eye, so to speak, as a city for an eye. We are fully capable of destroying any or all of your settlements from orbit.’

Volyova leant forwards, her leonine grey eyes seeming to fill the screen. ‘More importantly, we also have the resolve to do it, should the need arise.’ Volyova again allowed herself an over-dramatic pause, doubtless aware that she had a captive audience at this point. ‘If I chose, it could happen in a matter of minutes. Don’t imagine I’d lose much sleep over it.’

Sylveste could see where all this was heading.

‘But let us put aside such vulgarities, at least for the moment.’ She really smiled at that point, though as smiles went, it was near-cryogenic in its frostiness. ‘You’re doubtless wondering why we’re here.’

‘Not me,’ Sylveste said, loud enough that Pascale heard him.

‘There is a man amongst you we seek. Our desire to find him is so absolute, so pressing, that we have decided to bypass the usual . . .’ Volyova’s smile reappeared; an even colder phantom of itself. ‘. . . diplomatic channels. The man’s name is Sylveste; no further explanation should be necessary, if his reputation hasn’t waned since our last meeting.’

‘Tarnished, perhaps,’ Sluka commented. Then, to Sylveste, ‘You’re really going to have to tell me more about this prior meeting, you know. It can hardly do you any harm.’

‘And knowing the facts won’t do you a blind bit of good,’ Sylveste said, immediately returning his attention to the broadcast.

‘Ordinarily,’ Volyova said, ‘we’d establish lines of dialogue with the proper authorities and negotiate for Sylveste’s handover. Possibly that was our original intention. But a cursory scan of your planet’s main settlement from orbit - Cuvier - convinced us that such an approach would be doomed to failure. We surmised that there was no longer any power worth dealing with. And I’m afraid we don’t have the patience to bargain with squabbling planetary factions.’

Sylveste shook his head. ‘She’s lying. They never intended to negotiate, no matter what state we were in. I know these people; they’re vicious scum.’

‘So you keep telling us,’ Sluka said.

‘Our options are therefore rather limited,’ Volyova continued. ‘We want Sylveste, and our intelligence has confirmed that he is not . . . how shall I put it - at large?’

‘All that from orbit?’ Pascale asked. ‘That’s what I call good intelligence.’

‘Too good,’ Sylveste said.

‘This then,’ Volyova added, ‘is how things will proceed. Within twenty-four hours Sylveste will make his presence and location known to us via a radio-frequency broadcast. Either he emerges from hiding or those who are holding him set him free. We leave the details to you. If Sylveste is dead, then irrefutable evidence of his death must be offered in place of the man himself. Whether we accept it will be entirely at our discretion, of course.’

‘Good job I’m not dead, in that case. I doubt there’s anything you could do to convince Volyova.’

‘She’s that intransigent?’

‘Not just her; the whole crew.’

But Volyova was still speaking: ‘Twenty-four hours, then. We will be listening. And if we hear nothing, or suspect deception in any form, we will enact a punishment. Our ship has certain capabilities - ask Sylveste, if you doubt us. If we have not heard from him within the next day, we will use that capability against one of your planet’s smaller surface communities. We have already selected the target in question, and the nature of the attack will be such that no one in the community will survive. Is that clear? No one. Twenty-four hours after that, if we have still heard nothing of the elusive Dr Sylveste, we will escalate to a larger target. Twenty-four hours after that, we will destroy Cuvier.’ And Volyova proffered another brief smile at that point. ‘Though you seem to be doing an admirable job there yourselves.’

The message ended, then recommenced from the beginning, with Volyova’s blunt introduction. Sylveste listened to it in its entirety twice more before anyone dared interrupt his concentration.

‘They wouldn’t do it,’ Sluka said. ‘Surely not.’

‘It’s barbaric,’ Pascale added, eliciting a nod from their captor. ‘No matter how much they need you - they couldn’t possibly intend to do what she said. I mean, destroy a whole settlement?’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Sylveste said. ‘They’ve done it before. And I don’t doubt that they’ll do it again.’

There had been never been any real certainty in Volyova’s mind that Sylveste was alive - but on the other hand, the fact that he might not be present was something she had carefully avoided dwelling on, because the consequences of failure were too unpleasant to bring to mind. It mattered not that this was Sajaki’s quest, rather than her own. If it failed, he would punish her just as severely as if she had contrived the whole thing herself; as if it were Volyova who had brought them to this dispiriting place.

She had not really expected anything to happen in the first few hours. That was too optimistic; it presumed that Sylveste’s captors were awake and immediately aware of her warning. Realistically, it might be a fraction of a day before the news was passed along the chain of command to the right people; yet more time while it was verified. But as the hours became tens of hours, and then most of a day, she was forced to the conclusion that her threat would have to be enacted.

Of course, the colonists had not been entirely silent. Ten hours earlier, one unnamed group had come forward with what they claimed were Sylveste’s remains. They had left them on the top of a mesa, then retreated into caves through which the ship’s sensors could not peer. Volyova sent down a drone to examine the remains, but while they were a close genetic match, they did not agree precisely with the tissue samples retained since Sylveste’s last visit to the ship. It would have been tempting to punish the colonists for this, but on reflection she decided against such a course of action: they had acted solely out of fear, with no prospect of personal gain except their own - and everyone else’s - survival, and she did not want to deter any other parties coming forward. Likewise she had stilled her hand when two independently acting individuals announced themselves as Sylveste, since it was obvious that the people in question were not really lying, but genuinely believed themselves to be the man himself.

Now, however, there was not even time left for deception.

‘I’m actually rather surprised,’ she said. ‘I thought by now they would have given him over. But evidently one party in this arrangement is seriously underestimating the other.’

‘You can’t back down now,’ Hegazi said.

‘Of course not.’ Volyova said it with surprise, as if the thought of clemency had never once occurred to her.

‘No; you have to,’ Khouri said. ‘You can’t go through with this.’

This was almost the first thing she had said all day. Perhaps she was having trouble coming to terms with the monster for whom she now worked: this suddenly tyrannical incarnation of the previously fair Volyova. It was difficult not to sympathise. When she examined herself, what she saw was indeed something monstrous, even if it was not entirely the truth.

‘Once a threat’s made,’ Volyova said, ‘it’s in everyone’s interests to carry it through if the terms aren’t met.’

‘What if they can’t keep the terms?’ Khouri said.

Volyova shrugged. ‘That’s their problem, not mine.’

She opened the link to Resurgam and said her piece - reiterating the demands she had made, and stating her deep disappointment that Sylveste had not been brought to light. She was wondering how convincing she sounded - whether the colonists truly believed her threats - when she was struck by an inspirational idea. She unclipped her bracelet, whispering the command which would instruct it to accept limited input from a third party, rather than injuring them.

She passed the bracelet to Khouri.

‘You want to salve your conscience, be my guest.’

Khouri examined the device as if it might suddenly extrude fangs, or spit venom into her face. Finally she raised it to her mouth, not actually slipping it around her wrist.

‘Go ahead,’ Volyova said. ‘I’m serious. Say whatever you want - assure you it won’t do a blind bit of good.’

‘Speak to the colonists?’

‘Certainly - if you think you can convince them better than I can.’

For a moment Khouri said nothing. Then - diffidently - she started speaking into the bracelet. ‘My name is Khouri,’ she said. ‘For whatever it’s worth, I want you to know I’m not with these people. I don’t agree with what they’re doing.’ Khouri’s large and frightened eyes scanned the bridge, as if she expected any moment to be punished for this. But the others showed only mild interest in what she had to say.

‘I was recruited,’ she said. ‘I didn’t understand what they were. They want Sylveste. They’re not lying. I’ve seen the weapons they’ve got in this ship, and I think they will use them.’

Volyova affected a look of bored indifference, as if all of this were exactly what she would have expected; tiresomely so.

‘I’m sorry none of you have brought Sylveste forward. I think Volyova’s serious when she says she’s going to punish you for that. All I want to say is, you’d better believe her. And maybe if some of you can bring him forward now it won’t be too—’

‘Enough.’

Volyova took back the bracelet. ‘I’m extending my deadline by one hour only.’

But the hour passed. Volyova barked cryptic commands into her bracelet, causing a target-designator to spring into place over the northerly latitudes of Resurgam. The red cross-hairs hunted with sullen, sharklike calm, until they latched onto a particular spot near the planet’s northern icecap. Then they pulsed a bloodier red, and status graphics informed Volyova that the ship’s orbital-suppression elements - almost the puniest weapons system it could deploy - were now activated, armed, targeted and ready.

Then she resumed her address to the colonists.

‘People of Resurgam,’ Volyova said. ‘Our weapons have just aligned themselves on the small settlement of Phoenix; fifty-four degrees north by twenty west of Cuvier. In fractionally less than thirty seconds Phoenix and its immediate environs will cease to exist.’

The woman dampened her lips with the tip of her tongue before continuing. ‘This will be our last announcement for twenty-four hours. You have until then to produce Sylveste, or we escalate to a larger target. Count yourselves lucky that we began with one as small as Phoenix.’

The general tenor of her pronouncements, Khouri realised, had been that of a schoolteacher patiently explaining why the punishment she was about to visit upon her pupils was both in their best interests and entirely brought about by their own actions. She avoided saying, ‘This will hurt me more than it hurts you,’ but if she had, Khouri would not have been at all surprised. In fact, she wondered if there was anything Volyova could now do which would surprise her in any way. It seemed that she had not so much misjudged the woman as assigned her to completely the wrong species. And not just Volyova, but the entire crew. Khouri felt a pang of revulsion, shuddering to think how much a part of them she had recently dared imagine herself to be. It was as if they had all pulled masks from their faces, revealing snakes.

Volyova fired.

For a moment - a long, pregnant moment - there was nothing. Khouri began to entertain the idea that maybe the entire thing had been a bluff after all. But that hope lasted until the walls of the bridge shuddered, as if the entire ship were an ancient sea vessel scraping past an iceberg. Khouri felt none of the motion, since the articulated seat boom moved to smother the vibrations. But she had no doubts that she had seen it, and seconds later she heard what sounded like distant thunder.

The hull weapons had discharged.

On the projected image of Resurgam, the weapons readouts recast themselves, changing to illuminate the conditions of the armaments in the moments after they had been deployed. Hegazi consulted his seat readouts, his eyepiece clicking and whirring as it assimilated the news.

‘Suppression elements discharged,’ he said, voice clipped and devoid of emphasis. ‘Targeting systems confirm correct acquisition. ’ Then, with magisterial slowness, he elevated his gaze to the globe.

Khouri looked with him.

There was - where previously there had been nothing - a tiny red-hot smear near the edge of Resurgam’s northern polar cap, like a foul rat’s eye in the crust of the world. It was darkening now, like a hot needle just pulled from a brazier. But it was still hurtingly bright, darkening less through its own cooling than because it was being progressively shrouded by titanic veils of uplifted planetary debris. In windows which opened fleetingly in the curdling dark storm, Khouri observed dancing tendrils of lightning, their bright ignitions strobing the landscape for hundreds of kilometres around. A near-circular shockwave was racing from the site of the attack. Khouri observed its movement via a subtle change in the refractive index of the air, the way a ripple in shallow water caused the rocks below to acquire a momentary fluidity of their own.

‘Preliminary sit-rep coming in now,’ Hegazi said, still managing to sound like a bored acolyte reciting the dullest of scriptures. ‘Weps functionality: nominal. Ninety-nine point four per cent probability that target was completely neutralised. Seventy-nine per cent probability that no one within two hundred kilometres could have survived, unless they were behind a kilometre of armour.’

‘Good enough odds for me,’ Volyova said. She studied the wound in the surface of Resurgam for a moment longer, evidently satiating herself with the thought of planetary-scale destruction.

FIFTEEN

Mantell, North Nekhebet, 2566

‘They bluffed,’ Sluka said, just as a sudden, false dawn shone over the north-easterly horizon, turning the intervening ridges and bluffs into serrated black cutouts. The glare was magnesium-bright, edged in purple. Briefly it overloaded whole strips of Sylveste’s vision, leaving numb voids where it had burned.

‘Care to take another guess?’ he asked.

For a moment Sluka seemed unable to answer. She only stared at the flare, mesmerised by its radiance and the message of atrocity it brought.

‘He told you they’d do it,’ Pascale said. ‘You should have listened to him. He knew these people. He knew they’d do exactly what they promised.’

‘I never thought they would,’ Sluka said, her voice so quiet that it seemed she was talking to herself. Despite the glare, it was still a totally silent evening, free even of the usual music of Resurgam’s winds. ‘I thought their threat was too monstrous to take seriously.’

‘Nothing’s too monstrous for them.’ Sylveste’s eyes were returning to normality now; enough that he could read the expressions of the women who were standing next to him on Mantell’s mesa. ‘From now on, you’d better take Volyova at her word. She means what she said. In twenty-four hours she’ll do it all again, unless you turn me over.’

It was as if Sluka had not heard him. ‘Perhaps we ought to get down,’ was all she said.

Sylveste agreed, though before they headed back into the mesa they took time to crudely measure the direction from which the flash had come. ‘We know when it happened,’ Sylveste said. ‘And we know the direction. When the pressure wave comes through, we’ll know how far away it was. Settlements on Resurgam are still widely spread, so we should be able to pinpoint it.’

‘She said the name of the place,’ Pascale said.

Sylveste nodded.

‘But while I’d believe any threat she made, I also know Volyova’s not to be trusted.’

‘I don’t know anything about Phoenix,’ Sluka said, as they descended via a cargo elevator. ‘I thought I knew most of the recent settlements. But then again I’ve not exactly been at the heart of government these last few years.’

‘She would have started with something small,’ Sylveste said. ‘Otherwise she wouldn’t have room to escalate. We can assume Phoenix was a soft target; a scientific or geological outpost; something on which the rest of the colony wasn’t materially dependent. Just people, in other words.’

Sluka shook her head. ‘We’re talking about them in the past tense, and we never even discussed them in the present. It’s like their only reason for existing was so they could die.’

Sylveste felt physically sick; on the nauseous cusp of actually vomiting. It was, he thought, the only occasion in his life when this feeling had been engendered by an external event; something in which he was not directly participating. He had not even felt this way when Carine Lefevre had died. The mistake - the error - had not been his to commit. And while he had argued with Sluka that the crew would inflict what they threatened, some part of him had clung to the idea that, ultimately, they would not; that he was wrong and Sluka and the other humanitarians were correct. Perhaps, had he been in Sluka’s position, he too would have ignored the warning, irrespective of how sure he had felt before the attack. The cards always look different when it’s your turn to play them; loaded with subtly different possibilities.

The pressure wave came three hours later. By then it was little more than a gust, but it was a gust completely out of place on such a still night. After it had passed, the air was turbulent, prone to sudden squalls, as if a full-blooded razorstorm was on the verge. Timing of the shock indicated that the site of the attack was somewhat less than three and a half thousand miles away (seismic data also confirmed this); almost due north-east, according to the visual evidence. Retiring under guard to Sluka’s stateroom, they pushed themselves beyond sleep with strong coffee, calling up global maps of the colony from Mantell’s archives.

Feeling edgy, Sylveste sipped his drink.

‘Like you say, it could be a new settlement they’ve hit. Are these maps up to date?’

‘As good as,’ Sluka said. ‘They were refreshed from Cuvier’s central cartographics section about a year ago, before things became too serious around here.’

Sylveste looked at the map, projected over Sluka’s table like a ghostly, topographic tablecloth. The area displayed by the map was two thousand kilometres square, large enough to contain the destroyed colony, even if their directional estimate was crude.

But there was no sign of Phoenix.

‘We need more recent maps,’ he said. ‘It’s possible this place was founded in the last year.’

‘That’s not going to be easy to arrange.’

‘Then you’d better find a way. You have to make a decision in the next twenty-four hours. Probably the biggest of your life.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. I’ve as good as decided to let them have you.’

Sylveste shrugged, as if it were of no consequence to him. ‘Even so, you should still be in possession of the facts. You’re going to be dealing with Volyova. If you can’t be sure that her threats are genuine, you might be tempted to call her bluff.’

She looked at him, long and hard.

‘We do still have - in principle - data links to Cuvier, via what remains of the comsat girdle. But they’ve barely been used since the domes were blown. It would be risky to open them - the data-trail could lead back to us.’

‘I’d say that’s the least of anyone’s worries right now.’

‘He’s right,’ Pascale said. ‘With all this going on, who’s going to care about a minor breach of security in Cuvier? I’d say it would be worthwhile just to get the maps updated.’

‘How long will it take?’

‘An hour; two hours. Why, were you planning on going somewhere?’

‘No,’ Sylveste said, conspicuously failing to smile. ‘But someone else might be deciding for me.’

They went surfaceside again while they were waiting for the maps to be revised. There were no stars visible in the low north-east; just a hump of sooty nothingness, as if a gargantuan crouched figure were looming over the horizon. It must have been an uplifted wall of dust, edging towards them. ‘It’ll blanket the world for months,’ Sluka said. ‘Just as if a massive volcano had gone off.’

‘The winds are getting stronger,’ Sylveste said.

Pascale nodded. ‘Could they have done that - changed the weather, this far from the attack? What if the weapon they used caused radioactive contamination?’

‘It needn’t have been,’ Sylveste said. ‘Some kind of kinetic-energy weapon would have sufficed. Knowing Volyova, she wouldn’t have done anything more than was absolutely necessary. But you’re right to worry about radiation. That weapon probably opened a hole right through the lithosphere. It’s anyone’s guess what was released from the crust.’

‘We shouldn’t spend too much time surfaceside.’

‘Agreed - but that probably goes for the colony as a whole.’

One of Sluka’s aides appeared in the exit door.

‘You’ve got the maps?’ she asked.

‘Give us another half-hour,’ he said. ‘We’ve got the data, but the encryption’s pretty heavy. There’s news from Cuvier, though. We just picked it up, publicly broadcast.’

‘Go on.’

‘It seems the ship took pictures of the - uh - aftermath. They transmitted them to the capital, and now they’ve been sent around the planet.’ The aide took a battered compad from his pocket, its flatscreen throwing his features into lilac relief. ‘I have the images.’

‘You’d better show us.’

The aide placed the compad on the mesa’s gritty, wind-smoothed surface. ‘They must have used infrared,’ he said.

The pictures were awesome and terrifying. Molten rock was still snaking from the crater and beyond, or spraying in fountainlike cascades from dozens of suddenly birthed baby volcanoes. All evidence of the settlement had been obliterated, completely swallowed by the wide cauldron of the crater, which must have been a kilometre or two across. There were vast patches of glassy smoothness near its centre, like solidified tar; black as night.

‘For a moment I hoped we were wrong,’ Sluka said. ‘I hoped that the flash, even the pressure-wave - I hoped that somehow they’d been faked, like a theatrical effect. But I can’t see how they could have faked this without actually blowing a hole in the planet.’

‘We’ll know in a while,’ the aide said. ‘I presume I can speak freely?’

‘This concerns Sylveste,’ Sluka said. ‘So he may as well hear it.’

‘Cuvier has a plane heading towards the site of the attack. They’ll be able to confirm that this imagery wasn’t fabricated.’

By the time they returned underground the maps had been cracked, replacing the outdated copies in Mantell’s archive. Once again they retired to Sluka’s stateroom to view the data. This time the map’s accompanying information showed that it had been updated only a few weeks earlier.

‘They’ve done pretty well,’ Sylveste said. ‘To have kept up with the business of cartography while the city was crumbling around them. I admire their dedication.’

‘Never mind their motives,’ Sluka said, brushing her fingers against one of the pedestal-mounted globes which flanked the room, seemingly to anchor herself to the planet which now seemed to be spinning irrevocably beyond her control. ‘As long as Phoenix - or whatever they called it - is there, that’s all I care.’

‘It’s there all right,’ Pascale said.

Her finger penetrated the projected terrain, arrowing a tiny, labelled dot in the otherwise unpopulated north-eastern ranges. ‘It’s the only thing so far north,’ she said. ‘And the only settlement in remotely the right direction. It’s called Phoenix, too.’

‘What else do you have on it?’

Sluka’s aide - he was a small man with a delicately oiled moustache and goatee - spoke softly into his sleeve-mounted compad, instructing the map to zoom in on the settlement. A series of demographic icons popped into existence above the table. ‘Not much,’ he said. ‘Just a few multi-family surface shacks linked by tubes. A few underground workings. No ground connections, although they did have a landing pad for aircraft.’

‘Population?’

‘I don’t think population’s quite the word for it,’ the man said. ‘Just a hundred or so; about eighteen family units. Most of them from Cuvier, by the look of this.’ He shrugged. ‘Actually, if this was her idea of a strike against the colony, I think we did remarkably well. A hundred or so people - well, it’s a tragedy. But I’m surprised she didn’t play her hand against a more populous target. The fact that none of us really knew this place existed - it almost nullifies the act, don’t you think?’

‘A splendidly inept thing,’ Sylveste said, nodding despite himself.

‘What?’

‘The human capacity for grief. It just isn’t capable of providing an adequate emotional response once the dead exceed a few dozen in number. And it doesn’t just level off - it just gives up, resets itself to zero. Admit it. None of us feels a damn about these people.’ Sylveste looked at the map, wondering what it must have been like for the inhabitants, given those few seconds of warning which Volyova had prescribed them. He wondered if any of them had taken the trouble to leave their dwellings and face the sky, in order to quicken - fractionally - the coming annihilation. ‘But I do know one thing. We have all the evidence we need that she’s a woman of her word. And that means you have to let me go to them.’

‘I’m reluctant to lose you,’ Sluka said. ‘But it isn’t like I have much choice in the matter. You’ll be wanting to contact them, of course.’

‘Naturally,’ Sylveste said. ‘And of course Pascale will be coming with me. But there’s one thing I’d like you to do for me first.’

‘A favour?’ Sluka sounded amused, as if this were the last thing in the world she would have expected from him. ‘Well, what can I do for you, now that we’ve become such firm friends?’

Sylveste smiled. ‘Actually it’s not so much what you can do for me as what Doctor Falkender can. It concerns my eyes, you see.’

From the vantage point of her floating, boom-suspended seat, the Triumvir observed the handiwork she had wrought on the planet below. It was all perfectly clear, imaged precisely on the bridge’s projection sphere. In the last ten hours she had observed the wound extend dark cyclonic tendrils away from its focus, evidence that the weather in that region - and, by implication, elsewhere on the planet - had been tipped towards a violent new equilibrium. According to the locally culled data, the colonists on Resurgam called such phenomena razorstorms, on account of the merciless flensing quality of the airborne dust. It was fascinating to watch, much like the dissection of some unfamiliar animal species. Although she had had more experience with planets than many of her crewmates, there were still things about them which she found surprising and not a little disturbing. It was disturbing that simply puncturing a hole in the planet’s integument could have this much effect - not just on the immediate locality of the place she had attacked, but thousands of kilometres beyond. Eventually, she knew, there would not be a spot on the planet which had not been in some measurable way affected by her action. The dust she had caused to be elevated would eventually settle; a fine blackened, faintly radioactive caul deposited fairly uniformly around the planet. In the temperate regions it would soon be washed away by the weather processes which the colonists had instigated, assuming of course that those processes still functioned. But in the arctic regions there was never any rain, so the fine fall of dust would remain unperturbed for centuries to come. Eventually other deposits would cover it, and it would become part of the irrevocable geological memory of the planet. Perhaps, the Triumvir mused, in a few million years other beings would arrive on Resurgam, sharing something of humanity’s curiosity. They would want to learn of the planet’s history, and in doing so they would take core samples, reaching far back into Resurgam’s past. Doubtless that deposited layer of dust would not be the only mystery they had to solve, but nonetheless they would mull on it, if only fleetingly. And she had no doubt that those hypothetical future investigators would come to a totally wrong conclusion regarding the layer’s origin. It would never occur to them that it had been put there by an act of conscious volition . . .

Volyova had slept only a few hours in the last thirty, but her nervous energy currently seemed limitless. She would, of course, pay a price for it at some point in the near future, but for now she felt like she was careering, imbued with unstoppable momentum. Even so, she did not immediately snap to alertness when Hegazi steered his chair next to hers.

‘What is it?’

‘I’m getting something which might very much be our boy.’

‘Sylveste?’

‘Or someone pretending to be him.’ Hegazi entered one of his intermittent phases of fugue, which to Volyova signified that he was in deep rapport with the ship. ‘Can’t trace the communication route he’s using. It’s coming from Cuvier, but you can bet Sylveste isn’t physically there.’

She did not raise her voice, even though the two of them were quite alone in the bridge.

‘What’s he saying?’

‘He’s just asking to speak to us. Over and over again.’

Khouri heard footsteps sloshing through the inch-thick sludge which flooded the entire Captain’s level.

She did not have a rational answer for why she had come down here. Perhaps that was the point, really: now that she no longer trusted Volyova - the one person she had thought she could place her faith in - and now that the Mademoiselle was absent, as she had been ever since the attack against the cache-weapon, Khouri had to turn to the irrational. The only person left on the ship who had not in some way betrayed her, or had not earned her hatred, was the one she could never expect an answer from.

She knew almost immediately that the footsteps did not belong to Volyova, but there was a purposefulness to them which suggested that the person knew exactly where they were going, and had not simply strolled into this area of the ship by accident.

Khouri got up out of the muck. The seat of her trousers was wet and cold with the stuff, but the darkness of the fabric concealed most of the damage.

‘Relax,’ said the person, strolling casually round the bend, her boots sloshing through the sludge. There was a glint of metal from the woman’s free-swinging arms and a multicoloured glow from the holographic designs worked into the arms’ metalwork.

‘Sudjic,’ Khouri identified. ‘How the hell did you—’

Sudjic shook her head with a tight-lipped smile. ‘How did I find my way down here? Simple, Khouri. I followed you. Once I saw which general direction you’d gone, it was obvious you must be headed here. So I came after you, because I reckon you and I could use a little chat.’

‘A chat?’

‘About the situation here.’ Sudjic gestured expansively. ‘On this ship. More specifically, the fucking Triumvirate. It can’t have escaped you that I have a grievance against one of them.’

‘Volyova.’

‘Yes, our mutual friend Ilia.’ Sudjic managed to make the woman’s name sound like a particularly unsavoury expletive. ‘She killed my lover, you know that.’

‘I understand there’d been . . . problems.’

‘Problems, ha. That’s a good one. Do you call turning someone psychotic a problem, Khouri?’ She paused, stepped a little closer, but still kept a respectful distance from the fused, angelic core of the Captain. ‘Or maybe I should call you Ana, now that we’re on - uh - closer terms.’

‘Call me what you want. It doesn’t alter anything. I may hate her guts right now, but that doesn’t mean I’m about to betray her. We shouldn’t even be having this conversation.’

Sudjic nodded sagely. ‘She really hit you with that loyalty therapy, didn’t she? Look, Sajaki and the others are not nearly as omniscient as you’d think. You can tell me everything.’

‘There’s a lot more to it than that.’

‘Such as?’ Sudjic was standing akimbo now, her gauntleted hands placed daintily against her narrow hips. The woman was beautiful, in the emaciated way which was common among the spaceborn. Her physiology was wraith-like; had her underlying skeletal-muscular structure not been chimerically enhanced, it was doubtful she would have been fully ambulatory in normal gravity. But now, with those subcutaneous augmentations, Sudjic was undoubtably stronger and faster than any non-augmented human. Her strength was double-edged, because she looked so fragile. She was like an origami sculpture of a woman folded from razor-sharp paper.

‘I can’t tell you,’ Khouri said. ‘But Ilia and I - we have mutual secrets.’ Instantly she regretted saying that, but she wanted to deflate the smug superiority of the Ultra. ‘What I mean is—’

‘Listen, I’m sure that’s the way she wants you to feel. But ask yourself this, Khouri. How much of what you remember is real? Isn’t it possible that Volyova’s been screwing with your memories? She tried it with Boris. She tried to cure him by erasing his past, but it didn’t work. He still had the voices to deal with. That go for you too? Any new voices floating around in your head?’

‘If there are,’ Khouri said, ‘they haven’t got anything to do with Volyova.’

‘So you admit it.’ Sudjic smiled primly, like a valiant schoolgirl acknowledging victory in a game, but hoping not to look too proud of the fact. ‘Well, whether you do or don’t, it doesn’t matter. The fact is you’re disillusioned with her. With the Triumvirate as a whole. You can’t kid yourself you liked what they just did.’

‘I’m not sure I understand what it was they just did, Sudjic. There are a few things I haven’t got right in my head.’ Khouri felt the cold, wet fabric of her trousers clinging to her buttocks. ‘That’s why I came down here, as a matter of fact. For some peace and quiet. To get my head together.’

‘And see if he had wisdom to spare?’

Sudjic had nodded towards the Captain.

‘He’s dead, Sudjic. I may be the only person here who recognises that, but it’s true all the same.’

‘Maybe Sylveste can cure him.’

‘Even if he could, would Sajaki want it to happen?’

Sudjic nodded knowingly. ‘Of course, of course. I understand totally. But listen.’ Her voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper, though the only possible eavesdroppers were the skulking rats. ‘They’ve found Sylveste - I just heard, before I came down.’

‘Found him? You mean he’s here?’

‘No, of course not. They’ve just made contact. They don’t even know where he is yet, just that he’s alive. Still got to get the bastard aboard somehow. And that’s where you come in. Me too, in fact.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t pretend to understand what happened with Kjarval in the training chamber, Khouri. Maybe she just cracked, although I knew her better than anyone else on this ship, and I’d say she wasn’t really the cracking type. Whatever it was, it gave Volyova an excuse to finish her off - not that I ever thought the bitch really hated her that much . . .’

‘It wasn’t Volyova’s fault . . .’

‘Whatever.’ Sudjic shook her head. ‘That’s not important - just now. But what it means is she needs you for the mission. You and me, Khouri - and maybe the bitch-queen herself - are going down there to retrieve him.’

‘You can’t know that yet.’

Sudjic shook her head. ‘Not officially I can’t. But when you’ve been aboard this ship as long as I have, you’ll know a thing or two about bypassing the usual channels.’

For a moment there was only silence, broken by the distant dripping of a leaking conduit, some distance down the flooded corridor.

‘Sudjic, why are you telling me this? I thought you hated my guts.’

‘Maybe I did,’ the woman said. ‘Once. But now we need all the allies we can get. And I thought you might appreciate forewarning. Especially if you’ve got any sense, and you know who to trust.’

Volyova addressed her bracelet. ‘Infinity, I want you to correlate the voice you’re about to hear against shipboard records of Sylveste. If you can’t confirm a match, let me know immediately via secure readout.’

Sylveste’s voice burst in on them, mid-sentence: ‘. . . if you are reading me. Repeat, I need to know if you are reading me. I demand that you acknowledge me, bitch. I demand that you fucking acknowledge me!’

‘That’s him all right,’ Volyova said, speaking over the man’s voice. ‘I’d know that petulant tone anywhere. Better put him out of it. I presume we still don’t have a fix on him?’

‘Sorry. You’re going to have to address the colony as a whole and assume he has a means of reading you.’

‘I’m sure he won’t have neglected that detail.’ Volyova consulted her bracelet, observing that the ship could so far not disprove the hypothesis that the voice she was hearing belonged to Sylveste. There was room for error, since the Sylveste who had come aboard the ship once before was a much younger counterpart of the one they were now looking for, and so the voice match was not expected to be perfect. But even allowing for that, it looked increasingly likely that they had found him, and that this was not simply another hapless impersonator coming forward to ‘save’ the colony. ‘All right, patch me through. Sylveste? This is Volyova. Tell me if you’re hearing this.’

His voice was clearer now. ‘About fucking time.’

‘I think we’ll take that as a “yes”,’ Hegazi said.

‘We need to discuss the logistics of picking you up, and I believe it would be very much easier if we could do so on a secure channel. If you give me your current location, we can make a detailed sensor-sweep of that region and pick up your transmission at source, avoiding the relay at Cuvier.’

‘Now why would you need to do that? Is there something you want me to know that the colony as a whole can’t share?’ Sylveste paused, but Volyova mentally inserted a sneer at that point. ‘After all, you haven’t been slow in bringing them into it so far.’ Another pause. ‘Incidentally, it troubles me that I’m dealing with you and not Sajaki.’

‘He’s indisposed,’ Volyova said. ‘Give me your position.’

‘Sorry, but that isn’t possible.’

‘You’ll have to do better than that.’

‘Why should I bother? You’re the ones with all the firepower. You figure out a solution.’

Hegazi waved his hand, signalling Volyova to cut the audio link. ‘Maybe he can’t reveal his position.’

‘Can’t?’

Hegazi tapped a steel forefinger against his steel-bridged nose.

‘His captors might not let him. They’re ready to let him go, but they don’t want to give up their position.’

Volyova nodded, admitting that Hegazi’s suggestion was probably close to the truth. She reinstated the link. ‘All right Sylveste. I think I understand your predicament. I propose the following compromise, assuming that you have the means to move around. Your - uh - hosts can doubtless arrange something at short notice, I presume?’

‘We have transportation, if that’s what you’re asking.’

‘You have six more hours, in that case. Enough time to get to a location sufficiently far from where you are now that you won’t compromise it when you reveal your position. But if in six hours we don’t hear from you, we will bring forward the attack against the next target. Is that perfectly clear to all concerned?’

‘Oh yes,’ Sylveste said, tartly. ‘Perfectly clear.’

‘There’s one more thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘Bring Calvin with you.’

SIXTEEN

North Nekhebet, 2566

Sylveste felt the aircraft haul itself aloft, at first moving horizontally to clear Mantell’s dugout hangar, then making rapid height and swerving to avoid dashing itself against the stacked strata of the adjacent mesa wall. He made himself a window, but the thickening dust allowed him only a glimpse of the base, the mesa in which it had been tunnelled falling away below the brilliant undercurve of the plasma-wing. He knew, with absolute certainty, that he would not be returning. It was not just Mantell that he sensed he was seeing for the last time, but - and he could not have articulated exactly why - the colony itself.

The machine was the smallest and least valuable aircraft that the settlement could muster; barely larger than one of the volantors which he had flown in Chasm City a lifetime earlier. It was also fast enough to make that six hours of grace count; capable of putting a useful distance between itself and the mesa. The aircraft could have carried four, but only Sylveste and Pascale were riding it. Yet - insofar as their freedom of movement went - they were still Sluka’s captives. Her people had programmed the aircraft’s route before it left Mantell, and it would only deviate from that flight-plan if the autopilot judged that the weather conditions merited a different course. Unless ground conditions at the site became intolerable, it would deposit Sylveste and his wife at a pre-agreed location which had still not been revealed to Volyova and her crew. If conditions were bad, another site could be picked in the same area.

The plane would not linger at the delivery point. After Sylveste and Pascale had been let off - with enough provisions to survive in the storm for a few hours at most - the plane would return swiftly to Mantell, evading the few extant radar systems which could have alerted Resurgam City to its trajectory. Sylveste would then contact Volyova and inform her of his location, although, because he would then be broadcasting directly, she would have no difficulty triangulating his position. Thereafter things would be in Volyova’s hands. Sylveste had no real idea how events would proceed, how she would bring him aboard the ship. That was her problem, not his. All he knew was that it was very unlikely that this whole affair was a trap. Although the Ultras wanted access to Calvin, Calvin was essentially useless without Sylveste. They would want to take very good care of him indeed. And if the same logic did not automatically apply to Pascale, Sylveste had taken steps to amend that deficiency.

The aircraft levelled now. It was flying below the average height of the mesas, using their bulk for cover. Every few seconds it would veer, steering through the narrow, canyonlike corridors which spaced the mesas. Visibility was near zero. Sylveste hoped that the terrain map on which the plane was basing its manoeuvres had not been compromised by any recent landfalls, or else the ride would be very much shorter than the six hours Volyova had allocated.

‘Where the hell . . .’ Calvin, who had just appeared in the cabin, looked around frantically. He was, as usual, reclining in an enormous, fussily upholstered chair. There was not enough room for its bulk in the fuselage, so its extremities had to vanish awkwardly into the walls. ‘Where the hell am I? I’m not getting anything! What the hell’s happened? Tell me!’

Sylveste turned to his wife. ‘The first thing he does, on being woken, is sniff the local cybernetic environment - allows him to get his bearings, establish the time frame, and so on. Trouble is, right now there isn’t a local cybernetic environment, so he’s a bit disorientated.’

‘Stop talking about me like I’m not here. Wherever the hell here is!’

‘You’re in a plane,’ Sylveste said.

‘A plane? That’s novel,’ Cal nodded, regaining some of his composure. ‘Very novel indeed. Don’t think I’ve ever been in one of those before. I don’t suppose you’d mind filling your old dad in on a few key facts?’

‘That’s exactly why I’ve woken you.’ Sylveste paused to cancel the windows; there was no view now and the unchanging pall of dust served only to remind him of what lay ahead once the plane had deposited them. ‘Don’t for one moment imagine it was because I felt in need of a fireside chat, Cal.’

‘You look older, son.’

‘Yes, well, some of us have to get on with the business of being alive in the entropic universe.’

‘Ouch. That hurts, you know.’

Pascale said, ‘Stop it, will you? There isn’t time for this bickering.’

‘I don’t know,’ Sylveste said. ‘Five hours - seems like more than enough to me. What do you think, Cal?’

‘Too right. What does she know anyway?’ Cal glared at her. ‘It’s traditional, dearie. It’s how we - how shall I put it? Touch base. If he showed even the remotest hint of cordiality towards me, then I’d really start worrying. It would mean he wanted some excruciatingly difficult favour.’

‘No,’ Sylveste said. ‘For merely excruciatingly difficult favours, I’d just threaten you with erasure. I haven’t needed anything big enough from you to justify being pleasant, and I doubt I ever will.’

Calvin winked at Pascale. ‘He’s right, of course. Silly me.’

He was manifesting in a high-collared ash-coloured frockcoat, its sleeves patterned with interlocked gold chevrons. One booted foot was resting on the knee of his other leg, and the frock’s tail draped over the raised leg in a long curtain of gently rippling fabric. His beard and moustache had attained some realm beyond the merely fussy, sculpted into a whole of such complexity that it could only have been maintained by the fastidious attention of an army of dedicated grooming-servitors. An amber data-monocle rested in one socket (an affectation, since Calvin had been implanted for direct interfacing since birth), and his hair (long now) extended beyond the back of his skull in an oiled handle, reconnecting with his scalp somewhere above his nape. Sylveste attempted to date the ensemble, but failed. It was possible that the look referred to a particular era from Calvin’s days on Yellowstone. It was equally possible that the simulation had invented it entirely from scratch, to kill the time while all his routines booted.

‘So, anyway . . .’

‘The plane’s taking me to meet Volyova,’ Sylveste said. ‘You remember her, of course?’

‘How could we forget?’ Calvin removed the monocle, polishing it absently against his sleeve. ‘And just how did all this come about?’

‘It’s a long story. She’s put the squeeze on the colony. They had little choice but to hand me over. You too, in fact.’

‘She wanted me?’

‘Don’t look all surprised about it.’

‘I’m not; just disappointed. And of course this is rather a lot to take in all of a sudden.’ Calvin popped the monocle back in, one eye glaring magnified behind the amber. ‘Do you think she wanted us together as a safeguard, or because she has something specific in mind?’

‘Probably the latter. Not that she’s been exactly open about her intentions.’

Calvin nodded thoughtfully. ‘So you’ve been dealing only with Volyova, is that it?’

‘Does that strike you as odd?’

‘I would have expected our friend Sajaki to show his face at some point.’

‘Me too, but she hasn’t made any reference to his absence.’ Sylveste shrugged. ‘Does it really matter? They’re all as bad as each other.’

‘Granted, but at least with Sajaki we knew where we were.’

‘Shafted, you mean?’

Calvin rocked his head equivocally. ‘Say what you like about the man, at least he kept his word. And he - or whoever is running things - has at least had the decency not to bother you again until now. How long has it been since we were last aboard that Gothic monstrosity they call Nostalgia for Infinity?’

‘About a hundred and thirty years. A lot less for them, of course - only a few decades as far as they were concerned.’

‘I suppose we’d better assume the worst.’

‘The worst what?’ Pascale said.

‘That,’ Calvin began, with laboured patience, ‘we have a certain task to perform, in connection with a certain gentleman.’ He squinted at Sylveste. ‘How much does she know, anyway?’

‘Rather less than I imagined, I suspect.’ Pascale did not look amused.

‘I told her the minimum,’ Sylveste said, glancing between his wife and the beta-level simulation. ‘For her own good.’

‘Oh, thanks.’

‘Of course, I had some doubts of my own . . .’

‘Dan, just what is it these people want with you and your father?’

‘Ah, well, that’s another very long story, I’m afraid.’

‘You’ve got five hours - you just said so yourself. Assuming, of course, you two can bear to break off from your mutual admiration session.’

Calvin raised one eyebrow. ‘Never heard it called that before. But maybe she’s got something, eh, son?’

‘Yes,’ Sylveste said. ‘What she’s got is a severe misapprehension of the situation.’

‘Nonetheless, maybe you should tell her a bit more - keep her in the picture and all that.’

The aircraft executed a particularly abrupt turn, Calvin the only one amongst them impervious to the motion. ‘All right,’ Sylveste said. ‘Though I still say she’d be better off knowing less rather than more.’

‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’ Pascale said.

Calvin smiled. ‘Start by telling her about dear Captain Brannigan, that’s my advice.’

So Sylveste told her the rest of it. Until then, he had deliberately skirted the issue of what exactly it was that Sajaki’s crew wanted of him. Pascale had always had every right to know, of course . . . but the subject itself was so unpalatable to Sylveste that he had done his best to avoid it at all times. It was not that he had anything personal against Captain Brannigan, or even any lack of sympathy for what had become of the man. The Captain was a unique individual with a uniquely horrifying affliction. Even if he was not in any sense aware now (to the best of Sylveste’s knowledge), he had been in the past, and could be again in the future, in the admittedly unlikely event that he could be cured. So what if the Captain’s murky past quite possibly contained crimes? Surely the man had atoned for prior sins a thousand times over in his present state. No; anyone would have wished the Captain well, and most people would have been willing to expend some energy in helping him, provided they ran no risk to themselves. Even some small risk might have been accepted.

But what the crew were asking of Sylveste was much more than just the acceptance of personal risk. They would require him to submit to Calvin; to allow Cal to invade his mind and take command of his motor functions. The thought alone was repulsive. It was bad enough dealing with Cal as a beta-level simulation; as bad as being haunted by his father’s ghost. He would have destroyed the beta-level years ago if it had not proven so intermittently useful, but just knowing it existed made him uncomfortable. Cal was too perceptive; too shrewd in his . . . in its judgements. It knew what he had done with the alpha-level simulation, even if it had never come out and said it. But every time he allowed it into his head, it seemed to sink deeper tendrils into him. It seemed to know him better each time; seemed able to predict his own responses more closely. What did that make him, if what seemed like his own free will was so easily mimicked by a piece of software which had no theoretical consciousness of its own? It was worse than simply the dehumanising aspect of the channelling process, of course. The physical procedure was itself far from pleasant, for his own voluntary motor signals had to be blocked at source, obstructed by a stew of neuro-inhibitory chemicals. He would be paralysed, yet moving - as close to demonic possession as anyone ever came. It had always been a nightmarish experience; never one he was in a hurry to repeat.

No, he thought. The Captain could go to hell, for all he cared. Why should he lose his own humanity to save someone who had lived longer than most people in history? Sympathy be damned. The Captain should have been allowed to die years ago, and the greater crime now was not the Captain’s suffering, but what his crew were prepared to put Sylveste through to alleviate it.

Of course, Calvin saw it differently . . . less an ordeal, more an opportunity . . .

‘Of course, I was the first,’ Calvin said. ‘Back when I was still corporeal.’

‘The first what?’

‘First to serve him. He was heavily chimeric even then. Some of the technologies holding him together dated from before the Transenlightenment. God knows how old the flesh parts of him were.’ He fingered his beard and moustache, as if needing to remind himself how artful the combination was. ‘This was before the Eighty, of course. But I was known even then as an experimenter on the fringe of the radical chimeric sciences. I wasn’t just content with renovating the techniques developed before the Transenlightenment. I wanted to go beyond what they’d attained. I wanted to leave them in my dust. I wanted to push the envelope so far it ripped into shreds, and then remake it from the pieces.’

‘Yes, enough about you Cal,’ Sylveste said. ‘We were discussing Brannigan, remember?’

‘It’s called setting the scene, dear boy.’ Calvin blinked. ‘Anyway, Brannigan was an extreme chimeric, and I was someone prepared to consider extreme measures. When he became sick, his friends had no choice but to hire my services. Of course, this was all strictly below-board - and it was a total diversion, even for me. I was increasingly uninterested in physiological modifications, at the expense of a growing fascination - obsession, if you will - with neural transformations. Specifically, I wanted to find a way of mapping neural activity straight into—’ Calvin broke off, biting his lower lip.

‘Brannigan used him,’ Sylveste continued. ‘And in return, helped him to establish ties with some of the Chasm City rich; potential clients for the Eighty program. And if he’d done a good job of healing Brannigan, that would have been the end of the story. But he botched the job - did the minimum he could get away with, to get Brannigan’s allies off his back. If he’d taken the trouble to do it properly, we wouldn’t be in this mess now.’

‘What he means,’ Calvin cut in, ‘is that my repair of the Captain could not be considered permanent. It was inevitable, given the nature of his chimerism, that some other aspect of his physiology would eventually need our attention. And by then - because of the complexity of the work I’d done on him - there was literally no other person they could turn to.’

‘So they came back,’ Pascale said.

‘This time he was commanding the ship we’re about to board.’ Sylveste looked at the simulation. ‘Cal was dead; the Eighty a publicly staged atrocity. All that remained of him was this beta-level simulation. Needless to say Sajaki - he was with the Captain by then - was not best pleased. But they found a way, all the same.’

‘A way?’

‘For Calvin to work on the Captain. They found he could work through me. The beta-level sim provided the expertise in chimeric surgery. I provided the meat it needed to move around to get the job done. “Channelling” was what the Ultras called it.’

‘Then it needn’t have been you at all,’ Pascale said. ‘Provided they had the beta-level simulation - or a copy of it - couldn’t one of them have acted as the - as you so charmingly put it - meat?’

‘No, though they probably would have preferred it that way: it would have freed them of any dependency on me. But channelling only worked when there was a close match between the beta-level sim and the person it was working through. Like a hand fitting into a glove. It worked with me and Calvin because he was my father; there were many points of genetic similarity. Slice open our brains and you’d probably have trouble telling them apart.’

‘And now?’

‘They’re back.’

‘Now if only he’d done a good job last time,’ Calvin said, dignifying his remark with a thin smile of self-satisfaction.

‘Blame yourself; you were in the driving seat. I just did what you told me.’ Sylveste scowled. ‘In fact for most of it I wasn’t even what you’d term conscious. Not that I didn’t hate every minute of it, all the same.’

‘And they’re going to make you do it again,’ Pascale said. ‘Is that all it’s about? Everything that’s happened here? The attack on that settlement? Just to get you to help their Captain?’

Sylveste nodded. ‘In case it hasn’t escaped your attention, the people we’re about to do business with are not what you’d properly term human. Their priorities and timescales are a little . . . abstract.’

‘I wouldn’t call it business, in that case. I’d call it blackmail.’

‘Well,’ Sylveste said. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. You see, this time Volyova made a small miscalculation. She gave me some warning of her arrival.’

Volyova glanced up at the imaged view of Resurgam. At the moment Sylveste’s location on the planet’s surface was completely unknown, like a quantum wave function which had not yet collapsed. Yet in a moment they would have an accurate triangulation fix on his broadcast, and that wave function would shed a myriad unselected possibilities.

‘You have him?’

‘Signal’s weak,’ Hegazi said. ‘That storm you made is causing a lot of ionospheric interference. I bet you’re really proud, aren’t you?’

‘Just a get a fix, svinoi.’

‘Patience, patience.’

Volyova had not really doubted that Sylveste would call in on time. Nonetheless, when she heard from him, she could not help but feel relief. It meant that another element in the tricky business of getting him aboard had been achieved. She did not, however, deceive herself that the job was in any way complete. And there had been something arrogant about Sylveste’s demands - the way he seemed to be ordering how things should happen - which left her wondering if her colleagues really did have the upper hand. If Sylveste had set out to sow a seed of doubt in her mind, the man had certainly succeeded. Damn him. She had prepared herself, knowing that Sylveste was adept at mind games, but she had not prepared herself enough. Then she took a mental back step and asked herself how things had so far proceeded. After all, Sylveste was shortly to be in their custody. He could not possibly desire such an outcome, especially as he would know just what it was they wanted from him. If he were in control of his destiny, he would not now be on the verge of being brought aboard.

‘Ah,’ Hegazi said. ‘We have a fix. You want to hear what the bastard has to say?’

‘Put him on.’

The man’s voice burst in on them again, as it had done six hours previously, but there was a difference now, very obviously. Every word Sylveste spoke was backgrounded - almost drowned out - by the continuous howl of the razorstorm.

‘I’m here, where are you? Volyova, are you listening to me? I said are you listening to me? I want an answer! Here are my coordinates relative to Cuvier - you’d better be listening.’ And then he recited - several times, for safety - a string of numbers which would pinpoint him to within one hundred metres; redundant information, given the triangulation which had now been performed. ‘Now get down here! We can’t wait for ever - we’re in the middle of a razorstorm, we’re going to die out here if you don’t hurry.’

‘Mmm,’ Hegazi said. ‘I think at some point it might not be a bad idea to answer the poor fellow.’

Volyova took out and lit a cigarette. She savoured a long intake before replying. ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘In fact, maybe not for an hour or two. I think I’ll let him get really worried first.’

Khouri heard only the faintest of scuffling sounds as the open suit shuffled towards her. She felt its gently insistent pressure against her spine and the backs of her legs, arms and head. In her peripheral vision she observed the wet-looking side-parts of the head fold around her, and then felt the legs and arms of the suit meld around her limbs. The chest cavity sealed, with a sound like someone taking the last slurp from a pudding bowl.

Her vision was restricted now, but she could see enough to watch the suit’s limbs closing up along their dissection-lines. The seals lingered for a second or so before becoming invisible, lost in the bland whiteness of the rest of the suit’s hide. Then the head formed over her own, and for a moment there was darkness before a transparent oval appeared ahead of her. Smoothly, the darkness around the oval lit up with numerous readouts and status displays. Later the suit would flood itself with gel-air, to protect its occupant against the gee-loads of flight, but for now Khouri was breathing mintily fresh oxygen/nitrogen air at shipboard pressure.

‘I have now run through my safety and functionality tests,’ the suit informed her. ‘Please confirm that you wish to accept full control of this unit.’

‘Yes, I’m ready,’ Khouri said.

‘I have now disabled the majority of my autonomous control routines. This persona will remain online in an advisory capacity, unless you request otherwise. Full suit-autonomous control can be reinstated by—’

‘I get the deal, thanks. How are the others doing?’

‘All other units report readiness.’

Volyova’s voice cut in: ‘We’re set, Khouri. I’ll lead the team; triangular descent formation. I shout, you jump. And don’t make a move unless I authorise it.’

‘Don’t worry; I had no plans to.’

‘I see you have her well under your thumb,’ Sudjic said, on the open channel. ‘Does she shit to order as well?’

‘Shut it, Sudjic. You’re only along because you know worlds. One step out of line . . .’ Volyova paused. ‘Well, put it this way; Sajaki won’t be around to intercede if I lose my temper, and I’ve got a lot of firepower with which to lose it.’

‘Talking of firepower,’ Khouri said, ‘I’m not seeing any weapons data on my readout.’

‘That’s because you’re not authorised,’ Sudjic said. ‘Ilia doesn’t trust you not to shoot at the first thing that moves. Do you, Ilia?’

‘If we run into trouble,’ Ilia said, ‘I’ll let you have weps usage, trust me.’

‘Why not now?’

‘Because you don’t need it now, that’s why. You’re along for the ride; to assist if things deviate from the plan. Which of course they won’t . . .’ She drew breath audibly. ‘But if they do, you get your precious weapons. Just try and be discreet if you have to use them, that’s all.’

Once outside, the shipboard air was purged and replaced by gel-air: breathable fluid. For a moment it felt like drowning, but Khouri had made the transition enough times on Sky’s Edge not to feel much discomfort. Normal speech was impossible now, but the suit helmets contained trawls which were able to interpret subvocal commands. Speakers in the helmets shifted incoming sounds by the appropriate frequency to compensate for the gel-air-induced distortions, which ensured that the voices she heard sounded perfectly normal. Although it was a harder and heavier descent than any shuttle insertion, it felt easier, apart from an occasional pressure above Khouri’s eyeballs. It was only by reference to the suit’s readouts that she knew they were routinely exceeding six gees of acceleration, impelled by the tiny antilithium-fed thrusters buried in the suit’s spine and heels. With Volyova leading the descent, the suits formed a deltoid pattern, the two inhabited suits following her and the three slaved empty suits trailing behind. For the first part of the descent, the suits remained in the configuration they had assumed aboard the lighthugger, making a rough concession to human anatomy. But by the time the first traces of Resurgam’s upper atmosphere began to glow around them, the suits had silently transformed their exteriors. Now - although none of this was obvious from within - the membrane linking the arms to the body had thickened, until the arms and body were no longer easily divisible. The angle of the arms had altered as well; now they were held rigid but slightly bent, at an angle of forty-five degrees to the body. Since the head had retracted and flattened, there was now a smooth arc running from the tip of each arm, over the head and down again. The columnar legs had fused into a single flared tail, and any transparent patches defined by the user had been forcibly re-opaqued, to protect against the glare of reentry. The suits met the atmosphere chest-on, with the tail hanging slightly lower than the head: complex shockwave patterns being tamed and exploited by the morphing geometry of the suit hide. While direct vision was no longer possible, the suits were continuing to perceive their surroundings in other EM bands, and were perfectly capable of adapting this data for human senses. Looking around and below, Khouri saw the other suits, each seemingly immersed in a radiant teardrop of pinkish plasma.

At twenty kilometres’ altitude the suits used their thrusters to drop to merely supersonic speeds. Now they remoulded themselves to adapt to the thickening atmosphere, transforming into human-sized aircraft. The suits grew stabilising fins along their backs, and the face parts again returned to transparency. Snug in the suit’s embrace, Khouri barely felt these changes, only a slight pressure from the surrounding suit material which nudged her limbs from one position to another.

At fifteen kilometres, the sixth suit broke formation and went hypersonic, configuring itself into an aerodynamically optimum shape into which no human could have fitted without drastic surgery. It disappeared over the horizon in a few seconds, probably moving faster than any artificial object which had ever entered Resurgam’s atmosphere, exerting upward thrust to keep itself from escaping from the planet entirely. Khouri knew that the suit was heading to pick up Sajaki - it would meet with him near the designated site where he had last communicated with the ship, now that his work on Resurgam was complete.

At ten kilometres - maintaining silence, even though the comlaser links between the suits were totally secure - they hit the first traces of the razorstorm Volyova had stirred to life. From space it had looked black and impenetrable, like a plateau of ash. Inside, there was more illumination than Khouri had expected. The light was gritty and sepia, like a bad afternoon in Chasm City. A muddyish rainbow haloed the sun, and then that too vanished as they sank deeper into the storm. Now light did not so much stream down to them as stumble haphazardly, navigating layer upon layer of elevated dust like a drunkard descending stairs. Since there was no feeling of weight in the gel-air, Khouri rapidly lost all sensation of up and down, but she instinctively trusted the suit’s own inertial systems to figure things out. Now and again - even though the thrusters were trying to smooth out the ride - she felt lurches as the suit hit a pressure cell. As the speed of the ensemble dropped below that of sound, the suits reconfigured again, becoming more statuesque. The ground was only a few kilometres below, and the highest peaks of the mesa system were only hundreds of metres under them, though they remained unseen. It was increasingly hard now to make out the other four suits in the formation; they kept fading in and out of the dust.

Khouri began to get a little concerned. She had never used a suit in conditions anything like this. ‘Suit,’ she asked. ‘Are you quite sure you can handle this stuff? I wouldn’t want you dropping out of the sky on me.’

‘Wearer,’ it said, managing to sound sniffy. ‘When the dust becomes a problem I shall immediately inform you of that fact.’

‘All right; just asking.’

Now there was hardly anything to see. It was like swimming through mud. There were occasional rents in the storm which afforded glimpses of towering canyon and mesa walls, but most of the time the dust was completely featureless. ‘Can’t see anything,’ she said.

‘Is this an improvement?’

It was. The storm had casually blinked out of existence. She could see around her for tens of kilometres; all the way to the relatively near horizon, where it was unobstructed by closer rock walls. It was just like flying on a dazzlingly clear day, except that the entire scene was rendered in sickly variations of pale green. ‘A montage,’ the suit said. ‘Constructed from ambient infrared, interpolated random-pulse/snapshot sonar and gravimetric data.’

‘Very nice, but don’t get cocky about it. When I get annoyed with machines, even very sophisticated ones, I have a nasty habit of abusing them.’

‘Duly noted,’ the suit said, shutting up.

She called up an overlay which gave her some idea where she was on a larger scale. The suit knew exactly where to go - homing in on the coordinates where Sylveste had called from - but it made her feel more professional to actually take an active interest in things. Three and a half hours had passed now since Volyova and Sylveste had spoken, which, assuming he was on foot, would not allow Sylveste to get seriously far from the agreed rendezvous point. Even if, for some reason, he now tried to evade the pick-up, the suit’s sensors would have no trouble locating him, unless he had found a conveniently deep cave in which to ensconce himself: but then the suit’s detector systems would do their level best to track him down, using the thermal and biochemical evidence he would have unavoidably left behind on his route.

‘Listen up,’ Volyova said, using the intersuit com for the first time since they had entered the atmosphere. ‘We’ll be at the reception point in two minutes. I’ve just had a signal from orbit. Triumvir Sajaki’s suit has located him and made successful pick-up. He’s currently en route to meet us, but because his suit can’t move so quickly now he won’t make it for another ten minutes.’

‘He’s meeting us?’ Khouri asked. ‘Why doesn’t he just return to the ship? Doesn’t he believe we can do the job without him breathing down our necks?’

‘Are you kidding?’ Sudjic asked. ‘Sajaki’s waited years - decades - for this. He wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

‘Sylveste won’t put up a struggle, will he?’

‘Not unless he’s feeling incredibly lucky,’ Volyova said. ‘But don’t take anything for granted. I’ve dealt with this bastard before; you two haven’t.’

Khouri felt her suit slither to a configuration very similar to the one it had first had aboard the ship. The wing membrane had vanished entirely now, and her limbs were properly defined and articulated, rather than just being flattened winglike appendages. The tips of the arms had bifurcated into mittenlike claws, but a more developed hand could be formed, if she needed to do delicate manipulations. Now she was tipping back into a near-vertical posture, while still moving forwards. The suit was now maintaining altitude solely by thrust, utterly impervious to the dust.

‘One minute,’ Volyova said. ‘Altitude two hundred metres. Expect visual acquisition of Sylveste any moment now. And remember we’ll also be looking for his wife; I doubt they’ll be far apart.’

Tiring of the pale-green false image, Khouri reverted to normal vision. She could hardly make out the other suits. They were now a long way from the canyon walls of any major rock features or crevasses. The terrain was flat for thousands of metres in any direction, apart from the odd boulder or gully. But even when pockets opened in the storm, calm ventricles in the chaos, it was impossible to see more than a few tens of metres, and the ground was ceaselessly aswirl in dust eddies. Yet in the suit it was totally cool and silent, lending the whole situation a dangerous air of unreality. If she had wished it, the suit could have relayed the ambient sound to her, but it would have told her nothing except that it was hellishly windy out there.

She returned to the pale-green.

‘Ilia,’ she said. ‘I’m still weaponless here. Starting to feel a bit itchy.’

‘Give her something to play with,’ Sudjic said. ‘It can’t hurt, can it? She can go away and shoot some rocks while we take care of Sylveste.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘In spades, Khouri. Didn’t it occur to you I might be trying to do you a favour? Or do you think you can persuade Ilia all on your lonesome?’

‘All right Khouri,’ Volyova said. ‘I’m enabling your minimal-volition defence protocols. That suit you?’

Not exactly, no. While Khouri’s suit had now been given the autonomous privileges to defend itself against external threats - even, to some extent, to act proactively towards that goal - Khouri still did not have her finger on the trigger. And that might prove to be a problem if she wanted to kill Sylveste, which was an objective she had not entirely jettisoned.

‘Yeah, thanks,’ she said. ‘Excuse me if I don’t whoop for joy.’

‘My pleasure . . .’

A second or so later they landed, soft as five feathers. Khouri felt a shiver as her suit depowered its thrusters, then made a further series of minute readjustments to its anatomy. The status readouts had now flicked over from flight to ambulatory mode, signifying that she could, if she wished, walk around normally. At this point she could even ditch the suit entirely, but without protective gear she would not have lasted long in the razorstorm. She was more than happy to remain encased in the suit’s silence, even if it meant that she did not feel entirely participatory.

‘We split,’ Volyova said. ‘Khouri; I’m assigning control of the two empty suits to your own; they’ll shadow you when you move. The three of us move apart for one hundred paces; initiate active sensor sweep in all EM and supplemental bands. If Sylveste is anywhere nearby we’ll find the svinoi.’

The two empty suits had shuffled next to Khouri already, latching onto her like stray dogs. This was, she knew, definitely the short straw choice; Volyova was letting her look after the empty units as a consolation prize for not being better armed. But there was no point whining. Her only reasonable argument for being properly armed was so that she could use those defences to kill Sylveste. It was probably not an argument which would prove entirely effective against Volyova. Still, it was worth bearing in mind that the suits could be deadly even without their armaments. In training on Sky’s Edge, she had been shown how someone wearing a suit could inflict damage on an enemy by the exertion of sheer brute force, literally tearing an opponent apart.

Khouri watched Sudjic and Volyova move off in their respective directions, walking with the deceptively plodding slowness of the suits in their default ambulatory modes. Deceptive, because the suits were capable of moving with gazelle-like speed if required, but there was no need to deploy such swiftness at the moment. She switched off the pale-green overlay, returning to normal vision. Sudjic and Volyova were not visible at all now, unsurprisingly. And while occasional pockets continued to open in the storm, Khouri was generally unable to see beyond the end of her own outstretched arm.

With a jolt, though, she realised she had seen something - someone - moving in the dust. It had only been there for a moment; not even something she could properly dignify by calling it a glimpse. Khouri was just beginning - without too much concern - to rationalise the apparition as a chance swirling of dust, momentarily assuming a vaguely human shape. But then she saw it again.

Now the figure was better defined. It lingered, teasingly. And stepped out of the maelstrom, into clear vision.

‘It’s been a long time,’ the Mademoiselle said. ‘I thought you’d be happier to see me.’

‘Where the hell have you been?’

‘Wearer,’ the suit said. ‘I am not able to interpret your last subvocalised statement. Would you mind rephrasing what you had to say?’

‘Tell it to ignore you,’ the Mademoiselle’s dust-ghost said. ‘I don’t have very long.’

Khouri told the suit to ignore what she was subvocalising, until she gave a codeword. The suit acceded with a note of stuffy displeasure, as if it had never ever been asked to do something so irregular, and that it would have to seriously rethink the terms of their working relationship in future.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘It’s just you and me, Mad. Care to tell where you’ve been?’

‘In a moment,’ the woman’s projected image said. She had stabilised now, but was certainly not rendered with the fidelity Khouri had come to expect. She looked more like a crude sketch of herself, or a blurred photograph, subject to rippling waves of distortion. ‘Firstly I’d better do what I can for you, or else you’ll be forced into foolishness like trying to ram Sylveste. Now let’s see; accessing primary suit systems . . . bypassing Volyova’s restriction codes . . . remarkably simple, in fact - I’m rather disappointed she didn’t give me more of a challenge, especially as this is the last time I’m likely—’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘I’m talking about giving you firepower, dear girl.’ As she was speaking, the status-readouts reconfigured, indicating that a number of previously locked-out suit weapons systems had just come online. Khouri appraised the sudden arsenal at her fingertips, only half believing what she had just witnessed. ‘There you are,’ Mademoiselle said. ‘Anything else you’d like me to kiss better before I go?’

‘I suppose I should say thanks . . .’

‘Don’t bother, Khouri. The last thing I’d expect from you would be gratitude.’

‘Of course, now I actually have no choice but to kill the bastard. Am I supposed to thank you for that as well?’

‘You’ve seen the - uh - evidence. The case for the prosecution, if you will.’

Khouri nodded, feeling her scalp squidging against the suit’s internal matrix. You were not meant to make gestures in a suit. ‘Yes, that stuff about the Inhibitors. ’Course, I still don’t know if any of it’s true . . .’

‘Consider the alternative, in that case. You refrain from killing Sylveste, and yet what I’ve told you turns out to be the truth. Imagine how bad you’d feel after that, especially if Sylveste,’ the dust apparition attempted a grisly smile, ‘fulfils his ambition.’

‘I’d still have a clear conscience, wouldn’t I?’

‘Undoubtedly. And I hope that would be sufficient consolation while your entire species is being eradicated by Inhibitor systems. Of course, in all likelihood you wouldn’t even be around to regret your mistake. They’re rather efficient, the Inhibitors. But you’ll find that out in due course . . .’

‘Well, thanks for the advice.’

‘That isn’t all, Khouri. Did it not occur to you that there might have been a very good reason for my absence until now?’

‘Which is?’

‘I’m dying.’ The Mademoiselle let the word hover in the dust storm before continuing. ‘After the incident with the cache-weapon, Sun Stealer managed to inject another portion of himself into your skull - but of course, you’re aware of that. You felt him enter, didn’t you? I remember your screams. They were graphic. How odd it must have felt; how invasive.’

‘Sun Stealer hasn’t exactly made an impression on me since.’

‘But did it ever occur to you to ask why?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, dear girl, that I’ve spent the last few weeks doing my damnedest to stop him spreading further into your head. That’s why you haven’t heard anything from me. I’ve been too preoccupied with containing him. It was bad enough dealing with the part of him that I inadvertently let return with the bloodhounds. But at least then we reached a kind of stalemate. This time, though, it’s been rather different. Sun Stealer has become stronger, while I have become successively weaker with each of his onslaughts.’

‘You mean he’s still here?’

‘Very much so. And the only reason you haven’t heard from him is that he’s been equally preoccupied in the war the two of us have been waging within your skull. The difference is, he’s been making progress all the time - corrupting me, co-opting my systems, exploiting my own defences against me. Oh, he’s a crafty one, take my word for it.’

‘What’s going to happen?’

‘What’s going to happen is that I’m going to lose. I can be quite certain about this; it’s a mathematical certainty based on his current rate of gains.’ The Mademoiselle smiled again, as if she were perversely proud of this analytical detachment. ‘I can delay his onslaught for a few days more, and then it’s all over. It might even be shorter. I’ve significantly weakened myself just by the act of presenting myself to you now. But I had no choice. I had to sacrifice time in order to reinstate your weapons privilege.’

‘But when he wins . . .’

‘I don’t know, Khouri. But be prepared for anything. He’s likely to be a rather less charming tenant than I’ve endeavoured to be. After all, you know what he did to your predecessor. Drove the poor man psychotic.’ The Mademoiselle stepped back, seeming to partially cloak herself in the dust, as if she were stepping offstage via the curtains. ‘It’s doubtful that we’ll have the pleasure again, Khouri. I feel I should wish you well. But right now I ask only one thing of you. Do what you came here to do. And do it well.’ She retreated further, her form breaking up, as if she were no more than a charcoal sketch of a woman, dispersed by wind. ‘You have the means now.’

The Mademoiselle was gone. Khouri waited a moment - not so much collecting her thoughts as kicking them into some vaguely cohesive mass which she hoped might stay bundled together for more than a few seconds. Then she issued the codeword which put the suit back online. The weapons, she observed with nothing remotely resembling relief, were all still functioning, just as the Mademoiselle had promised.

‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ the suit said. ‘But if you’d care to reinstate full-spectrum vision you’ll observe that we have company. ’

‘Company?’

‘I’ve just alerted the other suits. But you’re the closest.’

‘Sure this isn’t Sajaki?’

‘It isn’t Triumvir Sajaki, no.’ It might have been Khouri’s imagination, but the suit sounded peeved that she had even doubted its judgement in this matter. ‘Even if it exceeds all safety limits, the Triumvir’s suit will not arrive here for another three minutes.’

‘Then it must be Sylveste.’

Khouri had by then switched to the recommended sensory overlay. She could see the approaching figure - or more accurately, figures, since there were two of them, easily resolved. The other two occupied suits were converging on the location, at the same unhurried pace with which they had first departed. ‘Sylveste, I’m assuming you can hear us,’ Volyova said. ‘Stop where you are. We’re zeroing in on you from three sides.’

His voice cut across the suit channel. ‘I assumed you’d left us here to die. Nice of you to say you were coming.’

‘I’m not in the habit of breaking my word,’ Volyova said. ‘As you undoubtedly know by now.’

Khouri began to make preparations for the kill she was still not sure she could commit herself to. She called up a target overlay, boxing Sylveste, then allocated one of her less ferocious suit-weapons: a medium-yield laser built into the head. It was puny by comparison with the other suit armaments; really just intended to warn prospective attackers to go away and pick another target. But against an unarmoured man, at virtually zero-range, it would more than suffice.

It would take only an eyeblink now, and Sylveste would die, in strict compliance with the Mademoiselle’s terms.

Sudjic was moving more rapidly now, moving more swiftly towards Volyova than Sylveste. It was then that Khouri noticed something odd about the suit Sudjic was wearing. There was something projecting from one end of her clawed arm, something small and metallic. It looked like a weapon, a light hand-held boser-pistol. She was raising her arm with unhurried calm, the way a professional would have done. For an instant Khouri experienced a shocking sense of dislocation. It was as if she were seeing herself from beyond her own body; watching herself raise a weapon in readiness to kill Sylveste.

But something was wrong.

Sudjic was pointing the weapon at Volyova.

‘I take it you have a plan here—’ Sylveste said.

‘Ilia!’ Khouri shouted. ‘Get down, she’s going to—’

Sudjic’s weapon was more powerful than it looked. There was a flash of horizontal light - the containment laser for the coherent matter-beam - streaking laterally across Khouri’s field of view, knifing into Volyova’s suit. Various warning alarms went haywire, signifying an excessive energy-discharge in the vicinity. Khouri’s suit automatically jumped to a higher, more hair-trigger level of battle readiness, indices on the display changing to indicate that their respective subordinated weapons systems were set to go off without her conscious say-so if her suit were similarly threatened.

Volyova’s suit was badly hit; a significant acreage of the chest was gone, revealing densely laminated hypodermal armour layers and outspilling cabling and power lines.

Sudjic took aim again, fired.

This time the blast went deeper, cutting into the wound it had already opened. Volyova’s voice cut across the channel, but it sounded weak and distant. All Khouri could make out was a kind of questioning groan; more of shock than pain.

‘That was for Boris,’ Sudjic said, her own voice obscenely clear. ‘That was for what you did to him in your experiments.’ She levelled the gun again, no less calmly than if she were an artist about to put the finishing dab of paint on a masterpiece. ‘And this is for killing him.’

‘Sudjic,’ Khouri said, ‘stop it.’

The woman’s suit did not turn to look at her. ‘Why stop, Khouri? Didn’t I make it clear I had a grudge against her?’

‘Sajaki’ll be here in minute or so.’

‘By which time I’ll have made it look like Sylveste fired at her.’ Sudjic snorted derisively. ‘Shit; didn’t it occur to you I’d have thought of that? I wasn’t going to let myself get stuffed just to get revenge on the old hag. She isn’t worth the expense.’

‘I can’t let you kill her.’

‘Can’t let me? Oh, that’s funny, Khouri. What are you going to stop me with? I don’t recall her reinstating your weapons privilege, and right now I don’t think she’s in much of a state to do it.’

Sudjic was right.

Volyova was slumped over now, her suit having lost integrity. Maybe the wound reached into her by now. If she were making any sound, her suit was too damaged to amplify it.

Sudjic relevelled the boser, aiming low now. ‘One shot to finish you off, Volyova - then I plant the gun on Sylveste. He’ll deny everything, of course - but there’ll only be Khouri as a witness, and I don’t think she’s going to go out of her way to back up his story. I’m right, aren’t I? Admit it, Khouri, I’m about to do you a favour. You’d kill the bitch if you had the means.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Khouri said. ‘On two counts.’

‘What?’

‘I wouldn’t kill her, despite everything she’s done. And I do have the means.’ She took a moment - not even a fraction of second - to target the laser. ‘Goodbye, Sudjic. Can’t say it’s been a pleasure.’

And fired.

By the time Sajaki arrived, not much more than a minute later, what was left of Sudjic was not worth burying.

Her suit had retaliated, of course, escalating to a higher level of response, directed plasma bolts emitting from projectors which had popped up on either side of her head. But Khouri’s suit had been expecting something like that. In addition to changing the exterior state of its armour to maximally avert the plasma (retexturing itself and applying massive plasma-deflective electric currents to its own hide), it was already returning fire at a yet higher level of aggression, dispensing with childish weapons like plasma and particle-beams and opting for the more decisive deployment of ack-am pulses, releasing tiny nano-pellets from its own antilithium reservoir; each pellet caulked in a shield of ablative normal-matter, and the whole thing accelerated up to a significant fraction of the speed of light.

Khouri had not even had time to gasp. After issuing the initial fire-order, her suit had done all the rest on its own.

‘There’s been . . . trouble,’ she said, as the Triumvir descended and made touch-down.

‘You don’t say,’ he said, surveying the carnage: the wounded husk of a suit containing Volyova; the liberally strewn and now radioactive residual pieces of what had once been Sudjic, and - in the middle of it - unharmed by the blast, but seemingly too stunned to speak or try to evade capture, Sylveste and his wife.

SEVENTEEN

Rendezvous Point, Resurgam, 2566

Sylveste had rehearsed the meeting in his head many times.

He had done his best to consider every possible eventuality; even those that - based on his understanding of the situation - seemed fantastically unlikely to actually occur. But he had considered nothing like this, and with good reason. Even as it happened around him, he could not begin to make sense of what was going on; let alone why it deviated so far from the path of sanity.

‘If it’s any consolation,’ Sajaki said, his voice booming above the wind, amplified from the head of his monstrous suit, ‘I don’t understand much of this either.’

‘That consoles me no end,’ Sylveste said, speaking on the same radio frequency channel he had used for all his negotiations with the crew, even though their representatives - or what remained of them - were now standing within shouting distance. In the unrelenting howl of the razorstorm, shouting was not much of an option. ‘Call me naïve but at this point I was hoping you’d have taken things over with your usual ruthless efficiency, Sajaki. All I can say is that you appear to be slacking.’

‘I don’t like it any more than you do,’ the Ultra said. ‘But you’d better believe me - for your sakes - that things are now very much under control. Now, I’m about to divert my attention to my wounded colleague. At this point I strongly recommend that you resist the temptation to do anything foolhardy. Not that the thought ever crossed your mind, eh, Dan?’

‘You know me better than that.’

‘The problem, Dan, is that I know you only too well. But let’s not dwell on the past.’

‘Let’s not.’

Sajaki moved over to the wounded one. Sylveste had known he was dealing with Triumvir Yuuji Sajaki even before the man had spoken. As soon as his suit hove into view, emerging from the storm, his faceplate had been rendered transparent, the man’s over-familiar features peering intently at the damage he surveyed. Although it was hard to tell, Sajaki looked largely unchanged from their last meeting. For him, only a few years of subjective time would have elapsed. Sylveste by contrast had squeezed the equivalent of two or three old-style human lives into that space. It was a dizzying moment.

But Sylveste could not establish the identities of the other two crew. There had been a third, of course . . . but he or she was now past the point at which he could ever hope to make acquaintance. And of the two who were not obviously dead, one was perhaps perilously close - this was the one now receiving Sajaki’s ministrations - and one was standing in what looked like shocked silence off to one side. Oddly, the uninjured one was keeping some suit weapons trained on Sylveste, even though he was unarmed and had no intention - no intention whatsoever - of resisting capture.

‘She’ll live,’ Sajaki said, after a moment in which his suit must have communed with the suit of the fallen one. ‘But we need to get her back to the ship fast. Then we can find out what actually happened down here.’

‘It was Sudjic,’ said a voice Sylveste didn’t know; female. ‘Sudjic tried to kill Ilia.’

Then the wounded one was the bitch herself: Triumvir Ilia Volyova.

‘Sudjic?’ Sajaki said. For a moment the word hung between them, and it seemed as if Sajaki could not - or would not - accept what the other, nameless woman was saying. But then, after the wind had torn at them for several more seconds, he said the name again, only this time on a falling note of acceptance. ‘Sudjic. Yes, it would make sense.’

‘I think she planned—’

‘You can tell me later, Khouri,’ Sajaki said. ‘There’ll be plenty of time - and your role in the incident of course will have to be explained to my total satisfaction. But for now we should deal with priorities.’ He nodded down at the injured Volyova. ‘Her suit will keep her alive for a few more hours, but it isn’t capable of reaching the ship.’

‘I take it,’ Sylveste said, ‘that you envisaged a way of getting us off the planet?’

‘A word of advice,’ Sajaki said. ‘Don’t irritate me too much, Dan. I’ve expended a considerable amount of trouble in getting you. But don’t imagine I wouldn’t stretch to killing you just to see how it feels.’

Sylveste had expected something like that from Sajaki - he would have been more worried if the man had said something dissimilar, downplaying the act of finding him. But if Sajaki believed a word of what he said - which was doubtful - then he was a fool. He had come from at least as far away as the Yellowstone system, perhaps even further, in his quest for Sylveste. No guessing what the human costs of it had actually been; quite aside from the sheer number of years which had been consumed.

‘Good for you,’ Sylveste said, injecting as much insincerity into his voice as he could muster. ‘But as a scientific man you must respect my impulse to experiment; to determine the limits of your tolerance.’ He whipped his arm out from under his windcloak, holding something tightly between two fingers of his gloved hand. He had almost expected the one with the guns to fire at him at that point, thinking that he was drawing a weapon. It was, he considered, a reasonable risk to take. But he had not produced a gun. What he held was a smallish sliver of quantum-state memory.

‘You see this?’ he said. ‘This is what you asked me to bring. Calvin’s beta-level simulation. You need it, don’t you? You need it very badly.’

Sajaki watched him without a word.

‘Well fuck you,’ Sylveste said, crushing the simulation, until its dust was blown away into the storm.

EIGHTEEN

Resurgam Orbit, 2566

They lifted from Resurgam, quickly lancing into the clear skies above the storm. Eventually there was something above Sylveste, small at first and really only visible because it occasionally occluded the stars behind it. It looked no larger than a sliver of coal, but it kept on growing, until its roughly conical shape became obvious, and what had at first seemed like a silhouette of total blackness began to show faint details within its own shape, gloomily underlit by the world around which it was orbiting. The lighthugger grew until it seemed impossibly large, blocking half the sky, and then kept on growing. The ship had not changed greatly since his last trip aboard. Sylveste knew - without being much impressed by the fact - that ships like this were always redesigning themselves, although the changes would usually be subtle modifications of the interior, rather than radical overhauls of the exterior layout (although that did happen as well, perhaps once every century or two). For a moment he worried that it might now lack the capability he wished - but then he remembered what the ship had done to Phoenix. It was hard to forget, in truth, since the evidence of that attack was still glaringly visible below him; a lotus-bloom of grey destruction set into the face of Resurgam.

A door had opened in the dark hull of the ship. The door looked far too small to accept even one of the suited, let alone all of them, but as they neared it became obvious that the door was tens of metres wide and would admit them all with ease. Sylveste, his wife and the other two Ultras from the ship, one of whom held the wounded Volyova, vanished inside, and the door closed on them.

Sajaki brought them to a holding area where they sloughed the suits and breathed normally. There was a taste to the air which slammed him back to his last visit aboard. He had forgotten how the ship smelled.

‘You wait here,’ Sajaki said, while their suits tidied themselves up and moved to one wall. ‘I have to attend to my colleague.’

He knelt down and busied himself with Volyova’s armour. Sylveste toyed with the idea of telling Sajaki not to expend too much effort in helping the other Triumvir, then decided that was possibly not the best course of action. He might have already pushed Sajaki to the edge of his patience when he crushed the Cal sim. ‘What exactly happened down there?’

‘I don’t know.’ That was typical Sajaki; like all the genuinely clever people Sylveste had met he knew better than to feign understanding where none existed. ‘I don’t know and for the moment - for the moment - it doesn’t matter.’ He studied a readout in Volyova’s suit. ‘Her injuries, while serious, don’t seem to be fatal. Given time, she can be healed. Also, I now have you. Everything else is detail.’ Then he cocked his head towards the other woman, who had slipped out of her suit. ‘Still, something troubles me, Khouri . . .’

‘What?’ she said.

‘It doesn’t matter . . . for the moment.’ He looked back at Sylveste. ‘Incidentally, that little trick you did with the sim - don’t imagine for one instant that I was impressed by that.’

‘You should be. How are you going to get me to fix the Captain now?’

‘With Calvin’s help, of course. Don’t you remember that I kept a back-up the last time you brought Cal aboard? Granted, it’s slightly out-of-date, but the surgical expertise is all there.’

It was a good bluff, Sylveste thought, but that was all it was. Still, there was a back-up, of sorts . . . or else he would never have destroyed the sim.

‘Talking of which . . . is the Captain so grievously unwell that he can’t meet me in person?’

‘You’ll meet him,’ Sajaki said. ‘All in good time.’

The other woman and Sajaki were removing scabs of damaged hide from Volyova’s suit, a process which resembled the shelling of a crab. Eventually Sajaki murmured something to the woman and they halted their work, evidently deciding that it was too delicate to be continued here. Presently a trio of servitors glided into the room. Two of the machines lifted Volyova between them and then left with her, accompanied by Sajaki and the woman. Sylveste had not seen her during his last visit aboard, but she seemed to have assumed a fairly elevated role in the ship’s hierarchy. The third servitor squatted down and observed Sylveste and Pascale with one sullen camera eye.

‘He didn’t even ask me to take off my mask and goggles,’ Sylveste said. ‘It’s like he hardly cares that he has me.’

Pascale nodded. She was fingering her clothes, seemingly convinced that the suit’s gel-air should have left some sticky residue behind on them. ‘Whatever happened down there must have thrown his plans completely. Maybe he’d be more triumphant if things had gone according to plan.’

‘Not Sajaki; triumphant just isn’t his style. But I’d at least have expected him to spend a few minutes gloating.’

‘Maybe the fact that you destroyed the sim . . .’

‘Yes; that’ll have thrown him.’ As he spoke, he did so in the knowledge that his words were almost certainly being recorded. ‘There may still be some residual functionality in the copy he made of Cal, even allowing for the self-destruct routines, though probably not enough for any kind of channelling, even with one-to-one neural congruency between sim and recipient.’ Sylveste found a pair of storage crates and moved them over to use for chairs. ‘I’m sure he already tried to run the sim in some poor fool’s body, though.’

‘And it must have failed.’

‘Messily, probably. He’s probably hoping now that I can work with the damaged copy without channelling; just relying on my knowledge of Cal’s instincts and methodologies.’

Pascale nodded. She was shrewd enough not to ask the obvious question: what kind of plan would Sajaki have if his own copy was too damaged even for that? Instead, she said, ‘Do you have any idea what happened down there?’

‘No - and I think Sajaki was telling the truth when he said the same thing. Whatever it was, it wasn’t to plan. Maybe some kind of power-struggle within the crew, acted out on the surface because whoever was involved never got a chance aboard.’ But while the idea sounded halfway plausible to him, that was as far as his thinking took him. Too much time had gone by, even within Sajaki’s reference frame, for Sylveste to trust his usually infallible processes of insight.

He would have to play things very carefully indeed until he understood the dynamics of the current crew. Assuming they gave him the luxury of time . . .

Pascale knelt down next to her husband. They had both removed their masks now, but only Pascale had removed her dust-goggles. ‘We’re in a lot of danger, aren’t we? If Sajaki decides he can’t use you . . .’

‘He’ll return us to the surface unharmed.’ Sylveste took Pascale’s hands. Ranks of empty suits towered around them, as if the two of them were unwanted despoilers in an Egyptian tomb and the suits were mummies. ‘Sajaki can’t ever rule out my being useful to him again, in the future.’

‘I hope you’re right . . . because that was quite a risk you took.’ She looked at him now with an expression he had rarely seen before. It was one of quiet, calm warning. ‘With my life as well.’

‘Sajaki isn’t my master. I just had to remind him of that; to let him know no matter how clever he gets, I’ll always be ahead of him.’

‘But he is your master now, don’t you understand? He may not have the sim, but he’s got you. That still puts him ahead in my book.’

Sylveste smiled and reached for an answer that was both true and exactly what Sajaki would expect of him. ‘But not as far as he thinks.’

Sajaki and the other woman came back less than an hour later, accompanied by a huge chimeric. Sylveste recognised the man from his previous trip aboard as Triumvir Hegazi, but only just. Hegazi had always been an extreme example of his kind - almost as comprehensively cyborgised as his Captain - but in the intervening time, Hegazi had further submerged his core humanity in machine supplements, exchanging various prosthetic parts for newer or more elegant substitutes, and had gained a whole new entourage of entoptics, most of which were designed to interact with the motion of his body parts, creating an off-spilling cascade of rainbow-coloured ghost limbs which lingered in the air for a second or so before fading. Sajaki wore unassuming shipboard clothes devoid of rank or ornamentation, emphasising the lightness of his build. But Sylveste was wise enough not to judge the man by his lack of bulk and absence of obvious weapons prosthetics. Machines undoubtedly seethed beneath his skin, giving him inhuman speed and strength. He was at least as dangerous as Hegazi and a good deal quicker, Sylveste knew.

‘I can’t exactly say it’s entirely a pleasure,’ Sylveste said, addressing Hegazi. ‘But I admit to experiencing a mild frisson of surprise at the fact that you haven’t imploded under the weight of your prosthetics, Triumvir.’

‘I suggest you take that as a compliment,’ Sajaki said to the other Triumvir. ‘It’s the closest you’ll get from Sylveste.’

Hegazi fingered the moustache which he still cultivated, despite the encroaching prosthetics which cased his skull.

‘Let’s see how witty he sounds when you’ve shown him the Captain, Sajaki-san. That’ll wipe the smile off his face.’

‘Undoubtedly,’ Sajaki said. ‘And talking of faces, why don’t you show us a little more of yours, Dan?’ Sajaki fingered the haft of a gun resting in a hip-holster.

‘Gladly,’ Sylveste said. He reached up and pulled away the dust-goggles. He let them clatter to the floor, watching the expressions - or what passed for expressions - on the faces of the people who had taken him prisoner. For the first time they were seeing what had become of his eyes. Perhaps they knew already, but the shock of seeing Calvin’s handiwork could never be underestimated. His eyes were not sleek improvements on the originals, but brutalist substitutes which only approximated the functionality of the human eye. There were more sophisticated things in ancient medical textbooks . . . not far removed from wooden legs. ‘You knew that I lost my sight, of course?’ he said, examining each of them in turn with his blank, eyeless gaze. ‘It’s common knowledge on Resurgam . . . hardly even worth mentioning.’

‘What kind of resolution do you get out of those?’ Hegazi said, with what sounded like genuine interest. ‘I know they’re not completely state-of-the-art, but I bet you’ve got full EM sensitivity from the IR into the UV, right? Maybe even acoustic imaging? Got a zoom capability?’

Sylveste looked at Hegazi long and hard before answering. ‘You need to understand one thing, Triumvir. In the right light, when she’s not standing too far away, I can just about recognise my wife.’

‘That good . . .’ Hegazi kept looking at him, fascinated.

They were escorted deeper into the ship. The last time he had been aboard, they had taken him straight to the medical centre. The Captain had been more or less capable of walking then, at least for short distances. But they were not taking him anywhere he recognised now. Which was not necessarily to say that he was far from the medical centre, for the ship was as intricate as a small city and as difficult to memorise, even though he had once spent nearly a month aboard it. But he sensed that this was entirely new territory; that he was passing through regions of the ship - what Sajaki and the crew called districts - which he had never been shown before. If his reckoning was good, the elevator was carrying them away from the ship’s sleek prow, down to where the conic hull broadened to its maximum width.

‘Minor technical defects in your eyes don’t concern me,’ Sajaki said. ‘We can repair them easily enough.’

‘Without a working version of Calvin? I don’t think so.’

‘Then we rip out your eyes and replace them with something better.’

‘I wouldn’t do that. Besides . . . you still wouldn’t have Calvin, so what good would it do you?’

Sajaki said something beneath his breath and the elevator crawled to a halt. ‘So you never believed me when I said we had a back-up? Well, you’re right, of course. Our copy had some strange flaws in it. Became quite useless long before we asked anything of it.’

‘That’s software for you.’

‘Yes . . . perhaps I may kill you after all.’ With one smooth movement he drew the gun from his holster, giving Sylveste time enough to notice the bronze snake which spiralled around the barrel. The weapon’s mode of killing was not at all obvious; it might have been a beam or projectile gun, but he had no doubts that he was comfortably within its lethal range.

‘You wouldn’t kill me now; not after all the time you spent looking for me.’

Sajaki’s finger tightened on the trigger. ‘You underestimate my propensity for acting on a whim, Dan. I might kill you just for the sheer cosmic perversity of the act.’

‘Then you’d have to find someone else to heal the Captain.’

‘What would I have lost?’ Under the snake’s jaw, a status light flicked from green to red. Sajaki’s finger whitened.

‘Wait,’ Sylveste said. ‘You don’t have to kill me. Do you honestly think I’d have destroyed the only copy of Cal left in existence?’

Sajaki’s relief was evident. ‘There’s another?’

‘Yes.’ Sylveste nodded towards his wife. ‘And she knows where to find it. Don’t you, Pascale?’

Some hours later Cal said, ‘I always knew you were a cold, calculating bastard, son.’

They were near the Captain. Sajaki had taken Pascale away, but now she was back again - along with all the other crew-members Sylveste knew about, and the apparition he had hoped never to see again. ‘An insufferable, treacherous . . . nonentity.’ The apparition was speaking quite calmly, like an actor running through lines purely to judge the timing, without imparting any actual emotion. ‘You unthinking rat.’

‘From nonentity to rat, eh?’ Sylveste said. ‘From some perspectives, that’s almost an improvement.’

‘Don’t believe it, son.’ Calvin leered at him, stretching forward from the seat which held him. ‘Think you’re so intolerably clever, don’t you? Well now I’ve got you by the balls; assuming you have any. They told me what you did. How you killed me purely on the pretext of ruining their plans.’ He raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘I mean, what a pathetic justification for patricide! I’d have at least thought you’d do me the courtesy of killing me for a halfway decent reason. But no. That would have been asking too much. I’d almost say I was disappointed, except that would imply I once had higher expectations.’

‘If I’d actually killed you,’ Sylveste said, ‘this conversation would pose certain ontological problems. Besides, I always knew there was another copy of you.’

‘But you murdered one of me!’

‘Sorry, but that’s a category mistake if ever I heard one. You’re just software, Cal. Being copied and erased is your natural state of being.’ Sylveste steeled himself for another protest from Cal, but for the moment he was silent. ‘I didn’t do it to ruin Sajaki’s plans. I need his . . . co-operation as much as he needs mine.’

‘My co-operation?’ The Triumvir’s eyes narrowed.

‘We’ll get to that. All I’m saying is that when I destroyed the copy, I knew another existed and that you’d soon force me into revealing its whereabouts.’

‘So the act was pointless?’

‘No; not at all. For a while I had the pleasure of seeing you imagine your plans in ruins, Yuuji-san. The risk was worth it for that glimpse into your soul. It wasn’t a pretty sight, either.’

‘How did you . . . know?’ Cal said. ‘How did you know I’d been copied?’

‘I thought you couldn’t copy him,’ said the woman he had been introduced to as Khouri. She was small and foxlike, but perhaps, like Sajaki, not entirely to be trusted. ‘I thought they had spoilers . . . copy-protection . . . that kind of shit.’

‘That’s alpha-level simulations, dear,’ Calvin said. ‘Which - for better or for worse - I happen not to be. No; I’m just a lowly beta-level. Capable of passing all the standard Turings, but not - from a philosophical standpoint - actually capable of consciousness. Hence, no soul. And therefore no ethical problems about there being more than one of me. However . . .’ He drew in breath, filling the silence which someone else might have been tempted to fill with their own thoughts ‘. . . I no longer believe any of that neuro-cognitive rubbish. I can’t speak for my alpha-level self, since my alpha-level self disappeared some two centuries ago, but for whatever reason, I am now fully conscious. Perhaps all beta-levels are capable of this, or perhaps my sheer connectional complexity ensured that I exceeded some state of critical mass. I have no idea. All I know is that I think, and therefore I’m exceedingly angry.’

Sylveste had heard all this before. ‘He’s a Turing-compliant beta-level. They’re meant to say this sort of thing. If they didn’t claim to be conscious, they’d automatically fail the standard Turings. But that doesn’t mean that what he says - the noises he makes . . . the noises it makes - have any validity.’

‘I could apply the same reasoning to you,’ Calvin said. ‘And where it’s leading to, dear son, is this: since I can’t speculate about the alpha, I have to assume that I’m all that remains. Now, this may be hard for you to understand, but the mere fact that I’m something precious and unique makes me object even more strenuously to the idea of anyone making a copy of me. Every act of copying me cheapens what I am. I am reduced to a mere commodity; something to be created, duplicated and disposed of whenever I happen to fit someone else’s inadequate notion of usefulness.’ He paused. ‘So - while I’m not saying I wouldn’t take steps to increase my likelihood of survival - I would not willingly have consented to be copied by anyone.’

‘But you did. You allowed Pascale to copy you into Descent into Darkness.’ She had been clever about it, too; for years he had never suspected a thing. He had given her access to Calvin to assist with the construction of the biography. She had allowed him to return to the object of his obsession, the Amarantin, with access to research tools and his dwindling network of sympathisers.

‘It was his idea,’ Pascale said.

‘Yes . . . I admit that much.’ Cal drew in a lungful of breath, appearing to take stock before his next utterance, despite the fact that the Calvin simulation ‘thought’ far more rapidly than unaugmented humans. ‘Those were dangerous times - no worse than now, of course, from what I’ve gathered since my reawakening - but hazardous all the same. It seemed prudent to ensure some part of me would survive my original’s destruction. I wasn’t thinking of a copy, though - more a sketch, a likeness; perhaps not even fully Turing-compliant.’

‘What made you change your mind?’ Sylveste said.

‘Pascale began to embed parts of me in the biography over a period of time - months, in fact. The encryption was very subtle. But once she had copied enough of the original for the copied parts to start interacting, they - or rather me - became rather less enthralled by the notion of committing cybernetic suicide just to prove a point. In fact I felt rather more alive - more myself - than I ever had before.’ He vouchsafed his audience a smile. ‘Of course, I soon realised why this was the case. Pascale had copied me into a more powerful computer system; the governmental core in Cuvier, where Descent was being assembled. The system was connected to more archives and networks than you ever allowed me, even back in Mantell. For the first time I actually had something to justify the attentions of my massive intellect.’ He held their gaze for a moment before adding, very softly: ‘That’s a joke, by the way.’

‘Copies of the biography were freely available,’ Pascale said. ‘Sajaki had already obtained one without even realising it contained a version of Calvin. How did you know he was in it, though?’ She was looking at Sylveste now. ‘Did the copied version of Cal tell you?’

‘No, and I’m not even sure he would have wanted to if a way had existed. I figured it out for myself. The biography was too large for the amount of simulational data it contained. Oh, I know you’d been clever - encoding Cal into least significant digits of data files - but there was just too much of Cal to hide away that easily. Descent was fifteen per cent longer than it should have been. For months I thought there had to be a whole hidden layer of scenarios; aspects of my life not supposedly documented but which you’d put in anyway, for anyone persistent enough to find them. But finally I realised that the missing capacity was enough to store a copy of Cal, and then it made sense. Of course I could never be completely sure . . .’ He looked at the projected image. ‘Though I suppose you’d say you’re the real Cal now and what I erased was just a copy?’

Cal raised a hand from the armrest, disputatiously. ‘No; that would be much too simplistic a version of things. After all, I was that copy, once. But what I was then - and what the copy remained, until you killed it - was just a shadow of what I am now. Let’s just say I had a moment of epiphany, shall we, and leave it at that?’

‘So . . .’ Sylveste stepped forward, finger tapping against his lip. ‘In that case, I never really killed you, did I?’

‘No,’ Calvin said, with deceptive placidity. ‘You didn’t. But it’s what you might have been doing that counts. And on that score, dear boy, I’m afraid you’re still a callous, patricidal bastard.’

‘Touching, isn’t it?’ Hegazi said. ‘Nothing I like better than a good old family reunion.’

They proceeded to the Captain. Khouri had been here before, but despite her minor familiarity with the place, she still felt unnerved; obtrusively aware of the contaminating matter which was only barely contained by the envelope of cold which been caulked around the man.

‘I think I should know what you want from me,’ Sylveste said.

‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Sajaki said. ‘Do you think we went to all this trouble just to ask you how you were doing these days?’

‘I wouldn’t put it past you,’ Sylveste said. ‘Your behaviour never made much sense to me in the past, so why should it start doing so now? And besides, let’s not deceive ourselves that what went on back there was everything it seemed.’

‘What do you mean?’ Khouri asked.

‘Oh, don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out yet?’

‘Figured what out?’

‘That it never actually happened.’ Sylveste fixed her with the blank depths of his eyes; a scrutiny which felt more like the scanning of a mindless automatic surveillance system than any human apperception. ‘Or perhaps not,’ he added. ‘Perhaps you haven’t actually figured it out yet. Who are you anyway?’

‘You’ll get your chance to ask all the questions you want,’ Hegazi said, edgy now that they were within a stone’s throw of the Captain.

‘No,’ Khouri said. ‘I want to know. What do you mean, none of that actually happened?’

Sylveste’s voice was slow and calm. ‘I’m talking about that business with the settlement Volyova wiped out.’

Khouri stepped ahead of the entourage, blocking their progress. ‘You’d better explain that.’

‘That can wait,’ Sajaki said, stepping forward to push her aside. ‘Certainly until you’ve explained your role in things to my complete satisfaction, Khouri.’ The Triumvir was eyeing her suspiciously all the time now, convinced that the two deaths in her presence had to be more than coincidence. With Volyova out of the way - and the Mademoiselle silent - she had no one to shelter her. It would be only a matter of time before Sajaki acted on his suspicions and did something drastic.

But Sylveste said, ‘No. Why need it wait? I think we should all be absolutely clear about what’s going on here. Sajaki; you didn’t go down to Resurgam just to obtain a copy of the biography, did you? What would have been the point? You had no knowledge that Descent contained a copy of Cal until I told you. You only picked up the biography because it might have come in useful in your negotiations with me. But it wasn’t the reason you went down there. That was something else entirely.’

‘Intelligence gathering,’ Sajaki said, carefully.

‘More than that. You went there to glean information, yes. But you also had to plant some.’

‘About Phoenix?’ Khouri said.

‘Not just about Phoenix, the place itself. It never existed.’ Sylveste allowed a pause before continuing. ‘It was a ghost planted there by Sajaki. It wasn’t even on the old maps we kept at Mantell, but as soon as we updated them from the master copies in Cuvier it appeared. We just assumed it was a new settlement; too recent to show up on the previous maps. That was stupid, of course - I should have seen through it then. But we assumed the master copies hadn’t been corrupted.’

‘Doubly stupid,’ Sajaki said. ‘Given that you must have wondered where I was.’

‘If I’d given it more than a moment’s thought . . .’

‘Pity you didn’t,’ Sajaki said. ‘Or we might not be having this conversation. But then again, we’d have only resorted to another means of securing you.’

Sylveste nodded. ‘I suppose your next logical step would have been to blow up a bigger fictitious target. But I’m not entirely sure you could have pulled off the same trick twice. I’ve a nasty suspicion you might have had to hit somewhere real.’

The cold had a steely texture to it, like a thousand pieces of barbed metal constantly scraping softly against the skin; threatening to pierce to the bone with each movement. But as soon as they were truly in the Captain’s realm, it became impossible to notice the cold, since the cold in which he was imprisoned was so obviously deeper.

‘He’s sick,’ Sajaki said. ‘With a variant of the Melding Plague. You know all about that, of course.’

‘We heard reports from Yellowstone,’ Sylveste said. ‘I can’t say they were exceptionally detailed.’ All the while he had not actually looked directly at the Captain.

‘We haven’t been able to contain it,’ Hegazi said. ‘Not properly, anyway. Extreme cold goes some way to slowing it, but no more than that. It - or rather, he - is spreading slowly, incorporating the mass of the ship into his own template.’

‘Then he’s still alive, at least by some biological definition?’

Sajaki nodded, ‘Of course, no organism can really be said to be alive at these temperatures. But if we were to warm the Captain now . . . parts of him would function.’

‘That’s hardly reassuring.’

‘I brought you aboard to heal him, not to hear reassurances.’

What the Captain resembled was a statue smeared in ropelike silver tendrils, extending tens of metres in either direction; beautifully aglisten with sinister biochimeric malignancy. The reefersleep unit at the heart of the frozen explosion was still, by some miracle of design or accident, nominally functional. But its once symmetrical form had been tugged and warped by the glacially slow but unyielding forces of the Captain’s spread. Most of its status readouts were now dead; there were no active entoptics surrounding it. Of the display devices which still worked, some showed unreadable mush; the senseless hieroglyphics of machine senility. Khouri was grateful that there were no entoptics. She had the feeling that if there had been any, they too would have been corrupted; a host of malignant seraphim or disfigured cherubim signifying the excessive state of the Captain’s illness.

‘You don’t need a surgeon here,’ Sylveste said. ‘You need a priest.’

‘That isn’t what Calvin thought,’ Sajaki said. ‘He was rather eager to begin the work.’

‘Then the copy they had in Cuvier must have been delusional. Your Captain isn’t sick. He isn’t even dead, since there isn’t enough left which was ever alive in the first place.’

‘Nonetheless,’ Sajaki said. ‘You will help us. You’ll have Ilia’s assistance, as well - as soon as she’s well herself. She thinks that she has created a counteragent for the plague - a retrovirus. I’m told it works on small samples. But she’s a weaponeer. Applying it to the Captain would be strictly a medical matter. But at least she can provide you with a tool.’

Sylveste directed a smile at Sajaki. ‘I’m sure you’ve discussed the matter with Calvin already.’

‘Let’s just say he’s been briefed. He’s willing to try it - he thinks it might even work. Does this encourage you?’

‘I would have to bow to Calvin’s wisdom,’ Sylveste replied. ‘He’s the medical man, not me. But before I enter into any commitment we’d have to negotiate terms.’

‘There won’t be any,’ Sajaki said. ‘And if you resist us, don’t imagine we won’t consider ways of persuading you via Pascale.’

‘You’d probably regret it.’

Khouri prickled. For the dozenth time this day, something felt seriously wrong. She sensed that the others were also attuned to it, though there was nothing to read in their expressions. Sylveste sounded too cocksure; that was it. Too cocksure for someone who had been abducted and was about to be forced to undergo a painful ordeal. Instead he sounded like someone who was about to reveal a winning hand.

‘I’ll fix your damn Captain,’ Sylveste said. ‘Or at least prove it can’t be done; one of the two. But in return, there’s a small favour you have to do for me.’

‘Excuse me,’ Hegazi said, ‘but when negotiating from a position of weakness, you don’t ask for favours.’

‘Who said anything about weakness?’ Sylveste smiled again, this time with unconcealed ferocity, and something which looked dangerously like joy. ‘Before I left Mantell, my captors did me a small, final favour. I don’t think they particularly felt they owed me anything. But the act was a small thing, and it allowed them to spite you, which did, I think, rather appeal to them. They were losing me, after all - but they saw no reason why you should get quite what you thought you were getting.’

‘I don’t like this at all,’ Hegazi said.

‘Believe me,’ Sylveste said, ‘you’re about to like it a lot less. Now; I have to ask a question, just to clarify our positions.’

‘Go ahead,’ Sajaki said.

‘Are you all completely familiar with the concept of hot-dust?’

‘You’re talking to Ultras,’ Hegazi said.

‘Well, of course. Just wanted to make sure you weren’t under any illusions. And you’ll know that hot-dust fragments can be sealed within containment devices smaller than pinheads? Of course you do.’ He tapped his finger against his chin, extemporising like an expert lawyer. ‘You heard about Remilliod’s visit, of course? The last lighthugger to trade with the Resurgam system before you came?’

‘We heard about it.’

‘Well, Remilliod sold hot-dust to the colony. Not many fragments; just enough for a colony which might want to do some hefty landscape-rearranging in the near future. Of his sample, a dozen or less fell into the hands of the people who were holding me prisoner. Do you want me to continue, or are you ahead of me already?’

‘I fear I may be,’ Sajaki said. ‘But continue anyway.’

‘One of those pinheads is now installed in the vision system which Cal made for me. It draws no current, and even if you dismantled my eyes, you would not be able to tell which component was the bomb. But you wouldn’t want to try that, because even tampering with my eyes will detonate the pinhead, with a yield sufficient to turn the front kilometre of this ship into a very expensive and useless piece of glass sculpture. Kill me, or even harm me to the extent that certain bodily functions are compromised beyond a preset limit, and the device triggers. Clear on that?’

‘As crystal.’

‘Good. Harm Pascale and the same thing happens: I can trigger it deliberately, by executing a series of neural commands. Or I could of course simply kill myself - the result would be indistinguishable. ’ He clasped his hands together, beaming like a statue of Buddha. ‘So. How does a little negotiation sound to you?’

Sajaki said nothing for what seemed like an eternity; doubtless considering every ramification of what Sylveste had said. Finally he said, without having consulted Hegazi: ‘We can be . . . flexible.’

‘Good. Then I expect you’re keen to hear my terms.’

‘Burning with enthusiasm.’

‘Thanks to the recent unpleasantness,’ Sylveste said, ‘I have a reasonably good idea what this ship can do. And I suspect that little demonstration was very much at the timid end of things. Am I right?’

‘We have . . . capabilities, but you’d have to talk to Ilia. What did you have in mind?’

Sylveste smiled.

‘First you have to take me somewhere.’

NINETEEN

Delta Pavonis system, 2566

They retired to the bridge.

Sylveste had visited this room during his previous period aboard the ship and had spent hundreds of hours in it then, but it still impressed him. With the encircling ranks of empty seats rising towards the ceiling, it felt more like a court of law where some momentous case was about to be tried; the jurors about to take their places in the concentric seats. Judgement seemed to be waiting in the air, about to be voiced into being. Sylveste examined his state of mind and found nothing resembling guilt, so he did not place himself in the role of the accused. But he felt a weight. It was the weight that some legal functionary might feel; the burden of a task which had to be performed not only in public but to the highest possible standards of excellence. If he failed, more than his own dignity might be at stake. A long and elaborately connected chain of events leading to this point would be severed, a chain that stretched unimaginably far into the past.

He looked around and made out the holographic projection globe which jutted into the chamber’s geometric centre, but his eyes were barely able to make out the object which it was imaging, though there were enough ancillary clues to suggest it was a realtime representation of Resurgam.

‘Are we still in orbit?’ he asked.

‘Now that we’ve got you?’ Sajaki shook his head. ‘That would be pointless. We have no more business with Resurgam.’

‘You’re worried about the colonists trying something?’

‘They could inconvenience us, I admit.’

For a moment they were silent, before Sylveste said, ‘Resurgam never interested you, did it? You came all this way just for me. I find that singleminded to the point of monomania.’

‘It was only the work of a few months, if that.’ Sajaki smiled. ‘From our perspective, of course. Don’t flatter yourself that I’d have chased you for years.’

‘From my perspective, of course, that’s just what you did.’

‘Your perspective isn’t valid.’

‘And yours is? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘It’s . . . longer. That has to count for something. Now; to answer your earlier question, we’ve left orbit. We’ve been accelerating away from the ecliptic ever since you came aboard.’

‘I haven’t told you where I want us to go.’

‘No, our plan was simply to put an AU or so between us and the colony, then lock into a constant-thrust holding pattern while we think things over.’ Sajaki clicked his fingers, causing a robotic seat to angle down beside him. He boarded it, then waited while another quartet of seats appeared for Sylveste and Pascale, Hegazi and Khouri. ‘During which time, of course, we anticipated that you’d assist with the Captain.’

‘Did I say I wouldn’t do it?’

‘No,’ Hegazi said. ‘But you sure as hell came with some unanticipated fine print.’

‘Don’t blame me for making the best of a bad situation.’

‘We’re not, we’re not,’ Sajaki said. ‘But it would help if you were a little clearer on your requirements. Isn’t that reasonable?’

Sylveste’s seat was hovering next to the one holding Pascale. She was looking at him now, as much in expectation as any of the crew who had captured him. Except that she knows so much more, he thought, almost everything there was to know, in fact - or at least as much as he knew, however insignificant a part of the truth that knowledge actually constituted.

‘Can I call up a map of the system from this position?’ Sylveste asked. ‘I mean, of course I can, in principle - but will you give me the freedom to do so and some instructions?’

‘The most recent maps were compiled during our approach,’ Hegazi said. ‘You can retrieve them from ship memory and project them into the display.’

‘Then show me how. I’m going to be more than just a passenger for some time to come - you might as well get used to it.’

It took a minute or so to find the right maps; another half a minute to project the right composite into the projection sphere in the form Sylveste desired, eclipsing the realtime image of Resurgam. The image had the form of an orrery, the orbits of the system’s eleven planets and largest minor planets and comets denoted by elegant coloured tracks, with the positions of the bodies themselves shown in their current relative positions. Because the scale adopted was large, the terrestrial planets - Resurgam included - were crammed into the middle; a tight scribble of concentric orbits banded around the star Delta Pavonis. The minor planets came next, followed by the gas giants and comets, occupying the system’s middle ground. Then came two smaller sub-Jovian gas worlds, hardly giants at all, then a Plutonian world - not much more than a captured cometary husk, with two attendant moons. The system’s Kuiper belt of primordial cometary matter was visible in infrared as a curiously distorted shoal, one nubby end pointing out from the star. And then there was nothing at all for twenty further AU, more than ten light-hours out from the star itself. Matter here - such as there was - was only weakly bound to the star; it felt its gravitational field, but orbits here were centuries long and easily disrupted by encounters with other bodies. The protective caul of the star’s magnetic field did not extend this far out, and objects here were buffeted by the ceaseless squall of the galactic magnetosphere; the great wind in which the magnetic fields of all stars were embedded, like tiny eddies within a vaster cyclone.

But that enormous volume of space was not completely empty. It appeared at first only as one body - but that was because the default magnification scale was too large to show its duplicity. It lay in the direction in which the Kuiper halo was pointing; its own gravitational drag had pulled the halo out of sphericity towards that bulged configuration, betraying its existence. The object itself would have been utterly invisible to the naked eye, unless one were within a million kilometres of it; at which point seeing the object would have been the least of one’s problems.

‘You’ll know of this,’ Sylveste said. ‘Even though you might not have paid it very much attention until now.’

‘It’s a neutron star,’ Hegazi said.

‘Good. Remember anything else?’

‘Only that it has a companion,’ Sajaki said. ‘Which doesn’t in itself make it unusual, of course.’

‘Not really, no. Neutron stars often have planets - they’re supposed to be the condensed remnants of evaporated binary stars. Either that or the planet somehow managed to avoid being destroyed when the pulsar was formed during the supernova explosion of a heavier star.’ Sylveste shook his head. ‘But not unusual, no. So - you may be asking - why am I interested in it?’

‘That’s a reasonable question,’ Hegazi said.

‘Because there’s something strange about it.’ Sylveste enlarged the image, until the planet was clearly visible, streaking around the neutron star in its ludicrously rapid orbit.

‘The planet was of extraordinary significance to the Amarantin. It appears in their late-phase artefacts with increasing frequency as one approaches the Event - the stellar flare which wiped them out.’

He knew he had their attention now. If the threat to destroy their ship had appealed to them on the level of self-preservation, now he had fully snared their intellects. He had never doubted that this part would be simpler than with the colonists, for Sajaki’s crew already had the advantage of a cosmic perspective.

‘So what is it?’ Sajaki said.

‘I don’t know. That’s what you’re going to help me find out.’

Hegazi said, ‘You think there might be something on the planet?’

‘Or inside it. We won’t know for sure until we get a lot closer, will we?’

‘It could be a trap,’ Pascale said. ‘I don’t think we should dismiss that possibility - especially if Dan’s right about the timing.’

‘What timing?’ Sajaki said.

Sylveste steepled his fingers. ‘It’s my suspicion - no; not a suspicion, my conclusion - that the Amarantin eventually progressed to the point where they could achieve space travel.’

‘From what I gathered on the surface,’ Sajaki said, ‘there’s very little in the fossil record to substantiate that.’

‘But there wouldn’t be, would there? Technological artefacts are inherently less durable than more primitive items. Pottery endures. Microcircuits crumble to dust. Besides, it took a technology comparable to our own to bury the city under the obelisk. If they were capable of that, we’ve no grounds for presuming they weren’t also capable of reaching the edge of their solar system - perhaps even interstellar space.’

‘You don’t think the Amarantin reached other systems?’

‘I don’t rule it out, no.’

Sajaki smiled. ‘Then where are they now? I can accept one technological civilisation being wiped out without a trace, but not one spread across many worlds. They would have left something behind.’

‘Perhaps they did.’

‘The world around the neutron star? You think that’s where you’ll find the answers to your questions?’

‘If I knew that, I wouldn’t need to go there. All I’m asking is that you let me find out, which means taking me there.’ Sylveste rested his chin on his steepled fingers. ‘You’ll get me as close to the planet as possible, and ensure my safety at the same time. If that means putting the nastier capabilities of this vessel at my disposal, so be it.’

Hegazi looked fascinated and fearful. ‘Do you think we’ll encounter something when we get there - something we need the weapons for?’

‘There’s no harm in taking precautions, is there?’

Sajaki turned to his fellow Triumvir. For a moment it was as if none of the others were present at all as something flickered between them, perhaps on the level of machine thought. When they spoke, it might only have been to repeat the discussion for Sylveste’s benefit. ‘What he said about the device in his eyes - is that possible? I mean, assuming what we know of the technical expertise on Resurgam, could they have installed such an implant in the time we gave them?’

Hegazi took his time before answering. ‘I think, Yuuji-san, that we should seriously consider the possibility.’

Most of Volyova woke up in the recovery suite of the medical bay. She did not need to be told that she had been unconscious for more than a few hours. She had only to examine her state of mind, the feeling that she had been dreaming, deeply so - for centuries - to know that her injuries, and her recuperation, had not been trivial. Sometimes one could feel like one had been dreaming for a lifetime in the shortest of catnaps. But not now, for these dreams were as long, and as saturated with event, as the most turgid of pretechnological fables. She felt that she had lived through dusty, deathless volumes of her own wanderings.

Yet she remembered very little. She had been aboard this ship, yes, and then not aboard it - somewhere else, though where, she was not yet clear - and then something dreadful had happened. All she really remembered was the sound and the fury - but what did they signify? Where had she been?

Dimly - at first wary that it was merely a dislodged fragment of the dream - she remembered Resurgam. And then, slowly, events returned, not as a tidal wave, or even as a landslide, but as a slow, squelching slippage: a disembowelment of the past. They did not even have the decency to return in anything like chronological order. But when she ordered things to her own satisfaction, she remembered the delivering of ultimata, in her voice, oddly enough, announced from orbit to the waiting world below. And then waiting in the storm, and feeling at first a terrible hotness and then an equally terrible coolness in her stomach, and seeing Sudjic standing over her, dispensing pain.

The room’s door opened; Ana Khouri entered, alone.

‘You’re awake,’ she said. ‘Thought so. I had the system advise me when your neural activity passed a certain level consistent with conscious thought. It’s good to have you back, Ilia. We could use some sanity around here.’

‘How long . . .’ Volyova swallowed her words - they sounded broken and slurred - before beginning again. ‘How long have I been here? And where are we now?’

‘Ten days since the attack, Ilia. We’re - well, I’ll come to that. It’s a long story. How do you feel?’

‘I’ve felt worse.’ Then she wondered why she had said it, because she could not think of an occasion when she had felt this bad, ever. But it seemed to be what one said under the circumstances. ‘What attack?’

‘I don’t think you remember much, do you?’

‘I did just ask that question, Khouri.’

She had joined Volyova, the room extruding a blocky chair by the bedside for her comfort. ‘Sudjic,’ she said. ‘She tried to kill you when we were on Resurgam - you remember, don’t you?’

‘Not really.’

‘We’d gone down to escort Sylveste up to the ship.’

Volyova was silent for a moment, the man’s name ringing in her head with a peculiarly metallic quality, as if a scalpel had just crashed to the floor. ‘Sylveste, yes. I remember that we were about to bring him in. Did it work, then? Did Sajaki get what he wanted?’

‘Yes and no,’ Khouri said, after deliberation.

‘And Sudjic?’

‘She wanted to kill you because of Nagorny.’

‘No pleasing some people, is there?’

‘I think she’d have found some excuse, whatever happened. She thought I’d join with her, as well.’

‘And?’

‘I killed her.’

‘Then I’d hazard a guess that you saved my life.’ For the first time Volyova lifted her head from the pillow; it felt as if it were attached to the bed by elastic cables. ‘You really ought to cut down on it, Khouri, before it becomes a habit. But if there was another death . . . you can probably expect Sajaki to start asking questions.’ That was as much as she would risk saying now; the warning she had just given was exactly what any senior crewperson might give to an understudy; it did not necessarily mean - to anyone listening in - that Volyova knew anything more about Khouri than the other Triumvirs.

But the warning was sincere enough. First the killing in the training chamber . . . then another on Resurgam. In neither situation had Khouri exactly instigated the trouble, but if her proximity to both happenings was enough to trouble Volyova, it would certainly give Sajaki pause for thought. Asking questions was probably at the milder end of the Triumvir’s likely interrogative process, if it came to that. Sajaki might opt for torture . . . perhaps even a dangerous deep-memory trawl. Then - if he did not fry Khouri’s mind in the process - he might learn her identity as infiltrator, put aboard to steal the cache. His next question would almost certainly be: how much of this did Volyova know? And if he deemed it worthwhile to trawl Volyova as well . . .

It must not come to that, she thought.

As soon as she was well enough, she would have to get Khouri to the spider-room where they could talk more freely. For now, it was senseless to dwell on things beyond her control.

‘What happened afterwards?’ she asked.

‘After Sudjic bought it? Everything continued according to plan, believe it or not. Sylveste still had to be escorted aboard the ship, and Sajaki and I hadn’t been injured.’

She thought of Sylveste, somewhere in the ship now. ‘Then Sajaki really did get what he wanted.’

‘No,’ Khouri said, guardedly. ‘That’s only what he thought he’d got. But the truth was a bit different.’

Over the next hour she told Volyova everything that had happened since Sylveste had been brought back aboard the lighthugger. It was all general ship-knowledge; nothing that Sajaki would not expect her to tell Volyova. But all the while, Volyova reminded herself that she was being told events as filtered by Khouri’s perception of things, which might not necessarily be complete, or even reliable. There were nuances of shipboard politics which would elude Khouri; would, indeed, elude anyone who had not been aboard for years. But at the end it seemed unlikely that any large portion of the truth had not been related, whether Khouri knew it or not. And what Volyova had been told was not good; not good at all.

‘You think he lied?’ Khouri asked.

‘About the hot-dust?’ Volyova approximated a shrug. ‘It’s certainly possible. Granted, Remilliod did sell hot-dust to the colony - we’ve seen the evidence of that already - but manipulating it isn’t child’s play. And they wouldn’t have had long to install it in his eyes, assuming they waited until the strike against Phoenix had already taken place, which seems likely. On the other hand . . . the risk’s just too great to assume he was lying. No remote-scan could detect hot-dust without risking a trigger . . . it puts Sajaki in a double-bind. He can’t not assume Sylveste was telling the truth. He has to take Sylveste at his word, or risk everything. At least this way the risk’s marginally quantifiable.’

‘You call Sylveste’s request a quantifiable risk?’

Volyova clucked, thinking of his demands. In all her life, she had never been near anything potentially alien; anything so potentially outside of her experience. There would surely be much there that could teach her . . . many lessons she could absorb. Sylveste need hardly have bothered with his threat . . .

‘He should have known better than to offer us such a tantalising lure,’ she said. ‘I’ve been intrigued by that neutron star ever since we entered the system, do you know? I found something near it on our approach - a weak neutrino source. It seems to be orbiting the planet, which itself orbits the neutron star.’

‘What could produce neutrinos?’

‘Many things - but of this energy? I can only think of machinery. Advanced machinery.’

‘Left there by the Amarantin?’

‘It’s a possibility, isn’t it?’ Volyova smiled, with effort. That was exactly what she was thinking, but there was no sense in stating her desires so blatantly. ‘I suppose we will find out when we get there.’

Neutrinos are fundamental particles; spin-half leptons. They come in three forms, or flavours: electron, mu- or tau-neutrinos, depending on the nuclear reactions which have birthed them. But because they have mass - because they move fractionally slower than the speed of light - neutrinos oscillate between flavours as they fly. By the time the ship’s sensors intercepted these neutrinos, they were a blend of the three possible flavour states, difficult to untangle. But as the distance to the neutron star decreased - and with it the time available for the neutrinos to oscillate away from their creation state - the blend of flavours became increasingly dominated by one type of neutrino. The energy spectrum became easier to read, too, and the time-dependent variations in the source strength were now much simpler to follow and interpret. By the time the distance between the ship and the neutron star had narrowed to one-fifth of one AU - about twenty million kilometres - Volyova had a much clearer idea about what was causing the steady flux of particles, dominated by the heaviest of the neutrino flavours, tau-neutrinos.

And what she learned disturbed her enormously.

But she decided to wait until they were closer before announcing her fears to the rest of the crew. Sylveste was, after all, still controlling them; it seemed unlikely that her worries would greatly dissuade him from his current course of action.

Khouri was getting used to dying.

One of the niggling aspects of Volyova’s simulations was the way they routinely carried on beyond the point where any real observer would have been killed, or at the very least so gravely injured as to be incapable of perceiving any subsequent events, let alone capable of having any influence over them. Like this time. Something had lanced out from Cerberus - an unspecified weapon of arbitrary destructiveness - and casually shredded the entire lighthugger. Nothing could have survived that attack, but Khouri’s disembodied consciousness was still stubbornly present, watching the riven shards drift lazily apart in a pinkish halo of their own ionised guts. It was, she supposed, Volyova’s way of rubbing it in.

‘Haven’t you ever heard of morale-building?’ Khouri had asked.

‘Heard of it,’ Volyova said. ‘Don’t happen to agree with it. Would you rather be happy and dead, or scared and alive?’

‘But I keep dying anyway. Why are you so convinced we’re going to run into trouble when we get there?’

‘I’m only assuming the worst,’ Volyova said, depressingly.

The next day Volyova felt strong enough to talk to Sylveste and his wife. She was sitting up in bed when they came into the medical bay, a compad propped on her lap, scrolling through a plethora of attack scenarios which she would later test against Khouri. She hastily closed the display and replaced it with something less ominous, though she doubted that the cryptic code of her simulations would have made much sense to Sylveste anyway; even to herself, her scribbles sometimes resembled a private language in which she had only passing fluency.

‘You’re healed now,’ Sylveste said, sitting next to her, flanked by Pascale. ‘That’s good.’

‘Because you care about my well-being, or because you need my expertise?’

‘The latter, obviously. There’s no love lost between us, Ilia, so why pretend otherwise?’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’ She put the compad aside. ‘Khouri and I had a discussion about you. I - or we - concluded that it was better to give you the benefit of the doubt. So for the time being, assume that I assume that everything you’ve told us,’ she touched a finger against her brow, ‘is completely true. Of course, I reserve the right to alter this judgement at any point in the future.’

‘I think it’s best for all of us if we adopt that line of thinking,’ Sylveste said. ‘And I assure you, scientist to scientist, it’s utterly true. Not just about my eyes, either.’

‘The planet.’

‘Cerberus. yes. I presume they briefed you?’

‘You expect to find something there which may relate to the Amarantin extinction. Yes; that much I gleaned.’

‘You know about the Amarantin?’

‘Orthodox thinking, yes.’ She lifted the compad again, quickly scrolling to a cache of documents uplinked from Cuvier. ‘Of course, very little of this is your work. But I have the biography, as well. It conveys a great deal of your speculation.’

‘Framed from the point of view of a sceptic,’ Sylveste said, glancing towards Pascale - a visible shift in the angle of his head, for it was impossible to judge the direction of his gaze from his eyes.

‘Naturally. But the essence of your thinking comes through. Within that paradigm . . . I concur that Cerberus/Hades is of some interest.’

Sylveste nodded, clearly impressed that she had remembered the proper nomenclature for the planet/neutron-star binary system they were now approaching. ‘Something drew the Amarantin there, in their end days. I want to know what it was.’

‘And does it concern you that this something might have been related to the Event?’

‘It concerns me, yes.’ His answer was not quite what she was expecting. ‘But it would concern me more if we were to ignore it entirely. After all, the threat to our own safety might be just as present. At least if we learn something we have a chance of avoiding the same fate.’

Volyova tapped a finger against her lower lip, thoughtfully. ‘The Amarantin may have thought similarly.’

‘Better, then, to approach the situation from a standpoint of power.’ Sylveste looked to his wife again. ‘It was providential that you arrived, in all honesty. There was no way for Cuvier to finance an expedition out here, even if I had been able to persuade the colony of its importance. And even if they had, nothing they could have prepared would have equalled the offensive capabilities of this ship.’

‘That little demonstration of our fire-power was really rather ill-judged, wasn’t it?’

‘Perhaps - but without it, I might never have been released.’

She sighed. ‘That, unfortunately, is precisely my point.’

The better part of a week later - when the ship had arrived within twelve million kilometres of Cerberus/Hades, and had assumed orbit around the neutron star - Volyova convened a meeting of the entire crew, and their guests, in the ship’s bridge. Now, she thought, was the time to reveal that her deepest fears had indeed been justified. It was hard enough for her, but how would Sylveste 367 take matters? What she was about to tell him not only confirmed that they were approaching something dangerous, but it also touched on something of deep personal significance for him. She was not an adept judge of character at the best of times - and Sylveste was entirely too complex a beast to submit to easy analysis - but she saw no way that her news could be anything other than painful.

‘I found something,’ she said, when she had everyone’s attention. ‘Quite some time ago, in fact: a source of neutrinos, near Cerberus.’

‘How long ago?’ Sajaki said.

‘Before we arrived around Resurgam.’ Watching his expression darken, she added: ‘There was nothing worth telling you, Triumvir. We did not even know we would be sent out here at that point. And the nature of the source was very unclear.’

‘And now?’ Sylveste said.

‘Now I have . . . a clearer idea. As we approached Hades, it became obvious that the emissions at source were pure tau-neutrinos of a particular energy spectrum; unique, in fact, amongst the signatures of any human technology.’

‘Then it’s something human that you’ve found out here?’ Pascale said.

‘That was my assumption.’

‘A Conjoiner drive,’ Hegazi said, and Volyova nodded slightly.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Only Conjoiner drives produce tau-neutrino signatures which match the source around Cerberus.’

‘Then there’s another ship out here?’ Pascale said.

‘That was my first thought,’ Volyova said, sounding uneasy. ‘And, in fact, it isn’t entirely wrong, either.’ Then she whispered commands into her bracelet, causing the central display sphere to warm to life and begin running through a pre-programmed routine she had set up just before the meeting. ‘But it was important to wait until we were close enough for visual identification of the source.’

The sphere showed Cerberus. The moon-sized world was like a less inviting version of Resurgam: monotonously grey, densely cratered. It was dark, too: Delta Pavonis was ten light-hours away, and the other nearby star - Hades - offered almost no light at all. Although it had been born furiously hot in a supernova explosion, the tiny neutron star had long since cooled into the infrared, and to the naked eye it was only visible when its gravitational field tricked background stars into arcs of lensed light. But even if Cerberus had been bathed in light, there was no suggestion of anything which might have lured the Amarantin. Even the best of Volyova’s scans, however, had only mapped the surface at a resolution of kilometres, so very little could be ruled out at this stage. But she had studied the object orbiting Cerberus in considerably greater detail.

She zoomed in on it now. At first it was just a slightly elongated whitish-grey smudge, backdropped by stars, with one edge of Cerberus visible to one side. That was how it had looked to her days ago, before the ship had deployed all its long-baseline eyes. But even then she had found it hard to ignore her suspicions. As more details appeared, it became harder still.

The smudge took on definite attributes of solidity and form now. It was a vaguely conic shape, like a splinter of glass. Volyova made a dimensional grid envelop the object, showing its approximate size. It was clearly several kilometres from end to end: three or four, easily.

‘At this resolution,’ Volyova said, ‘the neutrino emission resolved into two distinct sources.’ She showed them: grey-green blurs spaced either side of the thickened end of the conic shape. As more details phased in, the blurs could be seen to be attached to the body of the splinter by elegant, back-swept spars.

‘A lighthugger,’ Hegazi said. He was right; even at this relatively crude resolution, there was no doubt about it. What they were looking at was another ship, much like their own. The two individual sources of neutrino emission originated from the two Conjoiner engines mounted either side of the hull.

‘The engines are dormant,’ Volyova said. ‘But they still give off a stable flux of neutrinos even when the ship’s not under thrust.’

‘Can you identify the ship?’ Sajaki said.

‘It isn’t necessary,’ Sylveste said, the deep calm in his voice surprising them all. ‘I know which ship it is.’

On the display, the final wave of detail shimmered across the ship, and the view enlarged until the craft filled almost the entire sphere. It was obvious now, even if it had not been completely so before. The ship was damaged; gutted: pocked by great spherical indentations, acres of the hull flensed open to reveal an intricate and queasy complexity of sub-layers which ought never to have been exposed to vacuum.

‘Well?’ Sajaki said.

‘It’s the wreck of the Lorean,’ Sylveste said.

TWENTY

Approaching Cerberus/Hades, 2566

Calvin assumed existence in the lighthugger’s medical suite, still incongruously posed in his enormous hooded chair.

‘Where are we?’ he asked, rummaging in the corner of one eye with his finger, as if he had just awoken from a satisfactorily deep sleep. ‘Still around that shithole of a planet?’

‘We’ve left Resurgam,’ said Pascale, who sat in the seat next to Sylveste, who in turn was reclining on the operation couch, fully clothed and conscious. ‘We’re on the edge of Delta Pavonis’s heliosphere, near the Cerberus/Hades system. They’ve found the Lorean.’

‘Sorry; I think I misheard you.’

‘No; you heard me perfectly well. Volyova showed it to us - it’s definitely the same ship.’

Calvin frowned. Like Pascale - like Sylveste - he had assumed that the Lorean was no longer anywhere near the Resurgam system. Not since Alicia and the other mutineers had stolen it to return to Yellowstone back in the early days of the Resurgam colony. ‘How can it be the Lorean?’

‘We don’t know,’ Sylveste said. ‘All we know is what we’ve told you. You’re as much in the dark as the rest of us.’ At such a point in their conversation, he normally inserted a barb against Calvin, but for once something made him hold his tongue.

‘Is it intact?’

‘Something must have attacked it.’

‘Survivors?’

‘I doubt it. The ship was heavily damaged . . . whatever it was came suddenly, or they would have tried moving out of range.’

Calvin was silent for a few moments before answering. ‘Alicia must have died, then. I’m sorry.’

‘We don’t know what it was, or how the attack came about,’ Sylveste said. ‘But we may learn something shortly.’

‘Volyova’s launched a probe,’ Pascale said. ‘A robot - capable of crossing over to the Lorean very quickly. It should have arrived by now. She said it will enter the ship and find whatever electronic records have survived.’

‘And then?’

‘We’ll know what killed them.’

‘But that won’t be enough, will it? No matter what you learn from the Lorean, it won’t be enough to make you turn back, Dan. I know you better than that.’

‘You only think you do,’ Sylveste said.

Pascale stood up, coughing. ‘Can we save this for later? If you can’t work together, Sajaki’s not going to have much use for either of you two.’

‘Irrelevant what he thinks about me,’ Sylveste said. ‘Sajaki still has to do whatever I say.’

‘He has a point,’ Calvin said.

Pascale asked the room to extrude an escritoire, with controls and readouts in the Resurgam style. She made a seat and sat herself beneath the escritoire’s curved ivory fascia. Then she called up a map of the data connections in the suite, and set about establishing the necessary links between Calvin’s module and the suite’s medical systems. She looked like she was spinning an elaborate cat’s cradle in thin air. As the connections were created, Calvin acknowledged them, and told her whether to increase or decrease bandwidth along certain pathways, or whether additional topologies were needed. The procedure lasted only a few minutes, and when it was complete Calvin was able to operate the medical suite’s servo-mechanical equipment, causing a mass of tipped alloy arms to descend from the ceiling, like the sculpture of a medusa.

‘You have no idea how this feels,’ Calvin said. ‘It’s the first time in years I’ve been able to act on a part of the physical universe - not since I first repaired your eyes.’ And as he spoke, the multi-jointed arms executed a shimmering dance, blades, lasers, claws, molecular-manipulators and sensors scything the air in a whirl of vicious silver.

‘Very impressive,’ Sylveste said, feeling the breeze on his face. ‘Just be careful.’

‘I could rebuild your eyes in a day,’ Calvin said. ‘I could make them better than they ever were. I could make them look human - hell; with the technology here I could implant biological eyes just as easily.’

‘I don’t want you to rebuild them,’ Sylveste said. ‘Right now they’re all I have on Sajaki. Just repair Falkender’s work.’

‘Ah, yes - I’d forgotten about that.’ Calvin, who remained essentially immobile, raised an eyebrow. ‘Are you sure this procedure is wise?’

‘Just be careful what you poke.’

Alicia Keller Sylveste had been his last wife before Pascale. They had married on Yellowstone, during the long years when the Resurgam expedition had been planned in excruciating detail. They had been together at the founding of Cuvier and had worked in harmony during the earliest years of the digs. She had been brilliant; too much so, perhaps, to stay comfortably within his orbit. Independently minded, she had begun to draw away from him - both personally and professionally - as their time on Resurgam entered its third decade. Alicia was not alone in her conviction that enough had been learned of the Amarantin; that it was time for the expedition - never meant to be permanent - to return to Epsilon Eridani. After all, if they had not learned anything shattering in thirty years, there was no promise that the next thirty years, or the next century, would bring anything more overwhelming. Alicia and her sympathisers believed that the Amarantin did not merit further detailed study; that the Event had only been an unfortunate accident of no actual cosmic significance. It was not hard to see the sense in this. The Amarantin, after all, were not the only dead species known to humankind. Out in the ever-expanding bubble of explored space, it was entirely possible that other cultures were about to be discovered, potent with archaeological treasures waiting to be unearthed. Alicia’s faction felt that Resurgam should be abandoned; that the colony’s finest minds should return to Yellowstone and select new targets of study.

Sylveste’s faction, of course, disagreed in the strongest terms. By then Alicia and Sylveste were estranged, but even in the depths of their enmity they preserved a cool respect of each other’s abilities. If love had withered, detached admiration remained.

Then came the mutiny. Alicia’s faction had done just what they always threatened to do: abandoned Resurgam. Unable to convince the rest of the colony to travel with them, they had stolen the Lorean from its parking orbit. The mutiny had been quite bloodless, but in their theft of the ship, Alicia’s faction had inflicted a much more insidious harm upon the colony. The Lorean had contained all the intra-system vessels and shuttles, meaning that the colonists were confined to Resurgam’s surface. They had no means to repair or upgrade the comsat girdle until Remilliod’s arrival, decades later. Servitors, replicating technology and implants had all been in excruciatingly short supply after Alicia’s departure.

But, in fact, Sylveste’s faction had been the fortunate ones.

‘Log entry,’ said Alicia’s ghost, floating disembodied in the bridge. ‘Twenty-five days out from Resurgam. We’ve decided - against my better judgement - to approach the neutron star on our way out. The alignment’s propitious; it doesn’t take us very far from our planned heading for Eridani, and the net delay to our journey will be tiny compared with the years of flight that are ahead of us in any case.’

She was not quite what Sylveste remembered. It had been a long time, in any case. She no longer seemed hateful to him; merely errant. She wore dark green clothes of a kind no one had worn in Cuvier since the mutiny itself, and her hairstyle seemed almost theatrical in its antiquity.

‘Dan was convinced there was something important out here, but the evidence was always lacking.’

That surprised him. She was speaking from a time long before the unearthing of the obelisk with its curious orrery-like inscriptions. Had his obsession been that strong, even then? It was entirely possible, but the realisation was not a comfortable one. Alicia was right in what she said. The evidence had been lacking.

‘We saw something strange,’ Alicia said. ‘A cometary impact on Cerberus, the planet orbiting the neutron star. Such impacts must be quite rare, this far out from the main Kuiper swarm. It naturally drew our attention. But when we were close enough to examine the surface of Cerberus, there was no sign of a new impact crater.’

Sylveste felt the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. ‘And?’ he found himself mouthing, almost silently, as if Alicia were standing before them in the bridge, and not a projection dredged from the memory banks of the wrecked ship.

‘It was not something we could ignore,’ she said. ‘Even if it seemed to lend tacit support to Dan’s theory that there was something strange about the Hades/Cerberus system. So we altered our course to come in closer.’ She paused. ‘If we find something significant . . . something we can’t explain . . . I don’t think we’ll have any ethical choice but to inform Cuvier. Otherwise we could never again hold our heads high as scientists. We will know better tomorrow, anyway. We’ll be within probe range by then.’

‘How much more of this is there?’ Sylveste asked Volyova. ‘How much longer did she continue with log entries?’

‘About a day,’ Volyova said.

Now they were in the spider-room, safe - or so Volyova wished to believe - from the prying eyes of Sajaki and the others. They had still not listened to everything Alicia had to say, for the very act of sifting through the spoken records was time-consuming and emotionally draining. Yet the basic shape of the truth was emerging, and it was far from encouraging. Alicia’s crew had been attacked by something near Cerberus, suddenly and decisively. Shortly Volyova and her crewmates would know a great deal more about the danger they were being impelled towards.

‘You realise,’ Volyova said, ‘that if we encounter trouble, you may have to enter the gunnery.’

‘I don’t think that would necessarily be for the best,’ Khouri said. Justifying herself, she added, ‘We both know there have been some worrying events related to the gunnery recently.’

‘Yes. As a matter of fact . . . during my convalescence, I convinced myself that you know more than you admit.’ Volyova relaxed back into the maroon plush of her seat, toying with the brass controls in front of her. ‘I think you told me the truth when you said you were an infiltrator. But I think that was as far as it went. The rest was a lie, designed to satisfy my curiosity and yet stop me taking the matter to the rest of the Triumvirate . . . which worked, of course. But there were too many things you didn’t explain to my satisfaction. Take the cache-weapon, for instance. When it malfunctioned, why did it point itself at Resurgam?’

‘It was the closest target.’

‘Sorry; too glib. It was something about Resurgam, wasn’t it? And the fact that you infiltrated this ship only when you knew our destination . . . yes; an out-of-the-way place would have made a good venue for staging an attempted take-over of the cache - but that was never on the cards anyway. You may have been resourceful, Khouri, but there was no way you were ever going to wrest control of those weapons from either myself or the rest of the Triumvirate.’ She put her hand beneath her chin now. ‘So - the obvious question. If your initial story was untrue, what exactly are you doing aboard this ship?’ She looked at Khouri, awaiting an answer. ‘You may as well tell me now, because I swear the next person to ask you will be Sajaki. It can’t have escaped your notice that Sajaki has his suspicions, Khouri - especially since Kjarval and Sudjic died.’

‘I didn’t have anything to do with . . .’ Then her voice lost conviction. ‘Sudjic had her own vendetta against you; that was none of my doing.’

‘But I had already disabled your suit’s weapons. Only I could have undone that order, and I was too busy being killed to do so. How did you manage to override the lock in order to kill Sudjic?’

‘Someone else did it.’ Khouri paused before continuing. ‘Something else, I should say. It was the same something that got into Kjarval’s suit and made her turn against me in the training session.’

‘That wasn’t Kjarval’s doing?’

‘No . . . not really. I don’t think I was her favourite person in the universe . . . but I’m fairly sure that she wasn’t planning to kill me in the training chamber.’

This was a lot to take in, even if it did finally feel like the truth. ‘So what happened, exactly?’

‘The thing inside my suit had to arrange matters so I’d be on the team to recover Sylveste. Getting Kjarval out of the picture was the only option.’

Yes; she could almost see the logic in that. She had never once questioned the manner in which Kjarval had died. It had seemed so predictable that one of the crew would turn against Khouri - especially Kjarval or Sudjic. Equally, one or other would surely have turned against Volyova before too long. Both things had happened, but now she saw them as part of something else . . . ripples of something she did not pretend to understand, but which moved with sharklike stealth beneath the surface of events.

‘What was so important about being in on the Sylveste recovery? ’

‘I . . .’ Khouri had been on the verge of saying something, but now she faltered. ‘I’m not sure this is the best time, Ilia - not when we’re so close to whatever destroyed the Lorean.’

‘I didn’t bring you here just to admire the view, in case you thought otherwise. Remember what I said about Sajaki? It’s either me, now - the closest thing on this ship you have to either an ally or a friend - or it’s Sajaki, later, with some hardware you probably don’t want to even think about.’ That was no great exaggeration, either. Sajaki’s trawl techniques were not exactly state-of-the-art in their subtlety.

‘I’ll start at the beginning, then.’ What Volyova had just said seemed to have done the trick. That was good - or else she would have to think about dusting off her own coercion methods. ‘The part about being a soldier . . . all that was true. How I got to Yellowstone is . . . complicated. Even now I’m not sure how much of it was an accident; how much of it was her doing. All I know is, she singled me out early on for this mission.’

‘Who was she?’

‘I don’t really know. Someone with a lot of power in Chasm City; maybe the whole planet. She called herself the Mademoiselle. She was careful never to use a real name.’

‘Describe her. She may be someone we know; someone we’ve had dealings with in the past.’

‘I doubt it. She wasn’t . . .’ Khouri paused. ‘She wasn’t one of you. Maybe once, but not now. I got the impression she’d been in Chasm City for a long time. But it wasn’t until after the Melding Plague that she came to power.’

‘She came to power and I haven’t heard of her?’

‘That was the whole point of her power. It wasn’t blatant, and she didn’t have to make her presence known to get something done. She just made shit happen. She wasn’t even rich - but she controlled more resources than anyone else on the planet, by sleight of hand. Not enough to conjure up a ship, though - which is why she needed you.’

Volyova nodded. ‘You said she might have been one of us, once. What did you mean by that?’

Khouri hesitated. ‘It wasn’t anything obvious. But the man working for her - Manoukhian, he called himself - definitely used to be an Ultra. He dropped enough clues to suggest that he’d found her in space.’

‘Found - as in rescued?’

‘That was how it sounded to me. She had these jagged metal sculptures, too - at least I thought they were sculptures to start with. Later, they began to look like parts of a wrecked spaceship. Like she was keeping them around her as a reminder of something. ’

Something tugged at Volyova’s memory, but for the moment she allowed the thought process to remain below the level of consciousness. ‘Did you get a good look at her?’

‘No. I saw a projection, but it needn’t have been accurate. She lived inside a palanquin, like the other hermetics.’

Volyova knew a little about the hermetics. ‘She needn’t have been one at all. A palanquin could simply have been a way of masking her identity. If we knew more about her origin . . . Did this Manoukhian tell you anything else?’

‘No; he wanted to - I could tell that much - but he managed not to give anything useful anyway.’

Volyova leaned closer. ‘Why do you say he wanted to tell you?’

‘Because that was his style. The guy never stopped mouthing off. The whole time I was being driven around by him, he never stopped telling me stories about all the things he’d done; all the famous people he’d known. Except for anything to do with the Mademoiselle. That was a closed subject; maybe because he was still working for her. But you could tell he was just itching to tell me stuff.’

Volyova drummed her fingers on the fascia. ‘Maybe he found a way.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘No; I wouldn’t expect you to. It was nothing he told you, either . . . but I think he did find a way to tell you the truth.’ The memory process she had suppressed a moment earlier had indeed dredged something. She thought back to the time of Khouri’s recruitment; to the examination she had given the woman after she had been brought aboard. ‘I can’t be sure yet, of course . . .’

Khouri looked at her. ‘You found something on me, didn’t you? Something Manoukhian planted?’

‘Yes. It seemed quite innocent, at first. Fortunately, I have an odd character defect, common amongst those of us who indulge in the sciences . . . I never, ever throw anything away.’ It was true; disposing of the thing she had found would have demanded a greater expenditure of effort than simply leaving it in her lab. It had seemed pointless at the time - the thing was just a shard, after all - but now she could run a compositional analysis on the metal splinter she had pulled from Khouri. ‘If I’m right, and this was Manoukhian’s doing, it may tell us something about the Mademoiselle. Perhaps even her identity. But you still need to tell me what exactly she wanted you to do for her. We already know it involves Sylveste in some way or another.’

Khouri nodded. ‘It does. And I’m afraid this is the part you’re really not going to like.’

‘We’ve completed a more detailed inspection of the surface of Cerberus from our present orbit,’ Alicia’s projection said. ‘And there’s still no evidence of the cometary impact point. Plenty of cratering, yes - but none of it recent. Which just doesn’t make any sense.’ She elaborated the one plausible theory they had, which was that the comet had been destroyed just before impact. Even that explanation implied the use of some form of defensive technology, but at least it avoided the paradox of the unchanged surface features. ‘But we saw no sign of anything like that, and there’s certainly no evidence of any technological structures on the surface. We’ve decided to launch a squadron of probes down to the surface. They’ll be able to hunt for anything we might have missed - machines buried in caves, or sunk in canyons below our viewing angle - and they might provoke some kind of response, if there are automated systems down there.’

Yes, Sylveste thought acidly. They had indeed provoked some kind of response. But it was almost certainly not the kind Alicia had anticipated.

Volyova located the next segment in Alicia’s narrative. The probes had been deployed; tiny automated spacecraft as fragile and nimble as dragonflies. They had fallen towards the surface of Cerberus - there was no atmosphere to retard them - only arresting their descent at the last moment, with quick spurts of fusion flame. For a while, seen from the vantage point of the Lorean, they had been sparks of brightness against the unremitting grey of Cerberus. But as the sparks had become tiny, they were a reminder that even this tiny, dead world was orders of magnitude larger than most human creations.

‘Log entry,’ said Alicia, after a gap in the narrative. ‘The probes are reporting something unusual - it’s just coming in now.’ She looked to one side, consulting a display beyond the projection volume. ‘Seismic activity on the surface. We were expecting to see it already, but until now the crust hasn’t moved at all, even though the planet’s orbit isn’t quite circularised and there should be tidal stresses. It’s almost as if the probes have triggered it, but that’s quite ridiculous.’

‘No more so than a planet that erases all evidence of a cometary impact on its surface,’ Pascale said. Then she looked at Sylveste. ‘I didn’t mean that as a criticism of Alicia, by the way.’

‘Perhaps you didn’t,’ he said. ‘But it would have been valid.’ Then he turned to Volyova. ‘Did you recover anything other than Alicia’s log entries? There must have been telemetered data from her probes . . .’

‘We have it,’ Volyova said cautiously. ‘I haven’t cleaned it up. It’s a little on the raw side.’

‘Patch me in.’

Volyova breathed a string of commands into the bracelet she always wore and the bridge burned away, a barrage of synaesthesia jumbling Sylveste’s senses. He was being immersed in the data from one of Alicia’s probes - the surveyor’s sensorium fully as raw as Volyova had warned. But Sylveste had known more or less what to expect; the transition was merely jarring rather than - as could easily have been the case - agonising.

He floated above a landscape. Altitude was difficult to judge, since the fractal surface features - craters, clefts and rivers of frozen grey lava - would have looked very similar at any distance. But the surveyor told him he was only half a kilometre above Cerberus. He looked down at the plain, hunting for some sign of the seismic activity Alicia had mentioned. Cerberus looked eternally old and unchanging, as if nothing had happened to it for billions of years. The only hint of motion came from the fusion jets, casting radial shadows away from his position as the machine loitered.

What had the drones seen? Certainly nothing in the visual band. Feeling his way into the sensorium - it was like slipping on an unfamiliar glove - Sylveste found the neural commands which accessed different data channels. He turned to thermal sensors, but the plain’s temperature showed no signs of variation. Across the complete EM spectrum there was nothing anomalous. Neutrino and exotic particle fluxes remained steadfastly within expectation. Yet when he switched to the gravitational imagers, he knew that something was very wrong with Cerberus. His visual field was overlaid with coloured, translucent contours of gravitational force. The contours were moving.

Things - huge enough to register via the mass sensors - were travelling underground, converging in a pincer movement directly below the point where he was hovering. For a moment, he allowed himself to believe that these moving forms were only vast, buried flows of lava - but that comforting delusion lasted no more than a second.

This was nothing natural.

Lines appeared on the plain, forming a starlike mandala centred on the same focus. Dimly, on the limits of his perception, he was aware that similar starlike patterns were opening below the other probes. The cracks widened, opening into monstrous black fissures. Through the fissures, Sylveste had a glimpse into what seemed to be kilometres of luminous depth. Coiled mechanical shapes writhed, sliding blue-grey tendrils wider than canyons. The motion was busy; orchestrated, purposeful, machinelike. He felt a special kind of revulsion. It was the feeling of biting an apple and exposing a colony of wrigglingly industrious maggots. He knew now. Cerberus was not a planet.

It was a mechanism.

Then the coiled things erupted through the star-shaped hole in the plain, rushing dreamily towards him, as if reaching to snatch him out of the sky. There was a horrible moment of whiteness - a whiteness in every sense he had - before Volyova’s sensorium-feed ended with screaming suddenness, Sylveste almost shrieking with existential shock as his sense of self crashed back into his body in the bridge.

He had time enough, after he had gathered his faculties, to observe Alicia mouthing something soundlessly, her face carved in what might have been fear, and what might equally have been the dismay at learning - in the instant prior to her death - that she had been wrong all along.

Then her image dissolved into static.

‘Now at least we know he’s mad,’ Khouri said, hours later. ‘If that didn’t persuade him against going any closer to Cerberus, I don’t think anything will.’

‘It may well have had the opposite effect,’ Volyova said, voice low despite the relative security furnished by the spider-room. ‘Now Sylveste knows there is something worth investigating, rather than merely suspecting so.’

‘Alien machinery?’

‘Evidently. And perhaps we can even guess at the purpose, too. Cerberus clearly isn’t a real world. At the very least, it’s a real world surrounded by a shell of machines, with an artificial crust. That explains why the cometary impact-point was never found - the crust, presumably, repaired itself before Alicia’s crew could get close enough.’

‘Some kind of camouflage?’

‘So it would seem.’

‘So why draw attention by attacking those probes?’

Volyova had evidently given the matter some prior thought. ‘The illusion of verisimilitude obviously can’t be foolproof at distances less than a kilometre or so. My guess is the probes were about to learn the truth just before they were destroyed, so the world lost nothing and gained some additional raw material in the bargain.’

‘Why, though? Why surround a planet with a false crust?’

‘I have no idea, and neither, I suspect, does Sylveste. That’s why he’s now even more likely to insist on going closer.’ She lowered her voice. ‘He’s already asked me to devise a strategy, in fact.’

‘A strategy for what?’

‘For getting him inside Cerberus.’ She paused. ‘He knows about the cache-weapons, of course. He presumes they’ll be sufficient to achieve his aims, by weakening the crustal machinery in one area of the planet. More than that will be needed, of course . . .’ Her tone of voice shifted. ‘Do you think this Mademoiselle of yours always knew this would be his objective?’

‘She was pretty damn clear he shouldn’t be allowed aboard the ship.’

‘The Mademoiselle told you that before you joined us?’

‘No; afterwards.’ She told Volyova about the implant in her head; how the Mademoiselle had downloaded an aspect of herself into Khouri’s skull for the purposes of the mission. ‘She was a pain,’ she said. ‘But she made me immune to your loyalty therapies, which I suppose was something to be grateful for.’

‘The therapies worked as intended,’ Volyova said.

‘No, I just pretended. The Mademoiselle told me what to say and when, and I guess she didn’t do too bad a job, or else we wouldn’t be having this discussion.’

‘She can’t rule out the possibility that the therapies worked partially, can she?’

Khouri shrugged again. ‘Does it matter? What kind of loyalty would make any sense now? You’ve as good as told me you’re waiting for Sajaki to make the wrong move. The only thing holding this crew together is Sylveste’s threat to kill us all if we don’t do what he wants. Sajaki’s a megalomaniac - maybe he should have double-checked the therapies he was running on you.’

‘You resisted Sudjic when she tried to kill me.’

‘Yeah, I did. But if she’d told me she was going after Sajaki - or even that prick Hegazi - I don’t know what I would have said.’

Volyova spent a moment in consultation with herself.

‘All right,’ she said finally. ‘I suppose the loyalty issue is moot. What else did the implant do for you?’

‘When you hooked me into the weapons,’ Khouri said, ‘she used the interface to inject herself - or a copy of herself - into the gunnery. To begin with I think she just wanted to assume control of as much of the ship as possible, and the gunnery was her only point of entry.’

‘The architecture wouldn’t have allowed her to reach beyond it.’

‘It didn’t. To the best of my knowledge, she never gained control of any part of the ship other than the weapons.’

‘You mean the cache?’

‘She was controlling the rogue weapon, Ilia. I couldn’t tell you at the time, but I knew what was happening. She wanted to use the weapon to kill Sylveste at long-range, before we’d ever arrived at Resurgam.’

‘I suppose,’ Volyova said, heavy with resignation, ‘that it makes a kind of twisted sense. But to use that weapon just to kill a man . . . I told you, you’re going to have to tell me why she wanted him dead so badly.’

‘You won’t like it. Especially not now, with what Sylveste wants to do.’

‘Just tell me.’

‘I will, I will,’ Khouri said. ‘But there’s one other thing - one other complicating factor. It’s called Sun Stealer, and I think you may already be acquainted with it.’

Volyova looked as if some recently healed internal injury had just relapsed; as if some painful seam had opened in her like ripping cloth. ‘Ah,’ she said eventually. ‘That name again.’

TWENTY-ONE

Approaching Cerberus/Hades, 2566

Sylveste had always known this point would come. But until now he had managed to keep it quarantined from his thoughts, acknowledging its existence without focusing his attention on what it actually entailed, the way a mathematician might ignore an invalidated part of a proof until the rest was rigorously tested and found to be free not just of glaring contradictions but of the least hint of error.

Sajaki had insisted that they journey alone to the Captain’s level, forbidding Pascale or any of the crew to accompany them. Sylveste did not argue the point, although he would have preferred his wife to be with him. It was the first time that Sylveste had been alone with Sajaki since arriving on the Infinity, and as they took the elevator downship, Sylveste ransacked his mind for something to talk about; anything except the atrocity that lay ahead of them.

‘Ilia says her machines aboard the Lorean will need another three or four days,’ Sajaki said. ‘You’re quite certain you wish her work to continue?’

‘I have no second thoughts,’ Sylveste said.

‘Then I have no choice but to comply with your wishes. I’ve weighed the evidence and decided to believe your threat.’

‘You imagine I hadn’t worked that out for myself already? I know you too well, Sajaki. If you didn’t believe me, you’d have forced me into helping the Captain while we were still around Resurgam, and then quietly disposed of me.’

‘Not true, not true.’ Sajaki’s voice had an amused quality to it. ‘You underestimate my sheer curiosity. I think I’d have indulged you this far just to see how much of your story was true.’

Sylveste was incapable of believing that for a moment, but equally, he saw no point in debating it. ‘Just how much of it don’t you believe, now that you’ve seen Alicia’s message?’

‘But that could so easily have been faked. The damage to her ship could have been inflicted by her own crew. I shan’t believe things entirely until something jumps out of Cerberus and starts attacking us.’

‘I rather suspect you’ll get your wish,’ Sylveste said. ‘In four or five days. Unless Cerberus really is dead.’

They spoke no more until they had reached their destination.

It was not, of course, the first time he had seen the Captain - not even during this visit. But the totality of what had become of the man was still shocking; each time it was as if Sylveste had never properly set eyes on the scene before. True enough: this was his first visit to the Captain’s level since Calvin had renewed his eyes using the ship’s superior medical capabilities, but there was more to it than that. It was also the case that the Captain had changed since last time; perceptibly now - as if his rate of spread was accelerating, racing towards some unguessable future state even as the ship raced towards Cerberus. Perhaps, Sylveste thought, he had arrived in the nick of time - assuming that any intervention at all could help the Captain now.

It was tempting to think that this quickening was significant; perhaps even symbolic. The man, after all, had been sick - if one could properly call this state sickness - for many decades, and yet he had chosen this period in which to enter a new phase of his malady. But that was an erroneous view. One had to consider the Captain’s time-frame: relativistic flight had compressed those decades to a mere handful of years. His latest blooming was less unlikely than it seemed; there was nothing ominous about it.

‘How does this work?’ Sajaki asked. ‘Do we follow the same procedures as last time?’

‘Ask Calvin - he’ll be running things.’

Sajaki nodded slowly, as if the point had only just occurred to him. ‘You should have a say in things, Dan. It’s you he’ll be working through.’

‘Which is exactly why you don’t need to consider my feelings - I won’t even be present.’

‘I don’t believe that for one moment. You’ll be there, Dan - fully aware, too, from what I remember last time. Maybe not in control, but you’ll be participating. And you won’t like it - we know that much from last time.’

‘You’re an expert all of a sudden.’

‘If you didn’t hate this, why would you have kept away from us?’

‘I didn’t. I wasn’t in any position to run.’

‘I’m not just talking about the time when you were in prison. I’m talking about you coming here in the first place; to this system. What were you doing if you weren’t running from us?’

‘Maybe I had reasons for coming here.’

For a moment Sylveste wondered if Sajaki was going to push the matter further, but the moment passed and the Triumvir seemed to mentally discard that line of enquiry. Perhaps the topic bored him. It struck Sylveste that Sajaki was a man who existed in the present and thought largely about the future, and for whom the past held few enticements. He was not interested in sifting through possible motivations or might-have-beens, perhaps because, on some level, Sajaki was not really capable of grasping these issues.

Sylveste had heard that Sajaki had visited the Pattern Jugglers, as he himself had done prior to the Shrouder mission. There was only one reason for visiting the Jugglers, which was to submit oneself to their neural transformations, opening the mind to new modes of consciousness unavailable through human science. It was said - rumoured, perhaps - that no Juggler transform was without its deficits; that there was no resculpting of the human mind which did not result in some pre-existing faculty being lost. There were, after all, only a finite number of neurones in the human brain, and a corresponding finite limit to the number of possible interneuronal connections. The Jugglers could rewire that network, but not without destroying prior connectional pathways. Perhaps Sylveste himself had lost something, but if that were the case, he could not locate the absence. In Sajaki’s case, it might be more obvious. The man was missing some instinctive grasp of human nature, almost an autism. There was an aridity in his conversations, but it was only clear if one paid proper attention. In Calvin’s laboratories back on Yellowstone, Sylveste had once spoken to an early, historically preserved computer system which had been created several centuries before the Transenlightenment, during the first flourishing of artificial intelligence research. The system purported to mimic natural human language, and initially it did, answering inputted questions with apparent cognisance. But the illusion lasted for no more than a few exchanges; eventually one realised that the machine was steering the conversation away from itself, deflecting questions with a sphinxlike impassiveness. It was far less extreme with Sajaki, but the same sense of evasion was present. It was not even particularly artful. Sajaki made no effort to disguise his indifference to these matters; there was no sociopathic gloss of superficial humanity. And why should Sajaki even bother to deny his nature? He had nothing to lose, and in his own way, he was no more or less alien than any of the other crew.

Eventually, when it became obvious that he was not going to pursue Sylveste any further about his reasons for coming to Resurgam, Sajaki addressed the ship, asking it to invoke Calvin and project his simulated image onto the Captain’s level. The seated figure appeared almost immediately. As usual Calvin subjected his witnesses to a brief pantomime of burgeoning awareness, stretching in his seat and looking around him, though without a glimmer of real interest.

‘Are we about to begin?’ he asked. ‘Am I about to enter you? Those machines I used on your eyes were like a tantalus, Dan - for the first time in years I remember what I’ve been missing.’

‘’Fraid not,’ Sylveste said. ‘This is just a - how should we call it? Exploratory dig?’

‘Then why bother invoking me?’

‘Because I’m in the unfortunate position of requiring your advice.’ As he spoke, a pair of servitors emerged from the darkness along the corridor. They were hulking machines which rode on tracks and whose upper torsos sprouted a glistening mass of specialised manipulators and sensors. They were antiseptically clean and highly polished, but they looked about a thousand years old, as if they had just trundled out of a museum. ‘There’s nothing in them that the plague can touch,’ Sylveste said. ‘No components small enough to be invisible to the naked eye; nothing replicating, self-repairing or shape-shifting. All the cybernetics are elsewhere - kilometres away upship, with only optical connections to the drones. We won’t hit him with anything replicating until we use Volyova’s retrovirus.’

‘Very thoughtful.’

‘Of course,’ Sajaki said, ‘for the delicate work, you’ll have to hold the scalpel yourself.’

Sylveste touched his brow. ‘My eyes aren’t so immune. You’ll have to be very careful, Cal. If the plague touches them . . .’

‘I’ll be more than careful, believe me.’ From the monolithic enclosure of his seat, Calvin threw back his head and laughed like a drunkard amused by his own drollery. ‘If your eyes go up, even I won’t get a chance to put my affairs in order.’

‘Just so long as you appreciate the risk.’

The servitors lurched forwards, approaching the shattered angel of the Captain. More than ever he looked like something which had not so much crept with glacial slowness from his reefer, but had burst with volcanic ferocity, only to be frozen in a strobe flash. He radiated in every direction parallel to the wall, extending far into the corridor on either side, for dozens of metres. Nearest to him, his growth consisted of trunk-thick cylinders, the colour of quicksilver, but with the texture of jewel-encrusted slurry, constantly shimmering and twinkling, hinting at phenomenally industrious buried activity. Further away, on his periphery, the branches subdivided into a bronchial-like mesh. At its very boundary, the mesh grew microscopically fine and blended seamlessly with the fabric of its substrate: the ship itself. It was glorious with diffraction patterns, like a membrane of oil on water.

The silver machines seemed to dissolve into the silver background of the Captain. They positioned themselves on either side of the wrecked shell of the reefer unit at his heart, no more than a metre from the violated carapace. It was still cold there - if Sylveste had touched any part of the Captain’s reefer, his flesh would have stayed there, soon to be incorporated into the chimeric mass of the plague. When the operation proper began, they would have to warm him just to work. He would quicken then - or rather, the plague would seize the opportunity to increase its rate of transformation - but there was no other way to work on him, for at the temperature he had reached now, all but the crudest of tools would themselves become inoperable.

The machines now extended booms tipped with sensors; magnetic resonance imagers to peer deep into the plague, differentiating between the machine, chimeric and organic strata which had once been a man. Sylveste had the drones pass what they saw to his eyes, appearing as a lilac-tinged overlay superimposed on the Captain. It was only with effort that he could make out the residual outline of the human instar which had become this; it was like a ghostly outline beneath the paint on a recycled canvas. But as the MRI sweep continued, the details grew progressively sharper, the man’s plague-distorted anatomy bleeding into clarity. That was when the horror of it could no longer be ignored. But Sylveste just stared.

‘Where are we - I mean you - going to begin?’ he asked, towards Calvin. ‘Are we healing a man or sterilising a machine?’

‘Neither,’ Calvin said drily. ‘We’re fixing the Captain, and I’m afraid he’s rather transcended both those categories.’

‘You understand magnificently,’ Sajaki said, standing back from the cold tableau to allow the Sylvestes an unimpeded view. ‘It’s no longer a matter of healing, or even repairing. I prefer to think of it as restoration.’

‘Warm him,’ Calvin said.

‘What?’

‘You heard. I want him warmed - just temporarily, I assure you. But long enough to take a few biopsies. I understand Volyova restricted her examinations to the plague periphery. That was diligent of her; she did well, and the samples she obtained are invaluable indices of the growth pattern, and of course she couldn’t have engineered her retrovirus without them. But now we need to reach into the core; to where there’s still living meat.’ He smiled, undoubtedly enjoying the revulsion which flickered across Sajaki’s face. So maybe there was some empathy there after all, Sylveste thought - or at least the atrophied stump of what it had once been. For an instant he felt kinship with the Triumvir.

‘What are you so interested in?’

‘His cells, of course.’ Calvin fingered the curlicued arm of his seat. ‘They say the Melding Plague corrupts our implants, blends them into the flesh, by subverting their replicating machinery. I think it goes beyond that. I think it tries to hybridise - tries to achieve some harmony between the living and the cybernetic. That’s what it’s doing here, after all - nothing more malign than trying to hybridise the Captain with his own cybernetics and the ship. It’s almost benign; almost artistic, almost purposeful.’

‘You wouldn’t be saying that if you were where he is now,’ Sajaki said.

‘Of course not. That’s why I want to help him. And why I need to see into his cells. I want to know if the plague has touched his DNA - whether it’s tried to hijack his own cellular machinery.’

Sajaki extended a hand towards the chill. ‘Go ahead, in that case. You’ve permission to warm him. But only for as long as it takes. Then I want him back under, until it’s time to operate. And I don’t want those samples leaving here.’

Sylveste noticed that the Triumvir’s outstretched hand was shaking.

‘All this has something to do with a war,’ Khouri said in the spider-room. ‘That much I’m clear about. The Dawn War, they called it. It was a long time ago. Millions of years back.’

‘How would you know?’

‘The Mademoiselle gave me a lesson in galactic history, just so I’d appreciate what was at stake. And it worked, too. Can’t you accept that going along with Sylveste is not a good idea?’

‘I was never remotely of the opinion it was.’

Pull the other one, Khouri thought. Volyova was still childishly curious about Cerberus/Hades, even now that she knew it contained something dangerous. More so, in fact. Before, the mystery had consisted of a single anomalous neutrino signature. Now she had seen the alien machinery for herself, via Alicia’s recording. No; in some respects Volyova was as fascinated by the place as Sylveste. The difference was, she could still be reasoned with. Volyova still had a residual core of sanity.

‘Do you think we’d stand a chance of persuading Sajaki of the risks?’

‘Not much. We’ve kept too much from him. He’d kill us just for that. I’m still worried about him trawling you. He mentioned it again just now, you know. I managed to deflect him, but . . .’ She sighed. ‘In any case, Sylveste is the one pulling the strings now. What Sajaki does or doesn’t want is almost irrelevant.’

‘Then we have to get to Sylveste.’

‘It won’t work, Khouri. No amount of rational argument is going to sway him now - and I’m afraid what you’ve told me doesn’t even qualify as that.’

‘But you believe it.’

Volyova raised a hand. ‘I believe some of it, Khouri - but that isn’t the same thing. I’ve witnessed some of the things you claim to understand, like the incident with the cache-weapon. And we know alien forces are involved on some level, which makes it difficult for me to dismiss your Dawn War story completely. But we still don’t have anything resembling the big picture.’ She paused. ‘Maybe when I’ve finished analysing that splinter . . .’

‘What splinter?’

‘The one Manoukhian planted on you.’ Volyova told her the rest; how she had found the splinter during the medical examination she had conducted after Khouri’s recruitment. ‘At the time I just assumed it was a piece of shrapnel from your soldiering days. Then I wondered why your own medics hadn’t removed it earlier. I suppose I should have realised there was something strange about it even then . . . but it clearly wasn’t any kind of functional implant, just a piece of jagged metal.’

‘And you haven’t worked out what it is yet?’

‘No, I . . .’ But that was the truth of it, as Khouri learned. There was a lot more to that little shard than met the eye. The blend of metals was fairly unusual, even for someone who had worked with some very strange alloys indeed. Also, Volyova said, it had what looked like odd manufacturing flaws, but which could just as easily have been stresses worked into the metal long afterwards; bizarre nanoscale fatigue patterns. ‘Still, I’m nearly there,’ she said.

‘Maybe it’ll tell us what we need. But one thing won’t change. I can’t do the one thing which would get us out of this mess, can I? I can’t kill Sylveste.’

‘No. But if the stakes become higher - if it becomes absolutely clear that he must be killed - then I think we have to begin thinking about what would be required.’

It took a moment for the true meaning of what Volyova was saying to sink in.

‘Suicide?’

Volyova nodded dourly. ‘Meanwhile I have to do the best possible job I can of granting Sylveste’s wish, or else I put us all in danger.’

‘That’s what you don’t understand,’ Khouri said. ‘I’m not saying that we’ll all die if the attack against Cerberus isn’t successful, which is what you seem to assume. I’m saying that something terrible is going to happen, even if the attack works. That’s exactly why the Mademoiselle wanted him dead.’

Volyova had sealed her lips and shaken her head slowly, for all the world like a parent admonishing a child.

‘I can’t start a mutiny on the basis of some vague premonition.’

‘Then maybe I’ll have to start it myself.’

‘Be careful, Khouri. Be very careful indeed. Sajaki’s a more dangerous man than you can even begin to imagine. He’s waiting for any excuse to crack your head open and see what’s inside. He might not even wait for one. Sylveste is . . . I don’t know. I’d think twice about crossing him as well. Especially now that he has the smell of it.’

‘Then we have to get to him indirectly. Through Pascale. Do you understand? I’ll tell her everything, if I think she can get him to see sense.’

‘She won’t believe you.’

‘She might if you back me up. You’ll do it, won’t you?’ Khouri looked at Volyova. The Triumvir stared back for a long moment, and might have been on the verge of answering when her bracelet began chirping. She pulled back the cuff of her sleeve and looked at the readout. She was wanted upship.

The bridge, as always, seemed too large for the few people in it, dispersed sparsely throughout the chamber’s enormous and redundant volume. Pathetic, Volyova thought - and for a moment considered calling up some of her beloved dead, to at least fill out the place a bit and add a sense of ceremony to the occasion. But that would be demeaning, and in any case - despite the amount of thought she had expended on this project - she was not feeling remotely elated. Her recent discussions with Khouri had killed any lingering positive feelings she might have had for this whole enterprise. Khouri was right, of course - they really were taking an unthinkable risk just by being near to Cerberus/Hades - but there was nothing she could do about that. It was not simply that they ran the risk of the ship being destroyed. According to Khouri, that might actually be preferable to having Sylveste succeed in getting inside Cerberus. The ship and its crew might just survive that . . . but their short-term good fortune would be only a prelude to something much, much worse. If what Khouri had told her about the Dawn War was halfway to being the truth, it would be very bad indeed, not just for Resurgam - not just for this system - but for humanity as a whole.

She was about to make what might be the worst mistake of her career, and it was not even properly a mistake, since she had no choice in the matter.

‘Well,’ Triumvir Hegazi said, lording over her from his seat, ‘I hope this is worth it, Ilia.’

So did she - but the last thing she was going to do was concede any of her feelings of unease to Hegazi. ‘Bear in mind,’ she said, addressing them all, ‘that as soon as this is done, there won’t be any going back. This is going to look like bad news in anyone’s book. We might elicit an immediate response from the planet.’

‘Or we might not,’ Sylveste said. ‘I’ve told you repeatedly, Cerberus won’t do anything to draw unwarranted attention to itself.’

‘Then we’d better hope your theories are right.’

‘I think we can trust the good doctor,’ Sajaki said from Sylveste’s flank. ‘He’s just as vulnerable as the rest of us.’

Volyova felt an urge to get things over with. She illuminated the previously dark holo, filling it with a realtime image of the Lorean. The wreck showed no sign of having changed in any way since they had first found it - the hull was still peppered with awful wounds, inflicted, as they now knew, immediately after Cerberus had attacked and destroyed the probes. But within the ship, Volyova’s machines had been busy. There had been only a tiny swarm of them at first, spawned by the robot she had sent to find Alicia’s log entries. But the swarm had grown swiftly, consuming metal in the ship to fuel expansion, interfacing with the ship’s own self-replicating repair and redesign systems, most of which had failed to reboot after the Cerberus attack. Other populations would have followed - and then, a day or so after the first impregnation, the work proper would commence: transformation of the ship’s interior and skin. To a casual observer, none of this activity would have been apparent, but any kind of industry produced heat, and the outer layer of the wrecked ship had grown slightly warmer over the last few days, betraying the furious activity inside.

Volyova stroked her bracelet, doublechecking that all the indications were nominal. In a moment it would begin; there was now nothing that she could do to arrest the process.

‘My God,’ Hegazi said.

The Lorean was changing: shedding its skin. Sections of the damaged outer hull were flaking away in great acres, the ship enveloping itself in a slowly expanding cocoon of shards. What was revealed underneath still had the same form as the wreck, but it was smoothly carapaced, like a snake’s new skin. The transformations had been really rather easy to impose - the Lorean, unlike the Infinity, did not fight back with replicating viruses of its own; did not resist her sculpting hand. If reshaping the Infinity was like trying to carve fire, the other ship had been clay in her hands.

The angle of the view shifted, as the sloughing debris caused the Lorean to turn about its long axis. The Conjoiner engines were still attached and working - and now she had control of them, delegated to her bracelet. They would probably never have reached sufficient functionality to push the ship to the edge of light, but that was not Volyova’s intention. The journey it had to make - the last journey it would ever make - was almost insultingly small for such a ship. And now the ship was mostly hollow, the interior volume compressed into the thickened walls of the conic hull. The cone was open at the base; the ship was like a huge pointed thimble.

‘Dan,’ she said. ‘My machines found Alicia’s body, and the other crew, of course. Most of the mutineers had been in reefersleep . . . but even they didn’t survive the attack.’

‘What are you saying?’

‘I can have them returned here, if you wish. There’ll be a delay, of course - we’d have to send a shuttle over to retrieve them.’

Sylveste’s answer, when it came, was swifter than she had expected. She had assumed he would want to dwell on it for anything up to an hour or so. Instead, he said: ‘No. There can’t be any delay now. You’re right - Cerberus will have witnessed this activity.’

‘Then the bodies?’

When he spoke, it was as if his answer were the only reasonable course of action. ‘They’ll have to go down with it.’

TWENTY-TWO

Cerberus/Hades Orbit, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

It was beginning.

Sylveste sat with steepled fingers before a luminous entoptic projection which occupied a good fraction of the volume of his quarters. Pascale, half consumed by shadow, was a series of abstract sculptural curves on their bed; he was cross-legged on a tatami mat, reeling in the delicious reprisals from a few millimetres of ship-distilled vodka he had downed minutes earlier. After years of forced abstinence, his tolerance for alcohol was abysmally low, which in this instance was a distinct advantage, hastening the process by which he negated the outside world. The vodka did not quell his inner voices, and, if anything, the withdrawal served only to create an echo-chamber, in which the voices took on an additional insistence. One in particular rose above the clamour. It was the voice which dared ask exactly what it was he expected to find in Cerberus; what it was that would make any kind of objective sense. And he had no idea. Not having an answer to that question was like descending a staircase in darkness and miscounting the number of steps; expecting floor and feeling sudden, heart-stopping vertigo.

Like a shaman shaping air-spirits with his fingers, Sylveste made the orrery which was projected ahead of him tick to life. The entoptic was a schematic of the little pocket of space englobing Hades, encompassing the orbit of Cerberus and - at its very limit - the approaching human machines, no longer cloaked by an asteroid. At the geometric centre was Hades itself, burning foul, abscessive red. The tiny neutron star was only a few kilometres wide, yet it dominated all around it; its gravitational field was whirlpool-fierce.

Objects which were two hundred and twenty thousand kilometres from the neutron star orbited twice an hour. Now that they had more thoroughly investigated Alicia’s testimony, they knew that another of the surveyor probes had been destroyed near that point, so Sylveste marked the radius with a red death-line. Cerberus had killed it, just as if the little world were as intent on protecting the secrets of Hades as its own felicities. Another mystery - what possible advantage lay in that? Sylveste had grasped for an answer and failed. But it had told him one thing: nothing here was predictable, or even logical. If he kept those two truths foremost, he might stand a chance where the dumb machines - and his wife - had failed.

Cerberus orbited further out; nine hundred thousand kilometres from Hades, in an orbit which whipped it around once every four hours and six minutes. He had marked its orbit in cool emerald - it seemed safe, at least until one strayed too close to the planet itself.

Now Volyova’s weapon - what had once been the Lorean - had moved under its own power to a lower orbit; it had not so far triggered a response from Cerberus. But Sylveste did not doubt for one moment that something down there knew they were here; that something had its eye on the waiting weapon. It was just waiting to see what would happen next.

He made the orrery contract, until the lighthugger hove into proper view. It was two million kilometres from the neutron star; a mere six light-seconds, which was within the conceivable strike range of energy weapons, although they would have to be very large indeed to do their job: the targeting arrays alone would have to be kilometres wide just to resolve the ship. No material weapons could touch them at this range, save for a brute-force swarm attack by relativistic weapons, but that again was unlikely - the lesson of the Lorean was that the planet acted swiftly and discreetly, rather than in some gauche display of firepower which would betray the careful camouflaging of the crust.

Oh yes, he thought - all so neatly predictable. And there was the trap.

‘Dan,’ said Pascale, who had stirred awake. ‘It’s late. You need to rest before tomorrow.’

‘Was I talking aloud?’

‘Like a true madman.’ Her eyes moved nervously around the room, alighting on the entoptic map. ‘Is it really going to happen? It all feels so unreal.’

‘Are you talking about this or the Captain?’

‘Both, I suppose. It’s not like we can separate them any more. The one depends on the other.’ She stopped speaking and he moved from the mat to her bedside, stroking her face, old buried memories stirring, those he had held sacrosanct during all the years of imprisonment on Resurgam. She reciprocated his caress and in minutes they were making love, with all the efficiency of those on the eve of something epochal - knowing that there might never be another moment like this, and that every second was therefore heightened in its preciousness. ‘The Amarantin have waited long enough,’ Pascale said. ‘And that poor man they want you to help. Can’t we leave both of them alone?’

‘Why would I want to do that?’

‘Because I don’t like what it’s doing to you. Don’t you feel you’ve been driven here, Dan? Don’t you feel that none of this was really of your own doing?’

‘It’s too late to stop now.’

‘No! It isn’t, and you know it. Tell Sajaki to turn back now. Offer to do what you can for his Captain if you wish, but I’m sure he’s sufficiently scared of you now that he’ll accede to any terms you propose. Abandon Cerberus/Hades before it does to us what it did to Alicia.’

‘They weren’t prepared for the attack. We will be, and that will make all the difference in the world. In fact, we’ll be attacking first.’

‘Whatever you’re hoping to find in there, it just isn’t worth this kind of risk.’ She held his face in her hands now. ‘Don’t you understand, Dan? You’ve won. You’ve been vindicated. You’ve got what you always wanted.’

‘It isn’t enough.’

She was cold, but she stayed beside him as he passed in and out of shallow dreams. It was never anything that felt like true sleep. She was almost correct. The Amarantin did not have to flock through his mind; not for one night. She wanted him to forget them for eternity. No; that had never been remotely an option - more so now. But even willing them away for a few hours took more strength than he had. His dreams were Amarantin dreams. And whenever he woke, which was often, beyond the curved silhouette of his wife, the walls were alive with interlocking wings, balefully regarding wings, waiting.

For what was on the eve of beginning.

‘You won’t feel much,’ Sajaki said.

The Triumvir was telling the truth, at least initially. Khouri felt no sensation when the trawl began, except for the slight pressure of the helmet, locking itself rigid against her scalp so that its scanning systems could be targeted with maximum accuracy. She heard faint clicks and whines, but that was all: not even the tingling sensation she had half expected.

‘This isn’t necessary, Triumvir.’

Sajaki was finessing the trawl parameters, tapping commands into a grotesquely outdated console. Cross-sections of Khouri’s head - quick, low-resolution snapshots - were springing up around him. ‘Then you have nothing to fear, do you? Nothing to fear at all. It’s a procedure I should have run on you when you were recruited, Khouri. Of course, my colleague was against the idea . . .’

‘Why now? What have I done to make you do this?’

‘We’re nearing a critical time, Khouri. I can’t afford not to be able to trust any of my crewmembers totally.’

‘But if you fry my implants, I won’t be any use to you at all!’

‘Oh; you shouldn’t pay too much attention to Volyova’s little scare stories. She only wanted to keep her little trade secrets from me, in case I decided I could do her job as well as she does.’ Her implants were showing up on the scans now; little geometric islands of order amid the amorphous soup of neural structure. Sajaki tapped in commands and the scan image zoomed in on one of the implants. Khouri felt her scalp tingle. Layers of structure peeled away from the implant, exposing its increasingly intricate innards in a series of dizzying enlargements, like a spysat gazing at a city, resolving first districts, then streets and then the details of buildings. Somewhere in that intricacy, stored in some ultimately physical form, was the data from which the Mademoiselle’s simulation sprang.

It had been a long time since her last visitation. Then - in the midst of the storm on Resurgam - the Mademoiselle had told Khouri that she was dying; losing the war against Sun Stealer. Had Sun Stealer won since then, or was the continued silence of the Mademoiselle simply evidence that she was putting all her energies into prolonging the war? Nagorny had gone mad as soon as Sun Stealer established tenancy in his head. Did that still lie ahead for Khouri, or was Sun Stealer’s residency in her going to be more stealthy? Perhaps - it was a disquieting thought - he had learnt from his mistakes with Nagorny. How much of this would be evident to Sajaki, after he had run the trawl?

He had taken her from her quarters; Hegazi there to add back-up. The other Triumvir was gone now, but even if Sajaki had come alone, Khouri would not have considered resisting him. Volyova had already warned her that Sajaki was stronger than he looked, and, adept at close-quarters combat as Khouri was, she had very little doubt that Sajaki would have been better than her.

The trawling room had the atmosphere of a torture chamber. There had been terror here, once - maybe not for decades, but it was not something that could ever be erased. The trawl equipment was ancient, as bulky and monstrous as anything Khouri had seen on the ship so far. Even if the gear had been subtly modified to work better than its original spec, it was never going to be as sophisticated as the kind of trawls her side’s intelligence wing had possessed on Sky’s Edge. Sajaki’s trawl was the kind that left a trail of neural damage behind as it scanned, like a frantic burglar ransacking a house. It was scarcely more advanced than the destructive scanning machines which Cal Sylveste had used during the Eighty . . . perhaps less so.

But he had her now. He was already learning things about her implants . . . unravelling their structures, reading out their data. Once he had those, he would adjust the trawl to resolve cortical patterns, pulling webs of neuronal connectivity from her skull. Khouri knew a lot about trawling just by knowing people in intelligence. Embedded in those topologies lay longterm memories and personality traits, tangled together in ways that were not easy to separate. But if Sajaki’s equipment was not the best, chances were good that he had excellent algorithms to distil memory traces. Over centuries, statistical models had studied patterns of memory storage in ten billion human minds, correlating structure against experience. Certain impressions tended to be reflected in similar neural structures - internal qualia - which were the functional blocks out of which more complex memories were assembled. Those qualia were never the same from mind to mind, except in very rare cases, but neither were they encoded in radically different ways, since nature would never deviate far from the minimum-energy route to a particular solution. The statistical models could identify those qualia patterns very efficiently, and then map the connections between them out of which memories were forged. All Sajaki had to do was identify enough qualia structures, map enough hierarchical linkages between them, and then let his algorithms chew through them, and there would be nothing about her that he could not in principle know. He could sift through her memories at leisure.

An alarm sounded. Sajaki glanced up at one of the displays, seeing how Khouri’s implants were now glowing red; red which was leaking into surrounding brain areas.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked.

‘Inductive heat,’ Sajaki said, unconcernedly. ‘Your implants are getting a little hot.’

‘Shouldn’t you stop?’

‘Oh; not yet. Volyova would have hardened them against EM pulse attack, I think. A little thermal overload won’t do any irreversible damage.’

‘But my head hurts . . . it doesn’t feel right.’

‘I’m sure you can take it, Khouri.’

The migrainous pressure had come from nowhere, but it was really quite unbearable now, as if Sajaki had her head in a vice and was screwing it tighter. The heat build-up in her skull must be a lot worse than the scans suggested. Doubtless Sajaki - who must seldom have had the best interests of his clients at heart - had calibrated the displays not to show lethal brain temperature until it was already much too late . . .

‘No, Yuuji-san. She can’t take it. Get her out of that thing.’

The voice, miraculously, was Volyova’s. Sajaki looked to the door. He must have been aware of her entrance long before Khouri, but even now he only affected a look of bored indifference.

‘What is it, Ilia?’

‘You know exactly what it is. Stop the trawl before you kill her.’ Volyova stepped into view now. Her tone of voice had been authoritative, but Khouri could see that she was unarmed.

‘I haven’t learned anything useful yet,’ Sajaki said. ‘I need a few more minutes . . .’

‘A few more minutes and she’ll be dead.’ With typical pragmatism, she added: ‘And her implants will be damaged beyond repair.’

Perhaps the second thing worried Sajaki more than the first. He made a tiny adjustment to the trawl. The red hue faded to a less alarming pink. ‘I thought these implants would be adequately hardened.’

‘They’re just prototypes, Yuuji-san.’ Volyova stepped closer to the displays and surveyed them for herself. ‘Oh, no . . . you fool, Sajaki. You damned fool. I swear you may have already damaged them.’ It was as if she were talking to herself.

Sajaki waited silently for a moment. Khouri wondered if he was going to lash out and kill Volyova in an eyeblink of furious motion. But then, scowling, the Triumvir snapped the trawl controls to their off settings, watched the displays pop out of existence, then hoisted the helmet off Khouri’s head.

‘Your tone of voice - and choice of wording - was inappropriate there, Triumvir,’ Sajaki said. Khouri saw his hand slip into his trouser pocket and finger something - something that, for an instant, looked like a hypodermic syringe.

‘You nearly destroyed our Gunnery Officer,’ Volyova said.

‘I’m not finished with her. Or you, for that matter. You rigged something to this trawl, didn’t you, Ilia? Something to alert you when it was running? Very clever.’

‘I did it to protect a shipboard resource.’

‘Yes, of course . . .’ Sajaki left his answer hanging in the air, its threat implicit, and then quietly walked out of the trawl room.

TWENTY-THREE

Cerberus/Hades Orbit, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

It was, Sylveste thought, a situation of disturbing symmetry. In a matter of hours Volyova’s cache-weapons would begin to combat the buried immunological systems of Cerberus; virus against virus, tooth against tooth. And here, on the eve of that attack, Sylveste was preparing to go to war against the Melding Plague which was consuming - or, depending on one’s point of view, grotesquely enlarging - Volyova’s afflicted Captain. The symmetry seemed to hint at an underlying order to which he was only partly privy. It was not a feeling he enjoyed; like being a participant in a game and realising, halfway through, that the rules were far more complicated than he had so far imagined.

In order that Calvin’s beta-level simulation be allowed to work through him, Sylveste had to slip into a state of ambulatory semi-consciousness akin to sleepwalking. Calvin would puppet him, receiving sensory input directly through Sylveste’s own eyes and ears, tapping directly into his nervous system to achieve mobility. He would even speak through Sylveste. The neuro-inhibitor drugs had already kicked him into a queasy full-body paralysis; as unpleasant as he remembered from the last time.

Sylveste thought of himself as a machine in which Calvin was about to become the ghost . . .

His hands worked the medical analysis tools, skirting the periphery of the growth. It was dangerous to stray too close to the heart; too high a risk of plague transmission into his own implants. At some point - this session, or perhaps the next - they would have to skirt the heart; that was inevitable, but Sylveste did not really want to think about that. For now, when they needed to work closer, Calvin used the simple, mindless drones which were slaved from elsewhere in the ship, but even those tools were susceptible. One drone had malfunctioned close to the Captain, and was even now being enmeshed in fine, fibrous plague tendrils. Even though the machine contained no molecular components, it still seemed that it was of use to the plague; still able to be digested into the Captain’s transformative matrix; fuel for his fever. Calvin was having to resort to cruder instruments now, but this was only a stopgap: at some point - soon now, undoubtedly - they would have to hit the plague with the only thing which could really work against it: something very like itself.

Sylveste could feel Calvin’s thought processes churning somewhere behind his own. It was nothing that could be called consciousness - the simulation which was running his body was no more than mimesis, but somewhere in the interfacing with his own nervous system . . . it was as if something had arisen, something which was riding that chaotic edge. The theories and his own prejudices denied that, of course - but what other explanation could there be for the sense of divided self Sylveste felt? He did not dare ask if Calvin experienced something similar, and would not necessarily have trusted any answer he received.

‘Son,’ Calvin said. ‘There’s something I’ve waited until now before discussing. I’m rather worried about it, but I didn’t want to discuss it in front of, well . . . our clients.’

Sylveste knew that only he could hear Calvin’s voice. He had to subvocalise to respond, Calvin momentarily relinquishing vocal control to his host. ‘This isn’t the time, either. In case you weren’t paying attention, we’re in the middle of an operation.’

‘It’s the operation I want to talk about.’

‘Make it quick, in that case.’

‘I don’t think we’re meant to succeed.’

Sylveste observed that his hands - driven by Calvin - had not ceased working during this last exchange. He was conscious of Volyova, who was standing nearby, awaiting instructions. He subvocalised, ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

‘I think Sajaki is a very dangerous man.’

‘Great - that makes two of us. But it hasn’t stopped you cooperating with him.’

‘I was grateful to begin with,’ Calvin admitted. ‘He saved me, after all. But then I started wondering how things must seem from his side. I began to wonder if he wasn’t just a touch insane. It struck me that any sane man would have left the Captain for dead years ago. The Sajaki I knew last time was fiercely loyal, but at least then there was some sense to his crusade. At least then there was a hope we could save the Captain.’

‘And now there isn’t?’

‘He’s been infected with a virus which the entire resources of the Yellowstone system couldn’t combat. Admittedly, the system itself was under attack from the same virus, but there were still isolated enclaves which survived for months - places where people with techniques as sophisticated as our own struggled to find a cure - and yet they never succeeded. Not only that, but we don’t even know which blind alleys they pursued, or which approaches might almost have worked, if they’d had more time.’

‘I told Sajaki he needed a miracle worker. It’s his problem if he didn’t believe me.’

‘The problem is, I think he did believe you. That’s what I mean when I said we weren’t meant to succeed.’

Sylveste happened to be looking at the Captain, Calvin having judiciously arranged the view. Confronted with the thing before his eyes, he experienced a moment of epiphany in which he knew that Calvin was absolutely right. They could go through the preliminary motions of healing the Captain - the rituals of establishing just how corrupted the man’s flesh was - but it could never progress beyond that. Whatever they tried, no matter how intelligent, no matter how conceptually brilliant, could not possibly succeed. Or, more significantly, could not be permitted to succeed. It was that latter realisation which was the most disturbing, because it had come from Calvin, rather than Sylveste. He had seen something which to Sylveste was still opaque, and now it seemed obvious; shatteringly so.

‘You think he’ll hinder us?’

‘I think he already has. We both observed that the Captain’s rate of growth had accelerated since we were brought aboard, but we dismissed it - either just a coincidence or our imaginations. But I don’t think so. I think Sajaki allowed him to warm.’

‘Yes . . . I was drawn to that conclusion myself. There’s something else, isn’t there?’

‘The biopsies - the tissue samples I asked for.’

Sylveste knew where this was leading. The drone that they had sent in to extract the cell samples was now half-digested by the plague. ‘You don’t think that was a genuine malfunction, do you? You think Sajaki made it happen.’

‘Sajaki, or one of his crewmates.’

‘Her?’

Sylveste felt himself glance towards the woman. ‘No,’ Calvin said, effecting an entirely unnecessary murmur. ‘Not her. That doesn’t mean I trust her, but on the other hand, I don’t see her as one of Sajaki’s automatic minions.’

‘What are you discussing?’ asked Volyova, stepping towards them.

‘Don’t come too close,’ Calvin said, speaking through Sylveste, who, for the moment, was unable to form his own sounds even subvocally. ‘Our investigations may have unleashed plague spore - you wouldn’t want to inhale them.’

‘It wouldn’t harm me,’ Volyova said. ‘I’m brezgatnik. I have nothing in me that the plague can touch.’

‘Then why are you looking so stand-offish?’

‘Because it’s cold, svinoi.’ She paused. ‘Wait a minute. Which one of you am I actually talking to? It’s Calvin, isn’t it? I suppose I owe you fractionally more respect - it isn’t you holding us to ransom, after all.’

‘You’re too kind,’ Sylveste found himself saying.

‘I trust you’ve arrived at a strategy here? Triumvir Sajaki won’t be pleased if he suspects you aren’t keeping up your side of the bargain.’

‘Triumvir Sajaki,’ Calvin said, ‘may well be part of the problem.’

She had come closer now, even though she was visibly shivering, lacking the thermal protection which Sylveste wore. ‘I’m not sure I understand that remark.’

‘Do you honestly think he wants us to heal the Captain?’

She looked as if he had slapped her across the face. ‘Why wouldn’t he?’

‘He’s had a long time to get used to being in command. This Triumvirate of yours is a farce - Sajaki’s your Captain in all but name, and you and Hegazi know it. He isn’t going to relinquish that without a fight.’

She answered too hastily to be totally convincing. ‘If I were you I’d concentrate on the job in hand and stop worrying about the Triumvir’s wishes. He brought you here, after all. He came light-years for your services. That’s hardly the work of a man who doesn’t want to see his Captain reinstated.’

‘He’ll ensure that we fail,’ Calvin said. ‘But in the course of our failure, he’ll find another glimmer of hope; something or someone else who can heal the Captain, if only he can find it or them. And before you know it, you’ll be on another century-long quest.’

‘If that’s the case,’ she said slowly, as if fearful of being drawn into a trap, ‘then why hasn’t Sajaki already killed the Captain? That would safeguard his position.’

‘Because then he’d have to find a use for you.’

‘A use?’

‘Yes, think about it.’ Calvin let go of the medical tools and stepped away from the Captain, like an actor preparing to enter the limelight for his soliloquy. ‘This quest to heal the Captain is the only god you’re capable of serving. Maybe there was a time when it was a means to an end . . . but that end never came, and after a while it didn’t even matter. You have the weapons aboard this ship; I know all about those, even the ones you don’t really like talking about. For now, the only purpose they serve is bargaining power when you need someone like me - someone who can go through the motions of healing the Captain, without actually making any real difference.’ Sylveste was glad when Calvin did not speak for a few seconds, for he needed to catch his breath and lubricate his mouth. ‘Now, if Sajaki suddenly became Captain, what would he do next? You’d still have the weapons - but who could you use them against? You’d have to invent an enemy from scratch. Maybe they wouldn’t even have something you wanted - after all, you’re the ones with the ship; what else do you need? Ideological enemies? Tricky, because the one thing I haven’t noticed among you is an ideological attachment to anything, except perhaps your own survival. No; I think Sajaki knows what would happen, deep down. He knows that if he became Captain, sooner or later you’d have to use those weapons just because they existed. And I don’t mean the kind of minimalist intervention you demonstrated on Resurgam. You’d have to go all the way: use every one of those horrors.’

Volyova was quick; Sylveste had already been impressed by that. ‘In which case, we owe Triumvir Sajaki our gratitude, don’t we? By not killing the Captain, he’s keeping us from the brink.’ But the way she spoke, it was as if she were reciting the argument of a devil’s advocate, saying it aloud only to better illuminate its heresies.

‘Yes,’ Calvin said, dubiously. ‘I suppose you’re right.’

‘I don’t believe any of this,’ Volyova said, with sudden fire. ‘And if you were one of us, it would be treason just to entertain those thoughts.’

‘Suit yourself. But we’ve already seen evidence that Sajaki wants to sabotage the operation.’

For a moment curiosity flashed in her expression, but she crushed it just as efficiently. ‘I’m not interested in your paranoia, Calvin - assuming it’s Calvin I’m talking to. I have an obligation to Dan, which is to get him into Cerberus. And I have an obligation to you, which is to help with the healing. The discussion of any other topics is superfluous.’

‘So you have the retrovirus, I take it?’

Volyova reached into her jacket and removed the vial she had been carrying. ‘It works against the plague samples I was able to isolate and keep in culture. Whether or not it will work against that is another question entirely.’

Sylveste felt his hands jerk forward to catch the vial as she threw it. The tiny glass autoclave reminded him of the vial he had carried before his wedding, but only fleetingly.

‘It’s a pleasure doing business with you,’ Calvin said.

Volyova left Calvin or Dan Sylveste - she had never been entirely sure who she had been dealing with - having given the man explicit instructions concerning the administration of the counteragent. Her relationship to him had been that of an apothecary to a surgeon, she thought: she had formulated a serum which worked in the laboratory, and she could offer broad guidelines regarding the manner in which it should be administered, but the ultimate decisions, the true life-and-death questions; those were at the discretion of the surgeon only, and she had no desire to intervene. After all, if the manner of the administration had not been so critical, there would have been no need to bring Sylveste aboard in the first place. And her retrovirus would form only one element of the treatment, though it might prove decisive.

She rode the elevator back to the bridge, trying hard not to think about what Calvin (it had been him, surely?) had been saying to her about Sajaki. But it was difficult; there was too much internal logic - too much reason to what he said. And what was she to make of the alleged sabotage against the healing process? She had almost dared ask, but was perhaps too fearful of hearing something she could not refute. As she had said - and it was true, in a way - just thinking along those lines was treasonable.

But in many ways she had already committed treason.

Sajaki was beginning to have his doubts about her; that much was obvious. Disagreeing with him over whether or not Khouri should have been trawled was one thing. But rigging the trawl to inform her when Sajaki activated it was something else entirely - not the act of someone exhibiting mild professional concern over her charge, but one which spoke of quiet paranoia, fear and brooding hatred. Luckily she had reached him in time. The trawl had not done any lasting damage and it was doubtful that Sajaki had mapped enough neural volume in sufficient detail to pull out anything more than blurred impressions, rather than fully fledged incriminating memories. Now, she thought, Sajaki would be more cautious: it would be no good losing their Gunnery Officer now. But what if he turned the focus of his suspicion towards Volyova herself? She could be trawled, too. Sajaki would have few qualms about that, other than the fact that it would completely destroy any lingering sense of equality between them. Certainly she had no implants to damage. And to some extent, with the work aboard the Lorean progressing autonomously, her period of maximum usefulness to him had passed.

She consulted her bracelet. That little splinter she had pulled from Khouri was causing more headaches than she had ever thought possible. Now she had the composition and stress patterning more or less pinned down, she had asked the ship to match the sample against something in its memory. Her hunch about it being Manoukhian’s doing was looking good, for the shard had clearly not originated on Sky’s Edge. But the ship was still searching, burrowing deeper and deeper into its memory. Now it was working through technological data from nearly two centuries previously. Absurd to search such antiquity . . . but, on the other hand, why stop now? In a matter of hours the ship would have correlated right back to the founding of the colony; to the few records surviving from the Amerikano era. She would at least be able to tell Khouri that the search had been exhaustive - even if it had been futile.

She entered the bridge, alone.

The gigantic chamber was dark except for the glow cast by the display sphere, which was locked in a schematic of the whole Pavonis-Hades binary. There were no other crewmembers (of the few who remained alive, she thought), and none of the dead were currently being recalled from archival posterity to share their views in languages hardly anyone now spoke. The solitude suited Volyova. She had no wish to deal with Sajaki (most especially not him), and Hegazi’s was a species of company she did not especially prize. She did not even want to talk to Khouri; not just now. Being with Khouri raised too many questions; forced her mind onto topics with which it did not wish to be preoccupied. Now, for a few minutes at least, Volyova could be alone, and in her element, and - however foolishly - forget everything that threatened to transform order into chaos.

She could be with her beautiful weapons.

The transfigured Lorean had dropped to an even lower orbit without provoking a response from Cerberus - only ten thousand kilometres above the planet’s surface. She had named the vast conic object the bridgehead, because that was its function. As far as the others were concerned, it was just Volyova’s weapon, if they bothered calling it anything. The thing was four thousand metres long; almost the same length as the lighthugger which had given birth to it. Very little of it was solid; even the walls were honeycombed with pores, in which lay clades of primed military cyberviruses, similar in structure to the counteragent about to be used against the Captain. Larger energy and projectile weapons were set inside caverns in the walls. The whole thing was sheathed in several metres of hyperdiamond which would be ablated sacrificially upon impact. Shock waves would rush up the length of the bridgehead as it hit the surface, but piezoelectric crystal boundaries would gradually bleed energy from the shock waves, energy which could be redirected into weapons systems. The impact speed would be relatively slow, in any case - less than a kilometre a second, since the bridgehead would decelerate massively just before puncturing the crust. And the crust would be softened up beforehand; apart from the bridgehead’s own frontal guns, Volyova would deploy as much of the cache armament as she dared.

She interrogated the weapon via her bracelet. It was not the most riveting of conversations. The device’s controlling personality was rudimentary; nothing more could be expected from something mere days old. In a sense that was good. Better that the thing be pigeon-minded, or it might start getting ideas above its station. And, as she reminded herself, the bridgehead might not have very long to enjoy its sentience in the first place.

Numerics dancing in the sphere told her of the bridgehead’s total readiness. She had to trust what the summarising systems told her, for the weapon was in many ways unknown to her. She had sketched out her basic requirements, but the dogwork had been done by autonomous design programs, and they had not deigned to inform her of every technical problem and solution encountered along the way. But as profound as her ignorance of the bridgehead might be, it was not so very different from the way a mother managed to create a child without knowing the precise location of every artery and nerve . . . or even the precise biochemistry of its metabolism. It was no less her creation for that - no less her child.

A child she was consigning to an early, ignominious death - but by no means a meaningless one.

Her bracelet chirped. She glanced down at it, expecting that it would be a technical squirt from the bridgehead; a brief update concerning some last-minute inflight redesign which had been put in place by the replicating systems still at work in its core.

But it was not that at all.

It was from the ship, and it had found a match for the splinter. It had needed to look back into technical files more than two centuries old, but it had found a match all the same. And apart from the stress patterning - which must have come after the shard’s manufacture - the agreement was absolute, within the errors of measurement.

She was still alone in the bridge.

‘Put it on the display,’ Volyova said.

A magnified, visible-light image of the splinter appeared in the sphere. A series of zoom-ins appeared, beginning with a grey-scale electron-microscopy view which showed the shard’s tortured crystalline structure, and ending with a gaudily hued atomic-scale resolution ATM image, individual atoms blurred together. X-ray crystallographic and mass spectrograph plots popped into separate windows, jostling for her attention with reams of technical summary data. Volyova paid no attention to these results; they were completely familiar to her for she had made most of the measurements herself.

Instead, she waited while the entire display shuffled to one side and a very similar set of graphics sprang into existence next to it, arrayed around a sliver of similar-looking material, identical at atomic resolution, but showing none of the stress patterning. The compositions, isotopic ratios and lattice properties were identical: lots of fullerenes, knitted into structural allotropes, threading a bafflingly complex matrix of sandwiched metal layers and odd alloys. Spikes of yttrium and scandium, with a whole slew of stable-island transuranic elements in trace quantities, presumably adding some arcane resilience to the shard’s bulk properties. Still, by Volyova’s reckoning, there were stranger substances aboard the ship, and she had synthesised a few of them herself. The splinter was unusual, but it was clearly human technology - the buckytube filaments, in fact, were a typical Demarchist signature, and stable-island transuranics had been in massive vogue in the twenty-fourth and -fifth centuries.

The shard, in fact, looked a lot like the kind of thing a spacecraft hull from that era might have been made of.

The ship seemed to think so too. What was Khouri doing with a piece of hull buried in her? What kind of message had Manoukhian intended by that? Perhaps she was wrong, and this was none of Manoukhian’s doing - just an accident. Unless this had been a very specific spacecraft . . .

It seemed that it was. The technology was typical for that era, but in every specific, the shard was unique - manufactured to tighter tolerances than would have been required even in a military application. In fact, as Volyova digested the results, it became clear that the shard could only have come from one kind of ship: a contact vessel owned by the Sylveste Institute for Shrouder Studies.

Subtleties of isotopic ratio established that it had come from one ship in particular: the contact vessel that had carried Sylveste to the boundary of Lascaille’s Shroud. For a moment, that discovery was enough for Volyova. There was a circularity about it; confirmation that Khouri’s Mademoiselle really did have some connection with Sylveste. But Khouri already knew that . . . which meant that the message must be telling them something more profound. Of course, Volyova had already seen what it must be. But for an instant she flinched at the enormity of it. There was no way it could be her, could it? No way she could have survived what had happened around Lascaille’s Shroud. But Manoukhian had always told Khouri that he had found his paymistress in space. And it was entirely possible that her disguise of a hermetic masked an injury more savage than anything the plague could have inflicted . . .

‘Show me Carine Lefevre,’ Volyova said, retrieving the name of the woman who should have died around the Shroud.

Vast as a goddess, the face of the woman stared down at her. She was young, and from the little of her that was visible below her face, it could be seen that she was dressed in the fashions of the Yellowstone Belle Epoque, the glittering golden age before the Melding Plague. And her face was familiar - not shatteringly so, but enough for Volyova to know she had seen this woman before. She had seen this woman’s face in a dozen historical documentaries, and in every one of them the assumption had been made that she was long dead; murdered by alien forces beyond human comprehension.

Of course. Now it was obvious what caused that stress patterning. The gravitational riptides around Lascaille’s Shroud had squeezed matter until it bled.

Everyone thought Carine Lefevre had died the same way.

‘Svinoi,’ said Triumvir Ilia Volyova, because now there could be no doubt.

Ever since she was a child, Khouri had noticed that something happened when she touched something that was too hot, like the barrel of a projectile rifle which had just discharged its clip. There would be a flash of premonitory pain, but so brief that it was hardly pain at all; more a warning of true pain which was about to come. And then the premonitory pain would subside, and there would be an instant when there was no sensation at all, and in that instant she would snatch back her hand, away from whatever it was that was too hot. But it would be too late; the true pain was already coming, and there was nothing she could do about it except ready herself for its arrival, like a housekeeper forewarned about the imminent arrival of a guest. Of course, the pain was never so bad, and she had usually withdrawn her hand from whatever was its source, and there would usually not even be a scar afterwards. But it always made her wonder. If the premonitory pain was enough to persuade her to remove the hand - and it always was - what was the purpose of the tsunami of true pain which lagged behind it? Why did it have to come at all, if she had already received the message and removed her hand from harm? When, later, she found out that there was a sound physiological reason for the delay between the two warnings, it still seemed almost spiteful.

That was how she felt now, sitting in the spider-room with Volyova, who had just told her who she thought the face belonged to. Carine Lefevre; that was what she had said. And there had been a flash of premonitory shock, like an echo from the future of what the real shock of it was going to be like. A very faint echo indeed, and then - for an instant - nothing.

And then the true force of it.

‘How can it be her?’ Khouri said, afterwards, when the shock had not so much subsided as become a normal component of her emotional background noise. ‘It isn’t possible. It doesn’t make any sense.’

‘I think it makes too much sense,’ Volyova said. ‘I think it fits the facts too well. I think it’s something we can’t ignore.’

‘But we all know she died! And not just on Yellowstone, but halfway across colonised space. Ilia, she died, violently. There’s no way it can be her.’

‘I think it can. Manoukhian said he found her in space. So perhaps he did. Perhaps he found Carine Lefevre drifting near Lascaille’s Shroud - he might have been looking to salvage something from the wreckage of the SISS facility - and then rescued her and took her back to Yellowstone.’ Volyova stopped, but before Khouri could speak, or even think about speaking, the Triumvir was on a roll again. ‘That would make sense, wouldn’t it? We’d at least have a connection to Sylveste - and maybe even a reason for her wanting him dead.’

‘Ilia, I’ve read what happened to her. She was shredded by the gravitational stresses around the Shroud. There wouldn’t have been anything left for Manoukhian to bring home.’

‘No . . . of course not. Unless Sylveste was lying. Remember that we have only Sylveste’s word that any of it happened the way he said it did - none of the recording systems survived the encounter.’

‘She didn’t die, is that what you’re saying?’

Volyova raised a hand, the way she always did when Khouri failed to read her mind perfectly.

‘No . . . not necessarily. Perhaps she did die - just not in the way Sylveste had it. And maybe she didn’t die in the way we understand, and perhaps she isn’t really alive, even now - despite what you saw.’

‘I didn’t see much of her, did I? Just the box she used to move around in.’

‘You assumed she was a hermetic, because she rode something like a hermetic’s palanquin. But that might have been a piece of mis-direction on her behalf.’

‘She’d have been shredded. Nothing changes that.’

‘Perhaps the Shroud didn’t kill her, Khouri. Perhaps something dreadful happened to her, but something kept her alive afterwards. Perhaps something actually saved her.’

‘Sylveste would know.’

‘Even if he doesn’t admit it to himself. We have to talk to him, I think - here, where we won’t we bothered by Sajaki.’ Volyova had hardly finished speaking when her bracelet chirped and filled with a human face, eyes lost behind blank globes. ‘Speak of the devil,’ Volyova murmured. ‘What is it, Calvin? You are Calvin, aren’t you?’

‘For now,’ the man said. ‘Though I fear my usefulness to Sajaki may be coming to an ignominious end.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Quickly she added: ‘There’s something I have to discuss with Dan; it’s rather on the urgent side, if you’d oblige.’

‘I think what I have to say is more urgent,’ Calvin said. ‘It’s your counteragent, Volyova. The retrovirus you fabricated.’

‘What about it?’

‘It doesn’t seem to be working quite as intended.’ He took a step backwards; Khouri glimpsed part of the Captain behind him, silvery and muculent, like a statue covered with a palimpsest of snail tracks. ‘As a matter of fact, it seems to be killing him faster.’

TWENTY-FOUR

Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

Sylveste did not have long to wait. When Volyova arrived, she was accompanied by Khouri; the woman who had saved Volyova’s life on the surface. If Volyova was something of a rogue variable in his plans then Khouri was worse, because he had not so far ascertained where her loyalties lay; whether to Volyova or Sajaki, or somewhere else entirely. But for now he suppressed his concerns, sharing Calvin’s urgency.

‘What do you mean, it’s killing him faster?’

‘I mean just that,’ Calvin made him say, before either of the two women had drawn breath. ‘We administered it according to your instructions. But it’s as if we’ve given the plague a massive shot in the arm. It’s spreading faster than ever. If I didn’t know better I’d say your retrovirus has actually helped it.’

‘Damn,’ Volyova said. ‘I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me. It’s been a wearying few hours.’

‘Is that all you’re going to say?’

‘I tested the counteragent against small samples of isolated plague,’ she said defensively. ‘It worked against them. I couldn’t promise it would work against the main body of the plague so effectively . . . but at the very least, in the worst possible scenario . . . I assumed it would have some effect, however limited. The plague has to expend some of its resources against the counteragent; there’s no getting around that. It has to direct some of the energy it would ordinarily use for expansion into resisting the agent. I hoped it would kill it - subvert it, I mean, into a form we could manipulate - but even when I was being pessimistic, I assumed the plague would catch a cold; that it would slow down perceptibly.’

‘That’s not what we’re seeing,’ Calvin said.

‘But she has a point,’ Khouri said, and Sylveste felt himself glare at her, as if questioning the very reason for her existence.

‘What are you seeing?’ Volyova asked. ‘You understand, I’m more than a little curious.’

‘We’ve stopped administering,’ Calvin said. ‘So for now the growth has stabilised. But when we gave the Captain the counteragent, he spread faster. It was as if he were incorporating the mass of the counteragent into his matrix more rapidly than he could convert the substrate of the ship.’

‘But that’s ridiculous,’ Volyova said. ‘The ship doesn’t even resist the plague. For him to spread faster . . . that would mean that the counteragent was giving itself over to him; converting itself faster than the plague could subvert it.’

‘Like frontline soldiers defecting before they’ve even heard any propaganda,’ Khouri said.

‘Exactly like that,’ Volyova said, and for the first time, Sylveste sensed something between the two women, something suspiciously like mutual respect. ‘But that just isn’t possible. For that to happen, the plague would have to have hijacked the replication routines almost without trying - almost as if they were willingly hijacked. I’m telling you, it isn’t possible.’

‘Well, try it for yourself.’

‘No thanks. It isn’t that I don’t believe you, but you have to see it from my side. From my point of view - and I engineered the damn thing - it doesn’t make much sense.’

‘There is something,’ Calvin said.

‘What?’

‘Could sabotage have done this? I told you already that we think someone doesn’t want this operation to succeed. You know who I’m talking about.’ He was being circumspect now, unwilling to say too much in Khouri’s presence, or within range of Sajaki’s listening systems. ‘Could your counteragent have been tampered with?’

‘I’ll have to think about it,’ she said.

Sylveste had not administered all of the vial Volyova had given him, so she was able to run a check on the molecular structure of that sample and the other batches which remained in her laboratory, using the same tools she had employed on Khouri’s splinter. When she compared the sample against her lab batches, they were identical, within the normal boundaries of quantum accuracy. The sample Calvin had given to the Captain was exactly as she had intended it to be, down to the humblest chemical bond linking the least significant atoms in the smallest and least essential molecular component . . .

Volyova checked the counteragent’s structure against her records, and observed that it had not deviated from the blueprint she had held in her head for subjective years. It was exactly as she had planned it. Her virus had not been tampered with; its teeth had not been pulled. So much for Calvin’s sabotage theory. She felt a surge of relief - she had not really wanted to believe that Sajaki was actually hampering the whole process; the notion that he might be consciously prolonging the Captain’s illness was too hideous, and she was glad when examination of the counteragent gave her a justification for flushing the idea of sabotage from her mind. She still had misgivings about Sajaki, of course; but there was at least no evidence that he had become something as monstrous as that.

But there was another possibility.

Volyova left the lab and returned to the Captain, cursing herself for not thinking of this earlier and sparing herself the runaround. Sylveste asked what she was doing now. She looked at him for long moments before speaking. Yes, there was a connection with Lascaille’s Shroud; she was sure of that. Was it purely revenge on the Mademoiselle’s part - in payment for his cowardice, or treachery, or whatever it was that had almost killed her in the Shroud boundary? Or did it go beyond that, connected in some way with the aliens themselves; the ancient, protective minds Lascaille had touched during his own flyby? Was it human spite they were dealing with here, or some imperative as alien and old as the Shrouders themselves? There was much she needed to discuss with Sylveste - but it would have to be in the sanctuary of the spider-room.

‘I need another sample,’ she said. ‘From the infection boundary, where you administered the counteragent.’ And she fished out her laser-curette, made the deft light-guided incisions and popped the sample - it felt like a metallic scab - into a waiting autoclave.

‘What about the counteragent? Was it altered?’

‘It hadn’t been touched,’ she said. Then she turned down the curette’s yield and used it to scratch in tiny letters a quick message in the ship’s fabric, just ahead of the Captain’s encroachment. Long before Sajaki stood a chance of reading it, the Captain would have flowed over it like an erasing tide.

‘What are you doing?’ Sylveste said.

But before the man could ask anything else, she was gone.

‘You were right,’ Volyova said, when they were safely beyond the hull of the Nostalgia for Infinity, perched on its outer carapace like some adventurous steel parasite. ‘It was sabotage. But not in the way I first imagined.’

‘What do you mean?’ said Sylveste, who by now was grudgingly impressed by the existence of the spider-room. ‘I thought you cross-referenced the retrovirus against your earlier batches, those which worked against small samples of the plague.’

‘I did, and - as I said - there was no difference. Which only left one possibility.’

Silence hung in the air. Finally, it was Pascale Sylveste who broke it. ‘He - it - must have been inoculated. That’s what must have happened, isn’t it? Someone must have stolen a batch of your retrovirus and denatured it - removed its lethality, its urge to replicate - and then shown it to the Melding Plague.’

‘It’s the only thing which would explain it,’ Volyova said.

Khouri said, ‘You think Sajaki did it, don’t you?’ She was talking to Sylveste.

He nodded. ‘Calvin had as good as predicted that Sajaki would try and ruin the operation.’

‘I don’t follow,’ Khouri said. ‘You’re talking about the Captain being inoculated - isn’t that for the better?’

‘Not in this case - and it wasn’t the Captain who was inoculated, really, but the plague resident in him.’ It was Volyova speaking now. ‘We’ve always known that the Melding Plague is hyperadaptive. That’s always been the problem - every molecular weapon we throw at it ends up being co-opted, smothered and reprocessed into the plague’s own all-consuming offensive. But this time I hoped we’d steal an advantage. The retrovirus was extraordinarily potent - there was a chance it could outmanoeuvre the plague’s normal corruption pathways. But what happened was that the plague got a sneak look at the enemy before it ever encountered it in its active form. It got a chance to dismantle and know the counteragent before it ever posed a threat to it. And by the time Calvin administered it, the plague already knew all its tricks. It had worked out a way to disarm the virus and persuade it to join the plague without even expending any energy in the process. So the Captain grew faster.’

‘Who could have done this?’ Khouri asked. ‘I thought you were the only person on this ship who could do something like that.’

Sylveste nodded. ‘As much as I still think Sajaki’s trying to sabotage the operation . . . this doesn’t look like it could be his handiwork.’

‘I agree,’ Volyova said. ‘Sajaki just doesn’t have the expertise to have done this.’

‘What about the other man?’ Pascale asked. ‘The chimeric.’

‘Hegazi?’ Volyova shook her head. ‘You can ignore him. He might become a problem if any of us ever move against the Triumvirate, but this isn’t within his capabilities any more than Sajaki’s. No; the way I see it, there are only three people on this ship who could have done it, and I’m one of them.’

‘Who are the other two?’ Sylveste asked.

‘Calvin is one of them,’ she said. ‘Which rather removes him from suspicion as well.’

‘And the other?’

‘That’s the problematic part,’ she said. ‘The only other person who could do this to a cybervirus is the one we’ve been trying to heal all this time.’

‘The Captain?’ Sylveste said.

‘He could have done it - from a theoretical standpoint, I mean.’ Volyova clucked. ‘Were he not already dead.’

Khouri wondered how Sylveste would react to that, but he seemed unimpressed. ‘It doesn’t matter who it was - if it wasn’t Sajaki himself, it was someone acting for him.’ Now he addressed Volyova. ‘I take it this convinces you.’

She graced him with a nod. ‘Regrettably, yes. What does it mean to you and Calvin?’

‘Mean to us?’ Sylveste seemed surprised by the question. ‘It means absolutely nothing. I never promised we could heal the Captain in the first place. I told Sajaki I considered the task impossible, and I wasn’t exaggerating. Calvin agreed with me as well. In all honesty, I’m not even sure Sajaki had to sabotage the operation. Even if your retrovirus hadn’t been denatured, I doubt that it would have given the plague much trouble. So what has changed? Calvin and I will continue with the pretence of healing the Captain, and at some point it will be clear that we can’t succeed. We won’t let Sajaki know that we’re aware of his sabotage. We don’t want a confrontation with the man - especially not now, with the attack against Cerberus about to happen.’ Sylveste smiled placidly. ‘And I don’t think Sajaki will be particularly disappointed to hear that our efforts have been in vain.’

‘You’re saying that nothing changes, is that it?’ Khouri looked around at the others for support, but their expressions were inscrutable. ‘I don’t believe this.’

‘The Captain doesn’t matter to him,’ said Pascale Sylveste. ‘Isn’t that obvious to you? He’s only doing this to keep his side of the bargain with Sajaki. Cerberus is all that matters to him. It’s been like a magnet to Dan.’ She was talking as if her husband were somewhere else entirely.

‘Yes,’ Volyova said. ‘Well, I’m glad you raised that subject, because there’s something Khouri and I need to discuss with all of you. It concerns Cerberus.’

Sylveste looked scornful. ‘What do you know about Cerberus?’

‘Too much,’ Khouri said. ‘Too damned much.’

She began where it made sense to begin, at the beginning, with her revival on Yellowstone, her work as an assassin in Shadowplay, and how the Mademoiselle had recruited her and made it very difficult for her not to accept the woman’s offer.

‘Who was she?’ Sylveste asked, when the preliminaries had been dispensed with. ‘And what did she want you to do?’

‘We’ll come to that,’ Volyova said. ‘Just be patient.’

Khouri continued; repeating to Sylveste the story that she had not long ago told Volyova, though it felt that an eternity spaced the two recitations. How she had infiltrated the ship, and how - simultaneously - she had been tricked by Volyova, who needed a new Gunnery Officer, irrespective of whether anyone volunteered for that role. How the Mademoiselle had been in her head all this time, revealing only as much information as Khouri needed at any moment. How Volyova had interfaced Khouri into the gunnery, and how the Mademoiselle had detected something lurking in the gunnery, something - a software entity - that called itself Sun Stealer.

Pascale looked at Sylveste. ‘That name,’ she said. ‘It . . . means something. I’ve heard it before; I’d swear it. Don’t you remember?’

Sylveste looked at her, but said nothing.

‘This thing,’ Khouri said. ‘Whatever it was - it had already tried to get out of the gunnery into the head of the last poor sucker Volyova recruited. Drove him insane.’

‘I don’t see where this concerns me,’ Sylveste said.

So Khouri told him. ‘The Mademoiselle worked out that this thing had to have entered the gunnery at a certain time.’

‘Very good; continue.’

‘Which was when you were last aboard this ship.’

She had wondered what it would take to shut Sylveste up, or at the very least wipe the look of smug superiority off his face. Now she knew, and realised that in the midst of everything, this achievement had been one of life’s small and unexpected pleasures. Breaking the spell, with admirable self-control, Sylveste said: ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means what you think it means, but don’t want to consider.’ The words had tumbled out of her mouth. ‘Whatever it was, you brought it with you.’

‘Some kind of neural parasite,’ Volyova said, taking the burden of explication from Khouri. ‘It came aboard with you and then hopped into the ship. It could have ridden your implants, or perhaps your mind itself, independent of any hardware.’

‘This is ridiculous.’ But something in his tone of voice failed to convince.

‘If you weren’t aware of it,’ Volyova said, ‘then you could have been carrying it around for years. Maybe even since you came back.’

‘Came back from where?’

‘Lascaille’s Shroud,’ Khouri said, and, for the second time, her words seemed to lash against Sylveste like squalls of wintery rain. ‘We checked the chronology; it fits. Whatever it was, it got into you around the Shroud, and stayed with you until you came here. Maybe it didn’t even leave you; just split off part of itself into the ship, hedging its bets.’

Sylveste stood up, motioning for his wife to do likewise. ‘I’m not staying to hear any more of this madness.’

‘I think you should,’ Khouri said. ‘We still haven’t told you about the Mademoiselle, or what she wanted me to do.’

He just looked at her, poised on the verge of leaving, his face a study in disgust. Then - perhaps a minute later - he returned to his seat and waited for her to continue.

TWENTY-FIVE

Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

‘I’m sorry,’ Sylveste said. ‘But I don’t think this man can be cured.’

His only companions, save the Captain himself, were the two members of the Triumvirate other than Volyova.

The closest, Sajaki, stood with his arms folded in front of the Captain, as if inspecting a challengingly modern fresco, his head tilted just so. Hegazi maintained a respectful distance from the plague, refusing to approach within three or four metres of the outer extent of the Captain’s recently invigorated growth. He was doing his best to look nonchalant, but, despite the relatively sparse acreage of his face which was actually visible, fear was written across it like a tattoo.

‘He’s dead?’ Sajaki asked.

‘No, no,’ said Sylveste hastily. ‘Not at all. It’s just that all our therapies have failed, and our one best shot turned out to hurt him more than to heal him.’

‘Your one best shot?’ Hegazi parroted, his voice echoing from the walls.

‘Ilia Volyova’s counteragent.’ Sylveste knew he had to be very careful now; that it would not do for Sajaki to realise that his sabotage had come to light. ‘For whatever reason, it didn’t work in the way she thought it would. I don’t blame Volyova for that - how could she predict how the main body of the plague would behave, when all she had to work on was tiny samples?’

‘How indeed?’ Sajaki said, and in that short declamation, Sylveste decided that he hated the man, with a hatred as irrevocable as death. But he also knew that Sajaki was a man he could work with, and that - as much as he despised him - nothing that had occurred here would make any difference to the attack against Cerberus. It was better than that, in fact: much better. Now that he was certain that Sajaki had no desire to see the Captain healed - quite the opposite - there was nothing to prevent Sylveste from turning his full attention to the matter of the imminent attack. Perhaps he would have to endure Calvin’s presence in his head for a little while longer, until this charade had run its course, but that was a small price to pay, and he felt up to the task. Besides: now he rather welcomed Calvin’s intrusion. There was too much going on; too much to be assimilated, and for the time being it was good to have a second mind parasitising his own, gleaning patterns and forging inferences.

‘He’s a lying bastard,’ Calvin whispered. ‘I had my doubts before, but now I know for sure. I hope the plague consumes every atom of the ship and takes him with it. It’s all he deserves.’

Sylveste said to Sajaki, ‘It doesn’t mean we’ve given up hope. With your permission Cal and I will continue trying . . .’

‘Do what you can,’ Sajaki said.

‘You want to let them continue?’ Hegazi said. ‘After what they’ve almost done to him?’

‘You’ve got a problem with that?’ said Sylveste, feeling that the conversation was as ritualised as a play; its conclusion just as preordained. ‘If we don’t take risks . . .’

‘Sylveste is right,’ Sajaki said. ‘Who’s to say how the Captain would respond to the most innocent of interventions? The plague is a living thing - it isn’t necessarily obedient to any set of logical rules, so every act we make carries some risk, even something as seemingly harmless as sweeping it with a magnetic field. The plague might interpret it as a stimulus to shift to a new phase of growth, or it might cause the plague to turn to dust in seconds. I doubt that the Captain would survive either scenario.’

‘In which case,’ Hegazi said, ‘we might as well give up now.’

‘No,’ Sajaki said, so calmly that Sylveste feared for the other man’s well-being. ‘It doesn’t mean that we give up. It means that we need a new paradigm - something beyond surgical intervention. Here we have the finest cyberneticist born since the Transenlightenment, and no one has a finer grasp of molecular weapons than Ilia Volyova. The medical systems we have aboard this ship are as advanced as any in existence. And yet we’ve failed; for the simple reason that we’re dealing with something stronger, faster and more adaptable than anything we can imagine. What we’ve always suspected is true: the Melding Plague is of alien origin. And that’s why it will always beat us. Provided, that is, we continue to wage war against it on our terms, rather than on its own.’

Now, Sylveste thought, this play had arrived at an unwritten epilogue all of its own.

‘What kind of new paradigm do you have in mind?’

‘The only logical answer,’ Sajaki said, as if what he was about to reveal had always been blindingly obvious. ‘The only effective medicine against an alien illness would be an alien medicine. And that’s what we have to seek now, no matter how long it takes us, or how far.’

‘Alien medicine,’ Hegazi said, as if trying on the phrase for size. Perhaps he imagined that he would be hearing it rather frequently in the future. ‘And just what kind of alien medicine did you have in mind?’

‘We’ll try the Pattern Jugglers first,’ Sajaki said, absently, as if no one else were present, merely toying with the notion. ‘And if they can’t heal him, we’ll look further.’ Suddenly his attention snapped back onto Sylveste. ‘We visited them once, you know, the Captain and I. You aren’t the only one to have tasted the brine of their ocean.’

‘Let’s not spend a second longer in the company of this madman than absolutely necessary,’ Calvin said, and Sylveste nodded silent assent.

Volyova checked her bracelet again, for the sixth or seventh time in the last hour, even though what it had to tell her had barely changed. What it told her - and what she already knew - was that the calamitous marriage of bridgehead and Cerberus was due to happen in just under half a day, and that no one looked likely to voice any objections, let alone make any attempt to avert the union.

‘You looking at that thing every other second isn’t going to change anything,’ said Khouri, who, together with Volyova and Pascale, remained in the spider-room. For most of the last few hours they had been beyond the outer hull, venturing inside only to return Sylveste into the ship so that he could meet the other Triumvirs. Sajaki had not queried Volyova’s absence: doubtless he assumed she was busy in her quarters, putting the finishing touches to her attack strategy. But in an hour or two she would need to show her face if she wished to avoid suspicion. Not long after that, she would need to begin the softening-up procedure, deploying elements of the cache against the point on Cerberus where the bridgehead was scheduled to arrive. As she glanced at the bracelet again - involuntarily, this time - Khouri said, ‘What are you hoping for?’

‘Something unexpected from the weapon - a fatal malfunction would do very nicely.’

‘Then you really don’t want this to succeed, do you?’ Pascale said. ‘A few days ago you were gloating over that thing like it was your finest hour. This is quite some turnaround.’

‘That was before I knew who the Mademoiselle was. If I’d had any idea earlier . . .’ Volyova found herself running out of anything to say. It was obvious now that using the weapon was an act of almost staggering recklessness - but would knowing that have altered a thing? Would she have felt compelled to make the weapon just because she could; just because it was elegant and she wanted her peers to see what fabulous creatures could spring forth from her mind; what Byzantine engines of war? The thought that she might have done so was sickening, but - in its own way - entirely plausible. She would have given birth to the bridgehead and hoped that she could prevent it completing its mission at some later point. She would, in short, have been in exactly the position in which she now found herself.

The bridgehead - the converted Lorean - was nearing Cerberus now, slowing as it did so. By the time it touched Cerberus it would be moving no faster than a bullet, but it would be a bullet massing millions of tonnes. If the bridgehead hit an ordinary planetary surface at that speed, its kinetic energy would be converted into heat rather efficiently: there would be a colossal explosion and her toy would be destroyed in a flash. But Cerberus was not a normal planet. Her assumption - backed up by endless simulations - was that the sheer grinding bulk of the weapon would be sufficient to push it through the thin layer of artificial crust overlaying the world’s interior. Once it had thrust below that, once it had impaled the world, she had no real idea what it would encounter.

And now that scared her beyond words. Intellectual vanity had brought Sylveste to this point - and something else, perhaps - but she was not unguilty of obeying the same unquestioning drive. She wished she had taken the project less seriously; made the bridgehead less likely to succeed. It terrified her to think what would happen if her child did not disappoint her.

‘Had I known . . .’ she said, finally. ‘I don’t know. But I didn’t, so what does it matter?’

‘If you’d listened to me,’ Khouri said, ‘I told you we had to stop this madness. But my word wasn’t good enough; you had to let it come to this.’

‘I was hardly going to confront Sajaki on the basis of a vision you had in the gunnery. He’d have killed both of us, I’m sure of it.’ Although now, she thought, they might have to move against Sajaki anyway - they could only do so much from the spider-room, and soon that might not be nearly enough.

‘You could have decided to trust me,’ Khouri said.

If circumstances had been any different, Volyova thought, she might have hit Khouri at the point. Instead, mildly, she answered, ‘You can talk to me about trust when you haven’t lied and cheated your way aboard my ship, but not before.’

‘What did you expect me to do? The Mademoiselle had my husband.’

‘Did she?’ Volyova leant forward now. ‘Do you know that for sure, Khouri? I mean, did you ever meet him, or was that another of the Mademoiselle’s little deceptions? Memories can be implanted easily enough, can’t they?’

Khouri’s voice was soft now; as if there had never been an angry word between the two of them. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean maybe he never made it, Khouri. Did you ever consider that? Maybe he never left Yellowstone; the way you always believed it had happened.’

Pascale pushed her face between the two of them. ‘Look, stop arguing, will you? If something awful is going to happen here, the last thing we need is division amongst ourselves. In case it has escaped your attention, I’m the only person on this ship who didn’t ask or want to come aboard.’

‘Yeah, well that’s just tough luck,’ Khouri said.

Pascale glared at her. ‘Well maybe what I just said wasn’t all true. I am after something. I’ve got a husband as well, and I don’t want him to hurt himself - or anyone around him - just because of something he wants so bad. And that’s why I need you now - both of you, because you seem to be the only two around here who feel the same way I do.’

‘How do you feel?’ Volyova asked.

‘That none of this is right,’ she said. ‘Not from the moment you mentioned that name.’

Volyova didn’t have to ask what name Pascale meant. ‘You acted as if you recognised it.’

‘We did - both of us. Sun Stealer’s an Amarantin name; one of their gods, or mythic figures - maybe even a real historical individual. But Dan was too pigheaded - or perhaps too scared - to admit it.’

Volyova checked her bracelet again, but there was still no news. Then she waited while Pascale told her story. She told it well; there was no preamble, no scene-setting, and with the few carefully chosen facts which Pascale deployed, Volyova found herself visualising all that was necessary; events sketched with artful economy. She could see now why Pascale had helmed Sylveste’s biography. What she had to say concerned the Amarantin, the extinct avian-descended creatures who had lived on Resurgam. By now the crew had absorbed enough knowledge from Sylveste to place this story in its proper context, but it was still disturbing to find a connection to the Amarantin. After all, Volyova had found it troubling enough to think that her problems were in some way associated with the Shrouders. At least there the causality was clear enough. But how did the Amarantin fit into everything? How could there be a link between two radically different alien species, both now long since vanished from galactic affairs? Even the timescales were in radical disagreement: according to what Lascaille had told Sylveste, the Shrouders had vanished - perhaps by retreating into their spheres of restructured spacetime - millions of years before the Amarantin had ever evolved, taking with them artefacts and techniques too hazardous to be left within the reach of less experienced species. That, after all, was what had driven Sylveste and Lefevre to the Shroud boundary: the lure of that stored knowledge. The Shrouders were as alien in form as anything in human experience - carapacial, multi-limbed things brewed from nightmares. The Amarantin, by contrast, with their avian ancestry and four-limbed, bipedal body-plan, were less shatteringly alien.

Yet Sun Stealer showed a link. The ship had never before visited Resurgam; had never had aboard it anyone openly familiar with any aspect of the Amarantin - and yet Sun Stealer had been part of Volyova’s life for subjective years, and several decades of planetary time. Sylveste was clearly the key - but any kind of logical connection steadfastly refused to reveal itself to Volyova.

Pascale continued, while an unsupervised part of Volyova’s mind raced ahead and tried to fit things into some kind of order. Pascale was talking about the buried city; a vast Amarantin structure discovered during Sylveste’s imprisonment. About how the city’s central feature, a huge spire, had been surmounted by an entity which was not quite Amarantin, but looked like the Amarantin analog of an angel - except that this was an angel designed by someone with a scrupulous attention to the limits of anatomy. An angel that almost looked like it could fly.

‘And that was Sun Stealer?’ Khouri asked, awed.

‘I don’t know,’ Pascale said. ‘All we know is that the original Sun Stealer was just an ordinary Amarantin, but one who formed a renegade flock - a renegade social clade, if you like. We think they were experimentalists, studying the nature of the world; questioners of myth. Dan had this theory that Sun Stealer was interested in optics; that he made mirrors and lenses; literally, that he stole the sun. He may also have experimented with flight; simple machines and gliders. Whatever it was, it was heresy.’

‘So what was the statue?’

Pascale told them the rest; how the renegade flock became known as the Banished Ones; how they effectively disappeared from Amarantin history for thousands of years.

‘If I can interject a theory at this point,’ Volyova said, ‘is it possible that the Banished Ones went away to a quiet corner of the planet and invented technology?’

‘Dan thought so. He thought they went the whole way - until they had the power to leave Resurgam entirely. And then one day - not long before the Event - they came back, but by then they were like gods compared to those who had stayed behind. And that was what the statue was - something raised in honour of the new gods.’

‘Gods who became angels?’ Khouri asked.

‘Genetic engineering,’ Pascale said, with conviction. ‘They could never have flown, even with those wings they gave themselves, but then again, they’d already left gravity behind; become spacefaring.’

‘What happened?’

‘Much later - centuries afterwards, or even thousands of years - Sun Stealer’s people returned to Resurgam. It was almost the end. We can’t resolve the archaeological timescale, it’s so short. But it’s as if they brought it with them.’

‘Brought what?’ Khouri said.

‘The Event. Whatever it was that ended life on Resurgam.’

As they trudged through the effluent which lay ankle-deep along the corridor floor, Khouri said, ‘Is there a way to stop your weapon reaching Cerberus? I mean, you still have control of it, don’t you?’

‘Be quiet!’ Volyova hissed. ‘Anything we say down here . . .’ She trailed off, pointing to the walls, presumably indicating all manner of concealed spy devices; part of the surveillance web she believed Sajaki controlled.

‘Might get back to the rest of the Triumvirate. So what?’ Khouri kept her voice low - no point in taking needless risks, but she spoke anyway. ‘The way things are going, we’re going to be openly resisting them before too long. My guess is Sajaki’s listening network isn’t as comprehensive as you think, anyway - that’s what Sudjic said. Even if it is, he’s likely to be preoccupied right now.’

‘Dangerous, very dangerous.’ But perhaps recognising the sense in what Khouri had said - that at some very imminent time subterfuge would have to become rebellion - she elevated the cuff of her jacket to reveal her bracelet, glowing with schematics and slowly updating numerics. ‘I can control almost everything with this. But what good does it do me? Sajaki’ll kill me if he thinks I’m trying to sabotage the operation - and he’ll know the instant the weapon deviates from its intended course. And let’s not forget that Sylveste is holding all of us to ransom - I don’t know how he’d react.’

‘Badly, I suspect - but that doesn’t change anything.’

Now Pascale spoke. ‘He won’t do what he’s been threatening. There’s nothing in his eyes; he told me. But because Sajaki could never be sure - because it was possible - Dan said he was sure it would work.’

‘And you’re absolutely certain he wasn’t lying to you?’

‘What kind of a question is that?’

‘A perfectly legitimate one, under the circumstances. I fear Sajaki, but I can confront him with force if the need arises. But not your husband.’

‘It never happened,’ Pascale said. ‘Trust me on that.’

‘Like we’ve got a choice,’ Khouri said. They had arrived at an elevator; the door opened and they had to step up to reach the elevator’s floor. Khouri kicked the slime from her boots, hammered the wall and said, ‘Ilia, you have to stop that thing. If it reaches Cerberus, we’re all dead. That’s what the Mademoiselle knew all along; that’s why she wanted to kill Sylveste. Because she knew that, one way or another, he was going to try and get there. Now, I haven’t got all of this straight in my head, but I do know one thing. The Mademoiselle knew it was going to be really bad news for all of us if he ever succeeded. And I mean really bad news.’

The elevator was rising now, but Volyova had not stated their destination.

‘It’s like Sun Stealer was pushing him on,’ Pascale said. ‘Putting ideas in his head, shaping his destiny.’

‘Ideas?’ Khouri asked.

‘Like coming here in the first place - to this system.’ Volyova was animated now. ‘Khouri; don’t you remember how we retrieved that recording of Sylveste from ship’s memory, from when he was last aboard?’ Khouri nodded; she remembered it well enough: how she had looked into the eyes of the recorded Sylveste and imagined killing the real man. ‘And how he dropped hints that he was already thinking of the Resurgam expedition? And that bothered us because there was no logical way he could know about the Amarantin? Well, now it makes perfect sense. Pascale’s right. It was Sun Stealer, already in his head, pushing him here. I don’t think he even knew it was happening himself, but Sun Stealer was in control, all that time.’

Khouri said, ‘It’s like Sun Stealer and the Mademoiselle are fighting each other, but they need to use us to wage their war. Sun Stealer’s some kind of software entity, and she’s confined to Yellowstone, in her palanquin . . . so they’ve been pulling our strings, puppeting us against each other.’

‘I think you’re right,’ Volyova said. ‘Sun Stealer has me worried. Deeply worried. We haven’t heard from him since the cache-weapon went up.’

Khouri said nothing. What she knew was that Sun Stealer had entered her head during her last session in the gunnery. Later, during her final visitation, the Mademoiselle had appeared to tell her that Sun Stealer was consuming her; that he would inevitably overwhelm her in hours or - at most - days. Yet that had been weeks earlier. According to her estimated rate of losses, the Mademoiselle should by now be dead, and Sun Stealer victorious. Yet nothing had changed. If anything, her head had been quieter than at any time since she had been revived around Yellowstone. No damn Shadowplay proximity implant; no damn midnight apparitions from the Mademoiselle. It was as if Sun Stealer had died just as he triumphed. Not that Khouri believed that, and his utter absence was all the more stressing; heightening the waiting until - as she was sure would happen - he appeared. And somehow she sensed he would be even less pleasant company than her previous lodger.

‘Why should he show his face?’ Pascale said. ‘He’s almost won, in any case.’

‘Almost won,’ Volyova agreed. ‘But what we’re about to do might make him intervene. I think we should be ready for that - you especially, Khouri. You know he found his way into Boris Nagorny, and you can take it from me, it wasn’t nice knowing either of them.’

‘Maybe you should lock me up now, before it’s too late.’ Khouri hadn’t given the statement much thought, but she said it with deadly seriousness. ‘I mean it, Ilia - I’d rather you did that than be forced into shooting me later.’

‘I’d love to do that,’ said her mentor. ‘But it isn’t as if we’re already vastly outnumbering the others. At the moment it’s the three of us against Sajaki and Hegazi - and God only knows whose side Sylveste will choose, if it comes to that.’

Pascale said nothing.

They reached the warchive, the destination Volyova had always had in mind, though she had said nothing until they arrived. Khouri had never been to this sector of the ship, but she did not need to have it identified to her. She had been in plenty of armouries before and there was a smell to them.

‘This is some heavy shit we’re getting ourselves into,’ she said. ‘Right?’

The vast oblong room constituted the display and dispensary section of the warchive, with somewhere in the region of a thousand weapons racked for immediate use. Tens of thousands more could be manufactured in short order, assembled according to blueprints distributed holographically through the mass of the ship.

‘Yes,’ Volyova said, with something worryingly close to relish. ‘In which case we’d better have some obnoxiously effective firepower at our disposal. So, use your skill and discretion, Khouri, and kit us up. And be quick about it - we don’t want Sajaki locking us out before we’ve got what we came for.’

‘You’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you?’

‘Yes. And you know why? Suicidal or not, we’re finally doing something. It might get us killed - and it might not do any good - but at least we’ll go out with a fight, if it comes to that.’

Khouri nodded slowly. Now that Volyova put it like that, she was right. It was a soldier’s prerogative not to let events take their course without some kind of intervention, no matter how futile. Quickly Volyova showed her how to use the warchive’s lower-level functions - luckily, it was almost intuitive - then took Pascale by the arm and turned to leave.

‘Where are you going?’

‘The bridge. Sajaki will want me there for the softening-up operation.’

TWENTY-SIX

Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

Sylveste had not seen his wife for hours, and now it seemed as if she would not even be present for the culmination of all that he had striven for. Only ten hours remained until Volyova’s weapon was due to impact Cerberus, and in less than an hour from now, the first wave of her softening-up assault was scheduled to commence. This in itself was momentous - yet it appeared that he would have to witness it without Pascale’s company.

The ship’s cameras had never lost sight of the weapon, and even now it hovered in the bridge’s display, as if only a few kilometres away, rather than more than a million. They were seeing it side-on, since it had begun its approach from the Trojan point, whereas the ship remained in a holding pattern ninety degrees clockwise, along the line which threaded Hades and its furtive planetary companion. Neither machine was in a true orbit, but the weak gravitational field of Cerberus meant that these artificial trajectories could be maintained with minimal expenditure of correcting thrust.

Sajaki and Hegazi were with him, bathed in the reddish light which spilled from the display. Everything was red now; Hades close enough that it was a perceptible prick of scarlet, and Delta Pavonis - faint as it was - also casting ruddy light on all that orbited it. And because the display was the only source of light in the room, some of that redness leaked into the bridge.

‘Where the hell is that brezgatnik cow Volyova?’ Hegazi said. ‘I thought she was meant to be showing us her chamber of horrors in action by now.’

Had the woman actually done the unspeakable, Sylveste thought? Had she actually decided to ruin the attack, even though she had masterminded the whole thing? If that was the case, he had misread her badly. She had inflicted her misgivings on him, fuelled by the delusions of the woman Khouri, but surely she hadn’t taken any of that seriously? Surely she had been playing devil’s advocate; testing the limits of his own confidence?

‘You’d better hope that’s the case, son,’ Calvin said.

‘You’re reading my thoughts now?’ Sylveste said, aloud, nothing to conceal from the partial Triumvirate convened around him. ‘That’s quite a trick, Calvin.’

‘Call it a progressive adaptation to neural congruency,’ the voice said. ‘All the theories said that if you allowed me to stay in your head for long enough, something like this would occur. Really all that’s happening is that I’m constructing a steadily more realistic model of your neural processes. To begin with I could only correlate what I read against your responses. But now I don’t even have to wait for the responses to guess what they’ll be.’

So read this, Sylveste thought. Piss off.

‘If you want rid of me,’ Calvin said, ‘you could have done so hours ago. But I think you’re beginning to rather like having me where I am.’

‘For the time being,’ Sylveste said. ‘But don’t get used to it, Calvin. Because I’m not planning on having you around on a permanent basis.’

‘This wife of yours worries me.’

Sylveste looked at the Triumvirs. Suddenly he did not want his half of the conversation to be public knowledge, so he switched to mentalising what he would say.

‘I worry about her too, but that doesn’t happen to be any of your business.’

‘I saw the way she responded when Volyova and Khouri tried to turn her.’

Yes, Sylveste thought - and who could honestly blame her? It had been hard enough for him when Volyova had dropped Sun Stealer’s name into the conversation, like a depth charge. Of course, Volyova had not known how significant that name was - and for a moment Sylveste had hoped that his wife would not remember where she had heard it, or even that she had ever heard it before. But Pascale was too clever for that; it was half the reason he loved her. ‘It doesn’t mean they managed, Cal.’

‘I’m glad you’re so sure.’

‘She wouldn’t try and stop me.’

‘That rather depends,’ Calvin said. ‘You see, if she imagines that you’re putting yourself in harm’s way - and if she loves you as much as I think she does - then stopping you is going to be something she does as much out of love as logic. Maybe more so. It doesn’t mean she’s suddenly decided to hate you, or that she even gets pleasure out of denying you this ambition. Quite the opposite, in fact. I rather imagine it’s hurting her.’

Sylveste looked at the display again; at the conic, sculpted mass of Volyova’s bridgehead.

‘What I think,’ Calvin said, eventually, ‘is that there may be rather more to any of this than meets your eye. And that we should proceed with caution.’

‘I’m hardly being incautious.’

‘I know, and I sympathise. The mere fact that there could be danger in this is fascinating in itself; almost an incentive to push further. That’s how you feel, isn’t it? Every argument they could use against you would only strengthen your resolve. Because knowledge makes you hungry, and it’s a hunger you can’t resist, even if you know that what you’re feasting on could kill you.’

‘I couldn’t have put it better myself,’ Sylveste said, and wondered, but only for an instant. Then he turned to Sajaki and spoke aloud. ‘Where the hell is that damned woman? Doesn’t she realise we have work to do?’

‘I’m here,’ Volyova said, stepping into the bridge, followed by Pascale. Wordlessly, she summoned a pair of seats, and the two women rose into the central volume of the room, positioning themselves near the others, where the spectacle playing on the display could best be appreciated.

‘Then let battle commence,’ Sajaki said.

Volyova addressed the cache; the first time she had accessed any of these horrors since the incident with the rogue weapon.

In the back of her mind was the thought that at any time one of these weapons could act in the same way; violently ousting her from the control loop and taking charge of its own actions. She could not rule that out, but it was a risk she was prepared to take. And if what Khouri had said was true, then the Mademoiselle - who had been controlling the rogue cache-weapon - was now dead, ruthlessly absorbed by Sun Stealer, then at the very least it would not be she who tried to turn the weapons renegade.

Volyova selected a handful of cache-weapons, those at (she assumed and hoped) the lower end of the destructive scale available, where their destructive potential overlapped with the ship’s native armaments. Six weapons came to life and communicated their readiness via her bracelet, morbid skull-icons pulsing. The devices moved via the network of tracks, slowly threading their way out of the cache chamber into the smaller transfer chamber, and then deploying themselves beyond the hull, becoming, in effect, hugely overcannoned robotic spacecraft. None of the six devices resembled any of the others, except in the underlying signature of common design which was shared by all the hell-class weapons. Two were relativistic projectile launchers, and so bore a certain similarity, but no more than as if they were competing prototypes constructed by different design teams to satisfy a general brief. They looked like ancient howitzers; all elongated barrel, festooned with tubular complications and cancerous ancillary systems. The other four weapons, in no particular order of pleasantness, consisted of a gamma-ray laser (bigger by an order of magnitude than the ship’s own units), a supersymmetry beam, an ack-am projector and a quark deconfinement device. There was nothing to compare with the planet-demolishing capability of the rogue weapon, but then again, nothing which one would wish to have pointed at oneself - or indeed, the planet one happened to be standing on. And, Volyova reminded herself, the plan was not to inflict arbitrary damage on Cerberus; not to destroy it - but merely to crack it open, and for that a certain amount of finesse was in order.

Oh, yes . . . this was finesse.

‘Now give me something a novice can use,’ Khouri said, dithering in front of the warchive’s dispensary. ‘I’m not talking about a toy, though - it’s got to have real stopping power.’

‘Beam or projectile, madame?’

‘Make it a low-yield beam. We don’t want Pascale putting holes in the hull.’

‘Oh, marvellous choice, madame. Would madame care to rest her feet while I search for something which matches madame’s discerning requirements?’

‘Madame will stand, if you don’t mind.’

She was being served by the dispensary’s gamma-level persona, which consisted of a rather glum and simpering holographic head projected at chest height above the slot-topped counter. At first she had restricted her choices to those arms which were arrayed along the walls, stowed behind glass with little illuminated plaques detailing their operation, era-of-origin and history of usage. That was fine, in principle, and she had soon selected lightweight weapons for herself and Volyova, choosing a pair of electromagnetic needle-guns which were similar in design to Shadowplay equipment.

Volyova had, rather ominously, mentioned heavier ordnance, and Khouri had taken care of that as well, but only partially from the displayed wares. There had been a nice rapid-cycle plasma rifle, manufactured three centuries ago, but by no means outdated, and its neural-feed aiming system would make it very useful in close combat. It was light, as well, and when she hefted it, she felt that she knew the weapon immediately. There was also something obscenely alluring about the weapon’s protective jacket of black leather: mottled and oiled to a high sheen, with patches cut away to expose controls, readouts and attachment points. It would suit her, but what could she bring back for Volyova? She perused the shelves for as long as she dared (which could not have been more than five minutes), and while there was no shortage of intriguing and even bewildering hardware, there was nothing which exactly matched what she had in mind.

Instead, she had turned to the warchive’s memory. There were, Khouri was reliably informed, exemplars of in excess of four million hand weapons, spanning twelve centuries of gunsmithery, from the simplest spark-ignited projectile blunderbusses to the most gruesomely compact concentrations of death-directed technology imaginable.

But even that vast assortment was small compared to the warchive’s total potential, because the warchive could also be creative. Given specifications, the warchive could sift its blueprints and merge the optimum characteristics of pre-existing weapons until it had forged something new and highly customised. Which, in minutes, it could synthesise.

When it was done - as it was with the little pistol Khouri had imagined for Pascale - the slot in the tabletop would whir open and the finished weapon would rise on a little felt-topped platter, gleaming with ultrasterility, still warm with the residual heat of its manufacture.

She lifted Pascale’s pistol, sighting along the barrel, feeling the balance, running through the beam-yield settings, accessed by a stud recessed into the grip.

‘Suits you, madame,’ said the dispensary.

‘It isn’t for me,’ Khouri said, hiding the gun in a pocket.

Volyova’s six cache-weapons powered up their thrusters and vectored rapidly away from the ship, following a complex course which would position them to strike against the impact point, albeit obliquely. And the bridgehead, meanwhile, continued to reduce the distance between itself and the surface, always slowing. She was certain that the world had already decided that it was being approached by an artificial object, and a big one at that. The world might even recognise that the thing approaching it had once been the Lorean. Doubtless, somewhere down in that machine-permeated crust, a kind of debate was going on. Some components would be arguing that it was best to attack now; best to strike against the nearing thing before it became a real problem. Other components would be urging caution, pointing out that the object was still a long way from Cerberus, and that any attack against it now would have to be very large to ensure the object was annihilated before it could retaliate, and that such an open display of strength might attract more attention from elsewhere. And furthermore, the pacifist systems might say, so far this object had done nothing unambiguously hostile. It might not even suspect the artificiality of Cerberus. It might only want to sniff the world and leave it alone.

Volyova did not want the pacifists to win. She wanted the advocates of a massive pre-emptive strike to win, and she wanted it to happen now, before another minute passed. She wanted to observe Cerberus lash out and remove the bridgehead from existence. That would end their problems, and - because something similar had already happened to Sylveste’s probes - they would not be any worse off than they were now. Perhaps the mere incitement of a counterstrike from Cerberus would not constitute the interference which the Mademoiselle had sought to prevent. After all, no one would have entered the place. And then they could admit defeat and go home.

Except none of that was going to happen.

‘These cache-weapons,’ Sajaki said, nodding at the display. ‘Are you planning to arm and fire them from here, Ilia?’

‘There’s no reason not to.’

‘I would have expected Khouri to direct them from the gunnery. After all, that’s her role.’ He turned to Hegazi and whispered, loud enough for everyone to hear, ‘I’m beginning to wonder why we recruited that one - or why I allowed Volyova to stop the trawling.’

‘I presume she has her uses,’ said the chimeric.

‘Khouri is in the gunnery,’ Volyova lied. ‘As a precaution, of course. But I won’t call on her unless absolutely necessary. That’s fair, isn’t it? These are my weapons as well - you can’t begrudge me the use of them when the situation is so controlled.’

The readouts on her bracelet - partially echoed on the display sphere in the middle of the bridge - informed her that in thirty minutes the cache-weapons would arrive at their designated firing positions nearly a quarter of a million kilometres away from the ship. At that point there would be no plausible reason not to fire them.

‘Good,’ Sajaki said. ‘For a moment I worried that we didn’t have your complete commitment to the cause. But that sounds suspiciously like a flash of the old Volyova.’

‘How very gratifying,’ Sylveste said.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

The black icons of the cache-weapons swarmed towards their firing points, their terrible potency waiting to be unleashed against Cerberus. In all that time there had been no response from the world; no hint that it was anything other than what it appeared to be. It just hung there, grey and sutured, like the cranium of a skull tipped in prayer.

When, finally, the moment came, there was only a soft chime from the projection sphere, and the numerals briefly cycled through zero, before commencing the long count upwards.

Sylveste was the first to speak. He turned to Volyova, who had made no visible movement in minutes. ‘Isn’t something supposed to have happened? Aren’t your damned weapons supposed to have gone off?’

Volyova looked up from the bracelet readout which was consuming her attention like someone snapping out of a trance.

‘I never gave the order,’ she said, so softly that it took conscious effort to hear her words. ‘I never told the weapons to fire.’

‘Pardon?’ Sajaki said.

‘You heard what I said,’ she answered, with mounting volume. ‘I didn’t do it.’

Once again Sajaki’s resolute calm managed to seem more threatening than any histrionics. ‘There are a number of minutes remaining in which the attack may yet be made,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you had best consider utilising them, before the situation becomes irretrievable.’

‘I think,’ Sylveste said, ‘that the situation did so some time ago.’

‘That’s a matter for the Triumvirate,’ Hegazi said, his steel-clad knuckles glinting on the edge of his seat rests. ‘Ilia, if you give the order now, maybe we can—’

‘I’m not about to,’ she said. ‘Call it mutiny if you wish, or treason; I don’t care. But my involvement in this madness ends here.’ She looked at Sylveste with unexpected bile. ‘You know my reasons, so don’t pretend otherwise.’

‘She’s right, Dan.’

Now it was Pascale who had joined the conversation, and for a moment she had all their attention.

‘You know what she’s been saying is true; how we just can’t take this risk, no matter how much you want it.’

‘You’ve been listening to Khouri as well,’ Sylveste said, although the news that his wife had gone over to Volyova’s side was hardly surprising, drawing less bitterness than he might have expected. Aware of the perversity of his feelings, he nonetheless rather admired her for doing it.

‘She knows things that we don’t,’ Pascale said.

‘What the hell does Khouri have to do with any of this?’ Hegazi asked, glancing peevishly towards Sajaki. ‘She’s just a grunt. Can we omit her from the discussion?’

‘Unfortunately not,’ Volyova said. ‘Everything that you’ve heard is true. And carrying on with this really would be the worst mistake any of us have ever made.’

Sajaki veered his seat away from Hegazi, approaching Volyova. ‘If you aren’t going to give the attack order, at least surrender control of the cache to me.’ And he reached out his hand, beckoning her to unclasp the bracelet and pass it to him.

‘I think you should do what he says,’ Hegazi said. ‘It could be very unpleasant for you otherwise.’

‘I don’t doubt that for a moment,’ Volyova said, and with one deft motion she snapped the bracelet from her hand. ‘It’s completely useless to you, Sajaki. The cache will only listen to me or Khouri.’

‘Give me the bracelet.’

‘You’ll regret it, I’m warning you.’

She passed it to him all the same. Sajaki grasped it as if it were a valuable gold amulet, toying with it briefly before locking it around his wrist. He watched as the little display reignited, filling with the same schematic data which had flashed from Volyova’s wrist a moment earlier.

‘This is Triumvir Sajaki,’ he said, licking his lips between each word, savouring the power. ‘I’m not sure of the precise protocol required at this point, so I ask for your co-operation. But I want the six deployed cache-weapons to commence—’

Sajaki stopped mid-sentence. He looked down at his wrist, at first in puzzlement, and then, moments later, in something much closer to fear.

‘You sly old dog,’ Hegazi said, wonderingly. ‘I imagined you might have a trick up your sleeve, but I never thought you’d have one literally.’

‘I’m a very literal-minded person,’ Volyova said.

Sajaki’s face was a rigid mask of pain now, and the constricting bracelet had visibly cut into his wrist. His hand was locked open, now as white and bloodless as wax. With his free hand he was making a valiant effort to claw the bracelet free, but it was futile; she had seen to that. The clasp would have sealed shut now, and what remained was only a painful and slow process of constrictive amputation, as the memory-plastic polymer chains in the bracelet slithered ever tighter. The bracelet had known from the instant he placed it around his wrist that his DNA was not correct; that it failed to match her own. But it had not begun to constrict until he had tried to issue an order, which, she supposed, was a kind of leniency on her behalf.

‘Make it stop,’ he managed to say. ‘Make it stop . . . you fucking bitch . . . please . . .’

Volyova estimated he had one to two minutes before the bracelet had his hand off; one to two minutes before the main sound in the room would be the cracking of bone, assuming it was audible above Sajaki’s whimpers.

‘Your manners let you down,’ she said. ‘What kind of a way to ask is that? You’d think now would be the one time when you had some courtesy to spare.’

‘Stop it,’ Pascale said. ‘I’m begging you, please - whatever’s happened, it isn’t worth this . . .’

Volyova shrugged, and addressed herself to Hegazi. ‘You may as well remove it, Triumvir, before it gets too messy. I’m sure you have the means.’

Hegazi held one of his own steel hands up for inspection, as if having to reassure himself that they were no longer flesh.

‘Now!’ Sajaki shrieked. ‘Get it off me!’

Hegazi positioned his seat next to the other Triumvir and set to work. It was a process which seemed to cause Sajaki fractionally more pain than the constriction itself.

Sylveste said nothing.

Hegazi worked the bracelet free; his metal hands were lathered with human blood by the time he was done. What remained of the bracelet fell from his fingers, dropping to the floor twenty metres below.

Sajaki, who had not stopped moaning, looked with revulsion at the damage that had been wrought to his wrist. His hand was still attached, but the bones and tendons were hideously exposed, blood pulsing out in red gouts, cascading in a thin scarlet rope to the distant floor. Trying to stifle the loss, he pressed the agonised limb against his belly. Finally he ceased to make any sound, and after long moments, his blanched face turned to Volyova and spoke.

‘You’ll pay for this,’ he said. ‘I swear it.’

Which was when Khouri entered the bridge and began shooting.

Of course, she had always had a plan in mind, even if it was not a very detailed one. And when Khouri had taken her first step into the chamber, and seen the cataract of what was obviously blood, she had not taken the time to run her plan through a set of elaborate last-minute revisions. Instead, she had decided to start shooting the ceiling, until she had everyone’s attention.

It had not taken very long.

Her weapon of choice was the plasma rifle, set to its lowest possible yield, with the rapid-fire mode disengaged so that she had to squeeze the trigger for each pulse. The first one bit a metre-wide crater into the ceiling, causing the cladding to rain down in jagged, heat-scorched shards. Wary of blasting right through, she directed her next pulse a little to the left, and then a little to the right. One of the shards crashed onto the glowing sphere of the holo-display, and for an eyeblink the sphere flickered and warped, before resuming stability. Then - because she had rather comprehensively announced her presence - she powered down the gun and slung it back over her shoulder. Volyova, who had obviously anticipated her next move, jetted her seat down towards Khouri, and when they were barely five metres apart, Khouri threw her one of the lightweight guns; the needle-projectors she had found on the warchive’s wall. ‘Take this for Pascale,’ she said, throwing the low-yield beamer after it. Volyova caught both weapons expertly and quickly passed Pascale her own.

Khouri, who had by now assimilated the situation, observed that the rain of blood - which had now ceased - had originated from Sajaki. He looked in a bad way, cradling one arm as if it was broken or as if he had taken a hit.

‘Ilia,’ Khouri said, ‘you started all the fun without me. I’m disappointed.’

‘Events rather demanded it,’ Volyova said.

Khouri looked at the display, trying to figure out what had happened beyond the ship. ‘Did the weps fire?’

‘No; I never gave the order.’

‘And now she she can’t,’ Sylveste said. ‘Because Hegazi just destroyed her bracelet.’

‘Does that mean he’s on our side?’

‘No,’ Volyova said. ‘It just means he can’t stand the sight of blood. Especially when it’s Sajaki’s.’

‘He needs help,’ Pascale said. ‘For God’s sake, you can’t just let him bleed to death.’

‘He won’t,’ Volyova said. ‘He’s chimeric, like Hegazi - just not so obviously. Already the medichines in his blood will be initiating cellular repair at a vastly accelerated rate. Even if the bracelet had taken his hand off, he’d have grown another one. Isn’t that right, Sajaki?’

He looked at her with a face so drained of strength that it looked as if he’d have trouble growing a new fingernail, let alone a new hand. But eventually he nodded.

‘Someone should still help me to the infirmary - there’s nothing magical about my medichines; they have their limitations. And my pain receptors are alive and well, trust me.’

‘He’s right,’ Hegazi said. ‘You shouldn’t overestimate the capabilities of his ’chines. Do you want him dead or not? You’d better decide now. I can help him to the infirmary.’

‘And stop off for a browse at the warchive on the way?’ Volyova shook her head. ‘Thanks, but no thanks.’

‘Then me,’ Sylveste said. ‘I’ll take him. You trust me that far, don’t you?’

‘I trust you about as far as I could piss you, svinoi,’ Volyova said. ‘But on the other hand, you wouldn’t know what to do at the warchive even if you got there. And Sajaki isn’t in a fit state to give you any particularly cogent suggestions.’

‘Is that a yes?’

‘Be quick about it, Dan.’ Volyova emphasised the point with a stab of the needler, her finger tense on the trigger. ‘If you aren’t back here in ten minutes I’m sending Khouri after you.’

In a minute the two men had left, Sajaki slumped on Sylveste, barely capable of walking without support from the other man. Khouri wondered if Sajaki would still be conscious by the time he was brought to the infirmary, and found that she did not particularly care.

‘About the warchive,’ she said. ‘I don’t think you have to worry too much about anyone else using it. I shot the fucking place to bits as soon as I had what I wanted.’

Volyova mulled on that and then nodded appreciatively.

‘That was sound tactical thinking, Khouri.’

‘Tactics didn’t come into it. It was that persona running the place. I just decided to open up and torch the bastard.’

Pascale said, ‘Does this mean we’ve won? I mean, have we actually achieved what we set out to do?’

‘Guess so,’ Khouri said. ‘Sajaki’s out of the picture, and I don’t think our friend Hegazi is going to make too much trouble for himself. And it doesn’t look like your husband is going to keep his word about killing us all if he doesn’t get what he wants.’

‘How very disappointing,’ Hegazi said.

‘I told you,’ Pascale said. ‘He was always bluffing. That’s it, then? We can still call off those weapons, can’t we?’ She was looking at Volyova, who nodded instantly.

‘Of course.’ And then she reached in her jacket and snapped a new bracelet around her wrist, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. ‘You think I’d be so foolish as not to carry a spare with me?’

‘Not you, Ilia,’ Khouri said.

She raised the bracelet to her mouth and spoke into it; a mantralike sequence of commands designed to bypass various levels of security. Finally, when everyone’s attention was on the armillary, she said, ‘All cache-weapons return to ship; repeat, all cache-weapons return to ship.’

But nothing happened; not even when enough seconds had elapsed for the expected light-travel timelag. Nothing, that is, except that the icons representing the cache-weapons changed from black to red, and began to flash with evil regularity.

‘Ilia,’ Khouri said. ‘What does that actually mean?’

‘It means they’re arming up and preparing to fire,’ she said, very evenly, as if barely surprised. ‘It means that something very bad is about to happen.’

TWENTY-EIGHT

Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

She had lost control again.

Volyova watched helplessly as the cache-weapons opened fire on Cerberus. The beam weapons found their mark first, of course, and the first indication that returned was a spark of blue-white light, winking open against the arid grey backdrop of the world, in the precise spot where, shortly, the bridgehead would reach the surface. The relativistic projectile weapons were only slightly tardier, and reports of their success followed a few seconds later; spectacular stuttering pulses as the projectiles rained home, slugs of neutronium and antimatter slamming into the world. All the while, she kept barking the disarming commands into the bracelet, but with steadily draining hope that she could have any influence over the weapons. For one foolish instant she had assumed that the replacement bracelet was faulty, but of course that could not be why the weapons were now behaving autonomously. They had fired for a purpose; just as they had disregarded her order to return to the bowels of the ship.

Because someone - or something - now had control.

‘What’s happening?’ Pascale asked, in the tones of someone who did not honestly expect a comprehensible answer.

‘It must be Sun Stealer,’ Volyova said, finally giving up on the bracelet, relinquishing all hope of the weapons returning to her steerage. ‘Because it can’t possibly be Khouri’s Mademoiselle. Even if she were still capable of influencing the cache, she’d be doing everything in her power to prevent this.’

‘Part of him must have stayed behind in the gunnery,’ Khouri said. She seemed to regret that, because she went quiet very abruptly, before adding, ‘I mean, we always knew he could control the gunnery - that was why he resisted the Mademoiselle when she wanted to kill Sylveste with the other weapon.’

‘But with this precision?’ Volyova shook her head. ‘Not all my commands to the cache-weapons are routed through the gunnery; I knew that was too big a risk to take.’

‘And you’re saying even those aren’t working?’

‘So it would appear.’

The display now showed that the weapons had ceased their attack, depleted of energy and munitions, drifting into useless orbits around Hades, where they would remain for millions of years, until swept by random gravitational perturbations into trajectories which would smash them into Cerberus or fling them out towards the Trojan points, where they would endure even the red-giant death of Delta Pavonis. Volyova extracted a residual grain of comfort in knowing that the weapons could not be used again; could not be turned against her. But it was far too late for such succour. The damage against Cerberus had already been done, and there would now be very little to hinder the bridgehead when it arrived. She could already see the evidence of their attack on the display, plumes of pulverised regolith fanning into space around the impact point.

Sylveste arrived at the ship’s medical centre, Sajaki increasingly heavy against his shoulders. The man seemed to weigh far too much for his lean frame. Sylveste wondered if it was because of the sheer mass of machines streaming through his blood; waiting dormant in every cell, biding their time until a crisis such as this stirred them to life. Sajaki was hot too; feverishly so - perhaps evidence that the medichines had gone into an emergency breeding frenzy, building up their forces to deal with the situation, conscripting molecules from the man’s ‘normal’ tissue until the hazard was averted. When Sylveste glanced reluctantly at the Triumvir’s ruined wrist, he saw that the blood had stopped flowing, and the dreadful circumferential wound was now enveloped in a membranous caul. A faint amber luminosity shone through the tissue.

Servitors emerged from the centre as he approached, taking the burden from him, lifting Sajaki to a couch. The machines fussed over him for a few minutes, swanlike monitors angling over the bed; various neural monitors settled gently over his scalp. They did not seem overly concerned by the wound. Perhaps the medical systems were already communicating with his medichines, and there was no need for further intervention at this stage. He was still conscious, Sylveste observed, despite his weakness.

‘You should never have trusted Volyova,’ he said angrily. ‘Now everything’s ruined because she had too much power. That was a fatal mistake, Sajaki.’

His voice was barely there. ‘Of course we trusted her. She was one of us, you fool! Part of the Triumvirate!’ Then he added, in a croak, ‘What is it you know about Khouri?’

‘She was an infiltrator,’ Sylveste said. ‘Put aboard this ship to find me and kill me.’

Sajaki reacted to this as if it were only mildly diverting. ‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all I believed. I don’t know who sent her, or why - but she had some absurd justification, which Volyova and my wife seem to have taken as the literal truth.’

‘It isn’t over yet,’ Sajaki said, his eyes wide, rimmed in yellow.

‘What do you mean, it isn’t over?’

‘I just know,’ Sajaki said, and then closed his eyes, relaxing back into the couch. ‘Nothing is finished.’

‘He’s going to survive,’ Sylveste said, entering the bridge, obviously unaware of what had just taken place.

He looked around him, and Volyova could imagine his confusion. Superficially, nothing had changed in the time it had taken him to escort Sajaki to the infirmary - the same people holding the same guns, but the mood had undergone a dire transition. Hegazi, for instance, despite being on the wrong end of Khouri’s needler, did not wear the expression of a man on the defeated side. Neither, however, did he look particularly jubilant.

It’s out of all our hands now, Volyova thought, and Hegazi knows it.

‘Something went wrong, didn’t it?’ Sylveste said, who had by then taken in the view of Cerberus on the display, with its ruptured crust bleeding into space. ‘Your weapons actually opened fire, just as we wanted.’

‘Sorry,’ Volyova said, shaking her head. ‘It was none of my doing.’

‘You’d better listen to her,’ Pascale said. ‘Whatever’s going on here, we don’t want any part of it. It’s bigger than us, Dan. Bigger than you, anyway - hard as that may be to believe.’

He looked scornful. ‘Haven’t you realised yet? This is exactly how Volyova wanted it to happen.’

‘You’re mad,’ Volyova said.

‘Now you get your chance,’ Sylveste said. ‘You get to see your planet-penetrator in action, while at the same time salving your conscience with this conveniently unsuccessful display of eleventh-hour caution.’ He clapped his hands twice. ‘No; honestly - I’m genuinely impressed.’

‘You’ll be genuinely dead,’ Volyova said.

But while she hated him for saying what he had said, there was part of her which refused easy denial. She would have done anything in her power to stop the weapons from completing their mission - hell; she had done everything in her power, and none of it had worked. Even if she had not given the order to release them from the ship, Sun Stealer would surely have found a way; she was sure of that. But now that the attack had taken place, a kind of fatalistic curiosity had settled over her. The bridgehead’s arrival would proceed as planned, unless she could find a way of stopping it, and thus far she had tried everything she knew. And therefore, because there was no way of preventing it from happening, a detached part of her was beginning to look forward to the event, tantalised not just by what would be learnt, but how well her child would endure its trials. Whatever happened, she knew - no matter how fearful the consequences might be - it could not help but be the most fascinating thing she had ever witnessed. And perhaps the most terrible.

There was nothing to do now except wait.

The hours passed neither swiftly nor slowly, because this was an event she was dreading as much as longing for. One thousand kilometres above Cerberus, the bridgehead commenced its final braking phase. The brilliance of the two Conjoiner drives was like a pair of miniature suns flaring into ignition above Cerberus, shocking the landscape into stark clarity, craters and ravines assuming enormously exaggerated prominence. For a moment, under that merciless glare, the world really did look artefactual; as if its makers had striven too hard to make Cerberus look weathered by aeons of bombardment.

On her bracelet now she was seeing images recorded from the downlooking cameras studded around the bridgehead’s flanks. There were rings of cameras every hundred metres along the length of the four-kilometre cone, so that, no matter how deeply it penetrated, some cameras would always be above and below the crustal layer. She was looking through that crust now; through the still unhealed wound which had been opened by the cache.

Sylveste had not been lying.

There were things down there. Huge and organic and tubular, like a nest of snakes. The heat of the cache attack had dissipated now, and although greyish clouds were still smoking from the hole, Volyova suspected they were more to do with incinerated machinery than boiled crustal matter. None of the snakelike tubes were moving, and their segmented silvery sides were marred by black smears and hundred-metre-wide gashes, through which a whole intestinal mass of smaller snakes had exploded.

Volyova had hurt Cerberus.

She did not know if it was a mortal wound, or just a graze which would heal in days, but she had hurt it, and the realisation of that made her shiver. She had hurt something alien.

Soon, however, the alien thing retaliated.

She jumped when it happened, even though - intellectually, if not emotionally - she had been expecting it. It happened when the bridgehead was two kilometres from the surface - half its own length away.

The event itself was almost too swift to absorb. Between one moment and the next the crust changed with startling swiftness. A series of grey dimples had formed, ringed concentrically around the kilometre-wide wound, blistering like stone pustules. Almost as soon as Volyova noticed their existence, they ruptured, unleashing twinkling spore, silver glints which swarmed towards the bridgehead like fireflies. She had no idea what they were, whether they were chips of naked antimatter, tiny warheads, viral capsules or miniature gun batteries, except that they intended harm to her creation.

‘Now,’ she whispered. ‘Now . . .’

She was not disappointed. Perhaps, on some level, it would have been better if her weapon had been destroyed in that moment - but then she would have been denied the thrill of seeing it react, and react with all the efficacy she had intended. The armaments in the bridgehead’s circular rim erupted into life, tracking, lasering and bosering each of the glints before many of them had touched the conic weapon’s hyperdiamond carapace.

The bridgehead accelerated now, covering the final two kilometres in a third of a minute, the crust around the wound constantly blistering and releasing glitter, the bridgehead parrying the strikes. There were craters in the weapon’s hull now, where a few of the glitter-spore had impacted with brief pink radiance, but the bridgehead’s operational integrity remained uncompromised. The needle-sharp tip pushed below the level of the crust, accurately positioned in the middle of the wound.

Seconds passed, and then the widening haft of the weapon began to brush against its ragged periphery. The ground began to rupture, fracture lines racing away. The blisters were still sprouting, but now at a greater radial distance from the wound, as if the underlying mechanisms were damaged or depleted within that circumference. The bridgehead was now hundreds of metres into Cerberus, shockwaves radiating out from the entry point and haring up the weapon’s length. The piezoelectric crystal buffers which Volyova had integrated into the hyperdiamond would damp those shocks, converting their energy into heat which would then be channelled into the defensive armaments.

‘Tell me we’re winning,’ Sylveste said. ‘For God’s sake, tell me we’re winning!’

She speed-read the detailed status summaries spilling onto her bracelet. For a moment there was no antagonism between them; only a shared curiosity. ‘We’re coping,’ she said. ‘. . . Weapon is now one kilometre in; maintaining steady descent rate at one kilometre every ninety seconds. Thrust level increasing to maximum; that must mean it’s encountering mechanical resistance . . .’

‘What is it passing through?’

‘Can’t tell,’ she said. ‘Alicia’s data said the fake crust was no more than half a kilometre deep, but there are few sensors in the weapon’s skin - they would have increased its vulnerability to cybernetic attack modes.’

What showed on the armillary, relayed from the ship’s cameras, was a piece of abstract sculpture: a cone sliced off midway and positioned with its narrowest end resting on a scabrous grey surface. Anguished patterns were playing over the surrounding terrain, blisters spewing spore in random directions, as if their underlying targeting had gone awry. The weapon was slowing now, and though the scene was playing in absolute silence, Volyova could imagine the awful grinding friction; what it would have sounded like, had there been air to carry the sound and ears to be deafened by that titanic scraping roar. Now, her bracelet told her, the pressure on the tip had fallen drastically, as if the weapon had finally punctured all the way through the crust, and was now probing into the relative hollowness beneath: the domain of the snakes.

Slowing.

Skull-and-crossbones symbols danced on her bracelet, signifying the commencement of molecular weapon attack against the bridgehead. Volyova had expected as much. Already, antibodies would be oozing through the carapace, meeting and matching the alien attackers.

Slowing . . . and now stopping.

This was as deep as they were going to get. One and one-third of a kilometre of the cone still projected above the cracked surface of Cerberus; what it looked like was some kind of top-heavy cylindrical fortification. The rim armaments were still lancing away at the crustal countermeasures, but now the spore discharges were coming from tens of kilometres away, and it was clear that no immediate threat was posed, unless the crust was capable of improbably rapid regeneration.

The bridgehead would now commence anchoring itself, consolidating its gains, analysing the forms of the molecular weapons being used against it, devising subtly matched reverse strategies.

It had not let Volyova down.

She pivoted her couch round to face the others, noticing - for the first time in ages - that her fist was still locked around a needle-gun.

‘We’re in,’ she said.

It looked like a biology lesson for gods, or a snapshot of the kind of pornography which might be enjoyed by sentient planets.

In the hours immediately after the weapon’s anchoring, Khouri stayed in close consultation with Volyova, reviewing the constantly changing status of the sluggishly fought battle. The geometric forms of the two protagonists reminded her of a conic virus dwarfed by the much larger spherical cell which it was in the business of corrupting. Yet she had to keep reminding herself that even that insignificant cone was the size of a mountain; that the cell was a world.

Nothing very much seemed to be happening now, but that was only because the conflict was being waged primarily on the molecular level, across an invisible, near-fractal front which extended for tens of square kilometres. At first, and without success, Cerberus had tried to repel the invader with highly entropic weapons; trying to degrade the enemy into megatonnes of atomic ash. Now its strategy had evolved towards one of digestion. It was still trying to dismantle the enemy atom by atom, but systematically, like a child deconstructing a complex toy rather than smashing it to pieces, diligently placing each component into its assigned compartment so that it could be used again in the future, in some as yet undreamt-of project. There was logic to this, after all; a few cubic kilometres of the world had been annihilated by the cache-weapons, and Volyova’s device presumably consisted of matter in much the same elemental and isotopic ratios as that which had been destroyed. The enemy was a huge potential reservoir of repair material, obviating the need for Cerberus to consume its own finite resources in the process. And perhaps it always sought motherlodes like this, to repair the inevitable damage wrought by millennia of meteorite strikes and the constant ablative toll of cosmic ray bombardment. Perhaps it had seized Sylveste’s first probe more because it was hungry than out of a misguided sense that it was preserving its own secrecy; as much acting out of blind stimulus as a Venus flytrap, with no thought for the future.

But Volyova’s weapon was not designed to be digested without putting up a struggle.

‘See, Cerberus is learning from us,’ she said from her bridge seat, graphing up schematics of the several dozen different components in the molecular arsenal which the world was now deploying against her weapon. What she was showing looked like a page from an entomology textbook: an array of metallic, differently specialised bugs. Some of them were disassemblers: the front line of the Amarantin defence system. These would physically attack the surface of the bridgehead, dislodging atoms and molecules with their manipulators, tugging apart chemical bonds. They would also engage in hand-to-hand combat with Volyova’s own front-line forces. What matter they succeeded in wresting free they passed back to fatter bugs, behind the immediate battle-front. Like tireless clerks, these units endlessly categorised and sorted the chunks of matter they received. If it was structurally simple, like a single undifferentiated chunk of iron or carbon, they tagged it for recycling and passed it to other even fatter factory bugs which were manufacturing more bugs according to their internal templates. And if the chunks of matter had been organised so that within them was true structure, they were not passed for immediate recycling, but were instead passed to other bugs which dismantled the chunks and tried to figure out if they embodied any useful principles. If so, the principles would be learnt, tailored and passed to the factory bugs. That way, the next generation of bugs would be fractionally more advanced than the last. ‘Learning from us,’ Volyova said again, as if she found the prospect as glorious as it was disturbing. ‘Unpicking our countermeasures and incorporating their design philosophies into its own forces.’

‘You don’t have to sound so cheerful about it.’ Khouri was eating a ship-grown apple.

‘But why not? It’s an elegant system. I can learn from it, of course, but it isn’t the same thing. What’s happening down there is methodical, endless - and there isn’t the tiniest grain of sentience behind any of it.’

She said it with genuine awe.

‘Yes, very impressive,’ Khouri said. ‘Blind replication - nothing smart about it, but because it’s happening simultaneously in a billion-odd places, they win over us by sheer weight of numbers. Isn’t that what’s going to happen? You’re going to sit here and think like hell, and it won’t make a bit of difference to the outcome. Sooner or later they’ll learn every trick you have.’

‘But not just yet.’ Volyova cocked her head towards the schematic. ‘You think I’d have been stupid enough to hit them with the most advanced countermeasures we have? You never do that in war, Khouri. You never expend any more energy - or intelligence - against an enemy than is absolutely appropriate to the situation at hand, just as you never play your best card first in a poker game. You wait, until the stakes justify it.’ And then she explained how the current countermeasures being deployed by her weapon were really very old, and not especially sophisticated. She had adapted them from ancient entries in the holographically distributed database of the warchive. ‘About three hundred years behind the current day,’ she said.

‘But Cerberus is catching up.’

‘Correct, but that rate of technical gain is actually rather stable - probably because of the thoughtless way in which our secrets are being used. There are no intuitive jumps possible, so the Amarantin systems evolve linearly. It’s like someone trying to crack a code by sheer brute-force computation. And because of that, I know rather precisely how long it will take for them to overtake our current level. At the moment they’re catching up by about a decade for every three or four hours of shiptime. Which gives us slightly less than a week before things get interesting.’

‘And this isn’t?’ Khouri shook her head, feeling - not for the first time - that there were many things she did not understand about Volyova. ‘Just how do these escalations take place? Does your weapon carry a copy of the warchive?’

‘No; too dangerous.’

‘Right; it’d be like sending a soldier behind enemy lines with every secret you’ve got. How do you do it? Transmit the secrets down to the weapon only when they’re needed? Isn’t that just as risky?’

‘That’s how it happens, but it’s much safer than you think. The transmissions are encrypted using a one-time pad; a randomly generated string of digits which specifies the change to be made to each bit in the raw signal; whether you add a zero or a one to it. After you’ve encrypted the signal with the pad, there’s no way the enemy can recover the meaning without their own copy of the pad. The weapon needs one, of course - but the copy it carries is stored deep inside, beyond tens of metres of solid diamond, with hyper-secure optical links to the assembler control systems. Only if the weapon were under major attack would there be any risk of the pad being captured - and in that case, I’d simply refrain from transmitting anything.’

Khouri finished the apple down to the seedless core. ‘So there is a way,’ she said, after thinking for a moment.

‘A way to what?’

‘To end all this. We want to do that, don’t we?’

‘You don’t think the damage has already been done?’

‘We can’t know for sure, but supposing it hasn’t? After all, what we’ve seen so far is just a layer of camouflage, and below that a layer of defences designed to protect the camouflage. It’s amazing, yes - and the mere fact that it’s an alien technology means we could probably learn from it - but we still don’t know what it’s hiding.’ She thumped her chair in emphasis, gratified to see Volyova react with a small shiver. ‘It’s something we haven’t reached yet; haven’t even glimpsed - and we won’t, until Sylveste actually goes down there.’

‘We’ll stop him from leaving.’ Volyova patted the needler which was tucked into her belt. ‘We control things now.’

‘And take the risk that he’ll kill us all by triggering the thing in his eyes?’

‘Pascale said it was a bluff.’

‘Yeah, and I’m sure she believes it.’ Khouri didn’t need to say any more; it was obvious from the slow way she nodded that Volyova understood. ‘There’s a better way,’ she continued. ‘Let Sylveste leave if he wants, but we’ll make damn sure he doesn’t have an easy time getting inside.’

‘By which you mean . . .’

‘I’ll say it, even if you won’t. We have to let it die, Volyova. We have to let Cerberus win.’

TWENTY-NINE

Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

‘All we know,’ Sylveste said, ‘is that Volyova’s weapon has reached below the outer skin of the planet; perhaps into the level occupied by the machines I saw in my first exploration.’

It was fifteen hours since the bridgehead had anchored itself, during which time Volyova had done nothing, refusing to send in the first of her mechanical spies until now.

‘It seems that those machines are dedicated to maintaining the crust; keeping it repaired when it is punctured, maintaining the illusion of realism, and amassing raw material when it comes by. They’re also the first line of defence.’

‘But what lies below?’ Pascale said. ‘We didn’t get a clear look the night you were attacked, and I don’t think they’re simply resting on bedrock; that there’s a real rocky planet below this mechanised façade.’

‘We’ll know soon enough,’ Volyova said, tight-lipped.

Her spies were laughable in their simplicity; cruder even than the robots which Sylveste and Calvin had used in their initial work on the Captain. It was all part of her philosophy of not letting Cerberus see any technology more sophisticated than was absolutely necessary for the task at hand. The drones were capable of being manufactured in vast numbers by the bridgehead, a profligacy which would outweigh their general lack of intelligence. Each was the size of a fist, equipped with just enough limbs for independent locomotion; just enough eyes to justify its existence in the first place. They had no brains; not even simple networks with a few thousand neurons; not even brains which would have made the average insect seem precociously cranial. Instead, they had little spinnerettes which extruded sheathed optical fibre. The drones were operated by her weapon; all commands and everything they saw routed back and forth through that cable, with quantum privacy guaranteed.

‘I think we’ll find another layer of automation,’ Sylveste said. ‘Perhaps another layer of defences. But there has to be something worth protecting.’

‘Does there?’ asked Khouri, who had kept her vicious-looking plasma-rifle pointing at him since this meeting had convened. ‘Aren’t you guilty of a few unwarranted assumptions? You keep talking as if there’s something valuable in there we aren’t meant to get our greasy fingers all over, and that’s all that the camouflage is there for; to keep us monkeys out. But what if it’s not like that at all? What if there’s something bad in there?’

Pascale said, ‘She could be right.’

Sylveste contemplated the gun.

‘You shouldn’t patronise yourself into imagining there’s any possibility I haven’t already considered,’ he said, scarcely caring whether it was Khouri or his wife who thought they were being addressed.

‘I wouldn’t dream of it,’ Khouri said.

Ninety minutes after the first spy had unwound its cable and dropped from the opening into the sub-crustal chamber, Sylveste had his first view of what awaited him. At first, he had no idea what it was he was seeing. The giant snakelike forms - damaged and, for all he knew, dead - towered over the drones like the limbs of fallen gods, tangled and haphazard. There was no guessing at the multitude of functions which these vast machines served, although the welfare of the overlying crust seemed likely to be paramount, and it was probably within them that the molecular weapons were first stirred to activity, before being released to attack newcomers. The crust itself was a machine of sorts, of course, but it was a machine constrained by the limitation of resembling a planet. The snakes had no such constraints.

It was less dark than he had been expecting, even though no light was straying through the wound now, which was plugged tight by the intruding weapon. Instead, the snakes themselves seemed to radiate a silvery glow, like the entrails of some phosphorescent deep-sea creature, radiant with bioluminous bacteria. It was impossible to guess at the function of this light; if there even was one. Perhaps it was an unavoidable byproduct of Amarantin nanotechnics. One could see for tens of kilometres, in any case - to the point where the ceiling of the overlying crust curved down to meet the horizon of the floor on which the snakes were coiled. Things with the gnarled, rooty shape of tree-trunks supported the roof at irregular intervals. It was like gazing into the moonlit depths of an arboreal forest; unable to glimpse the sky and barely able to glimpse the ground, so thick was the undergrowth. The roots of the trunks tangled and retangled with each other, until they formed a matrix of interlocked roots; graphite-coloured. That was the floor.

‘I wonder what we’ll find below,’ Sylveste said.

Volyova considered infanticide. There was no escaping it: by denying the bridgehead the information it needed to keep evolving counteragents to the machinery being deployed by Cerberus, she was consigning it to a slow death. Without the necessary updates from the ship, the molecular weapon templates in the bridgehead’s core could not be revised. They would remain frozen; capable only of generating spore which were more than two centuries out of date, incapable of parrying the relentless moronic march of progress exhibited by the alien defences. Her wonderful and brutal creation would be digested down to its last usable atom; spread thinly throughout the crustal matrix, where its remains would serve another function entirely, for uncountable millions of years.

Yet it had to be done.

Khouri was right: sabotaging the bridgehead was the only line of influence now remaining. They could not even destroy the weapon, since the cache was under Sun Stealer’s jurisdiction. He would prevent any attempt at that. So what remained was to kill the weapon by slow starvation of knowledge.

Crueller by far.

Although none of the others could see it, her bracelet display was pulsing with the bridgehead’s repeated requests for additional data. The weapon had noticed the omission an hour ago, when the scheduled update hadn’t arrived. The first query had been merely technical; a check to see that the communication beam was still online. Later, the weapon had become more urgent; adopting tones of polite insistence. Now it was getting far less diplomatic, throwing the machine equivalent of a tantrum.

It was not yet harmed, since the Cerberus systems had not exceeded its own retaliatory capabilities, but it was getting very agitated, even informing her of how many minutes it had left based on current escalation rates. There were not many. In rather less than two hours Cerberus would match it, and thereafter its fate would simply be a question of the sizes of the opposed forces. Cerberus would win, with absolute mathematical certainty.

Die quickly, Volyova thought.

But even as the plea ran through her mind, something impossible happened.

What little composure Volyova possessed dropped suddenly from her face.

‘What’s wrong?’ said Khouri. ‘You look like you’ve seen—’

‘I have,’ she said. ‘A ghost, I mean. He’s called Sun Stealer.’

‘What’s happened?’ Sylveste asked.

She looked up from the bracelet, jaw slack. ‘He’s just reinstated the transmissions to the bridgehead.’ Her gaze snapped back to her bracelet, as if hoping that whatever she had just seen there had been a mirage. But it was obvious from her expression that whatever inauspicious portent she had read was still there to be divined.

‘What was it that had to be reinstated in the first place?’ Sylveste asked. ‘I’d rather you told me.’

Khouri tightened her grip on the warm leather-cladding of the plasma-rifle. She had been uncomfortable with the situation before, but now she was riding a knife-edge of constant terror.

‘The weapon lacks the protocols for recognising its own obsolescence, ’ she said, and then seemed to shiver, as if shaking off possession. ‘No . . . what I mean is . . . there are things the weapon can’t be allowed to know, except when it needs to know them—’ She paused, glancing anxiously around at her crewmates, unsure that she was making any sense. ‘It can’t be allowed to know how to evolve its own defences before the moment when that evolution has to be expedited; the timing of the upgrades is crucial—’

‘You were trying to starve it,’ Sylveste said. Hegazi, next to him, said nothing, but acknowledged his remark with a barely perceptible nod, like a despot casting judgement.

‘No, I . . .’

‘Don’t apologise,’ he said, with great insistence. ‘If I wanted what you want - to sabotage this whole operation - I’m sure I’d have done something similar. Your timing was impeccable, as well - you waited until you’d had the satisfaction of seeing it work; the satisfaction of knowing that your toy functioned.’

‘You prick,’ Khouri said, spitting in the process. ‘You narrow-minded, egotistical prick.’

‘Congratulations,’ Sylveste said. ‘Now you can progress to words with six syllables. But in the meantime would you mind pointing that unpleasant piece of hardware somewhere other than my face?’

‘With pleasure,’ she said, not allowing the rifle to waver. ‘I’ve got just the anatomical region in mind.’

Hegazi turned to the other member of the Triumvirate present. ‘Would you mind explaining what’s going on?’

‘Sun Stealer must have control of the ship’s communications systems,’ Volyova said. ‘That’s the only possibility; the only way my command to stop the transmissions could have been rescinded. ’

But even as she was speaking she was shaking her head.

‘Which isn’t possible. We know he’s confined to the gunnery, and there’s no physical link between the gunnery and comms.’

‘There must be now,’ Khouri said.

‘But if there is . . .’ The whites of her eyes were showing now; bright crescents against the gloom of the bridge. ‘There are no logical barriers between comms and the rest of the ship. If Sun Stealer really has got that far, there isn’t anything he can’t touch.’

It was a long time before anyone spoke; as if everyone - even Sylveste - needed time to adjust to the gravity of the situation. Khouri tried to read him, but there was no way to tell how much of this he accepted, even now. She still suspected that he viewed everything as a paranoiac fantasy that she had woven from her own subconscious; one that had somehow infected both Volyova and, latterly, Pascale.

Perhaps a part of him was still refusing to believe, despite all the evidence.

What evidence, though? Apart from the reinstated signal - and all that it implied - there was nothing to suggest that Sun Stealer had reached beyond the gunnery. But if he had . . .

‘You,’ Volyova said, breaking the silence. She was pointing her gun at Hegazi. ‘You, svinoi. You had to have a part in this, didn’t you? Sajaki’s out of the frame, and Sylveste doesn’t have the expertise - so it had to be you.’

‘I’m not sure what you’re talking about.’

‘Helping Sun Stealer. You did it, didn’t you?’

‘Get a grip, Triumvir.’

Khouri wondered in which direction she should be pointing the plasma-rifle. Sylveste looked as shaken as Hegazi; as surprised at Volyova’s sudden line of enquiry.

‘Listen,’ Khouri said. ‘Just because he’s had his tongue up Sajaki’s arse ever since I came aboard, it doesn’t mean he’d do anything that stupid.’

‘Thanks,’ Hegazi said. ‘I think.’

‘You’re not off the hook,’ Volyova said. ‘Not by a long mark. Khouri’s right; doing what you did would have been an act of gross stupidity. But that hardly disqualifies you from having done it. You had enough expertise to do it. And you’re chimeric as well - maybe Sun Stealer’s in you too. In which case I’m afraid it’s just too dangerous to have you around.’

She nodded at Khouri. ‘Khouri; take him down to one of the airlocks.’

‘You’re going to kill me,’ Hegazi said, as she prodded him along the flooded corridor with the barrel of the plasma-rifle, watching janitor-rats scatter ahead of them. ‘That’s what you’re going to do, isn’t it? You’re going to space me.’

‘She just wants you somewhere where you can’t do any harm,’ Khouri said, not especially in the mood for a protracted conversation with her prisoner.

‘Whatever it was she thinks, I didn’t do it. Sorry to admit it, but I haven’t got the expertise. Does that satisfy you?’

Now he was annoying her, but she sensed that he would only shut up if she talked back to him.

‘I’m not sure you did do it,’ she said. ‘After all, you’d have had to make the arrangements before you had any idea that Volyova was going to sabotage her weapon. You can’t have done it since; you’ve been on the bridge the whole time.’

They had reached the nearest airlock. It was a small unit, just large enough to take a suited human. Like virtually everything else in this part of the ship, the controls on the door were caked in grime and corrosion and odd fungal growth. Yet it still functioned, miraculously.

‘So why are you doing this?’ Hegazi asked, as the door hummed open and she poked him into the cramped, sullenly lit interior. ‘If you don’t think I was capable of doing it?’

‘It’s because I don’t like you,’ she said, and closed the door on him.

THIRTY

Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

When they were at last alone in their quarters, Pascale said, ‘You can’t go through with this, Dan. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

He was tired; they all were, but with his mind racing, the last thing he felt like now was sleep. Still, if the bridgehead survived long enough for his entry into Cerberus to proceed as planned, now might be the last opportunity he had for proper sleep for tens of hours; perhaps even days. He would need to be functioning as keenly as he ever had in his life when he descended beneath the alien world. Yet now, obviously, Pascale was going to do her best to talk him out of it.

‘It’s far too late now,’ he said, wearily. ‘We’ve already announced ourselves; done harm to Cerberus. The world knows of our presence; already knows something of our nature. My entering it won’t make much difference now, except that I’ll learn much more than Volyova’s clunking spy robots will ever tell me.’

‘You can’t know what’s waiting for you down there, Dan.’

‘Yes, I can. An answer to what happened to the Amarantin. Can’t you see that humanity needs to have that information?’

He could see that she did, if only on some theoretical level. But she said, ‘What if it was the same kind of curiosity you’re showing now that brought extinction upon them? You saw what happened to the Lorean.’

Once again he thought of Alicia, dying in that attack. What exactly was it that had made him so unwilling to spare the time that would have been needed to recover her body from the wreck? Even now, the way he had ordered that she go down with the bridgehead struck him as chillingly impersonal, as if - for a fleeting instant - it had not been him giving that order; not even Calvin, but something hiding behind both of them. The thought made him flinch, so he crushed it beneath conscious concern, the way one crushed an insect.

‘Then we’ll know, won’t we?’ he said. ‘Finally, we’ll know. And even if it kills us, someone else will know what happened - someone on Resurgam, or even in another system. You have to understand, Pascale, that I think it’s worth that kind of risk.’

‘There’s more to it than just curiosity, isn’t there?’ She looked at him, obviously expecting some kind of answer. He just looked back at her, knowing how intimidating the lack of focus of his gaze could be, until she continued speaking. ‘Khouri was put aboard to kill you. She even admitted as much. Volyova said she was sent here by someone who might have been Carine Lefevre.’

‘That’s not only impossible, it’s insulting.’

‘But it still might be the truth. And there might be more to it than just a personal vendetta, too. Maybe Lefevre did die, after all, but something assumed her shape, inherited her body, or whatever - something that knows the danger you’re playing with. Can’t you at least accept that as a remote possibility?’

‘Nothing that happened around Lascaille’s Shroud can have any bearing on what happened to the Amarantin.’

‘How can you be so damned sure?’

Angry now, he said, ‘Because I was there! Because I went where Lascaille went, into Revelation Space, and what they’d shown Lascaille, they showed to me.’ He tried to calm his voice, taking both of Pascale’s hands in his own. ‘They were ancient; so alien they made me shiver. They touched my mind. I saw them . . . and they were nothing like the Amarantin.’

For the first time since leaving Resurgam, he thought back to that instant of screaming comprehension, as his damaged contact module had skirted the Shroud. Old as fossils, the Shrouders’ minds had crawled into his; a moment of abyssal knowing. What Lascaille had said was true. They might have been alien in their biology, inspiring a kind of visceral revulsion simply because they were so far from what the human mind considered the right and proper form for sentience, but in the dynamics of their thought, they were a lot closer to people than their shapes would ever have implied. For a moment, the strangeness of that dichotomy troubled him . . . but it could not have been otherwise, for how else could the Pattern Jugglers have wired his mind to think like a Shrouder, if the basic modes of thought were not similar? Then he remembered the festering queasiness of their communion - and a spillage of memory crashing over him, a glimpse of the vastness of Shrouder history. Across millions of years, they had scoured a younger galaxy than the present one, hunting down and collecting the discarded and dangerous playthings of other, even older, civilisations. Now those fabulous things were almost within reach; behind the membrane of the Shroud . . . and he had almost tricked his way inside. And then something else . . .

Something parting, momentarily, like a curtain, or a gap in clouds - something so fleeting, he had almost forgotten it until the present moment. Something revealed to him that should have remained hidden - hidden behind layers of identity. The identity and memories of a long-dead race . . . worn as camouflage . . .

And something else entirely within the Shroud; and another reason entirely for its existence . . .

But the recollection itself seemed elusive, seemed to slip out of mental reach, until he was left again with Pascale, and only the aftertaste of doubt.

‘Promise me you won’t go,’ she said.

‘We’ll talk about it in the morning,’ Sylveste said.

He woke in his quarters, the little sleep he had snatched insufficient to purge fatigue from his blood.

Something had stirred him awake, but for a moment he could not see or hear any disturbance. Then Sylveste noticed that the bedside holo screen was glowing palely, like a mirror turned to moonlight.

He moved to activate the link, taking care not to wake Pascale. Not that there seemed any danger of that; she was sleeping soundly. The discussion they had shared before sleeping seemed to have given her the mental calm she needed for that.

Sajaki’s face appeared on the holo, backdropped by the apparatus of the clinic. ‘Are you alone?’ he asked, softly.

‘My wife is here,’ Sylveste said, whispering. ‘She’s sleeping.’

‘Then I’ll be brief.’ He held up his damaged hand for inspection, revealing how the glistening caul had now filled out, returning his wrist to its normal profile, although the caul still glowed with subcutaneous industry. ‘I am well enough to leave here. But I have no intention of duplicating Hegazi’s current predicament.’

‘Then you’ve got a problem. Volyova and Khouri have all the weapons, and they’ve made sure we won’t get our hands on any more.’ He lowered his voice even further. ‘I don’t think it would take much to persuade her to lock me up as well. My threats against the ship don’t seem to have impressed her.’

‘She’s assuming you’d never go that far.’

‘What if she’s right?’

Sajaki shook his head.

‘None of this matters any more. In a matter of days - five at the most - her weapon will begin to fail. You have that window in which to get inside. And don’t pretend that her little robots will teach you anything.’

‘I know that much already.’

Next to him Pascale stirred.

‘Then accept this proposition,’ Sajaki said. ‘I will lead you inside. The two of us; no one else. We can take two suits, of the same type that brought you here from Resurgam. We don’t even need a ship. We’ll reach Cerberus in less than a day. That gives you two days to get in, a day to look around and then a day to leave the way you came in. By which time of course you will know the route.’

‘What about you?’

‘I accompany you. I told you already how I believe we should proceed with the Captain.’

Sylveste nodded. ‘You think you’ll find something inside Cerberus; something that can heal him.’

‘I have to start somewhere.’

Sylveste looked around. Sajaki’s voice had been like the wind stirring trees, and the room seemed preternaturally still; more like a tableau glimpsed through a magic lantern than anything real. He thought of the fury taking place on Cerberus at that very moment; the fury of clashing machines, even if they were, for the most part, smaller than bacteria; and the din of their conflict inaudible to any human senses. But it was happening and Sajaki was right: they had only days before the numberless machines owing allegiance to Cerberus would begin to erode Volyova’s mighty siege engine. Every second he delayed entering that place was a second less he would have to spend inside it, and a second which would make his eventual return take place that much closer to the end; that much more hazardous, since by then the bridge would be closing. Pascale stirred again, but he sensed that she was still deep in dream. She seemed no more present than the interlocked birds which mosaicked the room’s walls; no more capable of being quickened to wakefulness.

‘It’s all very sudden,’ he said.

‘But you’ve waited for this moment all your life,’ Sajaki said, his voice rising. ‘Don’t tell me you’re not ready to seize it. Don’t tell me you’re scared of what you might find.’

Sylveste knew he had to make a decision before the true alienness of the moment had registered.

‘Where do I meet you?’

‘We’ll meet outside the ship,’ Sajaki said, and then explained why it had to be that way; why it was too risky for them to meet, because then Sajaki would run the risk of meeting Volyova or Khouri, or even Sylveste’s wife. ‘They still think I’m ill,’ Sajaki added, rubbing the membrane casing his wounded wrist. ‘But if they find me outside the clinic, they’ll do to me what they did to Hegazi. But from here, I can reach a suit in a few minutes, without entering any areas of the ship still capable of registering my presence.’

‘And me?’

‘Go to the nearest elevator. I’ll arrange for it to take you to a suit nearer to you. You don’t have to do anything. The suit will take care of everything.’

‘Sajaki, I . . .’

‘Just be outside in ten minutes. Your suit will bring you to me.’ Sajaki smiled before signing off. ‘And I strongly advise that you don’t wake your wife.’

Sajaki was true to his word: the elevator and the suit both seemed to know exactly where it was that Sylveste had to go. He met no one during his journey, and no one troubled him as the suit measured him, adjusted itself and then folded affectionately around him.

There was no indication that the ship even noticed as the airlock opened; still less as he reached space.

Volyova was startled awake, interrupted from monochromatic dreams of raging insect armies.

Khouri was banging on her door, shouting something, though Volyova was too bleary to make it out. When she opened the door she was looking down the barrel of the leatherclad plasma-rifle. Khouri hesitated for a fraction of a second before lowering it, as if unsure just what she had been expecting beyond the door.

‘What is it?’ Volyova asked.

‘It’s Pascale,’ Khouri said, sweat beading her forehead, shining in slick patches around the gun’s grips. ‘She woke up and Sylveste wasn’t there.’

‘Wasn’t there?’

‘He’d left this. She’s pretty cut up about it, but she wanted me to show it to you.’ Khouri let the gun drop in its sling and fished out a sheet of paper from her pocket.

Volyova rubbed her eyes and took the paper. Tactile contact activated its stored message; Sylveste’s face appeared on it, sketched darkly against a background of interlocking birds.

‘I’m afraid I’ve lied to you,’ he said, his voice buzzing from the paper. ‘Pascale, I’m sorry - you’re entitled to hate me for this, but I hope you won’t; not after what we went through.’ His voice was very low now. ‘You asked me to promise I wouldn’t go into Cerberus. But I’m going, and by the time you read this I’ll be well on my way, far too late to stop. There’s no justification I can give for this, except it’s something I have to do, and I think it’s something you’ve always known I would do, if we ever got this close.’ He paused, either to draw breath or think what he would say next. ‘Pascale, you were the only one who guessed what really happened around Lascaille’s Shroud. I admired you for that, you know. That was why I wasn’t afraid to admit the truth to you. I swear, what I told you was the way I thought it happened; not just another lie. But now this woman - Khouri - says that she has been sent by someone who might have been Carine Lefevre, and that she’s been sent to kill me because of what I might do.’

Again the paper was silent for a moment.

‘I acted as if I didn’t believe a word of it, Pascale, and maybe that was how I thought at the time. But I have to put those ghosts to rest; finally convince myself that none of this has any connection to what happened back around the Shroud.

‘You understand that, don’t you? I have to go this extra mile, just so I can silence these phantoms. Perhaps I owe Khouri thanks for that. She’s given me a reason to take this step, when my fear of what I’ll find is the greatest I’ve known. I don’t believe she - or any of them - are bad people. And not you, either, Pascale. I know you were persuaded by what they said, but that wasn’t your fault. You tried to talk me out of it because you love me. And what I was doing - what I was going to do - hurt me more, because I knew I was betraying that love.

‘Does that make any sense to you? And will you be able to forgive me when I get back? It won’t be long, Pascale - no more than five days; maybe a lot less.’ He paused again, before adding a final postscript: ‘I took Calvin with me. He’s in me now, as I speak. I’d be lying if we said that the two of us haven’t come to a new . . . equilibrium. I think he’ll prove of value to me.’

And then the image on the paper faded.

‘You know,’ Khouri said, ‘there have been moments when he almost had my sympathy. But I think he’s just blown it.’

‘You said Pascale had taken it badly.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘It depends. Maybe he was right: maybe she always knew it would come to this. Maybe she should have thought twice before marrying the svinoi.’

‘You think he’s got far?’

Volyova looked at the paper again, as if hoping to siphon fresh wisdom from its wrinkles.

‘He must have had assistance. There aren’t many of us left who could have helped him. No one, really, if you discount Sajaki.’

‘Maybe we shouldn’t have discounted him. Perhaps his medichines healed him faster than we expected.’

‘No,’ Volyova said. She tapped her magic bracelet. ‘I know where the Triumvirate is at any moment. Hegazi’s still in the airlock; Sajaki’s in the clinic.’

‘You mind if we check on them, just in case?’

Volyova grabbed another layer of clothing, warm enough that she could enter any of the pressurised parts of the ship without catching hypothermia. She slipped the needler into her belt, then slung over one shoulder the heavy ordnance Khouri had obtained from the warchive. It was a dual-gripped hypervelocity sports slug-gun from the twenty-third century; a product of the first Europan Demarchy, clad in curving black neoprene, ruby-eyed Chinese dragons in beaten gold and silver worked into the sides.

‘Not in the slightest,’ she said.

They reached the airlock where Hegazi had been waiting all this time, with nothing to amuse himself but the contemplation of his reflection in the chamber’s burnished steel walls. That at least was how Volyova imagined it, in the rare moments when she bothered to give the imprisoned Triumvir any thought at all. She did not really hate Hegazi, or even particularly dislike him. He was too weak for that; too obviously a creature incapable of dwelling anywhere except in Sajaki’s shadow.

‘Did he give you any trouble?’ Volyova asked.

‘Not really, except that he kept protesting his innocence; saying it wasn’t him who had released Sun Stealer from the gunnery. Sounded like he meant it as well.’

‘It’s an ancient technique known as lying, Khouri.’

Volyova shrugged back the Chinese-dragon gun and landed her fists on the handle which would open the airlock inner door. Her feet were already planted apart in the sludge.

She struggled.

‘I can’t open it.’

‘Let me try.’ Khouri pushed her gently aside and tried to work the handle. ‘No,’ she said, after grunting and then relenting. ‘It’s jammed tight. I can’t move it.’

‘You didn’t weld it shut or anything like that?’

‘Yes, stupid me, I forgot.’

Volyova knuckled the door. ‘Hegazi, you hear me? What have you done to the door? It won’t open.’

There was no answer.

‘He’s in there,’ Volyova said, consulting her bracelet again. ‘But maybe he can’t hear us through the armour.’

‘I don’t like this,’ Khouri said. ‘There was nothing wrong with that door when I left it. I think we should shoot the lock.’ Without waiting for Volyova’s agreement, she said, ‘Hegazi? If you can hear this, we’re shooting our way in.’

In a flash she had the plasma-rifle in one hand, its weight drawing the muscles taut in her forearm. She was shielding her face with the other hand, looking away.

‘Wait,’ Volyova said. ‘We’re being too hasty. What if the outer door is open? The vacuum would trip the pressure-sensors and lock the inner door.’

‘If that’s the case, Hegazi isn’t going to be causing us any more problems. Not unless he can hold his breath for a few hours.’

‘Granted - but we still don’t want to put a hole in that door.’

Khouri moved closer.

If there was a panel showing the pressure status beyond the door, it was well-concealed behind the grime.

‘I can set the beam to its narrowest collimation. Put a needle-hole in the door.’

‘Do it,’ Volyova said, after a moment’s hesitation.

‘Change of plan, Hegazi. Gonna put a hole in the top of the door. If you’re standing up, now would be a good time to sit down, maybe think about putting your affairs in order.’

There was still no answer.

It was almost an insult to the plasma-rifle to ask it to do this, Volyova thought - too precise and dainty an operation by far, like using an industrial laser to cut a wedding cake. But Khouri did it anyway. There was a flash and a crack, as the gun spat a tiny elongated seed of ball-lightning into the door. For a moment smoke coiled from the woodworm-sized hole which she had cut.

But only for a second.

Then something spurted from the door, in a dark hissing arc.

She wasted no time putting a bigger hole in the door. By then, neither Khouri nor Volyova considered it very likely that there was going to be anyone living behind the airlock. Either Hegazi was dead - and there was no guessing how - or Hegazi had already left the lock, and this jetting stream of high-pressure fluid was his perplexing idea of a message to his former captors.

Khouri shot through, and the stream became an arm-thick eruption of the brackish fluid, ramming out with such explosive force that she was thrown backwards into the ship-sludge underfoot, plasma-rifle clattering into the same pool of ankle-deep effluent. The stuff hissed fiercely as it touched the gun’s hot maw. By the time she had struggled to her feet, however, the flow had dwindled to a dribble, slurping in noisy eructions through the punctured door. She picked up the gun and shook the muck off it, wondering if it would work again.

‘It’s ship-slime,’ Volyova said. ‘The same stuff we’re standing in. I’d recognise that stench anywhere.’

‘The lock was full of ship-slime?’

‘Don’t ask me how. Just open a bigger hole in the door.’

Khouri did so, until she could squeeze her arm through and work the lock’s interior controls without brushing against the plasma-heated edges of the cut metal. Volyova was right, she thought, it had been the pressure switches which had tripped the locking mechanism. The chamber must have been pumped to bursting with ship-slime.

The door opened, allowing a final slick of slime to ooze into the corridor.

Along with what remained of Hegazi. It was unclear whether this stemmed from the pressure he had been subjected to, or its explosive release, but his metal and flesh components seemed to have arrived at a less than amicable separation.

THIRTY-ONE

Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

‘I think this calls for a cigarette,’ Volyova said, and for a moment she had to remember where she had last stowed the smokes. When she found them, in a little-visited pocket of her flying jacket, she did not rush either to open the pack or fish out one of the crumpled, yellowing tubes which resided within. She took her time, and when at last she was ready, she took an unhurried inhalation and allowed her nerves to settle, like a blizzard of feathers slowly returning to the ground.

‘The ship killed him,’ she said, staring down at the remnants of Hegazi, but doing her best not to think too hard about what she was looking at. ‘That’s the only thing that makes sense.’

‘Killed him?’ Khouri asked, still directing the barrel of her plasma-rifle at the elements of the Triumvir which floated in suspension in the slick of ship-slime around their feet, as if nervous that his disassociated remains might be on the verge of spontaneously reassembling. ‘You mean this wasn’t an accident?’

‘No, it wasn’t an accident. I know he was in league with Sajaki, and therefore Sylveste. Yet Sun Stealer still killed him. Makes you think, doesn’t it?’

‘Yeah, I guess it does.’

Perhaps Khouri had already worked it out for herself, but Volyova decided to spell it out anyway. ‘Sylveste is gone. He’s on his way to Cerberus, and because I didn’t manage to sabotage the weapon, there’ll be very little to stop him getting inside. Do you understand? It means Sun Stealer has won. Nothing remains for him to achieve. The rest is only a question of time, and of maintaining the status quo. And what threatens that?’

‘We do,’ Khouri said, hesitantly, like a clever pupil who wanted to impress teacher but not draw the derision of her classmates.

‘More than that. Not just you and I; not even when we include Pascale. Hegazi was also a threat, as far as Sun Stealer was concerned. And for no other reason than that he was human.’ She was guessing, of course, but it seemed to make complete sense to her. ‘To something like Sun Stealer, human loyalty is fluid and chaotic - maybe not even properly comprehensible. He’d turned Hegazi - or at the very least those to whom Hegazi was already loyal. But did he understand the dynamics which governed that loyalty? I doubt it. Hegazi was a component which had served its usefulness, and which might malfunction at some point in the future.’ She felt the icy calm which came from contemplating her own oblivion, knowing that there were few times when she had ever been so close to it. ‘So he had to die. And now that his objective is almost achieved, I think Sun Stealer will want to do the same to all of us.’

‘If he wanted to kill us . . .’

‘He’d already have done so? He may well have already tried, Khouri. Whole parts of the ship are no longer under any central control, which means that Sun Stealer is limited in what he can do. He’s taken possession of a body already half-paralysed; already half-leprous and half afflicted with the palsy.’

‘Very poetic, but what does it mean to us, then?’

Volyova lit another cigarette; she had thoroughly seen off the first of them. ‘It means he will try and kill us, but that his options are difficult to predict. He can’t simply depressurise the whole ship, since there are no command channels which allow for that - even I couldn’t do it, other than by physically opening all the locks, and to do that I’d have to disable thousands of electromechanical safeties. He would probably find it difficult to flood an area larger than the airlock. But he will think of something; I’m sure of it.’

Suddenly, and it was almost without thinking, she had the slug-gun in her hands and she was pointing it down the dark lengths of the flooded corridor which led to the lock.

‘What is it?’

‘Nothing,’ Volyova said. ‘I’m just scared. Remarkably so. I don’t suppose you have any suggestions, Khouri?’

She did, as a matter of fact.

‘We’d better find Pascale. She doesn’t know her way around as well as we do. And if it gets nasty . . .’

Volyova stubbed out what was left of her cigarette, mashing it against the barrel of the slug-gun.

‘You’re right; we should stay together. And we will. Just as soon as . . .’

Something emerged noisily from the gloom and halted ten metres from them.

Volyova had the gun on it immediately, but she did not fire; some instinct was telling her that the thing had not come to kill them, or at least not yet. It was one of the tracked servitors which she had seen Sylveste using in the aborted operation to heal the Captain; one of the units lacking any great internal sophistication. One of those, in short, which was primarily controlled by the ship, rather than its own brain.

Its chunkily mounted sensor eyes locked onto them.

‘It’s not armed,’ Volyova breathed, realising as she did so that whispering was useless. ‘I think it’s just been sent to scout us out. This is one of the parts of the ship which the ship can’t see into; one of its blind spots.’

The servitor’s sensors made little swivelling motions from side to side, as if triangulating their exact positions. Then it began to reverse back into the gloom.

Khouri shot it.

‘Why did you do that?’ Volyova asked, when the concussive echoes of the blast had died down and she no longer had to squint against the glare of the machine’s demise. ‘Whatever it saw was already transmitted back to the ship. Shooting it was pointless.’

‘I didn’t like the way it was looking at me,’ Khouri said. Then she frowned. ‘And besides - it’s one less we have to worry about.’

‘Yes,’ Volyova said. ‘And given the speed at which the ship can manufacture a drone that simple, it may be ten or twenty seconds before it’s replaced.’

Khouri looked at her as if she’d just said a joke with an impenetrable punchline. But Volyova was serious. What she had just noticed had chilled her far more deeply than the appearance of the servitor. It was, after all, logical that the ship would soon resort to the drones for its sense-gathering operations; logical too that it would explore ways to outfit the machines for the murder of the remaining human crew and passengers. It was something she would have predicted herself, sooner or later. But not this. Not what had just poked itself above the ooze of the ship-slime; for the instant it took its black rodent eyes to spot her, before turning tail and swimming into the darkness.

Ship controlled the janitor-rats, she remembered.

When consciousness returned - and for a moment Sylveste did not remember precisely when it had left - he was surrounded by an audience of blurred stars. They were doing a very complex dance, and if he had not already felt nauseous, he felt sure that sight alone would have been sickening. What was he doing here? And why did he feel so strange; so much as if cotton-wool had been pressed into every cell in his body? Because he was in a suit, that was why. One of the special suits which the crew owned; of the sort which had carried him and Pascale up from the surface of Resurgam. The suit had forced his lungs to accept the fluid it filled itself with instead of air.

‘What’s happening?’ he subvocalised, in the way he knew that the suit would be able to read, via the simple speech-centre trawl built into its helmet.

‘I’m reversing,’ the suit informed him. ‘Midpoint thrust inversion. ’

‘Where the hell are we?’ Picking through his memories was still arduous, like finding the end of a tangled rope. He had no idea where to begin.

‘More than a million kilometres from the ship; somewhat less than that distance from Cerberus.’

‘We’ve come all that way so—’ He stopped. ‘No, wait. I’ve no idea how long it’s been.’

‘We departed seventy-four minutes ago.’ Hardly more than an hour, Sylveste thought. Yet if the suit had told him it had been a day he would have accepted it unquestioningly. ‘Our average acceleration was ten gees. I was instructed to make all haste by Triumvir Sajaki.’

Yes, now he remembered more. Sajaki’s midnight call, and the hurried rush to the suits. He remembered leaving a message for Pascale, though not the details. That had been his only concession; the one luxury he permitted himself. Yet even if there had been days to prepare for the entry, there would have been very little that he could have changed. He had no requirements for extra documentation or recording apparatus, since he had access to the suit’s libraries and integral sensors. The suits were armed, he knew, and capable of defending themselves autonomously, against much the same modes of attack which Volyova’s weapon was now experiencing. They were also able to extrude scientific analysis tools, or create compartments in themselves for the storing of samples. Quite apart from that, they were as independent as any spacecraft. He realised with a snap that he was thinking wrongly; the suits were actually spacecraft; just very flexible spacecraft with room inside for only one occupant; spacecraft which became their own atmospheric shuttles, and - if needed - their own surface rovers. Rationally, there was no other way he would rather be entering Cerberus.

‘I’m glad I slept through that acceleration,’ Sylveste said.

‘You had no choice,’ the suit said, evincing a complete lack of interest. ‘Consciousness was suppressed. Now please ready yourself for the deceleration phase. When you resume wakefulness, we will have arrived in the vicinity of our destination.’

Sylveste began to frame a question in his head; intending to ask the suit why Sajaki had not yet shown himself, despite his assurance that he would accompany Sylveste. Yet, before he had even begun to concretise his thoughts into the unspoken state which the trawl could read, the suit made him sleep again, as dreamlessly as before.

While Khouri went to find Pascale Sylveste, Volyova made her way back up to the bridge. Now she dared not take the elevators, but thankfully there were fewer than twenty levels to climb; an exertion, but bearable. It was also relatively safe: the ship could not send drones into the stairwells, she knew; not even the floating machines which rode through the normal corridors on superconducting magnetic fields. All the same, she kept the slug-gun at readiness, sweeping it ahead of her as she endlessly rounded the ascending spiral, occasionally stopping and holding her breath, listening for the sounds of things following her, or lurking some distance ahead.

On the way up, she tried to think of the myriad ways in which the ship could kill her. It was an interesting intellectual challenge; testing her knowledge of the vessel in a way she had not previously considered. It made her look at things in a new light. Once - not so very long ago - she had been in much the same position as the ship was now. She had wanted to kill Nagorny, or at the very least prevent him from becoming a threat to her, which practically amounted to the same thing. In the end she had killed him because he first tried to kill her - but it was the manner of his execution that preyed on her mind now. She had killed Nagorny by accelerating and decelerating the ship so fiercely that he had been pulped alive. Sooner or later - and she could think of no pressing reason why it should not be the case - the ship would surely think of that for itself. When that happened, it would be a very good idea not to be in the ship any more.

She reached the bridge unhindered, although that did not stop her checking every shadow for a lurking machine, or - worse, now - rat. She did not know what the rats could do to her, but she was less than minded to find out.

The bridge was empty, much as when she had left it. The damage Khouri had wrought on it was still there; even the staining of Sajaki’s blood on the floor of the vast spherical meeting place. The holo-display was still aglow, looming over her with its constantly updating progress report on the establishment of the Cerberus bridgehead. For a moment she could not help but take a proprietorial interest in her creation, which was still gamely holding its own against the antibiotic forces deployed by the alien world. Yet even as she experienced a flush of pride, she willed it to fail, so that Sylveste would be denied entry. Assuming that he had not already arrived.

‘What have you come for?’ asked a voice.

She whipped around, and there was a figure, looking down at her from one of the curved levels of the bridge. It was no one she recognised; just a darkly cloaked male with clasped hands and a sunken skull of a face. She blasted it, but the figure remained, even after the slug-gun’s discharges had ripped through it, ion trails lingering in the air like banners.

Another figure, differently dressed, had appeared next to it. ‘Your tenancy here has expired,’ it said, in the oldest variant of Norte, Volyova’s processing of it so tardy that she did not immediately understand his words.

‘You must understand, Triumvir, that this domain is no longer yours,’ said another, shivering to life on the chamber’s opposite side, clad in the body section of a fantastically ancient spacesuit, ribbed with cooling lines and boxy attachments. The language he spoke was the oldest strain of Russish she could parse.

‘What do you hope to achieve here?’ asked the first figure, even as another appeared next to it, and began talking to her, and another; figures from the past hectoring her from all sides. ‘This is outrageous . . .’ But the voice blurred into that of another ghost, speaking to her from her right.

‘. . . lack a mandate here, Triumvir. I have to tell you . . .’

‘. . . gravely exceeded your authority and must now submit to . . .’

‘. . . bitterly disappointed, Ilia, and must politely request that you . . .’

‘. . . rescind . . . privileges . . .’

‘. . . completely unacceptable . . .’

She screamed as the welter of voices became a constant wordless roar, the congregation of the dead filling the chamber totally, until all she could see in any direction was a mass of ancient faces, their mouths moving as if each one were the only one speaking; as if each imagined that he had her absolute attention. It was as if they were praying to her; as if they thought she was omniscient. Praying, but at the same time complaining; carpingly at first, as if disappointed, but - with every second - with more hate and scorn, as if she had not only let them down in the bitterest way possible, but that she had also committed some atrocity so dire it was unspeakable even now, but could only be acknowledged in the curved revulsion of their lips and the naked shame in their eyes.

She hefted the gun. The temptation to empty a slug-clip into the ghosts was overwhelming. She could not kill them, of course, but she could seriously disable their projection systems. But she needed to conserve her ammo now that the warchive was inaccessible.

‘Go away!’ she shouted. ‘Get away from me!’

One by one, the dead grew silent and vanished. As each departed, each shook its head disappointedly, as if ashamed of staying in her presence a moment longer. Finally, she had the room to herself. She was breathing in hard rasps and needed to calm down. She lit another cigarette and smoked it slowly, trying to give her mind a few minutes’ rest. She palmed the gun, glad she had not wasted the clip, for all the transient pleasure it would have given her to destroy the bridge. Khouri had chosen well. Emblazoned along the gun’s flanks were silver and gold Chinese dragon motifs.

A voice spoke from the display.

Volyova looked up into the face of Sun Stealer.

It was as she had known it must be, after Pascale had first told her the significance of the creature’s name. As she had known it must be, and yet also much worse. Because she was not simply seeing how the alien looked. She was seeing how the alien looked to itself - and there was evidently something very wrong with Sun Stealer’s mind. She thought back to Nagorny, and understood how the man had been driven mad. She could hardly blame him, now - not if he had lived with this thing in his head all that time, and yet had lacked an inkling of where it came from or what it wanted from him. No; she sympathised with the dead Gunnery Officer, the poor, poor bastard. Perhaps she too would have sunk into psychosis when faced with this apparition, looming behind every dream, every waking thought.

Once Sun Stealer might have been Amarantin. But he had changed, perhaps deliberately, through the selective pressure of genetic engineering, sculpting himself and his banished brethren into a new species entirely. They had reshaped their anatomy for flight in zero-gravity; grown immense wings. She could see those wings now; looming behind the curved, sleek head which seemed to thrust down towards her.

The head was a skull. The eye sockets were not exactly vacant; not exactly hollow, but seemed abrim with reservoirs of something infinitely black and infinitely deep, as dark and depthless as she imagined the membrane of a Shroud. The bones of Sun Stealer shone with colourless lustre.

‘Despite what I said earlier,’ she said, when the initial shock of what she was seeing had passed, or at least subdued to a point where she could tolerate it, ‘I think you could have found a way to kill me by now. If that was what you wanted.’

‘You cannot guess what I want.’

When he spoke there was just a wordless absence which somehow made sense, as if carved from silence. The creature’s complex jaw-bones did not move at all. Speech, she remembered of the Amarantin, had never been an important mode of communication. Their society had been based around visual display. Something so basic would surely have been preserved, even after Sun Stealer’s flock had departed Resurgam and commenced their transformations; transformations so radical that when they later returned to the world they would be mistaken for winged gods.

‘I know what you don’t want,’ Volyova said. ‘You don’t want anything to stop Sylveste reaching Cerberus. That’s why we have to die now; in case we find a way to stop him.’

‘His mission is of great importance to me,’ Sun Stealer said, then seemed to reconsider. ‘To us. To us who survived.’

‘Survived what?’ Maybe this would be her one and only chance to come to any understanding. ‘No; wait - what else could you have survived, but the death of the Amarantin? Is that what it was? Did you somehow find a way not to die?’

‘You know by now the place where I entered Sylveste.’ It was less a question, more a flat statement. Volyova wondered to how much of their discourse Sun Stealer had been privy.

‘It had to be Lascaille’s Shroud,’ she said. ‘That was the only thing that made sense - although not much, I admit.’

‘That was where we sought sanctuary; for nine hundred and ninety thousand years.’

The coincidence was too great not to mean something. ‘Ever since life ended on Resurgam.’

‘Yes.’ The word trailed off into a hiss of sibilance. ‘The Shrouds were of our designing; the last desperate enterprise of our Flock, even after those who stayed behind on the surface were incinerated. ’

‘I don’t understand. What Lascaille said, and Sylveste himself found out . . .’

‘They were not shown the truth. Lascaille was shown a fiction - our identity replaced by that of a much older culture, utterly unlike ourselves. The true purpose of the Shrouds was not revealed to him. He was shown a lie which would encourage others to come.’

Volyova could see how that lie would have worked, now. Lascaille had been told that the Shrouds were repositories for harmful technologies - things humanity secretly craved, such as methods of faster-than-light travel. When Lascaille had revealed this to Sylveste, it had only increased Sylveste’s desire to break into the Shroud. He had been able to muster the support of the entire Demarchist society around Yellowstone towards that goal, for the rewards would be dazzling beyond comprehension for the first faction to unlock such alien mysteries.

‘But if it was a lie,’ she said, ‘what was the true function of the Shrouds?’

‘We built them to hide inside, Triumvir Volyova.’ It seemed to be playing with her, enjoying her confusion. ‘They were places of sanctuary. Zones of restructured spacetime, within which we could shelter.’

‘Shelter from whom?’

‘The ones who survived the Dawn War. The ones who were given the name of the Inhibitors.’

She nodded. There was much she did not understand, but one thing was now clear to her. What Khouri had told her - the fragments that the woman remembered from the strange dream she had been vouchsafed in the gunnery - had been something like the truth. Khouri had not remembered everything, and the parts had not always been related to Volyova in the right order, but it was obvious now that this was only because Khouri had been expected to grasp something too huge, too alien - too apocalyptic - for her mind to comfortably hold. She had done her best, but her best had not been good enough. But now Volyova was being accorded disclosure of parts of the same picture, although from an oddly different perspective.

Khouri had been told about the Dawn War by the Mademoiselle, who had not wanted Sylveste to succeed. Yet Sun Stealer desired that outcome more than anything else.

‘What is it about?’ she asked. ‘I know what you’re doing here; you’re delaying me; keeping me waiting because you know I’ll do anything to hear the answers you have. And you’re right, in a way. I have to know. I have to know everything.’

Sun Stealer waited, silently, and then continued to answer all the questions she had for it.

When she was done, Volyova decided that she could profitably use one of the slugs in her clip. She shot the display; the great glass globe shattered into a billion icy shards, Sun Stealer’s face disrupting in the same explosion.

Khouri and Pascale took the circuitous route to the clinic, avoiding elevators and the kind of well-repaired corridors through which drones could easily travel. They kept their guns drawn at all times, and preferred to blast anything that looked even vaguely suspicious, even if it later turned out to be nothing more than a chance alignment of shadows or a disturbingly shaped accretion of corrosion on a wall or bulkhead.

‘Did he give you any kind of warning he was going to leave so soon?’ Khouri asked.

‘No; not this soon. I mean, I thought he would try it at some point, but I tried talking him out of it.’

‘How do you feel about him?’

‘What do you expect me to say? He was my husband. We were in love.’ Pascale seemed to collapse then; Khouri reached out to catch her. The woman wiped tears from her eyes, rubbing them red. ‘I hate him for what he’s done - you would as well. I don’t understand him, either. But I still love him despite it. I keep thinking . . . maybe he’s dead already. It’s possible, isn’t it? And even if he isn’t, there’s no guarantee I’ll ever see him again.’

‘It can’t be a very safe place he’s going to,’ Khouri said, and then wondered if Cerberus was any more dangerous than the ship, now.

‘No, I know. I don’t think even he realises how much danger he’s in - or the rest of us.’

‘Still, your husband isn’t just anyone. It’s Sylveste we’re talking about here.’ Khouri reminded Pascale that Sylveste’s life had been shot through with a core of rare luck, and that it would be strange if that fortune should desert him now, when the thing that he had always reached for was almost within his grasp. ‘He’s a slippery bastard, and I think there’s still a good chance he’ll find a way out of this.’

That seemed to calm Pascale, fractionally.

Then Khouri told her that Hegazi was dead and that the ship appeared to be trying to murder everyone else left aboard it.

‘Sajaki can’t be here,’ Pascale said. ‘I mean, he can’t, can he? Dan wouldn’t know how to find his own way to Cerberus. He’d need one of you to go with him.’

‘That’s what Volyova thought.’

‘Then why are we here?’

‘I guess Ilia didn’t trust her convictions.’

Khouri pushed open the door which led into the clinic from the partially flooded access corridor, kicking a janitor-rat out of the way as she did so. The clinic smelt wrong. She knew it instantly.

‘Pascale, something bad has happened here.’

‘I’ll . . . what is it I’m supposed to say at this point? Cover you?’ Pascale had her low-yield beam gun out, without looking like she had much idea what to do with it.

‘Yes,’ Khouri said. ‘You cover me. That’s a very good idea.’

She entered the clinic, pushing the barrel of the plasma-rifle ahead of her.

As she moved in, the room sensed her presence and notched up its illumination. She had visited Volyova here after the Triumvir had been injured; she felt she knew the approximate geometry of the place.

She looked to the bed where she was sure Sajaki ought to have been. Above the bed floated an elaborate array of gimballed and hinged servo-mechanical medical tools, radiating down from a central point like a mutated steel hand with far too many fingers, all of which seemed tipped with talons.

There was not a single inch of metal which was not covered in blood; thickly congealed, like candle-wax.

‘Pascale, I don’t think—’

But she too had seen what lay on the bed below the machinery; the thing that might once have been Sajaki. There was also not a single inch of the bed which was not adorned in red. It was difficult to see where Sajaki ended and where his eviscerated remains began. He reminded her of the Captain; except here the Captain’s silver borderlessness had been transfigured into scarlet; like an artist’s reworking of the same basic theme in a different and more carnal medium. Two halves of the same morbid diptych.

His chest was bloated, raised above the bed, as if a stream of galvanising current were still slamming through him. His chest was also hollow; the gore pooled in a deep excavated crater which ran from his sternum to his abdomen, like a terrible steel fist had reached down and ripped half of him out. Perhaps that was the way it had happened. Perhaps he had not even been awake when it did. For confirmation of this theory she scrutinised his face, the little of his expression she could decipher beneath the veil of red.

No; Triumvir Sajaki had almost certainly been awake.

She felt Pascale’s presence not far behind. ‘You shouldn’t forget I’ve seen death,’ she said. ‘I saw my father assassinated.’

‘You’ve never seen this.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re right. I’ve never seen anything like this.’

His chest exploded. Something burst out of it, at first so efficiently concealed by the fountain of blood that it had disturbed that it was not obvious what it was - until it landed on the blood-slicked floor of the room and scampered away, wormlike tail lashing behind it. Then three more rats elevated their snouts out of Sajaki, sniffing the air, regarding Khouri and Pascale with matched pairs of black eyes. Then they too pulled themselves over the caldera which had been his rib-cage, landing on the floor, following the one who had just left. They vanished into the room’s darker recesses.

‘Let’s get out of here,’ Khouri said. But even as she was speaking it moved; the fist of steel fingers, activating with blinding speed, reaching out to her with a pair of its clawed, diamond-tipped digits, so quickly that she could only begin to scream. The claws snagged her jacket, ripping into it, and then she began to pull away, with all the strength she had.

She wrenched free, but not before it had located a purchase around her gun, dragging it with brutal force from her fingers. Khouri fell back into the mess on the floor; noticing how her jacket was soiled with Sajaki’s blood; how at least some of the brighter red pooling from the rips must have been her own.

The surgical machine elevated the gun, cradling it for them to see, as if gloating at its acquisition of a hunting trophy. Now two of its more dextrous manipulators snaked into place and began to examine the gun’s controls, stroking the leather casing in eerie fascination. Slowly, ever so slowly, the manipulators began to point the gun in Khouri’s direction.

Pascale raised the beamer and blasted the whole assembly, blood-caked metallic chunks splattering over Sajaki’s remains. The plasma-rifle crashed down, blackened and gushing smoke, bluish sparks dancing from its shattered casing.

Khouri picked herself up, oblivious to the filth in which she was liberally covered.

Her ruined plasma-rifle was now buzzing angrily, the sparks dancing with increased ferocity.

‘It’s going to blow,’ Khouri said. ‘We have to get away from here.’

They turned to the door, and then had a second to adjust to what was now blocking their exit. There had to be a thousand of them; piled three deep in the ship-slime, each individual careless of its own life, but acting for the greater good of the whole senseless mass. Behind, more rats; hundreds and then thousands more, piling back along the corridor; a vast rodent tidal wave, brimming at the aperture of the clinic, ready to surge forwards in one consuming tsunami of appetite.

She unsheathed the only weapon she now had left, the tiny, ineffectual needler she carried only because of the precision it allowed. She began to squirt it at the mass of rats while Pascale doused them with the beamer, which was hardly more suited to the task. Rats exploded and burned wherever they pointed their guns, but there were always more of them, and now the first rank of rats was beginning to creep into the clinic.

Brightness flared down the corridor, followed by a series of bangs spaced so closely together that they almost merged into a solid roar. The noise and the light came closer. Rats were flying through the air now, propelled by the approaching explosions. The stench of cooked rodent was overpowering; worse than the smell which already pervaded the clinic. Gradually, the wave of rats began to thin and disperse.

Volyova stood in the doorway, her slug-gun belching smoke, its barrel the colour of lava. Behind them, Khouri’s ruined weapon grew suddenly and ominously silent.

‘Now would be a good time to leave,’ Volyova said.

They ran towards her, trampling over the dead rats and those still seeking shelter. Khouri felt something slam into her spine. There was a wind, hotter than any she had known. She felt herself lose contact with the floor, and then for a moment she was flying.

THIRTY-TWO

Approaching Cerberus Surface, 2566

This time the dislocation was briefer, even though the place in which he found himself was the most foreign he had known.

‘On descent towards Cerberus bridgehead,’ the suit informed him, voice pleasantly bland and drained of import, as if this were a perfectly natural destination. Graphics scrolled over the suit’s faceplate window, but his eyes could not focus on them properly, so he told the suit to drop the imagery straight into his brain. Then it was much better. The fake contours of the surface - huge now, filling half the sky - were lined in lilac, their sinuous mock-geology rendering the world more folded and brainlike than ever before. There was very little natural illumination here, save for the twin beacons of dim ruddiness of Hades and, much further way, Delta Pavonis itself. But the suit compensated by shifting near-infrared photons into the visible.

Now something jutted over the horizon, blinkered in green by the overlay.

‘The bridgehead,’ Sylveste said, as much to hear a human voice as anything else. ‘I see it.’

It was tiny, he saw now. It looked like the tip of an insignificant splinter blemishing the stone of God’s own statue. Cerberus was two thousand kilometres across; the bridgehead a mere four in length, and most of that was now buried beneath the crust. In a way, it was the device’s very tininess in relation to the world which best testified to Ilia Volyova’s skill. It might be small, but it was still a thorn in the side of Cerberus. That much was obvious even from here; the crust around the bridgehead looked inflamed, stressed to some point beyond its inbuilt tolerances. For several kilometres around the weapon, the crust had given up any pretence of looking realistic. Now it had reverted to what he assumed was its native state: a hexagonal grid which blurred into rock on its fringes.

They would be over the maw - the cone’s open end - in a few minutes. Sylveste could already feel gravity tugging at his viscera now, even though he was still immersed in the suit’s liquid air. It was admittedly weak; a quarter of Earth normal - but a fall from his present height would still be adequately fatal, with or without the suit to protect him.

Now, finally, something else shared his immediate volume of space. He called in enhancements and saw a suit exactly like his own, twinkling brightly against the night. It was a little ahead of him, but following the same trajectory, heading for the circular entrance into the bridgehead. Two morsels of drifting marine food, he thought, about to be sucked into the enormous waiting funnel of the bridgehead, digested into the heart of Cerberus.

No going back now, he thought.

The three women ran down a corridor carpeted in dead rats and the blackened, stiff shells of things that might possibly once have been rats, though they did not invite close scrutiny. The trio had one big gun between the three of them now; one gun capable of despatching any servitor which the ship sent against them. The small pistols they also had might do the same job, but only if used with expertise and a certain degree of luck.

Occasionally, the floor shifted under their feet, unnervingly.

‘What is it?’ asked Khouri, limping now, after the bruising she had taken when the clinic had exploded. ‘What does it mean?’

‘It means Sun Stealer is experimenting,’ Volyova said, pausing between every two or three words to catch her breath, her side aflame with pain now; every injury which had been healed since Resurgam seemed on the point of unstitching. ‘So far he’s moved against us with the less critical systems; the robots and the rats, for instance. But he knows that if he can understand the drive properly - if he can learn how to operate it within its safety margins - he can crush us just by ramping up the thrust for a few seconds.’ She ran for a few more strides, wheezing. ‘It’s how I killed Nagorny. But Sun Stealer doesn’t know the ship so well, even though he controls it. He’s trying to adjust the drive very gradually; reaching an understanding of how it operates. When he has that—’

Pascale said, ‘Is there anywhere we can go where we can be safe? Somewhere the rats and the machines can’t reach?’

‘Yes, but nowhere that the acceleration can’t reach in and crush us.’

‘So we should get off the ship, is that what you’re saying?’

She stopped, audited the corridor they were in and decided it was not one of the ones in which the ship could hear their conversations. ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘Don’t be under any illusions. If we leave here, I doubt very much that we’ll ever find a way to return. But on the other hand, we also have an obligation to stop Sylveste, if there’s even a slim chance of doing so. Even if we kill ourselves in the process.’

‘How could we reach Dan?’ Pascale asked. Obviously, stopping Sylveste still amounted - in her mind - to catching him and talking him out of going further. Volyova decided not to disabuse her of that notion, not just yet; but it wasn’t quite what she had in mind.

‘I think your husband took one of our suits,’ she said. ‘According to my bracelet all the shuttles are still present. Besides, he could never have piloted one of them.’

‘Not unless he had help from Sun Stealer,’ Khouri said. ‘Listen, can we keep moving? I know we don’t have any particular direction in mind, but I’d feel a hell of a lot happier than standing around.’

‘He’d have taken a suit,’ Pascale said. ‘That would have been his style. But he wouldn’t have done so alone.’

‘Is it possible he would have accepted Sun Stealer’s help?’

She shook her head. ‘Forget it. He didn’t even believe in Sun Stealer. If he’d had an inkling that he was being led - pushed into something - no; he wouldn’t have accepted it.’

‘Maybe he didn’t have any choice,’ Khouri said. ‘But anyway; assuming he took a suit, is there any way we can catch him?’

‘Not before he reaches Cerberus.’ There was no need to think about that. She knew just how quickly a million kilometres of space could be traversed if one could tolerate a constant ten gees of acceleration. ‘It’s too risky to take suits ourselves; not the kind your husband used. We’ll have to get there in one of the shuttles. It’ll be a lot slower, but there’s less chance Sun Stealer will have infiltrated its control matrix.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Claustrophobia. The shuttles are about three centuries less advanced than the suits.’

‘And that’s supposed to help us?’

‘Believe me, when you’re dealing with infectious alien mind parasites, I always find primitive is best.’ Then, calmly, almost as if it were a recognised form of verbal punctuation, she took aim with the needler and gutted a rat which had dared stray into the corridor.

‘I remember this place,’ Pascale said. ‘This is where you brought us when—’

Khouri made the door open; the one marked with a barely legible spider.

‘Get in,’ she said. ‘Make yourself at home. And start praying that I remember how Ilia worked this thing.’

‘Where is she going to meet us?’

‘Outside,’ Khouri said. ‘I sincerely hope.’

By which time she was already closing the spider-room’s door; already looking at the brass and bronze controls and hoping for some spark of recognition.

THIRTY-THREE

Cerberus/Hades Orbit, 2566

Volyova slipped out the needler, approaching the Captain.

She knew that she had to get to the hangar chamber as quickly as possible; that any delay might give Sun Stealer the time he needed to find a way to kill her. But there was something she had to do first. There was no logic to it, no rationality - but she knew she had to do it anyway. So she took the stairwells to the Captain’s level, into the deadening cold, her breath seeming to solidify in her throat. There were no rats down here: too cold. And servitors would not be able to reach him without running the risk of becoming part of him, subsumed by the plague.

‘Can you hear me, you bastard?’ She told her bracelet to warm him enough for conscious thought processes. ‘If so, pay attention. The ship’s been taken over.’

‘Are we still around Bloater?’

‘No . . . no, we’re not still around Bloater. That was some time ago.’

After a few moments the Captain said, ‘Taken over, did you say? Who by?’

‘Something alien, with some unpleasant ambitions. Most of us are dead now - Sajaki, Hegazi; all the other crew you ever knew - and the few of us left are getting out while we can. I don’t expect to ever come back aboard, which is why what I’m about to do might strike you as slightly drastic.’

She aimed the needler now; directing it towards the cracked, misshaped husk of the reefer encasing the Captain.

‘I’m going to let you warm, do you understand? For the last few decades it’s been all we can do to keep you as cool as possible - but it hasn’t worked, so maybe it was never the right approach. Maybe what we need to do now is let you take over the damned ship, in whatever way you see fit.’

‘I don’t think—’

‘I don’t care what you think, Captain. I’m doing it anyway.’

Her finger grew tight against the needler’s trigger; already she was mentally calculating how his rate of spread would increase as he warmed, and the numbers she was coming up with were not quite believable . . . but then, they had never considered doing this before.

‘Please, Ilia.’

‘Listen, svinoi,’ she said, finally. ‘Maybe it works; maybe it doesn’t. But if I’ve ever shown any loyalty to you - if you even remember me - all I’m asking is that you do what you can for us.’

She was about to fire; about to unload the needler into the reefer, but then something made her hesitate.

‘There’s one other thing I have to say to you. Which is that I think I know who the hell you are, or rather who the hell you became.’

She was acutely conscious of the dryness of her mouth, and of the time she was wasting, but something made her continue.

‘What do you have to say to me?’

‘You travelled with Sajaki to the Pattern Jugglers, didn’t you? I know. The crew spoke of it often enough - even Sajaki himself. What no one discussed was what happened down there: what the Jugglers did to the two of you. Oh, I know there were rumours - but that’s all they were; engineered by Sajaki to throw me off the scent.’

‘Nothing happened there.’

‘No; what happened was this. You killed Sajaki, all those years ago.’

His answer came back, amused, as if he had misheard her. ‘I killed Sajaki?’

‘You had the Jugglers do it; had them erase his neural patterns and overlay your own on his mind. You became him.’

Now she had to catch her breath, although she was almost done.

‘One existence wasn’t enough for you - and maybe by then you’d sensed that this body wasn’t going to last too long; not with so many viruses flying around. So you colonised your adjutant, and the Jugglers did what you wished because they’re so alien they couldn’t even grasp the concept of murder. But that’s the truth, isn’t it?’

‘No . . .’

‘Shut up. That’s why Sajaki never wanted you healed - because by then he was you, and he didn’t need healing. And that’s why Sajaki was able to denature my treatment for the plague - because he had all your expertise. I should let you die for this, svinoi - except of course you already are, because what’s left of Sajaki is now redecorating the medical centre.’

‘Sajaki - dead?’ It was as if her news of the others’ deaths had not reached him at all.

‘Is that justice for you? You’re alone now. All on your own. So the only thing you can do is protect your own existence against Sun Stealer by growing. By letting the plague have its way with you.’

‘No . . . please.’

‘Did you kill Sajaki, Captain?’

‘It was . . . such a long time ago . . .’ But there was something in his voice which was not quite denial. Volyova delivered the needler rounds into the reefer. Watched the few remaining indices on its shell flicker and die, and then felt the chill fading, by the second, ice on the shell already beginning to glisten with its own warming.

‘I’m going now,’ she said. ‘I just wanted to get to the truth. I suppose I should wish you good luck, Captain.’

And then she was running, afraid of what might be happening behind her.

Sajaki’s suit stayed tantalisingly ahead of Sylveste as they commenced the descent into the funnel of the bridgehead. The half-submerged, inverted cone of the device had seemed tiny only minutes ago, but now it was all he could see, its steep grey sides blocking the horizon in all directions. Occasionally the bridgehead shuddered, and Sylveste was reminded that it was fighting a constant battle with the crustal defences of Cerberus, and that he should not count blindly on its protection. If it failed, he knew, it would be consumed in hours; the wound in the crust would close, and with it his escape route.

‘It is necessary to replenish reaction mass,’ the suit said.

‘What?’

Sajaki spoke for the first time since they had left the ship. ‘We used a lot of mass getting here, Dan. We need to top up before we enter hostile territory.’

‘Where from?’

‘Look around you. There’s an awful lot of reaction mass waiting to be used.’

Of course; there was nothing to stop them drawing resources from the bridgehead itself. He agreed, doing nothing while Sajaki took control of his suit. One of the steep, incurving walls loomed nearer, dense with ornate extrusions and random clusters of machinery. The scale of the thing was overwhelming now; like a dam wall which curved round until its ends met. Somewhere in that wall, he thought, were the bodies of Alicia and her fellow mutineers . . .

There was enough sense of gravity to engender a strong sense of vertigo, not aided by the way the bridgehead narrowed below, which made it seem like an infinitely deep shaft. The best part of a kilometre away, the star-shaped speck of Sajaki’s suit had made contact with the precipitous wall on the far side. A few moments later Sylveste touched a narrow ledge, one that jutted no more than a metre beyond the wall. His feet made soft contact and suddenly he was poised there, ready to topple back into the nothingness behind him.

‘What do I have to do?’

‘Nothing,’ Sajaki said. ‘Your suit knows exactly what to do. I suggest you start trusting it: it’s all that’s keeping you alive.’

‘Is that meant to reassure me?’

‘Do you think reassurance would be especially appropriate at this point? You’re about to enter one of the most alien environments that any human has ever known. I think the last thing you need is reassurance.’

While Sylveste watched, a trunk extruded from the suit’s chest until it made contact with a section of the bridgehead’s wall material. A few seconds later it began to pulse, bulges squirming along its length, back into the suit.

‘Vile,’ Sylveste said.

‘It’s digesting heavy elements from the bridgehead,’ Sajaki said. ‘The bridgehead gives of itself freely, since it recognises the suit as being friendly.’

‘What if we run out of power inside Cerberus?’

‘You’ll be dead long before running out of power becomes a problem to your suit. But it needs to replenish reaction mass for its thrusters. It has all the energy it needs, but it still requires atoms to accelerate.’

‘I’m not sure I like that last bit; about being dead.’

‘It isn’t too late to return.’

Testing me, Sylveste thought. For a moment he considered it rationally, but only for a moment. He was scared, yes - more so than he could comfortably remember; even if he went back to Lascaille’s Shroud. But, as then, he knew that the only way to punch through his fear was to push on. To confront whatever it was that led to that fear. But, when the refuelling process was complete, it took all the nerve in the world to step off the ledge and continue the descent into the emptiness enclosed by the bridgehead.

They sank lower, dropping for long seconds before checking their fall with brief squirts of thrust. Sajaki was beginning to allow Sylveste some voluntary control of his suit now; slowly decreasing the suit’s autonomic dominance until Sylveste was controlling most of it himself; the transition was barely noticeable. They were descending now at a rate of thirty metres per second, but it seemed to quicken as the walls of the funnel came closer together. Now Sajaki was only a few hundred metres away, but the facelessness of his suit offered little sense of human presence, no sense of companionship. Sylveste still felt dreadfully alone. And with good reason, he thought - it was possible that no thinking creature had been this close to Cerberus since it was last visited by the Amarantin. What ghosts had festered here in the intervening thousand centuries?

‘Approaching the final injection tube,’ Sajaki said.

The conic walls constricted now to a diameter of only thirty metres, then plunged vertically into darkness, as far as the eye could see. His suit veered towards the midline of the approaching hole without his bidding; Sajaki’s suit lagged slightly behind.

‘I wouldn’t deny you the honour of being first in,’ said the Triumvir. ‘You’ve waited for it long enough, after all.’

They were in the shaft. Sensing their arrival, the walls lit up with recessed red lights. The impression of vertical speed was huge now, and more than a little sickening; too much like being injected down a syringe. Sylveste remembered the time when Calvin had shown him the passage of an endoscope through one of his patients; the ancient surgical tool with a camera eye at one end of its coiled length. He remembered the headlong rush along an artery. He remembered the night flight to Cuvier after he had been arrested at the obelisk excavation, streaking through canyons towards his political nemesis. He wondered if there had ever been a time in his life when he was certain of what lay at the end of those rushing walls.

Then the shaft vanished and they were dropping through emptiness.

Volyova reached the hangar chamber, pausing at one of the observation windows to check that the shuttles really were accounted for, and that the data she had seen on her bracelet had not been manipulated by Sun Stealer. The plasma-winged transatmospheric ships were still there, clamped in their holding pens like rows of arrowheads in a fletcher’s workshop. She could begin powering one of them now, via the bracelet, but that was too dangerous, too likely to draw Sun Stealer’s attention and alert him to what she was planning. At the moment she was safe enough, since she had not entered a part of the ship where Sun Stealer’s senses could penetrate. At least, she hoped not.

She could not simply stroll aboard any of the shuttles. The usual access routes would take her through parts of the ship she did not dare enter; places where servitors had free range and janitor-rats were in direct biochemical consort with Sun Stealer. She had only one weapon now: the needler. She had left Khouri with the slug-gun, and while she did not doubt her proficiency, there were limits to what could be achieved by mere skill and determination. Especially as the ship would by now have had time to synthesise armed drones.

So now she found her way to an airlock chamber; not one which led to outside space, but one which accessed the depressurised vault of the hangar. The chamber was knee-deep in effluent, and all its lighting and heating systems had failed. Good. No chance then of Sun Stealer being able to watch her remotely, or even know she was there. She opened a locker and was relieved to find that the lightweight suit it was meant to contain was still present, and that it had not been visibly damaged by exposure to ship-slime. It was less bulky than the kind of suit Sylveste would have taken; less intelligent too, with no servosystems or integral propulsion. Before donning the suit she recited a series of words - well rehearsed - into her bracelet, and then arranged the bracelet to respond to vocal commands spoken into her communicator, rather than via its own acoustic sensors. Then she had to latch on a thruster backpack, taking a moment to stare intently at its controls, as if knowledge of how to use it would bubble up from her memory by sheer force of will. She decided that the basics would come back to her as soon as she required them, and carefully stowed the needler on the suit’s external equipment belt. She exited without fuss, jetting into the hangar, using a small constant thrust level to prevent herself drifting down the chamber. No part of the ship was in freefall, since the ship itself was not orbiting Cerberus, but holding itself artificially fixed in space, a tiny drain on the power of its engines.

She selected the shuttle she would use; the spherical Melancholia of Departure. Off to one side of the chamber, she watched a pair of bottle-green servitors detach from their mooring points and sidle towards her. They were free-fliers; spheres sprouting claws and cutting equipment for performing repair work on the shuttles. Evidently she had passed into Sun Stealer’s perceptual domain when she entered the hangar. Well, she couldn’t help that, and she had not brought the needler along to assist as an incentive in delicate negotiations with non-sentient machines. She shot them, each requiring more than one needle-strike before she interrupted a critical system.

Hit, both machines began to drift down the hangar, bleeding smoke.

She thumbed the backpack controls, imploring it to push her faster. The Melancholia loomed larger now; she could already see the tiny warning signs and technical phrases dotted around its fuselage, although most of them were in obsolete languages.

From around the curve of the shuttle hove another drone. This one was larger, its ochre body an ellipsoid studded with folded manipulators and sensors.

It was pointing something at her.

Everything turned a bright, hurting green which made her want to tear her eyeballs from their sockets. The thing was swiping a laser at her. She cursed - her suit had opaqued in time, but she was now effectively blind.

‘Sun Stealer,’ she said, presuming that he could hear her. ‘You are making a very grave mistake.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’re getting good now,’ she said. ‘You were a little stiff when we spoke earlier. What’s happened? Did you access the natural language translators?’

‘The more time I spend amongst you, the better I know you.’

The suit was de-opaquing as she spoke. ‘Better than you did with Nagorny, at least.’

‘I did not intend to give him nightmares.’ Sun Stealer’s voice was still the same absence as before; like a whisper heard against the white-noise of static.

‘No, I doubt that you did.’ She clucked. ‘You don’t want to kill me, do you? The others, perhaps - but not me; not just yet. Not while the bridgehead might still need my expertise.’

‘That time has passed,’ Sun Stealer said. ‘Sylveste has now entered Cerberus.’

Not good news; not good news at all - although, rationally, she had known for some hours that it was probably the case.

‘Then there must be another reason,’ she said. ‘Another reason why you need the bridgehead to stay open. It can’t be that you care about Sylveste making it back. But if the bridgehead fails, you wouldn’t necessarily know that he had progressed any deeper into the structure. You need to know, don’t you? You need to know how deeply he gets; whether he achieves whatever it is you have in mind for him.’

She took Sun Stealer’s lack of response as a tacit acknowledgement that she was not far from the truth. Perhaps the alien had not yet learnt all the ways of subterfuge, arts which might be uniquely human and therefore new to him.

‘Let me take the shuttle,’ she said.

‘A vessel of this configuration is too large to enter Cerberus, even if you intend to reach Sylveste.’

Did it honestly imagine she had not thought of that herself? For a moment she felt pity that Sun Stealer was so singularly ill-equipped to grasp the way the human mind functioned. On one level he worked well enough; when he could lay lures of fear or reward; lures which depended on the emotions. It was not that his logic was faulty, either - more that he had an overestimation of how important it was in human affairs: as if pointing out to Volyova the essentially suicidal nature of her intended mission was going to suddenly deter her; turn her willingly to his side. Oh, you poor, pitiful monster, she thought.

‘I’ve got one word for you,’ she said, moving towards the airlock, daring the drone to intercept her. And then she said that word, having already recited the preliminary incantations which were required before the word itself could have any effect. It was a word she had not really expected that she would ever have to use in this context. But it had been enough of a surprise that she had been forced to use it once already; almost as surprising as the fact that she remembered it at all. Volyova had decided that the time to rely on expectation was long gone.

That word was Palsy.

It had an interesting effect on the servitor. The machine did not try and obstruct her as she reached the airlock and helped herself into the Melancholia. Instead, it hovered aimlessly for a few seconds and then darted towards one wall, suddenly out of contact with the ship and now relying on its limited reservoir of independent behaviour-modes. Nothing had happened to the servitor itself, since execution of the Palsy command only affected ship systems. But one of the first systems to crash would have been the radio/optical command net serving all the drones. Only the autonomous drones would continue functioning unaffected - and those machines had never come under Sun Stealer’s influence. Now the thousands of supervised drones all over the ship would be scurrying to access terminals where they could tap into the controlling system directly. Even the rats would feel confused, since the aerosols dispersing their biochemical instructions would be among the affected systems. Unshackled from relentless machine control, the rodents would begin to revert to an archetype more characteristic of their feral ancestors.

Volyova closed the airlock and was gratified to feel the shuttle warming to readiness as soon as it sensed her. She tugged herself along to the cabin, already aglow with navigation readouts, already reconfiguring itself to match the kind of interface she preferred: surfaces flowing liquidly towards a new ideal.

Now all she had to do was get out.

‘Did you just feel that?’ Khouri asked from the metal and plush opulence of the spider-room. ‘The whole ship just shuddered, like an earth tremor.’

‘You think it was Ilia?’

‘She said we should cast loose when we got a signal. And she said it’d be obvious as hell. That was pretty obvious, wasn’t it?’

She knew if she waited any longer she would begin to doubt the evidence of her own senses; start wondering if there really had been a shudder, and then it would be too late, because if Volyova had been clear about anything it was that when the signal came, Khouri had to move quickly. There would not be very much time, she said.

So she cast off.

She twisted two of the matched brass controls to their extremities; not as she had seen Volyova do, but in the simple hope that something so drastic, random, and quite possibly stupid must surely result in something as normally undesirable as the spider-room losing its purchase on the hull, which was now all that she wanted.

The spider-room fell away from the hull.

‘In the next few seconds,’ Khouri said, stomach squirming in the sudden transition to freefall, ‘we either live or die. If that was the signal Ilia meant to give, it’s safe to leave the hull. But if it wasn’t, we’re going to be in range of the ship’s own weapons in a few seconds.’

Khouri watched the ship recede, slowly falling up and away, until she had to squint to avoid the glare of the Conjoiner engines; barely ticking over, yet still sun-bright. Somewhere in the spider-room there was a way to close the shutters on its windows, but that was one detail Khouri had not committed to memory.

‘Why won’t it shoot us immediately?’

‘Too much risk of damaging itself. Ilia said those limits were hardwired - nothing Sun Stealer can do about it except live with them. Guess we’re about coming up on the mark now.’

‘What do you think it was, that signal?’ It seemed that Pascale preferred to talk.

‘A program,’ Khouri said. ‘Buried deep in the ship, where Sun Stealer would never find it. Wired up to thousands of circuit breaks all around the ship. When she ran it - if she ran it - it would have killed thousands of systems simultaneously. One big crunch. That was the shudder, I think.’

‘And it takes out the weapons?’

‘No . . . not exactly. Not if I remember what she told me. Some of the sensors, and maybe some of the targeting systems, but the gunnery isn’t affected; I remember that much. But I think the rest of the ship is so screwed up it’ll take Sun Stealer a while to put himself back together again; a while to coordinate himself and get his bearings. Then he can start shooting again.’

‘But the weapons could be online any time soon?’

‘That’s why we have to hurry.’

‘We seem to be still having a conversation. Does that mean . . . ?’

‘I think so.’ Khouri forced a manic grin. ‘I think I interpreted the signal right, and I think we’re safe - for the time being, at least.’

Pascale let out a loud sigh. ‘What now?’

‘We have to find Ilia.’

‘It shouldn’t be hard. She said there wasn’t anything we’d have to do; just wait for that signal. Then she’d be right . . .’ Khouri trailed off. She was looking back at the lighthugger, hanging over them like a levitating cathedral spire. And something was wrong with it.

Something was disturbing its symmetry.

Something was breaking out of it.

It had begun with the smallest of excisions; as a chick might force the tip of its mandible through the shell of its egg. White light, and then a series of explosions. Shards of disrupted hull mushroomed away, quickly seized by the hand of gravity, so that the veil of destruction was whipped away to reveal the underlying damage. It was a tiny hole punched through the hull. Tiny, but because the ship was so large, the hole must really have been the best part of a hundred metres across.

And now Volyova’s shuttle burst through the aperture she had opened, loitering momentarily next to the great trunk of the ship before pirouetting and diving towards the spider-room.

THIRTY-FOUR

Cerberus/Hades Orbit, 2566

Khouri let Volyova do all the hard work of getting the spider-room safely ensconced in the Melancholia. The operation was trickier than it seemed; not because the body of the spider-room was too large to fit the available volume, but because the room’s dangling legs refused to fold themselves neatly away, inhibiting closure of the cargo doors. In the end - and it could not have been more than a minute or so after the operation had commenced - Volyova had to send out a squad of servitors to wrestle the legs into position. To an external observer - not that there was one, of course, except the brooding, semi-paralysed mass of the lighthugger - the procedure must have resembled a team of pixies trying to cram an insect into a jewel-box.

Finally, Volyova was able to close the doors, blocking out the last narrowing rectangle of twisting starfield from view. Interior lights came on, followed by the rapid, loudening howl of pressurisation, transmitted through the spider-room’s metallic hull. The servitors reappeared, quickly clamping the room against drift, and then, not more than a minute later, Volyova showed up, unsuited.

‘Follow me,’ she shouted, her voice ringing. ‘The sooner we’re out of weapons range the better.’

‘How far, exactly, is weapons range?’ Khouri said.

‘I’m not sure.’

‘You hit him with your program,’ Khouri said, as the three of them pulled themselves hand-over-hand up to the shuttle’s cabin. ‘Good work, Ilia. We felt it out there - one mother of a shutdown.’

‘I think it hurt him,’ she said. ‘After my experience with the cache-weapon, I put Palsy back into place with a few additional interrupts. This time the paralysis would have reached much more than skin-deep. But I wish I’d installed destructive devices around the Conjoiner drives. Then we could torch the ship and run.’

‘Wouldn’t that make it a bit difficult to get home?’

‘Very probably. But it would certainly put an end to Sun Stealer.’ As an afterthought she added, ‘More than that, too. Without the ship, the bridgehead would begin to fail, since there would be no more updates from the warchive. We’d have won.’

‘Is that the most optimistic outcome you can think of?’

Volyova didn’t answer.

They had reached the flightdeck, which Khouri saw was as gratifyingly modern as any she had seen: all white and sterile, like a dentist’s operating room.

‘Listen,’ Volyova said, looking at Pascale. ‘I don’t know how much of this has sunk in yet, but if the bridgehead should fail now - which is what we want - it wouldn’t necessarily be good for your husband.’

‘Assuming he’s reached it yet.’

‘Oh, I think we can assume that.’

‘On the other hand,’ Khouri said, ‘if he’s already inside, having it fail now wouldn’t change anything, except to prevent us reaching him.’ She paused, added, ‘That is what we’re planning, isn’t it? I mean, we have to at least try.’

‘Somebody has to,’ Volyova said, already buckling herself into one of the control chairs, reaching across to interface her fingers with the archaic touch-sensitive control board she affected. ‘Now, I strongly suggest you find yourselves somewhere to sit. We’re about to put a lot of space between ourselves and the lighthugger, in not a great deal of time.’

She had barely finished speaking when the engines came online, howling to readiness, and the previously indeterminately defined walls and floors and ceilings suddenly assumed very concrete reality.

When the shaft vanished and they were dropping through emptiness, the sense of vertical speed suddenly ceasing was so great that Sylveste felt his body tense in expectation of imaginary stress. But it was illusion: they were still falling, faster now than ever, but the points of reference were so much more distant that there was little impression of motion.

He was inside Cerberus.

‘Well,’ Calvin said, speaking for what seemed like the first time in days, ‘is this all you expected?’

‘This is nothing,’ Sylveste said. ‘Just a prelude.’

But it was still the strangest artificial structure he had ever seen; the oddest place in which he had ever been confined. The crust curved over him: a world-englobing roof pierced by the narrow end of the bridgehead. The place was aglow with its own wan luminescence, seemingly generated by the immense snakes which lay in coiled complexity across what he now thought of as the floor. The huge tree-trunk buttresses reached all the way to the ceiling, gnarled and organic. Now that the view was an improvement on that gained from the robotic probes, he could see that the buttresses looked more as if they had grown out of the ceiling into the floor than the other way around. Their roots blended into the floor. The firmament looked less alive; more crystalline. In a flash of insight he saw that the floor was older than the ceiling; that the ceiling had been constructed around the world after the floor was already finished. It was almost as if they stemmed from different phases of Amarantin science.

‘Check your fall,’ Sajaki said. ‘We don’t want to hit the floor too quickly. Nor do we want to stray into some defence system which the bridgehead hasn’t neutralised.’

‘You think there might still be hostile elements?’

‘Perhaps not on this level,’ the Triumvir said. ‘But lower - I believe we can count on it. Such defences may not however have seen much use in the last million years, so they may be rather . . .’ He seemed to have to search for the word. ‘Rusty.’

‘On the other hand, maybe we shouldn’t count on that either.’

‘No, perhaps not.’

Suit thrust increased, and with it the feeling of gravity. Only a quarter of a gee, yet the vaulted ceiling was still an artefact of terrifying size. There was a kilometre of it between him and open space; a kilometre he would have to get through again if he ever wanted to leave. Of course, there were another thousand kilometres of planet below his feet, but he had no idea how far into those depths he would have to tunnel before he found what he was looking for. He hoped it would not be far: the nominal five days he had allotted himself for the journey and return now seemed to be cutting it dangerously close to the mark. Seen from outside, it was easy to accept Volyova’s equations of gain and loss and believe that they had some connection to reality. Here, when the forces represented by her equations had crystallised into vast and threatening structures, he had much less confidence in their predictive power.

‘You’re shit-scared, aren’t you?’ Calvin said.

‘You can read my emotions now, is that it?’

‘No. It’s just that your emotions ought to mirror mine. We think very similarly, you and I. More so than ever now.’ Calvin paused. ‘And I don’t mind admitting - I’m very, very scared. Probably more scared than a piece of software has any right to feel. Isn’t that profound, Dan?’

‘Save your profundities for later - I’m sure you’ll get the opportunity.’

‘I imagine you feel insignificant,’ Sajaki said, almost as if he had been listening in on the conversation. ‘Well; you’re justified in feeling that way. You are insignificant. That’s the majesty of this place. Would you choose it any other way?’

The ground was rushing towards him, strewn with geometric rubble. The suit’s proximity alarm began to chime, indicating the nearness of the floor. Less than a kilometre now, though it looked close enough to touch. He felt the suit begin to adjust itself around him, remoulding itself for surface operation. One hundred metres. They were descending towards a flattish crystal slab: presumably some chunk of the ceiling which had fallen all this way. It was the size of a small ballroom. He could see the blinding glare of his suit thrusters in its marbled surface.

‘Cut your thrust five seconds before impact,’ Sajaki said. ‘We don’t want the heat to trigger a defensive reaction.’

‘No,’ Sylveste said. ‘That’s the last thing we want.’

He assumed the suit would protect him from the fall, though it took an effort of will to follow Sajaki’s instructions, slipping into freefall five seconds before his feet were due to touch the crystal. The suit bulged slightly, projecting cushioning armour plates. The density of the gel-air rose and for a moment he almost blacked out. But when the impact came, it was almost too gentle to register.

He blinked, and realised he had fallen on his back. Great, he thought - very dignified. Then the suit righted itself and popped him back on his feet.

He was standing in Cerberus.

THIRTY-FIVE

Cerberus, Interior, 2567

‘How long now?’

‘We’ve been out a day.’ Sajaki’s voice sounded thin and distant, though his suit was only a few tens of metres away from Sylveste. ‘We still have plenty of time; don’t worry.’

‘I believe you,’ Sylveste said. ‘At least, part of me does. The other part isn’t so sure.’

‘That other part might be me,’ Calvin said quietly. ‘And no, I don’t believe we still have plenty of time. We might do, but I don’t think we should count on it. Not when we know so little.’

‘If that’s meant to inspire confidence . . .’

‘No, it wasn’t.’

‘Then shut up until you’ve got something constructive to say.’

They were kilometres into the second layer of Cerberus now; good progress by some yardsticks, since they had descended more vertical distance now than the tallest mountains on Earth - but it was still too slow. At this rate they would never make it back in time, if they even succeeded in reaching whatever destination they were striving towards. Before then, the bridgehead would surely have given in to the tireless expulsive energies being directed against it by the crustal defences, and it would be digested or spat away into space like an unwanted pip.

The second layer - the bedrock on which the snakes writhed, and into which the roof-supporting trees thrust their roots - had a crystalline topography, markedly different to the kind of quasi-organic look of the overlying structures. They had been forced to thread their way downwards in the narrow interstices between the densely packed crystal forms, like ants navigating between courses of brickwork. It was slow work, and it quickly depleted the suits’ reaction reservoirs, since all the downward movement had to be constantly checked by thrust. At first Sylveste had suggested that they use the monofilament grapples which the suits could deploy (or grow, or extrude; he did not bother himself with the details), but Sajaki had argued him out of it: it would have conserved reaction mass, but it would also have greatly delayed their descent, since hundreds of kilometres still lay below them. Apart from that, it would also have limited them to strictly vertical motion, which would have made them easy targets for hypothetical counterinsurgent systems. So they flew most of the time, stopping when necessary to ablate small quantities of Cerberus material. So far, Cerberus had not objected to their vampiric activities, and the crystals contained enough heavy trace-elements to feed the thruster reservoirs.

‘It’s as if it doesn’t know we’re here,’ Sylveste said.

Calvin answered him. ‘Maybe it doesn’t. Not much can have reached this far down in living memory. The systems designed to detect intruders and defend against them might have atrophied through disuse - assuming they ever existed in the first place.’

‘Why do I have the impression you’re suddenly trying to cheer me up?’

‘I suppose I have your best interests at heart.’ He imagined Calvin smiling, though there was no visual component to the simulation. ‘In any case, I believe what I just said. I think the deeper we go, the less likelihood we’ll have of being recognised as something unwanted. It’s like the human body - the greatest density of pain receptors lies in the skin.’

Sylveste remembered a stomach cramp he had once experienced through drinking too much cold water during a surface hike out from Chasm City, and wondered if there was even a glint of truth in what Calvin had just said to him. It was reassuring though; of that there was no doubt. But did it also mean that everything deeper would be half-sleeping; as if the mighty defences of the crust were now meaningless, because what lay below no longer worked as the Amarantin had intended? Was Cerberus a treasure chest which, though firmly locked and burnished to a high polish, contained nothing but rusting junk - if that?

There was no sense thinking that way. If any of this meant anything, if the last fifty years of his life (and perhaps even more than that) had been anything other than delusional obsession, there had to be something worth finding. The feeling was nothing he could articulate, but he was more sure of it than he had ever before been sure of anything.

Another day of descent passed; during intervals Sylveste slept, being awakened by his suit only when something notable occurred, or the external scene changed beyond some inbuilt tolerance and the suit decided that he had better be awake to witness it. If Sajaki slept Sylveste was unaware of it, but he ascribed this to the generally odd physiology of the man; his blood thickened by medichines, constantly cleansing; his Juggler-configured mind able to do without the auditing hours of normal sleep. When the going was easiest, they descended at a maximum rate of one kilometre a minute, which usually happened when some deep abyssal shaft hove into view. The return would be quicker, of course, since the suits would know the way they had come, barring changes in the structure of Cerberus itself. Now it was not uncommon for them to descend for several kilometres before hitting a dead end, or a shaft too narrow for safety, at which point they would retreat to the last branch point and attempt another route. It was pure trial and error, since the suit sensors could not see more than a few hundred metres ahead at any point, blocked by the massive solidity of the crystal elements. But, kilometre by kilometre, they made slow progress, bathed always in sickly turquoise-green light spilling from the crystals.

Gradually the character of the formations had been altering; there were shards here many kilometres across, impassive and immobile as glaciers. All the crystals were attached to one another, but the vaultlike spaces and vertiginous rifts between them gave the impression that they were floating freely, as if in mute denial of the world’s gravitational field. What were they, Sylveste wondered? Dead matter - literally, crystalline - or something stranger? Were they components; parts of some world-englobing mechanism which was too large to be glimpsed or even imagined? If they were machines, they must have been exploiting some hazy state of quantum reality, where concepts like heat and energy dissolved into uncertainty. Certainly, they were as cold as ice (the suit’s thermal sensors told him this), and yet beneath their translucent faces he sometimes sensed tremendous subliminal motion, like the ticking guts of a clock glimpsed through a veil of lucite. But when he asked the suit to investigate with its senses, the results it sent back were too ambiguous to be much help.

After forty hours of rambling descent they made a significant and helpful discovery. The crystal matrix thinned out in a transitional zone only a kilometre deep, exposing shafts wider and deeper than any they had yet encountered; more deliberate in design. They were two kilometres in width, and each of the ten shafts they examined fell towards convergent nothingness for two hundred vertical kilometres. The walls of the shafts emitted the same slightly nauseating green radiance as the crystal elements, and they shivered with the same underlying sense of pent-up motion, suggesting that they were parts of the same mechanisms, though fulfilling some very different function. Sylveste remembered what he knew about the great pyramids in Egypt; how they were riddled with shafts which had been dictated by the construction technique; escape routes for the workers who sealed the tombs within. Perhaps something similar applied here, or perhaps the shafts had once served to radiate the heat of engines now quietened.

Discovering them was a godsend, since it enormously quickened their rate of descent, but that gift was not without its hazards. Constrained by the linear walls of the shaft, there would be nowhere to seek refuge if an attack came, and only two possible directions of escape. Yet if they delayed further, they would face imprisonment in Cerberus when the bridgehead collapsed; no more palatable a fate. So they risked using the shafts.

They could not simply fall. That had been possible before, when the vertical distance was no more than a kilometre or so, but here the very size of the shafts brought unanticipated problems. They found themselves drifting mysteriously towards the walls, and had to keep applying bursts of corrective thrust to stop themselves being dashed against the rushing precipice of sickly jade. It was Coriolis force, of course: the same fictitious force which curved wind vectors into cyclones on the surface of a rotating planet. Here, Coriolis force objected to a strictly linear descent, since Cerberus was rotating, and Sylveste and Sajaki had to shed excess angular momentum with each movement closer to the core. Yet compared to their earlier slow progress, it was gratifyingly rapid.

They had fallen a hundred kilometres when the attack began.

‘It’s moving,’ Volyova said.

Ten hours had passed since leaving the lighthugger. She was exhausted, despite having catnapped for odd hours, knowing that she would need the energy soon. But it had not really helped; she needed more than little intermissions of unconsciousness to begin to heal all the physiological and mental stress of recent days. Now, though, she was fully awake, as if at the limits of fatigue her body had grudgingly accessed some stagnant pool of reserve energy. Doubtless it would not last, and there would be an even heavier premium to pay when she had exhausted this stop-gap - but for now she was glad of the alertness, however transitory.

‘What’s moving?’ Khouri asked.

Volyova nodded at the shuttle’s glaringly white console, at the readout windows she had called into being across its horseshoe profile.

‘What else but the damned ship?’

Pascale yawned awake. ‘What’s up?’

‘What’s up is we have trouble,’ Volyova said, fingers dancing on the keyboard to call up other readouts, though she did not really need confirmation of this. Bad news carried its own certification. ‘The lighthugger is on the move again. This means two things, neither of them good. Sun Stealer must have reinstated the major systems I disabled with Palsy.’

‘Well, ten hours wasn’t bad - at least it allowed us to get this far.’ Pascale nodded at the nearest positional display, which showed the shuttle more than one third of the distance to Cerberus.

‘What else?’ Khouri asked.

‘What it implies, which is that Sun Stealer must now have gained enough experience to manipulate the drive. Previously it was something he was only cautiously investigating, in case he harmed the ship.’

‘Meaning what?’

Volyova indicated the same positional readout. ‘Let’s assume he now has total control of the drive and knows the tolerances. The ship’s current vector puts it on an intercept trajectory with us. Sun Stealer’s trying to reach us before we reach Dan, or even the bridgehead. We’re too small a target at this range - beam weapons would disperse too much to hit us, and we could outmanoeuvre all the sub-relativistic projectiles just by executing a random flight path - but it won’t be long before we’re within kill-range.’

‘Just how long is that?’ Pascale frowned. It was not, Volyova thought, the woman’s most endearing habit, but she endured it expressionlessly. ‘Don’t we already have a massive head-start?’

‘We do, but now there’s nothing to stop Sun Stealer ramping the lighthugger’s thrust all the way up to multiple tens of gees - accelerations we simply can’t match without pulping ourselves in the process. But that’s not a problem for him. There’s nothing left alive aboard that ship which doesn’t run around on four legs and squeak and make a mess when you shoot it.’

‘And maybe the Captain,’ Khouri said. ‘Except I don’t think he’ll be much of a consideration.’

‘I asked how long,’ Pascale said.

‘If we’re lucky, we might just reach Cerberus,’ Volyova said. ‘But it wouldn’t give us much time to scout around and have second thoughts. We’d have to get inside just to avoid the ship’s weapons. And even then we’d have to get pretty deep inside.’ She dredged a clucking laugh from somewhere inside herself. ‘Maybe your husband had the right idea all along. He might be in a much safer position than any of us. For the time being at least.’

Patterns resolved in the walls of the shaft, areas of crystal beginning to glow a little more intently than the rest. The patterns were so vast that Sylveste did not immediately recognise them for what they were: vast Amarantin graphicforms. It was not simply their size, in fact, but also the fact that they were rendered differently from any he had seen before; almost another language entirely. In an intuitive flash he realised that he was seeing the language used by the Banished; the flock which had followed Sun Stealer into exile, and eventually to the stars. Tens of thousands of years spaced this writing from any example he had ever seen, which made it even more of a miracle that he was able to tease any sense out of it at all.

‘What are they telling us?’ Calvin asked.

‘That we’re not welcome,’ Sylveste said, half astonished that the graphicforms spoke to him. ‘To put it mildly.’

Sajaki must have picked up his subvocalisation. ‘What, exactly?’

‘They’re saying that they made this level,’ Sylveste said. ‘That they manufactured it.’

‘I guess,’ Calvin said, ‘that you’ve finally been vindicated - this place really was the handiwork of the Amarantin.’

‘In any other circumstances this would call for a drink,’ Sylveste said, but he was only paying half attention to the conversation now; fascinated by what he was reading; by the thoughts which were springing into his mind. More than once he had felt this feeling when deep into the process of translating Amarantin script, but never before with this fluency, or this sense of total certainty. It was enthralling, and not a little terrifying.

‘Please go on,’ Sajaki said.

‘Well, it’s what I said: a warning. It’s saying we shouldn’t progress any further.’

‘That probably means we’re not far from what we came for.’

Sylveste had that feeling as well, though he could not justify it. ‘The warning says there’s something below we shouldn’t see,’ he said.

‘See? Is that what it says, literally?’

‘Amarantin thought is very visual, Sajaki. Whatever it is, they don’t want us anywhere near it.’

‘Which suggests that whatever it is has value - don’t you agree?’

‘What if it really is a warning?’ Calvin said. ‘I don’t mean a threat; I mean a genuine heart-felt plea to keep away. Can you tell from the context if that’s the case?’

‘If it was conventional Amarantin script, perhaps.’ What Sylveste did not add was that he felt that the message was exactly what Calvin had implied, though there was no way he could rationalise that feeling. It did not deter him, though. Instead, he found himself wondering just what could have driven the Amarantin to this; what was so bad that it had to be encased in a facsimile of a world and defended by the most awesome weapons known to a civilisation? What was so unspeakable that it could not simply be destroyed? What kind of monster had they created?

Or found?

The thought jarred home, seeming to find a vacant hole in his mind where it fitted precisely. As if it belonged there. They found something; Sun Stealer’s flock. Far out on the edge of the system, they found something.

He was still trying to deal with the certainty of that feeling when the closest of the graphicforms detached from the shaft, leaving a hollow recess where it had been a second earlier. Others followed; whole words, clauses and sentences unpeeled from the shaft and loomed around him, vast as buildings, circling Sajaki and Sylveste with raptorial patience. They floated free, suspended by some unguessable mechanism invisible to the suit defences; no gravitational or magnetic fluctuation. For a moment Sylveste was stunned at the sheer alienness behind the objects, but then he grasped that there was a kind of indisputable logic at play here. What made more sense than a warning message which, when transgressed, enforced itself?

But suddenly there was no time for detached consideration.

‘Suit defences to automatic,’ Sajaki said, voice rising an octave only above his routine implacable calm. ‘I believe these things seek to crush us to death.’

As if he really needed telling.

The floating words had them spherically corralled now, and had commenced a ponderous spiralling-in. Sylveste let his suit do its thing, visual shields snicking down to guard against the retina-melting glare of plasma-bursts, all manual control modes temporarily suspended. It was for the best: the last thing his suit needed was a human being trying to do the job better than it could. Even with the dense shielding in place, Sylveste’s vision was aflame with fireworks, photon events triggering his circuits, and he knew that there must have been fryingly intense multi-spectrum radiation just beyond the skin of his suit. He registered bucking surges of motion; episodes of up/down thrust (he assumed) so intense that he passed in and out of consciousness like a train threading a series of short mountain tunnels. He assumed that his suit was trying to cut and run, and with each crushing deceleration was being thwarted.

Finally he blacked out long and hard.

Volyova ramped up the Melancholia’s thrust, until it was nudging four gees of steady acceleration, with intermittent random-swerves programmed in for extra effect, in case the lighthugger launched any kinetics. It was the most they could withstand without protective suits or tabards; more than was comfortable, especially for Pascale, who was even less accustomed to this sort of thing than Khouri. It meant they could not leave their seats, and that movement of their arms had to be restricted to a minimum. But they could speak, after a fashion, and even hold something approximating a coherent discussion.

‘You spoke to him, didn’t you?’ Khouri said. ‘Sun Stealer. I could tell by the look on your face when you rescued us from the rats in the infirmary. I’m right, aren’t I?’

Volyova’s voice sounded slightly choked, as if she were in the process of slow strangulation.

‘If I had any doubts about your story, they vanished the instant I looked into his face. There was never any question that I was confronting something alien. And I began to understand some of what Boris Nagorny must have gone through.’

‘What drove him mad, you mean.’

‘Believe me, I think I’d have suffered something similar if I’d had that in my head. What worries me, too, is that some of Boris might have corrupted Sun Stealer.’

‘Then how do you think I feel?’ Khouri asked. ‘I have got that thing in my head.’

‘No, you haven’t.’

Volyova was shaking her head now, a gesture which verged on the reckless in the four-gee field. ‘You had him in your head for a while, Khouri - just long enough for him to crush what remained of the Mademoiselle. But then he got out.’

‘Got out when?’

‘When Sajaki trawled you. It was my fault, I suppose. I should not have allowed him even to switch on the trawl.’ For someone admitting guilt she sounded remarkably devoid of repentance. Perhaps for Volyova the act of admission was enough in itself. ‘When your neural patterns were scanned, Sun Stealer embedded himself in them and reached the trawl, encoded in the data. From there it was only a short hop to every other system in the ship.’

They absorbed that in silence, until Khouri said, ‘Letting Sajaki do that wasn’t your smartest ever move, Ilia.’

‘No,’ she said, as if the thought had only just struck her. ‘I don’t think it was.’

When he came round - it might have been tens of seconds later, or tens of minutes - the visual shields had retracted and he was falling unimpeded down the shaft. He looked up, and though it was now kilometres overhead, he saw the residual glow of their skirmish, the shaft walls pocked and scarred by energy impacts. Some of the words were still circling, but parts of them had been chipped off so that they no longer made much sense. As if in recognition that their warning was now hopelessly corrupted, the words seemed to have given up being weapons. Even as he watched, they were returning to their hollows, like sullen rooks returning to the rookery.

But something was wrong.

Where was Sajaki?

‘What the hell happened?’ he asked, hoping that his suit would interpret the query successfully. ‘Where’s he gone?’

‘There was an engagement against an autonomous defence system,’ the suit informed him, as if commenting on the weather earlier that morning.

‘Thank you, I realised that, but where’s Sajaki?’

‘His suit sustained critical damage during the evasive action. Crypted telemetry squirts indicate extensive and possibly irreparable damage to both primary and secondary thrust units.’

‘I said where is he?’

‘His suit would not have been able to restrict his rate of fall or counteract Coriolis drift towards the wall. Telemetry bursts indicate he is fifteen kilometres below and still falling, with a blueshift relative to your position of one point one kilometres a second and climbing.’

‘Still falling?’

‘It is likely that, owing to the non-functionality of his thruster units, and the inability to deploy a monofilament braking line at his current speed, he will fall until further descent is inhibited by the termination of the shaft.’

‘You mean he’s going to die?’

‘At his predicted terminal velocity, survival is excluded in all models except as an extreme statistical outlier.’

‘One chance in a million,’ Calvin said.

Sylveste angled himself so that he was able to peer vertically down the shaft. Fifteen kilometres - more than seven times the shaft’s echoless width. He looked and looked, all the while falling himself . . . and thought that perhaps he saw a flash, once or twice, at the extreme limit of his vision. He wondered if the flash had been the spark of friction, as Sajaki brushed against the walls in his unstoppable descent. If he had seen it at all, it was fainter each time, and soon he stopped seeing anything except the uninterrupted walls of the shaft.

THIRTY-SIX

Cerberus/Hades Orbit, 2567

‘You learnt something,’ Pascale said. ‘Sun Stealer told you something. That’s why you’ve been so desperate to stop him ever since.’

She was addressing Volyova, who had begun to feel slightly less vulnerable once the shuttle had passed turnover, midway between Cerberus and the point where she had increased the thrust to four gees. Now, with the drive flame pointing away from the pursuing lighthugger, they would make a far less conspicuous target. The downside of this, of course, was that the drive flame was now wafting towards Cerberus, and might be interpreted as a sign of hostility by the planet itself, if it had not already got the message that its recent human visitors did not necessarily have its best interests at heart.

But there was nothing any of them could do about that.

The lighthugger was sustaining a comfortable six gees now; enough to steadily whittle the distance down, bringing it within kill-range of the shuttle in five hours. Sun Stealer could have pushed the ship faster, which suggested to her that he was still cautiously exploring the limits of the drive. It was not, she thought, that he particularly cared about his own survival, but if the lighthugger was destroyed, the bridgehead would quickly follow. And although Sylveste was now inside, perhaps the alien needed to know that the objective had been achieved, which presumably required the prolonged opening of the crustal breach, so that some signal could return to outside space. She did not believe for one instant that Sylveste’s safe return had any place in Sun Stealer’s plans.

‘Was it what the Mademoiselle showed me?’ Khouri asked. After hours of sustained gee-load, her voice sounded like someone after a heavy drinking session. ‘The thing I could never get quite right in my head - was it that?’

‘I don’t think we’ll ever know for sure,’ Volyova said. ‘All I know is what he showed me. I believe it was the truth - but I doubt that we’ll ever know for sure.’

‘You could start by telling me what it was,’ Pascale said. ‘Seeing as I’m the one among us who definitely doesn’t know. Then you can fight over the details between yourselves.’

The console chimed, as it had done once or twice in the last few hours, signifying that a radar beam had just swept across them from aft, directed from the lighthugger. For the moment, it was not especially valuable data, since light-travel delay between the ship and the shuttle was still in the order of seconds, long enough for the shuttle to displace itself from its radar-tagged position with a burst of lateral thrust. But it was unnerving, since it confirmed that the lighthugger was indeed chasing them, and that it was indeed attempting to get a sufficiently accurate positional fix to justify opening fire. It would be hours before that situation came to pass, but the machine’s intent was grimly obvious.

‘I’ll start with what I know,’ Volyova said, drawing in a generous inhalation of breath. ‘Once, the galaxy was a lot more populous than it is now. Millions of cultures, though only a handful of big players. In fact, just the way all the predictive models say the galaxy ought to be today, based on the occurrence rates of G-type stars and terrestrial planets in the right orbits for liquid water.’ She was digressing, but Pascale and Khouri decided not to fight it. ‘That’s always been a major paradox, you know. On paper, life looks a lot commoner than we find it to be. Theories for the developmental timescales for tool-using intelligence are a lot harder to quantify, but they suffer from much the same problem. They predict too many cultures.’

‘Hence the Fermi paradox,’ Pascale said.

‘The what?’ asked Khouri.

‘The old dichotomy between the relative ease of interstellar flight, especially for robotic envoys - and the complete absence of any such envoys turning up from non-human cultures. The only logical conclusion was that no one else was around to send them, anywhere in the galaxy.’

‘But the galaxy’s a big place,’ Khouri said. ‘Couldn’t there be cultures elsewhere, except that we just don’t know about them yet?’

‘Doesn’t work,’ Volyova said emphatically, Pascale nodding in agreement. ‘The galaxy’s big, but not that big - and it’s also very old. Once a single culture decided to send out probes, everyone else in the galaxy would know about it within a few million years. And the galaxy happens to be several thousand times older than that. Granted, several generations of stars had to live and die before there were enough heavy elements to sustain life, but even if machine-building cultures only arise once every million years or so, they’ve had thousands of opportunities to dominate the entire galaxy.’

‘To which there have always been two answers,’ Pascale said. ‘Firstly, that they are here, but we just haven’t ever noticed them. Maybe that was conceivable a few hundred years ago, but no one takes it seriously now; not when every square inch of every asteroid belt in about a hundred systems has been mapped.’

‘Then maybe they never existed in the first place?’

Pascale nodded at Khouri. ‘Which was perfectly tenable until we knew more about the galaxy, which begins to look suspiciously accommodating of life, at least in the essentials; what Volyova just said - the right types of stars, and the right kind of planets in the right places. And the biological models were still arguing for a higher occurrence rate, right on up to intelligent cultures.’

‘So the models were wrong,’ Khouri said.

‘Except they probably weren’t.’ Volyova was speaking now. ‘Once we got into space, once we left the First System, we began to find dead cultures all over the place. None had survived until much more recently than a million years ago, and some had gone out a lot earlier than that. But they all pointed to one thing. The galaxy had been a lot more fecund in the past. So why not now? Why was it suddenly so lonely?’

‘The war,’ Khouri said, and for a moment no one spoke. The silence was only interrupted when Volyova began speaking, softly and reverently, as if they were discussing something sacred.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘The Dawn War - that was what they called it, wasn’t it?’

‘I remembered that much.’

‘When was this?’ Pascale asked, and for a moment Volyova sympathised with her, caught between two who had been vouchsafed glimpses of something extraordinary, and who were less interested in adumbrating the whole of it than in exploring each other’s ignorances, shoring up each other’s doubts and misconceptions. But Pascale knew none of it; not yet.

‘It was a billion years ago,’ Khouri said, and for a moment Volyova let her speak without interruption. ‘And it sucked up all those cultures and spat them out in shapes and forms a lot different to the ones they’d had when they went in. I don’t think we can really understand what it was about, or who or what exactly survived it - except that they were more like machines than living creatures, although as far beyond anything we can envisage as our machines are beyond stone tools. But they had a name, or they were given it - I don’t really remember the details. But I do remember the name.’

‘The Inhibitors,’ Volyova said.

Khouri nodded. ‘And they deserved it.’

‘Why?’

‘It was what they did afterwards,’ Khouri said. ‘Not during the war, but in its aftermath. It was like they subscribed to a creed; a rule of discipline. Intelligent, organic life had given rise to the Dawn War. What they were now was something different; post-intelligent, I guess. Anyway, it made what they did a lot easier.’

‘Which was?’

‘Inhibition. Literally: they inhibited the rise of intelligent cultures around the galaxy, so that nothing like the Dawn War could ever happen again.’

Volyova took over now. ‘It wasn’t just a case of annihilating any extant cultures which might have survived war. They also set about disturbing the conditions which could lead to intelligent life ever arising again. Not stellar engineering - I think that would have been too great an interference; too much an act which contradicted their own strictures - but inhibition on a lesser scale. They could have done it without tampering in the evolution of a single star, except in extreme cases - by altering cometary orbits, for instance, so that episodes of planetary bombardment lasted much longer than the norm. Life probably would have found niches in which to survive - deep underground, or around hydrothermal vents - but it would never have become very complex. Certainly nothing which would threaten the Inhibitors.’

‘You said this was a billion years ago,’ Pascale said. ‘And yet we’ve come all that way since then - from single-celled creatures right up to Homo sapiens. Are you saying we slipped through the net?’

‘Exactly that,’ Volyova said. ‘Because the net was falling apart.’

Khouri nodded. ‘The Inhibitors seeded the galaxy with machines, designed to detect the emergence of life and then suppress it. For a long time it looked like they worked as planned - that’s why the galaxy isn’t teeming today, although all the preconditions look favourable.’ She shook her head. ‘I sound like I actually know this stuff.’

‘Maybe you do,’ Pascale said. ‘In any case, I want to hear what you have to say. All of it.’

‘All right, all right.’ Khouri fidgeted in her acceleration couch, doubtless trying to do what Volyova had been doing for the last hour: avoiding putting pressure on the bruises she had already gained. ‘Their machines worked fine for a few hundred million years,’ she said. ‘But then stuff started to go wrong. They started failing; not working as efficiently as intended. Intelligent cultures began to emerge which would have previously been suppressed at birth.’

There was a look on Pascale’s face which showed that she had just made a connection. ‘Like the Amarantin . . .’

‘Just like the Amarantin. They weren’t the only culture to slip through the net, but they did happen to lie close to us in the galaxy, which is why what happened to them has had such an . . . impact on us.’ Volyova was doing the talking now. ‘Maybe there should have been an Inhibition device keeping a close watch on Resurgam, but that one either never existed or stopped working long before they emerged to intelligence. So they ascended to civilisation, and later budded off a starfaring sub-species - all without attracting the attention of the Inhibitors.’

‘Sun Stealer.’

‘Yes. He took the Banished with him into space - changed them biologically and mentally, until they had little but their ancestry and language in common with the Amarantin who had stayed at home. And of course they explored, reaching out into their solar system, and later to its periphery.’

‘Where they found . . .’ Pascale nodded at the image of Hades and Cerberus. ‘This. Is that what you’re saying?’

Khouri nodded in agreement, and then began to explain the rest; what little there was to relate.

Sylveste fell and fell, and in his falling he hardly bothered to note the passing of time. Finally there came a point where more than two hundred kilometres of the shaft reached above his head; barely a few kilometres lay below his feet. Twinkling lights shone below, arranged into constellation-like patterns, and for an instant he entertained the idea that he had travelled much further than seemed possible, and these lights were actually stars, and that he was on the point of leaving Cerberus completely. But the thought died as soon as it had come to mind. There was something just a little too regular about the way the lights were aligned, just a little too purposeful; a little too pregnant with intelligent design.

He dropped out of the shaft into emptiness as, much earlier, he had passed out of the bridgehead. As then, he found himself falling through a tremendous unoccupied volume, but this chamber seemed very much larger than the one immediately below the crust. No gnarled tree-trunks rose up from a crystal floor to support the ceiling over his head, and he doubted that any lay beyond the immediate curvature of the horizon. Yet there was a floor below him, and it must have been that the ceiling was unsupported, thrown around the entire volume of the world-within-a-world below, suspended only by the preposterous counter-balancing of its own gravitational infall, or something beyond Sylveste’s imagination. Whatever; he was dropping now towards the starred floor tens of kilometres below.

It was not difficult, finding Sajaki’s suit; not once Sylveste had begun that lonely descent. His own still-functioning suit did all that was required, locking onto the signature of its fallen companion (something of which must therefore have survived) and then directing Sylveste’s fall towards it, bringing him down only tens of metres from the spot where Sajaki had fallen. The Triumvir had hit fast; that much was obvious. But then there were few other options if one had to accept an uncontrolled fall from two hundred kilometres up. He appeared to have partially buried himself in the metallic floor, before undergoing a bounce which had resulted in his final resting position being face down.

Sylveste had not been expecting to find Sajaki alive, but the mangled contours of his suit were still shocking; rather as if it were a china doll which had been subjected to some terrible temper tantrum by a malevolent child. The suit was gashed and scarred and discoloured, damage which had probably happened during the battle and Sajaki’s subsequent grazing fall, as the Coriolis force knocked him repeatedly against the shaft walls.

Sylveste moved him onto his back, using his own suit’s amplification to ease the process. He knew that what he would be confronted with would not be pleasant, but that it was nonetheless something he had to endure so he could press on; the closing of a mental chapter. He had seldom felt anything but antipathy towards Sajaki, alleviated by a forced respect for the man’s cleverness and the sheer bloody-minded stubbornness with which he had sought Sylveste across all the decades. It was nothing remotely resembling friendship; merely the craftsmanlike appreciation for a piece of equipment which did its job exceptionally well. That was Sajaki, Sylveste thought: a well-honed tool; shaped admirably towards one end and one end only.

The suit’s faceplate was riven by a thumb-wide crack. Something drew Sylveste forward, kneeling until his own head was next to that of the dead Triumvir.

‘I’m sorry it had to end like this,’ he said. ‘I can’t say we were ever friends, Yuuji - but I suppose in the end I wanted you to see what lay ahead as much as I did. I think you’d have appreciated it.’

And then he saw that the suit was empty; that all it had ever been was a shell.

This was what Khouri knew.

The Banished had reached the edge of the solar system, thousands of years after their exile from mainstream Amarantin culture. It was in the nature of things that they progressed slowly, since it was not simply technological limits against which they were pushing. They were also ramming against the constraints of their own psychology, barriers no less impervious.

The Banished, at first, still retained the flock instincts of their brethren. They had evolved into a society highly dependent on visual modes of communication; highly organised into large collectives, where the individual was of less importance than the whole. Displaced from its position in a flock, a single Amarantin underwent a kind of psychosis; the equivalent of massive sensory deprivation. Even small groupings were not enough to assuage that terror, which meant that Amarantin culture was extremely stable; extremely resilient against internal plots and treason. But it also meant that the Banished were, by their very isolation, consigned to a kind of insanity.

So they accepted this, and worked with it. They changed themselves; cultured sociopathy. In only a few hundred generations the Banished had stopped being a flock at all, but had fragmented into dozens of specialised clades, each tuned to a particular strain of madness. Or what would have been seen as madness by those who had stayed at home . . .

The ability to function in smaller groups enabled the Banished to probe further from Resurgam, out of the immediate volume of light-limited communication. The more psychotic individuals reached even further from the sun, until they found Hades and the odd, troubling planet which orbited it. By this time the Banished had gone through the same philosophical hoops which Volyova and Pascale had just summarised for Khouri’s benefit. How the galaxy should have been a busier place than it really was, if their ideas were correct - which, as a consequence, was probably not the case. They had listened in the radio, optical, gravitational and neutrino bands for the voices of other cultures, others like them, but had heard nothing. Some of the more adventurous among them - or the more deranged, depending on one’s point of view - had even left the system entirely, and had found nothing of great consequence to report back to home: a few ruins here and there (enigmatic) and a puzzling sludge-like organism which hinted at organisational sophistication, encountered on a handful of aquatic planets, as if it had been placed there.

But all of this became incidental when they found the thing around Hades.

It was, beyond any possible doubt, artefactual. It had been placed there by another civilisation, uncountable millions of years in the past. It seemed to actively invite them to enter its mysteries. So they began to explore it.

And that was when their problems began.

‘It was an Inhibitor device,’ Pascale said. ‘That was what they found, wasn’t it?’

‘It had been waiting there for millions of years,’ Khouri said. ‘All the time they were evolving from what we’d think of as dinosaurs, or birds. All the time they spent reaching towards intelligence; learning to use tools; discovering fire . . .’

‘Just waiting,’ Volyova echoed. Behind her, the tactical display had been pulsing red for many minutes now, indicating that the shuttle had now fallen within the theoretical maximum range of the lighthugger’s beam weapons. A kill at this distance would be difficult but not impossible, and neither would it be swift. She continued, ‘Waiting for something recognisably intelligent to enter its vicinity - at which point it doesn’t strike out mindlessly; doesn’t destroy them. Because that would defeat the point. What it does is encourage them in, so it can learn as much about them as possible. Where they come from. What kind of technology they have, how they think, how they co-operate and communicate.’

‘Gathering intelligence.’

‘Yes.’ Volyova’s voice was as dolorous as a church bell. ‘It’s patient, you see. But sooner or later there comes a point when it decides that it has all the intelligence it needs. And then - only then - it acts.’

Now the three of them were on common ground. ‘Which is why the Amarantin died out,’ Pascale said, wonderingly. ‘It did something to their sun; tampered with it, triggered something like a vast coronal mass ejection; just enough to scour Resurgam clean of life, and cause a phase of cometary-infall for a few hundred thousand years.’

‘Ordinarily the Inhibitors wouldn’t go to such drastic lengths,’ Volyova said. ‘But in this case they’d left it far too late for anything less. And even that wasn’t sufficient, of course; the Banished were already spaceborn. They had to be hunted down; across tens of light-years, if necessary.’

Again there was a chime from the hull sensors, warning of a directed radar scan. Another chime followed soon after; evidence that the pursuing ship was narrowing its focus.

‘The Inhibitor device around Hades must have alerted others, elsewhere,’ Khouri said, trying to ignore the mechanised prophecies of imminent doom. ‘Transmitted the intelligence it had gathered, warning them to be on the lookout for the Banished.’

‘It can’t have simply been a case of sitting around waiting for them to show up,’ Volyova said. ‘The machines must have switched over from passivity to something more active - replicating hunting machines, for instance, programmed with the templates of the Banished. No matter which direction the Banished turned to flee, light would have outraced them, and Inhibitor systems would always be one step ahead, alert and waiting.’

‘They wouldn’t have stood a chance.’

‘But it can’t have been instantaneous extinction,’ Pascale said. ‘The Banished had time to return to Resurgam; time to preserve what they could of the old culture. Even if they knew they were being hunted down, and that the sun was in the process of destroying their homeworld.’

‘Maybe it took ten years; maybe a century.’ The way Volyova spoke, it was obvious she didn’t think it made a great deal of difference. ‘All we know is that some managed to get further than others.’

‘But none survived,’ Pascale said. ‘Did they?’

‘Some did,’ Khouri said. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

Behind Volyova, the tactical display began to shriek.

THIRTY-SEVEN

Cerberus Interior, 2567

The final shell was hollow.

It had taken him three days to reach it; a day since he had left Sajaki’s bodyless suit on the floor of the third shell, more than five hundred kilometres above him now. If he stopped to think about those distances, he knew, he would go quietly mad, so he carefully quarantined them from his thoughts. Simply being in an entirely alien environment was troubling enough; he did not wish to compound his fear with an additional dose of claustrophobia. Yet his quarantining was not complete, so that behind every thought there was a nagging background of crushing fright, the thought that at any instant some action he did would cause the delicate equilibria of this place to shift catastrophically, bringing down that vast, impossible ceiling.

With each inward layer he seemed to pass through a subtly different phase of Amarantin construction methodology. History, too, he supposed - but nothing was ever that simple. The levels did not seem to get systematically more or less advanced as he penetrated deeper, but rather evinced different philosophies; different approaches. It was as if the first Amarantin to arrive here had found something (what, he had not yet begun to guess) and had taken the decision to englobe it in an artificial shell armoured and capable of defending itself. Then another group must have arrived and elected to englobe that, perhaps because they believed their fortifications were more secure. The last of all had taken the process one logical step further, by camouflaging their fortifications so that they did not resemble anything artificial at all. It was impossible to guess over what timescales this layering had taken place, so he studiously avoided doing so. Maybe the different layers had been emplaced almost simultaneously - or perhaps the process had been drawn out over the thousands of years between Sun Stealer’s departure with the Banished Ones, and his godlike return.

Naturally, he had been less than comforted by what he found in Sajaki’s suit.

‘He was never there,’ Calvin said, filling in his thoughts. ‘All the while you thought he was in the suit, he wasn’t. The suit was empty. No wonder he never let you get too close.’

‘Sneaky bastard.’

‘I’ll say. But it wasn’t actually Sajaki being a sneaky bastard, was it?’

Sylveste was desperately trying to find another way to explain this paradox, but was failing at every attempt. ‘But if not Sajaki . . .’ He trailed off, remembering how he had not actually seen the Triumvir in person before they departed the ship. Sajaki had called him from the clinic, but he had no reason to believe that had really been Sajaki.

‘Listen, something was driving that suit until it crashed.’ Calvin was doing his favourite trick of sounding absurdly calm, despite the situation. But he lacked the usual bravado. ‘I’d say there’s only one logical culprit.’

‘Sun Stealer.’ Sylveste said the words experimentally, testing the idea for its repulsiveness. It was no less bitter than he had imagined it would be. ‘It was him, wasn’t it? Khouri had it right all along.’

‘I’d say that at this juncture we’d be staggeringly foolish to reject that hypothesis. Do you want me to continue?’

‘No,’ Sylveste said. ‘Not just yet. Give me a moment to think things through, then you can inflict all the pious wisdom on me you see fit.’

‘What’s there to think through?’

‘I’d have thought it was obvious. Whether we go on or not.’

The decision had not been one of the simpler ones in his life. Now he knew that, for all or part of this, he had been manipulated. How deep had that manipulation gone? Had it extended to his very powers of reason? Had his thought processes been subjugated towards this one end for most of his life in fact, since returning from Lascaille’s Shroud? Had he really died out there, and returned to Yellowstone as some kind of automaton, acting and feeling like his old self, but really directed towards one goal only, which was now on the point of being achieved? And did it honestly matter?

After all, no matter which way he cut it, no matter how false these feelings were, no matter how irrational the logic, this was the place he had always wanted to be.

He could not go back; not yet.

Not until he knew.

‘Svinoi pig-dog,’ Volyova said.

The first graser burst had hit the nose of the shuttle thirty seconds after the tactical attack siren had begun to shriek; barely enough time to throw off a cloud of ablative chaff, designed to dissipate the initial energies of the incoming gamma-ray photons. Just before the flightdeck windows rendered themselves opaque, Volyova saw a silver flash, as sacrificial hull armour vanished in a gasp of excited metal ions. The structural shock rammed through the fuselage like a concussion charge. More sirens joined in the threnody, and a vast acreage of the tactical display switched over to offensive mode, graphing up weapons readiness data.

Useless; all of it useless. The Melancholia’s defences were simply too small-scale, too short-range, to have any chance against the pursuing megatonnage of the lighthugger. Hardly surprising; some of the Infinity’s guns were larger than the shuttle, and those were probably the ones that it had not yet bothered deploying.

Cerberus was a grey immensity, filling a third of the sky from the shuttle’s perspective. By now they should be decelerating, yet they were busy wasting precious seconds being fried. Even if they fought off the attack, they would be moving uncomfortably fast . . .

More of the hull vaporised.

She let her fingers do the talking, typing in a programmed evasive pattern that would undoubtedly get them out of the immediate focus of the graser onslaught. The only trouble was, it depended on sustaining thrust at ten gees.

She executed the routine, and almost immediately blacked out.

The chamber was hollow, but not empty.

Three hundred kilometres wide, Sylveste guessed it to be, though that was sheer guesswork, because his suit radar stubbornly refused to come up with a consistent distance for the diameter of the chamber, no matter how many readings he asked it to make. No doubt what was in the middle of the chamber was causing his suit difficulty. He could understand that. The thing was causing him difficulty as well, though in perhaps not quite the same way. It was giving him a headache.

In fact, there were two of them, and he wasn’t sure which was the stranger. They were moving, or rather one of them was, locked in orbit around the other. The one that moved was like a gem, but it was a gem so complicated, and so constantly in flux, that it was impossible to describe its shape, or even its colour and lustre from moment to moment. All he knew was that it was large - tens of kilometres wide, it seemed - but again, when he asked the suit to confirm this, it was unable to give him a coherent reply. He might as well have asked the suit to comment on the subtext of a piece of free-form haiku, for all the sense it gave him.

He tried to enlarge it with his eyes’ zoom faculty, but it seemed to defy enlargement, if anything growing smaller when he examined it under magnification. Something seriously strange had happened to spacetime in the vicinity of that jewel.

Next, he tried to record a snapshot of it using his eyes’ image capture facility, but that failed as well, and what the image showed was something paradoxically more blurred than what he appeared to see in realtime, as if the object were changing more rapidly on small timescales - more thoroughly - than on timescales of seconds or longer. He tried to hold this concept in his head and for a moment thought he might have succeeded, but the illusion of understanding was only fleeting.

And the other thing . . .

The other thing, the stationary thing . . . if anything, this was worse.

It was like a gash in reality, a gaping hole from which erupted white light from the mouth of infinity. The light was intense, more intense and pure than any he had known or dreamt of - like the light which the near-dead spoke of, beckoning them to the afterlife. He too felt the light was beckoning. It was so bright he should have been blinded. But the more he looked into its fulgent depths, the less it seemed to glare; the more it became only a tranquil, fathomless whiteness.

The light refracted through the orbiting gem, casting varicoloured, constantly shifting slabs of illumination on the chamber walls. It was beautiful; intense and ever-shifting, beguiling.

‘At this point,’ Calvin said, ‘I think a little humility may be in order. You’re impressed, aren’t you?’

‘Of course.’ If he spoke, he did not hear his own words. But Calvin seemed to understand.

‘And this is enough, isn’t it? I mean, now you know what it was they had to conceal from us. Something so strange . . . God only knows what it is . . .’

‘Perhaps that’s just what it is. God.’

‘Staring into that light, I almost believe you.’

‘You feel it too, is that what you’re saying?’

‘I’m not sure what I feel. I’m not sure I like it, either.’

Sylveste said, ‘Do you think they made this, or was it something they happened to find?’

‘This is a first - you asking my opinion.’ Calvin seemed to deliberate, but his answer was hardly surprising when it came. ‘They never made this, Dan. They were clever - maybe even cleverer than us. But the Amarantin were never gods.’

‘Someone else, then.’

‘Someone I hope we never meet.’

‘Then hold your breath, because for all I know, we’re about to.’

Weightless, he jetted the suit into the chamber, towards the dancing jewel and the source of searingly beautiful light.

When Volyova came around, it was to the sound of the radar warning siren, which meant that the Infinity was preparing to re-aim its grasers. It would not take it more than a few seconds to do so, even allowing for her random-walk evasive manoeuvre. She glanced at the hull health indicator and saw that they were down to only a few remaining millimetres of sacrificial metal, that the chaff throwers were depleted, and that - realistically - they could withstand no more than one or two additional bursts of graser-strike.

‘Are we still here?’ Khouri asked, seemingly astonished that she was even capable of framing the question.

One more strike and the hull would start outgassing in a dozen places, if it did not spontaneously vaporise. It was hot now; noticeably. The heat of the first few sweeps had been efficiently dissipated, but the last one had not been so easily parried, and its lethal warming energies had seeped inwards.

‘Get to the spider-room,’ Volyova shouted, momentarily throttling down the thrust to permit locomotion around the ship. ‘The insulation will enable you to survive another few strikes.’

‘No!’ Khouri was shouting now. ‘We can’t! At least here we’ve got a chance!’

‘She’s right,’ Pascale said.

‘You’ll still have one in the spider-room,’ Volyova said. ‘Better, in fact. It’s a smaller target, for one. I’m guessing the ship will direct its weapons against the shuttle in preference, or it may not even realise that the spider-room is anything but wreckage.’

‘But what about you?’

She was angry now. ‘Do you think I’m the type to indulge in heroics, Khouri? I’m coming too; with or without you. But I have to program a flight pattern into the shuttle first - unless you think you can do it.’

Khouri hesitated, as if the idea was not totally absurd. Then she unbuckled from her couch, jabbed a thumb towards Pascale and began moving, as if her life depended on it.

Which, rationally, it probably did.

Volyova did what she had promised she would do, inputting the most hair-raising evasive pattern she could imagine, one that she was not even sure she or her companions would be capable of surviving, with peak bursts exceeding fifteen gees for whole seconds. But did it really matter now? Somehow, the idea of dying while already unconscious, in the warm, muggy torpor of geeinduced blackout, was preferable to being burned alive, in vacuum, in the invisible heat of gamma-rays.

Grabbing the helmet she had worn when she boarded the shuttle, she prepared to join the others, mentally counting down until the initiation of the evasive pattern.

Khouri was halfway across to the waiting spider-room when she felt the wave of heat slap across her face, followed by the dreadful sound of the hull giving up its final ghost. The illumination in the cargo bay was gone now, as the Melancholia’s energy grid collapsed under the onslaught of the attack. But the spider-room’s interior was still powered up, its implausibly plush décor visible through the observation windows.

‘Get in!’ she shouted to Pascale, and although the noise of the ship’s death-throes was now tremendous, like a concerto played on scrap metal, somehow Sylveste’s wife heard what she said and clambered into the spider-room, just as a tremendous shock wave slammed through the hull (or what remained of it), and the spider-room exploded free of the moorings in which it had been locked by Volyova’s servitors.

Now there was a terrible howl of escaping air from elsewhere in the shuttle, and suddenly Khouri felt it tug against her, resisting her forward progress. The spider-room twisted and turned, its legs thrashing wildly, randomly. She could see Pascale now, in the observation window, but there was nothing the woman could do to help; she understood the room’s controls even less comprehensively than Khouri.

She looked behind, hoping and praying that she would see Volyova there, having followed them, and that she would know what to do, but there was nothing except empty access corridor, and that awful sucking stream of escaping air.

‘Ilia . . .’

The damned fool had done just what they’d feared; stayed behind, for all that she had denied that she would.

With what little light remained, she saw the hull quiver, like a sounding-board. And then suddenly the gale that was pulling her away from the spider-room lost its strength; counter-balanced by an equally fierce decompression halfway across the cargo bay. She looked towards it, eyes already veiling over as the cold hit them, and then she was falling towards the gap where only a second earlier there had been metal—

‘Where the—’

But almost as soon as she had opened her mouth, Khouri knew where she was, which was inside the spider-room. There was no mistaking the place; not after all the time she had spent in it. And it felt comfortable; warm and safe and silent; a universe away from where she had been up to the point when she could not remember anything more. Her hands hurt; hurt rather a lot, in fact - but apart from that, she felt better than she imagined she had any right to feel; not when her last memory had been of falling towards naked space, from the womb of a dying ship . . .

‘We made it,’ Pascale said, although something in her voice sounded anything but triumphant. ‘Don’t try to move; not just yet - you’ve burnt your hands rather badly.’

‘Burnt them?’ Khouri was lying on one of the velvet couches which stretched along either wall of the room, head against the curved cushioned-brass end-piece. ‘What happened?’

‘You hit the spider-room; the draught pulled you towards it. I don’t know how, but you managed to climb around the outside to the airlock. You were breathing vacuum for five or six seconds at least. The metal cooled so quickly that you got frost-burns where your hands touched it.’

‘I don’t remember any of that.’ But she only had to look at the evidence of her palms to see that it must have been true.

‘You blacked out as soon as you came aboard. I don’t blame you.’

There was still that utterly uncelebratory tone in her voice, as if all that Khouri had done had been pointless. And Khouri thought she was probably right. The best that could happen to them was that they would somehow find a way to land the spider-room on Cerberus, and then see how long they could take their chances against the crustal defences. It would be interesting, if nothing else. And if not that, she supposed, then a slow wait until either the lighthugger found them and picked them off, or they died of cold or asphyxia, when their reserves expired. She racked her memory, trying to recall how long Volyova had said the spider-room was capable of surviving on its own.

‘Ilia . . .’

‘She didn’t make it in time,’ Pascale said. ‘She died. I saw it happen. The second you were aboard, the shuttle just exploded.’

‘You think Volyova made it happen deliberately, so that we’d at least have a chance? So we’d be mistaken for wreckage, as she said?’

‘If so, I suppose we owe her thanks.’

Khouri slipped off her jacket, removed her shirt, slipped her jacket back on again and then tore the shirt into narrow strips with which she then bound her black, blistered palms. They hurt like hell, but it was nothing worse than the kind of pain she had known during training, from rope burns or carrying heavy artillery. She gritted her teeth and, while acknowledging it, put the pain somewhere beyond her immediate concerns.

Which, now she had to focus on them, made the prospect of submerging herself in the pain somewhat more tempting. But she resisted. She had to at least acknowledge her predicament, even if there was nothing obvious she could do about it. She had to know how it was going to happen, as it surely would.

‘We’re going to die, aren’t we?’

Pascale Sylveste nodded. ‘But not the way you’re thinking, I’m willing to bet.’

‘You mean we don’t land on Cerberus?’

‘No; not even if we knew how to operate this thing. We’re not going to hit it either, and I think our velocity’s too high for us to go into any kind of orbit around it.’

Now that Pascale mentioned it, the hemisphere of Cerberus through the observation windows looked further away than it had appeared prior to the attack against the shuttle. They must have slammed past the world with the velocity which had not been negated from the shuttle’s approach pattern, hundreds of kilometres a second.

‘So what happens now?’

‘I’m only guessing,’ Pascale said, ‘but I think we’re falling towards Hades.’ She nodded at the forward observation window, at the pinprick of red light ahead of them. ‘It seems to be in roughly the right direction, doesn’t it?’

Khouri did not need to be told that Hades was a neutron star, any more than she needed to be told that there was no such thing as a safe close encounter with one. You either kept well away or you died; those were the rules, and there was no force in the universe capable of negating them. Gravity ruled, and gravity did not take into account circumstances, or the unfairness of things, or listen to eleventh-hour petitions before reluctantly repealing its laws. Gravity crushed, and near the surface of a neutron star gravity crushed absolutely, until diamond flowed like water; until a mountain collapsed into a millionth of its height. It was not even necessary to get close to suffer those crushing forces.

A few hundred thousand kilometres would be more than sufficient.

‘Yes,’ Khouri said. ‘I think you’re right. And that’s not good.’

‘No,’ Pascale said. ‘I rather imagined it wasn’t.’

THIRTY-EIGHT

Cerberus Interior, 2567

Sylveste thought of it as the chamber of miracles.

It seemed appropriate: he had been here less than an hour (he assumed, though he had long since ceased paying much attention to time) and in that period he had seen nothing that was less than miraculous, and much for which the term itself seemed mildly insufficient. Somehow he knew that a lifetime would not be sufficient to encompass a fraction of what this place contained; what it was. He had felt like this before, on glimpsing some vista of tremendous potential knowledge not yet learnt, not yet codified and shaped into theory. But he knew that those previous occasions had been pale foreshadowings of what he felt now.

He had no more than hours here, before any chance of return was dashed. What could he do in a matter of hours? Very little, rationally, but he did have the recording systems of the suit, and his eyes, and he knew he had to try. History would not forgive him if he did anything less. More importantly, he would never forgive himself.

He jetted his suit towards the centre of the chamber, towards the two objects which snared his attention; the gash of transcendent light and the jewel-like thing which rotated around it. As he approached, the walls of the chamber began to move, as if he were being sucked into the rotational frame of the objects; as if space itself were being drawn into an eddy; as if the nature of space were in flux. His suit told him as much, chirruping with detailed analyses of the way the substrate was altering; quantum indices ticking towards unexplored new realms. He remembered something similar on the way in to Lascaille’s Shroud. As then, he felt normal enough, as if his whole being were in the process of being transcribed, transliterated, the closer he came to the jewel and its radiant partner.

It took hours to reach it, and he began to doubt that his initial estimate of the diameter of the chamber had been accurate. But, inexorably, the apparent rate of revolution of the jewel dropped to zero, until the chamber walls were spinning dizzily. He knew then that he had to be close, although the jewel did not seem very much larger than when he had first glimpsed it. Still it was in constant motion, reminding him of a child’s kaleidoscope, the ever-shifting symmetric patterns revealed by coloured glints of light, but extended to three (and possibly more) dimensions. Occasionally the thing threw out spires or spikes which reached threateningly towards him, causing him to flinch, but he held his ground and even allowed himself to drift closer in the moments when it seemed to shift into a phase of relatively low-level transformation. He sensed that his survival did not depend on closely watching the readouts of his suit. He was beyond such simplicities.

‘What do you think it is?’ Calvin asked, his voice so low that it almost merged with Sylveste’s own thoughts, almost was one of Sylveste’s own thoughts.

‘I was hoping you’d have some suggestions.’

‘Sorry; all out of shattering insights. Too many for one lifetime.’

Volyova drifted in space.

She had not died when the Melancholia went up, though she had not managed to make it to the spider-room in time. What she had done was don her helmet just before the hull whispered away, like a moth’s wing against a candle. Falling away from the wreckage, she had not been targeted by the lighthugger. It had ignored her; just as it ignored the spider-room.

She could not simply die. That was emphatically not her style. And though she knew that her chances of survival were statistically negligible, and that what she was doing was entirely bereft of logic, she had to prolong the hours she had left. She scanned her air and power reserves and saw that they were not good; not good at all. She had taken the suit hastily, thinking that the only use she would have for it was to reach the shuttle across the hangar. She had not even had the presence of mind to hook it up to one of the recharging modules aboard the shuttle during their flight. That at least would have bought her a few days, rather than the fraction of a day she now faced. Yet, perversely, she did not simply arrange to end things immediately. She knew she could make the reserves last longer if she slept when consciousness was not required (assuming, of course, that she ever had any further use for it).

So she programmed the suit to drift, telling it to alert her only if something interesting - or, more probably, threatening - happened. And now, because she had woken, something evidently had.

She asked the suit what it was.

The suit told her.

‘Shit,’ Ilia Volyova said.

The Infinity’s radar had just swept across her; the same radar which it had used against the shuttle, just before deploying its gamma-ray weapon. And it had done so with an intensity which suggested that the ship was in her immediate neighbourhood; no more than a few tens of thousands of kilometres away; not even spitting distance when it came to picking off a target as large, defenceless, static and conspicuous as she now was.

She hoped the ship would have the good grace to finish her off with something swift. After all, there was a very high likelihood that whatever it chose to use against her would be a system she had designed herself.

Not for the first time, she cursed her ingenuity.

Volyova enabled the suit’s binocular overlay and began sweeping the starfield from which the targeting radar had projected. At first she saw only blackness and stars - and then the ship, tiny as a chip of coal, but edging closer with every second.

‘It’s not Amarantin, is it? We agree on that.’

‘The jewel, you mean?’

‘Whatever it is. And I don’t think they were responsible for the light, whatever that is.’

‘No. That’s not their handiwork either.’ Sylveste realised now that he was deeply grateful for Calvin’s presence, no matter how illusory it was; no matter how much it was a deception. ‘Whatever these things are - whatever their relationship to each other - the Amarantin just found them.’

‘I think you’re right.’

‘Maybe they didn’t even understand what they had found - not properly, anyway. But for one reason or another they had to enclose it; had to hide it from the rest of the universe.’

‘Jealousy?’

‘Perhaps. But that wouldn’t explain the warnings we got coming here. Perhaps they enclosed them as a favour to the rest of Creation, because they couldn’t destroy them, or move them elsewhere.’

Sylveste thought. ‘Whoever put them here originally - around a neutron star - must have meant for them to attract someone’s attention. Don’t you think?’

‘Like a lure?’

‘Neutron stars are common enough, but they’re still exotic; especially from the point of view of a culture just achieving the capability for starflight. It was guaranteed that the Amarantin would be drawn here through sheer curiosity.’

‘They weren’t the last, were they?’

‘No, I don’t suppose they were.’ Sylveste drew a breath. ‘Do you think we should go back, while we still can?’

‘Rationally, yes. Is that enough of an answer for you?’

They pushed forward.

‘Take us towards the light first,’ Calvin said, minutes later. ‘I want to see it closer. It seems - this is going to sound stupid - but it seems somehow stranger than the other thing. If there’s one thing I’d choose to die having seen up close, I think it’s that light.’

‘That’s how I feel,’ Sylveste said. He was already doing what Calvin had suggested, as if the intention had sprung from his own will. What Calvin said was right; there was indeed something deeper about the strangeness of the light; something more profound, older. He had not been able to put that feeling into words, or even properly acknowledge it, but now it was out in the open, and it felt right. The light was where they had to go.

It was silvery in texture; a diamond gash in the fabric of reality, simultaneously intense and calm. Approaching it, the orbiting jewel (stationary now, in this frame) seemed to dwindle. Smooth pearly radiance surrounded the suit. He felt that the light should hurt his eyes, but there was nothing except a feeling of warmth, and a kind of slowly magnifying knowing. Gradually he lost sight of the rest of the chamber and the jewel, until he seemed to be enveloped in a blizzard of silver and whiteness. He felt no danger; no threat; only resignation - and it was a joyous resignation, bursting with immanence. Slowly, magically, the suit itself seemed to turn transparent, the silver luminance bursting through until it reached his skin, and then pushed deeper, into his flesh and bones.

It was not quite what he had been expecting.

Afterwards, when he came to consciousness (or descended to it, since it seemed that in the hiatus he had been somewhere above it), there was only understanding.

He was back in the chamber again, some distance from the white light, still within the rotating frame of the jewel.

And he knew.

‘Well,’ Calvin said, his voice as unexpected and out-of-place in the tranquillity that followed as a trumpet blast. ‘That was some trip, wasn’t it?’

‘Did you . . . experience all that?’

‘Put it this way. That was weirdest damned thing I’ve ever felt. Does that answer you?’

It was. There was no need to push beyond that; no need to convince himself further that Calvin had shared all that he had felt, or that for a moment their thoughts - and more - had liquefied and flowed indivisibly, along with a trillion others. And that he understood perfectly what had happened, because in the moment of shared wisdom, all his questions had been answered.

‘We were read, weren’t we? That light is a scanning device; a machine for retrieving information.’ The words sounded perfectly reasonable before he said them, but in the saying of them he felt he was expressing himself poorly, debasing the thing of which he spoke by the crudity of language. But for all the insights he had felt in that place, his vocabulary had not been enlarged enough to encompass them. And even now they seemed to be fading; the way a dream’s magical qualities seemed to wither in the first few seconds of waking. But he had to say it, to at least crystallise what he felt; get it recorded by the suit’s memory for posterity, if nothing else. ‘For a moment I think we were turned into information, and that in that instant we were linked to every other piece of information ever known; every thought ever thought, or at least ever captured by the light.’

‘That’s how it felt to me,’ Calvin said.

Sylveste wondered if Calvin shared the increasing amnesia he felt; the slow fading of the knowing.

‘We were in Hades, weren’t we?’ Sylveste felt his thoughts stampeding at the gates of expression, desperate to be vocalised before they evaporated. ‘That thing isn’t a neutron star at all. Maybe it was once, but it isn’t now. It’s been transformed; turned into a . . .’

‘A computer,’ Calvin said, finishing the sentence for him. ‘That’s what Hades is. A computer made out of nuclear matter, the mass of a star devoted to processing information, storing it. And this light is an aperture into it; a way to enter the computational matrix. I think for a moment we were actually in it.’

But it was much stranger than that.

Once, a star with a mass thirty or forty times heavier than Earth’s sun had reached the end of its nuclear-burning lifetime. After several million years of profligate energy-expenditure the star had exploded as a supernova, and in its heart, tremendous gravitational pressure had smashed a lump of matter within its own Schwarzschild radius, until a black hole had been formed. The black hole was so named because nothing, not even light, could escape from its critical radius. Matter and light could only fall into the black hole, thereby engorging it towards greater mass and greater attractive force; a vicious circle.

A culture arose that had use for such an object. They knew a technique whereby a black hole could be transformed into something far more exotic, far more paradoxical. First, they waited until the universe was considerably older than when the black hole had been formed; until the predominant stellar population consisted of very old red-dwarf stars, stars which were barely massive enough to ignite their own fusion fires. Next, they shepherded a dozen of these dwarves into an accretion disk around the black hole and slowly allowed the disk to feed the hole, raining starstuff onto its light-swallowing event horizon.

This much Sylveste understood, or could at least deceive himself into thinking that he understood. But the next part - the core of it - was much harder to hold in his mind, like a self-contradictory koan. What he grasped was that, once within the event horizon, particles continued to fall along particular trajectories, particular orbits which swung them around the kernel of infinite density which was the singularity at the black hole’s heart. Falling along these lines, time and space began to blend into one another, until they were no longer properly separable. And - crucially - there was one set of trajectories in which they swapped places completely; where a trajectory in space became one in time. And one subset of this bunch of paths actually allowed matter to tunnel into the past, earlier into the black hole’s history.

‘I’m accessing texts from the twentieth century,’ Calvin murmured, seemingly able to follow his thoughts. ‘This effect was known - predicted - even then. It seemed to follow from the mathematics describing black holes. But no one knew how seriously to take it.’

‘Whoever engineered Hades had no such qualms.’

‘So it would seem.’

What happened was that light, energy, particle-flux, wormed along these special trajectories, burrowing ever deeper into the past with each orbit around the singularity. None of this was ‘evident’ to the outside universe since it was confined behind the impenetrable barrier of the event horizon, and so there was no overt violation of causality. According to the mathematics which Calvin had accessed, there could be none, since these trajectories could never pass back into the external universe. Yet they did. What the mathematics had overlooked was the special case of the tiny subset-of-a-subset-of-a-subset of trajectories which actually carried quanta back to the birth of the black hole, when it collapsed in the supernova detonation of its progenitor star.

At that instant, the minute outward pressure exerted by the particles arriving from the future served to delay the gravitational infall.

The delay was not even measurable; it was barely longer than the smallest theoretical subdivision of quantised time. But it existed. And, small though it was, it was sufficient to send ripples of causal shock propagating back into the future.

These ripples of causal shock met the incoming particles and established a grid of causal interference, a standing wave extending symmetrically into the past and the future.

Enmeshed in this grid, the collapsed object was no longer sure that it was meant to be a black hole. The initial conditions had always been borderline, and perhaps these entanglements could be avoided if it remained poised above its Schwarzschild radius; if it collapsed down to a stable configuration of strange quarks and degenerate neutrons instead.

It flickered indeterminately between the two states. The indeterminacy crystallised, and what remained behind was something unique in the universe - except that elsewhere, similar transformations were being wrought on other black holes, similar causal paradoxes coming into being.

The object settled on a stable configuration whereby its paradoxical nature was not immediately obvious to the outside universe. Externally, it resembled a neutron star - for the first few centimetres of its crust, at least. Below, the nuclear matter had been catalysed into intricate forms capable of lightning-swift computation, a self-organisation which had emerged spontaneously from the resolution of its two opposed states. The crust seethed and processed, containing information at the theoretical maximum density of storage of matter, anywhere in the universe.

And it thought.

Below, the crust blended seamlessly with a flickering storm of unresolved possibility, as the interior of the collapsed object danced to the music of acausality. While the crust ran endless simulations, endless computations, the core bridged the future and the past, allowing information to channel effortlessly between them. The crust, in effect, had become one element of a massive parallel-processor, except that the other elements in its array were the future and past versions of itself.

And it knew.

It knew that, even with this totality of processing power strewn across the aeons, it was only part of something much larger.

And it had a name.

Sylveste had to let his mind rest for a moment. The immensity of it was dwindling now, leaving only the ringing aftertones, like the last echoes of the final chord of the greatest symphony ever played. In a few moments, he doubted that he would remember much at all. There was simply insufficient room in his head for it all. And, strangely, he did not feel the slightest sorrow at its passing. For those few moments, it had been wonderful to taste that transhuman knowledge, but it was simply too much for one man to know. It was better to live; better to carry a memory of a memory, than suffer the vast burden of knowing.

He was not meant to think like a god.

After many minutes, he checked his suit clock, and was only mildly surprised to find that he had lost several hours, assuming his last check on the time had been correct. There was still time to get out, he thought; still time to make it to the surface before the bridgehead closed.

He looked at the jewel; no less enigmatic for all that he had now experienced. It had not ceased its constant fluxing, and he still felt its beguiling attraction. He felt that he knew more about it now; that his time in the porthole to the Hades matrix had taught him something - but for a moment the memories were too thickly integrated into the other experiences he had gained, and he could not quite bring them to conscious examination.

All he knew was that he felt a foreboding which had not been there before.

Still, he moved towards it.

The agonised red eye of Hades was noticeably larger now, but the neutron star at the heart of that burning point would never amount to more than a glint; it was only a few tens of kilometres across, and they would be dead long before they were close enough to resolve it properly, shredded by the intense differential force of gravity.

‘I feel I should tell you,’ Pascale Sylveste said, ‘I don’t think it will be fast, what’s going to happen to us. Not unless we’re very lucky.’

Khouri tried her best not to sound irritated at the woman’s tone of superior understanding, admitting to herself that Pascale was probably quite justified in adopting that manner.

‘How do you know so much? You’re no astrophysicist.’

‘No, but I remember Dan telling me about how the tidal forces would limit the close approach of any of the probes he wanted to send here.’

‘You’re talking as if he’s dead already.’

‘I don’t think he is,’ Pascale said. ‘I think he might even survive. But we’re not going to. I’m sorry, but it amounts to the same thing.’

‘You still love that bastard, don’t you?’

‘He loved me too, believe it or not. I know from the way he acted - what he did - the way he seemed so driven, it must have been hard for outsiders to see. But he did care. More than anyone will ever know.’

‘Maybe people won’t be so hard on him when they find out the way he was manipulated.’

‘You think anyone’s going to find out? We’re the only ones who know, Khouri. As far as the rest of the universe is concerned, he was just a monomaniac. They don’t understand that he used people because he had no choice. Because something bigger than any of us was driving him forward.’

Khouri nodded. ‘I wanted to kill him once - but only because it was a way to get back to Fazil. There was never any hatred in it. Matter of fact, I can’t say I honestly disliked him. I admired anyone who could carry around that much arrogance, like it was his birthright, or something. Most people, they don’t carry it off. But he wore it like a king. It stopped being arrogance, then - became something else. Something you could admire.’

Pascale elected not to reply, but Khouri could tell that she was not in complete disagreement. Maybe she was just not quite ready to come out and say it aloud. That she had loved Sylveste because he was such a self-important bastard and made something noble of being a self-important bastard, did it with such utter aplomb that it became a kind of virtue, like the wearing of sackcloth.

‘Listen,’ Khouri said, eventually. ‘I’ve got an idea. When those tides begin to bite, do you want to be fully conscious, or would you rather approach the matter with a little fortification?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Ilia always told me this place was built to show clients around the outside of the ship; the kind of clients you wanted to impress if you wanted to keep the contract. So I’m thinking, somewhere on board there has to be a drinks cabinet. Probably well-stocked, assuming it hasn’t been drunk dry over the last few centuries. And then again, it might even be self-replenishing. Are you with me?’

Pascale said nothing, during which time the gravitational sinkhole of Hades crept closer. Finally, just when Khouri assumed that the other woman had elected not to hear her proposition, Pascale released herself from her seat and headed rearwards, to the unexplored realms of plush and brass behind them.

THIRTY-NINE

Cerberus Interior, Final Chamber, 2567

The jewel shone with a noticeable bluish radiance now, as if his proximity had stilled its spectral transformations; forced it towards some temporary quiescence. Sylveste still felt that it was wrong to approach it, but now his own curiosity - and a sense of predestiny - was impelling him forwards. Maybe it was something springing from the basal parts of his mind; a need to confront the dangerous and thereby tame it. It was an instinct which must have driven the first touching of fire, the first flinch of pain and the wisdom that came with that pain.

The jewel unfolded before him, undergoing geometric transformations to which he did not dare devote too much attention, for fear that understanding them would cleave his mind open along similar fault lines.

‘Are you sure this is wise?’ Calvin asked, his utterances now more than ever forming part of the normal background of Sylveste’s inner dialogue.

‘It’s too late to return now,’ said a voice.

A voice which belonged neither to Calvin nor Sylveste, but which seemed deeply familiar, as if it had long been a part of him, merely silent.

‘Sun Stealer, isn’t it?’

‘He’s been with us all along,’ Calvin said. ‘Haven’t you?’

‘Longer than you imagine. Since you returned from Lascaille’s Shroud, Dan.’

‘Then everything Khouri said was right,’ he said, while already knowing the truth of it. If Sajaki’s empty suit had not confirmed it, then the revelations he had shared in the white light had ended his doubts, completely.

‘What do you want of me?’

‘Only that you enter the - jewel - as you call it.’ The creature’s voice, and its voice was the only thing that he heard, was sibilant; chillingly so. ‘You have nothing to fear. You will not be harmed by it, nor will you be prevented from leaving.’

‘You would say that, wouldn’t you?’

‘Except that it is the truth.’

‘What about the bridgehead?’

‘The device is still operational. It will remain so until you have left Cerberus.’

‘There’s no way of knowing,’ Calvin said. ‘Whatever he - it - says, could well be a lie. He’s deceived and manipulated us at every step; all to bring you here. Why should he suddenly start telling the truth now?’

‘Because it is of no consequence,’ Sun Stealer said. ‘Now that you have reached this far, your own desires play no further part in the matter.’

And Sylveste felt the suit surge forward, directly into the opened jewel, along a brilliantly faceted, ever-flickering corridor which extended into the structure.

‘What—’ Calvin began.

‘I’m not doing anything,’ Sylveste said. ‘The bastard must have control of my suit!’

‘Stands to reason. He could control Sajaki’s, after all. Must have preferred to sit back and let you do all the work until now. Lazy bastard.’

‘At this point,’ Sylveste said, ‘I don’t think insulting him’s going to make a great deal of difference.’

‘Do you have a better idea?’

‘As a matter of fact—’

The corridor surrounded him completely now, a glowing tracheal tunnel which twisted and turned until it seemed impossible that he could still be inside the jewel. But then, he told himself, he had never come to a clear conclusion as to its true size - it might have been anywhere between a few hundred metres across or tens of kilometres. Its fluctuating shape made it impossible to know, and perhaps meant that there was no meaningful answer; in the same way that one could not specify the volume of a fractal solid.

‘Uh, you were saying?’

‘I was saying . . .’ Sylveste trailed off. ‘Sun Stealer, are you listening to me?’

‘As always.’

‘I don’t understand why I had to come here. If you managed to animate Sajaki’s suit - and you had conscious control of mine all this time - why did I have to come along in the first place? If there’s something you want inside this thing, something you want to bring out, you could do it without me being here at all.’

‘The device will only respond to organic life. An empty suit would be interpreted as machine sentience.’

‘This - thing - is a device? Is that what you’re saying?’

‘It is an Inhibitor device.’

For a moment the words seemed meaningless, but only for a moment. Then - fuzzily - the words attached to some of the memories he retained from his time in the white light; the portal to the Hades matrix. Those memories attached to others; an endless braid of association.

And he came to a kind of understanding.

More than ever, he knew that he should not continue; that if he reached the inner realm of the jewel - of the Inhibitor device, as he now knew it to be - things would be very, very bad. In fact, it would be difficult to imagine how things could be worse.

‘We can’t go on,’ Calvin said. ‘I understand now what this is.’

‘Me too, belatedly.’

The device had been left here by the Inhibitors. They had placed it in orbit around Hades, next to the glimmering white portal; something older even than the Inhibitors. It did not bother them that they did not properly understand its function, or have any real inkling of who had placed it there, next to the neutron star which - according to some puzzling indications they had allowed to linger unexplored - was not quite as it should be. But, the enigma of its origin aside, it entirely suited their plans. Their own devices were constructed to lure the sentient, and by placing one of them next to an entity even more perplexing, they were guaranteed visitors. It was a strategy they followed across the galaxy, in fact: leaving Inhibitor devices in close proximity to objects of astrophysical interest, or near the ruins of extinct cultures. Anywhere where they were likely to draw attention.

And the Amarantin had come, and tinkered, and made themselves known to the device. It had studied them, and learned their weaknesses.

And it had wiped them out - all except for a handful of descendants of the Banished, who found two means to escape the ruthless predation of the Inhibitors. Some had used the portal itself, mapping themselves into the crustal matrix, where they continued to run as simulations, preserved in the impervious amber of nuclear matter enslaved for computational purposes.

It was hardly living, Sylveste thought, but at least something of them had been preserved.

And then there were the others: the others who had found the other way to escape the Inhibitors. Their mode of escape had been no less drastic, no less irreversible . . .

‘They became the Shrouders, didn’t they?’ Calvin was speaking now - or was it Sylveste, voicing his own thoughts, the way he sometimes did, in the heat of concentration? He could barely tell, much less care. ‘This was in the last days; when Resurgam was already gone, and most of the spaceborn had already been tracked down and annihilated. One faction went into the Hades matrix. Another learned what they could about manipulating spacetime, probably from the transformations near the portal. And they found a solution; a way to barricade themselves against the Inhibitor weapons. They found a way to wrap spacetime around themselves; a way to curdle and solidify it, until it formed an impervious shell. And they retreated behind those shells and sealed them for eternity.

‘But at least it was better than dying.’

Everything, for an instant, was clear in his head. How those behind the Shrouds had waited, and waited, barely cognisant of the outside universe; barely able to communicate with it, so secure were the walls they had wrapped around themselves.

And they had waited.

They had known, even at the time of enclosure, that the systems left behind by the Inhibitors were slowly failing; slowly losing their ability to suppress intelligence. Not soon enough, for them - but after a million years of waiting, trapped in their bubble of spacetime, they began to wonder if the threat had now diminished . . .

They could not simply dismantle the Shrouds and look around - far too hazardous; especially as the Inhibitor machines were nothing if not patient. Their apparent silence might only be part of the trap, a waiting game designed to entice the Amarantin - who were now the Shrouders - out of their shells, into the open arena of naked space, where they could be destroyed with ease, terminating the million-year purge against their kind.

Yet, in time, others came.

Perhaps there was something about this region of space which favoured the evolution of vertebrate life, or perhaps it was only coincidence, but in the newly starfaring humans, the Shrouders saw echoes of what they had once been. Something of the same psychosis, almost: the simultaneous craving for solitude and companionship; the need for the comfort of society and the open steppes of space; a schism which drove them onwards, outwards.

Philip Lascaille had been the first to meet them, around the Shroud which now bore his name.

The tortured spacetime around the Shroud had ripped his mind open, twisted it and reassembled it, into a drooling travesty of what it had once been. But it was a travesty shot with brilliance. They had put something in him; the knowledge that was needed for someone else to get much closer . . . and the lie that would make him do it.

Just before he died, Lascaille had communicated this to the young Dan Sylveste.

Go to the Jugglers, he had said.

Because the Amarantin had once visited them; once imprinted their neural patterns into the Juggler ocean. Those patterns stabilised the spacetime around the Shroud; enabled one to penetrate deeper into its thickening folds without being torn asunder by the stresses. It was how Sylveste, having accepted the Juggler transform, was able to ride the storms into the depths of the Shroud itself.

He came out alive.

But changed.

Something had come back with him; something which called itself Sun Stealer, though he knew now that this was no more than a myth-name; that the thing which had lived within him ever since was better thought of as an assemblage; an artificial personality woven into the shell of the Shroud, put there by those within who wanted Sylveste to act as their emissary; to extend their influence beyond the curtain of impassable spacetime.

What they wanted him to do was very simple, in hindsight.

Travel to Resurgam, where the bones of their corporeal ancestors were buried.

Find the Inhibitor device.

Place himself in a position where, if the device was still functioning, it would activate and identify him as a member of a newly uprisen intelligent culture.

If the Inhibitors were still around, humanity would be identified as the next species to be put to the slaughter.

If not, the Shrouders could emerge into safety.

Now the bluish light which surrounded him seemed evil; unspeakably so. He knew that simply by entering this place he might have already done too much; already exhibited enough apparent intelligence to convince the Inhibitor device that he represented a breed worthy of extinction.

He hated what the Amarantin had become; hated himself for devoting so much of his life to their study. But what could he do now? It was far too late for second thoughts.

The tunnel had widened, and where he found himself - still without any conscious control of the suit - was in a faceted chamber, bathed in the same putrid blue glow. The chamber was filled with odd hanging shapes, reminding him of reconstructions he had seen of the inside of a human cell. The shapes were all rectilinear, complexly interconnected rectangles and squares and rhomboids, forming hanging sculptures which subscribed to no recognisable aesthetic tendency.

‘What are they?’ he breathed.

‘Think of them as puzzles,’ Sun Stealer said. ‘The idea is that, as an intelligent explorer, you feel a curious urge to complete them, to move the shapes into the geometric configurations which are implied in the pieces.’

He could see what Sun Stealer meant. The nearest assemblage, for instance. It was obvious that with a few manipulations he could make the shapes into a tesseract . . . almost tempting . . .

‘I won’t do it,’ he said.

‘You won’t have to.’ And in demonstration, Sun Stealer made the limbs of his suit reach out towards the assemblage, which was much closer than he had first guessed. The suit fingers grasped for the first piece, swinging it effortlessly into place. ‘There will be other tests, other chambers,’ the alien said. ‘Your mental processes will be subjected to rigid scrutiny, and - later - your biology. I do not expect that the latter procedure will be especially pleasant. But neither will it be fatal. That would deter others, from which a broader picture of the enemy could be assembled.’ There was something almost like humour in the thing’s voice now; as if he had been long enough in human company to glean some of their manners. ‘You, alas, will be the only human representative to enter this device. But rest assured you will prove an excellent specimen.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ Sylveste said.

The first hint of alarm entered Sun Stealer’s implacable, noiseless voice. ‘Please explain.’

For a moment Sylveste did not oblige. ‘Calvin,’ he said. ‘There’s something I have to say.’ Even as he spoke, he was not really sure why he was doing so, not really sure who he was addressing. ‘When we were in the white light - when we shared everything, in the Hades matrix - there was something I found out; something I should have known years ago.’

‘About you, that is.’

‘About me, yes. About what I am.’ Sylveste wanted to cry, now, knowing that this would be his last chance, but his eyes did not allow that; they never had. ‘About why I can’t hate you, unless I want to turn that hatred against myself. If I ever really hated you in the first place.’

‘It didn’t really work, did it? What I made of you. It wasn’t the way I planned it. But I can’t say I’m disappointed with the way you turned out.’ Calvin corrected himself. ‘The way I turned out.’

‘I’m glad I found out, even if it has to be now.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘You already know. We shared everything, didn’t we?’ Sylveste found himself laughing. ‘Now you know my secrets, as well.’

‘Ah. You’re talking about that little secret, aren’t you?’

‘What?’ hissed Sun Stealer; voice like the radio crackle of distant quasars.

‘I guess you were privy to the conversations I had on the ship,’ he said, addressing the alien again. ‘When I let them think I’d been bluffing.’

‘Bluffing?’ it asked. ‘About what?’

‘About the hot-dust in my eyes,’ Sylveste said.

He laughed, louder this time. And then executed the series of neural triggers, long committed to memory, which initiated a cascade of events in the circuitry of his eyes, and - finally - in the tiny motes of contained antimatter embedded within them.

There was a light purer than any he had known, even in the portal which led to Hades.

And then there was nothing.

Volyova saw it first.

She was waiting for the Infinity to finish her off; watching the vast conic form of the vessel, dark as night, visible only because it blocked starlight, edging closer towards her with sharklike deliberation. Doubtless somewhere in its hugeness, systems were pondering over the matter of how to expedite her death in the most interesting manner. That was the only explanation for why it had not already killed her, since she was within strike-range of every one of its weapons. Perhaps Sun Stealer’s presence aboard the ship had given it a kind of sick sense of humour; a desire to put her to death with sadistic slowness; a process that commenced with this deathly wait for something to happen. Her imagination was now her worst enemy, efficiently reminding her of all the systems which might suit Sun Stealer’s purpose; the defences which could boil her over hours, or dismember her without killing her immediately (lasers which were tuned to cauterise flesh, for instance), or crush her (a squad of external servitors, for instance). Oh, the processes of her mind were a glorious thing. And it was, by and large, that same fertility which had given rise to so many possible modes of execution.

But then she saw it.

The flash, sparking from the surface of Cerberus, briefly marking the spot where the bridgehead was installed. It was as if, for a split second, a tremendous light had ignited within the world, only to be immediately dimmed.

Or a tremendous explosion.

She watched entrails of rock and scalded machinery puff into space.

Khouri took a moment to come to terms with the fact that she was not actually dead, despite the certainty she had felt that this would come to pass. At the very least, she had expected to wake transiently to pain, her last moments of consciousness before Hades pulled her apart; body and soul flensed by the monstrous talons of gravity around the neutron star. She had also expected to wake to the worst headache since the Mademoiselle had invoked her buried memories of the Dawn War. But this time it would be a headache of purely chemical origin.

They had found the drinks cabinet in the spider-room.

And they had drunk it empty.

But her head felt achingly clear of any intoxication, like a freshly scrubbed window. She had come to consciousness swiftly as well, with no groggy transition, as if there had been no existence in the instant before her eyes opened. But it was not in the spider-room. Now that she thought about it, she remembered waking; remembered the terrible onset of those tides; how she and Pascale had crawled to the midpoint of the room to lessen the differential stresses. But it had surely failed; they had known at that point there was no possible way to survive; that the only thing they could do was to somehow lessen the pain—

Where in hell’s name was she?

She had awakened with her back against a hard surface, unyielding as concrete. Above, the stars cartwheeled with insane speed through the sky, and there was something wrong with the way they moved; as if seen through a thick lens which stretched from horizon to horizon. She found she could move and struggled to her feet, almost toppling back as she did so.

She was wearing a suit.

She had not been wearing one in the spider-room. It was the same kind that she had used during her surface activities on Resurgam; the same kind that Sylveste would have taken with him into Cerberus. How could this be? If this experience was a dream, then it was unlike any she had known, because she could consciously question its contradictions without the whole edifice crumbling around her.

She was on a plain. It was the colour of cooling metal; almost but not quite bright enough to hurt the eye. It was as flat as a beach after the tide had retreated. The plain, now that she looked at it more closely, was patterned; not randomly, but in the intricately ordered manner of a Persian carpet. Between each level of patterning was another, until the ordering teetered on the edge of the microscopic and probably plunged down to even smaller realms, towards the subnuclear and the quantum. And it was shifting; blurring in and out of focus, never the same from moment to moment. Eventually it started to make her feel vaguely unwell, so she snapped her attention away to the horizon.

It seemed very close indeed.

She started walking. Her feet crunched into the flickering ground. The patterns rearranged themselves to create smooth stepping stones where she could plant her feet.

Something lay ahead.

It rose above the close curve of the horizon: a slight mound, a raised plinth stark against the tumbling starscape. She approached it, and as she neared it she saw movement. The raised part was like the entrance to a subway, three low walls enclosing a series of descending steps, burrowing into the world.

The movement was a figure emerging from the depths; a woman. She heaved herself up the steps with strength and patience, as if she were taking the morning air for the first time. Unlike Khouri, she wore no spacesuit. In fact, she was dressed in exactly the way Khouri remembered her from the last time they were together.

It was Pascale Sylveste.

‘I’ve been waiting a long time,’ she said, her voice carrying across the airless black space between them.

‘Pascale?’

‘Yes,’ she said, and then qualified herself. ‘In a manner of speaking. Oh dear; this isn’t going to be easy to explain - and I’ve had so long to rehearse it . . .’

‘What happened, Pascale?’ It seemed impudent to ask her why she wasn’t wearing a suit; why she wasn’t dead. ‘Where is this?’

‘Haven’t you guessed yet?’

‘Sorry to disappoint you.’

Pascale smiled sympathetically. ‘You’re on Hades. Remember that? The neutron star; the one which was pulling us in. Well, it wasn’t. A neutron star, I mean.’

‘On it?’

‘On it, yes. I don’t think you were expecting that.’

‘No; you could say that.’

‘I’ve been here as long as you have,’ Pascale said. ‘Which is only a few hours. But I’ve spent the time beneath the crust, where things happen a bit quicker. So it seems like considerably more than a few hours to me.’

‘How much more?’

‘Try a few decades . . . although time really doesn’t pass at all here, in some respects.’

Khouri nodded, as if all this made perfect sense. ‘Pascale . . . I think you need to explain . . .’

‘Good idea. I’ll do it on the way down.’

‘The way down where?’

She beckoned Khouri towards the stairs which descended into the cherry-red plain, as if she were inviting a neighbour indoors for cocktails.

‘Inside,’ Pascale said. ‘Into the matrix.’

Death had still not come.

Over the next hour, using the suit’s image-zoom overlay, Volyova watched the bridgehead slowly lose its form, like a piece of pottery being inexpertly shaped. Gradually it began to dissolve into the crust. It was being digested, having finally lost the battle against Cerberus.

Too soon; too soon.

The wrongness of it gnawed into her. She might be about to die, but she did not like seeing one of her creations fail, and - dammit - fail so prematurely.

Finally, unable to take any more, she turned towards the ship, pointing towards her with daggerlike intent, and spread her arms wide. She had no idea if the ship was capable of reading her vocal transmissions.

‘Come on then, svinoi. Finish me off. I’ve had enough. I don’t want to see any more. Get it over with.’

A hatch opened somewhere down the ship’s conic flank, briefly aglow with orange interior lighting. She half expected some nasty and dimly remembered weapon to cruise out; perhaps something she had knocked together in a spasm of drunken creativity.

Instead a shuttle emerged, and powered slowly towards her.

The way Pascale told it to Khouri, the neutron star was in fact nothing of the sort. Or at least it had been once, or would have been - had it not been for interference by some third party Pascale declined to talk about in any great detail. But the gist was simple. They had converted the neutron star into a giant, blindingly fast computer - one that, in some bizarre manner, was able to communicate with its own past and future selves.

‘What am I doing here?’ Khouri asked, as they descended the stairway. ‘No, better question: what are we doing here? And how do you know so much more than me all of a sudden?’

‘I told you; I was in the matrix for longer.’ Pascale paused on one of the steps. ‘Listen, Khouri - you might not like what I’m about to tell you. Namely, that you’re dead - for now, at least.’

Khouri was less surprised by this than she had expected. It seemed almost predictable.

‘We died in the gravitational tides,’ Pascale said matter-of-factly. ‘We got too close to Hades, and the tides pulled us apart. It wasn’t very pleasant, either - but most of your memories of it were never captured, so you don’t recall them now.’

‘Captured?’

‘According to all the normal laws, we should have been crushed to atoms. And in a sense we were. But the information which described us was preserved in the flow of gravitons between what remained of us and Hades. The force that killed us also recorded us, transmitted that information to the crust . . .’

‘Right,’ Khouri said slowly, prepared to take this as given for the time being. ‘And once we were transmitted into the crust?’

‘We were - um - simulated back to life. Of course, computation in the crust happens much faster than realtime - which is why I’ve spent several decades of subjective time in it.’

She sounded almost apologetic.

‘I don’t remember spending several decades anywhere.’

‘That’s because you didn’t. You were brought to life, but you didn’t want to stay here. You don’t remember any of that; you chose not to, in fact. There was nothing to keep you here.’

‘Implying there was something to keep you here?’

‘Oh yes,’ Pascale said, with wonder. ‘Oh yes. We’ll come to that.’

The stairwell reached its foot now, leading into a lanterned corridor, bright with randomly strewn fairytale lights. The walls, when she looked at them, were alive with the same computational shimmer she had seen on the surface. An impression of intense busyness; of unguessably complex machine algebra constantly churning just beyond her reach.

‘What am I?’ Khouri said. ‘What are you? You said I was dead. I don’t feel it. And I don’t feel like I’m being simulated in any matrix. I was out on the surface, wasn’t I?’

‘You’re flesh and blood,’ Pascale said. ‘You died, and you were recreated. Your body was reconstructed from the chemical elements already present in the matrix’s outer crust, and then you were reanimated, and quickened to consciousness. The suit you’re wearing - that came from the matrix as well.’

‘You mean someone wearing a suit got close enough to be killed by the tides?’

‘No . . .’ Pascale said carefully. ‘No; there’s another way into the matrix. A much easier way - or at least it once was.’

‘I should still be dead. Nothing can live on a neutron star. Or in it, for that matter.’

‘I told you; it isn’t one.’ And then she explained how it was possible; how the matrix itself was generating a pocket of tolerable gravity in which she could live; how it was achieved by the circulation deeper in the crust of awesome quantities of degenerate matter; perhaps as a computational by-product; perhaps not. But like a diverging lens, the flow focused gravity away from her, while equally ferocious forces kept the walls from crushing in at only fractionally less than the speed of light.

‘What about you?’

‘I’m not like you,’ Pascale said. ‘This body I’m wearing - that’s all it is, something to puppet; something in which to meet you. It’s formed from the same nuclear material as the crust. The neutrons are bound together by strange quarks, so I don’t fly apart under my own quantum pressure.’ She touched her forehead. ‘But I’m not doing any thinking. That’s going on all around you, in the matrix itself. You’ll excuse me - and this is going to sound terribly rude - but I’d find it mind-numbingly boring if I was forced into doing nothing except talk to you. As I said, our computational rates are highly divergent. You’re not offended, are you? I mean, it’s nothing personal, I hope you understand.’

‘Forget it,’ Khouri said. ‘I’m sure I’d feel the same.’

The corridor widened out now, into what seemed to be a well-appointed scientific study, from any time in the last five or six centuries. The room’s predominant colour was brown, the brown of age: on the wooden shelves which ran along its walls, on the browning spines of the ancient paper books arrayed along those shelves, the lustrous brown of the mahogany desk, and the golden-brown metal of the antique scientific tools placed around the desk’s periphery for effect. Wooden cabinets buttressed the walls which did not carry shelves, and in them hung yellowing bones; alien bones which at first glance might be mistaken for the fossils of dinosaurs or large, extinct flightless birds, provided one did not pay undue attention to the capaciousness of the alien skull, the roominess of the mind it had surely once entrapped.

There were examples of modern apparatus too: scanning devices, advanced cutting instruments, racks of eidetics and holographic storage wafers. A servitor of intermediate modernity waited inertly in one corner, head slightly bowed, like a trusty retainer taking a well-earned snooze while still on his feet.

In one wall, slatted windows overlooked an arid, windswept terrain of mesas and precarious rock formations, bathed in the reddish light of a setting sun, already disappearing behind the chaotic horizon.

And at the desk - rising from it as they entered the room, as if disturbed from concentration - was Sylveste.

She looked into his eyes - human eyes - for the first time, in what passed for the flesh.

For a moment he looked annoyed by their intrusion, but his expression softened until half a smile played across his features. ‘I’m glad you took the time to visit us,’ he said. ‘And I hope Pascale has explained all that you asked of her.’

‘Most of it,’ Khouri said, stepping further into the study, marvelling at the fastidiousness of its recreation. It was as good as any simulation she had ever experienced. Yet - and the thought was as impressive as it was frightening - every single object in this room was moulded from nuclear matter, at densities so large that, ordinarily, the smallest paperweight on his desk would have exerted a fatal gravitational pull, even from halfway across the room. ‘But not all of it. How did you get here?’

‘Pascale probably mentioned that there was another way into the matrix.’ He offered her the palms of his hands. ‘I found it, that’s all. Passed through it.’

‘And what happened to your . . .’

‘My real self?’ The smile had a quality of self-amusement now, as if he were enjoying some private joke too subtle to share. ‘I doubt that he survived. And frankly, it doesn’t really concern me. I’m the real me now. I’m all that I ever was.’

‘What happened in Cerberus?’

‘That’s a very long story, Khouri.’

But he told her anyway. How he had travelled into the world; how Sajaki’s suit had turned out to be an empty shell; how that realisation had done nothing but strengthen his resolve to push on further, and what, finally, he had found, in the final chamber. How he had passed into the matrix - at which point, his memories diverged from his other self. But when he told her he was sure that his other self was dead, he did so with such conviction that Khouri wondered if there was not another way of knowing; if some other, less tangible bond had linked them, right until the end.

There were things even Sylveste did not really understand; that much she sensed. He had not achieved godhead - or at least, not for more than an instant, when he bathed in the portal. Had that been a choice he had made subsequently? she wondered. If the matrix was simulating him; and if the matrix was essentially infinite in its computational capacity . . . what limits had been imposed on him, other than those he had consciously selected?

What she learnt was this: Carine Lefevre had been kept alive by part of the Shroud, but there had been nothing accidental about it.

‘It’s as if there were two factions,’ Sylveste said, toying with one of the brass microscopes on his desk, angling its little mirror this way and that, as if trying to catch the last rays of the setting sun. ‘One that wanted to use me to find out if the Inhibitors were still around, still capable of posing a threat to the Shrouders. And the other faction, which I don’t think cared for humanity any more than the first. But they were more cautious. They thought there had to be a better way, other than goading the Inhibitor device to see if it still generated a response.’

‘But what happens to us now? Who actually won? Was it Sun Stealer or the Mademoiselle?’

‘Neither,’ Sylveste said, placing the microscope back down again, its velvet base softly bumping against the desk. ‘At least, that’s my instinctual feeling. I think we - I - came close to triggering the device, close to giving it the stimulus it needed to alert the remaining devices and begin the war against humanity.’ He laughed. ‘Calling it a war implied it might have been a two-sided thing. But I don’t think it would have been like that at all.’

‘But you don’t think it got that far?’

‘I hope and I pray, that’s all.’ He shrugged. ‘Of course, I could be wrong. I used to say I was never wrong about anything, but that’s one lesson I have learnt.’

‘And what about the Amarantin, the Shrouders?’

‘Only time will tell.’

‘That’s all?’

‘I don’t have all the answers, Khouri.’ He looked around the room, as if appraising the volumes on the shelves, reassuring himself that they were still present. ‘Not even here.’

‘It’s time to go,’ Pascale said, suddenly. She had appeared at her husband’s side with a glass of something clear; vodka, maybe. She placed it on the desk, next to a polished skull the colour of parchment.

‘Where?’

‘Back into space, Khouri. Isn’t that what you want? You surely don’t want to spend the rest of eternity here.’

‘There’s nowhere to go,’ Khouri said. ‘You should know that, Pascale. The ship was against us; the spider-room destroyed; Ilia killed—’

‘She made it, Khouri. She wasn’t killed when the shuttle was destroyed.’

So she had managed to get into a suit - but what good did that do her? Khouri was about to question Pascale further, when she realised that whatever the woman told her was very likely to be true, no matter how unbelievable it seemed - and no matter how useless the truth, no matter how little difference it could possibly make.

‘What are you two going to do?’

Sylveste reached for the vodka glass and took a discreet sip. ‘Haven’t you guessed yet? This room isn’t just for your benefit. We inhabit it as well, except that we inhabit a simulated version in the matrix. And not just this room, but the rest of the base; just as it always was - except now we have it all to ourselves.’

‘Is that all?’

‘No . . . not quite.’

And then Pascale moved to his side and he put an arm around her waist and the two of them turned towards the slatted window; towards the red-drenched alien sunset, the arid landscape of Resurgam stretching away, lifeless.

And then it changed.

It began at the horizon; a sweeping wave of transformation which raced towards them with the speed of an oncoming day. Clouds burst into the sky, vast as empires; now the sky was bluer, even though the sun was still sinking towards dusk. And the landscape was no longer arid, but erupting into tumultuous greenery, a verdant tidal wave. She could see lakes, and trees, alien trees, and now roads, winding between egglike houses, clustered into hamlets and, on the horizon, a larger community, rising towards a single slender spire. She stared into the distance, and stared, struck dumb by the immensity of what she was seeing, which was an entire world returned to life, and - perhaps it was a trick of the eye; she would never know - she thought she saw them moving between the houses, moving with the speed of birds, but never leaving the ground; never reaching the air.

‘Everything that they ever were,’ Pascale said, ‘or most of it, at any rate, is stored in the matrix. This isn’t some archaeological reconstruction, Khouri. This is Resurgam, as they inhabit it now. Brought into being by sheer force of will, by those who survived. It’s a whole world, down to the smallest detail.’

Khouri looked around the room, and now she understood. ‘And you’re going to study it, aren’t you?’

‘Not just study it,’ Sylveste said, draining a little more of his vodka. ‘But live in it. Until it bores us, which - I suspect - won’t be any time now.’

And then she left them, in their study, to resume whatever deep and meaningful conversation they had put in abeyance while they entertained her.

She finished climbing the stairwell, stepping once more onto the surface of Hades. The crust was still aglow with red fire, still alive with computation. Now that she had been here for long enough to attune her senses, she realised that, all along, the crust had been drumming beneath her feet, as if a titanic engine were roaring in a basement. That, she supposed, was not far from the truth. It was an engine of simulation.

She thought of Sylveste and Pascale, commencing another day’s exploration of their fabulous new world. In the time since she had left them, years might have passed for them. That seemed to matter very little. She had the suspicion that they would only choose death when all else had ceased to hold their fascination. Which, as Sylveste had said, was not going to happen any time soon.

She turned on the suit communicator.

‘Ilia . . . can you hear me? Shit; this is stupid, but they said you might still be alive.’

There was nothing but static. Hopes crushed, she looked around at the searing plain and wondered what she was meant to do next.

Then: ‘Khouri, is that you? What business have you got still being alive?’

There was something very odd about her voice. It kept speeding up and slowing down, like she was drunk, but too ominously regular for that.

‘I could ask you the same thing. Last thing I remember is the shuttle going belly-up. You telling me you’re still out there, drifting?’

‘Better than that,’ Volyova said, voice whooshing up and down the spectrum. ‘I’m aboard a shuttle; do you hear that? I’m aboard a shuttle.’

‘How the—’

‘The ship sent it. The Infinity.’ For once, Volyova sounded breathless with excitement; as if this was something she had been desperately anxious to tell someone. ‘I thought it was going to kill me. That’s all I was waiting for; that final attack. But it didn’t come. Instead, the ship sent out a shuttle for me.’

‘This doesn’t make any sense. Sun Stealer should still be running it; should still be trying to finish us off . . .’

‘No,’ Volyova said, still with the same tone of childish delight, ‘no; it makes perfect sense - provided what I did worked, which I think it must have—’

‘What did you do, Ilia?’

‘I - um - let the Captain warm.’

‘You did what?’

‘Yes; it was rather a terminal approach to the problem. But I thought if one parasite was trying to gain control of the ship, the surest way to fight it was by unleashing an even more potent one.’ Volyova paused, as if awaiting Khouri’s confirmation that this had indeed been a sensible thing to do. When none came, she continued, ‘This was barely a day ago - do you know what that means? The plague must have transformed a substantial mass of the ship in only a few hours! The speed of the transformation must have been incredible; centimetres a second!’

‘Are you sure it was wise?’

‘Khouri, it’s probably the least wise thing I’ve ever done in my life. But it does seem to have worked. At the very least, we’ve swapped one megalomaniac for another - but this one doesn’t seem quite so dedicated to our destruction.’

‘I guess that’s a step in the right direction. Where are you now? Have you been back aboard yet?’

‘Hardly. No, I’ve spent the last few hours searching for you. Where the hell are you, Khouri? I can’t seem to get a meaningful fix on your location.’

‘You don’t really want to know.’

‘Well, we’ll see. But I want you aboard this ship as soon as possible. I’m not going back into the lighthugger alone, in case you had any doubts. I don’t think it’s going to look quite the way we remembered it. You - uh - can reach me, can’t you?’

‘Yes, I think so.’

Khouri did what she had been told she should do, when she wanted to leave the surface of Hades. It made very little sense, but Pascale had been quite insistent - she had said it was a message that the matrix would understand; one that would cause it to project its bubble of low-field gravity into space; a bottle in which she could ride to safety.

She spread arms wide, as if she had wings; as if she could fly.

The red ground - fluctuating, shimmering as ever - dropped smoothly away.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

Dear Newcomer,

Welcome to the Epsilon Eridani system.

Despite all that has happened, we hope your stay here will be a pleasant one. For your information we have compiled this document to explain some of the key events in our recent history. It is intended that this information will ease your transition into a culture which may be markedly different from the one you were expecting to find when you embarked at your point of origin. It is important that you realise that others have come before you. Their experiences have helped us shape this document in a manner designed to minimise the shock of cultural adjustment. We have found that attempts to gloss over or understate the truth of what happened - of what continues to happen - are ultimately harmful; that the best approach - based on a statistical study of cases such as yours - is to present the facts in as open and honest manner as possible.

We are fully aware that your initial response is likely disbelief, quickly followed by anger and then a state of protracted denial.

It is important to grasp that these are normal reactions.

It is equally important to grasp - even at this early stage - that there will come a time when you will adjust to and accept the truth. It might be days from now; it might even be weeks or months, but in all but a minority of cases it will happen. You might even look back upon this time and wish that you could have willed yourself to make the transition to acceptance quicker than you did. You will know that it is only when that process is accomplished that anything resembling happiness becomes possible.

Let us therefore begin the process of adjustment.

Due to the fundamental lightspeed limit for communication within the sphere of colonised space, news from other solar systems is inevitably out of date; often by decades or more. Your perceptions of our system’s main world, Yellowstone, are almost certainly based on outdated information.

It is certainly the case that for more than two centuries - until, in fact, the very recent past - Yellowstone was in thrall to what most contemporary observers chose to term the Belle Epoque. It was an unprecedented social and technological golden age; our ideological template seen by all to be an almost perfect system of governance.

Numerous successful ventures were launched from Yellowstone, including daughter colonies in other solar systems, as well as ambitious scientific expeditions to the edge of human space. Visionary social experiments were conducted within Yellowstone and its Glitter Band, including the controversial but pioneering work of Calvin Sylveste and his disciples. Great artists, philosophers and scientists flourished in Yellowstone’s atmosphere of hothouse innovation. Techniques of neural augmentation were pursued fearlessly. Other human cultures chose to treat the Conjoiners with suspicion, but we Demarchists - unafraid of the positive aspects of mind enhancement methods - established lines of rapport with the Conjoiners which enabled us to exploit their technologies to the full. Their starship drives allowed us to settle many more systems than cultures subscribing to inferior social models.

In truth, it was a glorious time. It was also the likely state of affairs which you were expecting upon your arrival.

This is unfortunately not the case.

Seven years ago something happened to our system. The exact transmission vector remains unclear even now, but it is almost certain that the plague arrived aboard a ship, perhaps in dormant form and unknown to the crew who carried it. It might even have arrived years earlier. It seems unlikely now that the truth will ever be known; too much has been destroyed or forgotten. Vast swathes of our digitally stored planetary history were erased or corrupted by the plague. In many cases only human memory remains intact . . . and human memory is not without its fallibilities.

The Melding Plague attacked our society at the core.

It was not quite a biological virus, not quite a software virus, but a strange and shifting chimera of the two. No pure strain of the plague has ever been isolated, but in its pure form it must resemble a kind of nano-machinery, analogous to the molecular-scale assemblers of our own medichine technology. That it must be of alien origin seems beyond doubt. Equally clear is the fact that nothing we have thrown against the plague has done more than slow it. More often than not, our interventions have only made things worse. The plague adapts to our attacks; it perverts our weapons and turns them against us. Some kind of buried intelligence seems to guide it. We don’t know whether the plague was directed toward humanity - or whether we have just been terribly unlucky.

At this point, based on our prior experiences, your most likely reaction is to assume that this document is a hoax. Our experience has also shown that our denying this will accelerate the process of adjustment by a small but statistically significant factor.

This document is not a hoax.

The Melding Plague actually happened, and its effects were far worse than you are currently capable of imagining. At the time of the plague’s manifestation our society was supersaturated by trillions of tiny machines. They were our unthinking, uncomplaining servants, givers of life and shapers of matter, and yet we barely gave them a moment’s thought. They swarmed tirelessly through our blood. They toiled ceaselessly in our cells. They clotted our brains, linking us all into the Demarchy’s web of near-instantaneous decision-making. We moved through virtual environments woven by direct manipulation of the brain’s sensory mechanisms, or scanned and uploaded our minds into lightning-fast computer systems. We forged and sculpted matter on the scale of mountains; wrote symphonies out of matter; caused it to dance to our whims like tamed fire. Only the Conjoiners had taken a step closer to Godhead . . . and some said we were not far behind them.

Machines grew our orbiting city-states from raw rock and ice, and then bootstrapped inert matter towards life within their biomes. Thinking machines ran those city-states, shepherding the ten thousand habitats of the Glitter Band as they processed around Yellowstone. Machines made Chasm City what it was; shaping its amorphous architecture towards a fabulous and phantasmagoric beauty.

All that is gone.

It was worse than you are thinking. If the plague had only killed our machines, millions would still have died, but that would have been a manageable catastrophe, something from which we could have recovered. But the plague went beyond mere destruction, into a realm much closer to artistry, albeit an artistry of a uniquely perverted and sadistic kind. It caused our machines to evolve uncontrollably - out of our control, at least - seeking bizarre new symbioses. Our buildings turned into Gothic nightmares, trapping us before we could escape their lethal transfigurations. The machines in our cells, in our blood, in our heads, began to break their shackles - blurring into us, corrupting living matter. We became glistening, larval fusions of flesh and machine. When we buried the dead they kept growing, spreading together, fusing with the city’s architecture.

It was a time of horror.

It is not yet over.

And yet, like any truly efficient plague, our parasite was careful not to kill its host population entirely. Tens of millions died - but tens of millions more reached some kind of sanctuary, hiding within hermetically sealed enclaves in the city or orbit. Their medichines were given emergency destruct orders, converting themselves to dust which was flushed harmlessly out of the body. Surgeons worked furiously to tear implants from heads before traces of the plague reached them. Other citizens, too strongly wedded to their machines to give them up, sought a kind of escape in reefersleep. They elected to be buried in sealed community cryocrypts . . . or to leave the system entirely. Meanwhile, tens of millions more poured into Chasm City from orbit, fleeing the destruction of the Glitter Band. Some of those people had been amongst the wealthiest in the system, yet now they were as poor as any historical refugees. What they found in Chasm City could hardly have comforted them . . .

- Excerpt from an introductory document for newcomers, freely available in circum-Yellowstone space, 2517

ONE

Darkness was falling as Dieterling and I arrived at the base of the bridge.

‘There’s one thing you need to know about Red Hand Vasquez,’ Dieterling said. ‘Don’t ever call him that to his face.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because it pisses him off.’

‘And that’s a problem?’ I brought our wheeler to near-halt, then parked it amongst a motley row of vehicles lining one side of the street. I dropped the stabilisers, the overheated turbine smelling like a hot gun barrel. ‘It’s not like we usually worry about the feelings of low-lives,’ I said.

‘No, but this time it might be best to err on the side of caution. Vasquez may not be the brightest star in the criminal firmament, but he’s got friends and a nice little line in extreme sadism. So be on your best behaviour.’

‘I’ll give it my best shot.’

‘Yeah - and do your best not to leave too much blood on the floor in the process, will you?’

We got out of the wheeler, both of us craning our necks to take in the bridge. I’d never seen it before today - this was my first time in the Demilitarised Zone, let alone Nueva Valparaiso - and it had looked absurdly large even when we’d been fifteen or twenty kilometres out of town. Swan had been sinking towards the horizon, bloated and red except for the hot glint near its heart, but there’d still been enough light to catch the bridge’s thread and occasionally pick out the tiny ascending and descending beads of elevators riding it to and from space. Even then I’d wondered if we were too late - if Reivich had already made it aboard one of the elevators - but Vasquez had assured us that the man we were hunting was still in town, simplifying his web of assets on Sky’s Edge and moving funds into long-term accounts.

Dieterling strolled round to the back of our wheeler - with its overlapping armour segments the mono-wheeled car looked like a rolled-up armadillo - and popped open a tiny luggage compartment.

‘Shit. Almost forgot the coats, bro.’

‘Actually, I was sort of hoping you would.’

He threw me one. ‘Put it on and stop complaining.’

I slipped on the coat, easing it over the layers of clothing I already wore. The coat hems skimmed the street’s puddles of muddy rainwater, but that was the way aristocrats liked to wear them, as if daring others to tread on their coat-tails. Dieterling shrugged on his own coat and began tapping through the patterning options embossed around the sleeve, frowning in distaste at each sartorial offering. ‘No. No . . . No. Christ no. No again. And this won’t do either.’

I reached over and thumbed one of the tabs. ‘There. You look stunning. Now shut up and pass me the gun.’

I’d already selected a shade of pearl for my own coat, a colour which I hoped would provide a low-contrast background for the gun. Dieterling retrieved the little weapon from a jacket pocket and offered it to me, just as if he were passing me a packet of cigarettes.

The gun was tiny and semi-translucent, a haze of tiny components visible beneath its smooth, lucite surfaces.

It was a clockwork gun. It was made completely out of carbon - diamond, mostly - but with some fullerenes for lubrication and energy-storage. There were no metals or explosives in it; no circuitry. Only intricate levers and ratchets, greased by fullerene spheres. It fired spin-stabilised diamond flèchettes, drawing its power from the relaxation of fullerene springs coiled almost to breaking point. You wound it up with a key, like a clockwork mouse. There were no aiming devices, stabilising systems or target acquisition aids.

None of which would matter.

I slipped the gun into my coat pocket, certain that none of the pedestrians had witnessed the handover.

‘I told you I’d sort you out with something tasty,’ Dieterling said.

‘It’ll do.’

‘Do? Tanner; you disappoint me. It’s a thing of intense, evil beauty. I’m even thinking it might have distinct hunting possibilities.’

Typical Miguel Dieterling, I thought; always seeing the hunting angle in any given situation.

I made an effort at smiling. ‘I’ll give it back to you in one piece. Failing that, I know what to get you for Christmas.’

We started walking towards the bridge. Neither of us had been in Nueva Valparaiso before, but that didn’t matter. Like a good many of the larger towns on the planet, there was something deeply familiar about its basic layout, even down to the street names. Most of our settlements were organised around a deltoid street pattern, with three main thoroughfares stretching away from the apexes of a central triangle about one hundred metres along each side. Surrounding that core would typically be a series of successively larger triangles, until the geometric order was eroded in a tangle of random suburbs and redeveloped zones. What they did with the central triangle was up to the settlement in question, and usually depended on how many times the town had been occupied or bombed during the war. Only very rarely would there be any trace of the delta-winged shuttle around which the settlement had sprung.

Nueva Valparaiso had started out like that, and it had all the usual street names: Omdurman, Norquinco, Armesto and so on - but the central triangle was smothered beneath the terminal structure of the bridge, which had managed to be enough of an asset to both sides to have survived unscathed. Three hundred metres along each side, it rose sheer and black like the hull of a ship, but encrusted and scabbed along its lower levels by hotels, restaurants, casinos and brothels. But even if the bridge hadn’t been visible, it was obvious from the street itself that we were in an old neighbourhood, close to the landing site. Some of the buildings had been made by stacking freight pods on top of each other, each pod punctured with windows and doors and then filigreed by two and a half centuries of architectural whimsy.

‘Hey,’ a voice said. ‘Tanner fucking Mirabel.’

He was leaning in a shadowed portico like someone with nothing better to do than watch insects crawl by. I’d only dealt with him via telephone or video before - keeping our conversations as brief as possible - and I’d been expecting someone a lot taller and a lot less ratlike. His coat was as heavy as the one I was wearing, but his looked like it was constantly on the point of slipping off his shoulders. He had ochre teeth which he had filed into points, a sharp face full of uneven stubble and long black hair which he wore combed back from a minimalist forehead. In his left hand was a cigarette which he periodically pushed to his lips, while his other hand - the right one - vanished into the side pocket of his coat and showed no sign of emerging.

‘Vasquez,’ I said, showing no surprise that he had trailed Dieterling and me. ‘I take it you’ve got our man under surveillance?’

‘Hey, chill out, Mirabel. That guy doesn’t take a leak without me knowing it.’

‘He’s still settling his affairs?’

‘Yeah. You know what these rich kids are like. Gotta take care of business, man. Me, I’d be up that bridge like shit on wheels.’ He jabbed his cigarette in Dieterling’s direction. ‘The snake guy, right?’

Dieterling shrugged. ‘If you say so.’

‘That’s some cool shit; hunting snakes.’ With his cigarette hand he mimed aiming and firing a gun, doubtless drawing a bead on an imaginary hamadryad. ‘Think you can squeeze me in on your next hunting trip?’

‘I don’t know,’ Dieterling said. ‘We tend not to use live bait. But I’ll talk to the boss and see what we can arrange.’

Red Hand Vasquez flashed his pointed teeth at us. ‘Funny guy. I like you, Snake. But then again you work for Cahuella, I gotta like you. How is he anyway? I heard Cahuella got it just as badly as you did, Mirabel. In fact I’m even hearing some vicious rumours to the effect that he didn’t make it.’

Cahuella’s death wasn’t something we were planning on announcing right now; not until we had given some thought to its ramifications - but news had evidently reached Nueva Valparaiso ahead of us.

‘I did my best for him,’ I said.

Vasquez nodded slowly and wisely, as if some sacred belief of his had just been proved valid.

‘Yeah, that’s what I heard.’ He put his left hand on my shoulder, keeping his cigarette away from the coat’s pearl-coloured fabric. ‘I heard you drove halfway across the planet with a missing leg, just so you could bring Cahuella and his bitch home. That’s some heroic shit, man, even for a white-eye. You can tell me all about it over some pisco sours, and Snake can pencil me in for his next field trip. Right, Snake?’

We continued walking in the general direction of the bridge. ‘I don’t think there’s time for that,’ I said. ‘Drinks, I mean.’

‘Like I said, chill.’ Vasquez strolled ahead of us, still with one hand in his pocket. ‘I don’t get you guys. All it would take is a word from you, and Reivich wouldn’t even be a problem any more, just a stain on the floor. The offer’s still open, Mirabel.’

‘I have to finish him myself, Vasquez.’

‘Yeah. That’s what I heard. Like some kind of vendetta deal. You had something going with Cahuella’s bitch, didn’t you?’

‘Subtlety’s not your strong point, is it, Red?’

I saw Dieterling wince. We walked on in silence for a few more paces before Vasquez stopped and turned to face me.

‘What did you say?’

‘I heard they call you Red Hand Vasquez behind your back.’

‘And what the fuck business of yours would it be if they did?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. On the other hand, what business is it of yours what went on between me and Gitta?’

‘All right, Mirabel.’ He took a longer than usual drag on his cigarette. ‘I think we understand each other. There are things I don’t like people asking about, and there are things you don’t like people asking about. Maybe you were fucking Gitta, I don’t know, man.’ He watched as I bridled. ‘But like you said, it wouldn’t be my business. I won’t ask again. I won’t even think about it again. But do me a favour, right? Don’t call me Red Hand. I know that Reivich did something pretty bad to you out in the jungle. I hear it wasn’t much fun and you nearly died. But get one thing clear, all right? You’re outnumbered here. My people are watching you all the time. That means you don’t want to upset me. And if you do upset me, I can arrange for shit to happen to you that makes what Reivich did seem like a fucking teddy bears’ picnic.’

‘I think,’ Dieterling said, ‘that we should take the gentleman at his word. Right, Tanner?’

‘Let’s just say we both touched a nerve,’ I said, after a long hard silence.

‘Yeah,’ Vasquez said. ‘I like that. Me and Mirabel, we’re hair-trigger guys and we gotta have some respect for each other’s sensibilities. Copacetic. So let’s go drink some pisco sours while we wait for Reivich to make a move.’

‘I don’t want to get too far from the bridge.’

‘That won’t be a problem.’

Vasquez cleaved a path before us, pushing through the evening strollers with insouciant ease. Accordion music ground out of the lowest floor of one of the freight pod buildings, slow and stately as a dirge. There were couples out walking - locals rather than aristocrats, for the most part, but dressed as well as their means allowed: genuinely at ease, good-looking young people with smiles on their faces as they looked for somewhere to eat or gamble or listen to music. The war had probably touched their lives in some tangible way; they might have lost friends or loved ones, but Nueva Valparaiso was sufficiently far from the killing fronts that the war did not have to be uppermost in their thoughts. It was hard not to envy them; hard not to wish that Dieterling and I could walk into a bar and drink ourselves into oblivion; forgetting the clockwork gun; forgetting Reivich; forgetting the reason I had come to the bridge.

There were, of course, other people out tonight. There were soldiers on furlough, dressed in civilian clothes but instantly recognisable, with their aggressively cropped hair, galvanically boosted muscles, colour-shifting chameleoflage tattoos on their arms, and the odd asymmetric way their faces were tanned, with a patch of pale flesh around one eye where they normally peered through a helmet-mounted targeting monocle. There were soldiers from all sides in the conflict mingling more or less freely, kept out of trouble by wandering DMZ militia. The militia were the only agency allowed to carry weapons within the DMZ, and they brandished their guns in starched white gloves. They weren’t going to touch Vasquez, and even if we hadn’t been walking with him, they wouldn’t have bothered Dieterling and me. We might have looked like gorillas stuffed into suits, but it would be hard to mistake us for active soldiers. We both looked too old, for a start; both of us pushing middle age. On Sky’s Edge that meant essentially what it had meant for most of human history: two to three-score years.

Not much for half a human life.

Dieterling and I had both kept in shape, but not to the extent that would have marked us as active soldiers. Soldier musculature never looked exactly human to begin with, but it had definitely become more extreme since I was a white-eye. Back then you could just about argue that you needed boosted muscles to carry around your weapons. The equipment had improved since then, but the soldiers on the street tonight had bodies that looked as if they had been sketched in by a cartoonist with an eye for absurd exaggeration. In the field the effect would be heightened by the lightweight weapons which were now in vogue: all those muscles to carry guns a child could have held.

‘In here,’ Vasquez said.

His place was one of the structures festering around the base of the bridge itself. He steered us into a short, dark alley and then through an unmarked door flanked by snake holograms. The room inside was an industrial-scale kitchen filled with billowing steam. I squinted and wiped perspiration from my face, ducking under an array of vicious cooking utensils. I wondered if Vasquez had ever used them in any extra-culinary activities.

I whispered to Dieterling, ‘Why is he so touchy about being called Red Hand anyway?’

‘It’s a long story,’ Dieterling said, ‘and it isn’t just the hand.’

Now and then a bare-chested cook would emerge from the steam on some errand, face half-concealed behind a plastic breathing mask. Vasquez spoke to two of them while Dieterling picked up something from a pan - dipping his fingers nimbly into the boiling water - and nibbled it experimentally.

‘This is Tanner Mirabel, a friend of mine,’ Vasquez said to the senior cook. ‘Guy used to be a white-eye, so don’t fuck with him. We’ll be here for a while. Bring us something to drink. Pisco sours. Mirabel, you hungry?’

‘Not really. And I think Miguel’s already helping himself.’

‘Good. But I think the rat’s a touch off tonight, Snake.’

Dieterling shrugged. ‘I’ve tasted a lot worse, believe me.’ He popped another morsel into his mouth. ‘Mm. Pretty good rat, actually. Norvegicus, right?’

Vasquez led us beyond the kitchen into an empty gambling parlour. At first I thought we had the place to ourselves. Discreetly lit, the room was sumptuously outfitted in green velvet, with burbling hookahs situated on strategic pedestals. The walls were covered in paintings all done in shades of brown - except that when I looked closer I realised they were not paintings at all, but pictures made of different pieces of wood, carefully cut and glued together. Some of the pieces even had the slight shimmer which showed that they had been cut from the bark of a hamadryad tree. The pictures were all on a common theme: scenes from the life of Sky Haussmann. There were the five ships of the Flotilla crossing space from Earth’s system to ours. There was Titus Haussmann, torch in hand, finding his son alone and in the darkness after the great blackout. There was Sky visiting his father in the infirmary aboard the ship, before Titus died of the injuries he had sustained defending the Santiago against the saboteur. There, also rendered exquisitely, was Sky Haussmann’s crime and glory; the thing he had done to ensure that the Santiago reached this world ahead of the other ships in the Flotilla, the ship’s sleeper modules falling away like dandelion seeds. And, in the last picture of all, was the punishment the people had wrought on Sky: crucifixion.

Dimly I remembered that it had happened near here.

But the room was more than simply a shrine to Haussmann. Alcoves spaced around the room’s perimeter contained conventional gambling machines, and there were half-a-dozen tables where games would obviously take place later that night, although no one was actually playing at the moment. All I heard was the scurrying of rats somewhere in the shadows.

But the room’s centrepiece was a hemispherical dome, perfectly black and at least five metres wide, surrounded by padded chairs mounted on complicated telescopic plinths, elevated three metres above the floor. Each chair had an arm inset with gambling controls, while the other held a battery of intravenous devices. About half the chairs were occupied, but by figures so perfectly still and deathlike that I hadn’t even registered them when I entered the room. They were slumped back in their seats, their faces slack and their eyes closed. They all bore that indefinable aristocrat glaze: an aura of wealth and untouchability.

‘What happened?’ I said. ‘Forgot to throw them out after you locked up this morning?’

‘No. They’re pretty much a permanent fixture, Mirabel. They’re playing a game that lasts months; betting on the long-term outcome of ground campaigns. It’s quiet now due to the rains. Almost like there isn’t a war after all. But you should see it when the shit starts flying around.’

There was something about the place I didn’t like. It wasn’t just the display of Sky Haussmann’s story, though that was a significant part of it.

‘Maybe we should be moving on, Vasquez.’

‘And miss your drinks?’

Before I had decided what to say the head cook came in, still breathing noisily through his plastic mask. He propelled a little trolley loaded with drinks. I shrugged and helped myself to a pisco sour, then nodded at the décor.

‘Sky Haussmann’s a big deal round here, isn’t he?’

‘More than you realise, man.’

Vasquez did something and the hemisphere flicked into life, suddenly no longer fully dark but an infinitely detailed view of one half of Sky’s Edge, with an edge of black rising from the floor like a lizard’s nictitating membrane. Nueva Valparaiso was a sparkle of lights on the Peninsula’s western coastline, visible through a crack in the clouds.

‘Yeah?’

‘People around here can be quite religious, you know. You can easily tread on their beliefs, you’re not careful. Gotta be respectful, man.’

‘I heard they based a religion around Haussmann. That’s about as far as my knowledge goes.’ Again, I nodded at the décor, noticing for the first time what looked like the skull of a dolphin stuck to one wall, oddly bumped and ridged. ‘What happened? Did you buy this place from one of Haussmann’s nutcases?’

‘Not exactly, no.’

Dieterling coughed. I ignored him.

‘What, then? Did you buy into it yourself?’

Vasquez extinguished his cigarette and pinched the bridge of his nose, furrowing what little forehead he had. ‘What’s going on here, Mirabel? Are you trying to wind me up, or are you just an ignorant cocksucker?’

‘I don’t know. I thought I was just making polite conversation.’

‘Yeah, right. And you just happened to call me Red earlier on; like it just slipped out.’

‘I thought we were over that.’ I sipped my pisco. ‘I wasn’t trying to rile you, Vasquez. But it strikes me that you’re an unusually touchy fellow.’

He did something. It was a tiny gesture which he made with one hand, like someone clicking their fingers once.

What happened next was too fast for the eye to see; just a subliminal blur of metal and a breezelike caress of air currents being pushed around the room. Extrapolating backwards, I concluded that a dozen or so apertures must have slid or irised open around the room - in the walls, the floor and the ceiling, most likely - releasing machines.

They were automated sentry drones, hovering black spheres which split open along their equators to reveal three or four gun barrels apiece, which locked onto Dieterling and me. The drones orbited slowly around us, humming like wasps, bristling with belligerence.

Neither of us breathed for a few long moments, but it was Dieterling who chose to speak in the end.

‘I guess we’d be dead if you were really pissed off at us, Vasquez.’

‘You’re right, but it’s a fine line, Snake.’ He raised his voice. ‘Safe mode on.’ Then he made the same finger-clicking gesture he had done before. ‘You see that, man? It looked pretty similar to you, didn’t it? But not to the room it didn’t. If I hadn’t turned the system off, it would have interpreted that as an order to execute everyone here except myself and the fat fucks in the gaming seats.’

‘I’m glad you practised it,’ I said.

‘Yeah, laugh about it, Mirabel.’ He made the gesture again. ‘That looked the same as well, didn’t it? But that wasn’t quite the same command either. That would have told the sentries to blow your arms off, one at a time. The room’s programmed to recognise at least twelve more gestures - and believe me, after some of ’em I really get stung for the cleaning bill.’ He shrugged. ‘Can I consider my point adequately made?’

‘I think we’ve got the message.’

‘All right. Safe mode off. Sentries retire.’

The same blur of motion; the same breeze. It was as if the machines had simply snapped out of existence.

‘Impressed?’ Vasquez asked me.

‘Not really,’ I said, feeling prickles of sweat across my brow. ‘With the right security set-up, you’d already have screened anyone who’d got this far. But I suppose it breaks the ice at parties.’

‘Yeah, it does that.’ Vasquez looked at me amusedly, evidently satisfied that he’d achieved the desired effect.

‘What it also does is make me wonder why you’re so touchy.’

‘You were in my shoes, you’d be a fuck of a lot more than touchy.’ Then he did something that surprised me, taking his hand from his pocket, slowly enough that I had time to see there was no weapon there. ‘You see this, Mirabel?’

I don’t know quite what I was expecting, but the clenched fist he showed me looked normal enough. There was nothing deformed or unusual about it. Nothing, in fact, particularly red about it.

‘It looks like a hand, Vasquez.’

He clenched the fist even harder and then something odd happened. Blood began to trickle out of his grip; slowly at first, but in an increasingly strong flow. I watched it spatter on the floor, scarlet on green.

‘That’s why they call me what they do. Because I bleed from my right hand. Fucking original, right?’ He opened the fist, revealing blood pouring out of a small hole somewhere near the middle of his palm. ‘Here’s the deal. It’s a stigma; like a mark of Christ.’ With his good hand he reached into his other pocket and pulled out a kerchief, wadding it into a ball and pressing it against the wound to staunch the flow. ‘I can almost will it to happen sometimes.’

‘Haussmann cultists got to you, didn’t they,’ Dieterling said. ‘They crucified Sky as well. They drove a nail into his right hand.’

‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

‘Shall I tell him?’

‘Be my guest, Snake. The man clearly needs educating.’ Dieterling turned to me. ‘Haussmann’s cultists split up into a number of different sects over the last century or so. Some of them took their ideas from penitential monks, trying to inflict on themselves some of the pain Sky must have gone through. They lock themselves away in darkness until the isolation almost drives them insane, or makes them start seeing things. Some of them cut off their left arms; some even crucify themselves. Sometimes they die in the process.’ He paused and looked at Vasquez, as if seeking permission to continue. ‘But there’s a more extreme sect that does all that and more. And they don’t stop there. They spread the message, not by word of mouth, or writing, but by indoctrinal virus.’

‘Go on,’ I said.

‘It must have been engineered for them; probably by Ultras, or maybe one of them even took a trip to see the Jugglers and they screwed around with his neurochemistry. It doesn’t matter. All that does is that the virus is contagious, transmittable through the air, and it infects almost everyone.’

‘Turning them into cultists?’

‘No.’ It was Vasquez speaking now. He had found a fresh cigarette for himself. ‘It fucks with you, but it doesn’t turn you into one of them, got that? You get visions, and you have dreams, and you sometimes feel the need . . .’ He paused, and nodded towards the dolphin jutting from the wall. ‘You see that fish skull? Cost me a fucking arm and a leg. Used to belong to Sleek; one of the ones on the ship. Having shit like that around comforts me; stops me shaking. But that’s as far as it goes.’

‘And the hand?’

Vasquez said, ‘Some of the viruses make physical changes happen. I was lucky, in a way. There’s one that makes you go blind; another that makes you scared of the dark; another that makes your left arm wither away and drop off. You know, a little blood now and again, it doesn’t bother me. At first, before many people knew about the virus, it was cool. I could really freak people out with it. Walk into a negotiation, you know, and start bleeding all over the other guy. But then people started finding out what it meant; that I’d been infected by cultists. ’

‘They started wondering if you were as razor-sharp as they’d heard,’ Dieterling said.

‘Yeah. Right.’ Vasquez looked at him suspiciously. ‘You build up a reputation like mine, it takes time.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ Dieterling said.

‘Yeah. And a little thing like this, man, it can really hurt it.’

‘Can’t they flush out the virus?’ I said, before Dieterling pushed his luck.

‘Yeah, Mirabel. In orbit, they’ve got shit that can do it. But orbit’s not currently on my list of safe places to visit, you know?’

‘So you live with it. It can’t be that infectious any more, can it?’

‘No; you’re safe. Everyone’s safe. I’m barely infectious now.’ Now that he was smoking again he was calming down a little. The bleeding had stopped and he was able to slip his wounded hand back in his pocket. He took a sip from his pisco sour. ‘Sometimes I wish it was still infectious, or that I’d saved some of my blood from back when I got infected. It would have made a nice going-away present, a little shot of that in someone’s vein.’

‘Except you’d be doing what the cultists always wanted you to do,’ Dieterling said. ‘Spreading their creed.’

‘Yeah, when instead I should be spreading the creed that if I ever catch the sick fuck who did this to me . . .’ He trailed off, distracted by something. He stared into the middle distance, like a man undergoing some kind of paralytic seizure, then spoke. ‘No. No way, man. I don’t believe it.’

‘What is it?’ I said.

Vasquez’s voice dropped subvocal, though I could see the way his neck muscles kept on moving. He must have been wired for communication with one of his people.

‘It’s Reivich,’ he said finally.

‘What about him?’ I asked.

‘The fucker’s outsmarted me.’

TWO

A maze of dark, damp passages connected Red Hand’s establishment to the interior of the bridge terminal, threading right through the structure’s black wall. He led us through the labyrinth with a torch, kicking rats out of the way.

‘A decoy,’ he said wonderingly. ‘I never figured he’d set up a decoy. I mean, we’ve been following this fucker for days.’ He said the last word as if it should have been months at the very least; implying superhuman foresight and planning.

‘The lengths some people’ll go to,’ I said.

‘Hey, ease off, Mirabel. It was your idea not to waste the guy the instant we saw him, which could easily have been arranged.’ He shouldered through a set of doors into another passageway.

‘It still wouldn’t have been Reivich, would it?’

‘No, but when we examined the body we might have figured out it wasn’t him, and then we could have started looking around for the real one.’

‘Guy’s got a point,’ Dieterling said. ‘Much as it pains me to admit it.’

‘One I owe you, Snake.’

‘Yeah, well, don’t let it go to your head.’

Vasquez sent another rat scurrying for the shadows. ‘So what really did happen out there, that made you want to get into this vendetta shit in the first place?’

I said, ‘You seemed reasonably well informed already.’

‘Well, word gets around, that’s all. Especially when someone like Cahuella buys the big one. Talk of a power-vacuum, that kind of shit. Thing is, I’m surprised either of you two made it out alive. I heard some extreme shit went down in that ambush.’

‘I wasn’t badly injured,’ Dieterling said. ‘Tanner was a lot worse off than me. He’d lost a foot.’

‘It wasn’t that bad,’ I said. ‘The beam weapon cauterised the wound and stopped the bleeding.’

‘Oh yeah, right,’ Vasquez said. ‘Just a flesh wound, then. I can’t get enough of you guys, I really can’t.’

‘Fine, but can we talk about something else?’

My reticence was more than simply an unwillingness to discuss the incident with Red Hand Vasquez. That was part of it, but an equally important factor was that I just didn’t remember the details with any clarity. I might have before I was put under for the recuperative coma - the one in which my foot was regrown - but now the whole incident felt like it had happened in the remote past, rather than a few weeks ago.

I’d sincerely believed that Cahuella would make it, though. At first he seemed to have been the lucky one: the laser pulse had gone right through him without cleaving any vital organs, just as if its trajectory had been mapped in advance by a skilled thoracic surgeon. But complications had set in, and without the means to reach orbit - he would have been arrested and executed as soon as he left the atmosphere - he was forced to accept the best black market medicine he could afford. It had been good enough to repair my leg, but that was exactly the kind of injury the war made commonplace. Complex damage to internal organs required an additional level of expertise which could simply not be bought on the black market.

So he’d died.

And here I was, chasing the man who’d killed Cahuella and his wife; aiming to take him down with a single diamond flèchette from the clockwork gun.

Back before I became a security expert in the employment of Cahuella; back when I was still a soldier, they used to say that I was such a proficient sniper that I could put a slug into someone’s head and take out a specific area of brain function. It wasn’t true; never had been. But I’d always been good, and I did like to make it clean and quick and surgical.

I sincerely hoped Reivich wouldn’t let me down.

To my surprise, the secret passageway opened directly into the heart of the anchorpoint terminal, emerging in a shadowed part of the main concourse. I looked back at the security barrier which we’d avoided; watching the guards scan people for concealed weapons; checking identities in case a war criminal was trying to get off the planet. The clockwork gun, still snug in my pocket, wouldn’t have shown up in those scans, which was one of the reasons why I’d opted for it. Now I felt a tinge of irritation that my careful planning had been partially wasted.

‘Gents,’ Vasquez said, lingering on the threshold, ‘this is as far as I go.’

‘I thought this place would be right up your street,’ Dieterling said, looking around. ‘What’s wrong? Scared you’d never want to leave again?’

‘Something like that, Snake.’ Vasquez patted the two of us on the back. ‘All right. Go and bring down that postmortal shit-smear, boys. Just don’t tell anyone I brought you here.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Dieterling said. ‘Your role in things won’t be overstated.’

‘Copacetic. And remember, Snake . . .’ He mimed firing a gun again. ‘That hunt we talked about . . . ?’

‘Consider yourself pencilled in, at least on a provisional basis.’

He vanished back into the tunnel, leaving Dieterling and me standing together in the terminal. For a few moments neither of us said anything, overwhelmed by the strangeness of the place.

We were in the surface-level concourse, a ring-shaped hall which encircled the embarkation and disembarkation chamber at the base of the thread. The concourse’s ceiling was many levels above, the intervening space criss-crossed by suspended walkways and transit tubes, with what had once been luxury shops, boutiques and restaurants set into the outer wall. Most of them were closed now, or had been converted into minor shrines or places where religious material could be purchased. There were very few people moving around, with hardly anyone arriving from orbit and only a handful of people walking towards the elevators. The concourse was darker than its designers must have intended, the ceiling scarcely visible, and the whole place had the quality of a cathedral in which, unseen but sensed, some sacred ceremony was taking place; an atmosphere that invited neither haste nor raised voices. At the very edge of hearing was a constant low hum, like a basement full of generators. Or, I thought, like a room full of chanting monks holding the same sepulchral note.

‘Has it always been like this?’ I said.

‘No. I mean, it’s always been a shithole, but it’s definitely worse than the last time I was here. It must have been different a month or so ago. The place would have been heaving. Most of the people for the ship would have had to come through here.’

The arrival of a starship around Sky’s Edge was always something of an event. Being a poor and moderately backwards planet compared with many of the other settled worlds, we were not exactly a key player in the shifting spectrum of interstellar trade. We didn’t export much, except the experience of war itself and a few uninteresting bio-products culled from the jungles. We would have happily bought all manner of exotic technological goods and services from the Demarchist worlds, but only the very wealthiest people on Sky’s Edge could afford them. When ships paid us a visit, speculation usually had it that they had been been frozen out of the more lucrative markets - the Yellowstone-Sol run, or the Fand-Yellowstone-Grand Teton run - or they had to stop anyway to make repairs. It happened about once every ten standard years, on average, and they always screwed us.

‘Is this really where Haussmann died?’ I asked Dieterling.

‘It was somewhere near here,’ he said as we crossed the concourse’s great, echoing floor. ‘They’ll never know exactly where because they didn’t have accurate maps back then. But it must have been within a few kilometres of here; definitely within the outskirts of Nueva Valparaiso. At first they were going to burn the body, but then they decided to embalm him; make it easier to hold him up as an example to others.’

‘But there was no cult then?’

‘No. He had a few fruitcake sympathisers, of course - but there was nothing ecclesiastical about it. That came afterwards. The Santiago was largely secular, but they couldn’t engineer religion out of the human psyche that easily. They took what Sky had done and fused his deeds with what they chose to remember from home; saving this and discarding that as they saw fit. It took a few generations until they had all the details worked out, but then there was no stopping them.’

‘And after the bridge was built?’

‘By then one of the Haussmann cults had gained possession of the body. The Church of Sky, they called themselves. And - for reasons of convenience, if nothing else - they’d decided that he must have died not just near the bridge but right under it. And that the bridge was not really a space elevator at all - or if it was, that was just a superficial function - but really a sign from God: a ready-made shrine to the crime and glory of Sky Haussmann.’

‘But people designed and built the bridge.’

‘Under God’s will. Don’t you understand? It’s nothing you can argue with, Tanner. Give up now.’

We passed a few cultists moving in the opposite direction, two men and a woman. I felt a jolt of familiarity when I saw them, but I couldn’t remember if I had ever seen any in the flesh before. They wore ash-coloured smocks and both sexes tended to wear their hair long. One man had a kind of mechanical coronet fixed on his skull - maybe some kind of pain-inducing device - while the other man’s left sleeve was pinned flatly to his side. The woman had a small dolphin-shaped mark on her forehead, and I remembered the way in which Sky Haussmann had befriended the dolphins aboard the Santiago; spending time with the creatures that the other crew shunned.

Recollection of that detail struck me as odd. Had someone told it to me before?

‘Have you got that gun ready?’ Dieterling said. ‘You never know. We might walk round the corner and find the bastard tying his shoelaces.’

I patted the gun to reassure myself that it was still there, then said, ‘I don’t think it’s our day to be lucky, Miguel.’

We stepped through a door set into the concourse’s inner wall, the sound of chanting monks now quite unmistakably human; sustaining a note that was almost but not quite perfect.

For the first time since entering the anchorpoint terminal, we could see the thread. The embarkation area into which we’d stepped was a huge circular room encircled by a balcony on which we stood. The true floor was hundreds of metres below us, and the thread plunged from above, emerging through the ceiling via an irised entrance door, then stretching down towards the point where it was truly anchored and where servicing machinery lurked to refurbish and repair the elevators. It was somewhere down there that the sound of the chanting was coming from; voices carried higher by the odd acoustics of the place.

The bridge was a single thin thread of hyperdiamond stretching all the way from ground to synchronous orbit. For almost its entire length it was only five metres in diameter (and most of that was hollow), except for the very last kilometre which dropped into the terminal itself. The thread here was thirty metres wide, tapering subtly as it rose. The extra width served a purely psychological function: too many passengers had balked at taking the journey to orbit when they saw how slender the thread they would be riding really was, so the bridge owners made the visible portion in the terminal much wider than it needed to be.

Elevator cars arrived and departed every few minutes or so, ascending and descending on opposite sides of the column. Each was a sleek cylinder curved to grip nearly half the thread, attached magnetically. The cars were multi-storeyed, with separate levels for dining, recreation and sleeping. They were mostly empty, their passenger compartments unlit as they glided up or down. There were a handful of people in only every fifth or sixth car. The empty cars were symptomatic of the bridge’s economic woes, but not a great problem in themselves. The expense of running them was tiny compared with the cost of the bridge; they had no impact on the schedule of the inhabited cars, and from a distance they looked as full as the others, conveying an illusion of busy prosperity which the bridge owners had long given up hoping would one day approach reality, since the Church had assumed tenancy. And the monsoon season may have given the illusion that the war was in its dog days, but plans were already drawn for the new season’s campaigns: the pushes and incursions already simulated in the battle-planners’ wargame computers.

A dizzyingly unsupported tongue of glass reached from the balcony to a point just short of the thread, leaving enough space for an elevator to arrive. Some passengers were already waiting on the tongue with their belongings, including a group of well-dressed aristocrats. But no Reivich, and no one in the party who resembled any of Reivich’s associates. They were talking amongst themselves or watching news reports on screens which floated around the chamber like square, narrow-bodied tropical fish, flickering with market reports and celebrity interviews.

Near the base of the tongue was a booth where elevator tickets were being sold; a bored-looking woman was behind the desk.

‘Wait here,’ I said to Dieterling.

The woman looked up at me as I approached the desk. She wore a crumpled Bridge Authority uniform and had purple crescents under her eyes, which were themselves bloodshot and swollen.

‘Yes?’

‘I’m a friend of Argent Reivich. I need to contact him urgently.’

‘I’m afraid that isn’t possible.’

It was no more than I was expecting. ‘When did he leave?’

Her voice was nasal; the consonants indistinct. ‘I’m afraid I can’t give out that information.’

I nodded shrewdly. ‘But you don’t deny that he passed through the terminal.’

‘I’m afraid I . . .’

‘Look, give it a rest, will you?’ I softened the remark with what I hoped was an accommodating smile. ‘Sorry, it wasn’t my intention to sound rude, but this happens to be very urgent. I have something for him, you see - a valuable Reivich family heirloom. Is there any way I can speak to him while he’s still ascending, or am I going to have to wait until he reaches orbit?’

The woman hesitated. Almost any information she divulged at this point would have contravened protocol - but I must have seemed so honest, so genuinely distressed by my friend’s omission. And so clearly rich.

She glanced down at a display. ‘You’ll be able to place a message for him to contact you when he arrives at the orbital terminus.’ Implying that he hadn’t yet arrived; that he was still somewhere above me, ascending the thread.

‘I think perhaps I’d better just follow him,’ I said. ‘That way, there’ll be the minimum of delay when he reaches orbit. I can just deliver the relevant item and return.’

‘I suppose that would make sense, yes.’ She looked at me, perhaps sensing something in my manner that was not as it should have been, but not trusting her own instincts sufficiently to obstruct my progress. ‘But you’ll have to hurry. The next departure’s almost ready for boarding.’

I looked back to the point where the tongue extended out to the thread, seeing an empty elevator slide up from the servicing area.

‘You’d better issue me with a ticket then.’

‘You’ll be needing a return, I presume?’ The woman rubbed at her eyes. ‘That’ll be five hundred and fifty Australs.’

I opened my wallet and pinched out the money, printed in crisp Southlander bills. ‘Scandalous,’ I said. ‘The amount of energy it actually costs the Bridge Authority to carry me to orbit, it should be a tenth the price. But I suppose some of that gets skimmed off by the Church of Sky.’

‘I’m not saying that doesn’t happen, but you shouldn’t speak ill of the Church, sir. Not here.’

‘No; that was what I heard. But you’re not one of them, are you?’

‘No,’ she said, handing me the change in smaller bills. ‘I just work here.’

The cultists had taken over the bridge a decade or so back, after they had convinced themselves that this place was where Sky had been crucified. They had stormed the place one evening before anyone realised quite what was happening. Haussmann’s followers claimed to have rigged the whole terminal with booby-trapped canisters primed with their virus, threatening to discharge them if there was any attempt at an eviction. The virus would carry far enough on the wind to infect half the Peninsula, if there was as much of it in the bridge as the cultists said. They might have been bluffing, but no one was prepared to take the risk of the cult forcing itself on millions of bystanders. So they held the bridge, and allowed the Bridge Authority to continue running it, even if it meant that the staff had to be constantly inoculated against any trace contamination. Given the side-effects of the anti-viral therapy, it obviously wasn’t the most popular work on the Peninsula - especially as it meant listening to the endless chanting of the cultists.

She handed me the ticket.

‘I hope I make it to orbit in time,’ I said.

‘The last elevator only left an hour ago. If your friend was on that one . . .’ She paused, and I knew there was no if about it. ‘The chances are very good that he’ll still be in the orbital terminal when you arrive.’

‘Let’s just hope he’s grateful, after all this.’

She almost smiled, then seemed to give up halfway through. It was a lot of effort, after all.

‘I’m sure he’ll be blown away.’

I pocketed the ticket, thanked the woman - miserable as she was, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for her having to work here - and then walked back to Dieterling. He was leaning on the low glass wall that surrounded the connecting tongue, looking down at the cultists. His expression was one of detached, watchful calm. I thought back to the time in the jungle when he had saved my life, during the hamadryad attack. He had worn the same neutral expression then: like a man engaged in a chess match against a completely outclassed opponent.

‘Well?’ he mouthed, when we were within earshot.

‘He’s already taken an elevator.’

‘When?’

‘About an hour ago. I’ve just bought a ticket for myself. Go and buy one as well, but don’t act as if we’re travelling together.’

‘Maybe I shouldn’t come with you, bro.’

‘You’ll be safe.’ I lowered my voice. ‘There won’t be any emigration checkpoints between here and the exit from the orbital terminal. You can ride up and down without getting arrested.’

‘Easy for you to say, Tanner.’

‘Yes, but still I’m telling you it’ll be safe.’

Dieterling shook his head. ‘Maybe it will be, but it still doesn’t make much sense for us to travel together; even in the same elevator. There’s no guessing how well Reivich has this place under surveillance.’

I was about to argue, but part of me knew that what he said was right. Like Cahuella, Dieterling couldn’t safely leave the surface of Sky’s Edge without running the risk of being arrested on war crimes charges. They were both listed in systemwide databases and - save for the fact that Cahuella was dead - they both had hefty bounties on their heads.

‘All right,’ I said. ‘I suppose there’s another reason for you to stay. I’ll be away from the Reptile House for some time now: three days at the very least. There should be someone competent looking after things back home.’

‘Are you certain you can handle Reivich on your own?’

I shrugged. ‘It takes only one shot, Miguel.’

‘And you’re the man to deliver it.’ He was visibly relieved. ‘Fine then; I’ll drive back to the Reptile House tonight. And I’ll be watching the newsfeeds avidly.’

‘I’ll try not to disappoint. Wish me well.’

‘I do.’ Dieterling reached out and shook my hand. ‘Be careful, Tanner. Just because there’s no bounty on your head, it doesn’t mean you’ll be able to walk away without doing a little explaining first. I’ll leave it to you to work out how to dispose of the gun.’

I nodded.

‘You miss it so badly, I’ll buy you one for your birthday.’

He looked at me for a long moment, as if on the point of saying something more, then nodded and turned away from the thread. I watched him leave the chamber, exiting back into the shadowed gloom of the concourse. He began to adjust the coloration of his coat as he walked; his broad-backed figure shimmered as it receded.

I turned around myself, facing the elevator, waiting for my ride. And then slipped my hand into my pocket, resting it against the diamond-hard coolness of the gun.

THREE

‘Sir? Dinner will be served on the lower deck in fifteen minutes, if you intend to join the other passengers.’

I jumped, not having heard anyone’s footsteps on the staircase which led up to the observation deck. I’d assumed I was completely alone. All the other passengers had retired to their rooms immediately upon boarding - the journey just long enough to justify unpacking their luggage - but I had gone up onto the observation deck to watch our departure. I had a room, but nothing that I needed to unpack.

The ascent had begun with ghostly smoothness. At first it hardly seemed like we were moving at all. There had been no sound, no vibration; just an eerily smooth glide moving imperceptibly slowly, but which was always gaining speed. I had looked down, trying to see the cultists, but the angle of the view made it impossible to see more than a few stragglers, rather than the mass that must have been directly below. We had just been passing through the ceiling iris when the voice had startled me.

I turned around. A servitor had spoken to me, not a man. It had extensible arms and an excessively stylised head, but instead of legs or wheels, its torso tapered to a point below the machine’s waist, like a wasp’s thorax. It moved around on a rail attached to the ceiling, to which the robot was coupled via a curved spar protruding from its back.

‘Sir?’ It began again, this time in Norte. ‘Dinner will be served . . .’

‘No; I understood you first time.’ I thought about the risk involved in mixing with real aristocrats, then decided that it was probably less than that involved in remaining suspiciously aloof. At least if I sat down with them I could provide them with a fictitious persona which might pass muster, rather than allowing their imaginations free rein to sketch in whatever details they wished to impose on this uncommunicative stranger. Speaking Norte now - I needed the practice - I said, ‘I’ll join the others in a quarter of an hour. I’d like to watch the view for a little while.’

‘Very well, sir. I shall prepare a place for you at the table.’

The robot rotated around and glided silently out of the observation deck.

I looked back to the view.

I’m not sure quite what I was expecting at that point, but it couldn’t have been anything at all like the thing that confronted me. We had passed through the upper ceiling of the embarkation chamber, but the anchorpoint terminal was much taller than that, so that we were still ascending through the upper reaches of the building. And it was here, I realised, that the cultists had achieved the highest expression of their obsession with Sky Haussmann. After his crucifixion they had preserved the body, embalming it and then encasing it in something that had the grey-green lustre of lead, and they had mounted him here, on a great, upthrusting prow that extended inward from one interior wall until it almost touched the thread. It made Haussmann’s corpse look like the figurehead fixed beneath the bowsprit of a great sailing ship.

They had stripped him to the waist, spread his arms wide and fixed him to a cross-shaped alloy spar. His legs were bound together, but a nail had been driven through the wrist of his right hand (not the palm; that was a detail the stigma-inducing virus got wrong) and a much larger piece of metal had been rammed through the upper part of his severed left arm. These details, and the expression of numb agony on Haussmann’s face, had been rendered mercifully indistinct by the encasing process. But while it was not really possible to read his features, every nuance of his pain was written into the arc of his neck; the way his jaw was clenched as if in the throes of electrocution. They should have electrocuted him, I thought. It would have been kinder, no matter the crimes he had committed.

But that would have been too simple. They were not just executing a man who had done terrible things, but glorifying a man who had also given them a whole world. In crucifying him, they were showing their adoration as fervently as their hate.

It had been like that ever since.

The elevator tracked past Sky, coming within metres of him, and I felt myself flinching; wishing that we could be clear of him as quickly as possible. It was as if the vast space was an echo chamber, reverberating with endless pain.

My palm itched. I rubbed it against the hand-rail, closing my eyes until we were free of the anchorpoint terminal; rising through night.

‘More wine, Mr Mirabel?’ asked the foxlike wife of the aristocrat sitting opposite me.

‘No,’ I said, dabbing my lips politely with the napkin. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll retire. I’d like to watch the view while we climb.’

‘That’s a shame,’ the woman said, pursing her own lips in a pout of disappointment.

‘Yes,’ said her husband. ‘We’ll miss your stories, Tanner.’

I smiled. In truth, I’d done little more than grimace my way through an hour of stilted smalltalk while we dined. I had salted the conversation with the odd anecdote now and then, but only to fill the awkward silences which fell across the table when one or other of the participants made what might, within the ever-shifting loom of aristocratic etiquette, be construed as an indelicate remark. More than once I had to resolve arguments between the northern and southern factions, and in the process of doing so I had become the group’s default speaker. My disguise must not have been absolutely convincing, for even the northeners seemed to realise that there was not automatically any affiliation between me and the southerners.

It hardly mattered, though. The disguise had convinced the woman in the ticket booth that I was an aristocrat, making her reveal more than she might have done otherwise. It had allowed me to blend in with these aristocrats, too - but sooner or later I would be able to discard it. I was not a wanted man, after all - just someone with a shady past and a few shady connections. There had been no harm in calling myself Tanner Mirabel, either - it was a lot safer than trying to come up with a convincing aristocrat lineage out of thin air. It was, thankfully, a neutral name that had no obvious connotations, aristocratic or otherwise. Unlike the rest of my dinner companions, I couldn’t trace my lineage back to the Flotilla’s arrival, and it was more than likely that the Mirabel name had arrived on Sky’s Edge half a century after that. In aristocrat terms I was posing as a parvenu lout - but no one would have been gauche enough to allude to that. They were all long-lived, tracing their lineages not just back to the Flotilla, but to the passenger manifest, with only one or two intervening generations - and it was perfectly natural to assume that I possessed the same augmented genes and access to the same therapeutic technologies.

But while the Mirabels probably had arrived on Sky’s Edge sometime after the Flotilla, they hadn’t brought any kind of germline longevity fix with them. Perhaps the first generation had lived a longer-than-normal human lifespan, but that advantage had not been passed to their offspring.

I didn’t have the money to buy it off the shelf, either. Cahuella had paid me adequately, but not so well that I could afford to be stung by the Ultras to that extent. And it almost didn’t matter. Only one in twenty of the planet’s population had the fix anyway. The rest of us were mired in a war, or scraping a living in the war’s interstices. The main problem was how to survive the next month, not the next century.

Which meant that the conversation took a decidedly awkward turn as soon as the subject matter turned to longevity techniques. I did my best to just sit back and let the words flow around me, but as soon as there was any kind of dispute I was pushed into the role of adjudicator. ‘Tanner will know,’ they said, turning to me to offer some definitive statement on whatever had provoked the stalemate.

‘It’s a complicated issue,’ I said, more than once.

Or: ‘Well, obviously there are deeper issues at stake here.’

Or: ‘It would be unethical of me to speak further on this topic, I’m afraid - confidentiality agreements and all that. You do understand, don’t you?’

After an hour or so of that, I was ready for some time on my own.

I stood from the table, made my excuses and left, stepping up the spiral staircase which led to the observation deck above the habitation and dining levels. The prospect of shedding the aristocratic skin pleased me, and for the first time in hours I felt the tiniest glow of professional contentment. Everything was in hand. When I reached the top I had the compartment’s servitor prepare me a guindado. Even the way the drink fogged my normal clarity of mind was not unpleasing. There was plenty of time to become sober again: it would be at least seven hours before I needed an assassin’s edge.

We were ascending quickly now. The elevator had accelerated to a climb rate of five hundred kilometres per hour as soon as it cleared the terminal, but even at that rate it would still have taken forty hours to make it to the orbital terminal, many thousands of kilometres above our heads. However, the elevator had quadrupled its speed once it no longer had to punch through atmosphere, which had happened somewhere during our first course.

I had the observation deck to myself.

The other passengers, when they had finished dining, would disperse through the five compartments above the dining area. The elevator could comfortably carry fifty people and not appear crowded, but there were only seven of us today, including myself. The total trip time was ten hours. The station’s revolution around Sky’s Edge was synchronised to the planet’s own daily rotation so that it always hung exactly over Nueva Valparaiso, dead above the equator. They had starbridges on Earth, I knew, which reached thirty-six thousand kilometres high - but because Sky’s Edge rotated a little faster and had a slightly weaker gravitational pull, synchronous orbit was sixteen thousand kilometres lower. The thread, nonetheless, was still twenty thousand kilometres long - and that meant that the top kilometre of thread was under quite shocking tension from the deadweight of the nineteen thousand kilometres of thread below it. The thread was hollow, the walls a lattice of piezo-electrically reinforced hyperdiamond, but the weight of it, I had heard, was still close to twenty million tonnes. Every time I made a footfall, as I moved around the compartment, I thought of the tiny additional stress my motion was imparting to the thread. Sipping my guindado, I wondered how close to its breaking strain the thread was engineered; how much tolerance the engineers built into the system. Then a more rational part of my mind reminded me that the thread was carrying only a tiny fraction of the traffic it could handle. I stepped with more confidence around the picture window.

I wondered if Reivich was calm enough to take a drink now.

The view should have been spectacular, but even where night had yet to fall the Peninsula was hidden under a blanket of monsoon cloud. Since the world huddled close to Swan in its orbit, monsoon season came once every hundred days or so, lasting no more than ten or fifteen days each short year. Above the sharply curved horizon the sky had darkened through shades of blue towards a deep navy. I could see bright stars now, and overhead lay the single fixed star of the orbital station at the high end of the thread, still a long way above us. I considered sleeping for a few hours, my soldiering years having given me an almost animal ability to snap into a state of total alertness. I swirled what remained of the drink and took another sip. Now that I had made up my mind, I felt fatigue rushing over me like a damburst. It was always there, waiting for the slightest relaxation in my guard.

‘Sir?’

I flinched again, only slightly this time, for I recognised the voice of the servitor. The machine’s cultured voice continued, ‘Sir, there is a call for you from the surface. I can have it sent through to your quarters, or you may view it here.’

I thought about going back to my room, but it was a shame to lose the view. ‘Put it through,’ I said. ‘But terminate the call should anyone else start coming up the stairs.’

‘Very well, sir.’

Dieterling, of course - it had to be. He wouldn’t have had time to get back to the Reptile House, although by my estimate he should have been about two-thirds of the way there. A shade early for him to try and contact me - and I hadn’t expected any contact anyway - but it was nothing to feel any anxiety about.

But instead, the face and shoulders that appeared in the elevator’s window belonged to Red Hand Vasquez. Somewhere in the room a camera must have been capturing me and adjusting my image to make it seem as if we were standing face to face, for he looked me straight in the eye.

‘Tanner. Listen to me, man.’

‘I’m listening,’ I said, wondering if the irritation I felt was obvious in my voice. ‘What was so important that you needed to reach me here, Red?’

‘Fuck you, Mirabel. You won’t be smiling in about thirty seconds. ’ But the way he said it made it seem less like a threat than a warning to prepare for bad news.

‘What is it? Reivich pulled another fast one on us?’

‘I don’t know. I had some guys make some more enquiries and I’m damn sure he’s on that thread, the way you think he is - a car or two ahead of you.’

‘Then that isn’t why you’re calling.’

‘No. I’m calling because someone’s killed Snake.’

I answered reflexively, ‘Dieterling?’

As if it could be anyone else.

Vasquez nodded. ‘Yeah. One of my guys found him about an hour ago, but he didn’t know who he was dealing with, so it took a while for the news to get back to me.’

My mouth seemed to form the words without conscious input from my mind. ‘Where was he? What had happened?’

‘He was in your car, the wheeler - still parked on Norquinco. You couldn’t see there was anyone in it from the street; you had to look inside deliberately. My guy was just checking out the machine. He found Dieterling slumped down inside. He was still breathing.’

‘What happened?’

‘Someone shot him. Must’ve waited near where the wheeler was parked, then hung around until Dieterling got back from the bridge. Dieterling must have just got in the wheeler, getting ready to leave.’

‘How was he shot?’

‘I don’t know man; it’s not like I’m running an autopsy clinic here, you know?’ Vasquez bit his lip before continuing, ‘Some kind of beam job, I think. Close range into the chest.’

I glanced down at the guindado I still held. It felt absurd to be standing here talking about my friend’s death with a cocktail drink in one hand, as if the matter was only a piece of easy smalltalk. But there was nowhere nearby to put the drink down.

I took a sip and answered him with a coldness that surprised me. ‘I prefer beam weapons myself, but they’re not what I’d use if I wanted to kill someone without making a fuss. A beam weapon creates more flash than most projectile weapons.’

‘Unless it’s very close range; like a stabbing. Look, I’m sorry, man, but it looks like that’s how it happened. The barrel must’ve been pushed right into his clothes. Hardly any light or noise - and what there was would’ve been hidden by the wheeler. There was a lot of partying going on anyway tonight. Somebody started a fire near the bridge, and that was all the excuse the locals needed for a wild night. I don’t think anyone would’ve noticed a beam discharge, Tanner.’

‘Dieterling wouldn’t have just sat back and let someone do that.’

‘Maybe he didn’t get much warning.’

I thought about that. On some level the fact of his death was beginning to register, but the implications - not to mention the emotional shock - would take a lot longer. But I could at least force myself to ask the right questions now. ‘If he didn’t get much warning, either he wasn’t paying attention or he thought the person who killed him was someone he knew. He was still breathing, did you say?’

‘Yeah, but he wasn’t conscious. I don’t think we could have done much for him, Tanner.’

‘You’re sure he didn’t say anything?’

‘Not to me or the guy who found him.’

‘The guy - the man - who found him. Was he someone we’d met tonight?’

‘No; he was one of the men I had tailing Reivich all day.’

This was how it was going to carry on, I thought: Vasquez just didn’t have the initiative to expand on an answer unless it was dragged kicking and screaming out of him. ‘And? How long had this man been in your service? Had Dieterling ever met him before?’

It was painfully slow, but he must have seen the way my questioning was running. ‘Hey, no way, man. No way did my guy have anything to do with this. I swear to you, Tanner.’

‘He’s still a suspect. That goes for anyone we met tonight - including you, Red.’

‘I wouldn’t have killed him. I wanted him to take me snake hunting.’

There was something so pathetically selfish about that answer that there was a good chance it was true.

‘Well, I guess you’ve blown your chance.’

‘I didn’t have anything to do with it, Tanner.’

‘But it happened on your turf, didn’t it?’

He was about to answer, and I was about to ask him what he had done with the body and what he intended to do about it when Vasquez’s image dissolved into static. At the same instant there was a powerful flash that seemed to come from everywhere at once, bathing every surface in a sickly white radiance.

It lasted for only a fraction of a second.

It was enough, though. There was something unforgettable about that hard burst of tarnished light; something I had seen once before. Or was it more than once? For a moment I wondered: remembering carnations of white light blossoming against stellar blackness.

Nuclear explosions.

The elevator’s illumination dimmed for a few seconds, and I felt my weight grow less and then return to normal.

Someone had let off a nuke.

The electromagnetic pulse must have swept over us, momentarily interfering with the elevator. I hadn’t seen a nuke flash since my childhood, one of the war’s small sanities being that for the most part it had stayed in the conventional realm. I couldn’t estimate the burst yield without knowing how far away the flash had been, but the lack of a mushroom cloud suggested that the explosion had taken place well above the planet’s surface. It didn’t make much sense: a nuke deployment could only have been the prelude to a conventional assault, and this was the wrong season for it. Elevated bursts made even less sense - military communications networks were hardened against electromagnetic pulse warfare.

An accident, perhaps?

I thought about it for a few more seconds, then heard footsteps racing up the spiral staircase between the elevator’s vertically stacked compartments. I saw one of the aristocrats I had just been dining with. I hadn’t bothered remembering his name, but the man’s levantine bone structure and golden-brown skin almost certainly identified him as a northerner. He was dressed opulently, his knee-length coat dripping shades of emerald and aquamarine. But he was agitated. Behind him, his foxlike wife paused on the last step, eyeing both of us warily.

‘Did you see that?’ the man asked. ‘We came up here to get a better look; you’ve got the best view from here. It looked pretty big. It almost looked like a . . .’

‘A nuke?’ I said. ‘I think it was.’ There were retinal ghosts, pink shapes etched across my vision.

‘Thank God it wasn’t any closer.’

‘Let me see what the public nets say,’ said the woman, glancing at a bracelet-shaped display device. It must have tapped into a less vulnerable data network than the one which Vasquez had been using, because she connected immediately. Images and text spilled across the device’s discreet little screen.

‘Well?’ said her husband. ‘Do they have any theories yet?’

‘I don’t know, but . . .’ She hesitated, her eyes lingering over something, then frowning. ‘No. That can’t be true. It just can’t be true.’

‘What? What are they saying?’

She looked to the man and then to me. ‘They’re saying they’ve attacked the bridge. They’re saying that the explosion’s severed the thread.’

In the unreal moments that followed, the elevator continued to climb smoothly.

‘No,’ the man said, doing his best to sound calm, but not quite managing it. ‘They must be wrong. They’ve got to be wrong.’

‘I hope to God they are,’ the woman said, her voice beginning to crack. ‘My last neural scan was six months ago . . .’

‘Damn six months,’ the man said. ‘I haven’t been scanned this decade!’

The woman breathed out hard. ‘Well, they absolutely have to be wrong. We’re continuing to have this conversation, aren’t we? We’re not all screaming as we drop towards the planet.’ She looked at her bracelet again, frowning.

‘What does it say?’ the man said.

‘Exactly what it said a moment ago.’

‘It’s a mistake, or a vicious lie, that’s all.’

I debated how much it would be judicious to reveal at this point. I was more than just a bodyguard, of course. In my years of service to Cahuella there were few things on the planet which I had not studied - even if that study had usually been motivated by some military application. I didn’t pretend to know much about the bridge, but I did know something about hyperdiamond, the artificial carbon allotrope from which it was spun.

‘Actually,’ I said, ‘I think they could be right.’

‘But nothing’s changed!’ the woman said.

‘I wouldn’t necessarily expect it to.’ I was forcing calm myself, clicking back into the crisis-management state of mind my soldiering years had taught me. Somewhere in the back of my head was a shrill scream of private fear, but I did my best to ignore it for the moment. ‘Even if the bridge had been cut, how far below do you think that flash was? I’d say it was at least three thousand kilometres.’

‘What the fuck has that got to do with it?’

‘A lot,’ I said, managing a gallows smile. ‘Think of the bridge as being like a rope - hanging all the way down from orbit, stretched out by its own weight.’

‘I’m thinking about it, believe me.’

‘Good. Now think about cutting the rope midway along its height. The part above the cut is still hanging from the orbital hub, but the part below will immediately begin falling to the ground.’

The man answered now. ‘We’re perfectly safe, then? We’re certainly above the cut.’ He looked upwards. ‘The thread’s intact all the way between here and the orbital terminus. That means if we keep climbing, we’ll make it, thank God.’

‘I wouldn’t start thanking Him just yet.’

He looked at me with a pained expression, as if I were spoiling some elaborate parlour game with needless objections.

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean it doesn’t mean we’re safe. If you cut a long rope hanging under its own weight, the part above the cut’s going to spring back.’

‘Yes.’ He looked at me with threatening eyes, as if I was making my objections out of spite. ‘I understand that. But it obviously doesn’t apply to us, since nothing’s happened.’

‘Yet,’ I said. ‘I never said the relaxation would happen instantly, all along the thread. Even if the thread’s been cut below us, it’ll take some time for the relaxation wave to climb all the way up to us.’

His question was fearful now.

‘How long?’

I had no exact answer for them. ‘I don’t know. Speed of sound in hyperdiamond isn’t very different than in natural diamond - about fifteen kilometres a second, I think. If the cut was three thousand kilometres under us, the sound wave should hit us first - about two hundred seconds after the nuke flash. The relaxation wave should move slower than that, I think . . . but it will still reach us before we reach the summit.’

My timing was exquisite, for the sonic pulse arrived just as I had finished speaking, a hard and sudden jolt, as if the elevator had just hit a bump in its two-thousand-kilometre-per-hour ascent.

‘We’re still safe, aren’t we?’ asked the wife, her voice only a knife-edge from hysteria. ‘If the cut is below us . . . Oh God, I wish we’d been backed-up more often.’

Her husband looked at her snidely. ‘It was you who told me those flights to the scanning clinic were too expensive to make a habit out of, darling.’

‘But you didn’t have to take me literally.’

I raised my voice, silencing them. ‘I still think we’re in a lot of danger, I’m afraid. If the relaxation wave is just a longitudinal compression along the thread, there’s a chance we’ll ride it out safely. But if the thread starts picking up any kind of sideways motion, like a whip . . .’

‘What the fuck are you,’ the man asked, ‘some kind of engineer? ’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Another kind of specialist entirely.’

More footfalls on the stairs now as the rest of the group came up. The jolt must have convinced them something was seriously wrong.

‘What’s happening?’ asked one of the southerners, a burly man a foot taller than anyone else in the elevator.

‘We’re riding a severed thread,’ I answered. ‘There are spacesuits aboard this thing, aren’t there? I suggest we get into them as quickly as possible.’

The man looked at me as if I were insane. ‘We’re still ascending! I don’t give a damn what happened below us; we’re fine. They built this thing to take a lot of crap.’

‘Not this much,’ I said.

By now the servitor had arrived as well, suspended from its ceiling rail. I asked it to show us to the suits. It should not have been necessary to ask, but this situation was so far beyond the servitor’s experience that it had completely failed to detect any threat to its human charges. I wondered if the news of the severed thread had reached the orbital station. Almost certainly it had - and almost certainly there was nothing that could be done for the elevators still on the thread.

Still, it was better to be on the upper part of the thread than the part below the severing point. I imagined a thousand-kilometre-high section below the cut. It would take several minutes for the top of the thread to smash into the planet below - in fact, for a long while it would seem to hang magically, like a rope trick. But it would still be falling, and there was nothing in the world that could stop it. A million tonnes of thread, slicing down into the atmosphere, laden with cars, some of them occupied. It would be a slow and quite terrifying way to die.

Who could have done this?

It was too much to believe that it didn’t have something to do with my ascent. Reivich had tricked us in Nueva Valparaiso, and if it hadn’t been for the bridge attack I would have still been trying to assimilate the fact of Miguel Dieterling’s death. I couldn’t imagine Red Hand Vasquez having anything to do with the explosion, even though I hadn’t completely ruled him out of the frame for my friend’s murder. Vasquez just didn’t have the imagination to attempt something like this, let alone the means. And his cultist indoctrination would have made it very hard for him to even think of harming the bridge in any way. Yet someone appeared to be trying to kill me. Maybe they had put a bomb aboard one of the elevators rising below, thinking I was on it, or would be on one of those below the cut point - or maybe they had fired a missile and misjudged the point to aim for. It could have been Reivich, but only in the technical sense - he had friends with the right influence. But I’d never figured him as someone capable of an act of that ruthlessness: casually wiping out of existence a few hundred innocents just to ensure the death of one man.

But maybe Reivich was learning.

We followed the servitor to the emergency space suit lockers, each of which held one vacuum suit. They were of antique design by spacefaring standards, requiring the users to physically insert themselves in the garment rather than have it enfold around them. They all appeared to be one size too small, but I donned my suit quickly enough, with the dexterous ease with which one might slip on a suit of combat armour. I was careful to hide the clockwork gun in one of the suit’s capacious utility pockets, where there should have been a signal flare.

No one saw the gun.

‘This isn’t necessary!’ the southern aristocrat was saying. ‘We don’t need to wear any damn—’

‘Listen,’ I said, ‘when the compression wave hits us - which it will do any second - we could be flung sideways with enough force to break every bone in your body. That’s why you need to be wearing a suit. It’ll offer some protection.’

Maybe not enough, I thought.

The six of them fumbled with their suits with varying degrees of confidence. I helped the others, and after a minute or so they were ready, except for the huge aristocrat, who was still complaining about the fit of the suit, as if he had all the time in the world to worry about it. Troublingly, he began to eye the other suits in the closet, wondering perhaps if they were all truly of the same size.

‘You don’t have time. Just get the thing sealed and worry about cuts and bruises later.’

Below, I imagined the vicious kink in the thread racing toward us, gobbling the kilometres as it climbed. By now it must have already passed the lower elevators. I wondered if it would be violent enough to fling the car off the thread.

I was still thinking about it when it hit.

It was much worse than I had imagined it would be. The elevator jerked to one side, the force of it slamming all seven of us against the inner wall. Someone broke a bone and started screaming, but almost immediately we were flung in the opposite direction, crashing against the clear arc of the picture window. The servitor broke loose from its ceiling rail and fell past us. Its hard steel body daggered into the glass, but though the glass fractured into a webwork of white lines, it managed not to break. Gravity fell as the elevator decelerated on the thread; some element in its induction motor had been damaged by the whiplash.

The southern aristocrat’s head was a vile red pulp, like an over-ripe fruit. As the whiplash oscillations died down, his body tumbled limply around the cabin. Someone else started screaming. They were all in a bad way. I might even have had injuries of my own, but for the moment adrenalin was whiting them out.

The compression wave had passed. At some point, I knew, it would reach the end of the thread and be reflected back down again - but that might be hours from now, and it would not be so violent as before, its energies bled into heat.

For a moment I dared to think that we might be safe.

Then I thought about the elevators below us. They might have slowed down as well, or even been flung off the thread completely. Automatic safety systems may have come online - but there was no way to know for sure. And if the car below was still ascending at normal speed, it would run into us very soon indeed.

I thought about it for a few moments before speaking, raising my voice above the moans of the injured. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘But there’s something I’ve just thought of . . .’

There was no time to explain. They’d just have to follow me or take the consequences of staying in the elevator. Not even time to get to the elevator’s emergency airlock; it would take at least a minute to cycle all seven - or six now - of us through it. Besides, the further we could get away from the thread, the safer we’d be if there was a collision between the elevators.

There was really only one option.

I retrieved the clockwork gun from my suit pouch, gripping it clumsily in my gloved fingers. There was no way to aim it with any precision, but thankfully, none was called for. I merely pointed the gun in the general direction of the fracture pattern left on the glass by the falling servitor.

Someone tried to stop me, not understanding that what I was doing might save their lives, but I was stronger; my finger pulled the trigger. In the gun, nano-scale clockwork unravelled, unleashing a ferocious pulse of stored molecular-binding energy. A haze of flèchettes ripped from the barrel, shattering the glass, creating a widening network of fractures. The window puckered outward, straining, and then broke into a billion white shards. The storm of air hurled all of us through the ragged opening, into space.

I held onto the gun, clinging to it as if it were the only solid thing in the universe. I looked around frantically, trying to orientate myself relative to the others. The wind had knocked them all in different directions, like the fragments of a starshell, but though our trajectories were different, we were all falling downward.

Below was only planet.

My suit spun slowly, and I saw the elevator again, still attached to the thread, climbing away above me as I fell, growing smaller by the second. Then there was an almost subliminal flash of motion as the elevator which had been riding the thread below flashed by, still climbing at normal ascent speed, and an instant later an explosion almost as bright and quick as one of the nuke flashes.

When the flash had gone, there was nothing left at all - not even thread.

FOUR

Sky Haussmann was three when he saw the light.

Years later, in adulthood, that day would be his first clear memory: the earliest that he could clearly anchor to a time and a place and know to be something from the real world, rather than some phantasm which had transgressed the hazy border between a child’s reality and its dreams.

He had been banished to the nursery by his parents. He had disobeyed them by visiting the dolphinarium: the dark, dank, forbidden place in the belly of the great ship Santiago. But it was Constanza who had really led him astray; she who had taken him through the warren of train tunnels, walkways, ramps and stair-wells to reach the place where the dolphins were hidden. Constanza was only two or three years older than Sky, but in his eyes she was almost fully grown; supremely wise in the ways of the adults. Everyone said Constanza was a genius; that one day - perhaps when the Flotilla was nearing the end of its long, slow crossing - she would become the Captain. It was said half in jest but half in seriousness as well. Sky wondered if she would make him her second-in-command when that day came, the two of them sitting together in the control room he had still never visited. It was not such a ridiculous idea: the adults also kept telling him that he was an unusually clever child as well; even Constanza was sometimes surprised at the things he came out with. But for all Constanza’s cleverness, Sky would later remind himself, she was not infallible. She had known how to reach the dolphinarium without anyone seeing them, but she had not quite known how to get them back unseen.

It had been worth it, though.

‘The grown-ups don’t like them,’ Constanza had said, when they had reached the side of the tank which held the dolphins. ‘They’d rather they didn’t exist at all.’

They stood on drainage grilles slick with spilled water. The tank was a high-sided glass enclosure bathed in sickly blue light, reaching away for tens of metres into the darkness of the hold. Sky peered into the gloom. The dolphins were purposeful grey shapes somewhere in the turquoise distance, their outlines constantly breaking up and reforming in the liquid play of light. They looked less like animals than things carved from soap; slippery and not quite real.

Sky had pressed his hand against the glass. ‘Why don’t they like them?’

Constanza’s reply was measured. ‘Something’s not quite right with them, Sky. These aren’t the same dolphins the ship had when it left Mercury. These are the grandchildren, or the great-grandchildren - I’m not sure which. They’ve never known anything except this tank, and nor have their parents.’

‘I’ve never known anything except this ship.’

‘But you’re not a dolphin; you weren’t expecting oceans to swim in.’ Constanza had paused because one of the animals was swimming towards them. It had left its companions at the far end of the tank, huddled around what looked like a set of television screens showing different pictures. Now that it emerged into the volume of clear water immediately beyond the glass, it assumed a presence it had lacked a moment earlier; suddenly it was a large, potentially dangerous thing of muscle and bone, rather than something bordering on translucence. Sky had seen photos of dolphins in the nursery, and there was something not quite right about this creature: a network of surgically fine lines encased its skull, and there were geometric bumps and ridges around its eyes; evidence of hard metal and ceramic things buried just below the dolphin’s flesh.

‘Hello,’ Sky said, tapping the glass.

‘That’s Sleek,’ Constanza said. ‘I think so, anyway. Sleek’s one of the oldest ones.’

The dolphin looked at him, the sly curve of its jaw making the scrutiny appear both benign and demented. Then it whiplashed around so that it was face-on to him and Sky felt the glass reverberate with unheard vibration. Something formed in the water in front of Sleek, sketched in arcs of transient bubbles. At first the trails of bubbles were random - like an artist’s preliminary brush-strokes - but then they became more structured and deliberate, Sleek’s head jerking animatedly as if the creature was in the throes of electrocution. The display lasted for only a handful of seconds, but what the dolphin was shaping was unmistakably a face, rendered three-dimensionally. The form lacked any fine details, but Sky knew that it was more than just a suggestion that his subconscious was creating from a few random bubble-trails. It was too symmetric and well-proportioned for that. There was emotion there as well, though it was almost certainly horror or fear.

Sleek, his work done, departed with a contemptuous flick of his tail.

‘They hate us as well,’ Constanza said. ‘But you can’t really blame them for that, can you?’

‘Why did Sleek do that? How?’

‘There are machines in Sleek’s melon - that bump between its eyes. They’re implanted when they’re babies. The melon’s what they normally make sound with, but the machines let them focus the sound more precisely, so they can draw with bubbles. And there are little things in the water - micro-organisms - which light up when the sound hits them. The people who made the dolphins wanted to be able to communicate with them.’

‘You’d have thought the dolphins would be grateful.’

‘Maybe they would be - if they didn’t keep having to have operations. And if they had somewhere else to swim other than this horrible place.’

‘Yes, but when we reach Journey’s End . . .’

Constanza looked at him with sad eyes. ‘It’ll be too late, Sky. For these ones, anyway. They won’t be alive then. We’ll even be grown-up; our parents old or dead.’

The dolphin came back with another, slightly smaller companion and the two of them began to draw something in the water. It looked like a man being pulled apart by sharks, but Sky turned away before he could be certain.

Constanza continued, ‘And they’re too far gone anyway, Sky.’

Sky turned back to the tank. ‘I still like them. They’re still beautiful. Even Sleek.’

‘They’re bad, Sky. Psychotic, that’s the word my father uses.’ She said it with not-quite-convincing hesitation, as if slightly ashamed of her own fluency.

‘I don’t care. I’ll come back and see them again.’ He tapped the glass and spoke much louder. ‘I’ll come back, Sleek. I like you.’

Constanza, though she was only slightly taller than him, patted Sky maternally on the shoulder. ‘It won’t make any difference.’

‘I’ll still come.’

The promise, as much to himself as to Constanza, had been sincere. He did want to understand the dolphins, to communicate with them and in some way alleviate their misery. He imagined the bright, wide oceans of Journey’s End - Clown, his friend in the nursery, had told him that there would be oceans - and imagined the dolphins suddenly freed from this dark, dismal place. He pictured them swimming with people; creating joyous sound-pictures in the water; the memory of the time aboard the Santiago fading like a claustrophobic dream.

‘C’mon,’ Constanza said. ‘We’d better be going, Sky.’

‘You’ll bring me back, won’t you?’

‘Of course, if that’s what you want.’

And they had left the dolphinarium and commenced the intricate return trip, the two of them working their way through the Santiago’s dark interstices; children trying to find their way through an enchanted forest. Once or twice they passed adults, but Constanza’s demeanour was so confident that they were never questioned - not until they were well within the small part of the ship which Sky considered familiar territory.

It was there that his father had found them.

Titus Haussmann was a stern but kindly figure amongst the Santiago’s living; a man whose authority had been earned through respect rather than fear. He towered over the two of them, but Sky felt no real anger emanate from him; only relief.

‘Your mother’s been worried sick,’ his father said. ‘Constanza - I’m deeply disappointed in you. I always had you down as the sensible one.’

‘He only wanted to see the dolphins.’

‘Oh, the dolphins, was it?’ His father sounded surprised, as if this was not quite the answer he had been expecting. ‘I thought it was the dead that interested you, Sky - our beloved momios.’

True enough, Sky thought - but one thing at a time.

‘And now you’re sorry,’ his father continued. ‘Because they weren’t what you were expecting, were they? I’m sorry, too. Sleek and the others are sick in the head. The kindest thing we could do would be to put them all to sleep, but they keep being allowed to raise young, and each generation’s more . . .’

‘Psychotic,’ Sky said.

‘. . . yes.’ His father regarded him strangely. ‘More psychotic than the last. Well, now that your vocabulary’s showing such tremendous growth, it would be a shame to stifle it, don’t you think? A shame to deny you the potential to enlarge it?’ He ruffled Sky’s hair. ‘I’m talking about the nursery, young man. A spell in it, where you can’t come into any harm.’

It was not that he hated the nursery, or even especially disliked it. But when he was banished there it could not help but feel like a punishment.

‘I want to see my mother.’

‘Your mother’s outside the ship, Sky, so there’s no use running to her for a second opinion. And you know if you did she’d say exactly the same thing. You’ve disobeyed us and you need to be taught a lesson.’ He turned to Constanza, shaking his head. ‘As for you, young madam, I think it might be for the best if you and Sky were not to play together for a period of time, don’t you think?’

‘We don’t play,’ Constanza said with a scowl. ‘We talk, and explore.’

‘Yes,’ Titus said, with a long-suffering sigh, ‘and visit parts of the ship you’re expressly not allowed to go to. That, I’m afraid, can’t go unpunished.’ He softened his voice now, as he always did when he was about to discuss something of genuine importance. ‘This ship is our home - our only real home - and we have to feel like we live here. That means feeling safe in the places where it’s right to do so - and knowing where it isn’t safe to go. Not because there are monsters or anything silly like that, but because there are dangers - adult dangers. Machinery and power systems. Robots and drop shafts. Believe me, I’ve seen what happens when people go into places they’re not meant to go, and it usually isn’t very pleasant.’

Sky did not doubt his father for an instant. As head of security aboard a ship which generally enjoyed political and social harmony, Titus Haussmann’s duties usually concerned accidents and the very occasional suicide. And although Titus had always spared Sky the more intimate details of how it was possible to die aboard a ship like the Santiago, Sky’s imagination had done all the rest.

‘I’m sorry,’ Constanza said.

‘Yes - I’m sure you are, but that doesn’t change the fact that you took my son into forbidden territory. I’ll be speaking to your parents, Constanza, and I don’t think they’ll be best pleased. Now run along home, and perhaps in a week or two we’ll review the situation. Very well?’

She nodded, said nothing, and left along one of the curving corridors which radiated away from the intersection where Titus had cornered them. It was not really far to her parents’ domicile - no part of the Santiago’s major habitation section was far from any other part - but the ship’s designers had cunningly avoided making any route too direct, except for the emergency crawlways and the train lines which reached down the spine. The snaking general-use corridors gave the illusion that the ship was considerably larger than its true size, and two families could live almost next to each other and feel that they lived in entirely different districts.

Titus escorted his son back to their dwelling. Sky was sorry that his mother was outside, for - despite what Titus had said - her punishments were generally a shade more lenient than those his father prescribed. He dared to hope that she was already back aboard ship, having returned from her shift early, the work on the hull completed ahead of schedule, and that she would be waiting for them when they reached the nursery. But there was no sign of her.

‘In,’ Titus said. ‘Clown will take care of you. I’ll be back to let you out in two, possibly three hours.’

‘I don’t want to go in.’

‘No - and if you did, it wouldn’t be much of a punishment, would it?’

The nursery door opened. Titus propelled his son into the room without stepping across the threshold himself.

‘Hello, Sky,’ said Clown, who was waiting for him.

There were many toys in the nursery, and some of them were capable of holding limited conversations - even, fleetingly, giving the impression of true intelligence. Sky sensed that these toys were built for children of about his age, designed to mesh with a typical three-year-old’s view of the world. In most cases, he had begun to find them simplistic and stupid not long after his second birthday. But Clown was different; not really a toy at all, although not quite a person either. Clown had been with Sky for as long as he remembered, confined to the nursery, but not always present even then. Clown could not touch things, or allow himself to be touched by Sky, and when Clown spoke, his voice did not come from quite the place where Clown stood - or seemed to be standing.

Which was not to say that Clown was a figment of his imagination; without influence. Clown saw everything that happened in the nursery and was punctilious in telling Sky’s parents when he had done something that required reprimanding. It was Clown who told his parents he had broken the rocking horse, that it had not been - as he had tried to make them think - the fault of one of the other smart toys. He had hated Clown for that betrayal, but not for long. Even Sky had understood that Clown was, apart from Constanza, the only real friend he had, and that there were some things Clown knew that were beyond even Constanza.

‘Hello,’ Sky said, mournfully.

‘You’ve been banished here, I see, for visiting the dolphins.’ Clown stood alone in the plain white room, the other toys concealed tidily away. ‘That wasn’t the right thing to do, was it, Sky? I could have shown you dolphins.’

‘Not the same ones. Not real ones. And you’ve shown them to me before.’

‘Not like this. Watch!’

And suddenly the two of them were standing up in a boat, out at sea, under a blue sky. All around them the waves were broken by cresting dolphins, their backs like wet pebbles in the sunlight. The illusion of being at sea was marred only by the narrow black windows which ran along one side of the room.

In a story book, Sky had once found a picture of someone else like Clown, dressed in puffed-out, striped clothes with big white buttons, with a comical, permanently smiling face framed by bouffant orange hair under a soft, sagging striped hat. When he touched the picture in the book, the clown moved and did the same kinds of tricks and vaguely amusing things that his own Clown did. Sky remembered, dimly, a time when his response to the Clown’s tricks had been to laugh and clap, as if there were nothing more that could be asked of the universe than to provide the antics of a clown.

Now, subtly, even Clown had begun to bore him. He humoured Clown, but their relationship had undergone a profound sea-change which could never be entirely reversed. To Sky, Clown had become something to be understood; something to be dissected and parameterised. Clown, he now recognised, was something like the bubble-drawing the dolphin had made in the water: a projection carved from light rather than sound. They were not really in a boat, either. Under his feet, the room’s floor felt as hard and flat as when his father had pushed him inside. Sky did not quite understand how the illusion was created, but it was perfectly realistic, the walls of the nursery nowhere to be seen.

‘The dolphins in the tank - Sleek and the others - had machines in them,’ Sky said. He might as well learn something while he was prisoner. ‘Why?’

‘To help them focus their sonar.’

‘No. I don’t mean what were the machines for. I mean, who had the idea to put them there in the first place?’

‘Ah. That would have been the Chimerics.’

‘Who were they? Did they come with us?’

‘No, to answer your last question, though they very much wanted to.’ Clown’s voice was slightly high-pitched and quavery - almost womanly - but never anything other than infinitely patient. ‘Remember, Sky, that when the Flotilla left Earth’s system - left the orbit of Mercury, and flew into interstellar space - the Flotilla was leaving from a system that was still technically engaged in war. Oh, most of the hostilities had ceased by then, but the terms of ceasefire had still not been completely thrashed out, and everyone was still very much on a war footing; ready to return to the fray at a moment’s notice. There were many factions who saw the closing stages of the war as their last chance to make a difference. Some of them, by this time, were little more than highly organised brigands. The Chimerics - or more precisely, the Chimeric faction that created the dolphins - were certainly one of those. The Chimerics in general had taken cyborgisation to new extremes, blending themselves and their animals with machines. This faction had pushed those limits even further, to the point where they were shunned even by the mainstream Chimerics.’

Sky listened and followed what Clown was telling him. Clown’s judgement of Sky’s cognitive skills was adept enough to prevent a lapse into incomprehensibility, while at the same time forcing Sky to concentrate intently on his every word. Sky was aware that not all three-year-olds could have understood what Clown was saying, but that did not concern him in the least.

‘And the dolphins?’

‘Engineered by them. For what purpose, we can’t begin to guess. Perhaps to serve as aquatic infantry, in some planned invasion of Earth’s oceans. Or perhaps they were simply an experiment which was never completed, interrupted by the war’s decline. Whatever the case, a family of dolphins was captured from the Chimerics by agents of the Confederacion Sudamericana.’

That, Sky well knew, was the organisation that had spearheaded the construction of the Flotilla. The Confederacion had remained studiously neutral for most of the war, concentrating on ambitions beyond the narrow confines of the solar system. After garnering a handful of allies, they had built and launched human-kind’s first serious attempt at crossing interstellar space.

‘We took the dolphins with us?’

‘Yes, thinking they’d come in useful at Journey’s End. But removing the augmentation that the Chimerics had added was a lot harder than it looked. In the end it was easier to leave it in place. Then when the next generation of dolphins was born, it was found that they couldn’t communicate with the adults properly unless they had the augmentation as well. So we copied it and implanted it in the young.’

‘But they ended up psychotic.’

Clown registered the tiniest flicker of surprise, his answer not immediately forthcoming. Later Sky would learn that in those frozen moments Clown was seeking advice from one of his parents, or one of the other adults, about how best to respond.

‘Yes . . .’ Clown said finally. ‘But that wasn’t necessarily our fault.’

‘What, not our fault to keep them down in the hold, with only a few cubic metres to swim around in?’

‘Believe me, the conditions we keep them in now are vastly preferable to the Chimerics’ experimentation lab.’

‘But the dolphins can’t be expected to remember that, can they?’

‘They’re happier, trust me.’

‘How can you know?’

‘Because I’m Clown.’ The mask of his face, ever-smiling, pulled into a more agonised smile. ‘Clown always knows.’ Sky was about to ask Clown exactly what he meant by that when there was a flash of light. It was very bright and sudden, but completely silent, and it had come from the window strip along one wall. When Sky blinked he could still see the after-image of the window: a hard-edged pink rectangle.

‘What happened?’ he asked, still blinking.

But there was something very wrong with Clown, and indeed, with the entire view. In the instant of the flash, Clown had become misshapen, stretched and malformed in all the wrong directions, painted across the walls, his expression frozen. The boat in which they had seemed to be standing curved away in sickeningly distorted perspective. It was as if the entire scene had been rendered in thick wet paint which someone had begun to stir with a stick.

Clown had never allowed that to happen before.

Worse still, the room’s source of illumination - the glowing imagery on the walls - became dark, then black. There was no light save for the faintest milky glow from the high-set window. But even that faded after a while, leaving Sky alone in utter darkness.

‘Clown?’ Sky said, at first quietly, and then with more insistence.

No answer came. Sky began to feel something odd and unwelcome. It came from deep within him; a welling-up of fear and anxiety that had everything to do with a typical three-year-old’s response to the situation and nothing to do with the gloss of adulthood and precosity which normally distanced Sky from other children of his age. He was suddenly a small child, alone in the dark, not understanding what was happening.

He asked for Clown again, but there was desperation in his voice; a realisation that Clown would already have answered him if that were possible. No; Clown was gone; the bright nursery had become dark and - yes - cold, and he could hear nothing; not even the normal background noises of the Santiago.

Sky crawled until he met the wall, and then navigated around the room, trying to find the door. But when the door shut, it sealed itself invisibly flush, and now he could not locate even the hair-thin crack which would have betrayed its position. There was no interior handle or control, for - had he not been banished to the room - Clown would normally have opened the door at his request.

Sky groped for an appropriate response and found that, whether he liked it or not, one was happening to him anyway. He was starting to cry; something he could not remember having done since he was much younger.

He cried and cried and - however long that took - finally ran out of tears, his eyes feeling sore when he rubbed them.

He asked for Clown again, and then listened intently, and still there was nothing. He tried screaming, but that did no good either, and eventually his throat became too raw for him to continue.

He had probably been alone only for twenty minutes, but now that time stretched onwards to what was almost certainly an hour, and then perhaps two hours, and then tortured multiples of hours. Under any circumstances, that time would have seemed long, but not understanding his plight - wondering maybe if it were some deeper punishment his father had not told him about - it was almost an eternity. Then even the idea that Titus was inflicting this on him began to seem unlikely, and while his body shivered, his mind began to explore nastier avenues. He imagined that the nursery had somehow become detached from the rest of the ship, and that he was falling away through space, away from the Santiago - away from the Flotilla - and that by the time anyone knew, it would be far too late to do anything about it. Or perhaps monsters had invaded the ship from beyond the hull, silently exterminating all aboard it, and he was the only person left aboard that they had not yet found, even though it would only be a matter of time . . .

He heard a scratching from one side of the room.

It was, of course, the adults. They worked the door for some time before persuading it to open, and when it did, a crack of amber light spilled across the floor towards him. His father was the first to enter, accompanied by four or five other grown-ups Sky could not name. They were tall, stooping shapes carrying torches. Their faces were ashen in the torch-light; grave as storybook kings. The air that came into the room was colder than it usually was - it made him shiver even more - and the adults’ breath stabbed out in dragonlike exhalations.

‘He’s safe,’ his father said, to one of the other adults.

‘Good, Titus,’ a man answered. ‘Let’s get him somewhere secure, then we’ll continue working our way downship.’

‘Schuyler, come here.’ His father was kneeling down, his arms open. ‘Come here, my boy. You’re safe now. No need to worry. Been crying, haven’t you?’

‘Clown went away,’ Sky managed.

‘Clown?’ one of the others asked.

His father turned to the man. ‘The nursery’s main educational program, that’s all. It would have been one of the first non-essential processes to be terminated.’

‘Make Clown come back,’ Sky said. ‘Please.’

‘Later,’ his father said. ‘Clown’s . . . taking a rest, that’s all. He’ll be back in no time at all. And you, my boy, probably want something to eat or drink, don’t you?’

‘Where’s mother?’

‘She’s . . .’ His father paused. ‘She can’t be here right now, Schuyler, but she sends her love.’

He watched one of the other men touch his father’s arm. ‘He’ll be safer with the other kids, Titus, in the main crèche.’

‘He isn’t like one of the other kids,’ his father said.

Now they were ushering him out, into the cold. The corridor beyond the nursery plunged into darkness in either direction, away from the little pool of light defined by the adults’ torches.

‘What happened?’ Sky said, realising for the first time that it was not just his own microcosm that had been upset; that whatever had happened had touched the world of the adults as well. He had never seen the ship like this before.

‘Something very, very bad,’ his father said.

FIVE

I came crashing out of the dream of Sky Haussmann and for a moment thought I was still inside another dream, one whose central feature was a terrifying sense of loss and dislocation.

Then I realised it wasn’t a dream at all.

I was wide awake, but it felt as if half my mind was still sound asleep: the part that held memory and identity and any comforting sense of how I had ended up where I now found myself; any threadlike connection to the past. What past? I expected to look back and at some point to encounter sharp details - a name; a hint of who I was - but it was like trying to focus on grey fog.

Yet I could still name things; language was still there. I was lying on a hard bed under a thin brown knitted blanket. I felt alert and rested - and at the same time completely helpless. I looked around and nothing clicked; there was not the slightest tinge of familiarity on any level. I held my hand in front of my face, studying the ridge-lines of veins on the back of it, and it looked only slightly less strange.

Yet I remembered the details of the dream well enough. It had been dazzlingly vivid; less the way a dream ought to be - incoherent, with shifting perspectives and haphazard logic - than a strictly linear slice of documentary. It was as if I had been there with Sky Haussmann; not seeing things from exactly his point of view, but following him like an obsessive phantom.

Something made me turn my hand over.

There was a neat rust-spot of dried blood in the middle of my palm, and when I examined the sheet beneath me, I saw more freckles of dried blood, where I must have been bleeding before I woke up.

Something almost solidified in the fog; a memory almost assuming definition.

I got out of the bed, naked, and looked around me. I was in a room with roughly shaped walls - not hewn from rock, but formed from something like dried clay, painted over with brilliant white stucco. There was a stool adjacent to the bed and a small cupboard, both made from a type of wood I didn’t recognise. There was no ornamentation anywhere except for a small brown vase set into an alcove in one wall.

I stared at the vase in horror.

There was something about it that filled me with terror; terror that I knew instantly to be irrational, but couldn’t do anything about. So maybe there is some neurological damage, I heard myself say - you’ve still got language, but there’s something deeply screwed up somewhere in your limbic system, or whatever part of the brain handles that old mammalian innovation called fear. But as I found the focus of my fear, I realised it wasn’t actually the vase at all.

It was the alcove.

There was something hiding in it: something terrible. And when I realised that, I snapped. My heart was racing. I had to get out of the room; had to get away from the thing that I knew made no sense, but which was still turning my blood to ice. There was an open doorway at one end of the room, leading ‘outside’ - wherever that was.

I stumbled through it.

My feet touched grass; I was standing on a patch of moist, neatly cut lawn surrounded on two sides by overgrowth and rock. The chalet where I’d woken was behind me, set into a rising slope, with the overgrowth threatening to lap over it. But the slope simply kept on rising; assuming an ever-steepening angle - reaching vertical and then curving over again in a dizzying verdant arc, so that the foliage resembled Chinese spinach glued to the sides of a bowl. It was difficult to judge distance, but the world’s ceiling must have been about a kilometre over my head. On the fourth side, the ground dropped away a little before resuming its climb on the opposite side of a toylike valley. It rose and rose and met the ground which climbed behind me.

Beyond the overgrowth and rock on either side of me, I could just make out the distant ends of the world, blurred and blued by the haze of intervening air. At first glance, I seemed to be in a very long cylinder-shaped habitat, but that wasn’t the case: the sides met each other at either end, suggesting that the overall shape of the structure was that of a spindle: two cones placed back to back with my chalet somewhere near the point of maximum width.

I racked my memory for knowledge of habitat design and came up with nothing except the nagging sense that there was something out of the ordinary about this place.

There was a hot blue-white filament running the length of the habitat; some kind of enclosed plasma tube which must have been able to be dimmed and shaded to simulate sunset and darkness. The greenery was enlivened and counterpointed by small waterfalls and precipitous rockfaces, artfully arranged like details in a Japanese watercolour. On the far side of the world I saw tiered, ornamental gardens; a quilt of different cultivations like a matrix of pixels. Here and there, dotted like white pebbles, I saw other chalets and the occasional larger hamlet or dwelling. Stone roads meandered around the valley’s contours, linking chalets and communities. Those near the endpoints of the two cones were closer to the habitat’s spin axis and the illusion of gravity must have been weaker there. I wondered if the need for that had been a driving force in the habitat’s design.

Just as I was beginning to seriously wonder where I was, something crept out of the undergrowth, picking its way into the clearing via an elaborate set of articulated metal legs. My hand shaped itself around a nonexistent gun, as if, on some muscular level, it had expected to find one.

The machine came to a halt, ticking to itself. The spider legs supported a green ovoid body, featureless except for a single glowing blue snowflake motif.

I stepped backwards.

‘Tanner Mirabel?’

The voice came from the machine, but there was something about it which told me the voice didn’t belong to the robot. It sounded human and female, and not entirely sure of itself.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Oh dear. My Castellano isn’t all it could be . . .’ She had said the latter in Norte, but now she shifted to the language I’d spoken, sounding even more hesitant than before. ‘I hope you can understand me. I don’t get much practice in Castellano. I’m - um - hoping you recognise your name, Tanner. Tanner Mirabel, I should say. Um, Mister Mirabel, that is. Am I making any sense?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But we can speak Norte if it makes it any easier on you. If you can put up with me being the rusty one.’

‘You speak both very well, Tanner. You don’t mind if I call you Tanner, do you?’

‘I’m afraid you could call me just about anything you liked.’

‘Ah. Then there is some amnesia, am I correct in assuming that?’

‘I’d say there’s more than a little, to be honest.’

I heard a sigh. ‘Well, that’s what we’re here for. That is indeed what we’re here for. Not that we wish it upon our clients, of course . . . but if, God forgive, they happen to have it, they’ve really come to the very best place. Not, of course, that they had much choice, though . . . Oh dear, I’m rambling, aren’t I? I always do this. You must feel confused enough without me wittering on. You see we weren’t expecting that you’d wake quite so soon. That’s why there isn’t anyone to meet you, you see.’ There was another sigh, but this one was more businesslike; as if she was steeling herself to get to work. ‘Now then. You’re in no danger, Tanner, but it would be best if you stayed by the house for now, until someone arrives.’

‘Why. What’s wrong with me?’

‘Well, you’re completely naked, for a start.’

I nodded. ‘And you’re not just a robot, are you? Well, I’m sorry. I don’t usually do this.’

‘There’s no need at all to apologise, Tanner. No need at all. It’s quite right and proper that you should be a little disorientated. You’ve been asleep for a great length of time, after all. Physically, you may have suffered no obvious ill effects . . . none at all that I can see, in fact . . .’ She paused, then seemed to snap out of whatever reverie she was in. ‘But mentally, well . . . it’s only to be expected, really. This kind of transient memory loss is really much commoner than they would have us believe.’

‘I’m glad you used the word “transient” there.’

‘Well, usually.’

I smiled, wondered if that was an attempt at humour or just a crass statement of the statistics.

‘Who would “they” be, while we’re at it?’

‘Well, obviously, the people who brought you here. The Ultras.’

I knelt down and fingered the grass, crushing a blade until it left green pulp on my thumb. I sniffed the residue. If this was a simulation, it was an extraordinarily detailed one. Even battle-planners would have been impressed.

‘Ultras?’

‘You came here on their ship, Tanner. You were frozen for the journey. Now you have thaw amnesia.’

The phrase caused a fragment of my past to fall lopsidedly into place. Someone had spoken to me of thaw amnesia - either very recently or very long ago. It looked like both possibilities might be correct. The person had been the cyborg crewperson of a starship.

I tried to remember what they had told me, but it was like groping through the same grey fog as before, except this time I did have the sense that there were things within the fog; jagged shards of memory: brittle, petrified trees, reaching out stiff branches to reconnect with the present. Sooner or later I was going to stumble into a major thicket.

But for now all I remembered were reassurances; that I should have no qualms about whatever it was they were about to do to me; that thaw amnesia was a modern myth; very much rarer than I had been led to believe. Which must have been a slight distortion of the facts, at the very least. But then the truth - that shades of amnesia were almost normal - wouldn’t have been conducive to good business.

‘I don’t think I was expecting this,’ I said.

‘Funnily enough, almost no one ever does. The hard cases are the ones who don’t even remember ever dealing with Ultras. You’re not that badly off, are you?’

‘No,’ I admitted. ‘And that makes me feel a lot happier, you know.’

‘What does?’

‘Knowing that there’s always some poor bastard worse off than me.’

‘Hmm,’ she said, with a note of disapproval. ‘I’m not sure that’s quite the attitude one should be having, Tanner. On the other hand, I don’t think it’s going to be very long before you’re as right as rain. Not very long at all. Now, why don’t you return to the house? You’ll find some clothes there that will fit you. And it’s not that we’re prudish or anything here at the hospice, but you’ll catch your death like that.’

‘It wasn’t intentional, believe me.’

I wondered what she’d make of my chances for a swift recovery if I told her that I’d had to run out of the house because I was terrified by an architectural feature.

‘No, of course it wasn’t,’ she said. ‘But do try the clothes on - and if they aren’t to your liking, we can always alter them. I’ll be along shortly to see how you’re doing.’

‘Thank you. Who are you, by the way?’

‘Me? Oh, no one in particular, I’m afraid. A very small cog in a blessedly large machine, one might say. Sister Amelia.’

Then I hadn’t misheard her when she called the place a hospice.

‘And where exactly are we, Sister Amelia?’

‘Oh, that’s easy. You’re in Hospice Idlewild, under the care of the Holy Order of Ice Mendicants. What some people like to call Hotel Amnesia.’

It still didn’t mean anything to me. I’d never heard of either Hotel Amnesia or the place’s more formal name - let alone the Holy Order of Ice Mendicants.

I walked back into the chalet, the robot following me at a polite distance. I slowed as I approached the door back into the house. It was stupid, but though I’d been able to dismiss my fears almost as soon as I was outside, they now came back with almost the same force. I looked at the alcove. It seemed to me to be imbued with deep evil; as if there were something waiting coiled in there, observing me with malignant intent.

‘Just get dressed and get out of here,’ I said to myself, aloud and in Castellano. ‘When Amelia comes, tell her you need some kind of neurological once-over. She’ll understand. This sort of thing must happen all the time.’

I inspected the clothes that were waiting for me in a cupboard. Nothing too fancy, and nothing at all that I recognised. They were simple and had a handmade feel to them: a black V-neck jersey and baggy, pocketless trousers, a pair of soft shoes; adequate for padding round the clearing, but not much else. The clothes fitted me perfectly, but even that made them feel wrong, as if it was not something I was used to.

I rummaged deeper in the cupboard, hoping to find something more personal, but it was empty apart from the clothes. At a loss, I sat on the bed and stared sullenly at the textured stucco of the wall, until my gaze passed over the little alcove. After years of being frozen, my brain chemistry must have been struggling back towards some kind of equilibrium, and in the meantime I was getting a taste of what psychotic fear must feel like. I felt a strong temptation to just curl up and block the world from my senses. What kept me from losing it completely was the quiet knowledge that I had been in worse situations - confronted hazards that were just as terrifying as anything my psychotic mind could imprint on an empty alcove - and that I had survived. It hardly mattered that at the moment I couldn’t bring any specific incidents to mind. It was enough to know that they had happened, and that if I failed now, I would be betraying a buried part of me which remained fully sane, and perhaps remembered everything.

I didn’t have long to wait before Amelia arrived.

She was out of breath and flushed when she entered the house, as if she’d climbed quickly up from the bottom of the valley or cleft I’d seen after I’d awakened. But she was smiling, as if she had enjoyed the exertion for its own sake. She wore a black wimpled vestment, a chained snowflake hanging from her neck. Dusty boots poked out from beneath the hem of her vestment.

‘How are the clothes?’ she said, placing her hand atop the robot’s ovoid head. It might have been to steady herself, but it also looked like a show of affection towards the machine.

‘They fit me very well, thanks.’

‘You’re quite sure of that? It’s no trouble at all to change them, Tanner. You’d just have to whip them off, and well . . . we could have them altered in no time.’ She smiled.

‘They’re fine,’ I said, studying her face properly. She was very pale; much more so than anyone I had ever seen before. Her eyes almost lacked pigment; her eyebrows were so fine that they looked like they’d been brushed in by an expert calligrapher.

‘Oh, good,’ she said, as if not completely convinced. ‘Do you remember anything more?’

‘I seem to remember where I’ve come from. Which is a start, I suppose.’

‘Just try not to force things. Duscha - Duscha’s our neural specialist - she said you’d soon begin to remember, but you shouldn’t worry if it takes a little while.’

Amelia sat down on the end of the bed where I’d been asleep only a few minutes ago. I had turned the blanket over to hide the speckles of blood from my palm. For some reason I felt ashamed of what had happened and wanted to do my best to make sure Amelia didn’t see the wound in my palm.

‘I think it might take more than a little while, to be honest.’

‘But you do remember that Ultras brought you here. That’s more than a lot of them do, as I said. And you remember where you came from?’

‘Sky’s Edge, I think.’

‘Yes. The 61 Cygni-A system.’

I nodded. ‘Except we always called our sun Swan. It’s a lot less of a mouthful.’

‘Yes; I’ve heard others say that as well. I really should remember these details, but we get people through from so many different places here. I’m all a muddle at times, honestly, trying to keep track of where’s where and what’s what.’

‘I’d agree with you, except I’m still not sure where we are. I won’t be sure until my memory comes back, but I’m not sure I’ve ever heard of the, whatever you said you were . . .’

‘Ice Mendicants.’

‘Well, it doesn’t ring any kind of a bell.’

‘That’s understandable. I don’t think the Order has any presence in the Sky’s Edge system. We exist only where there’s substantial traffic in and out of a given system.’

I wanted to ask her which system this happened to be, but I assumed she’d get round to that detail in good time.

‘I think you’re going to have to tell me a little bit more, Amelia.’

‘I don’t mind. You’ll just have to excuse me if this comes out a bit like a prepared speech. I’m afraid you’re not the first one I’ve had to explain all this to - and you won’t be the last, either.’

She told me that as an Order, the Mendicants were about a century and a half old - dating from the middle of the twenty-fourth century. That was around the time that interstellar flight broke out of the exclusive control of governments and superpowers and became almost commonplace. By then the Ultras were beginning to emerge as a separate human faction - not just flying ships, but living their entire lives aboard them, stretched out by the effects of time-dilation beyond anything that constituted a normal human lifespan. They continued to carry fare-paying passengers from system to system, but they were not above cutting corners in the quality of the service they offered. Sometimes they promised to take people somewhere and flew to another system entirely, stranding their passengers years of flight-time away from where they wanted to be. Sometimes their reefersleep technology was so old or poorly maintained that their passengers woke massively aged upon arrival, or with their minds completely erased.

It was into this customer care void that the Ice Mendicants came, establishing chapters in dozens of systems and offering help to those sleepers whose revival had not gone as smoothly as might have been wished. It was not just starship passengers they tended to, for much of their work concerned people who had been asleep in cryocrypts for decades, skipping through economic recessions or periods of political turmoil. Often those people would waken with their savings wiped out, their personal possessions sequestered and their memories damaged.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I guess now you’re going to tell me the catch.’

‘There’s one thing you need to understand from the outset,’ Amelia said. ‘There is no catch. We care for you until you’re well enough to leave. If you want to leave sooner than that, we won’t stop you - and if you want to stay longer, we can always use an extra pair of hands in the fields. Once you’ve left the Hospice, you won’t owe us anything or hear from us again, unless you wish it.’

‘How do you make something like this pay, in that case?’

‘Oh, we manage. A lot of our clients do make voluntary donations once they’re healed - but there’s no expectation on our part that they will. Our running costs are remarkably low, and we’ve never been in hock to anyone for the construction of Idlewild.’

‘A habitat like this couldn’t have come cheap, Amelia.’ Everything cost something; even matter that had been shaped by droves of mindless, breeding robots.

‘It was a lot cheaper than you’d think, even if we had to accept some compromises in the basic design.’

‘The spindle shape? I wondered about that.’

‘I’ll show you when you’re a bit better. Then you’ll understand.’ She paused and had the robot dispense some water into a little glass. ‘Drink this. You must be parched. I imagine you want to know a little more about yourself. How you got here and where here is, for instance.’

I took the glass and drank gratefully. The water had a foreign taste to it, but it wasn’t unpleasant.

‘I’m not in the Sky’s Edge system, obviously. And this must be near one of the main centres of traffic, or you wouldn’t have built the place in the first place.’

‘Yes. We’re in the Yellowstone system - around Epsilon Eridani.’ She seemed to observe my reaction. ‘You don’t seem too surprised. ’

‘I knew it had to be somewhere like that. What I don’t remember is what made me come here.’

‘That’ll come back. You’re fortunate, in a way. Some of our clients are perfectly well, but they’re just too poor to afford immigration into the system proper. We allow them to earn a small wage here until they can at least afford the cost of a ship to take them to the Rust Belt. Or we arrange for them to spend a period in indentured servitude for some other organisation - quicker, but usually a lot less pleasant. But you won’t have to do either, Tanner. You seem to be a man of reasonable means, judging by the funds you arrived with. And mystery, too. It may not mean very much to you, but you were quite a hero when you left Sky’s Edge.’

‘I was?’

‘Yes. There was an accident, and you were implicated in the saving of more than a few lives.’

‘I don’t remember, I’m afraid.’

‘Not even Nueva Valparaiso? That’s where it happened.’

It did, faintly, mean something - like a half-familiar reference stirring memories of a book or play experienced years earlier. But the plot and principal protagonists - not to mention the outcome - remained resolutely unclear. I was staring into fog.

‘I’m afraid it’s still not there. Tell me how I got here, anyway. What was the name of the ship?’

‘The Orvieto. She would have left your system about fifteen years ago.’

‘I must have had a good reason for wanting to be on her. Was I travelling alone?’

‘As near as we can tell, yes. We’re still processing her cargo. There were twenty thousand sleepers aboard her, and only a quarter of them have been warmed yet. There’s no great hurry, when you think about it. If you’re going to spend fifteen years crossing space, a few weeks’ delay at either end isn’t worth worrying about.’

It was odd, but though I couldn’t put my finger on it, I did feel that there was something that needed to be done urgently. The feeling it reminded me of was waking from a dream, the details of which I didn’t recall, but which nonetheless put me on edge for hours afterwards.

‘So tell me what you know about Tanner Mirabel.’

‘Nowhere near as much as we’d like. But that in itself shouldn’t alarm you. Your world is at war, Tanner - has been for centuries. Records are hardly less confused than our own, and the Ultras aren’t particularly interested in who they carry, provided they pay.’

The name felt comfortable, like an old glove. A good combination, too. Tanner was a worker’s name; hard and to the point; someone who got things done. Mirabel, by contrast, had faint aristocratic pretensions.

It was a name I could live with.

‘Why are your own records confused? Don’t tell me you had a war here as well?’

‘No,’ Amelia said, guardedly. ‘No; it was something quite different to that. Something quite different indeed. Why? For a moment you almost sounded pleased.’

‘Perhaps I used to be a soldier,’ I said.

‘Escaping with the spoils of war, after committing some unspeakable atrocity?’

‘Do I look like someone capable of atrocities?’

She smiled, but there was a decided lack of humour in her expression. ‘You wouldn’t credit it, Tanner, but we get all sorts through here. You could be anything or anyone, and looks would have very little to do with it.’ Then she opened her mouth slightly. ‘Wait. There’s no mirror in the house, is there? Have you seen yourself since you woke?’

I shook my head.

‘Then follow me. A little walk will do you the power of good.’

We left the chalet and followed an ambling path into the valley, Amelia’s robot scooting ahead of us like an excited puppy. She was at ease with the machine, but the robot left me feeling intimidated; the way I would have felt if she had walked around with a poisonous snake. I recalled my reaction when the robot had first appeared: an involuntary reaching for a weapon. Not just a theatrical gesture, but an action which felt well-rehearsed. I could almost feel the heft of the gun I lacked, the precise shape of its grip under my palm, a lattice of ballistics expertise lurking just below consciousness.

I knew guns, and I didn’t like robots.

‘Tell me more about my arrival,’ I said.

‘As I said, the ship which brought you here was the Orvieto,’ Amelia said. ‘She’s in-system, of course, since she’s still being unloaded. I’ll show her to you, if you like.’

‘I thought you were going to show me a mirror.’

‘Two birds with one stone, Tanner.’

The path descended deeper, winding down into a dark, shadowed cleft overhung with a canopy of tangled greenery. This must have been the small valley I had seen below the chalet.

Amelia was right: it had taken me years to reach this place, so a few days spent regaining my memory was an inconsequential burden. But the last thing I felt was patient. Something had been straining at me ever since I had awakened; the feeling that there was something I had to do; something so urgent that even now, a few hours could make all the difference between success and failure.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked.

‘Somewhere secret. Somewhere I shouldn’t really take you, but I can’t resist. You won’t tell, will you?’

‘Now I’m intrigued.’

The shadowed cleft took us to the valley floor; to a point maximally distant from the axis of Hotel Amnesia. We were at the rim where the two conic ends of the habitat were joined to each other. It was here that gravity was highest, and I felt the extra effort required to move around.

Amelia’s robot came to a halt ahead of us, pivoting around to present its blank ovoid face to us.

‘What’s up with it?’

‘It won’t go any further. Programming won’t allow it.’ The machine was blocking our path, so Amelia took a step off the trail, wading into knee-high grass. ‘It won’t want us to pass for our own safety, but on the other hand, it won’t actively stop us if we make an effort to go around it. Will you, good boy?’

I stepped gingerly past the robot.

‘You said something about me being a hero.’

‘You saved five lives when the bridge at Nueva Valparaiso came down. The fall of the bridge was all over the news nets, even here.’

As she spoke, I felt like I was being reminded of something told to me before; that I was always only an instant away from remembering it all myself. The bridge had been severed some way up its length by a nuclear explosion, causing the thread below the cut to fall back to ground while the part above the cut whiplashed lethally. The official explanation was that a rogue missile had been responsible; some aspirant military faction’s test firing which had gone badly awry and shimmied through the protective screen of anti-missiles around the bridge, but - though I couldn’t easily explain it - I had the insistent feeling that there was more to it than that; that my being on the bridge at the same time was not just ill fortune.

‘What exactly happened?’

‘The car you were in was above the cut. It came to a halt on the thread, and would have been safe there except that there was another car racing up from below. You realised that and persuaded the people with you that their only hope of surviving was to jump into space.’

‘Doesn’t sound like much of an alternative, even with suits on.’

‘No, it didn’t - but you knew they’d still stand a chance of surviving. You were quite a long way above the top atmosphere. You had more than eleven minutes to fall before you hit it.’

‘Great. What good is an extra eleven minutes if you’re going to die anyway?’

‘Another eleven minutes of God-given life, Tanner. And it also happened to be enough time for rescue ships to pick you up. They had to skim the atmosphere to grab you all, but they got everyone in the end - even the man who had already died.’

I shrugged. ‘I was probably only thinking of my own self-preservation. ’

‘Perhaps - but only a real hero would even admit to thinking that way. That’s why I think you might really be Tanner Mirabel.’

‘Hundreds of people must have died anyway,’ I said. ‘Not much of a heroic effort, was it?’

‘You did what you could.’

We continued in silence for a few more minutes, the track becoming increasingly overgrown and sketchy until the ground jogged downwards even more, below the level of the valley floor. The extra energy required to move around was sapping my strength.

I was leading now and for a moment Amelia lingered behind me, as if expecting someone else. Then she caught up with me and moved in front. Above, plants arched over, gradually closing off into a dark, verdant tunnel. We pushed on into what was not quite absolute darkness, Amelia more surefooted than I. When it became very dark she turned on a little penlight and poked its thin beam ahead of her, but I suspected the light was more for my benefit than hers. Something told me that she had come down here often enough to know every triphole in the flooring and how to step past it. Eventually, however, the torch became almost superfluous: there was a milky light ahead of us, periodically dimming then returning perhaps once every minute.

‘What is this place?’ I asked.

‘An old construction tunnel, dating from when Idlewild was built. They filled in most of them, but they must have forgotten this one. I come down here a lot on my own when I need to think.’

‘You’re showing quite some trust by bringing me down here, then.’

She looked back at me, her face almost lost in the gloom. ‘You’re not the only one I’ve brought down here. But I do trust you, Tanner. That’s the odd thing. And it’s got very little to do with your being a hero. You seem like a kind man. There’s an aura of calm about you.’

‘They say the same thing about psychopaths.’

‘Well, thank you for that pearl of wisdom.’

‘Sorry. I’ll shut up now.’

We walked on in mutual silence for a few more minutes, but before very long the tunnel opened out into a cavelike chamber with an artificially flat floor. I took a cautious step onto its glossy surface, and then looked down. The floor was glass, and things were moving beneath it.

Stars. And worlds.

Once every rotation, a beautiful yellow-brown planet hove into view, accompanied by a much smaller reddish moon. Now I knew where the periodic light had come from.

‘That’s Yellowstone,’ Amelia said, pointing to the larger world. ‘The moon with the big chain of craters on it? That’s Marco’s Eye, named after Marco Ferris, the man who discovered the chasm on Yellowstone.’

Some impulse made me kneel down to get a better look.

‘We’re pretty close to Yellowstone, then.’

‘Yes. We’re at the trailing Lagrange point of the moon and the planet; the gravitational balance point sixty degrees behind Marco’s Eye in its orbit. This is where most of the big ships are parked.’ She waited a moment. ‘Look; here they come now.’

A vast conglomeration of ships came into view: sleek and jewelled as ceremonial daggers. Each ship, sheathed in diamond and ice, was as large as a small city - three or four kilometres long - but rendered tiny by the sheer number and distance of them, like a shoal of brilliant tropical fish. They were clustered around another habitat, smaller ships docked around the habitat’s rim like sea-urchin spines. The whole ensemble must have been two or three hundred kilometres away. Already it was passing out of sight as the carousel spun, but there was time enough for Amelia to point out the ship which had brought me here.

‘There. That one on the edge of the parking swarm is the Orvieto, I think.’

I thought of that ship slamming through the interstellar void, cruising just below light for nearly fifteen years, and for a moment I had a visceral grasp of the immensity of space which I had crossed from Sky’s Edge, compressed into a subjective instant of dreamless sleep.

‘There’s no going back now, is there?’ I said. ‘Even if one of those ships were going back to Sky’s Edge, and even if I had the means to get aboard, I wouldn’t be returning home. I’d be a hero from thirty years in the past - probably long forgotten. Someone born after me might have decided to classify me as a war criminal and order my execution the instant I was awakened.’

Amelia nodded slowly. ‘Most people never go home again, that’s true enough. Even if there isn’t a war, too much will have changed. But most people have already resigned themselves to that before they leave.’

‘You’re saying I didn’t?’

‘I don’t know, Tanner. You do seem different, that’s for sure.’ Suddenly her tone of voice changed. ‘Ah, look! There’s one of the sloughed hulls!’

‘One of the what?’

But I followed her gaze all the same. What I saw was an empty conic shell, looking as huge as one of the ships in the parking swarm, though it was hard to be sure. She said, ‘I don’t know much about those ships, Tanner, but I know that they’re almost alive, in some ways - capable of altering themselves, improving themselves over time, so that they never end up obsolete. Sometimes the changes are all inside, but sometimes they affect the whole shape of the ship - making it larger, for instance. Or sleeker, so it can go closer to the speed of light. Usually when they do that, it’s cheaper for the ship to discard its old diamond armour rather than tear it down and rebuild it piece by piece. They call it sloughing - it’s like a lizard shedding its skin.’

‘Ah.’ I understood. ‘And I presume they were prepared to sell that armour at a knock-down price?’

‘They didn’t even sell it - just left the blessed thing lying in orbit, waiting to be rammed into by something. We took it over, stabilised its spin and lined it with rock tailings from Marco’s Eye. We had to wait a long time for another piece that matched, but eventually we had two shells we could join together to make Idlewild.’

‘Cheap at the price.’

‘Oh, it was still a lot of work. But the design works quite well for us. For a start, it takes a lot less air to fill a habitat of this shape than a cylindrical one of the same length. And as we get older and frailer and less able to take care of our duties near the point where the shells were married together, we can spend more and more time working in the low-gravity highlands, gradually approaching the endpoints - closer to heaven, as we say.’

‘Not too close, I hope.’

‘Oh, it’s not so bad up there.’ Amelia smiled. ‘The old dears can look down on the rest of us, after all.’

There was a sound from behind us; soft footfalls. I tensed, and once again my hand seemed to twitch in expectation of a weapon. A figure, barely visible, stole into the cave. I saw Amelia tense. For a moment the figure waited, its breathing the only sound. I said nothing, but waited patiently for the world to come around again and throw some light on the stranger.

He spoke. ‘Amelia, you know you shouldn’t come down here. It’s not allowed.’

‘Brother Alexei,’ she said. ‘You should know that I’m not alone.’

The echo of his laughter - false and histrionic - reflected from the cave walls. ‘That’s a good one, Amelia. I know you’re alone. I followed you, don’t you see? I saw that there was no one with you.’

‘Except there is someone with me. You must have seen me when I held back. I thought you were following us, but I couldn’t be sure.’

I said nothing for a moment.

‘You were never a very good liar, Amelia.’

‘Perhaps not, but right now I’m telling the truth - aren’t I, Tanner?’

I spoke just as the light returned, revealing the man. I already knew him to be another Mendicant from the way Amelia had greeted him, but he was dressed differently from Amelia, in a simple hooded black cloak, sewn on its chest with the snowflake motif. His arms were crossed casually beneath the motif and his face bore an expression less of serenity than hunger. He looked the hungry sort, too: pale and cadaverous, his cheekbones and jaw etched with shadow.

‘She’s telling the truth,’ I said.

He took a step closer. ‘Let me get a better look at you, slush puppy.’ His deepset eyes gleamed in the darkness, inspecting me. ‘Been awake long, have you?’

‘Just a few hours.’ I stood, allowing him to see what I was made of. He was taller than me, but we probably weighed about the same. ‘Not long, but long enough to know that I don’t like being called slush puppy. What’s that - slang amongst Ice Mendicants? You’re not as holy as you pretend, are you?’

Alexei smirked. ‘What would you know?’

I stepped towards him, my feet pressing against the glass, stars wheeling under them. I thought I had the picture now. ‘You like to bother Amelia, don’t you? That’s how you get your kicks - by following her down here. What do you do when you catch her alone, Alexei?’

‘Something divine,’ he said.

I could see why she had hesitated now, allowing Alexei to spy on her and conclude that she was alone. On this one occasion she must have wanted him to follow her because she knew I’d be there as well. How long had this been going on - and how long had she had to wait before reviving someone she thought she could trust?

‘Be careful,’ Amelia said. ‘This man is the hero of Nueva Valparaiso, Alexei. He saved lives there. He isn’t just some meek tourist.’

‘What is he, then?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, answering for her. But in the same breath I crossed the two metres that spaced me from Alexei, pressing him hard against the cave wall, locking an arm under his chin, applying just enough pressure to make him think I was choking him. The movement felt as effortless and fluid as a yawn.

‘Stop . . .’ he said. ‘Please . . . you’re hurting me.’

Something dropped from his hand: a sharp-edged cultivating tool. I kicked it across the floor.

‘Silly boy, Alexei. If you’re going to arm yourself, don’t throw your weapon away.’

‘You’re choking me!’

‘If I was choking you, you wouldn’t be able to talk. You’d be unconscious about now.’ But I released the pressure anyway, shoving him towards the tunnel. He tripped on something and hit the ground hard. Something rolled from his pocket; another makeshift weapon, I presumed.

‘Please . . .’

‘Listen to me, Alexei. That was just a warning. Next time we cross paths, you walk away with a broken arm, understand? I don’t want you here again.’ I picked up the cultivating tool and threw it towards him. ‘Get back to your gardening, big boy.’

We watched him get up, mumble something under his breath then scuttle back into the darkness.

‘How long has that been going on?’

‘A few months.’ Her voice was very quiet now. We watched Yellowstone and the swarm of parked ships rotate into view again before she continued, ‘What he said - what he implied - never happened. All he’s ever done is just scare me. But every time he goes a bit further. He frightens me, Tanner. I’m glad you were with me.’

‘It was deliberate, wasn’t it? You were hoping he would try something today.’

‘Then I was afraid you might kill him. You could have, couldn’t you? If you had wanted to.’

Now that she formed the question I had to ask it of myself as well. And I saw that killing him would have been easy for me; simply a technical modification of the restraint I had imposed. It wouldn’t have demanded any more effort; would hardly have impinged on the calm I had felt during the whole incident.

‘He wouldn’t have been worth the effort,’ I said, reaching over to pick up the thing which had slipped from his pocket. No weapon, I saw now - or at least nothing with which I was familiar.

It was more like a syringe, containing some fluid which could have been black or dark red, but was most likely the latter.

‘What’s this?’

‘Something he shouldn’t have had in Idlewild. Give it to me, will you? I’ll have it destroyed.’

I passed the hypodermic device willingly; it was of no use to me. As she pocketed it with something close to revulsion, Amelia said, ‘Tanner, he’ll be back, when you’ve left us.’

‘We’ll worry about that later - and I’m not going anywhere in a hurry, am I? Not with my memory in the state it is.’ Trying to lighten the mood, I added, ‘You said something about showing me my face, earlier on.’

She answered hesitantly. ‘Yes, I did, didn’t I?’ Then she fished out the little penlight she had used in the tunnel and instructed me to kneel down again, looking into the glass. When Yellowstone and its moon had gone by and the cave had become dark again, she shone the torch on my face. I looked at my reflection in the glass.

There was no shocking sense of unfamiliarity. How could there have been, when I had already traced the outline of my face with my fingers a dozen times since waking? I already sensed that my face would be blandly handsome, and that was the case. It was the face of a moderately successful actor or a motivationally suspect politician. A dark-haired man in his early forties - and, without quite knowing from where I had dredged this fact, I knew that on Sky’s Edge, that more or less meant exactly what it said; that I could not be drastically older than I seemed, for our methods of longevity extension lagged centuries behind the rest of humanity.

Another shard of memory clicking into place.

‘Thank you,’ I said, when I had seen enough for now. ‘I think that helped. I don’t think my amnesia’s going to last forever.’

‘It almost never does.’

‘Actually, I was being flippant. Are you saying there are people who never get their memories back?’

‘Yes,’ she said, with unconcealed sadness. ‘Mostly, they never function well enough to immigrate.’

‘What happens to them, in that case?’

‘They stay here. They learn to help us; to cultivate the terraces. Sometimes they even join the Order.’

‘Poor souls.’

Amelia stood, beckoning me to follow her. ‘Oh, there are worse fates, Tanner. I should know.’

SIX

Ten years old, he moved with his father across the curved, polished floor of the freight bay, their booted feet squeaking on the high-gloss surface, the two of them suspended above their own dark reflections; a man and a boy forever walking up what looked to the eye like an ever-steepening hill, but which always felt perfectly level.

‘We’re going outside, aren’t we?’ Sky said.

Titus looked down at his son. ‘Why do you assume that?’

‘You wouldn’t have brought me here otherwise.’

Titus said nothing, but the point could not be denied. Sky had never been in the freight bay before; not even during one of Constanza’s illicit trips into the Santiago’s forbidden territory. Sky remembered the time she had taken him to see the dolphins, and the punishment that had ensued, and how that punishment had been eclipsed by the ordeal that had followed: the flash of light and the period he had spent trapped alone and cold in the utter darkness of the nursery. It seemed so long ago, but there were still things about that day that he did not fully understand now; things he had never persuaded his father to speak about. It was more than his father’s recalcitrance; more than simply Titus’s grief at the death of Sky’s mother. The censorship by omission - it was more subtle than a simple refusal to discuss the incident - extended to every adult Sky had spoken to. No one would speak of that day when the whole ship had turned dark and cold, yet to Sky the events were still clearly fixed in his memory.

After what felt like days - and now that he thought about it, it probably had been days - the adults had made the main lights come on again. He noticed when the air-circulators began to work - a faint background ambience which he had never really noticed until it had ceased. In all that time, his father told him later, they had been breathing unrecirculated air; slowly turning staler and staler as the hundred and fifty waking humans dumped more and more carbon dioxide back into their atmosphere. In a few more days it would have started causing serious problems, but now the air became fresher and the ship slowly warmed back up to the point where it was possible to move along the corridors without shivering. Various secondary systems that had been unavailable during the blackout were brought hesitantly back online. The trains which ferried equipment and technicians up and down the spine began to run again. The ship’s information nets, which had been silent, could now be queried. The food improved, but Sky had hardly noticed that they had been eating emergency rations during the blackout.

Yet still none of the adults would discuss exactly what had happened.

Eventually, when something like normal shipboard life had returned, Sky managed to sneak back into the nursery. The room was lit, but to his surprise everything looked more or less as he had left it: Clown frozen in that strange shape he had assumed after the flash. Sky had crept closer to examine the distorted form of his friend. He could see now that all Clown had ever been was a pattern in the tiny coloured squares that covered the nursery’s walls, floor and ceiling. Clown had been a kind of moving picture that only made sense - only looked right - when seen from precisely Sky’s point of view. Clown had appeared to be physically present in the room - not simply drawn on the wall - because his feet and legs had been drawn on the floor as well, but with a perspective distorted such that it looked perfectly real from where Sky happened to be. The room must have mapped Sky and his direction of gaze. Had he been able to shift his viewpoint fast enough, faster than the room could recompute Clown’s image, he would perhaps have seen through that trick of perspective. But Clown was always much faster than Sky. For three years, he had never doubted that Clown was real, even if Clown could never touch or be touched by anything.

His parents had abdicated responsibility to an illusion.

Now, however - in a mood of eager forgiveness - he pushed such thoughts from his mind, awed by the sheer size of the freight bay and the prospect of what lay ahead. What made the place all the larger was the fact that the two of them were quite alone, surrounded only by a puddle of moving light. The rest of the chamber was suggested rather than clearly seen; its dimensions hinted at by the dark, looming shapes of cargo containers and their associated handling machines receding along curved lines into blackness. Parked here and there were various spacecraft; some little more than single-person tugs or broomsticks designed for flying immediately outside the ship, while others were fully pressurised taxi craft, built for crossing to the other Flotilla craft. The taxis could enter an atmosphere in an emergency, but they were not designed to make the return trip to space. The delta-winged landers which would make multiple journeys down to the surface of Journey’s End were too large to store inside the Santiago; they were attached instead to the outside of the ship and there was almost no way to see them unless you worked on one of the external work crews, as his mother had done before her death.

Titus halted near one of the small shuttles. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we’re going outside. I think it’s time you saw things the way they really are.’

‘What things?’

But by way of answer Titus only elevated the cuff of his uniform and spoke quietly into his bracelet. ‘Enable excursion vehicle 15.’

There was no hesitation; no querying of his authority. The taxi answered him instantly, lights flicking on across its wedge-shaped hull, its cockpit door craning open on smooth pistons and the pallet on which it was mounted rotating to bring the door closer and align the vehicle with its departure track. Steam started to vent from ports spaced along the vehicle’s side and Sky could hear the growing whine of turbines somewhere inside the machine’s angular hull. A few seconds ago the thing had been a piece of sleek, dead metal, but now there were awesome energies at its disposal; barely contained.

He hesitated at the door, until his father beckoned that he lead.

‘After you, Sky. Go forward and take the seat on the left of the instrument column. Don’t touch anything while you’re about it.’

Sky hopped into the spacecraft, feeling the floor vibrating beneath his feet. The taxi was considerably more cramped inside than it had looked - the hull was thickly plated and armoured - and he had to duck and dive to reach the forward seats, brushing his head against a gristle-like tangle of internal pipework. He found his seat and fiddled with the blue-steel buckle until he had it tight across his chest. In front of him was a cool turquoise-green display - constantly changing numbers and intricate diagrams - beneath a curved, gold-tinted window. To his left was a control column inset with neat levers and switches and a single black joystick.

His father settled into the rightmost seat. The door had closed on them now and suddenly it was quieter, save for the continuous rasp of the taxi’s air-circulation. His father touched the green display with his finger, making it change, studying the results with narrow-eyed concentration.

‘Word of advice, Sky. Never trust these damned things to tell you that they’re safe. Make sure for yourself.’

‘You don’t trust machines to tell you for yourself?’

‘I used to, once.’ His father eased the joystick forward and the taxi commenced gliding along its departure track, sliding past the parked ranks of other vehicles. ‘But machines aren’t infallible. We used to kid ourselves that they were because it was the only way to stay sane in a place like this, where we depend on them for our every breath. Unfortunately, it was never true.’

‘What happened to change your mind?’

‘You’ll see, shortly.’

Sky spoke into his own bracelet - it offered a limited subset of the capabilities of his father’s unit - and asked the ship to connect him to Constanza. ‘You’ll never guess where I’m calling from,’ he said when her face had appeared, tiny and bright. ‘I’m going outside. ’

‘With Titus?’

‘Yes, my father’s here.’

Constanza was thirteen now, although - like Sky - she was often taken to be older. In neither case had the assumption much to do with their looks, for while Constanza at least looked no older than her true age, Sky looked substantially younger than his: small and pale and difficult to imagine being afflicted by adolescence in anything like the near future. But both were still intellectually precocious; Constanza was now working more or less fulltime within Titus’s security organisation. As was naturally the case aboard a ship with such a small living crew, her duties generally had little to do with enforcement of rules and much more to do with the overseeing of intricate safety procedures and the studying and simulating of operational scenarios. And while it was demanding work - the Santiago was a phenomenally complex thing to understand as a single entity - it was almost certainly work that had never required Constanza to leave the confines of the ship. Since she had begun working for his father, their friendship had become more tenuous - she had responsibilities Sky lacked, and moved in the adult world - but now he was about to do something that could not help but impress her; something that would elevate him in her eyes.

He waited for her answer, but when it came it was not quite what he had been expecting. ‘I’m sorry for you, Sky. I know it won’t be easy, but you have to see it, I think.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘What Titus is about to show you.’ She paused. ‘I’ve always known, Sky. Ever since it happened, the day we got back from the dolphins. But it was never something it was right to talk about. When you come back inside, you can talk to me about it, if you want.’

He seethed; the way she spoke was less like a friend than what he imagined a condescending older sister might be like. And now his father compounded it by placing a comforting hand on his forearm. ‘She’s right, Sky. I wondered if I should forewarn you, then in the end decided not to - but what Constanza has said is true. It won’t be pleasant, but the truth seldom is. And I think you’re ready for it now.’

‘Ready for what?’ he said, and then realised the link to Constanza was still open. He addressed her: ‘You knew this trip was going ahead, didn’t you?’

‘She had some idea that I’d be taking you outside,’ his father said, before the girl could defend herself. ‘That’s all. You mustn’t - can’t - blame her for that. It’s a flight outside the ship; everyone in security has to know about it, and - since we’re not crossing over to one of the other ships - the reason for it.’

‘Which is?’

‘To learn what happened to your mother.’

All the while they had been moving, but now they reached the freight bay’s sheer metal wall. A circular door in the wall whisked open to admit them, the taxi sliding off its pallet into a long, red-lit chamber not much wider than the machine itself. They waited there for a minute or so while the chamber’s air was sucked out, then the taxi moved downwards abruptly, sinking into a shaft. Sky’s father took the opportunity to lean over to adjust Sky’s belt, and then they were outside the ship - blackness below, and the gentle curve of the hull above their heads. The feeling of vertigo was quite intense, even though there was nothing below to suggest height.

They dropped. It was only for an instant, but it was nauseating enough; like the feeling Sky remembered from the rare times when he had been near the ship’s centre, where gravity dwindled almost to zero. Then the taxi’s engines kicked in, and something like weight returned. Expertly his father vectored the taxi away from the looming grey bulk of the massive ship, adjusting their course with taps of steering thrust, his fingers as delicate on the controls as a concert pianist’s.

‘I feel sick,’ Sky said.

‘Close your eyes. You’ll be fine in a moment.’

Despite the disquiet he felt about his mother’s death - and the fact that this trip had something to do with it - Sky could not completely suppress a thrill of excitement at the thought of being outside. He released the safety buckle and started clambering all around the taxi to get a better view. His father scolded him gently and told him to get back in his seat, but not with any great conviction. Then he yawed the taxi around and smiled as the great ship they had just left came into sight.

‘Well, there she is. Your home for the last ten years, Sky, and the only home I’ve ever known. I know; there’s no need to hide your feelings. She’s not exactly beautiful, is she?’

‘She’s big, though.’

‘She’d better be - she’s just about all we’ll ever have. You’re luckier than me, of course. At least you’ll see Journey’s End.’

Sky nodded, but his father’s quiet certainty that he would be dead by then could not help but make him feel sad.

He looked back to the ship.

The Santiago was two kilometres long; longer than any ship which had ever sailed any of Earth’s oceans and easily the equal of any of the largest craft which had plied the solar system in the days before the Flotilla’s departure. Her skeleton, in fact, was an old fusion-drive space freighter, retrofitted for a journey into interstellar space. With small variations, the other Flotilla ships had been converted from the same sources.

This far from any star, almost no light fell upon the ship, and she would have been invisible were it not for the light spilling from tiny windows dotted along her length. At the very front was a big sphere encircled by lights. That was the command section, where the bridge was, and where the crew spent most of their time when they were on duty. It was where the navigational and scientific instruments were kept, forever pointed towards the destination star; the one they had nicknamed Swan, but which Sky knew really had the much less poetic name 61 Cygni-A: one cool red half of a binary star system located in the random sprinkle of stars which had been given the name Cygnus in antiquity. Only towards the end of the voyage would the ship flip around to bring its tail to bear on Swan, so that it could slow itself down with exhaust thrust from the engines.

Behind the control sphere was a cylinder of the same diameter, which held the freight bay from which they had just come. Beyond that was a long, thin spine, studded with regularly spaced modules like immense dinosaur vertebrae. At the very end of the spine was the propulsion system, the intricate and fearsome engines which had once burned to accelerate the ship up to its present cruising speed, and which would burn again on some immeasurably remote day when Sky was fully grown.

Sky knew all these aspects of the ship; he had seen models and holograms of it many times, but it was something else to be seeing it for himself, from outside, for the first time. Slowly, but with grinding stateliness, the whole ship was rotating on its long axis, spinning to create the illusion of gravity on its curving decks. Sky watched it turn; watched lights heave into view and disappear ten seconds later. He could see the tiny aperture in the cargo cylinder, where the taxi had departed. It looked very small, but not perhaps as small as it should have done, given that this ship was all his world could ever be. Almost. He was young now, and he had only been allowed to explore a small fraction of the Santiago, but surely it would not be long before he knew it all intimately.

He noticed something else, too; something that the models and the holos had definitely not got right. As the ship turned, it looked darker on one side than the other.

What could that mean?

But almost as soon as the troubling inconsistency had begun to worry him, he had forgotten it; marvelling in the sheer immensity of the ship; the pin-sharp way the details held their clarity across kilometres of vacuum; trying to imagine where his favourite places in the ship mapped into this strange new view. He had never been very far down the spine, that was for certain, and even then only under Constanza’s guidance, some daredevil adventure before the adults caught them. No one had really blamed him for that, however. It was natural curiosity to want to see the dead, once their existence was known.

Of course, they were not really dead - just frozen.

The spine was a kilometre long; half the ship’s total length. In cross-section it had a hexagonal form, with six long, narrow sides. Along each of those sides were spaced sixteen sleeper modules; each a disk-shaped structure rooted to the spine by umbilical attachments. Ninety-six disks in total, and each of those disks, Sky knew, contained ten triangular compartments, each of which held a single momio sleeper and the bulky machines necessary for their care. Nine hundred and sixty frozen passengers, then. Nearly a thousand people in total, all submerged in an icy sleep which would last the entire duration of the voyage to Swan. The sleepers, needless to say, were the most precious commodity that the ship carried; its sole reason for existence. The one hundred and fifty-strong living crew were there only to ensure the wellbeing of the frozen and to keep the ship on course. Again Sky measured his current familarity with the ship against that which he could reasonably hope to attain by the time he was an adult. At the moment he knew fewer than a dozen people, but that was only because his upbringing had been deliberately sheltered. Soon he would know many of the others. His father said that there were one hundred and fifty warm humans on the ship because that was some kind of magic number in sociological terms; the population size towards which village communities tended to converge and which carried with it the best prospects for internal harmony and general wellbeing amongst its members. It was large enough to allow individuals to move in slightly different circles if they wished, but not so large that there were likely to be dangerous internal schisms. In that sense, Old Man Balcazar was the tribal leader and Titus Haussmann, with his deep knowledge of secret lore and his abiding concern for the safety of the population, chief medicine man, or top hunter, perhaps. Either way, Sky was the son of someone in a position of authority, what the adults sometimes called a caudillo, meaning big man, and that augured well for his own future. It was open talk amongst his parents and the other adults that Captain Balcazar was an ‘old man’ now. Old Man Balcazar and his father were professionally close: Titus always had the Captain’s ear and Balcazar routinely consulted Sky’s father for advice. This trip outside would have required Balcazar’s authorisation, since use of any of the Santiago’s spacecraft was to be kept to a minimum, the ships themselves irreplaceable.

He felt the taxi decelerate, false gravity easing off again.

‘Take a good look,’ Titus said.

They were passing the engines: a huge and bewildering tangle of tanks and pipes and flared orifices, like the gaping mouths of trumpets.

‘Antimatter,’ Titus said, mouthing the word like a quiet oath. ‘It’s the devil’s own stuff, you know. We carry a small amount even in this shuttle, just to initiate fusion reactions, but even that makes me shiver. But when I think about the amount aboard the Santiago, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.’

Titus pointed to the two magnetic storage bottles at the rear of the ship: huge reservoirs for penning macroscopic quantities of pure antilithium. The larger of the two reservoirs was empty now, the fuel it had contained completely consumed during the initial boost phase up to interstellar cruising speed. Though there was no external indication that this was the case, the second bottle still contained its complete load of antimatter, delicately balanced in a vacuum fractionally more perfect than the one through which the great ship flew. There was less antimatter in the smaller bottle, since the ship’s mass would be less during deceleration than acceleration, but there was still enough to give anyone nightmares.

No one, at least in Sky’s experience, ever joked about antimatter.

‘All right,’ his father said. ‘Now get back in your seat and do your belt up.’

When he was secure Titus gunned the taxi, increasing the thrust to its maximum. The Santiago diminished until it was just a thin grey sliver, and then became difficult to see unless one searched the starfields carefully. It was hard to believe, seeing it against apparently fixed stars, that the ship was moving at all. It was, but eight hundredths of lightspeed, though faster than any crewed ship had ever moved before, was still almost zero when set against the vast distances between the stars.

That was why the passengers were frozen, so that they could sleep out the whole thing while three generations of crew lived almost their entire lives tending them. Cocooned in their cryogenic sleeper berths, the passengers were nicknamed mummies by the crew, momios in the Castellano which was still used for casual conversation within the ship.

Sky Haussmann was crew. So was everyone he knew.

‘Can you see the other ships yet?’ asked his father.

Sky searched the forward view for long moments before finding one of the other vessels. It was hard to see, but his eyes must have adapted to the darkness since leaving home. Had he imagined it, even so?

No - there it was again, a tiny, toylike constellation in its own right.

‘I see one.’ Sky pointed.

His father nodded. ‘That’s the Brazilia, I think. The Palestine and the Baghdad are out there too, but they’re much further away.’

‘Can you see it?’

‘Not without a little assistance.’ Titus’s hands moved in the dark across the taxi’s control board, painting an overlay of coloured lines over the window, bright against space like chalk on a blackboard. The lines boxed the Brazilia and the two more distant ships, but it was only when the Brazilia loomed large that he thought he could make out the slivers of the other two vessels. By then the Brazilia had revealed itself to be identical to his home ship, down to the disks studding its spine.

He looked around the taxi’s window, searching for an intersection of coloured lines that would demark the fourth ship, and found nothing.

‘Is the Islamabad behind us?’ he asked his father.

‘No,’ his father said, softly. ‘It isn’t behind us.’

There was a tone in his father’s voice which troubled Sky. But in the gloom of the taxi’s interior his father’s expression was hard to read. Perhaps that was deliberate.

‘Where is it, then?’

‘It isn’t there now.’ His father spoke slowly. ‘It hasn’t been there for some time, Sky. There are only four ships left now. Seven years ago something happened to the Islamabad.’

There was a silence in the taxi which stretched endlessly before Sky found the will to reply.

‘What?’

‘An explosion. An explosion like nothing you can imagine.’ His father paused before speaking again. ‘Like a million suns shining for the tiniest of instants. Blink, Sky - and think of a thousand people turning to ashes in that blink.’

Sky thought back to the flash he had seen in his nursery when he was three. The flash would have troubled him more if it had not been eclipsed by the way Clown broke down that day. Though he had never quite forgotten it, when he thought back to that incident, it was never the flash that was the more important thing but his companion’s betrayal; the stark realisation that Clown had only ever been a mirage of flickering wall pixels. How could the brief, bright flash ever have signified something more upsetting than that?

‘Someone made it happen?’

‘No, I don’t think so. Not intentionally, anyway. They might have been experimenting, though.’

‘With their engines?’

‘Sometimes I think that was what it probably was.’ His father’s voice grew hushed; almost conspiratorial. ‘Our ships are very old, Sky. I was born aboard our ship, just as you were. My father was a young man, hardly even an adult, when he left Mercury orbit with the first generation of crew. That was a hundred years ago.’

‘But the ship isn’t wearing out,’ Sky said.

‘No,’ Titus said, nodding emphatically. ‘Our ships are nearly as good as the day they were built. The problem is that they aren’t getting any better. Back on Earth, there were still people that supported us; wanted to help us on our way. Over the years they had thought long and hard about the designs of our ships, trying to find small ways in which our lives might be improved. They transmitted suggestions to us: improvements in our life-support systems; refinements in our sleeper berths. We lost dozens of sleepers in the first few decades of the voyage, Sky - but with the refinements we were slowly able to stabilise things.’

That was news to him, too: the idea that any of the sleepers had died was not at first easy to accept. After all, being frozen was a kind of death itself. But his father explained that there were all sorts of things that could happen to the frozen which would still prevent them being thawed out properly.

‘Recently though . . . in your lifetime, at least - things have become much better. There have only been two die-offs in the last ten years.’ Sky would later ask himself what became of those dead; whether they were still being carried along by the ship. The adults cared deeply about the momios, like a religious sect entrusted with the care of fabulously rare and delicate icons. ‘But there was another kind of refinement,’ his father continued.

‘The engines?’

‘Yes.’ He said it with emphatic pride. ‘We don’t use the engines now, and we won’t use them again until we reach our destination - but if there was a way to make the engines work better, we could slow down faster when we reach Journey’s End. As it is, we’ll have to start our slowdown years from Swan - but with better engines we could stay in cruise mode longer. That would get us there quicker. Even a marginal improvement - shaving a few years off the mission - would be worth it, especially if we start losing sleepers again.’

‘Will we?’

‘We won’t know for years to come. But in fifty years we’ll be very near our destination, and the equipment which keeps the sleepers frozen will be getting very old. It’s one of the few systems we can’t keep upgrading and repairing - too intricate, too dangerous. But a saving in flight time would always be a good thing. Mark my words - in fifty years, you’ll want to shave every month possible off this voyage.’

‘Did the people back home come up with a way to make the engines work better?’

‘Yes, exactly that.’ His father was pleased that he had guessed that much. ‘All the ships in the Flotilla received the transmission, of course, and we were all capable of making the modifications that it suggested. At first, we all hesitated. A great meeting of the Flotilla captains was held. Balcazar and three of the other four thought it was dangerous. They urged caution - pointing out that we could study the design for another forty or fifty years before we had to make a decision. What if Earth discovered an error in their blueprint? News of that mistake could be on its way to us - an urgent message saying “Stop” - or perhaps, a year or two down the line, they would think of something even better, but which it was not now possible to implement. Perhaps if we followed the first suggestion, we would rule out ever being able to follow another.’

Again Sky thought of the cleansing brilliance of that flash. ‘So what happened to the Islamabad?’

‘As I said, we’ll never know for sure. The meeting broke up with the Flotilla Captains agreeing not to act until we had further information. A year passed; we kept debating the issue - Captain Khan included - and then it happened.’

‘Perhaps it was an accident after all.’

‘Perhaps,’ his father said doubtfully. ‘Perhaps. Afterwards . . . the explosion didn’t do any serious damage. Not to us or the others, luckily. Oh, it seemed pretty bad at first. The electromagnetic pulse fried half our systems, and even some of the mission-critical ones didn’t come back online immediately. We had no power, except for the auxiliary systems serving the sleepers and our own magnetic containment bottle. But in our part of the ship - up front - we had nothing. No power. Not even enough to run the air-recyclers. That could have killed us, but there was so much air in the corridors we had a few days’ grace: enough time to hard-wire repair pathways and lash together replacement parts. Gradually we got things running again. We got hit by debris, of course - the ship wasn’t totally destroyed in its own explosion, and some of those shards went through us at half the speed of light. The flash burned our hull shielding pretty badly, too - that’s why she’s darker on one side than the other.’ His father said nothing for a moment, but Sky knew that there was more coming. ‘That was how your mother died, Sky. Lucretia was outside the ship when it happened. She was working with a team of techs, inspecting the hull.’

He had known his mother had died that day - known even that she was outside - but he had never been told exactly how it had happened.

‘Is that the reason you brought me out here?’

‘Almost.’

The taxi banked, executing a wide turn which took it back towards the Santiago. Sky felt only a small stab of disappointment. He had dared to imagine that this trip might actually take him to one of the other ships, but such excursions were rare things indeed. Instead - wondering if he should try and force some tears now that the topic of his mother’s death had been raised, even though he did not actually feel like crying - he waited patiently for his home ship to enlarge, coming in out of the dark like a strip of friendly coastline on a stormy night.

‘Something you should understand,’ Titus said, eventually. ‘The fact that the Islamabad’s gone doesn’t really threaten the success of the mission. There are four ships left now - say four thousand settlers for Journey’s End - but we could still establish a colony even if only one ship arrived safely.’

‘You mean we might be the only ship to get there?’

‘No,’ his father said. ‘I mean we might be one of those which never arrives. Understand that, Sky - understand that any one of us is expendable - and you’ll be a long way to understanding what makes the Flotilla tick; what decisions might have to be taken fifty years from now, if the worst comes to the worst. Only one ship needs to arrive.’

‘But if another ship blew up . . .’

‘Agreed, we’d probably not be hurt this time. Since the Islamabad went up, we’ve moved all the ships much further apart. It’s safer, but it makes physical travel between them harder. In the long run, that might not be such a good idea. Distance can breed suspicion, and it can make enemies hardly worthy of consideration as human beings. Much easier to consider killing.’ Titus’s voice had grown cold and remote, almost like that of a stranger, but then he softened his tone. ‘Remember that, Sky. We’re all in this together, no matter how hard things become in the future.’

‘You think things will?’

‘I don’t know, but they’re almost certainly not going to get easier. And by the time that any of this matters - when we get close to the end of the crossing - you’ll be my age, in a position of senior responsibility, even if not actually running the ship.’

‘You think that could happen?’

Titus smiled. ‘I’d say it for certain - if I didn’t also know a certain talented young lady by the name of Constanza.’

While they had been speaking, the Santiago had grown much larger, but now they were approaching it from a different angle, so that the bulbous sphere of the command section loomed like a miniature grey moon, filigreed by panel lines and the boxy accretions of sensor modules. Sky thought of Constanza, now that his father had mentioned her, and wondered if - perhaps after all - this trip might have impressed her. After all, he had been outside, even if it had not been quite the surprise to her that he had originally hoped. And what he had been shown - what he had been told - had really not been so hard to take, had it?

But Titus was not done yet.

‘Take a good look,’ his father said as the darkened side of the sphere rotated into view. ‘This is where your mother’s inspection team was working. They were attached to the hull by magnetic harnesses, working very close to the surface. The ship was spinning of course - just like she is now - and if luck had been on their side, your mother’s team would have been working on the other side when the Islamabad went up. But the rotation had brought them right round into full view when she detonated. They caught the full blast, and they were wearing only lightweight suits at the time.’

He understood now why his father had brought him out here. It was not simply to be told how his mother had died, or to be initiated into the chilling knowledge that one fifth of the Flotilla no longer existed. That was part of it, but the central message was here; on the hull of the ship itself.

Everything else had just been preparation.

When the flash had hit them, their bodies had temporarily shielded the hull from the worst excesses of the radiation. They had burned quickly - there had probably been no pain, he later learned - but in that moment of death they had left negative shadows of themselves; lighter patches against the generally scorched hull. They were seven human shapes, frozen in postures which could not help but look tortured, but which were probably just the natural positions they had been working in when the flash had hit them. They all looked alike in every other respect; there was no way to tell which shadow had been cast by his mother.

‘You know which one was her, don’t you?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Titus said. ‘Not that I found her, of course - someone else did. But yes, I do know which one belonged to your mother.’

Sky looked at the shadows again, burning their shapes into his brain, knowing that he would never have the courage to come out here again. Later he would learn that there had never been any serious attempt to remove the shadows; that they had been left as a monument not just to the seven dead workers, but to the thousand who had died in that soul-flensing flash. The ship wore them like a scar.

‘Well?’ Titus said, with the tiniest trace of impatience. ‘Do you want to know?’

‘No,’ Sky said. ‘No, I don’t want to know, ever.’

SEVEN

The next day Amelia brought my possessions to the chalet and then left me alone while I went through them. But as curious about them as I was, it was difficult to focus on the task. I was troubled by the fact that I’d dreamed about Sky Haussmann again: an unwilling observer to another incident in his life. The first dream about him that I clearly remembered must have happened to me during my revival; now I’d experienced another, and while there seemed to be a large gap in his life between them, they had clearly happened in chronological order. Like instalments.

And my palm had bled again, a hard new encrustation of dried blood over the wound. Spots of blood marred the sheet.

It didn’t take a massive leap of imagination to see that the two were connected. From somewhere I remembered that Haussmann had been crucified; that the mark in my palm signified his execution, and that I’d met another man with a similar wound in what seemed simultaneously like the recent and the infinitely remote past. I seemed to remember that the man had suffered the dreams as well, and hadn’t been an especially willing recipient of them either.

But maybe the things Amelia had brought me would explain the dreams. Trying to put Haussmann temporarily from mind, I focused on the task at hand. Everything I owned now - apart from any holdings back around Swan - lay in an unassuming briefcase which had come with me on the Orvieto.

There was some Sky’s Edge currency in large-denomination Southlander bills; about half a million Australs. Amelia had told me it amounted to a reasonable fortune on Sky’s Edge - based on the information she had, anyway - though it had negligible value here in the Yellowstone system. Why had I brought it with me, then? The answer seemed obvious enough. Even allowing for inflation, the Sky’s Edge money would still be worth something thirty years after my departure, though perhaps only enough to buy a room for the night. The fact that I had carried the money with me suggested that I had planned on returning home some day.

So I wasn’t emigrating then. I’d come here on business.

To do something.

I had also brought experientials: pencil-sized data sticks crammed with recorded memories. They must have been what I was planning to sell on my revival. Unless you were an Ultra trader specialising in esoteric high-technologies, experientials were about the only way a rich individual could preserve some of their wealth while crossing interstellar space. A market always existed for them, no matter how advanced or primitive the buyer - provided, of course, that they had the basic technology to make use of the experientials. Yellowstone would be no problem in that regard. It had been the wellspring of all major technological and social advances across human space for the last two centuries.

The experientials had been sealed in clear plastic. Without playback equipment, there was no way I could tell what they contained.

What else?

Some money which felt truly unfamiliar to me: strangely textured banknotes with unfamiliar faces on them and surreal, random denominations.

I had asked Amelia what they were.

‘That’s local money, Tanner. From Chasm City.’ She pointed to a man on one side of each bill. ‘That’s Lorean Sylveste, I think. Or it could be Marco Ferris. It’s ancient history, anyway.’

‘The money must have travelled from Yellowstone to Sky’s Edge and then back again - it’s at least thirty years old. Is it worth anything at all now?’

‘Oh, a little. I’m no expert in these matters, of course, but I think this would be enough to get you to Chasm City. Not much more than that, though.’

‘And how would I get to Chasm City?’

‘It’s not difficult, even now. There’s a slowboat shuttle which makes the run down to New Vancouver, in orbit around Yellowstone. From there you’d need to buy a place on a behemoth, to get down to the surface. I think what you have should be enough, if you were prepared to abstain from some luxuries.’

‘Such as?’

‘Well, any guarantee of arriving safely, for a start.’

I smiled. ‘I’d better hope my luck’s in, then.’

‘But you’re not planning on leaving us yet, are you, Tanner?’

‘No,’ I answered. ‘Not just yet.’

There were two other things in the briefcase: a dark, flat envelope and another, fatter one. Amelia had left me alone by the time I tipped the flatter of the two onto the chalet’s bed. The contents spilled out; less in it than I had expected and nothing that seemed like a revelatory message from my past. If anything, the contents were designed to confuse me even more: a dozen passports and laminated ID cards for myself, all valid at the time I had boarded the ship, and all applicable to some part of Sky’s Edge and its surrounding space. Some were simply printed; others had computer systems embedded into them.

I suspected that most people could have managed with only one or two such documents, accepting that there were areas they could not legally enter - but from what I gathered from the documents’ small print, I would have been able to travel more or less freely, in and out of war zones and militia-controlled states, into the neutral zones and into the low-orbital space around the planet. They were the documents of someone who needed to get around without interference. There were some anomalies, though: what appeared to be trifling inconsistencies in the personal data in each document, places of birth and places I had visited. In some of the documents I was listed as having been a soldier in the Southland Militia, whereas in others I was affiliated to the Northern Coalition as a tactical specialist. Other documents failed to mention any soldiering history at all - listing me only as a personal security consultant or an agent for an import/export firm.

Suddenly the documents stopped being a confusing jumble and cohered into a clear indication of the kind of man I had been. I was someone who needed to be able to slip across borders like a ghost; a man of many guises and pasts - most of them probably fictitious. I sensed that I had been a man who lived dangerously; someone who probably made enemies the way most people made acquaintances. I guessed that it had seldom bothered me much. I was a man who could think about killing a pervert monk without breaking sweat, and then refrain from the act because the monk was not worth the tiny expenditure of energy it would have taken.

But there were three other things in the envelope, tucked at the back so that they had not fallen out at first. I pulled them out carefully, my fingers feeling the gloss surfaces of photographs.

The first picture showed a woman of striking, dark beauty, a nervous smile on her face, backdropped by what looked like the edge of a jungle clearing. The picture had been taken at night. Angling the picture to look past her, I could just see the back of another man examining a gun. It could almost have been me - but then who had taken the picture, and why did I have it with me?

‘Gitta,’ I said; without any effort I had remembered her name. ‘You’re Gitta, aren’t you?’

The second picture showed a man standing in what might once have been a road, but which was little more than a pot-holed trail, curtained on either side by jungle. The man was walking towards the person taking the picture, a huge black weapon slung over his shoulder. He wore a shirt and a bandolier, and though his build and age were more or less the same as mine, his face was not quite the same. Behind the man, there was what seemed to be a fallen tree blocking the road, except that the tree ended in a bloodied stump, and much of the road was covered in a thick impasto of gore.

‘Dieterling,’ I said, the name springing from somewhere. ‘Miguel Dieterling.’

And knew that he had been a good friend of mine who was dead now.

Then I looked at the third picture. There was no trace of the intimacy of the first about this image, or even the dubious triumph of the second, since the man did not seem to be aware that his picture had been taken. It was a flat-image, taken with a long lens. The man was moving quickly through a mall, the neon lights of stores blurred into hyphens by the panned exposure. The man was slightly blurred too, but sharp enough for recognition. Sharp enough for acquisition, I thought.

I remembered his name, too.

I picked up the heavier of the two envelopes and allowed it to empty itself on the bed. The sharp-edged, intricately shaped pieces that fell out of it seemed to invite me to fit them together. I could feel the thing squeezed into my palm, ready to be used. It would be difficult to see; pearly in colour, like opaque glass.

Or diamond.

‘This is a blocking move,’ I said to Amelia. ‘You’ve immobilised me now. I may be taller and stronger than you, but there’s nothing I can do at this point which won’t cause me a lot of pain.’

She looked at me expectantly. ‘What now?’

‘Now you take the weapon from me.’ I nodded down towards the little trowel we were using as an ersatz weapon. She removed it from my grip softly with her free hand, then flung it away as if it were poisoned.

‘You’re letting go too easily.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘With the pressure you’re putting on that nerve, it’s all I could do not to drop it. It’s simple biomechanics, Amelia. I think you’ll find Alexei even easier to deal with.’

We were standing in the clearing before the chalet in what passed for late afternoon in Hospice Idlewild, the central filament of the sun turning from white to sullen orange. It was an odd kind of afternoon because the light always stayed overhead, imparting none of the flattering face-on glow and long shadows of a planetary sundown. But we were paying it little attention anyway. For the last two hours I had been showing Amelia some basic self-defence techniques. We had spent the first hour with Amelia trying to attack me, which meant touching any part of my body with the edge of the trowel. In all that time she had not succeeded once, even when I willed myself to let her through my defences. No matter how hard I gritted my teeth and said that this time I was going to let her win, it never happened. But at least it demonstrated something, which was that the right technique would almost always beat a clumsy assailant. She was getting closer, though, and things had improved when we reversed roles for the second hour. Now at least I was able to hold back, moving in slow enough for Amelia to learn the right blocking moves for each situation. She was a very good pupil; achieving in an hour what normally took two days. Her moves were not yet graceful - not yet hardwired into muscle memory - and she telegraphed her intentions, but neither of these defects would count much against an amateur like Brother Alexei.

‘You could show me how to kill him, too, couldn’t you?’ Amelia said, while we took a breather on the grass - or rather, while she caught her breath and I waited.

‘Is that what you want?’

‘No; of course not. I just want to make him stop.’

I looked across the curve of Idlewild to the tiny, dotlike figures toiling in the cultivation terraces on the far side, hurrying while there was still enough light to work in. ‘I don’t think he’ll come back,’ I said. ‘Not after what happened in the cave. But if he does, you’ll have an edge on him - and I’m damn sure he won’t come back after that. I know his type, Amelia. He’ll just fixate on an easier target.’

She thought about that for a while, doubtless pitying whoever would have to go through the same thing she had. ‘I know it’s not the sort of thing we’re meant to say, but I hate that man. Can we go through these moves tomorrow again?’

‘Of course. In fact, I insist on it. You’re still weak - although you’re well ahead of the curve.’

‘Thanks. Tanner - do you mind if I ask how you know these things?’

I thought back to the documents I had found in the envelope. ‘I was a personal security consultant.’

‘And?’

I smiled ruefully, wondering how much she knew about the contents of that envelope. ‘And some other things.’

‘They told me you were a soldier.’

‘Yes; I think I was. But then almost everyone alive on Sky’s Edge had some connection to the war. It wasn’t something you stayed out of easily. The attitude was, if you weren’t part of the solution, you were part of the problem. If you didn’t sign up for one side, you were considered by default to have sympathies with the other.’ That was an over-simplification, of course, since it ignored the fact that the aristocratic rich could buy neutrality off the shelf like a new outfit - but for the average non-wealthy Peninsula citizen, it wasn’t so far from the truth.

‘You seem to be remembering well now.’

‘It’s beginning to come back. Having a look at my personal possessions certainly helped.’

She nodded encouragingly and I felt the tiniest stab of remorse at lying to her. The pictures had done very much more than just jog my memory, but for the moment I chose to maintain the illusion of partial amnesia. I just hoped Amelia was not shrewd enough to see through my subterfuge, but I would be careful not to underestimate the Mendicants in any of the moves that lay ahead.

I was, indeed, a soldier. But as I had also inferred from the slew of passports and ID documents in the envelope, soldiering was nowhere near the end of my talents, merely the core around which my other skills orbited. Not everything had come into absolutely sharp focus yet, but I knew a lot more than I had the day before.

I’d been born into a family at the low end of the aristocratic wealth scale: not actively poor but consciously struggling to maintain any façade of wealth. We’d lived in Nueva Iquique, on the south-eastern shore of the Peninsula. It was a fading settlement buffered from the war by a range of treacherous mountains; sleepy and dispassionate even in the war’s darkest years. Northeners would often sail down the coast and put into Nueva Iquique without fear of violence, even when we were technically enemies, and inter-marriage between Flotilla lines was not uncommon. I grew up able to read the enemy’s hybrid language with almost the same fluency I read ours. To me it seemed strange that our leaders inspired us to hate these people. Even the history books agreed that we’d been united when the ships left Mercury.

But then so much had happened.

As I grew older, I began to see that, while I had nothing against the genes or beliefs of those who were allied within the Northern Coalition, they were still our enemies. They’d committed their share of atrocities, just as we had. While I might not have despised the enemy, I still had a moral duty to bring the war to a conclusion as swiftly as possible by aiding our side in victory. So at the age of twenty-two I signed up for the Southland Militia. I wasn’t a natural soldier, but I learned quickly. You had to; especially if you were thrown into live combat only a few weeks after handling your first gun. I turned out to be a proficient marksman. Later, with proper training, I became an exceptional one - and it was my extreme good fortune that my unit happened to need a sniper.

I remembered my first kill - or multiple killing, as it turned out.

We were perched high in jungle-enshrouded hills, looking down at a clearing where NC troops were off-loading supplies from a ground-effect transport. With ruthless calm I lined up the gun, squinting into the sight, aligning the cross-hairs one at a time on each man in the unit. The rifle was loaded with subsonic micro-munitions; completely silent and with a programmed detonation delay of fifteen seconds. Time enough to put a gnat-sized slug in every man in the clearing - watching each reach up idly to scratch his neck at what he imagined was an insect bite. By the time the eighth and last man noticed something wrong, it was much too late to do anything about it.

The squad dropped to the dirt in eerie unison. Later, we descended from the hill and requisitioned the supplies for our own unit, stepping over corpses grotesquely bloated from internal explosions.

That was my first dreamlike taste of death.

Sometimes I wondered what would have happened if the delay had been set to less than fifteen seconds, so that the first man dropped before I’d finished putting slugs in the others. Would I have had the true sniper’s nerve - the cold will to carry on regardless? Or would the shock of what I was doing have rammed home so brutally that I would have dropped the gun in revulsion? But I always told myself that there was no point dwelling on what might have happened. All I did know was that after that first series of unreal executions, it was never a problem again.

Almost never.

It was in the nature of a sniper’s work that one almost never saw the enemy as anything other than an impersonal stick-figure; too far away to be humanised by either facial details or an expression of pain when the slug found its mark. I almost never needed to send another slug. For a time, I thought I’d found a safe niche where I could psychologically barrier myself from the worst that the war had to offer. I was valued by my unit, protected like a talisman. Although I never once did anything heroic, I became a hero by virtue of my technical skill at aiming a gun. If such a thing were possible in any kind of combat, I was happy. In fact, I knew it was possible: I’d seen men and women for whom the war was a capricious and spiteful lover; one who would always hurt them, but to whom - bruised and hungry - they would inevitably return. The greatest lie ever told was the one that said war made us universally miserable; that if the choice was truly ours, we would free ourselves of war forever. Maybe the human condition would have been something nobler if that were the case - but if war did not have a strange and dark allure, why did we always seem so unwilling to abandon it for peace? It went beyond anything as mundane as acclimatisation to the normality of war. I had known men and woman who boasted of sexual arousal after killing an enemy; addicted to the erotic potency of what they had done.

My happiness, though, was simpler: born out of the realisation that I’d found the luckiest of roles. I was doing what I rationalised as morally right, while at the same time being sheltered from the very real risk of death that usually accompanied front-line forces. I assumed it would continue like that; that eventually I would be decorated and that if I didn’t stay a sniper until the war’s end, it would be only because the army considered my skills too valuable to risk in the front-line. I suppose it was possible I might have been promoted to one of the covert assassination squads - certainly more hazardous - but as far as I could see it, the most likely outcome would be a training role in one of the boot camps, followed by early retirement and the smug assurance that I’d helped expedite the war’s conclusion - even if that conclusion never seemed any closer.

Of course, it didn’t happen like that.

One night our unit got ambushed. We were cut down by guerrillas of an NC Deep Incursion squad, and in minutes I learned the true meaning of what was euphemistically described as close-quarters combat. No line-of-sight particle-beam weapons now; no delayed-detonation nano-munitions. What close-quarters combat meant was something which would have been infinitely more recognisable to a soldier of a thousand years earlier: the screaming fury of human beings packed so close together that the only effective way to kill each other was with sharpened metal weapons: bayonets and daggers, or with hands around each other’s throats; fingers pressed into each other’s eye-sockets. The only way to survive was to disengage all higher brain-functions and regress to an animal state of mind.

So I did. And in doing so, I learned a deeper truth about war. She punished those who flirted with her by making them like herself. Once you opened the door to the animal, there was no shutting it.

I never stopped being an expert shot when the situation called for it, but I was never again purely a sniper. I pretended I had lost my edge; that I could no longer be trusted with the most critical kills. It was a plausible enough lie: snipers were insanely superstitious, and many did develop some psychosomatic block that stopped them functioning. I moved through different units, requesting operational transfers that each time took me closer to the front. I developed a proficiency with weapons that went far beyond mere marksmanship: a fluidity of ease like a preternaturally skilled musician who could pick up any instrument and make it sing. I volunteered for deep-insertion missions that put me behind enemy lines for weeks at a time, living off carefully measured field-rations (Sky’s Edge’s biosphere was superficially Earthlike - but down on the level of cell chemistry it was completely incompatible, containing almost no native flora which could be safely eaten without either providing zero nourishment or triggering a fatal anaphylactic reaction). During those long episodes of solitude I allowed the animal to emerge again, a feral mindstate of almost limitless patience and tolerance for discomfort.

I became a lone gunman, no longer receiving orders via the usual chain of command, but from mysterious and untraceable sources in the Militia hierarchy. My missions became stranger; their goals less fathomable. My targets shifted from the obvious - mid-ranking NC officers - to the seemingly random, but I never questioned that there was a logic behind the kills; that it was all part of some devious and painstakingly planned scheme. Even when, on more than one occasion, I was required to put slugs in certain targets who wore the same uniform as I did, I assumed they were spies, or potential traitors, or - and this was the least palatable of conclusions - just loyal men who had to die because in some way their living had conflicted with the scheme’s inscrutable progress.

I no longer even cared whether my actions served any kind of greater good. Eventually I stopped taking orders and began soliciting them - severing connections with the hierarchy, and taking contracts from whoever would pay me. I stopped being a soldier and became a mercenary.

Which was when I met Cahuella for the first time.

‘My name is Sister Duscha,’ said the older of the two Mendicants, a thin woman with an unsmiling demeanour. ‘You may have heard of me; I’m the Hospice’s neurological specialist. And I’m afraid, Tanner Mirabel, that there’s something quite seriously wrong with your mind.’

Duscha and Amelia were standing in the chalet’s doorway. Only half an hour earlier I’d told Amelia of my intention to leave Idlewild within the day. Now Amelia looked apologetic. ‘I’m very sorry, Tanner, but I had to tell her.’

‘No need to apologise, Sister,’ Duscha said, brushing imperiously past her subordinate. ‘Whether he likes it or not, you did precisely the right thing by informing me of his plans. Now then, Tanner Mirabel. Where shall we begin?’

‘Wherever you like; I’m still leaving.’

One of the ovoid-headed robots trotted in behind Duscha, clicking across the floor. I made a move to get off the bed, but Duscha placed a firm hand on my thigh. ‘No; we’ll have none of that nonsense. You’re going nowhere for the time being.’

I looked at Amelia. ‘What was all that about being able to leave whenever I wanted?’

‘Oh, you’re free to leave, Tanner . . .’ But even as Amelia said it, she didn’t sound completely convincing.

‘But he won’t want to, when he knows the facts,’ Duscha said, lowering herself onto the bed. ‘Let me explain, shall I? When you were warmed, we made a very thorough medical examination of you, Tanner - focused especially on your brain. We suspected you were amnesiac, but we had to make sure there was no fundamental damage, or any implants that might warrant removal.’

‘I don’t have any implants.’

‘No, you don’t. But I’m afraid there is damage - of a sort.’

She clicked her fingers at the robot and had it trot closer to the bed. There was nothing on the bed now, but a minute earlier I had been in the process of assembling the clockwork gun, fitting the pieces together by a process of trial and error until I had the thing half-completed. When I had seen Amelia and Duscha striding across the lawn beyond the chalet, I had pushed the pieces under the pillow. I thought of it brooding there now, difficult to mistake for anything other than a weapon. They might have puzzled over the odd-shaped diamond pieces when they examined my belongings, but I doubted that they’d have realised what the pieces implied. Now there would have been very little doubt.

I said, ‘What sort of damage, Sister Duscha?’

‘I can show you.’

The robot’s ovoid head popped up a screen, filling with a slowly rotating, lilac image of a skull, packed with ghostly structures like intricate clouds of milky ink. I didn’t recognise it as my own, of course, but I knew it had to be my skull that they were showing me.

Duscha sketched her fingers over the rotating mass. ‘These light spots are the problem, Tanner. Before you woke, I injected you with bromodeoxyuridine. It’s a chemical analogue for thymidine; one of the nucleic acids in DNA. The chemical supplants thymidine in new brain cells; acting as a marker for neurogenesis; the laying down of new brain cells. The light spots show where there’s a build-up of the marker - highlighting foci of recent cell growth.’

‘I didn’t think brains grew new cells.’

‘That’s a myth we buried five hundred years ago, Tanner - but in a sense you’re right; it’s still rather a rare process in higher mammals. But what you’re seeing in this scan is something a lot more vigorous: concentrated, specialised regions of recent - and continuing - neurogenesis. They’re functional neurons, organised into intricate structures and connected to your existing neurons. All very deliberate. You’ll notice how the light spots are situated near your perceptual centres? I’m afraid it’s very characteristic, Tanner - if we didn’t already know from your hand.’

‘My hand?’

‘You have a wound in your palm. It’s symptomatic of infection by one of the Haussmann family of indoctrinal viruses.’ She paused. ‘We picked up the virus in your blood, once we looked for it. The virus inserts itself into your DNA and generates the new neural structures.’

There was little point in bluffing now. ‘I’m surprised you recognised it for what it was.’

‘We’ve seen it enough times over the years,’ Duscha said. ‘It infects a small fraction of every batch of slush . . . every group of sleepers we get from Sky’s Edge. At first, of course, we were mystified. We knew something about the Haussmann cults - needless to say, we don’t approve of the way they’ve appropriated the iconography of our own belief system - but it took us a long time to realise there was a viral infection mechanism, and that the people we were seeing were victims rather than cultists.’

‘It’s a blessed nuisance,’ Amelia said. ‘But we can help you, Tanner. I take it you’ve been dreaming about Sky Haussmann?’

I nodded, but said nothing.

‘Well, we can flush out the virus,’ Duscha said. ‘It’s a weak strain, and it will run its course with time, but we can speed up the process if you wish.’

‘If I wish? I’m surprised you haven’t flushed it out already.’

‘Goodness, we’d never do that. After all, you might have willingly chosen infection. We’d have no right to remove it in that case.’ Duscha patted the robot, which retracted its screen and clicked its way outside again, moving like a delicate metal crab. ‘But if you want it removed, we can administer the flushing therapy immediately.’

‘How long will it take to work?’

‘Five or six days. We like to monitor the progress, naturally - sometimes it needs a little fine-tuning.’

‘Then it’ll have to work its way out, I’m afraid.’

‘On your own head be it,’ Duscha said, tutting. She stood up from the bedside and left in a huff, her robot following obediently.

‘Tanner, I . . .’ Amelia began.

‘I don’t want to talk about it, all right?’

‘I had to tell her.’

‘I know, and I’m not angry about that. I just don’t want you to try and talk me out of leaving, understand?’

She said nothing, but the point was well made.

Afterwards I spent half an hour with her on some more exercises. We worked almost in silence, giving me plenty of time to think about what Duscha had shown me. I’d remembered Red Hand Vasquez by then and his assurance that he was no longer infectious. He was the most likely source of the virus, but I couldn’t rule out having picked it up by sheer bad luck when I was in the bridge, in the vicinity of so many Haussmann cultists.

But Duscha had said it was a mild strain. Maybe she was right. So far, all I had to show for it was the stigma and the two nocturnal dreams I’d had. I wasn’t seeing Sky Haussmann in broad daylight, or having waking dreams about him. I didn’t feel any lingering obsession with Sky, or any hint of one; no desire to surround myself with paraphernalia relating to his life and times; no sense of religious awe at the mere thought of him. He was just what he’d always been: a figure from history, a man who had done a terrible thing and been terribly punished for it, but who could not be easily forgotten because he’d also given us the gift of a world. There were older historical figures who had mixed reputations, their deeds painted in equally murky shades of grey. I wasn’t about to start worshipping Haussmann just because his life was rerunning itself when I slept. I was stronger than that.

‘I don’t understand why you’re in so much of a hurry to leave us,’ Amelia said while we took a break, pushing a wet strand of hair away from her brow. ‘It took you fifteen years to get here - what’s a few more weeks?’

‘I guess I’m just not the patient type, Amelia.’ She looked at me sceptically, so I tried to offer some justification. ‘Look, those fifteen years never happened for me - it seems like only yesterday that I was waiting to board the ship.’

‘The point still applies. Your arriving a week or two later will make blessedly little difference.’

But it would, I thought. It would make all the difference in the world - but there was no way Amelia could know the whole truth. All I could do was act as casually as possible when I answered her.

‘Actually . . . there is a good reason for me to leave as soon as possible. It won’t have shown in your records, but I’ve remembered that I was travelling with another man who must already have been revived.’

‘That’s possible, I suppose, if the other man was put aboard the ship earlier than you.’

‘That’s what I was thinking. In fact, he might not have passed through the Hospice at all, if there were no complications. His name is Reivich.’

She seemed surprised, but not suspiciously so. ‘I remember a man with that name. He did come through here. Argent Reivich, wasn’t it?’

I smiled. ‘Yes; that’s him.’

EIGHT

Argent Reivich.

There must have been a time when the name meant nothing to me, but it was hard to believe now. For too long the name - his name; his continued existence - had been the defining fact of my universe. I well remembered when I’d first heard it, however. It was the night at the Reptile House I taught Gitta how to handle a gun. I thought back to that time as I showed Amelia how to defend herself against Brother Alexei.

Cahuella’s palace on Sky’s Edge was a long, low H-shaped building surrounded by overgrown jungle on all sides. Rising from the roof of the palace was another H-shaped storey, but slightly smaller in all its dimensions, so that it was surrounded on all sides by a flat, walled terrace. From the vantage point of the terrace, the hundred metres or so of cleared land surrounding the Reptile House were not visible at all unless you stood at the wall and looked over the edge. The jungle, rising high and dark, seemed to be on the point of inundating the terrace’s wall like a thick green tide. At night the jungle was a black immensity drained of any colour, filled with the alien sounds of a thousand native lifeforms. There was no other human settlement of any kind for hundreds of kilometres in any direction.

The night I taught Gitta was unusually clear, the sky flecked with stars from tree-top to zenith. Sky’s Edge had no large moons, and the few bright habitats which orbited the planet were below the horizon, but the terrace was lit by scores of torches, burning in the mouths of golden hamadryad statues set on stone pedestals along the wall. Cahuella had an obsession with hunting. His ambition was to catch himself a near-adult hamadryad, rather than the single immature specimen he’d managed to bag the previous year and which now lived deep below the Reptile House.

I hadn’t long been in his employment on that hunting trip, and that was the first time I had seen his wife. Once or twice she had handled one of Cahuella’s hunting rifles, but with no sign that she had ever touched a weapon before that trip. Cahuella had asked me to give her a few impromptu shooting lessons while we were in-country, which I had, and while she had improved, it was clear that Gitta was never going to be any kind of expert shot. It hardly mattered; she had no interest in hunting and while she had endured the trip with quiet stoicism, she could not share Cahuella’s primal enthusiasm for killing.

Soon even Cahuella realised that he was wasting his time trying to turn Gitta into another hunter. But he still wanted her to know how to use a gun - something smaller now, for the purposes of self-defence.

‘Why?’ I said. ‘You hire people like me so people like Gitta won’t have to worry about their own safety.’

We had been alone at the time, down in one of the empty vivarium chambers. ‘Because I’ve got enemies, Tanner. You’re good, and the men under you are good as well - but they’re not infallible. A single assassin could still break through our defences.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘But anyone that good would also be good enough to take out either of you without you even knowing it was about to happen.’

‘Someone as good as you, Tanner?’

I thought about the defences I had arranged around and within the Reptile House. ‘No,’ I answered. ‘They’d need to be a hell of a lot better than me, Cahuella.’

‘And are there people like that out there?’

‘There’s always someone better than you. It’s just a question of whether anyone’s prepared to pay them for their services.’

He rested a hand on one of the empty amphibian cases. ‘Then she needs this more than ever. A chance at self-defence is better than none at all.’

I had to concede there was a kind of logic there. ‘I’ll show her, then . . . if you insist.’

‘Why are you so reluctant?’

‘Guns are dangerous things.’

Cahuella smiled in the wan yellow light spilling from the tubes set into the empty cases.

‘That’s the idea, I think.’

We began soon after. Gitta was a perfectly willing student, but nowhere near as quick as Amelia. It was nothing to do with her intelligence; just a fundamental deficit in her motor skills; a basic weakness in hand-to-eye coordination which would never have manifested itself had not Cahuella insisted on this tuition. Which was not to say that she was beyond hope, but what Amelia could have mastered in an hour, it took Gitta all day to just stumble through at the most basic level of competence. Had she been a trainee soldier back in my old unit, I would never have been forced through this rigmarole. It would have been someone else’s problem to find a task better suited to her skills - intelligence-gathering, or something.

But Cahuella wanted Gitta to know how to use a gun.

So I followed orders. I had no problem with this. It was up to Cahuella how he used me. And spending time with Gitta was not exactly the most onerous of tasks. Cahuella’s wife was a lovely woman: a striking high-cheekboned beauty of Northern ancestry, lithe and lissom, with a dancer’s musculature. I had never touched her until this shooting lesson, had hardly had good cause to speak to her, though I had fantasised often enough.

Now, whenever I had to straighten her posture by applying gentle pressure to her arm or her shoulders or the small of her back, I felt my heart race ridiculously. When I spoke, I tried to keep my voice as soft and calm as I felt the situation demanded, but to my ears what came out sounded strained and adolescent. If Gitta noticed anything in my behaviour, she gave no sign of it. Her attention was focused tightly on the lesson at hand.

I had installed a radio-frequency field-generator around this part of the terrace which addressed a processor in the anti-flash goggles Gitta wore. It was standard military training equipment; part of the vast cache of stolen or black-market equipment Cahuella had hoarded over the years. Ghosts would appear in the goggles, mapped into Gitta’s field of view as if they were moving around the terrace. Not all of the ghosts would be hostile, but Gitta would have only a fraction of a second to decide for herself who needed shooting.

It was a joke, really. Only a very skilled assassin would stand any chance of getting inside the Reptile House to begin with, and anyone that good would never give Gitta those precious moments to make her mind up.

But Gitta wasn’t doing too badly by her fifth lesson. She was at least pointing and firing the gun at the right targets ninety per cent of the time, a margin of error I could live with for now, hoping that I would never have the misfortune to be the one victim in ten who was not planning to kill her.

But she was still not taking down her targets with any kind of efficiency. We were using live projectile ammo since the beam-weapons we had access to were just too bulky and heavy for self-defence. For the sake of safety, I could have arranged matters so that the gun would only fire when either Gitta or myself was out of the line of fire, not to mention any of Cahuella’s valuable hamadryad statues. But I felt that the instants when the gun was disabled would have rendered the session too inauthentic to be much use. Instead, I’d loaded the gun with smart ammo, each slug holding a buried processor addressed by the same training field which spoke to Gitta’s goggles. The processor controlled tiny spurts of gas which would shove the bullet off-course if the trajectory was deemed dangerous. If the required deflection angle was too sharp, the bullet would self-destruct into a speeding cloud of hot metal vapour - not exactly harmless, but a lot better than a small-calibre slug if it happened to be headed straight for your face.

‘How am I doing?’ Gitta asked, when we had to reload the gun.

‘Your target acquisition’s improving. You still need to aim lower - go for the chest rather than the head.’

‘Why the chest? My husband said you could kill a man with a single shot to the head, Tanner.’

‘I’ve had more practice than you.’

‘But it’s true, though - what they say about you? That when you shot someone, you . . .’

I finished it for her. ‘Took out specific areas of brain function, yeah. You shouldn’t believe everything they tell you, Gitta. I could probably put a slug into one hemisphere rather than the other, but beyond that . . .’

‘Still, it isn’t a bad reputation to live with.’

‘I suppose not, no. But that’s all it is.’

‘If it was my husband they were saying that about, he’d milk it for all it was worth.’ She cast a wary eye back to the upper storey of the house. ‘But you always try and play it down. That makes it seem more likely to me, Tanner.’

‘I try and play it down because I don’t want you to think I’m something I’m not.’

She looked at me. ‘I don’t think there’s any danger of that, Tanner. I think I know exactly who you are. A man with a good conscience who happens to work for someone who doesn’t sleep quite so well at night.’

‘My conscience isn’t exactly pristine, believe me.’

‘You should see Cahuella’s.’ She locked eyes with me for a few moments; I broke it and looked down at the gun. Gitta raised her voice an octave. ‘Oh; speak of the devil.’

‘Talking about me again?’ He was stepping onto the terrace from the upper storey of the building. Something glinted in his hand: a glass of pisco sour. ‘Well, I can’t blame you for that, can I? So. How are the lessons coming along?’

‘I think we’re making reasonable progress,’ I said.

‘Oh, don’t believe a word he says,’ Gitta said. ‘I’m absymal, and Tanner’s too polite to say so.’

‘Nothing worthwhile’s ever easy,’ I answered. To Cahuella, I said, ‘Gitta can fire a gun now and discriminate between friend and foe most of the time. There isn’t anything magical about it, though she’s worked hard to achieve what she has and deserves credit. But if you want more than that, it might not be so easy.’

‘She can always keep learning. You’re the master teacher, after all.’ He nodded down at the gun, into which I’d just slipped a fresh clip. ‘Hey. Show her that trick you do.’

‘Which one would that be?’ I said, trying to keep my temper under control. Normally Cahuella knew better than to label my painfully acquired skills as tricks.

Cahuella took a sip of his drink. ‘You know the one I mean.’

‘Fine; I’ll take a guess.’

I reprogrammed the gun so that the bullets would no longer be deflected if they were on hazardous trajectories. If he wanted a trick, he was going to get one - whether it cost him or not.

Normally when I shot a small weapon, I adopted the classic marksman’s stance: legs slightly spread for balance, gun’s grip held in one hand, supported by the other hand from beneath; arms outstretched at eye-level, locked against recoil if the gun fired slugs rather than energy. Now I held the gun single-handed at waist-height, like an oldtime quick-draw gunfighter with a six-shooter. I was looking down on the gun, not sighting along it. But I had practised this position so thoroughly that I knew exactly where the bullet would go.

I squeezed the trigger and put a slug into one of his hamadryad statues.

Then walked to inspect the damage.

The statue’s gold had flowed like butter under the impact of the bullet, but it had flowed with beautiful symmetry around the entrance point, like a yellow lotus. And I had placed the shot with beautiful symmetry as well - mathematically centred on the hamadryad’s brow; between the eyes if the creature’s eyes had not been situated inside its jaw.

‘Very good,’ Cahuella said. ‘I think. Have you any idea what that snake cost?’

‘Less than you pay me for my services,’ I said, programming the gun back into safe mode before I forgot.

He looked at the ruined statue for a moment before shaking his head, chuckling. ‘You’re probably right. And I guess you’ve still got the edge, right, Tanner?’ He clicked his fingers at his wife. ‘Okay; end of lesson, Gitta. Tanner and I need to talk about something - that’s why I came out here.’

‘But we’ve only just begun.’

‘There’ll be other times. You wouldn’t want to learn everything right away, would you?’

No; I thought - I hoped that never happened, because then I would have no reason to be around her. The thought was dangerous - was I seriously thinking about trying something on with her, while Cahuella was no further away than another room in the Reptile House? Crazy too, because until tonight nothing Gitta had done had indicated any kind of reciprocal attraction towards me. But some of the things she’d said had made me wonder. Maybe she was just getting lonely, out here in the jungle.

Dieterling came out behind Cahuella and escorted Gitta back into the building, while another man dismantled the field generator. Cahuella and I walked away towards the wall around the terrace. The air was warm and clammy, with no hint of a breeze. During the day it could be almost unbearably humid; nothing like Nuevo Iquique’s balmy coastal climate where I had spent my childhood. Cahuella’s tall, broad-shouldered frame was wrapped in a black kimono patterned with interlocked dolphins, his feet bare against the terrace’s chevroned tiles. His face was broad, with what always struck me as a touch of petulance around the lips. It was the look of a man who would never accept defeat gracefully. His thick black hair was permanently slicked back from his brow; brilliant grooves like beaten gold in the light from the hamadryad flames. He fingered the damaged statue, then bent down to pick up a few shards of gold from the floor. The shards were leaf-thin, like the foil which illuminators once used to decorate sacred texts. He rubbed them sadly between his fingers, then tried to place the gold back into the statue’s wound. The snake was depicted curling around its tree, in its last phase of motility before the arboreal fusion-phase.

‘I’m sorry about the damage,’ I said. ‘But you did ask for a demonstration.’

He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter; I’ve got dozens of them in the basement. Maybe I’ll even leave it as a feature, right?’

‘Deterrence?’

‘Has to be worth something, hasn’t it?’ Then his voice lowered. ‘Tanner, something’s come up. I need you to come with me tonight. ’

‘Tonight?’ It was already late, but then Cahuella tended to keep unusual hours. ‘What are you planning - a late-night hunting trip?’

‘I’m in the mood, but this is something else entirely. We’ve got visitors coming in. We need to go and meet them. There’s a clearing about twenty klicks up the old jungle road. I want you to drive me there.’

I thought about that carefully before answering. ‘What kind of visitors are we talking about here?’

He stroked the hamadryad’s pierced head, almost lovingly. ‘Not the usual kind.’

Cahuella and I were on our way from the Reptile House within half an hour, driving one of the ground-effect vehicles. It had just been enough time for Cahuella to dress for the trip, donning khaki trousers and shirt, under an elaborately pocketed tan hunting jacket. I nosed the car between the shells of derelict, vine-enshrouded buildings around the Reptile House until I found the old trail, just before it plunged into the forest. In another few months the journey would not have been possible at all - the jungle was slowly healing the wound cut through the heart of it. It would take flame-throwers to scythe it clear again.

The Reptile House and its environs had once been part of a zoological garden, built during one of the hopeful ceasefires. That particular ceasefire had only lasted a decade or so - but at the time it must have seemed that there was a good chance of peace enduring; enough for people to build something as militarily valueless and as civically improving as a zoo. The idea had been to house Terran and native specimens in similar exhibits, emphasising the similarities and differences between Earth and Sky’s Edge. But the zoo had never been properly completed, and now the only intact part of it was the Reptile House, which Cahuella had made into his personal residence. It served him well: isolated and easily fortified. He had ambitions to restock its basement vivaria with a private collection of captured animals, prime amongst which would be the pre-adult hamadryad he had yet to catch. The juvenile took up a large volume already; he would need a whole new basement for a large one - not to mention extensive new expertise in the care of a creature with a substantially different biochemistry than its younger phase. Elsewhere, the House was already filled with the skins and teeth and bones of animals he had brought home as dead prizes. He had no love for living things, and the only reason that he wanted live specimens was because it would be obvious to his visitors that greater skill had been required in their capture than if they had been killed in the field.

Branches and vines slapped against the car’s bodywork as I gunned it down the track, the howl of the turbines out-screeching every other living thing for miles around.

‘Tell me about these visitors,’ I said, my throat-mike relaying my words to Cahuella through the headphones which clamped his skull.

‘You’ll see them soon enough.’

‘Did they suggest this clearing as a meeting place?’

‘No - that was my idea.’

‘And they know which clearing you were talking about?’

‘They don’t have to.’ He nodded upwards. I risked a glance towards the forest canopy, and when the canopy thinned for a moment - revealing sky - I saw something painfully bright loitering above us, like a triangular wedge cut out of the firmament. ‘They’ve been following us ever since we left the House.’

‘That’s not a native aircraft,’ I said.

‘It’s not an aircraft, Tanner. It’s a spaceship.’

We reached the clearing after an hour’s drive through thickening forest. Something must have burned the clearing away a few years earlier - a seriously rogue missile, probably. It might even have been intended for the Reptile House; Cahuella had enough enemies to make that a reasonable possibility. Fortunately, most of them had no idea where he lived. Now the clearing was beginning to grow back, but the ground was still level enough to permit a landing.

The spacecraft stopped above us, silent as a bat. It was delta-shaped, and now that it had sunk lower, I saw that the underside was quilted by thousands of glaringly bright heat elements. It was fifty metres wide; half the width of the clearing. I felt the first slap of warmth, and then - at the edge of audibility - the first trace of an almost subsonic humming.

The jungle around us fell into silence.

The deltoid came in lower, three inverted hemispheres puckering gracefully from the apex points. Now it was below the treeline. The heat was making me sweat. I held up my hand to shield my eyes from the sun-bright glare.

Then the glare shut down, dimming to a dull brick-red, and the vehicle dropped the last few metres under its own weight, settling down on the hemispheres which cushioned the impact with muscle-like smoothness. For a few moments, silence, and then a ramp slid down like a tongue from the front. Blue-white glare from the doorway at the top of the ramp threw the surrounding vegetation into stark relief. In my peripheral vision I saw things scurrying and slithering for shadow.

Two spindly, elongated figures stepped into the light at the top of the ramp.

Cahuella stepped ahead of me, towards the ramp.

‘You’re going aboard that thing?’

He looked back, silhouetted by the light. ‘Damn right I am. And I want you with me.’

‘I’ve never dealt with Ultras before.’

‘Well, now’s your big chance.’

I left the car and followed him. I had a gun with me, but it felt ridiculous just to be holding it. I slipped it into my belt and never touched it again the whole time we were away. The two Ultras at the top of the ramp waited silently, standing in faintly bored postures, one leaning against the doorway’s surround. When Cahuella was halfway to the parked ship he knelt down and fingered the ground, brushing aside undergrowth. I glanced down and thought I saw something exposed, like a sheet of battered metal - but before I could pay it any more attention, or wonder what it had been, Cahuella was urging me on.

‘C’mon. They’re not known for their immense reserves of patience. ’

‘I didn’t even know there was an Ultra ship in orbit,’ I said, keeping my voice low.

‘Not many people do.’ Cahuella started up the ramp. ‘They’re keeping very dark for now, so they can conduct certain types of business which wouldn’t be possible if everyone knew they were here.’

The two Ultras were a man and a woman. They were both very thin, their near-skeletal frames encased in looms of exo-support machinery and prosthetics. They were both pale and high-cheekboned, with black lips and eyes that appeared to be outlined in kohl, lending them a doll-like, cadaverous look. Both had elaborate dark hair worked in a viper’s nest of stiff locks. The man’s arms were smoked glass, inlaid with glowing machines and luminous pulsing feedlines, while the woman had an oblong hole right through her abdomen.

‘Don’t let them freak you out,’ Cahuella whispered. ‘Freaking people out is part of their armoury of business techniques. You can bet the Captain sent down the two weirdest specimens he had, just to put us ill at ease.’

‘He did a good job, in that case.’

‘Trust me; I’ve dealt with Ultras. They’re pussies, really.’

We ambled up the ramp. The woman, the one leaning against the doorframe, pulled herself upright and studied us with impassively pursed lips. ‘You’re Cahuella?’ she said.

‘Yeah, and this is Tanner. Tanner goes with me. That’s not open to negotiation.’

She looked me over. ‘You’re armed.’

‘Yes,’ I said, only slightly unnerved that she had seen the gun through my clothes. ‘You’re telling me you’re not?’

‘We have our means. Step aboard, please.’

‘The gun isn’t a problem?’

The woman’s smirk was the first emotional response she had shown. ‘I don’t seriously think so, no.’

Once we were aboard they retracted the ramp and closed the door. The ship had a cool medical ambience, all pale pastels and glassy machines. Two other Ultras waited aboard it, reclined in a pair of enormous command couches, nearly buried under readouts and delicate control stalks. The pilot and co-pilot were both naked, purple-skinned beings with impossibly dexterous fingers. They had the same stiff dreadlocks as the other two, but rather more per head.

The woman with a hole in her gut said, ‘Take us up nice and easy, Pellegrino. We don’t want our guests blacking out on us.’

I mouthed in Cahuella’s direction, ‘We’re going up?’

He nodded back.

‘Enjoy it, Tanner. I’m going to. Word is I won’t be able to leave the surface before too long - even the Ultras won’t want to touch me.’

We were shown to a pair of vacant couches. Almost as soon as we were buckled in, the ship pulled itself aloft. Through transparent patches arranged around the walls I saw the jungle clearing dropping below until it looked like a single footprint, bathed in a smudge of light. There, far off towards one horizon, was a single spot of light which had to be the Reptile House. The rest of the jungle was ocean-black.

‘Why did you pick that clearing for our meeting?’ asked the Ultra woman.

‘You’d have looked pretty stupid parking on top of a tree.’

‘That’s not what I mean. We could have provided our own landing space with minimal effort. But that clearing was significant, wasn’t it?’ The woman sounded as if the resolution to this line of enquiry could be of only passing interest to her. ‘We scanned it on our approach. There was something buried beneath it; a regularly-sided hollow space. Some kind of chamber, filled with machines.’

‘We all have our little secrets,’ Cahuella said.

The woman looked at him carefully, then flicked her wrist, dismissing the matter.

Then the ship surged higher, the gee-force crushing me into my seat. I made a stoic effort not to show any kind of discomfort, but there was nothing pleasant about it. The Ultras all looked cool as ice, softly mouthing technical jargon at each other; airspeed and ascent vectors. The two who had met us had plugged themselves into their seats with thick silver umbilicals which presumably assisted their breathing and circulation during the ascent phase. We shrugged off the planet’s atmosphere and kept climbing. By then we were over dayside. Sky’s Edge looked blue-green and fragile; deceptively serene, just as it must have looked the day the Santiago first made orbit. From here there was no sign of war at all, until I saw the featherlike black trails of burning oilfields near the horizon.

It was the first time I had ever seen such a view. I’d never been in space before now.

‘On finals for the Orvieto,’ reported the pilot called Pellegrino.

Their main ship came up fast. It was as dark and massive as a sleeping volcano; a chiselled cone four kilometres long. A lighthugger; that was what Ultras called their ships - sleek engines of night, capable of slicing through the void at only the tiniest of fractions below the speed of light. It was hard not to be impressed. The mechanisms which made that ship fly were more advanced than almost anything I would ever have experienced on Sky’s Edge; more advanced than almost anything I could imagine.

To the Ultras our planet must have seemed like some kind of experiment in social engineering: a time-capsule imperfectly preserving technologies and ideologies which were three or four centuries out of date. That was not all our own fault, of course. When the Flotilla had left Mercury at the end of the twenty-first century, the technologies on board had been cutting-edge. But the ships took a century and a half to crawl across space to Swan’s system - during which time technology stampeded back around Sol, but remained locked in stasis aboard the Flotilla.

By the time we landed, other worlds had developed near-light space travel, making our entire journey look like some pathetic, puritanical gesture of self-inflicted punishment.

Eventually the fast ships arrived at Sky’s Edge, their data caches pregnant with the technological templates that could have leapfrogged us into the present, had we wished.

But by then we were at war.

We knew what could be achieved, but we lacked the time or resources to duplicate what had been achieved elsewhere, or the planetary finances to buy off-the-shelf miracles from passing traders. The only occasions when we bought any new technologies was when they had some direct military application, and even then it almost bankrupted us. Instead, we fought centuries-long wars with infantry, tanks, jet fighters, chemical bombs and crude nuclear devices; only very rarely graduating to such giddy heights as particle-weapons or nanotech-inspired gadgetry.

No wonder the Ultras had treated us with such ill-concealed contempt. We were savages compared to them, and the hardest thing of all was the fact that we knew it to be true.

We docked inside the Orvieto.

Inside, it was like a much larger version of the shuttle, all twisting pastel passages reeking of antiseptic purity. The Ultras had arranged gravity by spinning parts of their ship within the outer hull; it was slightly heavier than on Sky’s Edge, but the effort was no worse than walking around with a heavy backpack. The lighthugger was also a ramliner: a passenger-carrying vessel outfitted with thousands of reefersleep berths in her belly. Some people were already being brought aboard; wide-awake aristocrats complaining loudly about the way they were being treated. The Ultras seemed not to care. The aristocrats must have paid well for the privilege of riding the Orvieto to wherever its next destination was, but to the Ultras they were still savages - just marginally cleaner and richer ones.

We were shown to the Captain.

He sat on an enormous powered throne, suspended on an articulated boom so that he could move throughout the bridge’s vast three-dimensional space. Other senior crew were riding similar seats, but they carefully steered away from us when we entered, moving towards displays set into the walls which showed intricate schematics. Cahuella and I stood on a low-railed extensible catwalk which jutted halfway into the bridge.

‘Mister . . . Cahuella,’ said the man in the throne, by way of greeting. ‘Welcome aboard my vessel. I am Captain Orcagna.’

Captain Orcagna was only slightly less impressive than his ship. He was dressed from neck to foot in glossy black leather, his feet in knee-length black boots with pointed toes. His hands, which he steepled beneath his chin, were gloved in black. His head was perched above the high collar of his black tunic like an egg. Unlike his crew he was completely bald, utterly hairless. His unlined, characterless face could almost have belonged to a child - or a corpse. His voice was high, almost feminine.

‘And you are?’ he said, nodding in my direction.

‘Tanner Mirabel,’ Cahuella said, before I had a chance to speak. ‘My personal security specialist. Where I go, Tanner goes. That’s not . . .’

‘. . . open to negotiation. Yes, I gathered.’ Absently, Orcagna glanced at something in mid-air, which only he could see. ‘Tanner Mirabel . . . yes. A soldier once, I see - until you moved into Cahuella’s employment. Confide in me: are you a man entirely without ethics, Mirabel, or are you only gravely ignorant of the kind of man you work for?’

Again, Cahuella answered. ‘It’s not his job to lose sleep, Orcagna.’

‘But would he anyway, if he knew?’ Orcagna looked at me again, but there was nothing much to be read into his expression. We might even have been talking to a puppet driven by a disembodied intelligence running on the ship’s computer net. ‘Tell me, Mirabel . . . are you aware that the man you work for is regarded as a war criminal in some quarters?’

‘Only by hypocrites happy to buy weapons from him, as long as he doesn’t sell to anyone else.’

‘A level killing field is so much better than the alternative,’ Cahuella said. It was one of his favourite sayings.

‘But you don’t just sell weapons,’ Orcagna said. Once again he seemed to be viewing something hidden from us. ‘You steal and kill for them. Documentary evidence implicates you in at least thirty murders on Sky’s Edge, all connected with the arms black market. On three occasions you were responsible for the redistribution of weapons which had been decommissioned under peace agreements. Indirectly, you can be shown to have prolonged - even reignited - four or five local territorial disputes which had been close to negotiated settlement. Tens of thousands of lives have been lost through your actions.’ Cahuella started to protest at that point, but Orcagna was having none of it. ‘You are a man driven utterly by profit; completely devoid of morals or any fundamental sense of right and wrong. You are a man enthralled by the reptilian . . . perhaps because in reptiles you see your own reflected self, and at heart you are infinitely vain.’ Orcagna stroked his chin, and then allowed a faint smile. ‘In short, therefore, you are a man much like myself . . . someone with whom I believe I can do business.’ His gaze snapped to me again. ‘But tell me, Mirabel - why do you work for him? I’ve seen nothing in your history to suggest that you have much in common with your employer.’

‘He pays me.’

‘That’s all?’

‘He’s never asked me to do anything I wouldn’t do. I’m his security specialist. I protect him and those around him. I’ve taken bullets for him. Laser impacts. Sometimes I set up deals and meet potential new suppliers. That’s dangerous work, too. But what happens to the guns after they’ve changed hands is no concern of mine.’

‘Mm.’ He touched his little finger to the corner of his mouth. ‘Perhaps it should be.’

I turned to Cahuella. ‘Is there a point to this meeting?’

‘Yes, as always,’ Orcagna snapped. ‘Trade, of course, you tiresome man. Why else do you think I would risk contaminating my ship with planetary dirt?’

So it was a business meeting after all.

‘What are you selling?’ I asked.

‘Oh, the usual - weaponry. That’s all your master ever wants from us. It’s the usual local attitude. Time and again, my trading associates have offered your planet access to the longevity techniques commonplace on other worlds, but on each occasion the offer has been declined in favour of sordid military goods . . .’

‘That’s because what you ask for the longevity tech would bankrupt half the Peninsula,’ Cahuella said. ‘It’d put quite a dent in my assets, too.’

‘Not as big a dent as death,’ Orcagna mused. ‘Still; it’s your funeral. Something I have to say, though: whatever we give you, look after it, will you? It would be quite unfortunate if it were to fall into the wrong hands again.’

Cahuella sighed. ‘It’s not my fault if terrorists rob my clients.’

The incident he was talking about had happened a month earlier. Amongst those who knew something about the transactional web of black market commerce on Sky’s Edge, it was something of a talking point even now. I had set up the deal with a legitimate, treaty-abiding military faction. The exchange had been conducted through an elaborate series of fronts, with the ultimate source of the arms - Cahuella - discreetly concealed. I had handled the swap, too, conducted in a clearing similar to the one where the Ultras had met us - and that was where my involvement ended. But someone had tipped off one of the less-legitimate factions about the arms transfer, and they had ambushed the first faction on their way home from the deal.

Cahuella called the new faction terrorists, but that was to place too great a distinction between them and their legitimate victims. In a war in which the rules of engagement and the definitions of criminality changed by the week, what distinguished a legitimate faction from a less-legitimate one was often only the quality of the former’s legal advice. Alliances were always shifting, past actions constantly being rewritten to cast a revisionist light on the participants. It was true that Cahuella was regarded as a war criminal now by many observers. In a century, they might be fêting him as a hero . . . me his trusty man-at-arms.

Stranger things had happened.

But it would be very hard to see the outcome of that terrorist ambush in anything but a negative light. Within a week of the ambush, they had used the same stolen weapons to murder most of an aristocratic family in Nueva Santiago.

‘I don’t remember the family’s name.’

‘Reivich, or something,’ Cahuella said. ‘But listen. Those terrorists were animals, agreed. If I could, I’d skin them for wallpaper and make furniture out their bones. But that doesn’t mean I’m overflowing with sympathy for Reivich’s clan. They were rich enough to get offworld. The whole planet’s a shithole. They want somewhere safe to live, there’s a whole galaxy out there.’

‘We have some intelligence that might interest you,’ said Orcagna. ‘The youngest surviving son - Argent Reivich - has sworn vengeance against you.’

‘Sworn vengeance. What is this, a morality play?’ Cahuella held out a hand in front of him. ‘Hey, look. I’m trembling.’

‘It doesn’t mean anything,’ I said. ‘If I had thought it was worth bothering you about, you’d already have known. That’s another thing you pay me for: so you don’t have to worry about every crank with a grudge against us.’

‘But we don’t think the fellow is, as you say, a crank.’ Orcagna examined his black-gloved fingers, pulling each sequentially until there was a tiny pop. ‘Our intelligence suggests that the gentleman has recovered weapons from the same militia which murdered his family. Heavy-particle armaments - suitable for a full-scale assault against a fortified stronghold. We’ve detected signatures from these devices, indicating that they are still operational.’ The Ultra paused, then added, almost casually, ‘It may amuse you to know that the signatures are moving south, down the Peninsula, towards the Reptile House.’

‘Give the positions to me,’ I said. ‘I’ll meet the kid and find out what he wants. It’s possible he just wants to negotiate more arms - he may not have fingered you as the supplier.’

‘Yeah,’ Cahuella said. ‘And I deal in fine wines. Forget it, Tanner. You think I need someone like you to handle a louse like Reivich? You don’t send a pro against an amateur.’ To Orcagna, he said, ‘He’s up country, you say? How far, what kind of territory?’

‘That information can, of course, be provided.’

‘Fucking bloodsucker.’ For a moment his face was blank, then he smiled and pointed at the Ultra. ‘I like you, I really like you. You’re a fucking leech. Name your price, then. I don’t need to know exactly where he is. Give me a positional fix accurate to - oh - a few kilometres. Otherwise it just wouldn’t be fun, would it?’

‘What the hell are you thinking of?’ The words had jumped out of my mouth before I had time to censor them. ‘Reivich may be inexperienced, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t dangerous - especially if he has the kind of weapons the militia used against his family.’

‘So it’ll be sporting, then. A real safari. Maybe we’ll catch us a hamadryad while we’re at it.’

‘You like sport,’ Orcagna said, knowingly.

I understood it, then. If Cahuella had not had this audience, he would never have acted like this. If we’d been back in the Reptile House, alone, he would have done the logical thing: ordered me or one of the men under me to take Reivich out with no more ceremony than flushing a toilet. It would have been beneath him to waste his time with someone like Reivich. But in front of the Ultras he could not be seen to show any weakness. He had to play the hunter.

When all was over; when our ambush against Reivich had failed, and when Gitta had been murdered, Cahuella with her, and Dieterling and myself injured, one thing became clearer than anything I had ever known in my life.

It was my fault.

I had allowed Gitta to die through my ineptitude. I had allowed Cahuella to die at the same time. The two deaths were horribly wedded. And Reivich, his hands bloodied with the wife of the man he had really sworn vengeance against, had walked away unharmed, valiant. He must have thought Cahuella would survive, too - his wounds couldn’t have seemed as life-threatening as mine. Had Cahuella survived, Reivich would have inflicted maximum pain on him over the maximum span of time; a victory far less trivial than simply killing the man. In Reivich’s plan, Cahuella would have had the rest of his life to miss Gitta. The pain of that loss would have been beyond words. I think she was the only living creature in the universe he was capable of loving.

But Reivich had taken her from me instead.

I thought of the way Cahuella had laughed at Reivich swearing vengeance. There had always been a fine line between the absurd and the chivalric. But that was exactly what I did: swearing that I would dedicate the rest of my life to killing Reivich; avenging Gitta. If someone had told me then that I would have to die before bringing death to Reivich, I think I would have quietly accepted that as part of the bargain.

In Nueva Valparaiso he had slipped through my fingers. At that point I’d been forced to take the gravest of decisions - whether to abandon Reivich or continue chasing him beyond the system entirely.

In hindsight, it hadn’t been too difficult.

‘I don’t remember there being any particular problems with Mister Reivich,’ Amelia said. ‘He had some transient amnesia, but it wasn’t as severe a case as yours - it only lasted a few hours and then he began to piece himself back together. Duscha wanted him to stay and have his implants attended to, but he was in quite a hurry to leave.’

‘Really?’ I did my best to sound surprised.

‘Yes. God only knows what we did to offend him.’

‘I’m sure it wasn’t anything.’ I wondered what it was about his implants that needed fixing, but decided the question could wait. ‘I suppose there’s a good chance he’s already on Yellowstone, or nearly there. I wouldn’t want to be too late following him down. I can’t let him have all the fun, can I?’

She eyed me judiciously. ‘You were friends with him, Tanner?’

‘Well, sort of.’

‘Travelling companions, then?’

‘I suppose that about sums it up, yes.’

‘I see.’ Her face was serenely impassive, but I could imagine what she was thinking: that Reivich had never mentioned travelling with anyone else, and that if our friendship had existed at all, it must have been lopsided.

‘Actually, I was rather hoping he’d have waited for me.’

‘Well, he probably didn’t want to burden the infirmary with someone who had no need of its ministrations. Either that, or there was some amnesia after all. We can try and contact him, of course. It won’t be simple, but we do our best to keep tabs on those we revive - just in case there are complications.’

And, I thought, because some of them repay the Idlewild hospitality, when they are rich and secure on Yellowstone, and they see the Mendicants as a means of gaining influence over newcomers.

But I only said, ‘No, that’s kind but not at all necessary. Best if I meet him in person, I think.’

She regarded me carefully before answering. ‘You’ll be wanting his address on the surface, then.’

I nodded. ‘I appreciate there are matters of confidentiality to be considered, but . . .’

‘He’ll be in Chasm City,’ Amelia said, as if the utterance itself was a heresy; as if the place was the vilest pit of degradation imaginable. ‘That’s our largest settlement; the oldest one.’

‘Yes; I’ve already heard of Chasm City. Can you narrow it down slightly?’ I did my best not to sound sarcastic. ‘A district would help.’

‘I can’t really help you very much - he didn’t tell us exactly where he was going. But you could start in the Canopy, I suppose.’

‘The Canopy?’

‘I’ve never been there. But they say you can’t miss it.’

I discharged myself the day after.

I wasn’t under any illusion that I was totally well, but I knew that if I waited any longer the chances of my picking up Reivich’s trail again would dwindle to zero. And while some parts of my memory had still not come back into absolutely sharp focus, there was enough there to function with; enough to let me get on with the job in hand.

I went back into the chalet to gather my things - the documents, the clothes they had given me and the pieces of the diamond gun - and once again found my attention drawn to the alcove in the wall which had so disturbed me upon waking. I’d managed to sleep in the chalet since then, and while I wouldn’t have described my dreams as restful, the images and thoughts that had raced through them were of Sky Haussmann. The blood on my sheets each morning testified to that. But when I woke, there was still something about the alcove that chilled me, and which was as irrational as ever. I thought of what Duscha had told me about the indoctrinal virus, and wondered if there was anything in my infection which could cause such a baseless phobia - the virally generated structures linking to the wrong brain centres, perhaps. But at the same time I wondered if the two things might not be connected at all.

Afterwards, Amelia met me and walked with me up the long, meandering trail which led to heaven, climbing higher and higher towards one of the habitat’s conic end-points. The gradient was so mild that walking was barely an effort, but there was a feeling of euphoric relief as my weight diminished and each step seemed to send me a little higher and further.

When we had walked in silence for ten or fifteen minutes, I said, ‘Is it true what you hinted at earlier, Amelia? That you were once one of us?’

‘A passenger, you mean? Yes, but I was just a child when it happened - I barely knew how to speak. The ship which brought us in had been damaged, and they’d lost most of the identifying records for their sleepers. They’d been picking up passengers in more than one system, too, so there was no real way to tell where I’d ever come from.’

‘You mean you don’t know what world you were born on?’

‘Oh, I can make a few guesses - not that it interests me greatly these days.’ The path steepened momentarily, and Amelia suddenly bounded ahead of me to take the rise. ‘This is my world now, Tanner. It’s a blessedly small place, but it isn’t a bad one, I think. Who else can say that they’ve seen all their world has to offer?’

‘That must make it very boring.’

‘Not at all. Things always change.’ She pointed across the curve of the habitat. ‘That waterfall wasn’t always there. Oh, and there was a little hamlet down there once, where we’ve made a lake now. It’s like that all the time. We keep having to change these paths to stop erosion - every year it’s like I have to remember the place anew. We have seasons, and years when our crops don’t grow as well as in other years. Some years we get a glut, too, God willing. And there’s always something to explore. We get new people coming through all the time, of course - and some of them do join the Order.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Thankfully, they’re not all like Brother Alexei.’

‘There’s always one bad apple.’

‘I know. And I shouldn’t say this . . . but after what you’ve taught me, I’m almost hoping Alexei tries it on again.’

I understood how she must have felt. ‘I doubt that he will, but I wouldn’t want to be in his shoes if he does.’

‘I’ll be gentle with him, don’t worry.’

There was an uncomfortable silence, during which we scaled the last slope towards the end of the cone. My weight had probably dropped to a tenth of what it had been in the chalet, but walking was still possible - it just felt like the ground was receding beneath each footfall. Ahead, discreetly veiled by a copse of trees which had grown haphazardly in the low gravity, was an armoured door leading out of the chamber.

‘You’re serious about leaving, aren’t you?’ Amelia said.

‘The sooner I get to Chasm City the better.’

‘It won’t be all that you’re expecting, Tanner. I wish you’d stay with us a little longer, just so that we could bring you up to speed . . .’ She trailed off, evidently realising that I was not going to be persuaded.

‘Don’t worry about me; I’ll catch up on my history.’ I smiled at her; hating myself at the same time for the way I had been forced to lie to her, but knowing there was no other way. ‘Thank you for your kindness, Amelia.’

‘It was my pleasure, Tanner.’

‘Actually . . .’ I looked around to see if anyone was observing us, but we were alone. ‘There’s something I’d be happy if you were to accept from me.’ I reached into the pocket of my trousers and pulled out the fully assembled clockwork gun. ‘It’s probably best if you don’t ask why I was carrying this, Amelia. It won’t do me much good to carry it any further, I think.’

‘I don’t think I should take that from you, Tanner.’

I pushed it into her palm. ‘Then confiscate it.’

‘I should, I suppose. Does it work?’

I nodded; there was no need to go into details. ‘It will do you some good if you ever get into real trouble.’

She slipped the gun away. ‘I’m confiscating it, that’s all.’

‘I understand.’

She reached out and shook my hand. ‘God go with you, Tanner. I hope you find your friend.’

I turned away before she could see my face.

NINE

I stepped through the armoured door.

Beyond lay a corridor walled in burnished steel, eradicating any lingering impression that Idlewild was a place, rather than an engineered human construct spinning in vacuum. Instead of the distant simmer of bonsai waterfalls, I heard the drone of circulation fans and power generators, The air had a medicinal smell it had lacked a moment earlier.

‘Mister Mirabel? We heard you were leaving. This way, please.’

The first of the two Mendicants who waited for me gestured that I should follow him along the corridor. We walked along it with springy steps. At the end was an elevator which carried us the short vertical distance to the true axis of rotation of Idlewild, followed by the considerably longer horizontal distance to the true endpoint of the discarded hull which formed this half of the structure. We rode the elevator in silence, which was fine by me. I imagined the Mendicants had long since exhausted every possible conversation with the revived; that there was no answer I could give them to any question which they would not have heard a hundred times previously. But what if they had asked me what my business was, and what if I had answered truthfully?

‘My business? I’m planning to kill someone, actually.’

It would have been worth it, I think, just to see their faces.

But they probably would have assumed I was just some delusional case who was discharging myself too soon.

Soon the elevator was threading its way along the inside of a glass-walled tube that ran along the outside of Idlewild. There was almost no gravity now, so we had to station ourselves by hooking limbs into padded staples sewn onto the elevator’s walling. The Mendicants did this with ease, quietly amused by my fumbling attempts to anchor myself.

The view beyond was worth it, though.

More clearly now, I could see the parking swarm Amelia had shown me two days earlier - the vast shoal of starships, each tiny barbed sliver a vessel almost as large as Idlewild, yet made to seem tiny by the size of the swarm itself. Now and then violet light edged the whole swarm for an instant, as one of the ships fired its hull thrusters to adjust its lazy orbit around the other ships; a matter of etiquette, sly positioning or an urgent collision-avoidance manoeuvre. There was something heartbreakingly beautiful about the lights of distant ships, I thought. It was something that touched both on human achievement and the vastness against which those achievements seemed so frail. It was the same thing whether the lights belonged to a caravel battling the swell on a stormy horizon or a diamond-hulled starship which had just sliced its way through interstellar space.

Between the swarm and Idlewild, I could see one or two brighter smudges which must have been the exhaust flames of shuttles in transit, or new starships arriving or departing. Closer, Idlewild’s hub - the tapering end of the cone - was a tangle of random docking ports, servicing bays, quarantine and medical areas. There were a dozen or so ships here, most of them tethered to the Hospice, but the majority looked like small servicing vessels - the kinds of craft the Mendicants would use if they needed to jet around the outside of their world to conduct repairs. There were only two large ships, both of which would have been minnows in comparison to one of the lighthuggers in the parking swarm.

The first was a sleek, shark-shaped ship which must have been designed for atmospheric travel. The black, light-sucking hull was offset with silver markings: Harpies and Nereids. I recognised it immediately as the shuttle which had taken me from the top of the Nueva Valparaiso bridge to the Orvieto, after we had been rescued. The shuttle was attached to Idlewild by a transparent umbilical, down which I could see a slow, steady stream of sleepers passing. They were still cold; still in reefersleep caskets, which were being pushed along by some kind of peristaltic compression wave of the umbilical. It looked uncomfortably as if the shuttle were laying eggs.

‘They’re still unloading?’ I said.

‘A few more bays of the sleeper hold to clear, and then she’s done,’ said the first Mendicant.

‘I bet it depresses you, seeing all those slush puppies coming through.’

‘Not at all,’ the second one said, without much enthusiasm. ‘It’s God’s will, whatever happens.’

The second large ship - the one to which our elevator was headed - was very different from the shuttle. At first glance it looked just like a random pile of floating junk which had somehow agreed to drift together. It looked barely capable of keeping itself in one piece while stationary, let alone moving.

‘I’m going down in that thing?’

‘The good ship Strelnikov,’ said the first Mendicant. ‘Cheer up. It’s a lot safer than it looks.’

‘Or is it a lot less safe than it looks?’ asked the other one. ‘I always forget, Brother.’

‘Me too. Why don’t I check.’

He reached into his tunic for something. I don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t the wooden cosh that he came out with. It looked to have been formed from the handle of a gardening tool, equipped with a leather strap at the narrow end and a few interesting scratches and stains at the other. The other Mendicant held me from behind while his friend gave me a few bruises to be going away with, concentrating his efforts on my face. There wasn’t much I could do about it - they had the advantage on me in zero gravity, and they were built more like wrestlers than monks. I don’t think the one with the cosh actually broke anything, but when he was done, my face felt like a large, overripe fruit. I could hardly see out of one eye and my mouth was swimming with blood and little chips of shattered enamel.

‘What was all that about?’ I asked, my voice moronically slurred.

‘A leaving present from Brother Alexei,’ said the first Mendicant. ‘Nothing too serious, Mister Mirabel. Just a reminder not to interfere in our business ever again.’

I spat out a crimson sphere of blood, observing the way it retained its globular shape as it crossed from one side of the elevator to the other.

‘You won’t be getting a donation,’ I said.

They debated whether to rough me up some more, then decided that it would be best if I didn’t run the risk of any neurological damage. Maybe they were a little scared of Sister Duscha. I tried to show some gratitude, but my heart just wasn’t in it.

I got a good close look at the Strelnikov as the elevator approached it, and the view hadn’t got much better. The thing was roughly brick-shaped, about two hundred metres from end to end. Dozens of control, habitation and propulsion modules had been lashed together to make her, embedded in an intestinal explosion of snaking fuel lines and gizzard-like tanks. Here and there were what looked like the remains of hull plating; a few ragged-edged plates like the last traces of flesh on a maggot-ridden corpse. Parts of the ship appeared to have been glued back on, covered in cauls of glistening epoxy; other parts were still being welded back in place by repair teams deep inside the ship’s ill-defined surface. Gases were venting steadily from six or seven places, but no one seemed particularly bothered by that.

I told myself that the ship could have looked a lot worse and it still wouldn’t have mattered. The route down to the Glitter Band - the conglomeration of habitats in low orbit around Yellowstone - was a typical workhorse run. There were a dozen similar operations around Sky’s Edge. There was no need for any hefty acceleration at any point in the journey, which meant that, with modest maintenance, ships could ply the same routes for centuries on end, toiling up and down the gravity well until some final, fatal systems failure turned them into macabre pieces of drifting space sculpture. There were few essential overheads, so while such routes would always have a couple of prestigious operators running luxurious shuttles on high-burn trajectories, there would also be a series of steadily more ramshackle operations, each cutting more costs than the last. At the very bottom of the heap would be chemical-rocket or ion-drive scows making painfully slow transfers between different orbits - and while the slowboat I had been assigned wasn’t quite that bad, it was most definitely not at the luxury end of the scale.

But, slow as the ship was, it still represented the fastest route down to the Glitter Band. The high-burn shuttles made that run more swiftly, but no high-burners came anywhere near Idlewild. It didn’t take an economics theorist to understand why: most of Idlewild’s clients barely had the funds to cover their own revival, let alone an expensive shortcut to Chasm City. I’d first have had to travel to the parking swarm, and then negotiate a slot on a high-burner, with no guarantee that one was available until a later flight. Amelia had advised against that, saying that there were not nearly so many high-burners operating as before - before what, I didn’t have a chance to ask - and that the time-saving compared to getting straight on the slow shuttle would have been marginal at best.

Eventually the elevator reached the connecting passage to the Strelnikov, and my Mendicant friends bade me farewell. They were all smiles now, as if the bruises on my face were just another psychosomatic manifestation of the Haussmann virus and nothing they were responsible for.

‘Best of luck, Mister Mirabel.’ The Mendicant with the cosh gave me a cheery wave.

‘Thanks. I’ll send a postcard. Or maybe I’ll come back and let you know how I got on.’

‘That would be nice.’

I spat out a final coagulating globule. ‘Don’t count on it.’

A few other prospective immigrants were being manhandled aboard ahead of me, mumbling drowsily in unfamiliar languages. Inside, we were shunted through a disorientating maze of narrow crawlways until we reached a hub somewhere deep in the Strelnikov’s bowels. There we were assigned accommodation cubicles for the journey down to the Glitter Band.

By the time I got to mine I was weary and aching; feeling like an animal that had come off second best in a fight and had crawled back to its den to lick its wounds. I was glad of the privacy of the cubicle. It wasn’t fragrantly clean, but it wasn’t filthy either: just some yellowing hybrid of the two. There was no artificial gravity on the Strelnikov - for which I was grateful; it wouldn’t have been prudent to spin her or accelerate her too hard - so the cubicle came outfitted with a zero-gee bunk bed and various nourishment and sanitary facilities designed with the same lack of gravity in mind. There was a general network console which looked like it should have been lovingly preserved in a museum of cybernetics, and there were stained and faded warning notices stuck to every available surface appertaining to what could and couldn’t be done in the ship, and how to get out of it as quickly as possible if something went wrong. Periodically, a thick-accented voice came over a Tannoy system with announcements concerning delays to the departure, but eventually the voice said that we had cast off from Idlewild, engaged drive and were on our way down. The departure had been so soft I hadn’t noticed it.

I picked at the shards of tooth in my mouth, mapped the painful extremities of the bruises the Mendicants had given me, and gradually fell asleep.

TEN

On the day that the passenger was to awake - and nothing would ever be the same after that - Sky and his two closest associates were riding a service train along the Santiago’s spine, rumbling down one of the narrow access tunnels which threaded the ship from nose to tail. The train moved at a few lumbering kilometres per hour, stopping now and then to allow its crew to off-load stores, or to wait for another train to clear the tunnel section ahead. As usual Sky’s companions were passing the time with tall stories and boasts, while Sky played devil’s advocate, unable to share fully in their fun but more than willing to ruin it if he saw an opportunity.

‘Viglietti told me something yesterday,’ Norquinco said, raising his voice to be heard above the roar of the train’s passage. ‘He said he didn’t believe it himself, but he knew other people that did. It was about the Flotilla, actually.’

‘Astonish us,’ Sky said.

‘Simple question: how many ships were there originally, before the Islamabad went up?’

‘Five, of course,’ Gomez said.

‘Ah, but what if that’s wrong? What if there were six, originally? One blew up - we know that - but what if the other one’s still out there?’

‘Wouldn’t we have seen it?’

‘Not if it’s dead; just a haunted husk of a ship trailing behind us.’

‘Very convenient,’ Sky said. ‘It wouldn’t happen to have a name by any chance, would it?’

‘As a matter of fact . . .’

‘I knew it.’

‘They say it’s called the Caleuche.’

Sky sighed, knowing it was going to be one of those journeys again. There had been a time - many years ago, now - when the three of them had viewed the ship’s train network as a source of amusement and carefully controlled danger; a place for hazardous games and make-believe; ghost stories and challenges. There were disused tunnels branching off from the main routes, leading, so it was rumoured, to hidden cargo bays or secret caches of stowaway sleepers, smuggled aboard by rival governments at the last moment. There were places where he and his friends had dared each other to ride on the outsides of the trains, grazing their backs against the speeding walls of the tunnels. Older now, he looked back on those games with wry bewilderment, half proud that they had taken those risks, half horrified that they had come so close to what would obviously have been gruesome death.

It was a lifetime ago. They were serious now; doing their bit for the ship. Everyone had to pull their weight in these lean new times, and Sky and his companions were regularly assigned the work of escorting supplies to and from the workers in the spine and the engine section. Usually they had to help unload the stuff and manhandle it through crawlways and down access shafts to wherever it was needed, so the work was far from the soft option it might have appeared. Sky seldom finished a shift without some fresh cuts and bruises, and all the effort had given him a set of muscles he had never expected to gain.

They were an unlikely trio. Gomez was working his way towards a job in the engine section, in the hallowed priesthood of the propulsion team. Now and then he would get to ride the train all the way there and even talk with some of the whispering engine techs, trying to impress them with his knowledge of containment physics and the other arcana of antimatter propulsion theory. Sky had watched some of those exchanges and had observed the way Gomez’s questions and replies were not always swatted ruthlessly down by the techs. Sometimes they were even moderately impressed, implying that Gomez would one day be allowed to graduate to their soft-spoken priesthood.

Norquinco was a different creature entirely. He had a capacity to become completely and obsessively lost in a problem; overwhelmingly able to be fascinated by anything, provided it was sufficiently complex and layered. He was an assiduous keeper of lists, deeply enamoured of serial numbers and classifications. His favourite realm of study, unsurprisingly, was the hideous complexity of the Santiago’s nervous system; the computer networks which veined the ship and which had been altered, rerouted and written over like a palimpsest countless times since the launch; most recently after the blackout. Most sane adults quailed at attempting to understand more than a tiny sub-set of that complexity, but Norquinco was actually drawn to the entirety, perversely thrilled by something that most people saw as bordering on the pathological.

Because of that, he frightened people. The techs who worked on the network problems had well-trodden solution pathways for most glitches, and the last thing they needed was someone showing them how to do things fractionally more efficiently. Jokingly, they said it would put them out of work - but that was just a polite way of saying that Norquinco made them uneasy. So he rode with Sky and Gomez, out of harm’s way.

‘The Caleuche,’ Sky said, repeating the name. ‘And I suppose there’s some significance in that name?’

‘Enough,’ Norquinco said, reading Sky’s expression of deep contempt. ‘The island where my ancestors came from had a lot of ghost stories. The Caleuche was one of them.’ Norquinco was speaking earnestly now, all trace of his usual nervousness gone.

‘And I suppose you’re going to enlighten us about her.’

‘She was a ghost ship.’

‘Funny, I’d never have guessed.’

Gomez thumped him. ‘Look, shut up and let Norquinco get on with it, all right?’

Norquinco nodded. ‘They used to hear her; sending accordion music out across the sea at night. Sometimes she would even put into port, or take sailors from other ships. The dead aboard her were having a party that never stopped. Her crew were wizards; brujos. They cloaked the Caleuche in a cloud that followed her around everywhere. Now and then people saw her, but they could never get close to her. She would sink under the waves, or turn into a rock.’

‘Ah,’ Sky said, ‘so this ship which people couldn’t see very clearly - because it was covered in a cloud - also had the ability to turn into an old rock when they got closer? That’s remarkable, Norquinco; proof of magic if ever I heard it.’

‘I’m not saying there was ever an actual ghost ship,’ Norquinco said testily. ‘Then. But now, who knows? Perhaps the myth concerned one that was yet to come.’

‘It gets better, it really does.’

‘Listen,’ Gomez said. ‘Forget the Caleuche; forget the ghost ship bollocks. Norquinco’s right - in a sense. It could have happened, couldn’t it? There could easily have been a sixth ship, and the knowledge of it might have become confused with time.’

‘If you say so. You could also argue that the whole thing was a tissue of lies made up by the terminally bored crew of a generation ship to minutely enrich the mythic fabric of their lives. If you so wished.’ Sky paused as the train swerved into a different tunnel, rattling against its induction rails, gravity rising as it moved a little closer to the skin.

‘Ah, I know what your problem is,’ Norquinco said, with half a smile. ‘It’s your old man, isn’t it? You don’t want to believe any of this because of who your father is. You can’t stand the idea of him not knowing about something so significant.’

‘Maybe he does know, has that ever occurred to you?’

‘So you admit the ship could be real.’

‘No, actually . . .’

But Gomez interrupted him, obviously warming to the subject. ‘As a matter of fact, I don’t find it hard to believe that there was once a sixth ship. Launching six rather than five wouldn’t have been much more effort, would it? After that - after the ships had got up to cruising speed - there could have been some disaster . . . some tragic event, deliberate or otherwise, which left the sixth ship essentially dead. Coasting, but derelict, with its crew all killed, probably its momios as well. There must have been enough residual power to keep the remaining antimatter in containment, of course, but that wouldn’t have taken much.’

‘What,’ Sky said, ‘and we just forgot about it?’

‘If the other ships had also played a part in the destruction of the sixth, it wouldn’t have been difficult to edit the data records of the entire Flotilla to remove any reference to the crime itself, or even the fact the victim had ever existed. That generation of crew could have sworn not to pass on the knowledge of the crime to their descendants, our parents.’

Gomez nodded enthusiastically. ‘So by now all we’d have been left with is a few rumours; half-forgotten truths mixed up in myth.’

‘Exactly what we do have,’ Norquinco said.

Sky shook his head, knowing it was futile to argue any further.

The train came to a halt in one of the loading bays which serviced this part of the spine. The three of them got out carefully, crunching their sticky-soled shoes onto the flooring for traction. There was scarcely any feeling of gravity now since they were so close to the axis of rotation. Objects still fell towards the floor, but with a certain reluctance, and it was easy to hurt your head against the ceiling if you took too ambitious a stride.

There were many such bays, each servicing a cluster of momios. There were six sleeper modules attached around this part of the spine, each of which held ten individual cryogenic berths. The trains reached no closer, and almost all equipment and supplies had to be manhandled from this point, via laddered shafts and winding crawlways. There were freight elevators and handler robots, but neither were used very often. Robots in particular needed diligent programming and maintenance, and even the simplest task had to be spelled out to them as if they were particularly slow-witted children. Usually, it was quicker just to do it yourself. That was why there were so many techs, usually leaning against the pallets looking bored, smoking homemade cigarettes or tapping styluses against clipboards, doing their best to look semi-occupied despite the fact that nothing was actually happening. The techs generally wore blue overalls flashed with section decals, but the overalls were usually ripped or amended in some fashion, exposing crudely tattooed skin. Sky knew all of them by face, of course - on a ship with only one hundred and fifty warm human beings, it was difficult not to. But he had only a vague idea what their names were, and next to none about the kinds of lives the techs lived when they were not working. Off-duty techs tended to keep to their own parts of the Santiago, and they tended to socialise amongst themselves, even to the extent of producing their offspring. They spoke their own patois, drenched in carefully guarded jargon.

But something was slightly different now.

No one was lazing around or trying to look busy. In fact, there were hardly any techs in the room at all, and the few that were here looked edgy, as if waiting for an alarm to go off.

‘What’s the matter?’ Sky said.

But the man who stepped gingerly from behind the nearest tower of equipment pallets was not a tech. He brushed his hand across the chrome shoulder of a crouched handler robot as if looking for support, sweat blistering on his forehead.

‘Dad?’ Sky said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I could ask you the same question, unless this is one of your chores.’

‘Of course it is. I told you we work the trains now and then, didn’t I?’

Titus looked distracted. ‘Yes . . . yes, you did. I forgot. Sky, help these men unload the goods, and then you and your friends get away from here, will you?’

Sky looked at his father. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Just do it, will you?’ Then Titus Haussmann turned to the nearest tech, a heavily bearded fellow with grotesquely muscled forearms folded across his chest like hams. ‘The same goes for you and your men, Xavier. Get all non-essential people out of here, all the way back up the spine. As a matter of fact I want the engine section evacuated while we’re at it.’ He flipped up his sleeve and whispered orders into his bracelet. Recommendation, more accurately, Sky thought, but Old Man Balcazar would never fail to abide by Titus Haussmann’s advice. Then he turned to Sky again, blinking to see his son still present. ‘Didn’t I just tell you to get on with it, son? I wasn’t kidding.’

Norquinco and Gomez took their leave, accompanying a couple of techs to the waiting train, flipping open one of its freight covers and beginning the knuckle-grazing work of unloading supplies. They passed the boxes from hand to hand, out of the bay altogether, where they would presumably be lowered down the levels to the sleeper berths themselves.

‘Dad, what is it?’ Sky said.

He thought his father was going to reprimand him, but Titus simply shook his head. ‘I don’t know. Not yet. But there’s something not right with one of our passengers - something that has me a little worried.’

‘What do you mean, not right?’

‘One of the bastard momios is waking up.’ He mopped his forehead. ‘That’s not supposed to happen. I’ve been down there, into the berth, and I still don’t understand it. But it has me worried. That’s why I want this area cleared.’

This was a marvel indeed, Sky thought. None of the passengers had ever awakened, even though a few of them had certainly died. But his father seemed less than overjoyed at the situation. Gravely concerned, more accurately.

‘Why is it a problem, Dad?’

‘Because they’re not meant to wake up, that’s why. If it happens at all, it must mean it was planned from day one. Before we ever left the solar system.’

‘But why clear the area?’

‘Because of something my father told me, Sky. Now do what I just told you and get that train unloaded and then get the hell away from here, will you?’

At that moment another train slid into the bay from the opposite direction, nosing up against the one Sky had arrived upon. Four of Titus’s security people emerged from it, three men and a woman, and began buckling on plastic armour that had been too bulky to wear during the journey. This was practically the entire operational militia for the ship, its police force and army, and even these people were not fulltime security officers. The squad moved forward to another part of the train and unracked guns: gloss-white weapons which they handled with nervous care. His father had always told him that there were no guns aboard ship, but never very convincingly.

There were, in fact, many aspects of shipboard security about which Sky wanted to know more. His father’s small, tight, highly efficient organisation fascinated him. But Sky had never been allowed to work with his father. The explanation which Titus gave for this was plausible enough: he could not claim impartiality or fairness if his son were to be given a role in the organisation, no matter how apt Sky might have been - but that did not make it any less bitter a pill to swallow. Consequently the tasks Sky was assigned were always as far away from anything remotely security-related as Titus could ensure. Nothing would or could change while Titus remained head of security, and both of them understood that.

Sky went to join his friends, helping them off-load the supplies. They were getting through the job quickly, without any of the carefully honed dawdling that usually accompanied the process. His friends were unnerved; whatever was going on here was out of the ordinary and Titus Haussmann was not a man to pretend there was a crisis where none existed.

Sky kept one eye on the security squad.

They settled fabric headsets over their shaven skulls, tapping microphones and checking communication frequencies. Then they pulled armoured helmets from the train and pushed their heads into them, adjusting drop-down overlay monocles which covered one eye. A slim black line ran from each helmet to the sight attached to the top of each gun, so that the guns could be discharged without the guard having to look in the direction of fire. They probably had infra-red or sonar overlays as well. That would be useful down in the gloomy sub-levels.

When they had stopped fiddling with their equipment, the squad moved over to his father, who briefed them quickly and quietly, with the absolute minimum of fuss. Sky watched his father’s lips move; his expression one of complete calm now that he was in the presence of his own squad. Occasionally he made a taut, precise hand gesture or shook his head. He might as well have been telling them all a nursery rhyme. Even the sweat on his forehead seemed to have dried up.

Then Titus Haussmann left the squad, and went back over to the train they had arrived on and pulled his own gun from it. No armour or helmet; just the weapon. It was the same gloss-white as the others. There was a sickle-shaped magazine beneath it and a skeletal stock. His father handled it with quiet respect rather than easy familiarity: the way a man might handle a venomous snake that had just been milked.

All for a single sleepless passenger?

‘Dad . . .’ Sky said, leaving his duty again. ‘What is it? What is it really?’

‘Nothing you need worry about,’ his father said.

Titus took three of the squad with him and left the fourth behind, standing guard in the freight bay. The detachment disappeared down one of the access shafts which led to the berths, the clatter of their progress growing quieter, but never quite silencing. When he was certain that his father was out of earshot, Sky moved over to the guard who had been stationed in the bay.

‘What’s going on, Constanza?’

She flipped up the monocle. ‘What makes you think I’m about to tell you, if your father didn’t?’

‘I don’t know. A wild shot in the dark along the lines of us both having been friends at one point, I suppose.’

He had known it was her the instant the train had arrived; given the apparent severity of the situation it had been certain that she would be amongst the squad.

‘I’m sorry,’ Constanza said. ‘It’s just that we’re all a tiny bit edgy, understand?’

‘Of course.’ He studied her face, as beautiful and fierce as ever, wondering how it would feel to trace the line of her jaw. ‘I heard it was about one of the passengers waking up too early. Is that true?’

‘More or less,’ she said, as if through gritted teeth.

‘And for that you need more firepower than I’ve ever seen before on the ship? More than I ever knew existed?’

‘Your father determines how we handle individual incidents, not me.’

‘But he must have said something. What is it about this one passenger?’

‘Look, I don’t know, all right? Just that whatever it is, it isn’t supposed to happen. The momios aren’t meant to wake up early. That just isn’t possible, unless someone programmed their sleeper berth to make it happen. And no one would have done that unless they had a good reason.’

‘I still don’t understand why anyone would want to wake up early.’

‘To sabotage the mission, of course.’ She lowered her voice now, and clicked her fingernails against the gun, edgily. ‘A single sleeper placed aboard not as a passenger, but as a time-bomb. A volunteer on a suicide mission, say - a criminal, or someone else with nothing to lose. Someone angry enough to want to kill us all. It wasn’t easy to get a slot on the Flotilla when she left Sol, remember. The Confederacion made as many enemies as friends when it built the fleet. It wouldn’t be difficult to find someone willing to die, if it allowed them to punish us.’

‘It would be difficult to do, though.’

‘Only if you forgot to bribe the right people.’

‘I suppose you’re right. When you say time-bomb you’re not talking literally, are you?’

‘No - but now that you mention it, it isn’t such an absurd idea. What if they - whoever they were - managed to plant a saboteur aboard every ship? Maybe the one aboard the Islamabad was just the first to wake. And they wouldn’t have had any warning.’

‘Maybe a warning wouldn’t have helped them much, in that case.’

She clenched her teeth. ‘I guess we’re about to find out. On the other hand, it could just be a malfunctioning sleeper berth.’

That was when the first gunshots were heard.

Whatever was happening was taking place tens of metres beneath the loading bay, but the shots still sounded fearsomely loud. There were shouts as well. He thought he heard his father, but it was difficult to tell: the acoustics lent a metallic quality to the voices, rendering the words indistinct and blurring the differences in timbre.

‘Shit,’ Constanza said. For a moment she froze, then she was making for the access well. She turned and flashed wild eyes at him. ‘You stay here, Sky.’

‘I’m coming with you. That’s my father down there.’

The shots had ceased, but there was still a lot of noise, voices mainly, raised to the point of hysteria, and what sounded like things being thrown around. Constanza checked her gun again and then stowed it over a shoulder. She walked towards the access well, preparing to lever herself into its laddered, echoing depths.

‘Constanza . . .’

He grabbed her gun and wrestled it from her shoulder before she had time to act. Constanza turned round in fury, but he was already easing past her, not exactly pointing the gun at her, but not exactly pointing it away from her either. He had no idea how to use it, but he must have looked sufficiently purposeful. Constanza backed off now, her eyes flicking to the gun. It was still tethered to her helmet by the black flex, which was now stretched to its limit.

‘Give me the head-gear,’ Sky said, nodding towards her.

‘You’ll be in deep shit for this,’ she said.

‘What, going after my father when he’s in danger? I don’t think so. A mild reprimand at the very worst, I think.’ He nodded again. ‘The helmet, Constanza.’

She grimaced and pulled the helmet from her head. Sky settled it over his own, not bothering to ask her for the fabric underlayer. The helmet was a little small for him, but there was no time to adjust it now. He flipped down the monocle, gratified when it lit up with the view that the gun was seeing. The image was all shades of grey-green, overlaid by cross-hairs, range-finder numerics and weapons-status summaries. None of that meant anything to him, but when he looked at Constanza he saw her nose stand out as a white smudge of heat. Infra-red; that was all he needed to know.

He lowered himself into the shaft, aware that Constanza was following him at a discreet distance.

There were no shouts now, but there were still voices. They were quiet, but there was nothing calm about them. He could hear his father quite distinctly now; there was something not quite right about the way he was talking.

He reached the nexus which connected the sleeper berths of this node. They radiated out in ten directions, but only one of the connecting doors was open. That was where the voices were coming from. He pointed the gun ahead of him and moved towards the berth, down the normally dark, pipe-lined corridor which led to it. Now the corridor shone in sickly shades of grey-green. He was scared, he realised. Fear had always been there, but it was only now that he had the gun and had climbed down that he had time to pay attention to it. Fear was a nearly unfamiliar thing to him, but not completely so. He remembered his first real taste of it, alone in the nursery, betrayed and deserted. Now he watched his own shadow trace phantom shapes along the wall, and for a fleeting moment wished that Clown were with him now to offer guidance and friendship. The idea of returning to the nursery was suddenly very tempting. It was a world unsullied by rumours of ghost ships or sabotage, of present and real hardships.

He crept round a dogleg in the corridor and there was the berth ahead of him: the large, machine-filled support chamber for a single sleeper. It was like a dedicated burial room in a church, reeking of antiquity and reverence. The room had been cold until recently and much of it was still olive-green or black in his vision.

From behind he heard Constanza speak. ‘Give me the gun, Sky, and no one will know you took it.’

‘I’ll give it back when the danger’s passed.’

‘We don’t even know what the danger is yet. Perhaps someone’s gun just went off by accident.’

‘And the sleeper berth just happened to be malfunctioning, as well? Yeah, right.’

He entered the sleeper berth and took in the tableau that greeted him. The three security guards were there, as was his father - blobs of pale-green shading to white.

‘Constanza,’ one of them said. ‘I thought you were supposed to cover . . . shit. It isn’t you, is it?’

‘No. It’s me. Sky Haussmann.’ He flipped up the monocle, the room gloomier than it had been a moment ago.

‘And where’s Constanza?’

‘I took her helmet and gun, entirely against her wishes.’ He looked behind him, hoping that Constanza had heard this attempt at exonerating her. ‘She did put up a fight, believe me.’

The berth was one of ten in a ring, each fed by its own corridor from the node. The room had probably been entered only one or two times since the Flotilla’s launch. The sleeper support systems were as delicate and complex as the antimatter engines; just as likely to go horribly wrong if tampered with by anything other than expert hands. Like buried pharaohs, the sleepers had not expected their places of slumber to be violated until they reached what passed for the afterlife - arrival around 61 Cygni-A. It felt a little wrong just to be here at all.

But not half as wrong as it felt to see his father.

Titus Haussmann was lying on the floor, his upper body cradled by one of the security guards. His chest was covered in a dark, cloying fluid that Sky knew was blood. There were canyonlike gashes in his uniform, in which the blood was pooling thickly, gurgling disgustingly with each laboured breath.

‘Dad . . .’ Sky said.

‘It’s all right,’ one of the guards answered. ‘There’s a medical team on their way.’

Which, Sky thought - given the general state of medical expertise aboard the Santiago - was about as useful as saying there were priests coming. Or undertakers.

He looked at the sleeper casket; the long, plinth-like, machine-encrusted cryo-coffin which filled much of the room. The upper half of it was cracked wide open, huge jagged fractures like shattered glass. Sharp bits of it formed a haphazard glass mosaic on the floor. It was exactly as if something inside the casket had forced its way out.

And there was something inside it.

The passenger was dead, or nearly dead; that much was obvious. At first glance the man looked normal enough apart from the bullet wounds: a naked human being invaded by monitoring wires, blood-shunts and catheters. He was younger than most of them, Sky thought - excellent fanatic fodder, in other words. But with his bald head and masklike lack of facial muscle tone, the man could have passed for a thousand other sleepers.

Except that his forearm had come off.

It was lying on the floor, in fact - a limp, glove-like thing, ending in flaps of ragged skin. But there was no bone or meat showing from the end, and very little blood had leaked from the severed limb. The stump was wrong as well. The man’s skin and bone stopped a few inches below his elbow, and then it was all tapering metal prosthesis: a complex, blood-lathered, glittering obscenity which ended not in steel fingers but in a vicious assemblage of blades.

Sky imagined how it must have happened.

The man had woken inside his casket, probably following a plan laid down before the Flotilla had left Mercury. He must have intended to wake up unobserved, smash his way to freedom and then set about inflicting stealthy harm on the ship, in precisely the way that might have happened on the Islamabad, if Constanza’s theory was correct. A lone man could certainly do great damage, if he was not obliged to allow for his own survival.

But his revival had not gone unnoticed. He must have been in the process of waking when the security team had entered the berth. Perhaps Sky’s father had been leaning over the casket, examining it, when the man had cracked it open with his forearm weapon. It would have been very easy for him to stab Titus then, even if the other squad members were doing their best to put magazine-loads of bullets into him. Drugged with pain-nullifying revival chemicals, he had probably barely noticed the shots eating into him.

They had stopped him, maybe even killed him, but not before he had inflicted extreme harm on Titus. Sky knelt down next to his father. Titus’s eyes were still open, but they seemed not quite to focus.

‘Dad? It’s me. Sky. Try and hang on, will you? The medics are coming. It’ll be all right.’

One of the guards touched his shoulder. ‘He’s strong, Sky. He had to go in first, you know. That was his way.’

‘Is his way, you mean.’

‘Of course. He’ll pull through.’

Sky started to say something, the words assembling in his head, but suddenly the passenger was moving; at first with dreamlike slowness then with terrifying speed. For a yawning instant it was not something he was prepared to believe; the man’s injuries were simply too severe for him to be capable of movement, let alone movement that was swift and violent.

The passenger rolled from the casket, the movement lithe and animal-like, and then the man was standing, and with one elegant scythe-like sweep of his arm he cut one of the guards open across the throat, the guard collapsing to his knees with blood fountaining from the wound. The passenger paused, holding his weapon-arm in front of him, and then the complex cluster of knives whirred and clicked, one blade retracting while another slotted into place, gleaming with pure-blue surgical brilliance. The passenger studied this process with what looked like quiet fascination.

He stepped forward, towards Sky.

Sky still had Constanza’s gun, but the fear was so intense that he could not even hold the weapon up to threaten the passenger. The passenger looked at him, the muscles beneath the flesh rippling strangely, as if dozens of orchestrated maggots were crawling over the bones of his skull. The rippling halted, and for a moment the face staring back at Sky was a crude approximation of his own. Then the rippling resumed and the face was no longer one Sky recognised.

The man smiled, and pushed his clean new blade into Sky’s chest. There was a curious lack of pain, and the immediate effect was only as if the man had thumped him hard across the ribs. He fell back, winded, out of the passenger’s way.

Behind, the two uninjured guards had their guns levelled and ready to fire.

Sky, slumped down, attempted to draw his next breath. The pain was exquisite, and he felt none of the relief that the inhalation should have brought. The passenger’s knife had almost certainly punctured a lung, he decided, and the blow might well have shattered a rib in the process. But the blade appeared to have missed his heart, and he could still move his legs, so it had probably not damaged his spine.

Another moment elapsed and he wondered why the guards had yet to open fire. He could see the passenger’s back; they must have had a clear target.

Constanza, of course. She was just beyond the passenger, and if they shot at him their rounds had a high likelihood of passing right through his body and ripping through her. She could retreat, but with the connecting doors to the other berths sealed - and no chance of opening them in a hurry - the only way to go was up the ladder. And the passenger would be immediately behind her. Ordinarily, having just one arm would have hindered anyone’s ascent of a ladder, but the normal physiological rules did not seem to apply here.

‘Sky . . .’ she said. ‘Sky. You’ve got my gun. You’ve got a clearer line of fire than the other two. Shoot now.’

Still lying down, still struggling for breath - he could hear his lung wound gurgling like a baby - he raised the gun and aimed it in the vague direction of the passenger, who was walking calmly towards Constanza.

‘Do it now, Sky.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Do it. It’s a question of Flotilla safety.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Do it!’

His hand trembling, barely able to hold the gun now, let alone aim it with any precision, he directed the muzzle in the approximate direction of the passenger’s back, then closed his eyes - though by then he was fighting a black tide of unconsciousness anyway - and squeezed the trigger.

The burst of fire was short and sharp, like a loud, deep burp. Combined with the sound of the gun’s discharge was a metallic roar: the sound of bullets ramming not into flesh but into the corridor’s armoured cladding.

The passenger halted, as if about to turn around and return for something it had forgotten, and then fell down.

Constanza, beyond, was still standing.

She advanced forward, then kicked the passenger, eliciting no visible response. Sky allowed the gun to slip from his fingers, but by then the other two guards were level with him and their weapons were trained on the passenger.

Sky struggled for the breath to speak. ‘Dead?’

‘I don’t know,’ Constanza said. ‘Not going anywhere in a hurry, anyway. Are you all right?’

‘Can’t breathe.’

She nodded. ‘You’ll live. You should have shot him when I said, you know.’

‘Did.’

‘No, you didn’t. You fired indiscriminately and got a lucky break with a ricochet. You could have ended up killing all of us.’

‘Didn’t.’

She stooped down and retrieved the gun. ‘Mine, I think.’

By then the medical team had arrived, clambering down the ladder. There had been no time to brief them, of course, and for a moment they dithered, unsure who to treat first. A respected and high-ranking member of the crew was severely injured before them; two other crew members had wounds that might also be life-threatening. But there was also an injured passenger, a member of that even higher élite they had spent their entire lives serving. The fact that the momio was not quite what he seemed did not immediately register with them.

One of the medics found Sky and after an initial check-up placed a breather mask over his face, flooding his ailing respiratory system with pure oxygen. He felt some of that black tide lap away.

‘Help Titus,’ Sky said, indicating his father. ‘But do what you can for the passenger as well.’

‘Are you certain?’ the medic said, who by then must have grasped something of what had gone on.

Sky pressed the mask to his face again before answering, his mind racing ahead to what he could do to the passenger; the labyrinthine ways in which he might inflict pain on the killer.

‘Yes. I’m more than certain.’

ELEVEN

I woke up shivering; trying to extricate myself from the coils of the Haussmann dream. The dream’s after-image was disturbingly vivid; I could still feel myself there with Sky, watching his wounded father being taken away. I examined my hand in the dim light of the sleeping cubicle, the blood at the centre of my right palm black and cloying like a spot of tar.

Sister Duscha had told me this was a mild strain, but I was obviously nowhere near getting over it on my own. There was no way I could have delayed chasing Reivich, but Duscha’s suggestion that I spend another week or so in Idlewild having the virus flushed out by professionals suddenly seemed infinitely preferable to weathering it on my own. And while the strain might have been weak compared to some, there was no guarantee that it had reached its worst.

Now I felt a familiar and not very welcome feeling: nausea. I wasn’t at all used to zero-gravity, and the Mendicants hadn’t given me drugs to make the trip any more bearable. I thought about it for a few minutes, debating whether it was worth leaving my cubicle, or whether I should just lie low and accept the discomfort until we reached the Glitter Band. Eventually my stomach won and I decided to make my way to the ship’s communal core. One of the instruction labels in the cabin told me I’d be able to buy something to kill the worst of the sickness.

Just getting to the commons was more adventure than I really needed. It was a wide, furnished and pressurised sphere somewhere near the front of the ship, where food, drugs and entertainment were available, but it was only accessible through a warren of claustrophobic one-way crawlways which snaked around and through the engine components. The instructions in my cubicle advised against tardiness during crawls through certain parts of the ship, leaving the reader to draw their own conclusions about the state of the internal nuclear shielding in those areas.

On my way there I thought about the dream.

There was something about it that bothered me, and I kept asking myself whether what had happened in it meshed with what I already knew about Sky Haussmann. I was no expert on the man (I hadn’t been, anyway) but there were certain basic facts about him which it was difficult to avoid if you had been brought up on Sky’s Edge. We all knew about the way he had become frightened of the dark after the blackout aboard the Santiago, when the other ship blew up, and we all knew about the way his mother had died in the same incident. Lucretia had been a good woman, by all accounts, well loved across the Flotilla. Titus, Sky’s father, was a man who was respected and feared but never truly hated. They called him the caudillo: the strong man. Everyone agreed that while Sky might have had an unusual upbringing, his parents could not really be blamed for the crimes that followed.

We all knew that Sky had not had many friends, but nonetheless we remembered the names of Norquinco and Gomez, and how they had been complicit - if not truly equal partners - in what had happened later. And we all knew that Titus had been gravely injured by a saboteur placed amongst the passengers. He had died a few months later, when the saboteur broke out of his restraints in the ship’s infirmary and murdered him while he was recuperating nearby.

But now I was puzzled. The dream had veered into an area which was unfamiliar to me. I didn’t remember anyone ever mentioning the rumour of another ship, a sinister ghost vessel trailing the Flotilla like the fabled Caleuche. Even the Caleuche’s name failed to ring any bells. What was happening? Was the indoctrinal virus just sufficiently detailed in its knowledge of Sky’s life that it was revealing my own prior ignorance of events, or had I been infected with an undocumented strain, one that contained hidden curlicues of story missing from most of the others? And were those embellishments historically accurate (but simply not well known), or sheer fiction: addendums put in there by bored cultists trying to spice up their own religion?

There was no way to know - yet. But it seemed I was going to have to sleep through further instalments of Haussmann’s life whether I liked it or not. Although I couldn’t say I exactly welcomed the dreams - or the way they seemed to smother any I might have been planning to have myself - at least now I would admit to some mild curiosity as to how they played out.

I crawled onwards, forcing the dreams from my mind, and concentrated instead on the place to which the Strelnikov was ultimately headed.

The Glitter Band.

I had heard of it, even on Sky’s Edge. Who hadn’t? It was one of a few dozen places that were famous enough to be known about in other solar systems; places that had a certain allure even across light years. On scores of settled worlds, the Glitter Band was shorthand for a place of limitless bounty and luxury and personal freedom. It was everything that Chasm City was, but without the inescapable crush of gravity. It was where people jokingly talked of going when they made their fortunes, or married into the family with the right connections. There was nowhere in our own system that had anything like the same glamour. To many people the place might as well have been mythical, for all the likelihood of them ever getting there.

But the Glitter Band was real.

It was the string of ten thousand elegant, wealthy habitats which orbited Yellowstone: a beautiful concatenation of arcologies and carousels and cylinder-cities, like a halo of stardust thrown around the world. Although Chasm City was the ultimate repository for the system’s wealth, the city had a reputation for conservatism, rooted in its three-hundred-year history and immense sense of self-importance. The Glitter Band, by contrast, was constantly being reinvented, habitats shuffling in and out of formation, being dismantled and made anew. Subcultures blossomed like a thousand flowers before their proponents decided to try something else instead. Where art in Chasm City verged on the staid, almost anything was encouraged in the Glitter Band. One artist’s masterworks existed only in the tiniest instants when they could be sculpted out of quark-gluon plasma and held stable, their existence implied only by a subtle chain of inference. Another used shaped fission charges to create nuclear fireballs which assumed the brief likenesses of celebrities. Wild social experiments took place: voluntary tyrannies, in which thousands of people willingly submitted themselves to the control of dictatorial states so that they could be freed from having to make any moral choices in their own lives. There were whole habitats where people had had their higher brain functions disengaged, so that they could live like sheep under the care of machines. In others, they’d had their minds implanted into monkeys or dolphins: lost in intricate arboreal power struggles or sorrowful sonar fantasies. Elsewhere, groups of scientists who’d had their minds reshaped by Pattern Jugglers plunged deep into the metastructure of space-time, concocting elaborate experiments which tinkered with the very fundamentals of existence. One day, it was said, they’d discover a technique for faster-than-light propulsion, passing the secret to their allies who would install the necessary gadgetry in their habitats. The first anyone else would know about it would be when half the Glitter Band suddenly winked out of existence.

The Glitter Band, in short, was a place where a reasonably curious human being could easily squander half a lifetime. But I didn’t think Reivich would spend much time there before making his way down to Yellowstone’s surface. He would want to lose himself in Chasm City as quickly as possible.

Either way, I wouldn’t be far behind him.

Still fighting nausea, I crawled into the commons and looked around at the dozen or so fellow passengers in the sphere. Although everyone was at liberty to float at whatever angle they liked (at the moment the slowboat’s engines were off), everyone had anchored themselves the same way up. I found a vacant wall strap, fed my elbow into it and surveyed my fellow slush puppies with what I knew would appear only casual interest. They were clustered into twos and threes, talking quietly while a spherical servitor moved through the air, impelled by tiny fans. The servitor moved from group to group, offering services which it dispensed from a compendium of hatches around its body. It reminded me of a hunter-seeker drone, silently selecting its next target.

‘You needn’t look so nervous, friend,’ someone said, in thick, slurred Russish. ‘It’s just robot.’

I was losing my edge. I’d been unaware of anyone sidling up to me. Languidly, I turned to look at the man who had spoken. I was confronted by a wall of meat blocking half the commons. His pink, raw-looking face was triangular, anchored to his torso by a neck thicker than my thigh. His hairline began only a centimetre or so above his eyebrows: long black hair lacquered back over the roughly hewn boulder that was his scalp. His wide, downcurved mouth was framed by a thick black moustache and a beard that was no more than a razor-thin line of hair tracing the enormous width of his jaw. He had his arms crossed in front of his chest like a Cossack dancer, hypertrophied muscles bulging through the fabric of his coat. It was a long quilted coat sewn with rough patches of stiff, glistening fabric which caught the light and refracted it back in a million spectral glints. His eyes stared through me rather than at me, and seemed not to be focused on quite the same thing, as if one were glass.

Trouble, I thought.

‘Nobody’s nervous,’ I said.

‘Hey, talkative guy.’ The man anchored himself to the wall next to me. ‘I just make conversation, da?’

‘That’s good. Now go and make it somewhere else.’

‘Why you so unfriendly? You not like Vadim, friend?’

‘I was prepared to give you the benefit of the doubt,’ I said, answering him in Norte, even though I could more or less get by in Russish. ‘But on balance . . . no, I don’t think I do. And until we’re better acquainted, I’m not your friend. Now go away and let me think.’

‘I think about it.’

The servitor lingered near us. Oblivious to the increasing tension between us, its dumb processor soldiered on, addressing us as a pair of fellow travellers, asking what services we might require. Before the huge man could say anything, or even move, I told the servitor to supply me with a scopolamine-dextrose shot. It was the oldest and cheapest anti-nausea drug in the book. Like all the passengers I had established a shipboard credit account for the duration of the journey, although I was only half-certain I had the funds to cover the scop-dex. But the servitor obliged, a hatch popping open to reveal a disposable hypodermic.

I took the hypo, rolled up my sleeve and slammed the needle into a vein, just as if I was readying myself for a possible biological warfare attack.

‘Hey, you do that like pro. No hesitation.’ The man spoke with what sounded like genuine admiration, shifting to slow, slurred Norte. ‘What are you, doctor?’

I rolled my sleeve over the upwelling mark where the needle had gone in.

‘Not quite. I work with sick people, though.’

‘Yes?’

I nodded. ‘I’d be happy to give you a demonstration.’

‘I am not sick.’

‘Trust me, that’s never been a problem in the past.’

I wondered if he was getting the message just yet; that I was not his ideal choice for a conversation partner for the next day. I popped the used hypo back into the servitor, the scop-dex already beginning to blast my nausea into a fog of merely mild unpleasantness. There were almost certainly more effective treatments for space sickness - anti-agonists - but even if they had been available, I doubted that I had the funds to cover them.

‘Tough guy,’ the man said, nodding, an articulation for which his neck was not really engineered. ‘I like it. But how tough you really?’

‘I don’t think it’s any of your business, but you’re welcome to try me.’

The servitor loitered near us for a few more moments before deciding to float to the next cluster. A few other people had just drifted into the commons, looking around with sickly expressions. It was ironic that after crossing so many light-years between stars, this little slowboat transfer was for many of us our first conscious taste of space travel.

He eyed me. I could almost hear the little gears working away in his skull, grinding laboriously. No doubt most of the people he approached were more easily intimidated than I was.

‘Like I say, I am Vadim. Everyone calls me that. Just Vadim. I’m quite character - part of what you might call local colour. And you are?’

‘Tanner,’ I said. ‘Tanner Mirabel.’

He nodded slowly, wisely, as if my name meant something to him.

‘That real name?’

‘Yes.’

It was my real name, but I lost nothing by using it. There was no way Reivich could have learned my name yet, even though it was clear that he knew someone was following him. Cahuella kept a very tight lid on his operation, sheltering the identities of his employees. The best Reivich could have managed was to weasel out of the Mendicants a list of everyone else who had been on the Orvieto - but that would still not have told him who amongst those people was the man who intended to kill him.

Vadim tried to inject a tone of comradely interest into his voice. ‘Where you come from, Meera-Bell?’

‘You don’t need to know,’ I said. ‘And please, Vadim - I was serious just now. I don’t want to talk to you, local colour or not.’

‘But I have business proposition, Meera-Bell. One you should hear, I think.’ He continued to stare through me with one eye. The other gazed obliquely past my shoulder, unfocused.

‘I’m not interested in business, Vadim.’

‘I think you should be.’ He had lowered his voice now. ‘It is dangerous place where we are headed, Meera-Bell. Dangerous, dangerous place. Especially for newcomers.’

‘What’s so dangerous about the Glitter Band?’

He smiled, then cancelled the smile. ‘Glitter Band . . . yes. That is really quite interesting. I am sure you’ll find it at odds with . . . expectations.’ He paused, caressing his stubbled chin with one hand. ‘And we have not even mentioned Chasm City, nyet?’

‘Danger’s a relative term, Vadim. I don’t know what it means here, but where I come from, it implies more than just the ever-present hazard of committing a social gaffe. Trust me, I think I can handle the Glitter Band. And Chasm City, for that matter.’

‘You think you know about danger? I do not think you have first idea what you are walking into, Meera-Bell. I think you are very ignorant man.’ He paused, toying with the rough fabric patches of his quilted coat, refraction patterns racing away under the pressure of his fingertips. ‘Which is why I am talking to you now, understand? I am being good Samaritan to you.’

I could see where this was heading. ‘You’re going to offer me protection, aren’t you?’

Vadim winced. ‘Such crude term. Please, do not say it again. I would much rather we talk about benefits of mutual security agreement, Meera-Bell.’

I nodded. ‘Let me speculate here, Vadim. You really are local, aren’t you? You haven’t come off a ship at all. My guess is you’re pretty much a permanent fixture on this slowboat - am I right?’

He grinned, quickly and nervously. ‘Let us just say I know my way around ship better than average recently defrosted slush puppy. And let us just say I have influential associates in neighbourhood of Yellowstone. Associates with muscle. People who can take care of newcomer, make sure he - or she - does not get into any trouble.’

‘And if this newcomer were to decline your services, what would happen then? Would these self-same associates just possibly become the source of the same trouble?’

‘Now you are being very cynical man.’

Now it was my turn to grin. ‘You know what, Vadim? I think you’re just a slimy little con-artist. This network of associates of yours doesn’t really exist, does it? Your influence extends about as far as the hull of this ship - and even then, it isn’t exactly all-pervasive, is it?’

He unfolded his colossal arms and then refolded them. ‘Watch your step, Meera-Bell - I am warning you.’

‘No, I’m warning you, Vadim. I could have killed you already if I thought you were any more than an irritant. Go away and try your routine on someone else.’ I nodded around the commons. ‘There are plenty of candidates. Better still, why don’t you crawl back to your smelly little cabin and work on your technique a bit? I really think you need to come up with something more convincing than the threat of violence in the Glitter Band, you know. Maybe if you were to offer fashion advice?’

‘You really do not know, do you, Meera-Bell?’

‘Know what?’

He looked at me pityingly, and for the tiniest of instants I wondered if I had fatally misjudged the situation. But then Vadim shook his head, unhooked himself from the commons wall and propelled himself across the sphere, his coat flapping behind him like a mirage. The slowboat had ramped up its thrust again now, so his trajectory was a lazy arc, bringing him expertly close to another solitary traveller who had just arrived: a short, overweight, balding man who looked pasty-faced and dejected.

I watched Vadim shake hands with the man, beginning to run through the same spiel he had tried out on me.

I almost wished him better luck.

The other passengers were an equal mixture of male and female, with an egalitarian blend of genetic types. I felt sure that two or three people were from Sky’s Edge, aristocrats by the look of them, but no one I was interested in. Bored, I tried to listen in on their conversation, but the acoustics of the commons blurred their words into a mush, from which only the occasional word emerged when one or other of the party raised their voice. I could still tell they were speaking Norte. Very few people on Sky’s Edge spoke Norte with great fluency, but almost everyone understood it to some extent: it was the only language which spanned all the factions, and was therefore used for diplomatic overtures and trade with external parties. In the south we spoke Castellano, the principal language of the Santiago, with of course some contamination from the other languages spoken in the Flotilla. In the north they spoke a shifting Creole of Hebrew, Farsi, Urdu, Punjabi and the old ancestor tongue of Norte called English, but mainly Portuguese and Arabic. Aristocrats tended to have a better grasp of Norte than the average citizen; fluency in it was a badge of sophistication. I had to speak it well for professional reasons - which is why I also spoke most of the northern tongues, as well as having a passable ability in Russish and Canasian.

Russish and Norte would almost certainly be understood in the Glitter Band and Chasm City, even if the mediation was done by machines, but the default tongue of the Demarchists who had refounded Yellowstone was Canasian, a slippery amalgam of Québecois French and Cantonese. It was said that no one without a head full of linguistics processors ever really achieved genuine fluency in Canasian - the language was just too fundamentally strange, too much at odds with the hardwired constraints of human deep grammar.

I would have been worried, had the Demarchists not been such consummate traders. For more than two centuries Yellowstone had been the hub of the burgeoning interstellar trade network, feeding innovation out to nascent colonies, drinking it back in like a vampire when those colonies reached a basic level of technological maturity. It would be a commercial necessity for the Stoners to cope with dozens of other languages.

Of course, there would be dangers ahead. In that sense Vadim was entirely correct, but the dangers were not the kind to which he alluded. They would be subtle, arising from my own unfamiliarity with the nuances of a culture at least two centuries beyond my own. The outcome was less likely to be my own injury than the abject failure of my mission. That was enough of a danger to make me wary. But I did not need to buy a spurious assurance of protection from thugs like Vadim - whether he had his contacts or not.

Something caught my eye. It was Vadim again, and this time he was causing more of a commotion.

He was wrestling with the man who had just come into the commons, the two of them grappling with each other while remaining anchored to the commons wall. The other man looked like he was holding his own against Vadim, but there was something in Vadim’s movements - something languid to the point of boredom - which told me that Vadim was only letting the man think that he had the edge. The other passengers were doing a good job of ignoring the scuffle; grateful, perhaps, that the thug had selected someone else for his attention.

Abruptly, Vadim’s mood changed.

In an instant he had the newcomer pinned to the wall, in obvious pain, Vadim pushing his brow hard against the man’s terrified face. The man started to say something, but Vadim had his hand against the man’s mouth before more than a mumble emerged. Then what emerged was the man’s last meal, streaming vilely between Vadim’s fingers. Vadim recoiled in disgust and pushed himself away from the man. Then he secured himself with his clean arm and drove his fist into the man’s stomach, just below the ribcage. The man coughed hoarsely, his eyes bloodshot; he tried to catch his breath before Vadim delivered another blow.

But Vadim was done with him. He paused only to wipe his arm against the fabric walling of the commons, then unhooked himself, ready to kick off towards one of the exits.

I calculated my arc and kicked off first, savouring an instant of breezy free-fall before I impacted with the wall a metre from Vadim and his victim. For a moment Vadim looked at me in shock.

‘Meera-Bell . . . I thought we concluded negotiations?’

I smiled.

‘I just reopened them, Vadim.’

I had myself nicely anchored. With the same casual ease with which Vadim had struck the man, I struck Vadim, in more or less the same place. Vadim folded in on himself like a soggy origami figure, emitting a soft moan.

By now the rest of the people were less interested in minding their own business.

I addressed them. ‘I don’t know if any of you have been approached by this man yet, but I don’t think he’s the professional he’d like you to think. If you’ve bought protection from him, you’ve almost certainly wasted your money.’

Vadim managed a sentence. ‘You’re dead man, Meera-Bell.’

‘Then I’ve very little to fear.’ I looked at the other man. He had regained some of his colour now, wiping his sleeve across his mouth. ‘Are you all right? I didn’t see how the fight started.’

The man spoke Norte, but with a thick accent which it took me a moment to penetrate. He was a small man, with the compact build of a bulldog. The bulldog look didn’t stop at his physique, either. He had a pugnacious, permanently argumentative face, a flat nose and a scalp bristling sparsely with extremely short hairs.

He unrumpled his clothes. ‘Yes . . . I’m quite all right, thank you. The oaf started threatening me verbally, then started actually hurting me. At that point I was hoping someone would do something, but it was like I’d suddenly become part of the décor.’

‘Yes, I noticed.’ I looked around at the other passengers disparagingly. ‘You fought back, though.’

‘Fat lot of good it did me.’

‘I’m afraid Vadim here doesn’t look the type to recognise a valiant gesture when he sees one. Are you sure you’re all right?’

‘I think so. A little nausea, that’s all.’

‘Wait.’

I snapped my fingers at the servitor, hovering in cybernetic indecision some metres away. When it came closer I tried to buy another shot of scop-dex, but I had exhausted my shipboard funds.

‘Thank you,’ the man said, setting his jaw. ‘But I think I’ve sufficient funds in my own account.’ He spoke to the machine in Canasian, too quickly and softly for me to follow, and a fresh hypo popped out for use.

I turned to Vadim while the other man fumbled the hypo into a vein. ‘Vadim; I’m going to be generous and let you leave now. But I don’t want to see you in this room again.’

He looked at me with his lips curled, flecks of vomit glued to his face like snowflakes.

‘Is not over between you and me, Meera-Bell.’

He unhooked himself, paused and looked around at the other passengers, obviously trying to regain some margin of dignity before he departed. It was a pretty wasted effort, since I had something else planned for him.

Vadim tensed, ready to kick off.

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘You don’t think I’m going to let you leave before you pay back whatever you’ve stolen, do you?’

He hesitated, looking back at me. ‘I have not stolen anything from you.’ Then to the other man. ‘Or you, Mister Quirrenbach . . .’

‘Is that true?’ I asked the man he’d just addressed.

Quirrenbach hesitated too, glancing at Vadim before answering. ‘Yes . . . yes. He hasn’t stolen anything from me. I didn’t speak to him until now.’

I raised my voice. ‘What about the rest of you? Did this bastard con you out of anything?’

Silence. It was more or less what I had expected. No one was going to be the first to admit that they had been duped by a small-time rat like Vadim, now that they had seen how pitiful he could become.

‘See,’ Vadim said, ‘there isn’t anyone, Meera-Bell.’

‘Maybe not here,’ I said. I reached out with my free hand and snagged the fabric of his coat. The rough quilted patches were as cool and dry as snakeskin. ‘But what about all the other passengers on the slowboat? Chances are you’ve already fleeced a few of them since we left Idlewild.’

‘So what if I did?’ he said, almost whispering. ‘It is none of your concern, is it?’ Now his tone was changing by the second. He was squirming before me, shifting into something infinitely more pliant than when he had first entered the commons. ‘What do you want to stay out of this? What is it worth to you to back out and leave me alone?’

I had to laugh. ‘Are you actually trying to buy me off?’

‘It’s always worth try.’

Something inside me snapped. I dragged Vadim back, slamming him against the wall so hard that he was winded again, and began to pummel him. The enveloping red haze of my anger washed over me like a warm, welcoming fog. I felt ribs shatter under my fists. Vadim tried to fight back, but I was faster, stronger, my fury more righteous.

‘Stop!’ said a voice, sounding like it came from halfway to infinity. ‘Stop it; he’s had enough!’

It was Quirrenbach, pulling me away from Vadim. A couple of other passengers had arced over to the scene of violence, studying the work I had inflicted on Vadim with horrified fascination. His face was a single ugly bruise, his mouth weeping shiny scarlet seeds of blood. I must have looked about the same when the Mendicants had finished with me.

‘You want me to be lenient with him?’ I said.

‘You’ve already gone beyond leniency,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘I don’t think you need to kill him. What if he’s telling the truth and he really does have friends?’

‘He’s nothing,’ I said. ‘He doesn’t have any more influence than you or I. Even if he did . . . this is the Glitter Band we’re headed to, not some lawless frontier settlement.’

Quirrenbach gave me the oddest of looks. ‘You’re serious, aren’t you? You really think we’re headed to the Glitter Band.’

‘We’re not?’

‘The Glitter Band doesn’t exist,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘It hasn’t existed for years. We’re heading for something else entirely.’

From out of the bruise which was Vadim’s face came something unexpected: a gurgle which might have been him clearing his mouth of blood. Or it might just have been a chuckle of vindication.

TWELVE

‘What did you mean by that?’

‘By what, Tanner?’

‘That little throwaway remark about the Glitter Band not existing. Are you planning on just leaving it hanging there enigmatically? ’

Quirrenbach and I were working our way through the bowels of the Strelnikov to Vadim’s hideaway, my progress made all the harder because I had my suitcase with me. We were alone; I’d locked Vadim in my quarters once he had revealed the location of his berth. I assumed that if we searched his quarters we’d find whatever he had stolen from the other passengers. I had already helped myself to his coat and had no immediate plans to return it to him.

‘Let’s just say there have been some changes, Tanner.’ Quirrenbach was wriggling awkwardly behind me, like a dog chasing something down a hole.

‘I didn’t hear about anything.’

‘You wouldn’t have. The changes happened recently, when you were on your way here. Occupational hazard of interstellar travel, I’m afraid.’

‘One of several,’ I said, thinking of my bruised face. ‘Well, what kind of changes?’

‘Rather drastic ones, I’m afraid.’ He paused, his breathing coming in hard, sawlike rasps. ‘Look, I’m sorry to shatter all your perceptions in one go, but you’d better start dealing with the fact that Yellowstone isn’t anything like the world it used to be. And that, Tanner, is something of an understatement.’

I thought back to what Amelia had said about where I would find Reivich. ‘Is Chasm City still there?’

‘Yes . . . yes. Nothing that drastic. It’s still there; still inhabited; still reasonably prosperous by the standards of this system.’

‘A statement you’re about to qualify, I suspect.’ I looked ahead and saw that the crawlway was widening out into a cylindrical corridor with oval doors spaced along one side. It was still dark and claustrophobic, the whole experience feeling unpleasantly familiar.

‘Regrettably . . . yes,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘The city’s become very different. It’s almost unrecognisable, and I gather much the same goes for the Glitter Band. There used to be ten thousand habitats in it, thrown around Yellowstone like - and here I’m going to indulge in some shameless mixing of metaphors - a garland of fabulously rare and artfully cut gems, each burning with its own hard radiance.’ Quirrenbach stopped and wheezed for a moment before continuing, ‘Now there are perhaps a hundred or so which still hold enough pressure to support life. The rest are derelict, vacuum-filled husks, silent and dead as driftwood, attended by vast and lethal shoals of orbital debris. They call it the Rust Belt.’

When that had sunk in, I said, ‘What was it? A war? Did someone insult someone else’s taste in habitat design?’

‘No, it wasn’t any war. Though it might have been better if it had been. You can always claw back from a war, after all. They’re not as bad as they’re cracked up to be, wars . . .’

‘Quirrenbach . . .’ My patience was wearing thin.

‘It was a plague,’ he said hastily. ‘A very bad one, but a plague nonetheless. But before you start asking deep questions, remember that I know scarcely any more details than you do - I only just arrived here as well, you realise.’

‘You’re a lot better informed than I am.’ I passed two doors and arrived at a third, comparing the number with the key Vadim had given me. ‘How did a plague manage to do so much damage?’

‘It wasn’t just a plague. I mean, not in the usual sense. It was more . . . fecund, I suppose. Imaginative. Artistic. Quite deviously so, at times. Um, have we arrived?’

‘I think this is his cabin, yes.’

‘Careful, Tanner. There might be traps or something.’

‘I doubt it; Vadim didn’t look like the kind to indulge in any kind of longterm planning. You need a developed frontal cortex for that.’

I slipped Vadim’s pass into the lock, gratified when the door opened. Feeble, muck-encrusted lights stammered on as I pushed through, revealing a cylindrical berth three or four times as large as the place I’d been assigned. Quirrenbach followed me and stationed himself at one of end of the cabin, like a man not quite ready to descend into a sewer.

I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to come much further in.

The place had the smell of months of accumulated bodily emissions, a greasy film of dead skin cells glued to every yellowing plastic surface. Pornographic holograms on the walls had come alive at our arrival, twelve naked women contorting themselves into anatomically unlikely postures. They’d begun talking as well; a dozen subtly different contraltos offering an enthusiastic appraisal of Vadim’s sexual prowess. I thought of him bound and gagged back in my quarters, oblivious to this flattery. The women never stopped talking, but after a while their gestures and imprecations became repetitive enough to ignore.

‘I think, on balance, this is probably the right room,’ Quirrenbach said.

I nodded. ‘Not going to win any awards, is it?’

‘Oh, I don’t know - some of the stains are quite interestingly arranged. It’s just a pity he went in for the smeared-excrement look - it’s just so last century.’ He pulled aside a little sliding hatch at his end - touching it only with the very tips of his fingers - revealing a grubby, micrometeorite-crazed porthole. ‘Still, he had a room with a view. Not entirely sure it was worth it, though.’

I looked at the view myself for a few moments. We could see part of the ship’s hull, strobed now and again in stuttering flashes of bright violet. Even though we were under way, the Strelnikov had a squad of workers outside the whole time welding things back together.

‘Well, let’s not spend any longer here than strictly necessary. I’ll search this end; you start at yours, and we’ll see if we turn up anything useful.’

‘Good idea,’ Quirrenbach said.

I began my search; the room - panelled wall-to-wall with recessed lockers - must once have been a storage compartment. There was too much to go through methodically, but I filled my briefcase and the deep pockets of Vadim’s coat with anything that looked even remotely valuable. I scooped up handfuls of jewellery, data-monocles, miniature holo-cameras and translator brooches; exactly the kinds of thing I’d have expected Vadim to steal from the Strelnikov’s slightly more wealthy passengers. I had to hunt to find a watch - space travellers tended not to take them when they were crossing between systems. In the end I found one that had been calibrated for Yellowstone time, its face a series of concentric dials, around which tiny emerald planets ticked to mark the time.

I slipped it on my wrist, the watch pleasantly hefty.

‘You can’t just steal his possessions,’ Quirrenbach said meekly.

‘Vadim’s welcome to file a complaint.’

‘That’s not the point. What you’re doing isn’t any better than . . .’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘do you seriously imagine he bought any of this stuff? It’s all stolen; probably from passengers who aren’t aboard any more.’

‘Nonetheless, some of it might have been stolen recently. We should be making every effort to return these goods to their rightful owners. Don’t you agree with me?’

‘On some distant theoretical level, just possibly.’ I continued my search. ‘But there’s no way we’ll ever know who those owners were. I didn’t notice anybody coming forward in the commons. Anyway - what does it matter to you?’

‘It’s called retaining the vestigial trace of a conscience, Tanner.’

‘After that thug nearly killed you?’

‘The principle still applies.’

‘Well - if you think it’ll help you sleep at night - you’re very welcome to leave me alone while I search his belongings. Come to think of it, did I actually ask you to follow me here?’

‘Not as such, no . . .’ His face contorted in an agony of indecision as he glanced through the contents of one opened drawer, pulling out a sock which he studied sadly for some moments. ‘Damn you, Tanner. I hope you’re right about his lack of influence. ’

‘Oh, I don’t think we need worry ourselves about that.’

‘You’re quite certain?’

‘I’ve a reasonable grasp of lowlife, believe me.’

‘Yes, well . . . I suppose you could be right. For the sake of argument.’ Slowly at first, but with increasing enthusiasm, Quirrenbach started trousering Vadim’s booty indiscriminately, wads of Stoner currency, mainly. I reached over and pocketed two bundles of cash before Quirrenbach made it all vanish.

‘Thanks. They’ll do nicely.’

‘I was about to pass some to you.’

‘Of course you were.’ I flicked through the notes. ‘Is this stuff still worth anything?’

‘Yes,’ he said, thoughtfully. ‘In the Canopy, anyway. I’ve no idea what passes for currency in the Mulch, but I doubt that it can hurt, can it?’

I helped myself to some more. ‘Better safe than sorry, that’s my philosophy.’

I continued searching - digging through more of the same junk and jewellery - until I found what looked like an experiential playback device. It was slimmer and sleeker than anything I’d ever seen on Sky’s Edge, cleverly engineered so that in its collapsed form it was no larger than a Bible.

I found a vacant pocket and slipped the unit home, along with a cache of experientials which I assumed might have some value in their own right.

‘This plague we were talking about . . .’ I said.

‘Yes?’

‘I don’t understand how it did so much damage.’

‘That’s because it wasn’t a biological one - I mean, not in the way we’d usually understand such things.’ He paused and stopped what he was doing. ‘Machines, that’s what it went for. Made almost all machines above a certain complexity level stop working, or start working in ways they were never meant to.’

I shrugged. ‘That doesn’t sound that bad.’

‘Not if the machines are merely robots and environmental systems, like the ones in this ship. But this was Yellowstone. Most of the machines were microscopic devices inside human beings, already intimately linked to mind and flesh. What happened to the Glitter Band was just symptomatic of something far more horrific happening on the human scale, in the same way that - say - the lights going out all over Europe in the late fourteenth century was indicative of the arrival of the Black Death.’

‘I’ll need to know more.’

‘Then query the system in your room. Or Vadim’s, for that matter.’

‘Or you could just tell me now.’

He shook his head. ‘No, Tanner. Because I know very little more than you. Remember, we both came in at the same time. On different ships, yes - but we were both crossing interstellar space when this happened. I’ve had little more time to adjust to it than you’ve had.’

Quietly and calmly, I said, ‘Where was it you came from?’

‘Grand Teton.’

His world was another of the original Amerikano colonies, like Yellowstone, Yosemite, Glacier and two or three others I couldn’t remember. They’d all been settled by robots four centuries ago; self-replicating machines carrying the templates necessary to construct living humans upon their arrival. None of those colonies had been successful, all of them failing after one or two subsequent generations. A few rare lineages might still be able to trace themselves back to the original Amerikano settlers, but the majority of people living on those worlds were descended from later colonisation waves, arriving by lighthugger. Most were Demarchist states, like Yellowstone.

Sky’s Edge, of course, was another case entirely. It was the only world that had ever been settled by generation ship.

There were some mistakes you didn’t make twice.

‘I hear Grand Teton’s one of the nicer places to live,’ I said.

‘Yes. And I suppose you’re wondering what brought me here.’

‘No, actually. Not really my business.’

He slowed in his rummaging through Vadim’s loot. I could see that my lack of curiosity was not something to which he was accustomed. I continued my investigations, silently counting the seconds before he broke his silence.

‘I’m an artist,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘Actually, a composer. I’m working on a symphony cycle; my life’s work. That’s what brings me here.’

‘Music?’

‘Yes, music - though that contemptible little word barely encapsulates what I have in mind. My next symphony will be a work inspired by nothing less than Chasm City.’ He smiled. ‘It was going to be a glorious, uplifting piece, celebrating the city in all its Belle Epoque splendour; a composition teeming with vitality and energy. Now, I think, it will have to be a darker piece entirely; Shostakovichian in its solemnity; a work weighed down by the crushing realisation that history’s wheel has finally turned and crushed our mortal dreams to dust. A plague symphony.’

‘And that’s what you’ve come all this way for? To scribble down a few notes?’

‘To scribble down a few notes, yes. And why not? Someone, after all, has to do it.’

‘But it’ll take you decades to get back home.’

‘A fact that has, surprisingly, impinged on my consciousness before you so kindly pointed it out. But my journey here is a mere prelude, occupying a span of time that will become inconsequential when set against the several centuries that I confidently expect to elapse before the work nears completion. I myself will probably age the better part of a century in that time - the equivalent of two or three whole working lives of any of the great composers. I shall be visiting dozens of systems, of course - and adding others to my itinerary as they become significant. There will almost certainly be more wars, more plagues, more dark ages. And times of miracle and wonder, of course. All of which will be grist to the mill of my great work. And when it is polished, and when I am not utterly disgusted and disillusioned with it, I will very probably find myself in my twilight years. I simply won’t have time to keep abreast of the latest longevity techniques, you see; not while I’m pouring my energies into my work. I’ll just have to take whatever’s easily available and hope I live to finish my magnum opus. Then, when I have tidied up the work, and achieved some form of reconciliation between the crude scribblings I have set down now and the undoubtedly masterful and fluid work I will be producing at the end of my life, I will take a ship back to Grand Teton - assuming it still exists - where I will announce the great work’s première. The première itself won’t be for another fifty or so years afterwards, depending on the extent of human space at that time. That will give time for word to reach even the most distant colonies, and for people to begin converging on Grand Teton for the performance. I will sleep while the venue is constructed - I already have something suitably lavish in mind - and an orchestra worthy of the event is assembled, or bred, or cloned - whichever the case may be. And when that fifty years is done, I will rise from slumber, step into the limelight, conduct my work and, in what little time remains to me, bask in a fame the like of which no living composer has ever or will ever know. The names of the great composers will be reduced to mere footnote entries; barely flickering embryo stars set against the gemlike brilliance of my own stellar conflagration. My name will ring down the centuries like a single undying chord.’

There was a long silence before I responded.

‘Well, you’ve got to have something to aim for, I suppose.’

‘I suppose you must think me monstrously vain.’

‘I don’t think the thought ever crossed my mind, Quirrenbach.’ While I was speaking I touched something at the back of one of the drawers. I’d been hoping to locate a weapon of some sort - something with a little more punch than the clockwork gun - but Vadim appeared to have managed without one. Still, I felt I had something. ‘This is interesting.’

‘What have you found?’

I pulled out a matte-black metal box the size of a cigar case, opening it to reveal six scarlet vials tucked into pouches. Set into the same case was something like an ornate steel hypodermic, with a gunlike handle, marked with a delicately painted bas-relief cobra.

‘I don’t know. Any thoughts?’

‘Not exactly, no . . .’ He examined the cache of vials with what looked like genuine curiosity. ‘But I’ll tell you one thing. It doesn’t look legal, whatever it is.’

‘More or less what I was thinking.’

As I reached to take back the cache, Quirrenbach said, ‘Why are you so interested in it?’

I remembered the syringe which had slipped from the pocket of the monk in Amelia’s cave. There was no way to tell for sure, but the substance I had seen in that syringe - admittedly in the dim light of the cave - looked much like the chemical in Vadim’s cache. I remembered, too, what Amelia had told me when I had asked her about the syringe: that it was something the monk should not have had in Idlewild. Some kind of narcotic, then - and perhaps prohibited not just in the Mendicant hospice but across the whole system.

‘I’m assuming this might open some doors for me.’

‘It might open a lot more than that,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘The very gates of hell, for a start. I’ve remembered something. Something I heard up in the parking swarm. Concerning some very nasty substances doing the rounds.’ He nodded at the row of scarlet vials. ‘One of which is something they call Dream Fuel.’

‘And this might be it?’

‘I don’t know, but it’s exactly the kind of thing I would expect our dear friend Vadim to be trading in.’

‘Where would he have got it from?’

‘I didn’t say I was an expert, Tanner. All I know is that it has some unpleasant side-effects and whatever authorities there are in this system don’t exactly encourage its use - or the possession of it, for that matter.’

‘It must have some uses, though.’

‘Yes - but exactly what they do with it, I don’t know. That device is a wedding gun, incidentally.’

He must have seen the blank look on my face.

‘It was a local custom for a husband and wife to exchange, in some fashion, actual neural material cultured from each other’s brains. They used that thing - the wedding gun - to implant the stuff into each other.’

‘They don’t do that anymore?’

‘Not since the plague, I think.’ He looked rueful. ‘Actually, come to think of it, there are lots of things they don’t do since the plague.’

When Quirrenbach had gone with his gains - back to ponder the next instalment in his symphony cycle, I hoped - I crossed over to Vadim’s network console. For the first time since departure I had weight again, as the Strelnikov executed a thrust burn, minutely adjusting its fall towards the Rust Belt. From somewhere else I heard low, saurian moans of structural protest, and couldn’t help wondering if I’d picked the one voyage which would end with the ship’s hull finally giving up the ghost. Presently, however, the groans and creaks subsided into the ship’s normal sonic background and I was able to concentrate on the matter at hand.

The console looked ancient, like something children would have laughed at in a museum. There was a flat screen surrounded by controls embossed with finger-worn icons, above an alphanumeric keyboard. I didn’t know what the state of the art around Yellowstone was, but this wasn’t it even by Sky’s Edge standards.

It would have to do.

I found the key which turned the console on, the screen stammering through a series of warm-up messages and adverts before displaying a complex tree of options. Shipboard data services. Realtime networks - the web of data streams within a light-second or so of the Strelnikov, so that normal conversations were possible. Deep system networks, with typical timelags ranging from seconds to tens of hours, depending on the complexity of the enquiry. There was no explicit possibility to access networks with response times longer than that, which made sense: any enquiry sent out to the system’s Kuiper Belt habitats would have returned a reply long after the sender had left the slowboat at journey’s end.

I entered the option for the deep system networks, waiting a few seconds while the screen busied itself with more advertising material. A tree of sub-menus appeared. News of arriving and departing starships, including an entry for the Orvieto. The Yellowstone system was still a busy interstellar hub, which also made a kind of sense. If the plague had struck in the last decade or so, many ships would have already been on their way here. It would take decades for news of the plague to spread out into the main volume of human-settled space.

I skimmed through the options.

The deep system networks carried comms traffic to and from the habitats in orbit around the system’s gas giants: typically mining stations and outposts for the more reclusive factions. There were Conjoiner nests, Skyjack enclaves and semi-automated military or experimental facilities. I searched in vain for any reference to the plague. Occasionally there was talk of containment procedures, or crisis management, but for the most part it looked as if the plague - or its consequences - had become so fundamental an aspect of life that there was seldom any need to refer to the thing itself.

The local networks told me a little more. Once or twice, at least, I found references to the crisis by name, and learned that they had given it a specific and chilling name: the Melding Plague. But most of the messages assumed total familiarity with the basic facts of the plague itself. There were references to Hermetics, and the Canopy, and the Mulch, and sometimes to something called the Game, but none of these terms were elaborated upon.

I had heard of the Canopy, though. That was where Amelia had said I’d stand a good chance of finding Reivich. It was a district of Chasm City.

But had she told me less than I had imagined?

I put the console into send mode and composed a query concerning the plague; a request for general information for newcomers. I couldn’t believe I was the first to want this information before being plunged into the thick of the Rust Belt, but it was also entirely possible that no one would bother replying to me, or that no kind of automated handling system was functioning now.

I sent my query, then stared at the console for a few seconds. The screen stared back at me, unchanging.

Nothing came.

Disappointed and still no closer to the truth, I went to the pockets of the coat I had taken from Vadim and pulled out the neatly stowed playback kit. The device almost assembled itself, the slim black parts sliding home with the pleasing precision of rifle components. The result was a skeletal black helmet, nubbed with field-generators and input ports, ornamented with luminous green and red cobras. A pair of stereoscopic eyepieces folded down from the helmet’s front, their rims formed from material that automatically conformed to the skin around the eye. A pair of earplugs functioned similarly, and there were even noseplugs for olfactory input.

I hefted the helmet, then placed it on my head.

The helmet gripped my scalp firmly, like a torture vice. The little eyepieces moved into position, glueing themselves around my sockets. Inside each was a high-resolution imaging system which was currently showing exactly the view I’d have seen had I not been wearing the helmet, except for a slight and probably deliberate graininess. To do much better I would have needed neural implants and a more sophisticated playback system, something that could interrogate and adjust brain signals with the finesse of a military trawl.

I opened my briefcase.

Inside, I found the cache of experientials I’d carried from Sky’s Edge, still wrapped in clear plastic. I removed the plastic and examined the six pen-like sticks, but there was nothing written on them to give any clue as to what they contained. Were they simply commodities to be traded, or did the sticks contain messages to me from my pre-amnesiac self?

There was a port in the brow of the helmet into which one inserted the metallic tip of the experiential, so that it stuck out like a thin horn. I took the first of my six and pushed it home.

A menu popped into existence ahead of me, giving options for entering the simulation at various points and with various artistic settings. I accepted the defaults and plunged into the experiential at random, making my choices with hand gestures. The helmet generated a low-level electric field which my body modified, enabling the system to read any large-scale movements.

Vadim’s room greyed out smoothly, a hiss of white-noise in my ears. The noise faded to near-silence, quieter than it had ever been aboard the slowboat. The grey lightened, shapes and colours emerging like phantoms out of fog.

I was in a jungle clearing, shooting enemy soldiers.

I was stripped to the waist, over-muscled, even for a soldier, paint daubed across my chest, with an old model of particle-beam rifle gripped in one hand, while my other hand held a smaller, slug-firing machine-gun. I’d handled similar weapons myself and I knew that it was physically impossible to fire either singlehandedly, let alone held out nearly at arm’s length. Both weapons chugged away as I doused them at an unending stream of enemy soldiers, who seemed perfectly willing to run screaming towards me from the bush, even though any one of them could have picked me off from cover with a single well-aimed shot. I was screaming as well. Maybe it was the effort of having to hold both those guns.

It was laughable, but I didn’t doubt that there’d be a market for something like it. There was a market for that kind of thing on Sky’s Edge, after all - and we already had a real war.

I tried the next one.

This time I was sitting inside a skeletally framed single-seat wheeler, racing it across a mud flat with a dozen or so other wheelers trying to sneak past me on either side. I’d entered this one with the experiential set to interactive, so I was able to steer the wheeler and throttle its turbine up and down. I played it for a few minutes, keeping ahead of the pack, until I badly misjudged the angle of a sandbank and lost control. Another car slammed into mine and there was an instant of painless carnage before I was back at the starting line again, gunning my engine. Difficult to tell how this one would sell. They might lap it up as a unique Sky’s Edge product, or they might find the whole thing irredeemably quaint.

I continued through the remaining four experientials, but the results were just as disappointing. Two of them were fictionalised episodes from my planet’s past: one a melodrama about Sky Haussmann’s life aboard the Santiago - really the last thing I needed - while the other was a love story set during the time of Sky’s imprisonment, trial and execution, but in which Sky was only very a minor background character. The other two experientials were adventures, both of which involved snake-hunting, though whoever had scripted them had only a passing knowledge of hamadryad biology.

I’d expected more: some kind of specific message from my past. Although I remembered a great deal more now than I’d done upon first waking in Idlewild, there were still aspects of my past that were unclear; things that refused to snap into focus. I could have lived with these absences if I’d been stalking Reivich in familiar territory, but even my knowledge of the city ahead of me was inaccurate.

I turned to the cache of experientials I had taken from Vadim. They were all blank except for a tiny silver motif near the top of each. I wasn’t going to learn anything about myself, but I’d at least learn a little more about what passed for entertainment in Chasm City. I slipped one of them in.

It was a mistake.

I was expecting pornography, or mindless violence - something from the extremes of human experience, but still recognisable as such. What I got was so strange that at first it was difficult to articulate what I was experiencing and I began to wonder if there was some compatibility problem between the experientials and the helmet, so that the wrong parts of my brain were being stimulated. But they’d all come from the same source: Vadim’s room.

This was how it was meant to be.

It was dark, dank, squalid, and there was a feeling of terrible, crushing claustrophobia - an emotion so intense that it was like my skull was slowly squeezing my brain. My body was all wrong: elongated and limbless, pale and soft and infinitely vulnerable. I couldn’t guess how that sensation was engendered, unless the device was stimulating some ancient part of the brain which remembered what it was like to ooze or swim rather than walk. And yet I was not actually alone, and nor was the darkness as absolute as it had originally seemed. My body occupied a warm, humid hollow inside a space which had been cored out with labyrinthine black tunnels and chambers. And there were others with me; other pale, elongated presences. I couldn’t see them - they must have been in adjacent chambers - but I could taste their proximity, ingest the souplike chemical flow of their emotions and thoughts. And in some sense they were me as well, detached avatars of myself. They moved and quivered at my bidding, and I sensed what they sensed.

The claustrophobia was total and crushing, but it was also reassuring. Beyond the hard, rocklike volume in which we were caged was an absolute void from which my thoughts flinched. That emptiness was worse than the claustrophobia, and what made it worse still was the fact that it was not truly empty; that the void held terrible, silent, infinitely patient enemies.

Who were coming closer.

I felt a convulsion of fear so absolute that I screamed and removed the helmet. For a moment I floated in Vadim’s cabin, breathing hard, wondering just what I’d experienced. The feeling of immense claustrophobia, combined with even worse agoraphobia, took long seconds to abate, like the after-chime of an awful bell.

My hands trembling - although I was beginning to regain some control - I removed the experiential and examined it more closely, this time paying proper attention to the little motif near the top of the stick.

It looked a lot like a maggot.

I watched our approach to the Rust Belt through the observation window in Vadim’s cabin.

I knew something of what lay ahead now. Shortly after I’d tried the disturbing experiential - while I was still reeling from its effects, in fact - the console had chimed, announcing the arrival of a response to my earlier query. I was surprised; in my experience such things usually happened instantaneously or not at all, and the delay served only to emphasise how disrupted the system’s data networks must have been.

The message, it turned out, was a standard-issue document, rather than a personally composed reply. An automated mechanism must have decided that it would answer most of my questions; an assumption that turned out to be reasonably accurate.

I started reading.

Dear Newcomer,

Welcome to the Epsilon Eridani system.

Despite all that has happened, we hope your stay here will be a pleasant one. For your information we have compiled this note to explain some of the key events in our recent history. It is intended that this information will ease your transition into a culture which may be markedly different from the one you were expecting to find when you embarked at your point of origin. It is important that you realise that others have come before you . . .

The document was long, but I quickly read the thing in its entirety, then reread it carefully, picking out the salient points which might assist me in the hunt for Reivich. I’d already been forewarned about the scale of the plague’s effects, so the document’s revelations were perhaps not as shocking to me as they would have been to someone freshly defrosted. But it was still chilling to see it anatomised in such a coolly detached manner, and it was easy to imagine how unsettling it must have been to someone who had come to Yellowstone in search of riches rather than blood. The Mendicants had clearly elected not to spring this news on their slush puppies too quickly, and doubtless if I’d stayed in Idlewild a little longer they would have begun to break it to me gently. But perhaps the document was right: there were some truths it was best to deal with as quickly as possible, no matter how repugnant that truth might have been.

I wondered how long it would take me to adjust to it, or if I’d be one of the unfortunate few who never quite made the transition.

Perhaps, I thought, they were actually the sane ones.

Through the window the larger Rust Belt habitats had begun to assume definite shapes, rather than just being indistinct orbiting flecks. I tried to imagine what it would have looked like seven years ago, in the last days before the plague.

There’d been ten thousand habitats in the Glitter Band, each as opulent and faceted as a chandelier, each distinguished from its neighbours by some wild architectural flourish that had far less to do with the practicalities of structural design than it had with aesthetics and prestige. They’d circled Yellowstone in low orbit, almost nose-to-tail, each vast and stately construct maintaining polite distance from those ahead and behind it with tiny puffs of correcting thrust. A constant flow of commerce had shuffled between the habitats along narrow traffic lanes, so that from a distance the habitats themselves looked as if they were entwined in tinsel-like filaments of light. Depending on the ever-shifting spectrum of allegiances and feuds, the habitats either communicated with each other via looms of quantum-encrypted laser light, or maintained sullen silences. Such silences were not at all unusual, for there were profound rivalries even amongst the constituents of what was technically the very model of a unified Demarchist society.

Amongst ten thousand habitats, there was every human specialisation imaginable: every expertise, every ideology, every perversion. The Demarchists permitted everything, even experimentation in political models which chafed against their underlying paradigm of absolute non-hierarchical democracy. Provided those experiments remained experiments, they were tolerated; even actively encouraged. Only the development and stockpiling of armaments was forbidden, unless they were to be used artistically. And it was here in the Glitter Band that the system’s most illustrious clan, the Sylveste family, had performed much of the work that had brought them eventual fame. Calvin Sylveste had attempted the first neural downloads since the Transenlightenment in the Band. Dan Sylveste had collated all known information on the Shrouders here; work that eventually led to his own fateful expedition to Lascaille’s Shroud.

But that was the deep past now. History had turned the glory of the Glitter Band into . . . this.

When the Melding Plague had hit, the Glitter Band had stayed intact for far longer than Chasm City, for most of the Band’s habitats already had effective quarantine protocols. Some were so secretive and self-sufficient that no one had entered them in decades anyway.

But they were not, ultimately, immune.

It took only one habitat to fall to the plague. Within days most of the people aboard died, and most of their habitat’s self-replicating systems began to go haywire in ways that seemed nastily purposeful. The habitat’s ecosystem collapsed fatally. Uncontrolled, the habitat drifted out of its orbital slot like a chunk of carved iceberg. Ordinarily the chances of a collision would have been small . . . but the Glitter Band was already congested to within a hairsbreadth of disaster.

The first rule of collisions between two orbital bodies was that they were very rare indeed . . . until one happened. Then the shards of the destroyed bodies would splinter off in different directions, significantly increasing the likelihood of another impact. It would not be such a long wait until the next collision. And when it happened again, the number of shards increased once more . . . such that the next collision was a practical certainty . . .

Within weeks, most of the habitats in the Glitter Band had been fatally holed by collisional debris . . . and even when those impact fragments were not in themselves sufficient to kill all aboard, they also tended to be contaminated by traces of the plague originating from the first habitat to fall. They became orbiting hulks, as dark and dead as driftwood. By the end of the year, barely two hundred habitats had remained intact: principally the oldest and sturdiest structures, sheathed in rock and ice against radiation storms. With batteries of anti-collision lasers emplaced around their skins, they had managed to fend off most of the large chunks.

That was six years ago. In the intervening time, Quirrenbach told me, the Rust Belt had been stabilised, with most of the debris mopped up and conglomerated into hazardous lumps which had been sent spinning into the boiling face of Epsilon Eridani. Now at least the Belt was not growing any more fragmented. The hulks, for the most part, were kept in check by periodic nudges from robot tugs. Only a handful had been successfully repressurised and settled, although there were predictable rumours of all manner of sinister factions squatting furtively amongst the ruins.

This much I had learned from the nets. Seeing the ruins for the first time was something else entirely. Yellowstone was an ochre immensity blocking half the sky, now tangibly a world like the one I’d left, rather than a pale two-dimensional disk against the stars. As the Strelnikov swooped towards the habitat where it would dock, the silhouettes of other, ravaged ones crossed the face of Yellowstone. They were gnarled, gutted, pocked and cratered with the evidence of titanic collisions. I tried to hold in my head the numbers of dead the Rust Belt represented: although many of the habitats had been in the process of being evacuated when they were struck, it couldn’t have been easy to remove a million people at such short notice.

Our habitat was shaped like a fat cigar, spun about its long axis for gravity in the same manner as Idlewild. Sister Amelia had told me that the place where we were headed was called Carousel New Vancouver. It was carapaced in ice, mostly dirty-grey in hue, but occasionally patched with acres of bright new ice to repair what I assumed were recent impact points. It was spinning silently, throwing off a dozen lazy coils of steam from its skin like the arms of a spiral galaxy. A huge spacecraft was attached to the rim, shaped like a manta-ray and with scores of tiny windows around the edges of its wings. But the Strelnikov arced in towards one tip of the cigar, a triad of jaws opening to admit it. We nosed into a chamber walled in a maze of intestinal pipes and fuel tanks. I saw a few other shuttles clamped in parking bays: two sleek atmosphere cutters like bottle-green arrowheads and a couple of vessels which looked like cousins to the slowboat, all blunt angularity and exposed engine components. Spacesuited figures were swarming around all the ships, carrying umbilical lines and repair kits. A few robots were toiling away on hull-repair tasks, but for the most part the work was being done by humans or bio-engineered animals.

I couldn’t help remembering my earlier fears about this system. I’d expected to be entering a culture several centuries ahead of my own in nearly every respect, a peasant stumbling through kaleidoscopic wonders. Instead, I was looking at a scene which could easily have belonged to my own world’s past . . . even something out of the era of the Flotilla’s launch.

We docked with a bump. I gathered my belongings - including the things I had appropriated from Vadim - and set about worming my way upship to the exit.

‘Goodbye, I suppose,’ Quirrenbach said, amongst the general throng of people waiting to filter through into New Vancouver.

‘Yes.’ If he was expecting any other kind of response, he was out of luck.

‘I - um - went back to check on Vadim.’

‘A piece of dirt like that can take care of himself, you know. We probably should have thrown him out the airlock while we had the chance.’ I forced a smile. ‘Still, as he said, he was part of the local colour. I’d hate to deprive anyone of a unique cultural experience.’

‘Are you staying here long? In NV, I mean?’

It took me a moment to realise he was talking about New Vancouver.

‘No.’

‘Taking the first behemoth down to the surface, then?’

‘Very probably.’ I looked over his shoulder to where the crowd was pushing through the exit. Through another window I could see a part of the Strelnikov’s hull plating which had broken loose during the docking sequence and was now being nudged and epoxied back into place.

‘Yes; get down as quickly as possible, that’s my intention as well.’ Quirrenbach patted the briefcase he clutched to his chest like a tabard. ‘The sooner I can get to work on my plague symphony the better, I think.’

‘I’m sure it’ll be a resounding success.’

‘Thanks. And you? If I’m not being too nosy? Any particular plans for when you get down there?’

‘One or two, yes.’

Doubtless he would have kept grilling me - getting nowhere - but there was a release of pressure in the jam of people ahead of us, opening up a little gap through which I inserted myself. In a few moments I was out of Quirrenbach’s conversational range.

Inside, New Vancouver was nothing like Hospice Idlewild. There was no artificial sun, no single air-filled volume. Instead, the entire structure was a densely packed honeycomb of much smaller enclosed spaces, squeezed together like components in an antique radio. I didn’t think there was any hope of Reivich still being in the habitat. There were at least three departures to Chasm City per day, and I was fairly sure he’d have been on the first available flight down.

Still, I stayed vigilant.

Amelia’s estimate had been unerringly accurate: the Stoner funds I had brought with me would just cover my trip to Chasm City. I had already spent half on the Strelnikov; what remained was just enough to pay for the descent. True, I had harvested some money from Vadim, but when I examined the cash properly it only amounted to about as much as the change left from my own funds. His victims, newcomers obviously, had not carried much local cash with them.

I checked the time.

Vadim’s watch had concentric dials for both local twenty-six-hour Yellowstone time and twenty-four-hour system time. I had a couple of hours before my flight down. I planned to kill the time walking around NV, looking for local information sources, but I quickly found that large areas of the habitat were not accessible to anyone who had arrived via anything as lowly as the Strelnikov. People who had come in via high-burn shuttles were segregated from scum like us by armoured glass walls. I found somewhere to sit down and drink a cup of bad coffee (the one universal commodity, it seemed) and watched the two immiscible streams of humanity flow past. The place where I was sitting was a dingy thoroughfare, seats and tables jostling for space with metre-thick industrial pipes which ran from floor to ceiling like hamadryad trees. Smaller pipes branched off the main arteries, curving through the air like rusty intestines. They throbbed unnervingly, as if titanic pressures were only just being contained by thin metal and crumbling rivets. Some effort had been made to gentrify the surroundings by weaving foliage around the pipes, but the attempt had been distinctly halfhearted.

Not everyone shuffling through this area looked poor, but almost everyone looked as if they wished they were elsewhere. I recognised a few faces from the slowboat, and perhaps one or two from Hospice Idlewild, but I had certainly not seen the majority of the people before. I doubted that all of them were from beyond the Epsilon Eridani system; it was just as likely that NV was a gateway for in-system travellers. I even saw some Ultras, strutting around flaunting their chimeric modifications, but there were just as many on the other side of the glass.

I remembered dealing with their kind: Captain Orcagna’s crew aboard the Orvieto; the woman with the hole in her gut who had been sent to meet us. Thinking of the way Reivich had known about our ambush, I wondered if - ultimately - we hadn’t all been betrayed by Orcagna. Perhaps Orcagna had even arranged my revival amnesia, to slow me down in my hunt.

Or perhaps I was just being paranoid.

Beyond the glass, I saw something even stranger than the black-clad, cyborg wraiths who crewed the lighthuggers: things like upright boxes, gliding with sinister grace amongst the crowds. The other people seemed oblivious to the boxes - almost unaware of them, except that they stepped carefully aside as the boxes moved amongst them. I sipped my coffee and noticed that some of the boxes had clumsy mechanical arms attached to their fronts - but most did not - and that almost all of the boxes had dark windows set into their fronts.

‘They’re palanquins, I think.’

I sighed, recognising the voice of Quirrenbach, who was easing himself into the seat next to me.

‘Good. Finished your symphony yet?’

He did a good job of pretending not to hear me. ‘I heard about them, those palanquins. The people inside them are called hermetics. They’re the ones who’ve still got implants and don’t want to get rid of them. The boxes are like little travelling microcosms. Do you think it’s really that dangerous still?’

I put down my coffee cup testily. ‘What would I know?’

‘Sorry, Tanner . . . just trying to make conversation.’ He glared at the vacant seats around me. ‘It’s not like you were overburdened with companionship, is it?’

‘Maybe I wasn’t desperate for any.’

‘Oh, come on.’ He snapped his fingers, bringing the grimy, coffee-dispensing servitor over to our table. ‘We’re both in this together, Tanner. I promise I won’t follow you around once we get to Chasm City, but until then, would it really hurt to be a little civil to me? You never know, I might even be able to help you. I may not know much about this place, but I do appear to know fractionally more than you.’

‘Fractionally’s the word.’

He got himself a coffee from the machine and offered me a refill. I declined, but with what I hoped was grudging politeness.

‘God, this is foul,’ he said, after a trial sip.

‘At least we’re in agreement on something.’ I made a stab at humour. ‘I think I know what’s in those pipes now, anyway.’

‘Those pipes?’ Quirrenbach looked around us. ‘Oh, I see. No; those are steam pipes, Tanner. Very important, too.’

‘Steam?’

‘They use their own ice to keep NV from over-heating. Someone on the Strelnikov told me: they pump the ice down from the outer skin as kind of slush, then run it all around the habitat, through all the gaps between the main habitation areas - we’re in one of those gaps now - and then the slush soaks up all the excess heat and gradually melts and then boils, until you’ve got pipes full of superheated steam. Then they blast the steam back into space.’

I thought of the geysers I had seen on the surface of NV on the approach.

‘That’s pretty wasteful.’

‘They didn’t always use ice. They used to have huge radiators, like moths’ wings, a hundred kilometres across. But they lost them when the Glitter Band broke up. Bringing in the ice was an emergency measure. Now they’ve got to have a steady supply or this whole habitat becomes one big meat oven. They get it from Marco’s Eye, the moon. There’re craters near the poles in perpetual shadow. They could’ve used methane ice from Yellowstone, too, but there’s no way to get it here cheaply enough.’

‘You know a lot.’

He beamed, patting the briefcase in his lap. ‘Details, Tanner. Details. You can’t write a symphony about a place unless you know it intimately. I’ve already got plans for my first movement, you know. Very sombre at first, desolate woodwind, shading into something with stronger rhythmic impetus.’ He sketched a finger through the air as if tracing the topography of an invisible landscape. ‘Adagio - allegro energico. That’ll be the destruction of the Glitter Band. You know, I almost think it deserves a whole symphony in its own right . . . what do you think?’

‘I don’t know, Quirrenbach. Music’s not really my forte.’

‘You’re an educated man though, aren’t you? You speak with economy, but there’s no little thought behind your words. Who was it who said that a wise man speaks when he has something to say, but a fool speaks because he must?’

‘I don’t know, but he probably wasn’t a great conversationalist.’

I looked at my watch - it felt like my own now - wishing the green gems would instantly whirl into the relative positions which would signify departure time for the surface. They hadn’t visibly shifted since the last time I looked.

‘What did you used to do on Sky’s Edge, Tanner?’

‘I was a soldier.’

‘Ah, but that’s nothing really unusual, is it?’

Out of boredom - and the knowledge that nothing would be lost by doing so - I elaborated upon my answer. ‘The war worked its way into our lives. It was nothing you could hide from. Even where I was born.’

‘Which was?’

‘Nueva Iquique. It was a sleepy coastal town a long way from the main centres of battle. But everyone knew someone who had been killed by the other side. Everyone had some theoretical reason for hating them.’

‘Did you hate the enemy?’

‘Not really. The propaganda was designed to make you hate them . . . but if you stopped and thought about it, it was obvious they would be telling their own people much the same lies about us. Of course, some of it was probably true. Equally, one didn’t need much imagination to suspect that we’d committed some atrocities of our own.’

‘Did the war really go all the way back to what happened on the Flotilla?’

‘Ultimately, yes.’

‘Then it was less about ideology than territory, isn’t that true?’

‘I don’t know, or care. It all happened a long time ago, Quirrenbach. ’

‘Do you know much about Sky Haussmann? I hear that there are people on your planet who still worship him.’

‘I know a thing or two about Sky Haussmann, yes.’

Quirrenbach looked interested. I could almost hear the mental note-taking for a new symphony. ‘Part of your common cultural upbringing, you mean?’

‘Not entirely, no.’ Knowing that I would lose nothing by showing him, I allowed Quirrenbach to see the wound in the centre of my palm. ‘It’s a mark. It means the Church of Sky got to me. They infected me with an indoctrinal virus. It makes me dream about Sky Haussmann even when I don’t particularly want to. I didn’t ask for it and it’ll take a while to work its way out of my system, but until then I have to live with the bastard. I get a dose of Sky every time I close my eyes.’

‘That’s awful,’ he said, doing a poor job of not sounding fascinated. ‘But I presume once you’re awake, you’re reasonably . . .’

‘Sane? Yes, totally.’

‘I want to know more about him,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘You don’t mind talking, do you?’

Near us, one of the elephantine pipes began leaking steam in a shrill, scalding exhalation.

‘I don’t think we’ll be together much longer.’

He looked crestfallen. ‘Really?’

‘I’m sorry, Quirrenbach . . . I work best alone, you know.’ I groped for a way to make my rejection sound less negative. ‘And you’ll need time alone, too, to work on your symphonies . . .’

‘Yes, yes - later. But for now? There’s a lot we have to deal with, Tanner. I’m still worried by the plague. Do you really think it’s risky here?’

‘Well, they say there are still traces of it around. Do you have implants, Quirrenbach?’ He looked blank, so I continued, ‘Sister Amelia - the woman who looked after me in the Hospice - told me that they sometimes removed implants from immigrants, but I didn’t understand what she meant at the time.’

‘Damn,’ he said. ‘I should have had them removed in the parking swarm, I knew it. But I hesitated - didn’t like the looks of anyone who was prepared to do it. And now I’ll have to find some blood-spattered butcher in Chasm City to do it.’

‘I’m sure there’ll be plenty of people willing to help with that. I’d need to speak to the same people myself, as it happens.’

The stocky little man scratched at the stubble across his scalp.

‘Oh, you too? Then it really does make sense for us to travel together, doesn’t it.’

I was about to answer - to try and wheedle my way out of his company - when an arm locked itself around my throat.

I was pulled backwards, out of my seat, hitting the ground painfully. The breath exited my lungs like a flock of startled birds. I floundered on the edge of consciousness, too winded to move, although every instinct screamed that moving might be my best course of action.

But Vadim was already leaning over me, his knee pressed across my ribcage.

‘You didn’t expect to see Vadim again, did you Meera-Bell? I think you are sorry you did not kill Vadim now.’

‘I haven’t . . .’ I tried to complete the sentence, but there was no air left in my lungs. Vadim examined his fingernails, doing a good impression of boredom. My peripheral vision was turning dark, but I could see Quirrenbach standing to one side with his arms pinned behind him, another figure holding him hostage. Beyond that, an indifferent blur of passers-by. No one was paying the slightest attention to Vadim’s ambush.

He released the pressure on me. I caught my breath.

‘You have not what?’ Vadim said. ‘Go on, say it. I am all ears.’

‘You owe me a debt of gratitude that I didn’t kill you, Vadim. And you know it, too. But scum like you aren’t worth the bother.’

He feigned a smile and reapplied the weight on my chest. I was beginning to have my doubts about Vadim. Now that I saw he had an accomplice - the man pinning down Quirrenbach - his story about a wider network of associates began to look a little more likely.

‘Scum, is it? I see you were not above cleaning my watch, nasty little thief that you are.’ He fiddled with the strap on my wrist, wriggling the watch off with a grin of triumph. Vadim held it up to one of his eyes, for all the world like a horologist studying some fabulous movement. ‘No scratches, I hope . . .’

‘You’re welcome to it. It wasn’t really me.’

Vadim slipped the watch back over his hand, turning his wrist this way and that to inspect his reclaimed prize. ‘Good. Anything else you would like to declare?’

‘Something, yes.’

Because I had not tried to push him off me with my other arm, he had ignored it completely. I had not even removed my hand from the pocket in which I had slipped it as I fell back from the chair. Vadim might have contacts, but he was still no more of a professional than when we had tussled on the slowboat.

Now I removed my arm. The movement was quick, fluid, like a striking hamadryad. It was nothing Vadim was prepared for.

In my fist I held one of his black experientials. He played his part perfectly - his gaze shifting minutely as my arm came up, just enough to bring his nearest eye into my reach. The eye was opened in surprise; an easy target, almost as if Vadim was complicit in what I was about to do to him.

I pushed the experiential into his eye.

I remembered wondering if his one good eye had in fact been glass, but as the experiential’s white haft sunk in, I saw that it had only seemed glassy.

Vadim fell back off me and started screaming, blood jetting from his eye like a dying red sliver of sunset. He was flailing around insanely, not wanting to reach up and confront the foreign thing parked in his eye-socket.

‘Shit!’ the other man said, while I scrambled to my feet. Quirrenbach wrestled with him for an instant, and then he was free, and running.

Moaning, Vadim was bent double over our table. The other man was holding him, whispering frantically in his ear. He appeared to be saying it was time the both of them left.

I had a message of my own for him.

‘I know it hurts like hell, but there’s something you need to know, Vadim. I could have driven that thing straight into your brain. It wouldn’t have been any harder for me. You know what that means, don’t you?’

Eyeless now, his face a mask of blood, he still managed to turn towards me.

‘. . . what?’

‘It means that’s another one you owe me, Vadim.’

Then I carefully removed the watch from his wrist and replaced it on my own.

THIRTEEN

If there was any kind of law enforcement operating in New Vancouver’s plumbing-filled interstices, it was subtle to the point of invisibility. Vadim and his accomplice stumbled away from the scene unquestioned. I lingered, almost honour-bound to explain myself - but nothing happened. The table where Quirrenbach and I had been sipping coffee only minutes earlier was in a deplorable state now, but what was I supposed to do? Leave a tip for the cleaning servitor that would doubtless amble round shortly, so dim-witted that it would probably clean up the pools of blood, aqueous and vitreous humours with the same mindless efficiency as it tackled the coffee stains?

No one stopped me leaving.

I slipped into a washroom to slap some cold water on my face and clean the blood from my fist. Inside, I forced slow and deliberate calm. The room was empty, furnished with a long row of lavatories, the doors of which were marked with complicated diagrams to show how they were meant to be used.

I poked and prodded my chest until I’d satisfied myself that nothing was more than bruised, then completed the rest of my walk to the departure area. The behemoth - the manta-shaped spacecraft - was attached like a lamprey to the rotating skin of the habitat. Up close, the thing looked a lot less smooth and aerodynamic than it had from a distance. The hull was pitted and scarred, with streaks of sooty black discoloration.

Two streams of humanity were being fed aboard the ship from opposing sides. My stream was a shuffling, dun-coloured slurry of despondency: people trudging down the spiralling access tunnel as if to the gallows. The other stream looked only slightly more enthusiastic, but through the transparent connecting tube I saw people attended by servitors, bizarrely enhanced pets, even people shaped towards animal forms themselves. The palanquins of hermetics glided amongst them: dark, upright boxes like metronomes.

There was a commotion behind me; someone pushing past.

‘Tanner!’ he said, in a hoarse stage-whisper. ‘You made it too! When you disappeared, I was worried that more of Vadim’s thugs had found you!’

‘He’s pushing in,’ I heard someone mutter behind me. ‘Did you see that? I’ve a good mind to . . .’

I turned back, locking eyes with the person I instinctively knew had been speaking. ‘He’s with me. If you’ve got a problem with it, you deal with me. Otherwise, shut up and stand in line.’

Quirrenbach slipped in to the line next to me. ‘Thanks . . .’

‘All right. Just keep your voice down, and don’t mention Vadim again.’

‘So you think he really might have friends all over the place?’

‘I don’t know. But I could do without any kind of trouble for a while.’

‘I can imagine, especially after . . .’ He blanched. ‘I don’t even want to think about what happened back there.’

‘Then don’t. With any luck, you’ll never have to.’

The line pushed forward, completing the final spiral into the top of the behemoth. Inside it was vast and tastefully lit, like the lobby of a particularly grand hotel. The walkway made several more loops before it reached the floor. People were wandering around with drinks in their hands, their luggage scooting ahead of them or being handled by monkeys. Sloping windows arced away in either direction, roughly defining the edge of one of the manta’s wings. The interior of the behemoth must have been almost completely hollow, but I couldn’t see more than a tenth of it from where I was standing.

Scattered here and there were clusters of seats - sometimes grouped for conversation, sometimes surrounding a dribbling fountain or a clump of exotic foliage. Now and then the rectilinear shape of a palanquin slid across the floor like a chess piece.

I moved towards an unoccupied pair of seats overlooking one of the window panels. I was tired enough to want to doze quietly, but I didn’t dare close my eyes. What if there hadn’t been an earlier behemoth departure and Reivich was somewhere inside the spacecraft even now?

‘Preoccupied, Tanner?’ said Quirrenbach, sliding into the seat next to mine. ‘You have that look about you.’

‘Are you sure this is the best place to get a good view?’

‘Excellent point, Tanner; excellent point. But if I’m not sitting next to you, how am I going to hear about Sky?’ He began to fiddle with his briefcase. ‘Now there’s plenty of time for you to tell me all the rest.’

‘You nearly get killed, and all you can think about is that mad-man? ’

‘You don’t understand. I’m thinking now - what about a symphony for Sky?’ Then he pointed a finger at me, like a gun. ‘No. Not a symphony: a mass; a vast choral work, epic in its scope . . . studiedly archaic in structure . . . consecutive fifths and false relations, with a brooding Sanctus . . . a threnody for lost innocence; an anthem to the crime and the glory of Schuyler Haussmann . . .’

‘There isn’t any glory, Quirrenbach. Only crime.’

‘I won’t know until you tell me the rest, will I?’

There was a series of thumps and shudders as the behemoth was unplugged from its connecting point on the habitat. Through the windows I could see the habitat falling away very quickly, accompanied by a moment of dizziness. But almost before the moment had begun to register physically, the habitat came swooping past again, its skin rushing by the great windows. Then only space. I looked around, but people were still walking unaffected around the lobby.

‘Shouldn’t we be in free-fall?’

‘Not in a behemoth,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘The instant she detached from NV, she fell away on a tangent to the habitat’s surface, like a sling-shot. But that only lasted for an instant before she ramped up her thrusters to one-gee. Then she had to curve slightly to avoid ramming into the habitat on the way past. That’s the only really tricky part of the journey, I understand - the only time where there’s really any likelihood of your drinks going for a ride. But the pilot seemed to know what it was doing.’

‘It?’

‘They use genetically engineered cetaceans to fly these things, I think. Whales or porpoises, wired permanently into the behemoth’s nervous system. But don’t worry. They’ve never killed anyone. It’ll feel as smooth as this most of the way down. She just lowers herself down into the atmosphere, very gently and slowly. A behemoth’s like a huge rigid airship, once it gets into any kind of air density. By the time she gets near the surface, she’s got so much positive buoyancy that she actually has to use her thrusters to hold herself down. It’s a lot like swimming, I think.’ Quirrenbach clicked his fingers at a servitor which was passing. ‘Drinks, I think. What can I offer you, Tanner?’

I looked out the window: Yellowstone’s horizon was rising vertically, so that the planet looked like a sheer yellow wall.

‘I don’t know. What do they drink around here?’

Yellowstone’s horizon tilted slowly back towards horizontal as the behemoth cancelled out the orbital velocity it had matched with the carousel. The process was smooth and uneventful, but it must have been planned meticulously so that when we finally came to a halt relative to the planet we were hovering precisely over Chasm City, rather than thousands of kilometres away.

By then, although we were thousands of kilometres above the surface, Yellowstone’s gravity was still almost as strong as it would have been on the ground. We might as well have been sitting atop a very tall mountain; one that protruded beyond the atmosphere. Slowly, however - with the unhurried calm which had characterised the whole journey so far - the behemoth began to descend.

Quirrenbach and I watched the view in silence.

Yellowstone was a heavier sibling to Sol’s Titan; a fully-fledged world rather than a moon. Chaotic and poisonous chemistries of nitrogen, methane and ammonia produced an atmosphere daubed with every imaginable shade of yellow; ochre, orange, tan, whorled into beautiful cyclonic spirals, curlicued and filigreed as if by the most delicate brushwork. Over most of its surface Yellowstone was exquisitely cold, lashed by ferocious winds, flash floods and electrical storms. The planet’s orbit around Epsilon Eridani had been disturbed in the distant past by a close encounter with Tangerine Dream, the system’s massive gas giant, and even though that event must have taken place hundreds of millions years ago, Yellowstone’s crust was still relaxing from the tectonic stress of the encounter, bleeding energy back to the surface. There was some speculation that Marco’s Eye - the planet’s solitary moon - had even been captured from the gas giant; a history that would explain the odd cratering on one side of the moon.

Yellowstone was not a hospitable place, but humans had come nonetheless. I tried to imagine what it must have been like at the height of the Belle Epoque; descending into Yellowstone’s atmosphere and knowing that beneath those golden cloud layers lay cities as fabulous as dream, Chasm City the mightiest of them all. The glory had lasted more than two hundred years . . . and even in its terminal years, there had been nothing to suggest it was not capable of lasting centuries more. There’d been no decadent decline; no failure of nerve. But then the plague had come. All those hues of yellow became hues of sickness; hues of vomit and bile and infection; the world’s febrile skies masking the diseased cities strewn across its surface like chancres.

Still, I thought, sipping the drink Quirrenbach had bought me, it had been good while it lasted.

The behemoth didn’t cut its way into the atmosphere; it submerged itself, descending so slowly that there was barely any friction on its hull. The sky above stopped being pure black and began to assume faint hints of purple and then ochre. Now and then our weight fluctuated - presumably as the behemoth hit a pressure cell which it couldn’t quite squeeze past - but never by more than ten or fifteen per cent.

‘It’s still beautiful,’ he said. ‘Don’t you think?’

He was right. We could see the surface occasionally now, when some chaotic squall or shift in the underlying atmospheric chemistry opened a temporary rent in the yellow cloud layers. Shimmering lakes of frozen ammonia; psychotic badlands of wind-carved geology; broken spires and mile-high arches like the half-buried bones of titanic animals. There were forms of single-celled organism down there, I knew - staining the surface in great, lustrous purple and emerald monolayers or veining deep rock strata - but they existed in such glacial time that it was hard to think of them as living at all. Here and there were small domed outposts, but nothing one would think of as cities. Yellowstone had only a handful of settlements even a tenth the size of Chasm City now; nothing equalling it. Even the second largest city, Ferrisville, was a township compared to the capital.

‘Nice place to visit,’ I said, not needing to complete the old saying.

‘Yes . . . you’re probably right,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘Once I’ve soaked up enough of the ambience to fuel my composition, and earned enough to pay for a hop out of here . . . I doubt very much that I will linger.’

‘How are you going to make money?’

‘There’s always work for composers. All you need to do is find some rich benefactor who fancies sponsoring a great work of art. They feel like they’re achieving some small measure of immortality themselves.’

‘And what if they’re already immortal, or postmortal, or whatever it is they call themselves?’

‘Even the postmortal can’t be certain they aren’t going to die at some point, so the instinct to leave a dent on history is still strong. Besides which, there are many people in Chasm City who used to be postmortal, but who now have to deal with the imminent prospect of death, the way some of us always have.’

‘My heart bleeds.’

‘Quite . . . well, let us just say that for a good many people death is now back on the agenda in a way it hasn’t been for several centuries.’

‘Even so, what if there aren’t any rich benefactors amongst them?’

‘Oh, there are. You’ve seen those palanquins. There are still rich people in Chasm City, even though there isn’t much of what you’d call an economic infrastructure. But you can be sure there are pockets of wealth and influence, and I’m willing to wager that a few people are wealthier and more influential than they were before.’

‘That’s always the way with disasters,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘They’re never bad news for everyone. Something nasty always rises to the top.’

As we descended further I thought about cover stories and camouflage. I hadn’t given much thought to either, but - weapons and logistics aside - that was the way I usually operated, preferring to adapt to my surroundings as I found them, rather than to plan things in advance. But what about Reivich? He couldn’t have known about the plague, which meant that any plans he’d formulated would have been in disarray as soon as he learned what had happened. But there was a vital difference: Reivich was an aristocrat, and they had webs of influence which reached between worlds, often based on familial ties which reached back centuries. It was possible - likely, even - that Reivich had connections amongst Chasm City’s élite.

Those connections would have been useful to him even if he hadn’t managed to contact them before his arrival. But they’d have been even more useful if he’d been able to signal them while he was on his way here, forewarning them. A lighthugger moved at nearly the speed of light, but it had to speed up and slow down at either end of its journey. A radio signal from Sky’s Edge - sent just before the Orvieto’s departure - would have reached Yellowstone a year or two in advance of the ship itself, giving his allies that much time to prepare for his arrival.

Or perhaps he had no allies. Or they existed, but the message had never got through, lost in the confusion that was the system’s communications net and condemned to bounce endlessly between malfunctioning network nodes. Or perhaps there just hadn’t been time to arrange for a message to be sent at all, or it hadn’t crossed his mind.

I’d have liked to have drawn comfort from any of those possibilities, but the one thing I never counted on was having luck on my side.

It was generally simpler that way.

I looked out the window again, seeing Chasm City for the first time as the clouds parted, and thought: he’s down there, somewhere . . . waiting and knowing. But even then the city was too large to take in, and I felt a crushing sense of the enormity of the task that lay ahead of me. Give up now, I thought; it’s impossible. You’ll never find him.

But then I remembered Gitta.

The city nestled within a wide, jagged crater wall, sixty kilometres from side to side, and nearly two kilometres high at its tallest point. When the first explorers arrived here, they had sought shelter from Yellowstone’s winds within the crater, building flimsy, air-filled structures that would have survived five minutes in the true badlands. But they’d also been lured by the chasm itself: the deep, sheer-sided, mist-enshrouded gully at the geometric centre of the crater.

The chasm belched perpetual warm gas, one of the outlets for the tectonic energy pumped into the core during the encounter with the gas giant. The gas was still poisonous, but much richer in free oxygen, water vapour and other trace gases than any comparable outgassing anywhere on Yellowstone’s surface. The gas still needed to be filtered through machinery before it could be breathed, but that process was much simpler than it would have been elsewhere, and the scalding heat could be used to drive immense steam turbines, supplying as much energy as any burgeoning colony could use. The city had sprawled across the entire level surface of the crater, surrounding the chasm at its heart and spilling some way into its depths. Structures were perched on perilous ledges hundreds of metres below the chasm’s lip, connected by elevators and walkways.

Most of the city, however, lay under a vast toroidal dome, encircling the chasm. Quirrenbach told me the locals called it the Mosquito Net. Technically, it was actually eighteen individual domes, but because they were merged it was hard to tell where one ended and another began. The surface hadn’t been cleaned in seven years and was now stained in filthy, near-opaque shades of brown and yellow. It was largely accidental that some areas of the dome remained clean enough to reveal the city beneath them. From the behemoth, it looked almost normal: a phenomenal mass of immensely tall buildings compressed into festering urban density, like a glimpse into the innards of a fantastically complex machine. But there was something queasily wrong about those buildings; something sick about their shapes, contorted into forms no sane architect would have chosen. Above ground, they branched and rebranched, merging into a single bronchial mass. Except for a sprinkling of lights at their upper and lower extremities - strewn through the bronchial mass like lanterns - the buildings were dark and dead-looking.

‘Well, you know what this means,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘They weren’t kidding. It wasn’t a hoax.’

‘No,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘They most certainly weren’t. I also foolishly allowed myself to entertain that possibility; thinking that even after what had become of the Rust Belt, even after the evidence I had seen with my own eyes, the city itself might be intact, a reclusive hermit hoarding its riches away from the curious.’

‘But there’s still a city,’ I said. ‘There are still people down there; still some kind of society.’

‘Just not quite the one we were expecting.’

We skimmed low over the dome. The structure was a sagging geodesic drapery of latticed metal and structural diamond stretching for kilometres, as far into the brown caul of the atmosphere as it was possible to see. Tiny teams of suited repair workers were dotted across the dome like ants, their labours revealed by the intermittent sparks of welding torches. Here and there I saw gouts of grey vapour streaming from cracks in the dome, internal air freezing as it hit Yellowstone’s atmosphere, high above the crater’s thermal trap. The buildings below reached almost to the underside of the dome itself, groping up like arthritic fingers. Black strands stretched between those painfully swollen and crooked digits; for all the world like the last tracery of gloves which had rotted almost away. Lights were clumped near the tips of those fingers, reaching in long meandering filaments along the thickest webs which bridged them. Now that we were closer I saw that there was a finer tracery altogether, the buildings enveloped in a convoluted tangle of fine dark filaments as if delirious spiders had tried to fashion webs between them. What they had produced was an incoherent mass of dangling threads, lights moving through it along drunken trajectories.

I remembered what the welcome message aboard the Strelnikov had told me about the Melding Plague. The transformations had been extraordinarily rapid - so rapid, in fact, that the shifting buildings had killed a great many people in ways far cruder than the plague itself would have done. The buildings had been engineered to repair themselves and reshape themselves according to architectural whims imposed by democratic will - the populace having only to wish a building to alter its shape in sufficient numbers for the building to obey - but the changes wrought by the plague had been uncontrolled and sudden, more like a series of abrupt seismic shifts. That was the hidden danger of a city so Utopian in its fluidity that it could be reshaped time and again, frozen and melted and refrozen like an ice-sculpture. No one had told the city that there were people living within it, who might be crushed once it began to shape itself. Many of the dead were still down there, entombed in the monstrous structures which now filled the city.

Then Chasm City was no longer beneath us, but the toothed edge of the crater wall; the behemoth slicing expertly through a notch in the rim which looked only just wide enough to accommodate it.

Ahead I could see a huddle of armoured structures near one edge of a butterscotch-coloured lake. The behemoth lowered itself towards the lake, the scream of its thrusters audible now as it fought to hold itself at this altitude against its natural tendency to float upwards.

‘Disembarkation time,’ Quirrenbach said. He got up from his seat, indicating a general flow of people across the lobby.

‘Where are they all going?’

‘To the drop capsules.’

I followed him across the lobby, where a dozen sets of spiral stairs led to the disembarkation level, a whole deck below. People were waiting by glass airlocks to board teardrop-shaped capsules, dozens of them which were slowly being pushed forward along guideways. At the front, the capsules slid down a short ramp which was jutting from the behemoth’s belly, before falling the rest of the distance - two or three hundred metres - and splashing into the lake.

‘You mean this thing doesn’t actually land?’

‘Good heavens, no.’ Quirrenbach smiled at me. ‘They wouldn’t risk landing. Not these days.’

Our drop capsule slid from the behemoth’s belly. There were four of us in it: Quirrenbach, myself and two other passengers. The other two were engaged in an animated conversation about a local celebrity called Voronoff, but they spoke Norte with such a strong local accent that I could only follow about one word in three. They were completely unfazed by the experience of dropping from the behemoth; even when we plunged deep into the lake and appeared in some danger of not bobbing to the surface. But then we did, and because the drop capsule’s skin was glassy, I could see other capsules bobbing around us.

Two giant machines strode across the lake to receive us. They were tripods, rising high above us on skeletal, pistonned mechanical legs. With cranelike appendages they began to collect the floating capsules and deposit each in a collecting net stowed beneath the body of each tripod. I could see a driver perched at the top of each machine, tiny inside a pressurised cabin, working levers furiously.

The machines walked to the lake’s edge and emptied their catches onto a moving belt which fed into one of the buildings I’d seen from the behemoth.

Inside, we were passed into a pressurised reception chamber where the pods were removed from the belt and opened by bored-looking workers. Empty pods were shuttling around to an embarkation area similar to the one aboard the behemoth, where passengers waited with luggage. I presumed they’d be carried out to the middle of the lake by the tripods, which would then loft each pod high enough up for the behemoth to grab it.

Quirrenbach and I left our pod and followed the flow of passengers from the reception chamber through a warren of cold, dim tunnels. The air tasted stale, as if each breath had already been through a few lungs before it reached my own. But it was breathable, and the gravity not noticeably heavier than in the Rust Belt habitat.

‘I don’t know quite what I was expecting,’ I said. ‘But this wasn’t it. No welcoming signs; no visible security; nothing. It makes me wonder what the immigration and customs section will be like.’

‘You don’t have to wonder,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘You’ve just left it.’

I thought about the diamond gun I’d given Amelia, secure in the knowledge that there was no way I would be able to take it with me to Chasm City.

‘That was it?’

‘Think about it. You’d find it exceedingly difficult to bring anything into Chasm City which wasn’t already there. There’s no point checking for weapons - they’ve got enough of them already, so what difference would one more make? They’d be far more likely to confiscate whatever you had and offer you part-exchange on an upgrade. And there’s no point screening for diseases. Too complicated, and you’re far more likely to catch something than bring something into the city. A few nice foreign germs might actually do us some good.’

‘Us?’

‘Them. Slip of the tongue.’

We passed into a well-lit area with wide windows overlooking the lake. The behemoth was being loaded with capsules, the dorsal surface of the manta-like machine still bright with the thrusters it had to burn to hold this position. Each pod was sterilised by being passed through a ring of purple flame before being accepted into the behemoth’s belly. Maybe the city didn’t care what came into it, but the outside universe certainly seemed to care what left it.

‘I suppose you have some idea how we get to the city from here?’

‘There’s really only one way, I gather, and that’s the Chasm City Zephyr.’

Quirrenbach and I brushed past a palanquin, moving slowly down the next connecting tunnel. The upright box was patterned in bas-relief black, showing scenes from the city’s vainglorious past. I risked a glance back as we overtook the slow-moving machine and my gaze met the fearful eyes of the hermetic sitting within: face pale behind thick green glass.

There were walking servitors carrying luggage, but there was something primitive about them. They were not sleek intelligence machines, but clunking, error-prone robots with about as much sentience as a dog. There were no genuinely clever machines left now, outside of the orbital enclaves where such things were still possible. But even the crude servitors that remained were obviously valued: signs of residual wealth.

And then there were the wealthy themselves, those travelling without the sanctuary of palanquins. I presumed none of these people had implants of any great complexity; certainly nothing that might be susceptible to plague spore. They moved nervously, in hurried packs, surrounding themselves with servitors.

Ahead the tunnel widened into an underground cavern, dimly lit by hundreds of flickering lamps burning in sconces. There was a steady warm breeze blowing through it, carrying a stench of machine oil.

And something enormous and bestial waited in the cavern.

It rode four sets of double rails arranged around it at intervals of ninety degrees: one set below the machine, one above and one on either side. The rails themselves were supported by a framework of skeletal braces, though at either end of the cavern they vanished into circular tunnels where they were anchored to the walls themselves. I couldn’t help but think of the trains in the Santiago which had featured in one of Sky’s dreams, braced within a similar set of rails - even though those rails had only been guidance ways for induction fields.

This wasn’t like that.

The train itself was constructed with a four-way symmetry. At the centre was a cylindrical core tipped with a bullet-shaped prow and a single Cyclopean headlight. Jutting from this core were four separate double rows of enormous iron wheels, each of which contained twelve axles and was locked onto one of the pairs of rail lines. Three pairs of huge cylinders were interspersed along each set of twelve main wheels, each connected to four sets of wheels by a bewildering arrangement of gleaming pistons and thigh-thick greased articulated cranks. A mass of pipe-runs snaked all around the machine; whatever symmetry or elegance of design it might have had was ruined by what appeared to be randomly placed exhaust outlets, all of which were belching steam up towards the cavern’s ceiling. The machine hissed like a dragon whose patience was wearing fatally thin. It seemed worryingly alive.

Behind was a string of passenger cars built around the same four-fold symmetry, engaging with the same rails.

‘That’s the . . . ?’

‘. . . Chasm City Zephyr,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘Quite a beast, isn’t she?’

‘You’re telling me that thing actually goes somewhere?’

‘It wouldn’t make much sense if it didn’t.’ I gave him a look so he continued, ‘I heard that they used to have magnetic levitation trains running into Chasm City and out to the other colonies. They had vacuum tunnels for them. But they must have stopped working properly after the plague.’

‘And they thought replacing them with this was a good idea?’

‘They didn’t have much choice. I don’t think anyone needs to get anywhere very quickly nowadays, so it doesn’t matter that the trains can’t run at the supersonic speeds they used to attain. A couple of hundred kilometres per hour is more than sufficient, even for journeys out to the other settlements.’

Quirrenbach started walking towards the back of the train where ramps led up to the passenger cars.

‘Why steam?’

‘Because there aren’t any fossil fuels on Yellowstone. Some nuclear generators still work, but, by and large, the chasm itself is about the only useful energy source around here. That’s why a lot of the city runs on steam pressure these days.’

‘I still don’t buy it, Quirrenbach. You don’t jump back six hundred years just because you can’t use nanotechnology any more.’

‘Maybe you do. After the plague hit, it affected a lot more than you’d think. Almost all manufacturing had been done by nano for centuries. Materials production; shaping - it all suddenly got a lot cruder. Even things which didn’t use nano themselves had been built by nano; designed with incredibly fine tolerances. None of that stuff could be duplicated any more. It wasn’t just a question of making do with things which were slightly less sophisticated. They had to go right back before they reached any kind of plateau from which they could begin rebuilding. That meant working with crudely forged metals and metalworking techniques. And remember that a lot of the data relating to these things had been lost as well. They were fumbling around in the blind. It was like someone from the twenty-first century trying to work out how to make a mediaeval sword without knowing anything about metallurgy. Knowing that something was primitive didn’t necessarily mean it was any easier to rediscover.’

Quirrenbach paused to catch his breath, standing beneath a clattering destination board. It showed departures to Chasm City, Ferrisville, Loreanville, New Europa and beyond, but only about one train a day was leaving to anywhere other than Chasm City.

‘So they did the best they could,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘Some technology had survived the plague, of course. That’s why you’ll still see relics, even here - servitors, vehicles - but they tend to be owned by the rich. They’ve got all the nuclear generators, and the few antimatter power-plants left in the city. Down in the Mulch it’ll be a different story, I think. It’ll be dangerous, too.’

While he talked I looked at the destination board. It would have made my job a lot easier if Reivich had taken a train to one of the smaller settlements, where he would have been both conspicuous and trapped, but I thought the chances were good that he’d have taken the first train to Chasm City.

Quirrenbach and I paid our fares and boarded the train. The carriages strung behind the locomotive looked much older than the rest of it, and therefore much more modern, salvaged from the old levitating train and mounted on wheels. The doors irised shut, and then the whole procession clanked into motion, creeping forward at a walking pace and then gathering speed laboriously. There was an intermittent squeal of slipping wheels, and then the ride became smoother, steam billowing past us. The train threaded its way through one of the narrow-bored tunnels faced with an enormous irising door, and then we passed through a further series of pressure locks, until we must have been moving through near-vacuum.

The ride became ghostly quiet.

The passenger compartment was as cramped as a prison transport, and the passengers seemed subdued to the point of somnolence, like drugged prisoners being carried to a detention centre. Screens had dropped down from the ceiling and were now cycling through adverts, but they referred to products and services which were very unlikely to have survived the plague. Near one end I could see a huddle of palanquins, grouped together like a collection of coffins in an undertaker’s backroom.

‘The first thing we’ve got to do is get these implants out,’ Quirrenbach said, leaning conspiratorially towards me. ‘I can’t bear the idea of the things still sitting in my head now.’

‘We should be able to find someone who’ll do it quickly,’ I said.

‘And safely, too - the one’s not much good without the other.’

I smiled. ‘I think it’s probably a little late to worry about safely, don’t you?’

Quirrenbach pursed his lips.

The screen next to us was showing an advert for a particularly sleek-looking flying machine, something like one of our volantors, except it seemed to have been made out of insect parts. But then the screen flashed with static and a geisha-like woman appeared on it instead.

‘Welcome aboard the Chasm City Zephyr.’ The woman’s face resembled a china doll with painted lips and rosy cheeks. She wore an absurdly elaborate silver outfit which curved up behind her head. ‘We are currently transiting the Trans-Caldera Tunnel and will be arriving at Grand Central Station in eight minutes. We hope you will enjoy your journey with us and that your time in Chasm City will be both pleasant and prosperous. In the meantime, in anticipation of our arrival, we invite you to share some of our city’s highlights.’

‘This’ll be interesting,’ Quirrenbach said.

The windows of the train carriage flickered and became holographic displays, no longer showing the rushing walls, but an impressive vista of the city, just as if the train had tunnelled through seven years of history. The train was threading between dreamlike structures, rising vertiginously on either side like mountains sculpted out of solid opal or obsidian. Below us was a series of stepped levels, landscaped with beautiful gardens and lakes, entwined with walkways and civic transit tubes. They dwindled into a haze of blue depth, riven by plunging abysses full of neon light, immense tiered plazas and rockfaces. The air was thick with a constant swarm of colourful aerial vehicles, some of which were shaped like exotic dragonflies or hummingbirds. Passenger dirigibles nosed indolently through the swarms; scores of tiny revellers peered over the railed edges of their gondolas. Above them, the largest buildings loomed like geometric clouds. The sky was a pure electric blue woven with the fine, regular matrix of the dome.

And all around the city marched into terrible distance, wonder upon wonder receding as far as the eye could see. It was only sixty kilometres, but it could have been infinity. There appeared to be enough marvels in Chasm City to last a lifetime. Even a modern one.

But no one had told the simulation about the plague. I had to remind myself that we were still rushing through the tunnel under the crater wall; that in fact we had yet to arrive in the city itself.

‘I can see why they called it a Belle Epoque,’ I said.

Quirrenbach nodded. ‘They had it all. And you know the worst of it? They damn well knew it. Unlike any other golden age in history . . . they knew they were living through it.’

‘It must have made them pretty insufferable.’

‘Well, they certainly paid for it.’

It was round about then that we burst into what passed for daylight in Chasm City. The train must have crossed under the crater rim and passed through the boundary of the dome. It was racing through a suspended tube just like the one which had been suggested by the hologram, but this tube was covered in dirt which only gave way fleetingly; just enough to show that we were passing through what looked like a series of densely packed slums. The holographic recording was still playing, so that the old city was superimposed on the new one like a faint ghost. Ahead, the tube curved round and vanished into a tiered cylindrical building from which other tubes radiated, threading out across the city. The train was slowing as we approached the tiered building.

Grand Central Station, Chasm City.

As we entered the building, the holographic mirage faded, taking with it the last faint memory of the Belle Epoque. Yet for all its glory, only Quirrenbach and I seemed to have taken much notice of the hologram. The other passengers stood silent, scrutinising the scorched and littered floor.

‘Still think you can make it here?’ I asked Quirrenbach. ‘After what you’ve seen now?’

He gave the question a lot of thought before answering.

‘Who’s to say I won’t? Maybe there are more opportunities now than ever before. Maybe it’s just a question of adaptation. One thing’s for sure, though.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Whatever music I write here, it isn’t going to cheer anyone up.’

Grand Central Station was as humid as deep Peninsula jungle, just as starved of light as the forest floor. Sweltering, I removed Vadim’s coat and bundled it under one arm.

‘We’ve got to get these implants out,’ Quirrenbach said yet again, tugging at my sleeve.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘It hadn’t slipped my mind.’

The roof was supported by fluted pillars which rose up like hamadryad trees before thrusting their fingers through the roof into the brown gloom beyond. In between these pillars was a densely packed bazaar: a motley city of tents and stalls, through which passed only the narrowest and most twisting of passageways. Stalls had been built or piled above each other, so that some of the passageways became backbreakingly low, lamplit tunnels through which people were forced to stoop like hunchbacks. There were several dozen vendors and many hundreds of people, very few of whom were accompanied by servitors. There were exotic pets on leashes; genetically enhanced servants; caged birds and snakes. A few hermetics had made the error of trying to force their way through the bazaar rather than finding a route around it, and now their palanquins were mired, harried by traders and tricksters.

‘Well?’ I said. ‘Do we risk it, or find a way around?’

Quirrenbach clutched his briefcase closer to his chest. ‘Much against my better judgement, I think we should risk it. I have a hunch - merely a hunch, mind - that we may be pointed towards the services we both so urgently require.’

‘It might be a mistake.’

‘And it probably won’t be the first of the day, either. I’m somewhat on the ravenous side, anyway. There’s bound to be something edible around here - and it might not be immediately toxic.’

We pushed our way into the bazaar. Quirrenbach and I had taken barely a dozen steps before we had attracted a mob of optimistic kids and surly beggars.

‘Do I have affluent and gullible written in conspicuous neon letters on my forehead?’ Quirrenbach said.

‘It’s our clothes,’ I said, pushing another urchin back into the throng. ‘I recognised yours as being Mendicant-made, and I wasn’t even paying you much attention.’

‘I don’t see why that should make much difference.’

‘Because it means we’re from outside,’ I said. ‘Beyond the system. Who else would be wearing Mendicant clothing? That automatically guarantees a certain prosperity, or at least the possibility of it.’

Quirrenbach clutched his luggage to his chest with renewed protectiveness. We pushed our way deeper into the bazaar until we found a stall selling something which looked edible. In Hospice Idlewild they’d treated my gut flora for Yellowstone compatibility, but it had been a fairly broad-spectrum treatment, not guaranteed to be any use against anything specific. Now was my chance to test exactly how non-specific it had been.

What we bought were hot, greasy pastries filled with some unidentifiable, semi-cooked meat. It was heavily spiced, probably to disguise the meat’s underlying rancidity. But I had eaten less appetising rations on Sky’s Edge and found it more or less palatable. Quirrenbach wolfed down his, then bought another, and finished that one off with equal recklessness.

‘Hey, you,’ said a voice. ‘Implants, out?’

A kid tugged the hem of Quirrenbach’s Mendicant jacket, dragging him deeper into the bazaar. The kid’s clothes would be graduating to raghood in a week or two, but were now lingering on the edge of dilapidation.

‘Implants, out,’ the kid said again. ‘You new here, you no need implants, misters. Madame Dominika, she get them out, good price, fast, not much blood or pain. You too, big guy.’

The kid had hooked his fingers around my belt and was dragging me as well.

‘It’s, um, not necessary,’ Quirrenbach said, pointlessly.

‘You new here, got Mendicant suits, need implants out now, before they go wacko. You know what that mean, misters? Big scream, head explode, brain everywhere, get real mess on clothes . . . you not want that, I think.’

‘No, thank you very much.’

Another kid had appeared, tugging at Quirrenbach’s other sleeve. ‘Hey, mister, don’t listen to Tom - come and see Doctor Jackal! He only kill one in twenty! Lowest mortality rate in Grand Central! Don’t go wacko; see the Jackal!’

‘Yeah, and get free permanent brain damage,’ said Dominika’s kid. ‘Don’t listen; ev’ryone know Dominika best in Chasm City!’

I said, ‘Why are you hesitating? Isn’t this exactly what you were hoping to find?’

‘Yes!’ Quirrenbach hissed. ‘But not like this! Not in some filthy damned tent! I was anticipating a reasonably sterile and well-equipped clinic. In fact I know there are better places we can use, Tanner, just trust me on this . . .’

I shrugged, allowing Tom to haul me along. ‘Maybe a tent is as good as it gets, Quirrenbach.’

‘No! It can’t be. There must be . . .’ He looked at me helplessly, willing me to take control and drag him away, but I simply smiled and nodded towards the tent: a blue and white box with a slightly cambered roof, guylines attached to iron pins driven into the floor.

‘In you go,’ I said, inviting Quirrenbach to step ahead of me. We were in an ante-room to the tent’s main chamber, just us and the kid. Tom, I saw now, had a kind of elfin beauty; gender indeterminate beneath tattered clothes, the face was framed by curtains of lank black hair. The kid’s name could have been Thomas or Thomasina, but I decided it was probably the former. Tom swayed in time to sitar music emanating from a little malachite box which rested on a table set with perfumed candles.

‘This isn’t too bad,’ I said. ‘I mean, there’s no actual blood anywhere. No actual brain tissue lying around.’

‘No,’ Quirrenbach said, suddenly making a decision. ‘Not here; not now. I’m leaving, Tanner. You can stay or follow me; it’s entirely up to you.’

I spoke to him as quietly as I could manage: ‘What Tom says is true. You need to have your implants out now, if the Mendicants didn’t already do it for you.’

He reached up and rasped a hand across his scalp stubble. ‘Maybe they were just trying to scare up business with those stories.’

‘Perhaps - but do you really want to take that risk? The hardware’s just going to be sitting in your head like a time-bomb. Might as well have it out. You can always have it put back in again, after all.’

‘By a woman in a tent who calls herself Madame Dominika? I’d rather take my chances with a rusty penknife and a mirror.’

‘Whatever. Just so long as you do it before you go wacko.’

The kid was already dragging Quirrenbach through the partition into the room beyond. ‘Talking of money, Tanner - neither of us are exactly flush. We don’t know we can afford Dominika’s services, do we?’

‘That’s a very good point.’ I grabbed Tom by the collar, hauling him gently back into the ante-room. ‘My friend and I need to sell some goods in a hurry, unless your Madame Dominika is given to charity.’ When that remark had no effect on Tom, I opened my suitcase and showed him some of what was inside. ‘Sell, for cash. Where?’

That seemed to work. ‘Green and silver tent, ’cross market. Say Dominika sent you, you no get major sting.’

‘Hey, wait a minute.’ Quirrenbach was halfway through the gash now. I could see into the main room, where a phenomenally bulky woman sat behind a long couch, consulting her fingernails, medical equipment suspended over the couch on articulated booms, metal glinting in candlelight.

‘What?’

‘Why should I be the guinea pig? I thought you said you needed to have your implants removed as well.’

‘You’re right. And I’ll be back shortly. I just need to convert some of my possessions into cash. Tom said I could do it in the bazaar.’

His face turned from incomprehension to fury.

‘But you can’t go now! I thought we were in this together! Travelling companions! Don’t betray a friendship almost before it’s begun, Tanner . . .’

‘Hey, calm down. I’m not betraying anything. By the time she’s finished with you, I’ll have got enough cash together.’ I clicked a finger towards the fat woman. ‘Dominika!’

Languidly, she turned to face me, her lips forming a silent interrogative.

‘How long will it take with him?’

‘One hour,’ she answered. ‘Dominika real quick.’

I nodded. ‘That’s more than enough time, Quirrenbach. Just sit back and let her do her job.’

He looked into Dominika’s face and seemed to calm slightly. ‘Really? You will be back?’

‘Of course. I’m not stepping into the city with implants still in my head. What do you think I am, insane? But I do need money.’

‘What are you planning to sell?’

‘Some of my own goods. Some of the stuff I lifted from our mutual friend Vadim. There’s got to be a market for that kind of thing or he wouldn’t have been hoarding it.’

Dominika was trying to pull him onto her couch, but Quirrenbach was still managing to stay on his feet. I remembered how he had impulsively changed his mind when we began looting Vadim’s quarters - at first resisting the theft, then throwing himself enthusiastically into the process. I saw a similar sea-change now.

‘Dammit,’ he murmured, shaking his head. He looked at me curiously, then cracked open his own case, riffling through sheet music until he reached a set of compartments below it. He fished out some of the experientials he had taken from Vadim. ‘I’m no good at bartering anyway. Take these and get a good price on them, Tanner. I’m assuming they’ll cover the cost of this.’

‘You trust me to do that?’

He looked at me through squinted eyes. ‘Just get a good price.’

I took the items and placed them amongst my own.

Behind him, the bulky woman hovered across the room like an unmoored dirigible, her feet skimming inches from the ground. She was cradled in a black metal harness, attached to one wall by a complexly-jointed pneumatic arm, hissing steam as it articulated and flexed. Rolls of fat disguised the indeterminate region where her head and torso merged. Her hands were spread out as if she was drying recently painted fingernails. Each fingertip vanished into - or possibly became - a kind of thimble. Each thimble was tipped with something medical and specialised.

‘No; him first,’ she said, extending a little finger in my direction, its thimble adorned with what looked like a tiny sterile harpoon.

‘Thank you, Dominika,’ I said. ‘But you’d best attend to Quirrenbach first.’

‘You come back?’

‘Yes - once I’ve acquired some finance.’

I smiled and left the tent, hearing the sound of drills whining up to speed.

FOURTEEN

The man who looked through my belongings had a whirring and clicking eyeglass strapped to his head. His hairless scalp was quilted with fine scars, like a broken vase that had been inexpertly mended. He examined everything I showed him with tweezers, holding the items up to his eyeglass in the manner of an aged lepidopterist. Next to him, smoking a handmade cigarette, was a youth wearing the same kind of helmet I’d taken from Vadim.

‘I can use some of this shit,’ the man with the eyeglass said. ‘Probably. You say it’s all real, huh? All factual?’

‘The military episodes were trawled from soldiers’ memories after the combat situations in question, as part of the normal intelligence gathering process.’

‘Yeah? And how’d they fall into your hands?’

Without waiting for an answer, he reached under the table, pulled out a little tin sealed with an elastic band and counted out a few dozen bills of the local currency. As I had noticed before, the bills seemed to have been printed in strange denominations - thirteens, fours, twenty-sevens, threes.

‘It’s none of your damned business where I got them from,’ I said.

‘No, but that doesn’t stop me asking.’ He pursed his lips. ‘Anything else, now that you’re wasting my time?’

I allowed him to examine the experientials I’d taken from Quirrenbach, watching as his lip curled first into contempt and then disgust.

‘Well?’

‘Now you’re insulting me, and I don’t like it.’

‘If the items are worthless,’ I said, ‘just tell me and I’ll leave.’

‘The items aren’t worthless,’ he said, after examining them again. ‘Fact is, they’re exactly the kind of the thing I might have bought, a month or two ago. Grand Teton’s popular. People can’t get enough of those slime-tower formations.’

‘So what’s the problem?’

‘This shit has already hit the market, that’s what. These experientials are already out there, depreciating. These must be - what? Third- or fourth-generation bootlegs? Real cheap-ass crap.’

He still tore off a few more bills, but nowhere near as much as he’d paid for my own experientials.

‘Anything else up your sleeve?’

I shrugged. ‘Depends what you’re after, doesn’t it.’

‘Use your imagination.’ He passed one of the military experientials to his sidekick. The youth’s chin was fuzzed by the first tentative wisps of a beard. He ejected the experiential he was running at the time and slipped mine in instead, without once lifting the goggles from his eyes. ‘Anything black. Matte-black. You know what I mean, don’t you?’

‘I’ve a reasonably good idea.’

‘Then either cough up or get out of the premises.’ Next to him, the youth started convulsing in his seat. ‘Hey, what is that shit?’

‘Does that helmet have enough spatial resolution to stimulate the pleasure and pain centres?’ I said.

‘What if it does?’ He leaned over and slapped the convulsing youth hard on the head, knocking the playback helmet flying. Drooling, still convulsing, the youth subsided into his seat, his eyes glazed over.

‘Then he probably shouldn’t have accessed it at random,’ I said. ‘My guess is he just hit an NC interrogation session. Have you ever had your fingers removed?’

The eyeglass man chuckled. ‘Nasty. Very nasty. But there’s a market for that kind of shit - just like there is for the black stuff.’

Now was as good a time as any to see what the quality of Vadim’s merchandise was like. I handed over one of the black experientials, one of those embossed with a tiny silver maggot motif. ‘Is this what you mean?’

He looked sceptical at first, until he had examined the experiential more closely. To the trained eye, there were presumably all manner of subliminal indicators to distinguish the genuine article from sub-standard fakes.

‘It’s a good quality bootleg if it’s a bootleg, which means it’s worth something whatever’s on it. Hey, shit-for-brains. Try this.’ He knelt down, picked up the battered playback helmet and jammed it onto the youth’s head, then prepared to insert the experiential. The youth was just beginning to perk up when he saw the experiential, at which point he pawed the air, trying to stop the man pressing it into the helmet.

‘Get that maggot shit away from me . . .’

‘Hey,’ the man said. ‘I was just going to give you a flash, dick-face. ’ He tucked the experiential away in his coat.

‘Why don’t you try it yourself?’ I said.

‘Same damn reason he doesn’t want that shit anywhere near his skull. It’s not nice.’

‘Nor’s an NC interrogation session.’

‘That’s a trip to the cake shop by comparison. That’s just pain.’ He patted his breast pocket delicately. ‘What’s on this could be about nine million times less pleasant.’

‘You mean it’s not always the same?’

‘Of course not, or there wouldn’t be an element of risk. And the way these ones work, it’s never exactly the same trip twice. Sometimes it’s just maggots, sometimes you are the maggots . . . sometimes it’s much, much worse . . .’ Suddenly he looked cheerful. ‘But, hey, there’s a market for it, so who am I to argue?’

‘Why would people want to experience something like that?’ I asked.

He grinned at the youth. ‘Hey, what is this, fucking philosophy hour? How am I supposed to know? This is human nature we’re talking about here; it’s already deeply fucking perverted.’

‘Tell me about it,’ I said.

At the centre of the concourse, rising above the bazaar like a minaret, was an ornately encrusted tower surmounted by a four-faced clock set to Chasm City time. The clock had recently struck the seventeenth hour of the twenty-six in Yellowstone’s day, animated spacesuited figurines emerging beneath the dial to enact what might have been a complex quasi-religious ritual. I checked the time on Vadim’s watch - my own watch, I forced myself to think, since I had now liberated it twice - and found that the two were in passable agreement. If Dominika’s estimate had been accurate, she would still be busy with Quirrenbach.

The hermetics had passed through now, along with most of the obviously rich, but there were still many people who wore the slightly stunned look of the recently impoverished. Perhaps they had been only moderately wealthy seven years ago; not sufficiently well-connected to barrier themselves against the plague. I doubted that there had been anyone truly poor in Chasm City back then, but there were always degrees of affluence. For all the heat, the people wore heavy, dark clothes, often ballasted with jewellery. The women were often gloved and hatted, perspiring under wide-brimmed fedoras, veils or chadors. The men wore heavy greatcoats with upturned collars, faces shadowed under Panama hats or shapeless berets. Many had little glass boxes around their necks, containing what looked like religious relics, but which were actually implants, extracted from their hosts and now carried as symbols of former wealth. Though there was a spectrum of apparent ages, I saw no one who looked genuinely old. Perhaps the old were too infirm to risk a trip to the bazaar, but I also recalled what Orcagna had said about the state of longevity treatments on other worlds. It was entirely possible that some of the people I saw here were two or three centuries old; burdened with memories which reached back to Marco Ferris and the Amerikano era. They must have lived through great strangenesses . . . but I doubted that any of them had witnessed anything stranger than the recent transfiguration of their city, or the collapse of a society whose longevity and opulence must have seemed unassailable. No wonder so many of the people I saw looked so sad, as if knowing that - no matter how things might improve from day to day - the old times would never come again. Seeing that all-pervasive melancholia, it was impossible not to feel some empathy.

I started navigating my way back to Dominika’s tent, then wondered why I was bothering.

There were questions I wanted to ask Dominika, but they could equally well be directed to one of her rivals. I might need to talk to them all eventually. The only thing that connected me to Dominika was Quirrenbach . . . and even if I had begun to tolerate his presence, I’d known all along that I would have to ditch him eventually. I could walk away now, leave the terminus completely, and the chances were that we’d never meet again.

I pushed through until I reached the far side of the bazaar.

Where the furthest wall should have been was only an opening through which the lower levels of the city could be seen, behind a perpetual screen of dirty rain sluicing from the side of the terminus. A haphazard line of rickshaws waited: upright boxes balanced between two wide wheels. Some of the rickshaws were powered, coupled behind steam-engines or chugging methane-powered motors. Their drivers lounged indolently, awaiting fares. Others were propelled by pedal-power, and several looked to have been converted from old palanquins. Behind the row of rickshaws there were other, sleeker vehicles: a pair of flying machines much like the volantors I knew from Sky’s Edge, crouched down on skids, and a trio of craft which looked like helicopters with their rotors folded for stowage. A squad of workers eased a palanquin into one of them, tipping it at an undignified angle to get it through the entrance door. I wondered if I was witnessing a kidnapping or a taxi pick-up.

Although I might have been able to afford one of the volantors, the rickshaws looked the most immediately promising. At the very least I could get a flavour of this part of the city, even if I had no specific destination in mind.

I started walking, cutting through the crowds, my gaze fixed resolutely ahead.

Then, when not quite halfway there, I stopped, turned around and returned to Dominika’s.

‘Is Mister Quirrenbach finished yet?’ I asked Tom. Tom had been shimmying to the sitar music, apparently surprised to find someone entering Dominika’s tent without being coerced.

‘Mister, he no ready - ten minutes. You got money?’

I had no idea how much Quirrenbach’s excisions were going to cost him, but I figured the money he had recovered on the Grand Teton experientials might just cover it. I separated the bills from my own, laying them down on the table.

‘No enough, mister. Madame Dominika, she want one more.’ Grudgingly I unpeeled one of my own lower-denomination bills and added it to Quirrenbach’s pile. ‘That’d better be good,’ I said. ‘Mister Quirrenbach’s a friend of mine, so if I find out you’re going to ask him for more money when he comes out, I’ll be back.’

‘Is good, mister. Is good.’

I watched as the kid scurried through the partition into the room beyond, briefly glimpsing the hovering form of Dominika and the long couch on which she did her business. Quirrenbach was prone on it, stripped to the waist, with his head enfolded in a loom of delicate-looking probes. His hair had been shaved completely. Dominika was making odd gestures with her fingers, like a puppeteer working invisibly fine strings. In sympathy, the little probes were dancing around Quirrenbach’s cranium. There was no blood, nor even any obvious puncture marks on his skin.

Maybe Dominika was better than she looked.

‘Okay,’ I said when Tom re-emerged. ‘I have a favour to ask of you, and it’s worth one of these.’ I showed him the smallest denomination I had. ‘And don’t say I’m insulting you, because you don’t know what it is I’m about to ask.’

‘Say it, big guy.’

I gestured towards the rickshaws. ‘Do those things cover the whole city?’

‘Most of Mulch.’

‘Mulch is the district we’re in?’ No answer was forthcoming, so I just left the tent with him following me.

‘I need to get from here - wherever here is - to a specific district of the city. I don’t know how far it is, but I don’t want to be cheated. I’m sure you can arrange that for me, can’t you? Especially as I know where you live.’

‘Get good price, you no worry.’ Then a thought must have trickled through his skull. ‘No wait for friend?’

‘No - I’m afraid I have business elsewhere, as does Mister Quirrenbach. We won’t be meeting again for a while.’

I sincerely hoped it was the truth.

Some kind of hairy primate provided the motive power for most of the rickshaws, a human gene splice resetting the necessary homeoboxes so that his legs grew longer and straighter than the simian norm. In unintelligibly rapid Canasian, Tom negotiated with another kid. They could almost have been interchangeable, except that the new kid had shorter hair and might have been a year older. Tom introduced him to me as Juan; something in their relationship suggested they were old business partners. Juan shook my hand and escorted me to the nearest vehicle. Edgily now, I glanced back, hoping Quirrenbach was still out cold. I didn’t want to have to justify myself to him if he came round soon enough to have Tom tell him I was about to get a ride out of the terminus. There were some pills that could not be sugared, and being dumped by someone you imagined was your newfound travelling companion was one of them.

Still, perhaps he could work the agony of rejection into one of his forthcoming Meisterwerks.

‘Where to, mister?’

It was Juan speaking now, with the same accent as Tom. It was some kind of post-plague argot, I guessed; a pidgin of Russish, Canasian, Norte and a dozen other languages known here during the Belle Epoque. ‘Take me to the Canopy,’ I said. ‘You know where that is, don’t you?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘I know where Canopy is, just like I know where Mulch is. You think I’m idiot, like Tom?’

‘You can take me there, then.’

‘No, mister. I no can take you there.’

I began to unpeel another bill, before realising that our communicational difficulties stemmed from something more basic than insufficient funds, and that the problem was almost certainly on my side.

‘Is the Canopy a district of the city?’

This was met by a long-suffering nod. ‘You new here, huh?’

‘Yes, I’m new. So why don’t you do me a favour and explain just why taking me to the Canopy is beyond your means?’

The bill I had half unpeeled vanished from my grip, and then Juan offered me the rear seat of the rickshaw as if it were a throne finished in plush velvet. ‘I show you, man. But I no take you there, you understand? For that you need more than rickshaw.’

He hopped in next to me, then leaned forward and whispered something in the driver’s ear. The primate began to pedal, grunting in what was probably profound indignation at the outcome to which his genetic heritage had been shaped.

The bio-engineering of animals, I later learned, had been one of the few boom industries since the plague, exploiting a niche that had opened up once machines of any great sophistication began to fail.

Like Quirrenbach had said not long ago, nothing that happened was ever completely bad for everyone.

So it was with the plague.

The missing wall provided an entrance and exit point for the volantors (and, I presumed, the other flying craft), but rickshaws entered and left the parking area by means of a sloping, concrete-lined tunnel. The dank walls and ceiling dripped thick mucosal fluids. It was at least cooler, and the noise of the terminus quickly faded, replaced only by the soft creaking of the cogs and chains which transmitted the ape’s cycling motion to the wheels.

‘You new here,’ Juan said. ‘Not from Ferrisville, or even Rust Belt. Not even from rest of system.’

Was I so obtrusively ignorant that even a kid could see it?

‘I guess you don’t get many tourists these days.’

‘Not since bad time, no.’

‘What was it like to live through?’

‘I dunno mister; I just two.’

Of course. It was seven years ago. From a child’s perspective, that really was most of a lifetime ago. Juan, and Tom, and the other street children would barely be able to remember what life was like in Chasm City prior to the plague. Those few years of limitless wealth and possibility would be blurred with the soft-focus simplicity of infancy. All they knew, all they truly remembered, was the city as it now was: vast and dark and again filled with possibility - except now it was the possibility that lay in danger and crime and lawlessness; a city for thieves and beggars and those who could live by their wits rather than their credit ratings.

It was just a shock to find myself in one.

We passed other rickshaws returning to the concourse, slick sides glossy with rain. Only a few of them carried passengers, hunched sullenly down in raincoats, looking as if they would rather have been anywhere else in the universe than Chasm City. I could relate to that. I was tired, I was hot, sweat pooling under my clothes, and my skin itched and crawled for want of a wash. I was acutely conscious of my own body odour.

What the hell was I doing here?

I had a chased a man across more than fifteen light-years, into a city which had become a sick perversion of itself. The man I was chasing was not even truly bad - even I could see that. I hated Reivich for what he had done, but he had acted much as I would have done in the same circumstances. He was an aristocrat, not a man of arms, but in another life - if the history of our planet had followed another course - he and I might even have been friends. Certainly I had respect for him now, even if it was a respect born out of the way he had acted completely beyond my expectations when he destroyed the bridge at Nueva Valparaiso. Such casual brutality was to be admired. Any man that I misjudged that badly had my respect.

And yet, for all that, I knew I’d have no qualms about killing him.

‘I think,’ Juan said, ‘you need history lesson, mister.’

What I had managed to learn aboard the Strelnikov had not been very much, but it was all the history I felt that I had an appetite for right now. ‘If you’re thinking I don’t know about the plague . . .’

The tunnel was growing lighter ahead. Not much, but enough to indicate that we were about to enter the city proper. The light which suffused it had the same caramel-brown texture I’d seen from the behemoth: the colour of already murky light filtered through yet more murk.

‘Plague hit, make building go wacko,’ said Juan.

‘That much they told me.’

‘They no tell you enough, mister.’ His syntax was rudimentary, but I suspected it was an improvement on anything the rickshaw driver was capable of. ‘Them building change, real fast.’ He made expansive hand gestures. ‘Many folk get die, get squashed or end up in wall.’

‘That doesn’t sound too nice.’

‘I show you people in wall, mister. You no make joke no more. You shit own pants.’ We swerved to avoid another rickshaw, scraping against us. ‘But listen - them building, they change fastest up at top, right?’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Them building like tree. Got big lot of root, stick in ground, right?’

‘Constructional feedlines, is that it? Leeching raw materials from the bedrock for repair and regrowth?’

‘Yeah. What I say. Like big tree. But like big tree in other way, too. Always grow up top. Unnerstan’?’ More hand gestures, as if he were shaping the outline of a mushroom cloud.

Perhaps I did understand. ‘You’re saying the growth systems were concentrated in the upper parts of the structures?’

‘Yeah.’

I nodded. ‘Of course. Those structures were designed to dismantle themselves as well as grow higher. Either way, you’d always want to add or remove material from the top. So the nerve centre of the self-replicating machinery would always rise with the structure. The lower levels would need fewer systems; just the bare minimum to keep them ticking over and for repairing damage and wear, and for periodic redesigns.’

It was hard to tell if Juan’s smile was one of congratulation - that I had worked this out for myself - or sympathy that it had taken me as long as it had.

‘Plague get to top first, carried by root. Start making top of building go wacko first. Lower down, stay same as before. By time plague got there, people cut root, starve building. No change any more.’

‘But by then the upper parts had already changed beyond recognition.’ I shook my head. ‘It must have been a terrible time.’

‘No shit, mister.’

We plunged into daylight, and I finally understood what Juan meant.

FIFTEEN

We were at the lowest level of Chasm City, far below the rim of the caldera. The street on which we ran crossed a black lake on pontoons. Rain was falling softly from the sky - from the dome, in fact, many kilometres above our heads. All around us, vast buildings rose from the flood, sides slab-sided and immense. They were all I could see in any direction, until - forestlike - they merged into a distant, detailless wall, like a bank of smog. They were encrusted - at least for the first six or seven storeys - in a barnacle-like accretion of ramshackle dwellings and markets, lashed together and interlinked with flimsy walkways and rope-ladders. Fires burned in the slums, and the air was even more pungent than in the concourse. But it was fractionally cooler, and because there was a constant breeze, it felt less stifling.

‘What’s this place called?’ I said.

‘This Mulch,’ said Juan. ‘Everything down here, street level, this Mulch.’

I understood then that the Mulch was less a district of the city than a stratification. It included perhaps the first six or seven storeys which rose above the flooded parts. It was a carpet of slum from which the great forest of the city rose.

Looking up, craning my neck to peer around the rickshaw’s roof, I saw the slab-sided structures ram skywards, perspective forcing them together at least a kilometre above my head. For most of that height, their geometries must have been much as their architects had intended: rectilinear, with parallel rows of windows, now dark, the edifices marred only by the occasional haphazard extrusion or limpetlike excresence. Up higher, though, the picture changed sickeningly. Although no two buildings had mutated in quite the same manner, there was something common to their shape-changing, a kind of uniform pathology which a surgeon might have recognised and diagnosed as stemming from the same cause. Some of the buildings split in two halfway up their length, while others bulged with unseemly obesity. Some sprouted tiny avatars of themselves, like the elbowed towers and oubliettes of fairytale castles. Higher, these structural growths bifurcated and bifurcated again, interpenetrating and linking like bronchioli, or some weird variant of brain coral, until what they formed was a kind of horizontal raft of fused branches, suspended a kilometre or two from the ground. I had seen it before, of course, from the sky, but the meaning of it - and its sheer, city-spanning scale - was only now apparent from this vantage point.

Canopy.

‘Now you see why I no take you there, mister.’

‘I’m beginning to. It covers the whole city, right?’

Juan nodded. ‘Just like Mulch, only higher.’

The one thing that had not been really obvious from the behemoth was that the Canopy’s dense entanglement of madly deformed buildings was confined to a relatively shallow vertical stratum; the Canopy was a kind of suspended ecology and below it was another world - another city - entirely. The complexity of it was obvious now. There were whole communities floating within it; sealed structures embedded in the Canopy like birds’ nests, each as large as a palace. Fine as gossamer, a mass of weblike strands filled the spaces between the larger branches, dangling down almost to street level. It was difficult to tell if they had come with the mutations, or had been some intentional human addition.

The effect was as if the Canopy had been cobwebbed by monstrous insects, invisible spiders larger than houses.

‘Who lives there?’ I knew it wasn’t a completely stupid question, since I had already seen lights burning in the branches; evidence that, no matter how distorted the geometries of those sick dead husks of buildings, they had been claimed for human habitation.

‘No one you wanna know, mister.’ Juan chewed on his statement before adding, ‘Or no one who wanna know you. That no insult, either.’

‘None taken, but please answer my question.’

Juan was a long time responding, during which time our rickshaw continued to navigate the roots of the giant structures, wheels jumping over water-filled cracks in the road. The rain hadn’t stopped of course, but when I pushed my head beyond the awning, what I felt was warm and soft; hardly a hardship at all. I wondered if it ever ended, or whether the pattern of condensation on the dome was diurnal; if it were all happening according to some schedule. I had the impression, though, that very little that happened in Chasm City was under anyone’s direct control.

‘Them rich people,’ the kid said. ‘Real rich - not small-time rich like Madame Dominika.’ He knuckled his bony head. ‘Don’t need Dominika, either.’

‘You mean there are enclaves in the Canopy where the plague never reached?’

‘No, plague reach everywhere. But in Canopy, them clean it out, after building stop changing. Some rich, they stay in orbit. Some never leave CC, or come down after shit hit fan. Some get deported.’

‘Why would anyone come here after the plague, if they didn’t have to? Even if parts of the Canopy are safe from residual traces of the Melding Plague, I can’t see why anyone would choose to live there rather than stay in the remaining habitats of the Rust Belt.’

‘Them get deported no have big choice,’ said the kid.

‘No; I can understand that. But why would anyone else come here?’

‘Because them think thing got to get better, and them wanna be here when it happen. Plenty way to make money, when thing get better - but only few people gonna get serious rich. Plenty way to make money now, too - less p’lice here than upside.’

‘You’re saying there are no rules here, are there? Nothing that can’t be bought? I’d imagine that must have been tempting, after the strictures of Demarchy.’

‘Mister, you talk funny.’

My next question was obvious. ‘How do I get there? To the Canopy, I mean?’

‘You not already there, you don’t.’

‘You’re saying I’m not rich enough, is that it?’

‘Rich not enough,’ the kid said. ‘Need connection. Gotta be tight with Canopy, or you ain’t nobody.’

‘Assuming I was, how would I get there? Are there routes through the buildings, old access shafts not sealed by the plague?’ I figured this was the kind of street knowledge the kid would know backwards.

‘You no wanna take inside route, mister. Plenty dangerous. Special when hunt coming down.’

‘Hunt?’

‘This place no good at night, mister.’

I looked around at the gloom. ‘How would you ever be able to tell? No; don’t answer that. Just tell me how I’d get up there.’ I waited for an answer, and when it showed no sign of arriving I decided to recast my question. ‘Do Canopy people ever come down to the Mulch?’

‘Sometime. Special during hunt.’

Progress, I thought, even though it was like pulling a tooth. ‘And how do they get here? I’ve seen what look like flying vehicles, what we used to call volantors, but I can’t imagine anyone could fly through the Canopy without hitting some of those webs.’

‘We call them volantor too. Only rich got ’em - difficult to fix, keep flying. No good in some part of city, either. Most Canopy kid, they come down in cable-car now.’

‘Cable-car?’

For a moment a look of helpfulness crossed his face, and I realised he was desperately trying to please me. It was just that my enquiries were so far outside of his usual parameters that it was causing him physical pain.

‘Those web, those cable? Hang between building?’

‘Can you show me a cable-car? I’d like to see one.’

‘It not safe, mister.’

‘Well, nor am I.’

I sugared the question with another bill, then settled back into the seat as we sped on through the soft interior rain, through the Mulch.

Eventually Juan slowed and turned round to me. ‘There. Cable-car. Them often come down here. Want we go closer?’

At first I wasn’t sure what he meant. Parked diagonally across the shattered roadbed was one of the sleek private vehicles I’d seen in and around the concourse. One door was folded open from the side, like the wing of a gull, with two greatcoated individuals standing in the rain next to it, faces lost under wide-brimmed hats.

I looked at them, wondering what I was going to do next.

‘Hey mister, I already ask you, you want we go closer?’

One of the two people by the cable-car lit a cigarette and for a moment I saw the fire chase the shadows from his face - it was aristocratic, with a nobility I had not seen since arriving on the planet. His eyes were concealed behind complex goggles which emphasised the exaggerated sharpness of his cheekbones. His friend was a woman, her slender gloved hand holding a pair of toylike binoculars to her eyes. Pivoting on her knifelike heels, she scanned the street, until her gaze swept over me. I watched her flinch as it happened, though she tried to control it.

‘They nervous,’ Juan breathed. ‘Mostly, Mulch and Canopy keep far apart.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘Yeah, one good one.’ Now he was whispering so quietly I could barely hear him above the relentless hiss of the rain. ‘Mulch get too close, Mulch vanish.’

‘Vanish?’

He drew his finger across his throat, but discreetly. ‘Canopy like games, mister. They bored. Immortal people, they all bored. So they play games. Trouble is, not everyone get asked they wanna take part.’

‘Like the hunt you mentioned?’

He nodded. ‘But no talk it now.’

‘All right. Stop here then, Juan, if you’d be so good.’

The rickshaw lost what little forward momentum it had had, the primate showing agitation in every ridge of his back muscles. I observed the reactions on the faces of the two Canopy dwellers - trying to look cool, and almost achieving it.

I stepped out of the rickshaw, my feet squelching as they made acquaintance with the sodden roadbed. ‘Mister,’ said Juan. ‘You be careful now. I ain’t earned a fare home yet.’

‘Don’t go anywhere,’ I said, then thought better of it. ‘Listen, if this makes you nervous, leave and return in five minutes.’

This obviously struck him as excellent advice. The woman with the binoculars returned them to her exuberantly patterned greatcoat, while the goggled man reached up and made what was obviously a delicate readjustment of his optics. I walked calmly in their direction, paying more attention to their vehicle. It was a glossy black lozenge, resting on three retractable wheels. Through a tinted forward window I glimpsed upholstered seats facing complicated manual controls. What appeared to be three rotor blades were furled on the roof. But as I examined the mounting more closely, I saw that this wasn’t any kind of helicopter. The blades were not attached to the body of the vehicle by a rotating axle, but vanished into three circular holes in a domelike hump which rose seamlessly from the hull itself. And, now that I looked closer, I saw that the blades were not really blades at all, but telescopic arms, each tipped with a scythelike hook.

That was all the time I had for sightseeing.

‘Don’t come any closer,’ the woman said. She backed up her words, spoken in flawless Canasian, by flourishing a tiny weapon, little larger than a brooch.

‘He’s unarmed,’ the man said, loud enough for me to hear, intentionally, it seemed.

‘I don’t mean you any harm.’ I spread my arms - slowly. ‘These are Mendicant clothes. I’ve just arrived on the planet. I wanted to know about reaching the Canopy.’

‘The Canopy?’ the man said, as if this was vastly amusing.

‘That’s what they all want,’ the woman said. The weapon had not budged, and her grip on it was so steady that I wondered if it contained tiny gyroscopes, or some kind of biofeedback device which acted on the muscles in her wrist. ‘Why should we talk to you?’

‘Because I’m harmless - unarmed, as your partner observed - and curious, and it might amuse you.’

‘You’ve no idea what amuses us.’

‘No, I probably don’t, but, as I said - I’m curious. I’m a man of means—’ the remark sounded ridiculous as soon I had spoken it, but I soldiered on ‘—and I’ve had the misfortune to arrive in the Mulch with no contacts in the Canopy.’

‘You speak Canasian reasonably well,’ the man observed, lowering his hand from his goggles. ‘Most Mulch can barely manage an insult in anything other than their native tongue.’ He threw away what remained of his cigarette.

‘But with an accent,’ the woman said. ‘I don’t place it - it’s offworld, but nothing I’m familiar with.’

‘I’m from Sky’s Edge. You may have met people from other parts of the planet who speak differently. It’s been settled long enough for linguistic drift.’

‘So had Yellowstone,’ said the man, feigning no real interest in this line of debate. ‘But most of us still live in Chasm City. Here, the only linguistic drift is vertical.’ He laughed, as if the remark were more than just a statement of fact.

I wiped rain from my eyes, warm and viscous. ‘The driver said the only way to reach the Canopy was by cable-car.’

‘An accurate statement, but that doesn’t mean we can help you.’ The man removed his hat, revealing long blond hair tied back.

His companion added, ‘We have no reason to trust you. A Mulch could have stolen Mendicant clothes and learned a few words of Canasian. No sane person would arrive here without already establishing ties with Canopy.’

I took a calculated risk. ‘I’ve got some Dream Fuel. Does that interest you?’

‘Oh yes, and how in hell’s name did a Mulch get hold of Dream Fuel?’

‘It’s a long story.’ But I reached into Vadim’s coat and removed the cache of Dream Fuel vials. ‘You’ll have to take my word that is the genuine article, of course.’

‘I’m not in the habit of taking anyone’s word on anything,’ the man said. ‘Pass me one of those vials.’

Another calculated risk. The man might run off with the one, but that would still leave me with the others.

‘I’ll throw you one. How does that sound?’

The man took a few steps towards me. ‘Do it, then.’

I tossed him the vial. He caught it deftly and then vanished into the vehicle. The woman remained outside, still covering me with the little gun. A few moments passed, then the man emerged from the vehicle again, not bothering to don his hat. He held up the vial. ‘This . . . seems to be the genuine article.’

‘What did you do?’

‘Shone a light through it, of course.’ He looked at me as if I was stupid. ‘Dream Fuel has a unique absorption spectrum.’

‘Good. Now that you know it’s real, throw the vial back to me and we’ll negotiate terms.’

The man made a throwing gesture, but pulled at the last moment, holding the vial in front of him tauntingly. ‘No . . . let’s not be hasty, shall we? You have more of these, you say? Dream Fuel’s in short supply these days. At least the good stuff. You must have stumbled on quite a haul.’ He paused. ‘I’ve done you a favour, which we’ll think of as fair payment for this vial. I’ve asked that another cable-car meet you here shortly. You’d better not have been lying about your means.’ He removed his goggles, revealing iron-grey eyes of extraordinary cruelty.

‘I’m grateful,’ I said. ‘But what would it matter if I had been lying?’

‘That’s an odd question.’ The woman made her weapon vanish, like a well-rehearsed conjuring trick. Perhaps it had sprung back into a sleeve-holster.

‘I told you, I’m curious.’

‘There is no law here,’ she said. ‘A kind of law, in the Canopy - but only that which suits us; that which conveniences us, like the playground law of children. But we’re not in the Canopy now. Down here, anything goes. And we have very little patience with those who deceive us.’

‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘I’m not a patient man myself.’

They both climbed into their vehicle, momentarily leaving the doors splayed open. ‘Perhaps we’ll see you in the Canopy,’ the man said, and then smiled at me. It was not the kind of smile one relished. It was the kind of smile I had seen on snakes in the vivaria at the Reptile House.

The doors clammed down and their vehicle came to life with a subliminal hum.

The three telescopic arms on the roof of the cable-car swung outwards and upwards, and then continued extending outwards at blinding speed, doubling, tripling, quadrupling their length. They were reaching skywards. I looked up, shielding my eyes against the perpetual embalming rain. The rickshaw driver had pointed out that the cables spanning the gnarled structures of the Canopy occasionally draped down to the level of the Mulch, like hanging vines, but I hadn’t paid enough attention to his remark. Now I saw the significance of it as one of the car’s arms snagged the lowest line with its hooked claw. The other two arms extended even further, out to perhaps ten times their original length, until they found their own draping lines and made purchase.

And then - smoothly, as if it were lifting on thrusters - the cable-car pulled itself aloft, accelerating all the time. The nearest arm released its grip on the cable, contracted and jerked, stabbing upwards with the speed of a chameleon’s tongue, until it had locked around another cable. And while that happened, the car rose further still, and then another arm switched cables, and another, until the car was hundreds of metres above me and dwindling. Still the motion was eerily smooth, even though the vehicle always seemed to be on the point of missing its purchase altogether and plummeting back towards the Mulch.

‘Hey, mister. You still here.’

At some point during the vehicle’s ascent, the rickshaw had returned. I had expected the driver to do what seemed sensible and return to the concourse, more or less in profit. But Juan had kept his word, and would probably have been insulted if I registered any surprise.

‘Did you honestly think I wouldn’t be?’

‘When Canopy come down, you never know. Hey, why you stand in rain?’

‘Because I’m not returning with you.’ He had barely had time to register disapointment - although the expression which had begun to form on his face suggested that I’d cast grave aspersions on his entire lineage - when I offered him a generous cancellation fee. ‘It’s more than you’d have earned carrying me.’

He looked at the two seven-Ferris bills, glumly. ‘Mister, you no wanna stay here. This nowhere; not good part of Mulch.’

‘I don’t doubt it,’ I said, coming to terms with the idea that even somewhere as misbegotten and miserable as the Mulch had its good and bad neighbourhoods. Then I said, ‘The Canopy people said they’d send down a cable-car for me. It’s possible they were lying, of course, but I imagine I’ll find out sooner or later. And if they weren’t, I’m just going to have to find my way up the inside of one of these buildings.’

‘This not good, mister. Canopy, they never do favour.’

I decided not to mention the Dream Fuel. ‘They were probably not willing to rule out the possibility I was who I claimed. What if I was as powerful as I said I was? They wouldn’t want to make an enemy of me.’

Juan shrugged, as if my point was a faint theoretical possibility, but no more than that. ‘Mister, I go now. No hurry stay here, you not coming.’

‘That’s all right,’ I said. ‘I understand. And I’m sorry I asked you to wait.’

That was the end of our relationship, Juan shaking his head but accepting that there was no way to persuade me otherwise. And then he went, the rickshaw clattering away into the distance, leaving me alone in the rain - genuinely alone, this time. The kid was not just around the corner, and I had lost - or more accurately got rid of - the closest thing I had yet found in Chasm City to an ally. It was an odd feeling, but I knew that what I had done was necessary.

I waited.

Time passed, perhaps half an hour, long enough for me to become aware of the city darkening. As Epsilon Eridani sunk beneath the horizon, its light, already turned sepia by the dome, became the colour of ancient blood. What light reached me now had to pass through the tangle of intervening buildings, an ordeal which seemed to sap it of any real enthusiasm for the task of illumination. The towers around me grew dark, until they really did look like enormous trees, and the tangled limbs of the Canopy, lit up with habitation, were like branches hung with lanterns and fairy-lights. It was both nightmarish and beautiful.

Finally one of those dangling lights detached itself like a falling star leaving the firmament, growing in intensity as it neared me. As my eyes readjusted to the night, I saw that the light was a descending cable-car, and that it was headed for the place where I stood.

Oblivious to the rain, I watched transfixed as the vehicle slowed and lowered itself almost to street level, the tensioning and detensioning cables singing above me. The vehicle’s single headlight panned across the rainswept road, heightening every crack in the surface, and then swept towards me.

Not far from my feet, something made the puddled water jump comically upwards.

And then I heard a gunshot.

I did what any ex-soldier would do under those circumstances: not stop to consider the situation, or determine the type and calibre of weapon being used against me, or the location of the shooter - or even pause to establish that I was really the target, and not just a hapless intercessionary.

I ran, very quickly, towards the shadowed base of the nearest building. I resisted the perfectly sensible flight reflex which told me to throw my suitcase away, knowing that without it, I would quickly sink into the anonymity of the Mulch. If I lost it, I might as well offer myself up to be shot.

The gunfire chased me.

I could tell from the way each shot landed a metre or so behind my heels that the person shooting at me was not lacking in skill. It would not have taxed them to kill me - they would have needed only to advance their line of fire fractionally, and I recognised that their marksmanship was more than sufficient. Instead, it suited them to play with me. They were in no hurry to execute me with a shot in the back, though it could have been achieved at any point.

I reached the building, my feet submerged in water. The structure was slab-sided; no little indentations or crannies in which I could secrete myself. The gunfire halted, but the ellipse of the spotlight remained steady, the shaft of harsh blue light making curtains of the rain between me and the cable-car.

A figure emerged from the darkness, clad in a greatcoat. At first I thought it was either the man or the woman I had spoken to earlier, but when the man emerged into the spotlight, I realised I hadn’t seen his face before. He was bald, with a jaw of almost cartoon squareness, and one of his eyes was lost behind a pulsing monocle.

‘Stand perfectly still,’ he said, ‘and you won’t be harmed.’ And his coat flapped apart to reveal a weapon, bulkier than the toy gun which the Canopy woman had carried, somehow more serious in intent. The gun consisted of a handled black rectangle, tipped with a quartet of dark nozzles. His knuckles were white around the grip, his forefinger caressing the trigger.

He fired from hip-height; something buzzed out of the gun towards me, like a laser beam. It connected with the side of the building with a fizzle of sparks. I started running, but his aim was surer the second time. I felt a stabbing pain in my thigh, and then suddenly I was no longer running. Suddenly I was doing nothing except screaming.

And then even screaming became too hard.

The medics had done very well, but no one could be expected to work miracles. The monitoring machines crowding around his father’s bed attested to that, voicing a slow and solemn liturgy of biological decline.

It was six months since the sleeper had awakened and injured Sky’s father, and it was to everyone’s credit that they had kept Titus Haussmann and his assailant alive until now. But with medical supplies and expertise stretched to breaking point, there had never really been any realistic prospect of nursing both of them back to health.

The recent series of disputes between the ships had certainly not assisted matters. The troubles had intensified a few weeks after the sleeper had awoken, when a spy had been discovered aboard the Brazilia. The security organisation had traced the agent back to the Baghdad, but the Baghdad’s administration had declared that the spy had never been born on their ship at all and had probably originated on the Santiago or the Palestine all along. Other individuals had been fingered as possible agents, and there had been cries of wrongful imprisonment and violations of Flotilla law. Normal relations had chilled to a frosty four-way standoff, and now there was almost no trade between the ships; no human traffic except for despondent diplomatic missions which always ended in failure and recrimination.

Against this backdrop, the requests for more medical supplies and knowledge to help nurse Sky’s father had been shrugged aside. It was not, they said, as if the other ships did not have crises of their own. And as head of security, Titus was not beyond suspicion of having instigated the spying incident in the first place.

Sorry, they had said. We’d like to help, we really would . . .

Now his father struggled to speak.

‘Schuyler . . .’ he said, his lips like a rip in parchment. ‘Schuyler? Is that you?’

‘I’m here, Dad. I never went away.’ He sat down on the bedside stool and studied the grey, grimacing shell that bore so little resemblance to the father he had known before the stabbing. This was not the Titus Haussmann who had been feared and loved in equal measure across the ship, and grudgingly respected throughout the Flotilla. This was not the man who had rescued him from the nursery during the blackout, nor the man who had taken his hand and escorted him to the taxi and out beyond the ship for the very first time, showing him the wonder and terror of his infinitely lonely home. This was not the caudillo who had gone into the berth ahead of his team, knowing full well that he might be walking into extreme danger. This was a faint impression of that man, like a rubbing taken off a statue. The features were there, and the proportions were accurate, but there was no depth. Rather than solidity, there was just a paper-thin layer.

‘Sky, about the prisoner.’ His father struggled to raise his head from the pillow. ‘Is he still alive?’

‘Just barely,’ Sky said. He had forced his way into the security team after his father had been injured. ‘Frankly, I don’t expect him to last much longer. His wounds were a lot worse than yours.’

‘But you managed to talk to him, anyway?’

‘We’ve got this and that out of him, yes.’ Sky sighed inwardly. He had told his father this much already, but either Titus was losing his memory or he wanted to hear it again.

‘What exactly did he tell you?’

‘Nothing we couldn’t have guessed for ourselves. We’re still not clear who put him aboard the ship, but it was almost certainly one of the factions they expected to cause some sort of trouble.’

His father raised a finger. ‘That weapon of his; the machinery built into his arm . . .’

‘Not as unusual as you’d think. There were apparently a lot of his kind around towards the end of the war. We were lucky they didn’t build a nuclear device into his arm - although that would have been a lot harder to hide, of course.’

‘Had he ever been human?’

‘We’ll probably never know. Some of his kind were engineered in labs. Others were adapted from prisoners or volunteers. They had brain surgery and psycho-conditioning so that they could be used as weapons of war by any interested power. They were like robots, except they were constructed largely of flesh and blood and had a limited capacity to empathise with other people, where and when it suited their operational needs. They could blend in quite convincingly, crack jokes and share in smalltalk, until they reached their target, at which point they’d flip back into mindless killer mode. Some of them had weapons grafted into them for specific jobs.’

‘There was a lot of metal in that forearm.’

‘Yes.’ Sky saw the point his father was making. ‘Too much for him to have made his way aboard without someone turning a blind eye. Which only proves that there was a conspiracy, which we as good as knew anyway.’

‘We found the only one, though.’

‘Yes.’ In the days after the attack, the other sleeping passengers had all been scanned for buried weaponry - the process had been difficult and dangerous - but nothing had been found. ‘Which shows how confident they must have been.’

‘Sky . . . did he say anything about why he did it, or why they made him do it?’

Sky raised an eyebrow. This line of questioning, admittedly, was new. His father had concentrated only on specifics before.

‘Well, he did mention something.’

‘Go on.’

‘It didn’t seem to make an awful lot of sense to me.’

‘Perhaps not, but I’d still like to hear it.’

‘He talked about a faction which had discovered something. He wouldn’t say who or what they were, or where they were based.’

His father’s voice was very weak now, but he still managed to ask, ‘And what exactly was it that they had discovered?’

‘Something ridiculous.’

‘Tell me what it was, Sky.’ His father paused. Sensing his thirst, Sky had the room’s robot administer a glass of water to the cracked gash of his lips.

‘He said there had been a breakthrough just before the Flotilla left the solar system - a scientific technique, in fact, which had been perfected towards the end of the war.’

‘And this was?’

‘Human immortality.’ Sky said the words carefully, as if they were imbued with magic potency and ought not be uttered casually. ‘He said that the faction had combined various procedures and lines of research pursued during the century, bringing them together to create a viable therapeutic treatment. They succeeded where others had failed, or had their work suppressed for political reasons. What they came up with was complicated, and it wasn’t simply a pill you took once and then forgot about.’

‘Go on,’ Titus said.

‘It was a whole phalanx of different techniques, some of them genetic, some of them chemical, some of them dependent on invisibly small machines. The whole thing was fantastically delicate and difficult to administer, and the treament needed to be applied regularly - but it was something that was capable of working, if done properly.’

‘And what did you think?’

‘I thought it was absurd, of course. Oh, I don’t deny that something like that might have been possible - but if there’d been that kind of breakthrough, wouldn’t everyone have known about it?’

‘Not necessarily. It was the end of a war, after all. The ordinary lines of communication were broken.’

‘Then you’re saying the faction might really have existed?’

‘Yes, I believe it did.’ His father paused, gathering his energies. ‘In fact, I know it did. I suspect most of what the Chimeric told you was true. The technique wasn’t magic - there were some diseases it couldn’t beat - but it was much better than anything evolution had given us. At best it would extend your lifespan to about one hundred and eighty years; two hundred in extreme cases - those were extrapolations, of course - but that didn’t matter; all that did was that you’d get a chance at staying alive until something better came along.’

He slumped back into his pillow, exhausted.

‘Who knew?’

His father smiled. ‘Who else? The wealthy. Those whom the war had been kind to. Those in the right places, or those who knew the right people.’

The next question was obvious and chilling. The Flotilla had been launched while the war was still in its end stages. Many of those who had obtained sleeper berths, in fact, had been seeking to escape what they saw as a ruined and dangerous system just waiting to slip into another fullscale bloodbath. But competition for those spaces had been immense, and although they had supposedly been allocated on the basis of merit, there must have been means for those with sufficient influence to get aboard. If Sky had ever doubted that, the presence of the saboteur proved it. Someone, somewhere, had pulled strings to get the Chimeric aboard.

‘All right. What about the sleepers? How many of them knew about the immortality breakthrough?’

‘All of them, Sky.’

He looked at his father lying there, wondering how close to death the man really was. He should have recovered from the stab wounds - the damage had not really been that great - but complications had set in: trivial infections which nonetheless lingered and spread. Once, the Flotilla’s medicine could have saved him, could have got him up on his feet in a matter of days with no more than a little discomfort. But now there was essentially nothing that could be done except to assist his own healing processes. And they were slowly losing the battle.

He thought of what Titus Haussmann had just said. ‘How many of them actually had the treatment, then?’

‘The same answer.’

‘All of them?’ He shook his head, almost not believing it. ‘All the sleepers we carry?’

‘Yes. With a few unimportant exceptions - those who chose not to undergo it, on ethical or medical grounds, for instance. But most of them did take the cure, shortly before coming aboard.’ His father paused again. ‘It’s the single biggest secret of my life, Sky. I’ve always known this - ever since my father told me, anyway. I didn’t find it any easier to take, believe me.’

‘How could you keep a secret like that?’

His father managed the faintest of shrugs. ‘It was part of my job.’

‘Don’t say that. It doesn’t excuse you. They betrayed us, didn’t they?’

‘That depends. Admittedly, they didn’t bestow their secret on the crew. But that was a form of kindness, I think.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Imagine if we’d been immortal. We’d have had to endure a century and a half of imprisonment aboard this thing. It would have driven us slowly mad. That was what they feared. Better to let the crew live out a normal lifespan, and then have another generation take over the reins.’

‘You call that kindness?’

‘Why not? Most of us don’t know any better, Sky. Oh, we serve the sleepers, but because we know that not all of them will wake up safely when we reach Journey’s End, it isn’t easy to feel too envious. And we have ourselves to look after, too. We run the ship for the sleepers, but also for ourselves.’

‘Yes. Very equitable. Knowing that they kept the secret of immortality from us does alter the relationship a smidgeon, you have to admit.’

‘Perhaps. That’s why I was always so careful to keep the secret from anyone else.’

‘But you just told me.’

‘You wanted to know if there was any truth to the saboteur’s story, didn’t you? Well, now you know.’ His father’s face grew momentarily serene, as if a great burden had been lifted from him. Sky thought for an instant that his father had slipped away from him, but shortly afterwards his eyes moved and he licked his lips to speak again. It was still an immense effort to talk at all. ‘And there was another reason, too . . . this is very hard, Sky. I’m not sure I’m doing the right thing by telling you.’

‘Why not let me be the judge of that.’

‘Very well. You may as well hear it now. I almost told you on countless other occasions, but never quite had the courage of my convictions. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, as they say.’

‘What little knowledge would that be, exactly?’

‘About your own status.’ He asked for more water before speaking again. Sky thought of the water in that glass; the molecules which were slipping between his father’s lips. Every drop of water on the ship was ultimately recycled, to be drunk again and again. In interstellar space there could be no wastage. At some point, months or years from now, Sky would drink some of the same water that was now bringing relief to his father.

‘My status?’

‘I’m afraid you’re not my son.’ He looked at him hard, as if waiting for Sky to crack under the revelation. ‘There, I’ve said it. No going back now. You’ll have to hear the rest of it.’

Maybe he was losing it faster than the machines had indicated, Sky thought. Slipping swiftly down into the lightless trench of dementia, his bloodstream poisoned, his brain grasping for oxygen.

‘I am your son.’

‘No. No; you’re not. I should know, Sky. I pulled you out of that sleeper berth.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘You were one of them - one of our momios; one of our sleepers.’

Sky nodded, accepting this truth instantly. On some level he knew that the normal reaction would have been disbelief, perhaps even anger, but he felt none of that; only a deep and calming sense of rightness.

‘How old was I?’

‘Barely a child, only a few days old when you were frozen. There were only a few others as young as you.’

He listened to his father - not his father - as he explained that Lucretia Haussmann - the woman Sky thought of as his mother - had given birth to a baby aboard the ship, but that the child, a boy, had died within hours. Distraught, Titus had kept the truth from Lucretia for hours, then days, stretching his ingenuity to the limit while she was kept as sedated as possible. Titus feared the truth would kill her if she found out; maybe not physically, but he worried that it would crush her spirit. She was one of the most loved women on the ship. Her loss would affect them all: a poison that might sour the general mood of the crew. They were a tiny community, after all. They all knew each other. The loss of a child would be a dreadful thing to bear.

So Titus conceived a terrible plan, one he would regret almost as soon as he had brought it to fruition. But by then it was much too late.

He stole a child from the sleepers. Children, it turned out, were far more tolerant of revival than adults - it was something to do with the ratio of body volume to surface - and there had been no serious problems in warming the selected child. He had picked one of the young ones, one that would pass as his dead son. He did not have to be too meticulous. Lucretia had not seen her own baby long enough to tell that any deception had taken place.

He put the dead child in its place, cooled the berth down again and then asked for forgiveness. By the time the dead child was discovered, he would be long dead himself. It would be a dreadful thing for the parents to wake to, but at least they would also be waking to a new world, with time enough to try for another child. It would not be the same for them as it would have been for Lucretia. And if it was . . . well, without this crime, things might deteriorate on the ship to the point where it never reached its destination. That was an extreme case, but it was not beyond the bounds of possibility. He had to believe that. Had to believe that in some way what he had done was for the greater good of them all.

A crime of love.

Of course, Titus could have accomplished none of this without help, but only a handful of his closest friends had ever known the truth, and they had all been good associates who had never again spoken of the matter. They were all dead now, Titus said.

That was why it was so necessary that he tell Sky now.

‘You understand?’ Titus asked. ‘When I always told you you were precious . . . ? That was the literal truth. You were the only immortal amongst us. That was why I raised you in isolation at first; why you spent so much time alone, in the nursery, away from the other children. Partly I wanted to shield you from infections - you were no less vulnerable than the other children, and you’re no less vulnerable now, as an adult. Mainly it was so that I could know for myself. I had to study your developmental curve. It’s slower for those who have had the treatment, Sky, and it keeps on flattening as you get older. You’re twenty now, but you could pass for a tall young man barely into his teens. By the time you’re thirty or forty, people will speak of you as someone with uncommonly youthful looks. But they won’t begin to guess the truth - not until you’re much, much older.’

‘I’m immortal?’

‘Yes. It changes everything, doesn’t it.’

Sky Haussmann rather had to admit that it did.

Later, when his father had fallen into one of the abyssal dreamless sleeps that was like an inevitable foreshadowing of his death, Sky visited the saboteur. The Chimeric prisoner lay on exactly the same kind of bed as his father, attended by machines, but there the similarities ended. The machines were observing the man, but he was strong enough not to need their direct assistance. Too strong, in fact - even after they had dug a magazine-load of slugs out of him. He was attached to the bed with plastic bonds, a broad hoop across his waist and legs, two smaller hoops anchoring his upper arms. He could move one forearm enough to touch his face, while the other arm, of course, had ended only in the weapon he had used to stab Titus. Even the weapon was gone now, the cyborg’s forearm ending in a neatly sewn stump. They had searched him for other kinds of weapon, but he carried no other concealed devices, except for the implants his masters had used to shape him to their goals.

In a way, the faction that had sent the infiltrator had been spectacularly unimaginative, Sky thought. They had placed too much emphasis on him being able to sabotage the ship, when a nice, easily transferred virus would have been just as effective. It might not have directly harmed the sleepers, but their chances of making it anywhere without a living crew would have been vanishingly small.

Which was not to say that the Chimeric might not still have its uses.

It was strange, infinitely so, to know that one was suddenly immortal. Sky did not concern himself with trifling matters of definition. It was true enough that he was not invulnerable, but with care and forethought he could minimise the risks to himself.

He took a step back from the killer’s bed. They thought they had the better of the saboteur, but one could never be entirely sure. Even though the monitors said the man was in a sleep at least as deep as his father’s, it paid not to take chances. They were engineered to deceive, these things. They could do inhuman tricks with their heartrate and neural activity. That one unbound forearm could have grabbed Sky by the throat and squeezed him until he died, or pulled him so close that the man could have eaten his face off.

Sky found a medical kit on the wall. He flipped it open, studied the neatly racked implements inside and then pulled out a scalpel, glistening with blue sterility in the room’s subdued lighting. He turned it this way and that, admiring the way the blade vanished as he turned it edge on.

It was a fine weapon, he thought; a thing of excellence.

With it he moved towards the saboteur.

SIXTEEN

‘He’s coming round,’ a voice said, crystallising my sluggish thoughts towards consciousness.

One of the things you learned as a soldier - at least on Sky’s Edge - was that not everyone who shot you necessarily wanted to kill you. At least not immediately. There were reasons for this, not all of them to do with the usual mechanics of hostage-taking. Memories could be trawled from captured soldiers without the crudities of torture - all it required was the kind of neural-imaging technology which Ultras could supply, at a price, and for there to be something worth learning in the first place. Intelligence, in other words - the kind of operational knowledge which soldiers must know if they are to have any value at all.

But it had never happened to me. I had been shot at, and hit, but on all the occasions when it happened, no one had been intending that I live, for even the relatively short length of time that it would take to winnow my memories. I had never been captured by the enemy, and so had never had the dubious pleasure of waking to find myself in anything other than safe hands.

Now, though, I was learning exactly how it felt.

‘Mister Mirabel? Are you awake?’ Someone wiped something soft and cold across my face. I opened my eyes and squinted against light, which was painfully bright after my period of unconsciousness.

‘Where am I?’

‘Somewhere safe.’

I looked around blearily. I was in a chair at the high end of a long sloping room. On either side of me the fluted metal walls angled downwards, as if I were descending an escalator down a gently angled tunnel. The walls were punctured by oval windows, but I couldn’t see much except darkness ribboned with long chains of tangled fairy-lights. I was high above the surface of the city, then almost certainly in some part of the Canopy. The floor consisted of a series of horizontal surfaces which descended towards the low end of the room, which must have been fifteen metres away and two or three metres below me. They looked like they’d been added on afterwards, as if the room’s slope was not quite intentional.

I wasn’t alone, of course.

The square-jawed man with the monocle was standing next to me, one hand toying with his chin, as if he needed to keep reminding himself of its magnificant rectilinearity. In his other hand was a limp flannel, the means by which I had been so gently assisted towards consciousness.

‘I’ve got to hand it to you,’ the man said. ‘I miscalculated the dose in that stun beam. It would have killed some people, and I expected you to be out cold for a good few hours more.’ Then he placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘But you’re fine, I think. A pretty strong fellow. You’ll have to accept my apologies - it won’t happen again, I assure you.’

‘You’d better not do it again,’ said the woman who had just stepped into my field of vision. I recognised her, of course - and her companion, who hove into view on my right, pushing a cigarette to his lips. ‘You’re getting sloppy, Waverly. This man must have thought you were planning to kill him.’

‘That wasn’t the idea?’ I said, finding that I sounded nowhere near as slurred as I had been expecting.

Waverly shook his head gravely. ‘Not at all. I was doing my best to save your life, Mister Mirabel.’

‘You’ve got a pretty funny way of going about it.’

‘I had to act quickly. You were about to be ambushed by a group of pigs. Do you know about pigs, Mister Mirabel? You probably don’t want to. They’re one of the less salubrious immigrant groups we’ve had to deal with since the fall of the Glitter Band. They had arranged a tripwire across the roadway connected to a crossbow. Normally they don’t stalk anyone until later in the evening, but they must have been hungry tonight.’

‘What did you shoot me with?’

‘Like I said, a stun beam. Quite a humane weapon, really. The laser beam is only a precursor - it establishes an ionised path through the air, down which a paralysing electrical flux can be discharged.’

‘It’s still painful.’

‘I know, I know.’ He raised his hands defensively. ‘I’ve taken a few hits myself. I’m afraid I had it calibrated to stun a pig, rather than a human. But perhaps it was for the best. You’d have resisted me if I hadn’t put you under so comprehensively, I suspect.’

‘Why did you save me, anyway?’

He looked put out. ‘It was the decent thing to do, I’d have thought.’

Now the woman spoke. ‘At first I misjudged you, Mister Mirabel. You put me on edge and I didn’t trust you completely.’

‘All I did was ask for some advice.’

‘I know - the fault’s all mine. But we’re all so nervous these days. After we’d left, I felt bad about it and told Waverly to keep an eye on you. Which is what he did.’

‘An eye, yes, Sybilline,’ Waverly said.

‘And where would here happen to be?’ I said.

‘Show him, Waverly. He must want to stretch his legs by now.’

I’d half expected to have been secured to the chair, but I was free to move. Waverly offered me a supporting arm while I tested the usefulness of my legs. The muscle in the leg where the beam had touched still felt like jelly, but it was just about able to support me. I stepped past the woman, descending the series of level surfaces until I’d reached the lowest part of the room. At that end there was a pair of double doors which opened onto the night air. Waverly led me out onto a sloping balcony, bounded by a metal railing. Warm air slapped against my face.

I looked back. The balcony surrounded the building where I had awoken, rising up on either side of it. But the building wasn’t really a building.

It was the gondola of an airship, tipped up at an angle. Above us, the craft’s gasbag was a dark mass pinned between branches of the Canopy. The airship must have been trapped here when the plague hit, caught like a balloon in a tree. The gasbag was so impermeable that it was still fully inflated, seven years after the plague. But it was crimped and distorted by the pressure of the branches which had formed around it, and I couldn’t help wondering how strong it really was - and what would happen to the gondola if the bag was punctured.

‘It must have happened really fast,’ I said, having visions of the airship trying to steer itself out of the path of the malforming building.

‘Not that quickly,’ Waverly said, as if I’d said something deeply foolish. ‘This was a sightseeing airship - there were dozens of them, back in the old days. When the trouble came, no one was much interested in sightseeing anymore. They left the airship moored here while the building grew around it, but it still took a day or so for the branches to trap it completely.’

‘And now you live in it?’

‘Well, not exactly. It isn’t all that safe, really. That’s why we don’t have to worry too much about anyone else paying us any attention.’

Behind, the door swung open again and the woman emerged. ‘An unorthodox place to wake you, I admit.’ She joined Waverly next to the railing, leaning bravely over the edge. It must have been an easy kilometre to the ground. ‘But it does have its uses, discretion being one of them. Now then, Mister Mirabel. I expect you are in need of some good food and hospitality - am I right?’

I nodded, thinking that if I stayed with these people, they might provide a means for me to enter the Canopy proper. That was the rational argument for agreeing. The other part was born out of sheer relief and gratitude and the fact that I was as tired and hungry as she probably imagined.

‘I don’t want to impose.’

‘Nonsense. I did you a great disservice in the Mulch, and then Waverly rather compounded the error with his ham-fisted stun setting - didn’t you, Waverly? Well, we’ll say no more of it - provided you do us the honour of providing you with a little food and rest.’ The woman took something black out of a pocket, folding it open and elongating an aerial before speaking into it. ‘Darling? We’re ready now. We’ll meet at the high end of the gondola.’

She snapped the telephone shut and pushed it back into her pocket.

We walked around the side of the gondola, using the railing to haul our way up the slope without slipping. At the highest point the railing had been cut away so that there was nothing between me and the ground except a lot of air. Waverly and Sybilline - if that was her name - could have easily pushed me over the edge had either of them meant me any harm, especially in my generally disorientated state. More than that, they’d had plenty of opportunities to do it before I woke up.

‘Here he comes,’ Waverly said, pointing under the sagging curve of the gasbag. I watched a cable-car descend into view. It looked a lot like the one I’d first seen Sybilline in, but I wasn’t pretending to be an expert just yet. The car’s arms grasped threads entangled around the gasbag, tugging the blimp out of shape, but managing not to puncture it. The car came close, its door opening and a ramp extending out to bridge the gap to the gondola.

‘After you, Tanner,’ Sybilline said.

I crossed the bridge. It was only a step of a metre or so, but there was no protection on either side and it took an effort of nerve to make the crossing. Sybilline and Waverly followed me blithely. Living in the Canopy must have given everyone an inhuman head for heights.

There were four seats in the rear compartment and a windowed partition between us and the driver. Before the window was closed, I saw that the driver was the high-cheekboned, grey-eyed man who had been with Sybilline earlier.

‘Where are you taking me?’ I said.

‘To eat? Where else?’ Sybilline placed a hand on my forearm, trustingly. ‘The best place in the city, Tanner. Certainly the place with the best view.’

A night-time flight across Chasm City. With only the lights to trace the geometry of the city, it was almost possible to pretend that the plague hadn’t happened. The shapes of the buildings were lost in the darkness, except where the upper branches were picked out by tentacles and star-streams of glowing windows, or the neon scribbles of advertisements whose meaning I couldn’t fathom, spelt in the cryptic ideograms of Canasian. Now and then we would pass one of the older buildings that hadn’t been affected by the plague, standing stiff and regular amongst the changed ones. More often than not those buildings were still damaged, even if they hadn’t been caused to physically mutate. Other adjacent structures had thrust limbs through their neighbours, or undermined their foundations. Some had wrapped themselves around other buildings like strangler vines. There had been fires, explosions and riots during the days of the plague, and very little had emerged from those times completely unscathed.

‘You see that one?’ Sybilline said, drawing my attention to a pyramid-shape which was more or less intact. It was a very low structure, almost lost in the Mulch, but it was picked out by searchlights arcing down from above. ‘That’s the Monument to the Eighty. I assume you know the story?’

‘Not in any detail.’

‘It was a long time ago. This man tried to scan people into computers, but the technology wasn’t mature. They were killed by the scanning process, which was bad enough, but then the simulations started to go wrong. There were eighty of them, including the man himself. When it was all over, when most of them had failed, their families had that monument built. But it’s seen better days now.’

‘Like the whole city,’ Waverly said.

We continued across town. Travelling by cable-car took a little getting used to, as my stomach was discovering. When the car was passing through a place where there were many threads, the ride was almost as smooth and level as a volantor. But as soon as the threads started to thin out - as the car traversed the parts of the Canopy where there were no major branches, for instance - the trajectory became a lot less crowlike and a lot more gibbonlike: wide, stomach-churning arcs punctuated by jolts of upwards thrust. It should have felt very natural, given that the human brain was supposed to have evolved for exactly this kind of arboreal living.

But that was a few too many million years ago for me.

Eventually the cable-car’s sickening arcs took us down towards ground level. I remembered Quirrenbach telling me the locals referred to the city’s great merged dome as the Mosquito Net, and here it reached down until it touched the ground near the chasm’s rim. In this inner perimeter region the vertical stratification of the city was less pronounced. There was an intermingling of Canopy and Mulch, an indeterminate zone where the Mulch reached up to brush the underneath of the dome, and places where the Canopy forced itself underground, into armoured plazas where the wealthy could walk unmolested.

It was into one of those enclaves that Sybilline’s driver took us, dropping the cable-car’s undercarriage and steering the craft onto a landing deck where other cars were parked. The edge of the dome was a sloping stained-brown wall leaning over us like a breaking wave. Through the parts which were still more or less transparent, the huge wide maw of the chasm was visible; the city on the other side of it only a distant forest of twinkling lights.

‘I’ve called ahead and booked us a table at the stalk,’ said the man with the iron-grey eyes, stepping out of the car’s driving compartment. ‘Word is Voronoff’s going to be eating there tonight, so the place is pretty packed.’

‘I’m pleased,’ Sybilline said. ‘You can always rely on Voronoff to add a little gloss to the evening.’ Casually she opened a compartment in the side of the car and pulled out a black purse, opening it to reveal little vials of Dream Fuel and one of the ornate wedding-guns I’d seen aboard the Strelnikov.

She tugged down her collar and pressed the gun against her neck, gritting her teeth as she shunted a cubic centimetre of the dark red fluid into her bloodstream. Then she passed the gun to her partner, who injected himself before returning the baroquely ornamented instrument to Sybilline.

‘Tanner?’ she said. ‘Do you want a spike?’

‘I’ll pass,’ I said.

‘Fine.’ She folded the kit away in the compartment as if what had taken place was of no particular consequence.

We left the car and walked across the landing deck to a sloping ramp which led down into a brightly lit plaza. It was a lot less squalid than any part of the city I’d seen so far: clean, cool and packed with wealthy-looking people, palanquins, servitors and bio-engineered animals. Music pulsed from the walls, which were tuned to show city scenes from before the plague. A strange, spindly robot made its way down the thoroughfare, towering over people on its bladelike legs. It was made entirely out of sharp, gleaming surfaces, like a collection of enchanted swords.

‘That’s one of Sequard’s automata,’ said the man with the iron-grey eyes. ‘He used to work in the Glitter Band, one of the leading figures in the Gluonist Movement. Now he makes these things. They’re very dangerous, so watch out.’

We stepped gingerly around the machine, avoiding the slow arcs of its lethal limbs. ‘I don’t think I caught your name,’ I said to the man.

He looked at me oddly, as if I’d just asked him his shoe-size.

‘Fischetti.’

We made our way down the thoroughfare, bypassing another automaton much like the first one, except this robot had distinct red stains on some of its limbs. Then we passed over a series of ornamental ponds where plump gold and silver koi were mouthing near the surface. I tried to work out where we were. We’d landed near the chasm and had been walking all the time towards it, but it had appeared much closer to begin with.

Finally the thoroughfare widened out into a huge domed chamber, large enough for the hundred or so dining tables it must have contained. The place was nearly full. I even saw a few palanquins parked around one table which had been neatly set out for diners, but I couldn’t see how they were going to eat. A series of steps led down to the chamber’s glass floor, and then we were escorted to a vacant table at the edge of the room, next to one of the huge windows set into the chamber’s midnight blue dome. An astonishingly intricate chandelier hung from the dome’s apex.

‘Like I said, best view in Chasm City,’ Sybilline said.

I could see where we were now. The restaurant was at one end of a stalk which emerged from the side of the chasm, fifty or sixty metres from the top. The stalk must have been a kilometre long, as thin and brittle-looking as a sliver of blown glass. It was supported at the chasm end by a bracket of filigreed crystal; the effect of which was to make the rest of it look even more perilous.

Sybilline passed me a menu. ‘Choose what you like, Tanner - or let me choose for you, if you aren’t familiar with our cuisine. I won’t let you leave here without a good meal.’

I looked at the prices, wondering if my eye was adding a zero or two to each figure. ‘I can’t pay for this.’

‘No one’s asking you to. This is one we all owe you.’

I made some choices, consulted with Sybilline and then sat back and waited for the food. I felt out of place, of course - but then again, I was hungry, and by staying with these people I’d learn a lot more about Canopy life. Luckily I wasn’t required to make smalltalk. Sybilline and Fischetti were talking about other people, occasionally spotting someone across the room whom they pointed out discreetly. Waverly butted in now and again with an observation, but at no point was my opinion solicited except out of occasional politeness.

I looked around the room, sizing up the clientèle. Even the people who had reshaped their bodies and faces looked beautiful, like charismatic actors wearing animal costumes. Sometimes it was just the colour of their skin that they had changed, but in others their whole physiology had been shifted towards some lean animal ideal. I saw a man with elaborate striped spines radiating from his forehead, sitting next to a woman whose enlarged eyes were periodically veiled behind iridescent lids patterned like moth’s wings. There was an otherwise normal-looking man whose mouth opened to reveal a forked black tongue which he stuck out at every opportunity, as if tasting the air. There was a slender, nearly-naked woman covered in black and white stripes. She caught my eye for an instant and I suspect she would have held her gaze had I not looked away.

Instead I looked down into the steaming depths of the chasm beneath us, my sense of vertigo slowly abating. Though it was night-time, there was a ghostly reflected glow of the city all around us. We were a kilometre out from one wall, but the chasm was easily fifteen or twenty kilometres wide, the other side appearing just as distant as it had from the landing deck. The walls were mostly sheer, except for occasional narrow natural ledges where rock had fallen away from the sides. Sometimes there were buildings set into the ledges, connected to the higher levels by elevator tubes or enclosed walkways. There was no sign of the bottom of the chasm; the walls rose from a placid white cloud layer which hid the lower depths completely. Pipes stretched down into the mist, reaching towards the atmospheric processing machinery which I knew to be down there. The hidden machines supplied Chasm City with power, air and water, and were robust enough to have continued functioning even after the plague had hit.

I could see luminous things flying down in the depths, tiny bright triangles of colour. ‘Gliders,’ Sybilline said, watching my gaze. ‘It’s an old sport. I used to do it, but the thermals are insane near the walls. And the amount of breathing gear you have to wear . . .’ She shook her head. ‘The worst thing is the mist, though. You get a speed buzz from flying just above the mist level, but as soon as you drop into it, you lose all sense of direction. If you’re lucky, you head upwards and you make clear air before you run into the wall. If you’re not, you think down is up and you head into higher and higher pressure until you cook yourself alive. Or you get to add some interesting new coloration to the side of the chasm.’

‘Radar doesn’t work in the mist?’

‘It does - but that wouldn’t make it any fun, would it?’

The food came. I ate cautiously, not wanting to make an exhibition of myself. It was good, too. Sybilline said the best food was still grown in orbit and shipped down by behemoth. That explained the extra zeroes after almost every item.

‘Look,’ Waverly said, when we were on the final course. ‘That’s Voronoff, isn’t it?’

He was pointing discreetly across the room to where a man had just stood up from one of the tables.

‘Yes,’ Fischetti said, with a smile of self-congratulation. ‘I knew he’d be here somewhere.’

I looked at the man they were talking about. He was probably one of the least ostentatious people in the room, a small, immaculate-looking man with neatly curled black hair and the pleasingly neutral face of a mime artist.

‘Who is he?’ I said. ‘I’ve heard of him, but I’m not sure where.’

‘Voronoff’s a celebrity,’ Sybilline said. She was touching my arm again, divulging another confidence. ‘He’s a hero to some of us. He’s one of the oldest postmortals. He’s done everything; mastered every game.’

‘He’s some kind of game player?’

‘More than that,’ Waverly said. ‘He’s into every extreme situation you can imagine. He makes the rules; the rest of us just follow.’

‘I hear he’s got something planned for tonight,’ said Fischetti.

Sybilline clapped her hands together. ‘A mist jump?’

‘I think our luck could be in. Why else would he come here to eat? He must be bored shitless of the view.’

Voronoff was walking away from his table, accompanied by a man and a woman who had been sitting with him. Everyone in the room was watching them now, sensing that something was about to happen. Even the palanquins had turned.

I watched the three of them leave the room, but the air of anticipation remained. After a few minutes I understood why: Voronoff and the others had appeared on a ring-shaped balcony around the outside of the restaurant, encircling its dome. They were wearing protective clothes and masks, their faces almost hidden.

‘Are they going to fly gliders?’ I said.

‘No,’ Sybilline answered. ‘That’s entirely passé as far as Voronoff’s concerned. A mist jump’s something much, much more dangerous.’

Now they were fitting glowing harnesses around their waists. I strained to get a better view. Each harness was attached to a coiled line of rope, the other end of which was anchored to the side of the dome. By now half the diners had crowded over to this side of the restaurant for a better view.

‘You see that coil?’ Sybilline said. ‘It’s up to each jumper to calculate the length and elasticity of their line. Then they have to time the moment that they jump, based on their knowledge of the thermals in the chasm. See how they’re paying close attention to what the gliders are doing, down below?’

That was when the woman jumped over the edge. She must have decided that the moment was right for her leap.

Through the floor I watched her drop, dwindling to a tiny human speck as she fell towards the mist. The coil was almost invisibly thin as she dragged it behind her.

‘What’s the idea?’ I said.

‘It’s supposed to be pretty exciting,’ Fischetti said. ‘But the real trick is to fall enough to enter the mist; to disappear completely from view. But you don’t want to fall too much. And even if you calculate the right length of line, you can still get creamed by thermals.’

‘She’s misjudged,’ Sybilline said. ‘Oh, silly girl. She’s getting sucked closer and closer to that outcrop.’

I watched the glowing dot of the falling woman ram against the side of the chasm. There was a moment of stunned silence in the restaurant, as if the unspeakable had happened. I was expecting the silence to be broken by a cries of horror and pity. Instead there was a polite round of applause and some muted sounds of commiseration.

‘I could have told her that was going to happen,’ Sybilline said.

‘Who was she?’ Fischetti said.

‘I don’t know, Olivia something or other.’ Sybilline picked up the menu again and began scanning the desserts.

‘Careful, you’ll miss the next one. I think it’s going to be Voronoff . . . yes!’ Fischetti hammered the table as his hero stepped off the balcony and dropped gracefully towards the mist. ‘See how cool he was? That’s class, that is.’

Voronoff fell like an expert swimmer, his line as straight and true as if he were plunging through vacuum. It was all a matter of timing, I could see: he’d waited for the exact moment when the thermals would behave the way he wanted, working with him rather than against him. As he fell deeper it was almost as if they were nudging him helpfully away from the chasm walls. A screen in the middle of the room was relaying a side-on image of Voronoff, captured by what must have been a flying camera chasing him down the chasm. Other diners were following his trajectory with opera glasses, telescopic monocles and elegant lorgnette binoculars.

‘Is there a point to this?’ I said.

‘Risk,’ Sybilline said. ‘And the thrill of doing something new and dangerous. If there’s one thing the plague’s given us, it’s that: the opportunity to test ourselves; to stare death in the face. Biological immortality won’t help you much if you’ve just hit a rockface at two hundred kilometres per hour.’

‘Why do they do it, though? Doesn’t potential immortality make your lives all the more precious?’

‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean we still don’t need to be reminded of death now and then. What’s the point of beating an old enemy if you deny yourself the thrill of ever remembering what it was like in the first place? Victory loses its meaning without the memory of what you’ve vanquished.’

‘But you could die.’

She looked up from the menu. ‘All the more reason not to cock up your timing, then.’

Voronoff was nearing the end of his fall. I could barely see him now.

‘He’s picking up tension now,’ Fischetti said. ‘Beginning to slow down. See how beautifully he’s timed it?’

The line was stretched almost to its limit, now starting to arrest Voronoff’s fall. But his timing was as good as his admirers had evidently been expecting. He disappeared for three or four seconds, vanishing into the whiteness before the coil began to contract, hauling him back upwards towards us.

‘Textbook,’ Sybilline said.

There was more applause, but in contrast to before, this time it was wildly enthusiastic. People began to hammer their cutlery in appreciation of Voronoff’s fall. ‘You know what?’ Waverly said. ‘Now that he’s mastered mist-jumping, he’ll get bored and try something else even more insanely dangerous. You mark my words.’

‘There goes the other one,’ Sybilline said, as the last jumper stepped from the balcony. ‘Timing looks good - better than the woman’s, anyway. You’d have thought he’d have the decency to let Voronoff come back up first, wouldn’t you?’

‘How will he get back up?’ I said.

‘He’ll haul himself up. There’s some kind of motorised winch in his harness.’

I watched the last jumper plummet into the depths. To my untrained eye the jump looked at least as good as Voronoff’s - the thermals didn’t seem to be steering the man towards the sides, and his posture as he dropped looked amazingly balletic. The crowd had quietened down now and were watching the fall intently.

‘Well, he’s no amateur,’ Fischetti said.

‘He just copied Voronoff’s timing,’ Sybilline said. ‘I was watching the way the vortex affected the gliders.’

‘You can’t blame him for that. You don’t get marks for originality, you know.’

He dropped further still, his harness a glowing green dot receding towards the mist. ‘Wait,’ Waverly said, pointing to the uncoiling line on the balcony. ‘He should have run out of line by now, shouldn’t he?’

‘Voronoff had by this point,’ Sybilline agreed.

‘Silly fool’s given himself too much,’ Fischetti said. He took a sip from his wine glass and studied the depths with renewed interest. ‘It’s reached the limit now, but it’s much too late.’

He was right. By the time the glowing green dot reached the level of the mist, it was falling almost as quickly as ever. The screen showed a last side-on view of him vanishing into the whiteness, and then there was only the taut filament of his line. Seconds passed - first the three or four that Voronoff had taken before emerging, and then ten . . . and then twenty. By thirty seconds people were beginning to get a little uncomfortable. Obviously they had seen this sort of thing happen before and had some idea of what to expect.

Nearly a minute passed before the man emerged.

I’d already been told what happened to glider pilots who went too deep, but I hadn’t imagined it could be that bad. But the man had gone very far into the mist. The pressure and temperature had been too much for the flimsy protection of his suit. He had died: boiled alive within a few seconds. The camera lingered on his corpse, lovingly mapping the horror of what had happened to him. I felt revolted and looked away from the image. I’d seen some bad things during my years as a soldier, but never while sitting at a table digesting a large and luxurious meal.

Sybilline shrugged. ‘Well, he should have used a shorter line.’

Afterwards we walked back across the stalk to the landing deck where Sybilline’s cable-car was still waiting.

‘Well, Tanner, where can we take you?’ she said.

I wasn’t exactly enjoying their company, I had to admit. It had begun badly and though I was grateful for the sight-seeing trip to the stalk, the cold way they had responded to the deaths of the mist-jumpers had left me wondering whether I wouldn’t have been better off with the pigs they had mentioned.

But I couldn’t throw away a chance like this. ‘I take it you’re heading back to the Canopy at some point?’

She looked pleased. ‘If you want to come with us, it’s absolutely no problem. In fact, I insist on it.’

‘Well, don’t feel any obligation. You’ve been generous enough as it is. But if it won’t inconvenience you . . .’

‘Not at all. Get in the car.’

The vehicle opened before me, Fischetti getting in the driver’s compartment and the rest of us in the back. We lofted; the cable-car’s motion began to feel familiar, if not actually comfortable. The ground dropped away quickly; we reached the interstices of the Canopy and settled into a semi-regular rhythm as the car picked its route along one of the main cable ways.

That was when I started to think I really should have taken my chances with the pigs.

‘Well, Tanner - did you enjoy your meal?’ Sybilline asked.

‘Like you said, it’s a hell of a view.’

‘Good. You needed the energy. Or at least you will need it.’ Deftly, she reached into a compartment set into the car’s plush and pulled out a nasty little gun. ‘Well, to state the obvious, this is a weapon and I’m pointing it at you.’

‘Ten out of ten for observation.’ I looked at the gun. It appeared to be made out of jade and was embossed with red demons. It had a small, dark maw and she was holding it very steadily.

‘The point being,’ Sybilline continued, ‘that you shouldn’t think of doing anything untoward.’

‘If you wanted to kill me, you could have done it dozens of times already.’

‘Yes. But there’s just one flaw in your thinking. We do want to kill you. Just not in any old manner.’

I should have felt immediate fear as soon as she pulled out the gun, but there’d been a delay of a few seconds while my mind assimilated the situation and decided it was probably just as bad as it appeared.

‘What are you going to do to me?’

Sybilline nodded at Waverly. ‘Can you do it here?’

‘I’ve got the tools, but I’d far rather do it back at the airship.’ Waverly nodded at her. ‘You can keep that gun pointed until then, can’t you?’

I asked what they were going to do to me again, but all of a sudden no one seemed very interested in what I had to say. I’d walked into big trouble, that much was obvious. Waverly’s story of shooting me to protect me from the pigs hadn’t ever sounded more than halfway convincing, but who had I been to argue? I’d kept telling myself that if they had wanted me dead . . .

Nice line. But like Sybilline had said, there was a certain flaw in my thinking . . .

It didn’t take very long to reach the trapped airship. As we swung up towards it I had an excellent view of the imprisoned craft, suspended precariously high above the city. There were no Canopy lights anywhere near it, no signs of habitation in the branches that supported it. I remembered what they had said about it being nice and discreet.

We landed. By then Waverly had found a gun as well, and when I stepped onto the connecting ramp which led to the gondola, Fischetti was covering me with a third. About the only thing I could have done was jump over the side.

But I wasn’t that desperate. Not yet.

Inside the gondola, I was escorted back to the chair where I had woken up only a couple of hours earlier. This time Waverly strapped me into the seat.

‘Well, get on with it,’ Sybilline said, standing with her hip to one side with the gun held in one hand like a chic cigarette holder. ‘It isn’t brain surgery, you know.’

She laughed.

Waverly spent the next few minutes circumnavigating my chair, emitting odd grunts which might have indicated distaste. Now and then he touched my scalp, examining it with gentle fingers. Then, seemingly satisfied, he retrieved some equipment from somewhere behind me. Whatever it was looked medical.

‘What are you going to do?’ I asked, trying again to get a response out of them. ‘You won’t get far by torturing me, if that’s what you’ve got in mind.’

‘You think I’m going to torture you?’ Waverly had one of the medical devices in his hand now, an intricate probe-like thing fashioned from chrome and inset with blinking status lights. ‘It would amuse me, I admit. I’m a colossal sadist. But aside from my own self-gratification, it would serve no purpose. We’ve trawled your memories, so we know all that you’d tell us under pain.’

‘You’re bluffing.’

‘No, we’re not. Did we have to ask you your name? No, we didn’t. But we knew you were called Tanner Mirabel, didn’t we?’

‘You know I’m telling the truth, in that case. I have nothing to offer you.’

He leaned closer to me, his lens clicking and whirring as it absorbed visual data across an unguessable spread of the spectrum. ‘We don’t really know what to know, Mister Mirabel. Assuming that’s really your name. It’s all so very foggy in there, you see. Confused memory traces - whole swathes of your past which we just can’t access. You’ll understand that this does not put us in the best possible frame of mind to trust you. I mean, you accept that this is a reasonable response, don’t you?’

‘I’ve only just been revived.’

‘Ah, yes - and the Ice Mendicants normally do such a marvellous job, don’t they? But in your case not even their artistry could restore the whole.’

‘Are you working for Reivich?’

‘I doubt it. I’ve never heard of him.’ He glanced at Sybilline, as if seeking her opinion on the matter. She did her best to mask it, but I saw the way she pulled the facial equivalent of a shrug; a momentary widening of the eyes as if to say that she hadn’t heard of Reivich either.

It looked genuine, too.

‘All right,’ Waverly said. ‘I think I can do this nice and cleanly. It helps that there aren’t any other implants in his head to get in the way.’

‘Just do it,’ Sybilline said. ‘We haven’t got all damned night.’

He held the surgical device against the side of my skull, so that I could feel its cold pressure against my skin. I heard a click as he pulled a trigger—

SEVENTEEN

The head of security stood before his prisoner, studying him as a sculptor might study a roughly hewn work in progress; satisfied with the effort that had already taken place, but acutely aware of all the labour that lay ahead. Much remained to be done, but he promised himself that there would be no errors.

Sky Haussmann and the saboteur were almost alone. The torture room was in a distant and largely forgotten annexe of the ship, accessible only by one of the train routes which everyone else assumed was disused. Sky had outfitted the room and its surrounding chambers himself, equipping it with pressure and heat by tapping into the ship’s lymphatic system of supply lines. In principle, a detailed audit of power/air consumption might have revealed the room’s existence, but, as a possible security issue, the matter would only have been referred to Sky himself. It had never happened; he doubted that it ever would.

The prisoner was splayed before him on one wall, anchored there and surrounded by machines. Neural lines plunged into the man’s skull, interfacing with the control implants buried in his brain. Those implants were exceedingly crude, even by Chimeric standards, but they did their job. They were mainly webbed into the regions of the temporal lobe associated with deep religious experience. Epileptics had long reported feelings of divinity when intense electrical activity flickered across those regions; all the implants did was subject the saboteur to mild and controllable versions of the same religious impulses. It was probably how his old masters had controlled him, and how he had been able to give himself up so selflessly to their suicidal cause.

Now Sky controlled him via the same devotional channels.

‘Do you know, no one ever mentions you these days,’ Sky said.

The saboteur offered him bloodshot crescent eyes beneath heavy lids. ‘What?’

‘It’s as if the rest of the ship has decided to quietly forget that you ever existed. How exactly does it feel, to have been erased from the public record?’

‘You remember me.’

‘Yes.’ Sky nodded towards the pale aerodynamic shape which floated at the other end of the room, cased in armoured green glass. ‘And so does he. But that’s not saying much, is it? To be remembered only by your tormentors?’

‘It’s better than nothing.’

‘They suspect, of course.’ He thought of Constanza, the only serious thorn in his side. ‘Or at least they used to, when they gave the matter any thought. After all, you did kill my father. I’d be perfectly within my moral rights to torture you, wouldn’t I?’

‘I didn’t kill . . .’

‘Oh, but you did.’ Sky smiled. He was standing at the lashed-up control panel which allowed him to talk to the saboteur’s implants, idly fingering the chunky black knobs and glass-panelled analogue dials. He had built the machine himself, scavenging its components from across the ship, and had given it the name God-Box. That was what it was, ultimately: an instrument for placing God inside the killer’s head. In the early days he had used it solely to inflict pain, but - once he had smashed the infiltrator’s personality - he had begun to reconstruct it towards his own ideal, via controlled doses of neural ecstasy. At the moment only the tiniest trace of current was dribbling into the man’s temporal lobe, and in this null state his feelings towards Sky bordered on agnosticism rather than awe.

‘I don’t remember what I did,’ the man said.

‘No, I don’t suppose you do. Shall I remind you?’

The saboteur shook his head. ‘Perhaps I did kill your father. But someone must have given me the means to do so. Someone must have cut my restraints and left that knife by my bed.’

‘It was a scalpel, an infinitely finer thing.’

‘You’d know, of course.’

Sky turned one of the black knobs a couple of notches higher, watching as the analogue dials quivered. ‘Why would I have given you the means to kill my own father? I’d have had to be insane.’

‘He was dying anyway. You hated him for what he had done to you.’

‘And how would you know?’

‘You told me, Sky.’

That, of course, was entirely possible. It was amusing to push the man to the desperate, bowel-loosening edge of total fear, and to then relent. He could do that with the machine if he wished, or just by unwrapping some surgical tools and showing them to the prisoner.

‘He didn’t do anything to me to make me hate him.’

‘No? That’s not what you said before. You were the son of immortals, after all. If Titus hadn’t meddled - hadn’t stolen you from them - you’d still be sleeping with the other passengers.’ In his subtly archaic accent he continued, ‘Instead you’ll spend years of your life in this miserable place, growing older, risking death each day, never knowing for sure if you’ll make it to Journey’s End. What if Titus was wrong, too? What if you aren’t immortal? It’ll be years before you can be certain.’

Sky turned the knob higher. ‘Do you think I look my age?’

‘No . . .’ He watched the saboteur’s lower lip tremble with the first unmistakable signs of ecstasy. ‘But that could just be good genes.’

‘I’ll take my chances.’ He pushed the current higher. ‘I could have tortured you, you know.’

‘Ahh . . . I know. Oh God, I know.’

‘But I chose not to. Are you feeling a reasonably intense religious experience now?’

‘Yes. I feel I’m in the presence of something . . . something . . . ahhh. Jesus. I can’t talk now.’ The man’s face rippled in an inhuman manner. There were twenty additional facial muscles anchored to his skull, capable of dramatically altering his appearance when the need arose. Sky assumed that he had transformed his face to slip aboard the ship in place of the man who should have had his sleeper berth. Now he mirrored Sky, the artificial muscles twitching involuntarily to this new configuration. ‘It’s too beautiful.’

‘Are you seeing bright lights yet?’

‘I can’t talk.’

Sky turned the knob up another few notches, until it was near the end of its range. The analogue dials were nearly all full-over. But not quite, and because they were logarithmically calibrated, that last twitch could mean the difference between a feeling of intense spirituality and a full-on vision of heaven and hell. He had never taken the prisoner to that plateau yet, and he was not entirely sure he wanted to risk it.

He stepped away from the machine and approached the saboteur. Behind him Sleek quivered in his tank, waves of anticipation running up and down the dolphin’s body. The man was drooling, losing basic muscular control. His face had melted now, the muscles sagging hopelessly. Sky took the man’s head in his hands and forced him to look at his own face. He could almost feel a tingling in his fingers from the current worming into the man’s skull. For a moment they locked eyes, pupil to pupil, but it was too much for the saboteur. It must be like seeing God, he thought; not necessarily the most pleasant of experiences even if it was drenched in awe.

‘Listen to me,’ he whispered. ‘No; don’t try to speak. Just listen. I could have killed you, but I didn’t. I chose to spare you. I chose to show mercy. Do you know what that makes me? Merciful. I want you to remember that, but I also want you to remember something else. I can be jealous as well, and vengeful.’

Just then Sky’s bracelet chimed. It was the one he had inherited from his father upon assuming command of security. He swore softly, allowed the prisoner’s head to loll, and then took the call. He was careful to keep his back to the prisoner.

‘Haussmann? Are you there?’

It was Old Man Balcazar. Sky smiled and did his best to look and sound crisply professional.

‘It’s me, Captain. How may I help?’

‘Something’s come up, Haussmann. Something important. I need you to escort me.’

With his free hand Sky began to turn down the gain on the machine, then stopped before he dropped it too low. With the current off, the prisoner might regain the ability to speak. He kept the juice on while he spoke.

‘Escort you, sir? To somewhere else in the ship?’

‘No, Haussmann. Off ship. We’re going over to the Palestine. I want you to come with me. Not too much to ask, is it?’

‘I’ll be in the taxi hangar in thirty minutes, sir.’

‘You’ll be there in fifteen, Haussmann, and you’ll have a taxi prepped and ready for departure.’ The Captain inserted a phlegmatic pause. ‘Balcazar out.’

Sky stood staring at the bracelet for a few moments after the Captain’s image had blanked, wondering what was afoot. With the four remaining ships locked in what was essentially a cold war, the kind of trip of which Balcazar spoke was extremely rare, usually planned days in advance with meticulous attention to detail. A full security escort would normally accompany any senior crew making the crossing to another ship, Sky himself staying behind to co-ordinate things. But this time Balcazar had given him only a few minutes’ warning, and there had been no rumour of anything pending before the Captain’s call.

Fifteen minutes - of which he had squandered at least one already. He snapped down the cuff of his tunic and started to leave the room. He was almost gone when he remembered that the prisoner was still plugged into the God-Box, his mind still bathed in electrical ecstasy.

Sleek quivered again.

Sky returned to the machine and adjusted the settings, so that the dolphin had control of the electrical current stimulation. Sleek’s quivering became maniacal, the creature’s body thrashing against the tight constraints of the tank, enveloping his body in a manic froth of bubbles. The implants in the dolphin’s skull were able to talk to the machine now; able to make the prisoner scream in agony or gasp in the heights of joy.

With Sleek, though, it was generally the former.

He heard the old man wheezing and creaking his way across the floor of the hangar long before he saw him. The Captain’s two medical aides, Valdivia and Rengo, kept a discreet distance behind their charge, slightly crouched as they walked, monitoring his life-signs on handheld readouts, their expressions of concern so profound that it looked like the old man had only minutes of life left in him. But Sky was a long way from feeling any concern over the Captain’s imminent demise: they had been wearing those expressions for years, and what they constituted was only a glaze of carefully maintained professionalism. Valdivia and Rengo had to give everyone the impression that the Captain was almost on his deathbed, or else they would be forced to apply their not overly-honed medical skills elsewhere.

Which was not to say that Balcazar was exactly in the prime of life, either. The old man was sustained by a chest-girdling medical device, across which his dress tunic was tightly buttoned, giving him the plump-breasted look of a well-fed rooster. The effect was exacerbated by his comb of stiff grey hair and the suspicious gleam of his dark, widely-set eyes. Balcazar was easily the oldest of the crew, his Captaincy dating back to long before Titus’s time, and while it was perfectly clear that he had once had a mind like a steel trap, steering his crew through innumerable minor crises with icy skill, it was equally clear that those days were long since over; that the trap was now a rusted travesty of itself. Privately they said that his mind was nearly gone, while publicly they spoke of his infirmity and the need to hand over the reins to the younger generation; to replace him with a young or middle-aged Captain now who would be merely senior when the Flotilla arrived at its destination. Wait too long, they said, and his replacement would not have time to acquire the necessary skills before those undoubtedly difficult days were upon them.

There had been votes of censure and no confidence, and talk of forced retirement on medical grounds - nothing actually mutinous, of course - but the old bastard had stood his ground. Yet his position had never been weaker than now. His staunchest allies had themselves begun to die out. Titus Haussmann, who Sky could still not quite stop thinking of as his father, had been amongst them. Losing Titus had been a major blow for the Captain, who had long relied on the man for tactical advice and soundings regarding the true feelings of the crew. It was almost as if the Captain could not adjust to the loss of his confidant and was perfectly happy to let Sky assume Titus’s role. Speedy promotion to head of security had been only part of it. When the Captain occasionally called him Titus rather than Sky, he had at first assumed the slip was an innocent mistake, but on reflection it signified something much more problematic. The Captain, as they said, was losing his marbles; events were becoming jumbled in his head, the recent past slipping in and out of clarity. It was no way to run a ship.

Something, Sky had resolved, would have to be done about it.

‘We’ll be accompanying him, of course,’ the first of the aides whispered. The man, Valdivia, looked enough like the other one for him and Rengo to have been brothers. They both had close-cropped white hair and worry lines corrugated into their foreheads.

‘Impossible,’ Sky said. ‘There’s only a two-seat shuttle available.’ He indicated the nearest craft, parked on its transport pallet. Other, larger ships were parked around the two-seater, but all had components missing or access panels folded open. It was part of the general deterioration of services; throughout the ship, things that had been meant to last the mission were failing prematurely. The problem would not have been so severe if parts and expertise could have been swapped between the Flotilla vessels, but that was unthinkable in the current diplomatic climate.

‘How long would it take to patch together one of those larger ones?’ Valdivia said.

‘Half a day at the earliest,’ Sky said.

Balcazar must have heard part of that, because he murmured, ‘There won’t be any damned delay, Haussmann.’

‘You see?’

Rengo sprang forward. ‘Then, Captain, may I?’

It was a ritual they had gone through many times before. With a long-suffering sigh, Balcazar allowed the medic to undo his side-buttoned tunic, revealing the gleaming expanse of the medical tabard. The machine whirred and wheezed like a piece of clapped-out air purification equipment. There were dozens of windows set into it, some showing readouts or dials, others pulsing fluid lines. Rengo extended a probe from his handheld device and plugged it into various apertures, nodding or shaking his head slowly as numbers and graphs flowed across the device’s screen.

‘Something amiss?’ Sky said.

‘As soon as he gets back, I want him down in medical for a complete overhaul,’ Rengo said.

‘Pulse is a bit on the thready side,’ Valdivia said.

‘It’ll hold. I’ll up his relaxant.’ Rengo punched controls on his handset. ‘He’ll be a bit drowsy on the way over, Sky. Just don’t let the bastards on the other ship get him worked up, all right? Bring him back here on medical grounds if there’s any sign of tension.’

‘I’ll be sure to.’ Sky helped the already dozy Captain towards the two-seat shuttle. It was a lie that the larger ships were not ready, of course, but of those present only Sky had the technical knowledge to catch himself out.

Departure was uneventful. They cleared the access tunnel, unlatched and curved away from the Santiago, stabs of thrust pushing the shuttle towards their destination, the Palestine. The Captain sat before him, his reflection in the cockpit window resembling the formal portrait of some octagenarian despot from another century. Sky had expected him to nod off, but he seemed awake enough. He had the habit of delivering portentous utterances every few minutes, interspersed between fusillades of coughs.

‘Khan was a reckless bloody fool, you know . . . should never have been left in command after the upheavals of ’15 . . . if I’d damn well had my way, beggar would have been frozen for the rest of the trip, or thrown into space . . . losing his mass would have given them just the kind of decelerational edge they were looking for in the first place . . .’

‘Really, sir?’

‘Not literally, you damn fool! What would a man weigh, one ten millionth of the mass of one our ships? What kind of bloody edge would that have been?’

‘Not much of one, sir.’

‘I don’t damn well think so, no. The trouble with you, Titus, is you take everything I say too damn literally . . . like a bloody amanuensis hanging off my every word, quill poised above parchment . . .’

‘I’m not Titus, sir. Titus was my father.’

‘What?’ For a moment Balcazar glared at him, his eyes yellow with suspicion. ‘Oh, never mind, damn you!’

But this was actually one of Balcazar’s better days. There had been no outright lapses into surrealism. He could be very much worse: as poetically oblique as any sphinx, when the mood seized him. Perhaps there had once been a context in which even his maddest statement might have meant something, but to Sky they sounded only like premature deathbed ramblings. That was no problem of his. Balcazar seldom invited any kind of riposte when he was in soliloquy mode. If Sky had really back-answered him - or even dared to question some minute, trifling detail in Balcazar’s stream-of-consciousness - the shock of it would probably have given him multiple organ failure, even with the relaxant Rengo had administered.

How utterly convenient that would have been, Sky thought.

After a few minutes, he said, ‘I suppose you can tell me what this is all about now, sir.’

‘Of course, Titus. Of course.’

And as placidly as if they were two old friends catching up on lost times over a couple of pisco sours, the Captain told him that they were heading to a conclave of senior Flotilla crew. It was to be the first in many years, precipitated by the unexpected arrival of another update from Sol system. A message from home, in other words, containing elaborate technical blueprints. It was the kind of exterior event which was still sufficient to push the Flotilla towards some kind of unity, even in the midst of the cold war. It was the same kind of gift which might have annihilated the Islamabad, when Sky was very young. Even now, no one was entirely sure whether Khan had chosen to sip from that poisoned chalice, or whether the accident had just happened then out of a sense of malign cosmic caprice. Now there was a promise of another squeeze in engine efficiency, if only they would make certain trifling changes to the magnetic confinement topology; all very safe, the message said - tested endlessly back home, with mock-ups of the Flotilla’s engines; the potential for error was really negligible provided certain basic precautions were taken . . .

But at the same time, another message had arrived.

Don’t do it, said the other message. They’re trying to trick you.

It hardly mattered that the other message offered no plausible reason why such trickery might be attempted. The doubt that it brought was enough to lend this conclave an entirely new frisson of tension.

Eventually they were within visual range of the Palestine, where the conclave would be held. A whole swarm of shuttle taxis was converging on her from the other three ships, carrying senior ships’ officers. The choice of the meeting place had been arrived at in haste, but that did not mean the process had been devoid of difficulty. Yet the Palestine was the obvious choice. In any war, Sky thought, cold or otherwise, it was always to the mutual benefit of all participants to agree on a neutral ground, whether it be for negotiation, exchange of spies or - if all else failed - early demonstration of new weapons - and the Palestine was the ship that had assumed that role.

‘Do you think this is really a trick, sir?’ Sky asked, when Balcazar had finished one of his coughing sessions. ‘I mean, why would they do that?’

‘Why would they bloody do what?’

‘Try and kill us, sir, by transmitting erroneous technical data? There’d be no gain for them back home. It’s a wonder they even bother sending us anything.’

‘Precisely.’ Balcazar spat the word, as if its obviousness was beneath contempt. ‘There’d be no gain in sending us something useful, either - and it would be a lot more work than sending us something dangerous. Can’t you see that, you little fool? God help all of us if one of your generation ever assumes command . . .’ He trailed off.

Sky waited for him to finish coughing, then wheezing. ‘But there must still be a motivation . . .’

‘Pure malice.’

He was treading very thin ice now, but he soldiered on. ‘The malice could just as easily lie in the message warning us not to implement the change.’

‘Oh, and you’re willing to risk four thousand lives to put that little bit of schoolboy speculation to the test, are you?’

‘It’s not my job to take such a decision, sir. I’m just saying I don’t envy you the responsibility.’

‘And what would you know about responsibility anyway, you insolent little prick?’

Little now, Sky thought. But one day . . . perhaps one day not too far from this one, all that might change. Thinking it best not to reply, he flew the taxi on in silence, broken only by the old man’s cardiovascular labours.

But he thought deeply. It was something that Balcazar had said; that remark about it being better to bury the dead in space, rather than carry them to the destination world. It made a kind of sense, when he thought about it.

Every kilogramme that the ship carried was another kilogramme that had to be decelerated down from interstellar cruise speed. The ships massed close on a million tonnes - ten million times the mass of a man, as Balcazar had said. The simple laws of Newtonian physics told Sky that decreasing the mass of a ship by that amount would bring a proportional increase in the rate at which the ship could decelerate, assuming the same engine efficiency.

An improvement of one part in ten million was hardly spectacular . . . but who said you had to make do with the mass of just one man?

Sky thought about all the dead passengers the Santiago was carrying: the sleepers who were medically beyond any kind of revival. Only human sentimentality would argue that they needed to be brought to Journey’s End. And for that matter, the huge and heavy machinery that supported them could be ditched as well. He thought about it some more, and began to think that it would not be impossible to shave off tonnes from the ship’s mass. Put like that, it almost sounded compelling. The improvement would still be much less than one part in a thousand. Still - who was to say more sleepers would not be lost in the years to come? A thousand things could go wrong.

It was a risky business, being frozen.

‘Maybe we should all just wait and see, Titus,’ the Captain said, jolting him from his thoughts. ‘That wouldn’t be such a bad approach to take, would it?’

‘Wait and see, sir?’

‘Yes.’ There was a cold clarity to the Captain now, but Sky knew that it could go as easily as it came. ‘Wait and see what they do about it, I mean. They’ll have received the message as well, you realise. They’ll have debated what to do about it as well, of course - but they won’t have been able to talk it over with any of us.’

The Captain sounded lucid enough, but Sky was having trouble following him. Doing his best to conceal the fact, he said, ‘It’s a long time since you’ve mentioned them, isn’t it?’

‘Of course. One doesn’t go around blabbing, Titus - you of all people would know that. Loose lips sink ships, that sort of thing. Or get them discovered.’

‘Discovered, sir?’

‘Well, we know damn well that our friends on the other three don’t even seem to know about them. We’ve had spies penetrate right to the highest echelons on the other ships, and there’s been no word about them at all.’

‘Could we know for sure, though, sir?’

‘Oh, I think so, Titus.’

‘You do, sir?’

‘Of course. You keep your ear to the ground on the Santiago, don’t you? You know that the crew are at least familiar with the rumour of the sixth ship, even if most of them don’t give it any credence.’

Sky masked his surprise as well as he was able. ‘The sixth ship’s just a myth to most of them, sir.’

‘And that’s the way we’ll keep it. We, on the other hand, know better.’

Sky thought to himself: so it’s real. After all this time, the damned thing really exists. At the very least in Balcazar’s mind. But the Captain also seemed to be talking as if Titus had been in on the secret himself. Since the sixth ship constituted a possible security issue - no matter how little might have been known about that - it was entirely possible that he had been. And Titus had died before he could pass that particular item of knowledge to his successor.

Sky thought of Norquinco, his friend from the time when he had ridden the trains. He remembered well how Norquinco had been utterly convinced of the reality of the sixth ship. Gomez, too, had needed little convincing. It had been a year or so since he had spoken to either, but Sky imagined the two of them here now, nodding silently, enjoying the way he was forced to calmly accept this truth; this thing that he had so vehemently argued against. He had hardly given the matter any thought since that conversation on the train, but now he racked his brains, trying to remember what Norquino had told them.

‘Most of the crew who buy into the rumour at all,’ he said, ‘assume that the sixth ship is dead; just drifting behind us.’

‘Which only shows that there’s a grain of truth underlying the rumour. She’s dark, of course - no lights, no strong evidence of human presence at all - but all of that could be subterfuge. Her crew could still be alive, running her quietly. We can’t guess their pyschology, of course, and we still don’t know what really happened. ’

‘It would be good to know. Especially now.’ Sky paused and took what he knew to be a major risk. ‘Given the current gravity of the situation, with this technical message from back home, is there anything else I need to know about the sixth ship - anything which might help us make the right choice?’

To his relief, the Captain shook his head without rancour.

‘You’ve seen all that I have, Titus. We really don’t know anything more. I’m afraid those rumours encapsulate as much knowledge as we really have.’

‘An expedition would settle the matter.’

‘As you never tire of telling me. But consider the risks: yes, she’s just within range of one our shuttles. About half a light-second behind us the last time we took an accurate radar fix, although she must have been a lot closer once. It would be simpler still if we could refuel when we got there. But what if they don’t want visitors? They’ve maintained the illusion of non-existence for more than a generation. They might not be willing to give that up without a fight.’

‘Unless they’re dead. Some of the crew think we attacked them, and then erased them from the historical record.’

The Captain shrugged. ‘Perhaps that’s what happened. If you could erase a crime like that, you would, wouldn’t you? Some of them might have survived, though, and chosen to lie low, so they can spring a surprise on us later in the voyage.’

‘You think this message from back home might be enough to make them break their cover?’

‘Perhaps. If it encourages them to fiddle with their antimatter engine, and the message really is a trap . . .’

‘They’ll light up half the sky.’

The Captain chuckled, a wet cruel sound, and that seemed to be the cue for him to doze off properly. The rest of the journey passed without incident, but Sky’s mind was racing anyway, trying to digest what he had learned. Every time he said the words they were like a casual slap against his cheek; punishment for his own presumption in doubting Norquinco and the other believers. The sixth ship existed. The sixth damned ship existed . . .

And that, potentially, could change anything.

EIGHTEEN

They took me down to the Mulch again. I woke up in the cable-car as it was descending through night, rain hammering against the craft’s windows. For a moment I thought I was with Captain Balcazar, escorting him across space to the meeting aboard the other Flotilla ship. The dreams seemed to be getting more insistent, pushing me ever deeper into Sky’s thoughts, so that they were harder to shake off when I came around. But it was just me and Waverly in the cable-car’s compartment.

I wasn’t sure it was an improvement.

‘How does it feel? I did a good job, I think.’

He was sitting opposite me with a gun. I remembered him pushing the probe against my head. I reached up to touch my scalp. Above my right ear was a shaven patch, still scabbed with blood, and the feeling of something hard encysted beneath the skin.

It hurt like hell.

‘I think you need some practice.’

‘Story of my life. You’re a strange one, though. What’s with all the blood coming out of your hand? Is that some medical condition I should know about?’

‘Why? Would it make any difference?’

He debated the point with himself for a few moments. ‘No, probably not. If you can run, you’re fit enough.’

‘Fit enough for what?’ I touched the scab again. ‘What have you put inside me?’

‘Well, let me explain.’

I hadn’t expected him to be so talkative, but I began to understand why it might make sense for me to know some of the facts. It must have stemmed less from any concern for my wellbeing than the need to have me primed in the right way. From previous games, it had become clear that the hunted made the whole affair more entertaining if they knew exactly what was at stake, and what their own chances were.

‘Basically,’ he said urbanely, ‘it’s a hunt. We call it the Game. It doesn’t exist, not officially; not even within the relatively lawless environs of Canopy. They know about it, and speak about it, but always with discretion.’

‘Who?’ I said, for the sake of saying something.

‘Postmortals, immortals, whatever you want to call them. They don’t all play it, or even want to play it, but they all know someone who has played it, or has connections with the network which makes the Game possible in the first place.’

‘This been going on long?’

‘Only in the last seven years. Perhaps one might think of it as a barbaric counterpoint to the gentility which pervaded Yellowstone before the fall.’

‘Barbaric?’

‘Oh, exquisitely so. That’s why we adore it. There’s nothing intricate or subtle about the Game, methodologically or psychologically. It needs to be capable of being organised at very short notice, anywhere in the city. There are rules, naturally, but you don’t need a trip to the Pattern Jugglers to understand them.’

‘Tell me about these rules, Waverly.’

‘Oh, they’re nothing that need concern you, Mirabel. All you need do is run.’

‘And then?’

‘Die. And die well.’ He spoke kindly, like an indulgent uncle. ‘That’s all we ask of you.’

‘Why do you do it?’

‘To take another’s life is a special kind of thrill, Mirabel. To do it while being immortal elevates the act to an entirely different level of sublimity.’ He paused, as if marshalling his thoughts. ‘We don’t really grasp the nature of death, even in these difficult times. But by taking a life - especially the life of someone who wasn’t immortal, and who therefore already had an acute awareness of death - we can obtain some vicarious sense of what it means.’

‘Then the people you hunt are never immortal?’

‘Not generally, no. We usually select from the Mulch, picking someone reasonably healthy. We want them to give us a good chase for our money, of course, so we’re not above feeding them first.’

He told me more; that the Game was financed by a clandestine network of subscribers. Mostly Canopy, their numbers were rumoured to be augmented by pleasure-seekers from some of the more libertarian carousels still inhabited in the Rust Belt, or some of the other settlements on Yellowstone, like Loreanville. Nobody in the network knew more than a handful of other subscribers, and their true identities were camouflaged by an elaborate system of deceits and masques, so that no one could be exposed in the open chambers of Canopy life, which still affected a kind of decadent civility. Hunts were organised at short notice, with small numbers of subscribers alerted at any one time, convening in disused parts of the Canopy. On the same night - or no more than a day before - a victim would be extracted from the Mulch and prepared.

The implants were a recent refinement.

They allowed the progress of the hunt to be shared amongst a larger pool of subscribers, boosting the potential revenue enormously. Other subscribers would help with ground coverage, risking the Mulch to bring video images of the hunt back to the Canopy, with cachets to those who obtained the most spectacular footage. Simple rules of play - which were more strictly enforced than any actual laws which still prevailed in the city - determined the accepted parameters within which the hunt could take place, the permitted tracking devices and weapons, what constituted a fair kill.

‘There’s just one problem,’ I said. ‘I’m not from the Mulch. I don’t know my way around your city. I’m not sure you’re going to get your money’s worth.’

‘Oh, we’ll manage. You’ll have an adequate headstart on the hunters. And to be frank, your not being local is actually something of an advantage to us. The locals know far too many shortcuts and hidey-holes.’

‘Pretty unsporting of them. Waverly, there’s something I want you to know.’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m going to come back and kill you.’

He laughed. ‘Sorry, Mirabel, but I’ve heard it all before.’

The cable-car landed, the door opened and he invited me to step out.

I started running as the cable-car damped its lights and climbed above me, heading back to the Canopy. Even as it ascended, a dark mote against the milky strands of aerial light, more cars were descending, like fireflies. They were not headed straight for me - that wouldn’t have been sporting - but they were certainly headed for my general part of the Mulch.

The Game had started.

I kept running.

If the area of the Mulch where the rickshaw kid had left me was a bad one, then this was something else: a territory so depopulated that it could not even be termed dangerous in the same sense - unless you happened to be the unwilling participant in a night’s hunt. There were no fires burning in the lower levels, and the encrustations around the structures had a look of deserted neglect: half-collapsed and inaccessible. The surface roads were even more dilapidated than those I had travelled earlier, cracked and twisted like strips of toffee, apt to end abruptly in mid-span as they crossed a flooded abyss, or simply to plunge into the flood itself. It was dark, and I had to constantly watch my footing.

Waverly had done me a kind of favour, dimming the interior lights as we dropped, so that my eyes had at least accustomed themselves to the darkness, but I didn’t feel an overwhelming rush of gratitude.

I ran, glancing over my shoulder to watch the cable-cars as they sank lower, dropping behind the closest structures. The vehicles were close enough now that I could see their occupants. For some reason, I’d assumed that only the man and the woman would be chasing me, but obviously this wasn’t the case. Maybe - in the way these things were handled in the network - it was just their turn to find a victim, and I had strolled blithely into their plans.

Was this how I was going to die, I thought? I’d nearly died dozens of times in the war; dozens more times while working for Cahuella. Reivich had tried to kill me at least twice, and had nearly succeeded on both occasions. But if I hadn’t managed to have survived any of those earlier brushes with death, I would at least have admitted some grudging respect for my adversaries, a sense that I had chosen to do battle with them, and thereby accepted whatever fate had in mind for me.

But I hadn’t chosen anything like this.

Seek shelter, I thought. There were buildings all around me, even if it wasn’t immediately clear how to get inside any of them. My movements would be limited once I was inside, but if I stayed outside there would be plenty of opportunities for the chasers to get a clear shot at me. And I clung to the idea - unsupported by any evidence - that the implanted transmitter might not function so well if I was concealed. I also had a suspicion that close combat was not the kind of endgame my pursuers really wanted; that they would rather shoot me from a distance, crossing open ground. If so, I was more than happy to disappoint them, even if it only bought me minutes.

Up to my knees in water, I waded as quickly as I could to the unlit side of the nearest building, a fluted structure which climbed for seven or eight hundred metres above my head before turning mutant, fanning out into the Canopy. Unlike some of the other structures I had seen, this one had suffered considerable damage at street level, punctured and holed like a lightning-struck tree. Some of the apertures were only niches, but others must reach deeper, into the structure’s dead heart, from where I might be able to access higher levels.

Light scythed across the ruined exterior, harsh and blue. Crouching into the flood so that my chest was fully submerged and the stench almost unbearable, I waited for the searchlight to complete its business. I could hear voices now, raised like a pack of jackals in musk. Man-shaped patches of utter blackness flitted between the closest buildings, beckoning each other, arms laden with those instruments of murder permitted by the Game.

A few desultory shots rained against the building, dislodging shards of calcified masonry into the flood. Another patch of light began sweeping the side, grazing only inches above my head. My breathing, laboured as it was by the pressure of the filthy water, was like a barking weapon itself.

I sucked in air and lowered myself into the flood.

I could see nothing, of course, but that was hardly a handicap. Relying on touch, I skirted my fingers against the building’s side until I found a place where the wall curved abruptly in. I heard more shots, transmitted through the water, and more splashes. I wanted to vomit. But then I remembered the smile of the man who had arranged for my capture and realised I wanted him to die first; Fischetti and then Sybilline. Then I’d kill Waverly while I was at it, and piece by piece I’d dismantle the entire apparatus of the Game.

In that same moment I realised that I hated them more than I hated Reivich.

But he’d get his, too.

Still kneeling beneath the waterline, I closed my fists around the edges of the aperture and thrust myself into the building’s interior. I could not have been beneath water for more than a few seconds, but I slammed upward with so much anger and relief that I almost screamed as air rushed into my mouth. But apart from gasping, I made as little noise as possible.

I found a relatively dry ledge and hauled myself from the murk. And there, for long moments, I just lay, until my breathing settled down and enough oxygen reached my brain for it to resume the business of thinking, rather than simply keeping me alive.

I heard voices and shots outside, louder now. And sporadically, blue light stabbed through rents in the building, making my eyes sting.

When the darkness resumed, I looked up and saw something.

It was faint - fainter, in fact, than I had imagined any visible object could possibly be. I had read that the human retina was in principle capable of detecting only two or three photons at a time, if conditions of sufficient sensitivity were reached. I had also heard - and met - soldiers who claimed extraordinary night vision; soldiers who spent every hour in darkness, for fear of losing their acclimatisation.

I’d never been one of them.

What I was looking at was a staircase, or the ruined skeleton of what had once been a staircase. A spiral thing, ribbed by crossmembers, which reached a landing and then climbed higher towards an irregular gash of pale light, against which it was silhouetted.

‘He’s inside. Thermal trace in the water.’

That was Sybilline’s voice, or someone who sounded very much like her, with the same tone of arrogant surety. Now a man spoke, knowingly, ‘That’s unusual for a Mulch. They don’t like the insides, usually. Too many ghost stories.’

‘It isn’t just ghost stories. There are pigs down here. We should be careful, too.’

‘How are we going to get in? I’m not going in that water, no matter what the bloodmoney is.’

‘I have structural maps of this one. There’s another route on the other side. Better hurry, though. Skamelson’s team are only a block down-trace, and they’ve got better sniffers.’

I heaved myself from the ledge and moved towards the lower end of the ruined staircase. I hit it too soon, judging the distance poorly. But it was growing clearer all the time. I could see that it climbed ten or fifteen metres above me before vanishing through a sagging, doughlike ceiling which more resembled a stomach diaphragm than anything architectural.

What I could not tell, for all my visual acuity, was how near my chasers were, or how structurally sound the staircase was going to be. If it collapsed while I was climbing, I would fall into the flood, but the water would be too shallow for the drop to be endured without some kind of injury.

Still, I climbed, using the ghostly banister where it existed, heaving myself across gaps in the treads, or where there were no treads at all. The staircase creaked, but I just kept on - even when the tread on which I’d just placed my weight shattered and dropped into the water.

Below me, light filled the chamber, and then black-clad figures emerged through a hole in one wall, trudging through the water. I could see them quite clearly: Fischetti and Sybilline, both masked and carrying enough firepower for a small war. I paused on the landing I’d reached. There was darkness on either side of me, but even as I looked at it details began to emerge from the blackness like solidifying phantoms. I thought about going left or right rather than higher, knowing that I’d have to make the decision quickly and that I didn’t want to get trapped in a dead-end.

Then something else emerged from the darkness. It was crouched, and at first I thought it was a dog. But it was much too large for that, and its flat face looked a lot more like a pig. The thing began to stand up on its legs as far as the low ceiling would allow. It was roughly human in build, but instead of fingers on each hand it had a set of five elongated trotters, both sets of which were gripping a vicious-looking crossbow. It was clothed in what looked like patches of leather and crudely fashioned metal, like mediaeval armour. Its flesh was pale and hairless and its face was somewhere between human and pig, with just enough attributes of each to make the composite deeply disturbing. Its eyes were two small black absences and its mouth was curved in a permanent gluttonous smile. Behind it I could see another couple of pigs approaching in the same four-footed manner. The way their back legs were articulated seemed to make walking awkward at best.

I screamed and kicked out, my foot connecting squarely with the pig’s face. The thing fell backwards with a snort of anger, dropping the crossbow. But the others were armed as well, both holding long curved knives. I grabbed the fallen crossbow and hoped that the thing would work when I fired it.

‘Get back. Get the hell away from me.’

The pig I’d kicked started up on its hindquarters again. It moved its jaw as if trying to speak, but all that came out was a series of snuffles. Then it reached out towards me, its trotters clasping the air in front of my face.

I fired the crossbow; the bolt thudded into the pig’s leg.

It squealed and fell back, clutching the end of the bolt where it protruded. I watched blood trickle out, almost luminously bright. The other two pigs moved towards me, but I shuffled backwards with the crossbow still in my hands. I pulled a fresh bolt from the cache in the bow’s stock and fumbled it into place, winching back the mechanism. The pigs raised their knives, but hesitated to come closer. Then they snorted angrily and began to drag the wounded one back into the darkness. I froze for an instant, then resumed my ascent, hoping to reach the gap before either the pigs or the hunters got to me.

I almost made it.

Sybilline saw me first, shrieking in either delight or fury. She raised a hand and her little gun appeared in it, springing from the sleeve-holster I had guessed she was wearing. Almost simultaneously, a flash of muzzle-fire whitened the chamber, the pain of its brilliance lancing into my eyes.

Her first shot shattered the staircase below me, the entire structure crashing down like a spiral snowstorm. She had to duck to avoid the debris, and then she got off another shot. I was halfway through the ceiling, halfway into whatever lay beyond, reaching out with my hands for some kind of purchase. Then I felt her shot gnaw into my thigh, soft at first, and then causing pain to blossom like a flower opening at dawn.

I dropped the crossbow. It tumbled down the flight of stairs onto the landing, where I saw a pig snatch it from the darkness with a snort of triumph.

Fischetti raised his own weapon, got off another shot, and that took care of what remained of the staircase. If his aim had been any better - or if I had been any slower - his shot might also have taken care of my leg.

But instead, holding the agony at bay, I slithered onto the ceiling and lay very still. I had no idea what kind of weapon the woman had used; whether my wound had been caused by a projectile or a pulse of light or plasma, nor could I know how severe the wound was. I was probably bleeding, but my clothes were so sodden, and the surface on which I was lying was so damp, that I couldn’t tell where blood ended and rain began. And for a moment that was unimportant. I’d escaped them, if only for the time it would take them to find a way up to this level of the building. They had blueprints of the structure, so it would not take long, then, if a route existed at all.

‘Get up, if you’re able.’

The voice was calm and unfamiliar, and it came not from below, but from a little above me.

‘Come now; there isn’t much time. Ah, wait. I don’t expect you can see me. Is this better?’

And suddenly it was all I could do to screw my eyes shut against the sudden glare. A woman stood over me, dressed like the other Canopy players in all the sombre shades of black: dark, extravagantly heeled boots which reached to her thighs, jet-black greatcoat which skirted the ground and rose behind her neck to encircle her head, which was itself englobed in a helmet which was more black openwork than anything solid, like a gauze, with goggles like the faceted eyes of insects covering half her face. What I could see of her face, in all this, was so pale it was literally white, like a sketch that had never been tinted. A diagonal black tattoo traced each cheekbone, tapering towards her lips, which were the darkest red imaginable, like cochineal.

In one hand she held a huge rifle, its scorched energy-discharge muzzle pointed at my head. But it did not appear that she was aiming the rifle at me.

Her other hand, gloved in black, was reaching out to me.

‘I said you’d better move, Mirabel. Unless you’re planning to die here.’

She knew the building, or at least this part of it. We didn’t have far to go. That was good, because locomotion was no longer my strong point. I could just about move along if I allowed one wall to take most of my weight, freeing the injured leg, but it was neither rapid nor elegant, and I knew I would not be able to sustain it for more than a few dozen metres before blood loss or shock or fatigue took their debt.

She took me up one flight - intact, this time - and then we emerged into the night air. It was a measure of how squalid the last few minutes had been that the air hit my lungs as something cooling and fresh and clean. But I felt myself on the verge of unconsciousness, and still had no real idea what was happening. Even when she showed me a small cable-car, parked in a kind of rubble-strewn cave in the building’s side, I could not quite adjust my perceptions to accept that I was being rescued.

‘Why are you doing this?’ I asked.

‘Because the Game stinks,’ she said, pausing to mouth a subvocal command at the vehicle, causing it to jerk to life and slink towards us, retracted grapples finding purchase points amongst the dangling debris which covered the cave’s ceiling. ‘The Gamers think they have the tacit support of the entire Canopy, but they don’t. Maybe once, when it wasn’t quite so barbaric - but not now.’

I fell into the vehicle’s interior, sprawling across the rear seat. Now I could see that my Mendicant trousers were covered in blood, like rust. But the bleeding seemed to have stopped, and while I felt light-headed, it hadn’t got any worse in the last few minutes.

While she lowered herself into the pilot’s seat and brought the controls online, I said, ‘There was a time when this wasn’t barbaric? ’

‘Once, yes - immediately after the plague.’ Her gloved hands took hold of a pair of matched brass joysticks and pushed them forward and I felt the cable-car glide out of the cave with rapid whisking sounds of its arms. ‘The victims used to be criminals; Mulch they caught invading the Canopy or committing crimes against their own sort; murderers or rapists or looters.’

‘That makes it all right, then.’

‘I’m not condoning it. Not at all. But at least there was some kind of moral equilibrium. These people were scum. And they were chased by scum.’

‘And now?’

‘You’re talkative, Mirabel. Most people who’ve taken a shot like that don’t want to do anything except scream.’ As she spoke, we left the cave, and for a moment I felt sickening free-fall as the cable-car dropped, before finding a nearby cable and correcting its descent. Then we were rising. ‘In answer to your question,’ she said, ‘there started to be a problem finding suitable victims. So the organisers began to get a little less - how shall I put it? Discriminatory? ’

‘I understand,’ I said. ‘I understand, because all I did was wander into the wrong part of the Mulch by mistake. Who are you, by the way? And where are you taking me?’

She reached up one hand and removed the gauzy helmet and faceted goggles, so that, when she turned around to face me, I could see her properly. ‘I’m Taryn,’ she said. ‘But my friends in the sabotage movement call me Zebra.’

I realised I’d seen her earlier that night, amongst the clientèle at the stalk. She had seemed beautiful and exotic then, but she was even more so now. Perhaps it helped that I was lying down in pain having just been shot, fevered with the adrenalin which came from unexpected survival. Beautiful and very strange - and, in the right light, perhaps barely human at all. Her skin was either chalk-white or hard-edged black. The stripes covered her forehead and cheekbones, and from what I remembered seeing in the stalk, a large fraction of the rest of her. Black stripes curved from the edges of her eyes, like flamboyant mascara applied with maniacal precision. Her hair was a stiff black crest which probably ran all the way down her back.

‘I don’t think I’ve met anyone like you before, Zebra.’

‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘Some of my friends think I’m rather conservative; rather unadventurous. You’re not Mulch, are you, Mister Mirabel?’

‘You know my name, what else do you know about me?’

‘Not as much as I’d like to.’ She took her hand from the controls, having set the machine into some kind of autopilot mode, allowing it to pick its own trajectory through the interstices of the Canopy.

‘Shouldn’t you be driving this thing?’

‘It’s safe, Tanner, believe me. The control system of a cable-car is quite intelligent - almost as smart as the machines we had before the plague. But it’s best not to spend too much time down in the Mulch with a machine like this.’

‘About my earlier question . . .’

‘We know you arrived in the city wearing Ice Mendicant clothes and that someone called Tanner Mirabel is known to the Mendicants. ’ I was about to ask Zebra how she knew this much, but she was already continuing, ‘What we don’t know is whether or not this is all a carefully constructed identity to suit some other purpose. Why did you allow yourself to be captured, Tanner?’

‘I was curious,’ I said, feeling like a repetitious refrain in a third-rate symphony - maybe one of Quirrenbach’s early efforts. ‘I didn’t know much about the social stratification in Yellowstone. I wanted to reach the Canopy, and I didn’t know how to go about it without threatening anyone.’

‘That’s understandable. There isn’t any way.’

‘How did you find any of this out?’

‘Through Waverly.’ She looked at me carefully, squinting deep black eyes, causing the stripes on one side of her face to bunch together. ‘I don’t know if he introduced himself, but Waverly was the man who shot you with the stun beam.’

‘You know him?’

She nodded. ‘He’s one of ours - or at least, he has sympathies with us, and we have means of ensuring his compliance. He likes to indulge certain tastes.’

‘He told me he was a sadist, but I thought it was part of the banter.’

‘It wasn’t, believe me.’

I winced as a wave of pain raced up my leg. ‘How do you know my name?’

‘Waverly passed it to us. Before that, we’d never even heard of Tanner Mirabel. But once we had a name, we could backtrack and confirm your movements. He didn’t get much, though. Either he was lying - which I don’t rule out; it’s not like I particularly trust the one-eyed bastard - or else your memories really are confused.’

‘I had revival amnesia. That’s why I spent time with the Mendicants. ’

‘Waverly seemed to think it went deeper than that. That you might have had something to hide. Is that possible, Tanner? If I’m going to help you, it might help if I trusted you.’

‘I’m who you think I am,’ I said, which seemed to be all I could manage just then. The odd thing was, I wasn’t quite sure I believed myself.

Something strange happened then: a hard, sharp discontinuity in my thoughts. I was still conscious; still aware of myself sitting in Zebra’s cable-car; still aware that we were moving through Chasm City at night and that she had rescued me from Sybilline’s little hunting party. I was conscious of the pain in my leg - even though it had abated to a dull throb of highly concentrated discomfort by then.

And yet a chunk of Sky Haussmann’s life had just revealed itself to me.

The previous episodes had come during unconsciousness, like orchestrated dreams, but this one had exploded, fully-formed, into my mind. The effect was disturbing and disconcerting, interrupting the normal flow of my thoughts like an EMP burst playing momentary havoc with a computer system.

The episode, mercifully, was not a long one. Sky was still with Balcazar (Christ, I thought - I was even remembering the names of the supporting characters); still ferrying him across space to the meeting - the conclave - aboard the other ship, the Palestine.

What had happened last time? That was it - Balcazar had told Sky about the sixth ship being real; the ghost ship.

The one Norquinco had called the Caleuche.

By the time he had turned the revelation over in his head, examining it from every angle, they were almost there. The Palestine loomed huge, looking very much like the Santiago - all the ships of the Flotilla were built to more or less the same design - but without quite the same degree of discoloration around her rotating hull. She had been much further away from the Islamabad when she went up, the flash of energy weakened by the inverse square law of radiative propagation until it was barely a warm breeze, rather than the killing flux which had burned the shadow of his mother onto the skin of his own ship. They had their problems, of course. There had been viral outbreaks, psychoses, putsches, and as many sleepers had died aboard that ship as aboard the Santiago. He thought of her burdened with her own dead; cold corpses strung along her spine like rotten fruit.

A harsh voice said, ‘Diplomatic flight TG5, transfer command to Palestine docking network.’

Sky did as he was asked; there was a jolt as the larger ship hijacked the shuttle’s avionics and slotted it onto an approach course, with what felt like minimal concern for the comfort of its human occupants. Projected onto the cockpit window, the approach corridor floated in space, edged in skeletal orange neon. The stellar backdrop began to cartwheel; they were moving in the same rotational frame as the Palestine now, sliding towards an open parking bay. Suited figures in unfamiliar uniforms floated there to greet them, aiming weapons with something that was not quite diplomatic cordiality.

He turned to Balcazar as the taxi found a berth. ‘Sir? We’re nearly there.’

‘What, oh? Damn you, Titus . . . I was sleeping!’

Sky wondered how his father had felt about the old man. He wondered if Titus had ever considered killing the Captain.

It would not, he thought, present insurmountable difficulties.

NINETEEN

‘Tanner? Snap out of it. I don’t want you falling unconscious on me.’

We were approaching a building now - if you could call it that. It looked more like an enchanted tree, huge and gnarled branches pocked with haphazard windows, and cable-car landing decks set amongst the limbs. Cableway threads reached through the interstices of the major branches, and Zebra guided us in fearlessly, as if she had navigated this approach thousands of times. I looked down, through vertiginous layers of branches, the firelights of the Mulch twinkling sickeningly far below.

Zebra’s apartment in the Canopy was near the middle of the city, on the edge of the chasm, near the inner dome boundary which surrounded the great belching hole in Yellowstone’s crust. We had travelled some way around the chasm and from the landing deck I could see the tiny, jewelled sliver of the stalk projecting out for one horizontal kilometre, far below us and around the great curve of the chasm’s edge. I looked down into the chasm but I couldn’t see any sign of the luminous gliders, or any other mist-jumpers taking the great fall.

‘Do you live here alone?’ I asked when she had led me into her rooms, striking what I hoped was the right note of polite curiosity.

‘Now I do, yes.’ The answer was quick, almost glib. But she continued speaking. ‘I used to share this place with my sister, Mavra.’

‘And Mavra left?’

‘Mavra got killed.’ She left that remark hanging there long enough to have its effect. ‘She got too close to the wrong people.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, fishing for something to say. ‘Were these people hunters, like Sybilline?’

‘Not exactly, no. She was curious about something she shouldn’t have been, and she asked the wrong kinds of questions of the wrong people, but it wasn’t directly to do with the hunt.’

‘What, then?’

‘Why are you so interested in knowing?’

‘I’m not exactly an angel, Zebra, but I don’t like the idea of someone dying just because they were curious.’

‘Then you’d better be careful you don’t ask the wrong kinds of question yourself.’

‘About what, exactly?’

She sighed, obviously wishing our conversation had never taken this tack. ‘There’s a substance . . .’

‘Dream Fuel?’

‘You’ve encountered it, then?’

‘I’ve seen it being used, but that’s about the extent of my knowledge. Sybilline used it in my presence, but I didn’t notice any change in her behaviour before or afterwards. What is it, exactly?’

‘It’s complicated, Tanner. Mavra had only pieced together a few parts of the story before they got her.’

‘It’s a drug of some sort, obviously.’

‘It’s a lot more than a drug. Look, can we talk about something else? It hasn’t been easy for me to deal with her being gone, and this is just opening up old wounds.’

I nodded, willing to let it lie for now. ‘You were close, weren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she said, as if I’d picked up on some profound secret in their relationship. ‘And Mavra loved it here. She said it had the best view anywhere in the city, apart from the stalk. But when she was around we could never have afforded to eat in that place.’

‘You haven’t done too badly. If you like heights.’

‘You don’t, Tanner?’

‘I guess it takes some getting used to.’

Her apartment, ensconced in one of the major branches, was a complex of intestinally twisted rooms and corridors; more like an animal’s sett than anything a human would choose for use. The rooms were in one of the narrower branches, suspended two kilometres above the Mulch, with lower levels of the Canopy hanging below, linked to ours by vertical threads, strands and hollowed-out trunks.

She led me into what might have been her living room.

It was like entering an internal organ in some huge, walk-through model of the human anatomy. The walls, floor and ceiling were all softly rounded into each other. Level surfaces had been created by cutting into the fabric of the building, but they had to be stepped on different levels, connected by ramps and stairs. The surfaces of the walls and ceiling were rigid, but uneasily organic in nature; veined or patterned with irregular platelets. In one wall was what looked like a piece of expensive, in-situ sculpture: a tableau of three roughly hewn people who had been depicted forcing their way out of the wall, clawing to escape from it like swimmers trying to outswim the wall of a tsunami wave. Most of their bodies were hidden; all you could see was half a face or the end of a limb, but the effect was forceful enough.

‘You have pretty unique taste in art, Zebra,’ I said. ‘I think that would give me nightmares.’

‘It’s not art, Tanner.’

‘Those were real people?’

‘Still are, by some definitions. Not alive, but not exactly dead either. More like fossils, but with the fossil structure so intricate that you can almost map neurons. I’m not the only one with them, and no one really wants to cut them away in case someone thinks of a way to get them back the way they were. So we live with them. No one used to want to share a room with them, once, but now I hear it’s quite the chic thing to have a few of them in your apartment. There’s even a man in the Canopy who makes fake ones, for the truly desperate.’

‘But these are real?’

‘Credit me with some taste, Tanner. Now, I think you need to sit down for a moment. No; stay where you are.’

She snapped her fingers at her couch.

The larger items of Zebra’s furniture were autonomous, responding to our presence like nervous pets. The couch perambulated from its station, neatly stepping down to our level. In contrast to the Mulch, where nothing much more advanced than steam power could be relied upon, there were obviously still machines of reasonable sophistication in the Canopy. Zebra’s rooms were full of them; not just furniture, but servitors ranging from mice-sized drones to large ceiling-tracked units, as well as fist-sized fliers. You had only to reach for something and it would scuttle helpfully closer to your hand. The machines must have been crude compared to what had existed before the plague, but I still felt like I’d wandered into a room animated by poltergeists.

‘That’s right; sit down,’ Zebra said, easing my transition onto her couch. ‘And just lie still. I’ll be back in a moment.’

‘Believe me, I’m not going anywhere in a hurry.’

She disappeared from the room, and I lolled in and out of consciousness, for all that I was unwilling to surrender myself to sleep so easily. No more Sky dreams. When Zebra returned she had removed her coat, and she carried two glasses of something hot and herbal. I let it run down my throat, and while I couldn’t say it actively improved the way I felt, it was an improvement on the gallons of Mulch rainwater which I had already consumed.

Zebra had not returned alone: gliding behind her had come one of her larger ceiling-tracked servitors, a multi-limbed white cylinder with an ovoid glowing green face alive with flickering medical readouts. The machine descended until it could bring its sensors into play on my leg, chirruping and projecting status graphics as it diagnosed the severity of the wound.

‘Well? Do I live or die?’

‘You’re lucky,’ Zebra said. ‘The gun she used against you? It was a low-yield laser; a duelling weapon. It’s not designed to do any real harm unless it touches vital organs, and the beam’s finely collimated, so the surrounding tissue damage is pretty minimal.’

‘You could have fooled me.’

‘Well, I never said it wouldn’t hurt like hell. But you’ll live, Tanner.’

‘Nonetheless,’ I said, grimacing as the machine probed the entry wound with minimal gentleness, ‘I don’t think I’ll be able to walk on it.’

‘You won’t have to. At least not until tomorrow. The machine can heal you while you sleep.’

‘I’m not sure I feel like sleeping.’

‘Why - have you got a problem with it?’

‘It might surprise you, but yes, actually I have.’ She looked at me blankly, so I decided there was no harm in telling her about the indoctrinal virus. ‘They could have cleaned it out in Hospice Idlewild, but I didn’t want to wait. So now I get a quick trip into Sky Haussmann’s head every time I fall asleep.’ I showed her the scab of blood in the middle of my palm.

‘A man with a wound, come to our mean streets to right some wrongs?’

‘I’ve come to finish some business, that’s all. But you’ll understand the idea of sleeping doesn’t exactly fill me with overwhelming enthusiasm. Sky Haussmann’s head isn’t a pleasant place to spend any great length of time.’

‘I don’t know much about him. It would be ancient history even if it wasn’t another planet as well.’

‘It doesn’t feel like ancient history to me. It feels like he’s slowly worming his way into me, like a voice that keeps getting louder and louder in my head. I met a man who had the virus before I did - in fact, he probably gave it to me. He was pretty far gone. He had to surround himself with Sky Haussmann iconography or he started shaking.’

‘That doesn’t have to happen here,’ Zebra said. ‘Has the indoctrinal virus been around for a few years?’

‘It depends on the strain, but the viruses themselves are an old invention.’

‘Then you might be in luck. If the virus showed up in Yellowstone’s medical databases before the plague hit, the servitor will know about it. It might even be able to synthesise a cure.’

‘The Mendicants thought it would take a few days to take effect.’

‘They were probably being over-cautious. A day, perhaps two - that should be all the time it takes to flush it out. If the robot knows about it.’ Zebra patted the white machine. ‘But it will do its best. Now will you think about sleeping?’

I had to find Reivich, I told myself. That meant not wasting any time at my disposal; not a single hour. I had already wasted half a night since arriving in Chasm City. But it would take more than another couple of hours to track him down, I knew. Days, perhaps. I would only last that time if I allowed my recent injuries some time to heal. It would be sweet irony if I dropped dead of fatigue just as I was about to kill Reivich. For him, anyway. I wouldn’t be laughing.

‘I’ll think about it,’ I said.

The odd thing was, after all that I had told Zebra, this time I didn’t dream about Sky Haussmann at all.

I dreamed about Gitta.

She’d always been there in my thoughts, ever since waking in Idlewild. Just thinking about her beauty - and the fact that she was dead - was like a mental whiplash; a crack of pain against which my senses never seemed to dull. I could hear the way she spoke; smell her as if she were standing next to me, listening intently while I gave her one of the lessons Cahuella had insisted upon. I don’t think there had been a minute since I’d arrived around Yellowstone when Gitta had left me completely. When I saw another woman’s face, I measured her against Gitta - even if that measurement took place on a barely conscious level. I knew with a heartfelt certainty that she was dead, and although I could not absolve myself of all responsibility for her death, it was Reivich that had really killed her.

And yet, I had given very little thought to the events leading up to her death, and almost none to her death itself.

Now they came crashing in.

I didn’t dream it like this, of course. The episodes from Sky Haussmann’s life might have played through my head in a neatly linear fashion - even if some of the events in those episodes contradicted what I thought I knew about him - but my own dreams were as disorganised and illogical as anyone’s. So while I dreamed about the journey up the Peninsula, and the ambush that had ended with Gitta’s death, it wasn’t with the clarity of the Haussmann episodes. But afterwards, when I woke, it was as if the act of dreaming had unlocked a whole raft of memories which I had barely realised were missing. In the morning, I was able to think in detail about all that had happened.

The last thing I’d remembered in any depth was when Cahuella and I had been taken aboard the Ultra ship, where Captain Orcagna had warned us against Reivich’s planned attack on the Reptile House. Reivich, the captain said, was moving south down through the jungle. They were tracking him via the emissions from the heavy armaments his party was carrying.

It was good that Cahuella had completed his dealings with the Ultras as soon as he had. He had taken a significant risk in visiting the orbiting ship even then, but only a week afterwards it would have been nearly impossible. The bounty on him had increased enough that some of the neutral observer factions had declared that they would intercept any vessel known to be carrying Cahuella, shooting it down if arrest was not an option. If less had been at stake, the Ultras might have ignored that kind of threat, but now they had made their presence officially known and were engaged in sensitive trade negotiations with those self-same factions. Cahuella was effectively confined to the surface - and a steadily diminishing area of it at that.

But Orcagna had stayed true to his word. He was still feeding us information on Reivich’s position as he moved south towards the Reptile House, at the fuzzy accuracy which Cahuella had requested.

Our plan was simple enough. There were very few routes through the jungle north of the Reptile House, and Reivich had already committed himself to one of the major trails. There was a point on the trail where the jungle had encroached badly, and it was there that we would lay our ambush.

‘We’ll make an expedition of it,’ Cahuella had said, as he and I pored over a map table in the basement of the Reptile House. ‘That’s prime hamadryad country, Tanner. We’ve never been there before - never had the opportunity. Now Reivich is giving it to us on a plate.’

‘You’ve already got a hamadryad.’

‘A juve.’ He said it contemptuously, as if the animal were almost not worth having. I had to smile, remembering how triumphant he’d been at its capture. To capture any size of hamadryad alive was quite an achievement, but now he had set his sights higher. He was the classic hunter, incapable of being sated. There was always a bigger kill out there to taunt him, and he always deluded himself that after that one there would be yet another, as yet undreamt of.

He stabbed the map again. ‘I want an adult. A near-adult, I should say.’

‘No one’s ever caught a near-adult hamadryad alive.’

‘Then I’ll have to be the first, won’t I?’

‘Leave it,’ I said. ‘We’ve enough of a hunt on our hands with Reivich. We can always use this trip to scope the terrain and go back in a few months with a full hunting expedition. We don’t even have a vehicle that could carry a dead near-adult, let alone a live one.’

‘I’ve been thinking about it,’ he said. ‘And doing some preliminary work on the problem. C’mon, let me show you something, Tanner.’

I had a horrible sinking feeling.

We walked through connecting corridors into another part of the Reptile House’s basement levels. Down in the basement vivaria there were hundreds of large display cases, equipped with humidifiers and temperature control for the comfort of reptilian guests. Most of the creatures that would have filled these exhibits moved in conditions of low light, along the forest floor. The cases would have held realistic habitats for them, stocked with exactly the right kinds of flora. The largest was a series of stepped rock-pools into which a pair of boa constrictors would have been introduced, but the embryos had been damaged years earlier.

By any strict definition, there were no creatures on Sky’s Edge that were exactly reptilian. Reptiles, even on Earth, were only one possible evolutionary outcome from a vast range of possibilities.

The largest invertebrates on Earth had been squid, but on Sky’s Edge, invertebrate forms had invaded land as well. No one really knew why life had gone down this road, but the best guess was that some catastrophic event had made the oceans shrink to perhaps half their previous area, exposing vast new areas of dry ground. Life on the ocean fringes had been given a huge incentive to adapt to land. The backbone had just never been invented, and through slow, fumbling, mindless ingenuity, evolution had managed to do without it. Life on Sky’s Edge was genuinely spineless. The largest animals - the hamadryads - maintained structural rigidity through the pressure of circulatory fluids alone, pumped by hundreds of hearts spread throughout the creature’s volume.

But they were cold-blooded, regulating their body temperatures by their surroundings. There had never been a winter on Sky’s Edge; nothing to select for mammal-like creatures. It was that cold-bloodedness which was most evocative of the reptilian. It meant that Sky’s Edge animals moved slowly, feeding infrequently, and lived to great ages. The largest of them, the hamadryads, did not even die in any familiar sense. They simply changed.

The connecting corridor opened out into the largest of the basement chambers, where we kept the juvenile. Originally this area had been intended for a family of crocodiles, but they were on ice for now. The entire display area which they had been assigned was just barely large enough for the young hamadryad. Fortunately, it had not grown perceptibly bigger in its time in captivity, but we would certainly have to build a huge new chamber if Cahuella was serious about bagging a near-adult.

It was some months since I had seen the juvenile. Frankly, it did not interest me greatly. Eventually it dawned on one that the creature did not actually do very much. Its appetite was negligible once it had fed. Typically, it would curl up and enter a state not far from death. Hamadryads had no real predators so they could afford to digest their food and conserve energy in peace.

Now we overlooked the deep white-walled pit which had been originally intended for the crocs. Rodriguez, one of my men, was leaning over the side, sweeping the bottom with a ten-metre-long broom. That was how far below us the floor was, surrounded by sheer walls in white ceramic. Sometimes Rodriguez had to go into the pit to fix something, a task I never greatly envied him, even when the juvenile was on the other side of a barrier. There were just some places in life where it was best not to be, and a snake pit was one of them. Rodriguez grinned at me beneath his moustache, hauling the broom out and racking it on the wall behind him, along with an array of similarly long-handled tools: claws, anaesthetic harpoons, electrical prods and such like.

‘How was your trip to Santiago?’ I said. He had been down there on business for us, exploring new lines of trade.

‘Glad to be back, Tanner. The place is full of aristocratic arse-holes. They talk about indicting the likes of us for war crimes and at the same time they hope the war never ends because it adds some colour to their miserable rich lives.’

‘Some of us they already have indicted,’ Cahuella said.

Rodriguez picked leaves from the broom’s bristles. ‘Yeah, I heard. Still, this year’s war criminal is next year’s saviour of the people, right? Besides - we all know guns don’t kill people, do they?’

‘No, it’s the small metal projectiles that generally do the killing,’ Cahuella said, smiling. He fingered the cattle-prod lovingly, perhaps remembering the time he had used it to shepherd the juvenile into its transport cage. ‘How is my baby, anyway?’

‘I’m a little worried about that skin infection. Do these things moult?’

‘I don’t think anyone knows. We’ll probably be the first to find out if they do.’ Cahuella leaned over the wall - it was waist height - and looked down into the pit. It looked unfinished. Here and there were a few sparse attempts at vegetation, but we had quickly discovered that the hamadryad behaviour appeared to have very little to do with its surroundings. It breathed and smelled prey and occasionally ate. Otherwise it just lay coiled like the hawser of a vast maritime ship.

Even Cahuella had become bored with it after a while - after all, it was just a juvenile: he would be dead long before it grew to anything near its adult size.

The hamadryad wasn’t visible. I leaned over the edge, but it was obviously nowhere in the pit itself. There was an alcove, cool and dark, set into the wall beneath us; that was where the thing could usually be found when it was sleeping.

‘She’s asleep,’ Rodriguez said.

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Come back in a month and maybe it’ll have moved.’

‘No,’ Cahuella said. ‘Take a look at this.’

There was a white metal box set on our side of the wall; I hadn’t noticed it before. He flipped open a lid on the box and removed something like a walkie-talkie: a control pad with an aerial and a matrix of controls set into it.

‘You’re not serious, are you?’

Cahuella stood with his legs slightly apart, the control unit in one hand. With his other hand he jabbed hesitantly at the matrix of buttons, as if not quite certain of the sequence he should be entering. But whatever he did had some effect: I heard the unmistakable dry slithering of the uncoiling snake below us. It was a sound like a sheet of tarpaulin being dragged over concrete.

‘What’s happening?’

‘Have a guess.’ He was enjoying himself, leaning over the edge and watching the creature emerge from its hideaway.

The hamadryad might well have been a juvenile, but it was still as large as any I wanted to be this close to. The snakelike body was twelve metres long, as thick as my torso for most of that length. It moved like a snake, of course: there was really only one way for a long, limbless predator to move, especially one that weighed more than a tonne. The body was textureless, almost bloodlessly pale, for the creature was adjusting its skin coloration to match the white walls of the chamber. They had no predators, but they were masters of ambush.

The head was eyeless. No one was exactly sure how the snakes managed that trick of camouflaging themselves when they were blind, but there must have been optical organs distributed around the skin, purely to serve the coloration function and not wired into the higher nervous system at all. Not that they were truly blind, either, for the hamadryad did have a set of eyes, with remarkable acuity, spaced apart for binocular vision. But the eyes were set inside the upper roof of its jaw, analogous to the heat sensors in the mouth of a venomous snake. It was only when the animal opened its mouth to strike that it saw anything of the world. By then a host of other senses - infra-red and smell, mainly - would have ensured that it had locked onto likely prey. The jaw-mounted eyes were only there to guide the final moments of the attack. It sounded deeply alien, but I had heard of a mutation in frogs which caused the eyes to grow inside the mouth, with no serious impact on the frog’s wellbeing. It was also the case that terrestrial snakes functioned almost as well blind as sighted.

Now it stopped. It had emerged fully from the alcove, lightly coiled around itself.

‘Well?’ I said. ‘That’s a nice trick. Are you going to tell me how it’s done?’

‘Mind control,’ Cahuella said. ‘Doctor Vicuna and I drugged it and did a little neural experimentation.’

‘The ghoul’s been here again?’

Vicuna was the resident veterinarian. He was also an ex-interrogation specialist with a past that was rumoured to harbour a number of war crimes involving medical experiments on prisoners.

‘The ghoul is an expert in methods of neural regimentation. It was Vicuna who mapped the major control nodes of the hamadryad’s rather rudimentary central nervous system. Vicuna who developed the simple electrical-stimulation implants which we emplaced at strategic positions throughout what I rather charitably refer to as the creature’s brain.’

He told me they had experimented with these implants until they could coax a simple series of behaviour patterns out of the snake. There was nothing too subtle about it, either - the snake’s behaviour patterns were simple to begin with. A hamadryad, no matter how large it grew, was basically a hunting machine with a few quite simple subroutines. It was the same with the crocodiles, until we put them on ice. They were dangerous, but easy to work with once you understood how their minds worked. The same stimulus always gave the same result with crocs. The hamadryad’s routines were different - honed to life on Sky’s Edge - but not much more complex.

‘All I did was hit the node that tells the snake it’s time to wake up and find some food,’ Cahuella said. ‘It doesn’t really need to feed, of course - we fed it a live goat a week ago - but its little brain doesn’t remember that.’

‘I’m impressed.’ I was, but I was also uncomfortable. ‘What else can you get it to do?’

‘This is a good one. Watch.’

He jabbed at a control and the hamadryad moved with whiplash speed towards the wall. The jaws opened at the last instant, the blunt head smacking into the ceramic tiles with tooth-shattering force.

The snake, stunned, retreated into a coil.

‘Let me guess. You just made it think it had seen something worth eating.’

‘It’s child’s play,’ Rodriguez said, smiling at the demonstration. Evidently he had seen something of it before.

‘Look,’ Cahuella said. ‘I can even make it go back to its hole.’

I watched the snake gather itself and neatly insert itself into the alcove again, until the last of its thigh-thick coils had slipped from view.

‘Any point to this?’

‘Yeah, of course.’ His look at me was one of acute disappointment, that I had not grasped this sooner. ‘A brain of a near-adult hamadryad isn’t any more complicated than this one. If we can catch ourselves a big one, we can drug it while we’re still out in the jungle. We know what tranquillisers work on snake biochemistry from our work on the juvenile. Once the thing’s out cold, Vicuna can climb up and implant the same hardware, rigged to another control unit like this one. Then all we’ve got to do is point the snake towards the Reptile House and tell it there’s food in front of its nose. It’ll slither all the way home.’

‘Through a few hundred kilometres of jungle?’

‘What’s to stop it? If the thing starts showing signs of malnutrition, we feed it. Otherwise, we just let the bastard slither - isn’t that right, Rodriguez?’

‘He’s right, Tanner. We can follow it in our vehicles; protect it from any other hunters who might want to take a pot at it.’

Cahuella nodded. ‘And when it gets here we park it in a new snakepit and tell it to curl up and sleep for a while.’

I smiled, reaching for an obvious technical objection - and came back emptyhanded. It sounded insane, but when I tried to pick a hole in any single aspect of it, Cahuella’s plan was difficult to fault. We knew enough about the behaviour of near-adults to at least have a good idea where to begin hunting one, and we could increase our tranquilliser dosages accordingly, multiplying by the ratio of body volumes. We would also have to scale up our needles - they would need to be more like harpoons now, but again, that was within our capabilities. Somewhere in his cache of weapons, Cahuella was bound to have harpoon guns.

‘We’ll still need to dig a new pit,’ I said.

‘Get your men working on it. They can have it ready by the time we get back.’

‘Reivich is just a detail in all this, isn’t he? Even if Reivich turned back tomorrow, you’d still find an excuse to go up there and look for your adult.’

Cahuella sealed the control box away and leaned with his back to the wall, studying me critically. ‘No. What do you think I am, some kind of obsessive? If it meant that much to me, we’d have been up there already. I’m just saying it’d be stupid to waste an opportunity like this.’

‘Two birds with one stone?’

‘Two snakes,’ he said, with careful emphasis on the last word. ‘One literally, one metaphorically.’

‘You don’t really think of Reivich as a snake, do you? In my book he’s just a scared rich kid doing what he thinks is right.’

‘What do you care what I think?’

‘I think we need to be clear about what’s driving him. That way we understand him and can predict his actions.’

‘What does it matter? We know where the kid’s going to be. We set the ambush and that’s that.’

Beneath us, the snake rearranged itself. ‘Do you hate him?’

‘Reivich? No. I pity him. Sometimes I even think I might sympathise with him. If he was going up against anyone else because they’d killed his family - which, incidentally, I did not do - I might even wish him the best of luck.’

‘Is he worth all this?’

‘You got an alternative in mind, Tanner?’

‘We could deter him. Hit first and take out a few of his men, just to demoralise him. Maybe even that wouldn’t be necessary. We could just set some kind of physical barrier - start a forest fire, or something. The monsoons won’t arrive for a few weeks. There must be a dozen other things we could do. The kid doesn’t necessarily have to die.’

‘No; that’s where you’re wrong. No one goes up against me and lives. I don’t give a shit if they’ve just buried their whole family and their fucking pet dog. It’s a point I’m making, understand? If we don’t make it now, we’ll have to make it over and again in the future, every time some aristocrat cocksucker starts feeling lucky.’

I sighed, seeing that this was not an argument I was going to win. I had known it would come to this: that Cahuella would not be talked out of his hunting expedition. But I had felt some show of disagreement was necessary. I was senior enough in his employment that I was almost obliged to question his orders. It was part of what he paid me for: to play his conscience in the moments when he searched for his own and found only an abscessive hole where one had been.

‘But it doesn’t have to be personal,’ I said. ‘We can take out Reivich cleanly, without turning it into some kind of recriminatory bloodbath. You thought you were joking when you said I went for specific areas of brain function when I shot people in the head. But you weren’t. I can do that, if it suits the situation.’ I thought of the soldiers on my own side I had been forced to assassinate; innocent men and women whose deaths served some inscrutable higher plan. Though it was no kind of absolution from the evil that I had perpetrated, I had always tried to take them out as quickly and painlessly as my expertise allowed. I felt - then - that Reivich deserved something of the same kindness.

Now, in Chasm City, I felt something else entirely.

‘Don’t worry, Tanner. We’ll make it nice and quick on him. A real clinical job.’

‘Good. I’ll be hand-picking my own team, of course . . . is Vicuna coming with us?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then we’ll need two tents. I’m not eating from the same table as the ghoul, no matter what tricks he’s learned to do with snakes.’

‘There’ll be more than two tents, Tanner. Dieterling’ll be with us, of course - he knows snakes better than anyone - and I’m taking Gitta as well.’

‘There’s something I want you to understand,’ I said. ‘Just going up into the jungle carries some risk. The instant Gitta leaves the Reptile House, she’s automatically in greater danger than if she remained. We know some of our enemies keep a close watch on our movements, and we know there are things in the jungle that are best avoided.’ I paused. ‘I’m not abdicating responsibility, but I want you to know I can’t guarantee anyone’s safety on this expedition. All I can do is my best - but my best might not be good enough.’

He patted me on the shoulder. ‘I’m sure your best will suffice, Tanner. You’ve never let me down before.’

‘There’s always a first time,’ I said.

Our small hunting convoy consisted of three armoured ground-effect vehicles. Cahuella, Gitta and I rode in the lead vehicle, along with Dieterling. He had his hands on the joystick, guiding us expertly along the overgrown trail. He knew the terrain and was also an expert on hamadryads. It hurt me to think he was dead as well now.

Behind, Vicuna and three other security people rode in the second vehicle: Letelier, Orsono and Schmidt; all with expertise in deep-country work. The third vehicle carried heavy weapons - amongst them the ghoul’s harpoon guns - together with ammunition, medical supplies, food and water rations and our deflated bubbletents. It was driven by one of Cahuella’s old trustees, while Rodriguez rode shot-gun in the rear, sweeping the path in case anyone tried to attack us from behind.

On the dashboard was a map of the Peninsula divided into grid sections, with our current position marked by a pulsing blue dot. Several hundred kilometres to the north, but on what would eventually become the same track as us, was a red pulse which moved a little south each day. That was Reivich’s squad; thinking they were moving covertly, but betrayed by the signatures of their weapons which Orcagna was tracking. They made about fifty or sixty kilometres a day, which was about as good a rate as anyone was capable of maintaining through the jungle. Our plan was to set up camp a day’s travel south of Reivich.

In the meantime, we were passing through the lower extent of the hamadryad range. You could see the excitement in Cahuella’s eyes as he peered deep into the jungle for a hint of large, slow movement. Near-adults moved so ponderously - and were so invulnerable to any kind of natural predation - that they had never evolved any flight response. The only thing that made a hamadryad move was hunger or the migratory imperative of their breeding cycle. Vicuna said they did not even have what we would think of as a survival instinct. They had no more need of one than a glacier did.

‘There’s a ham tree,’ Dieterling said, towards the end of the day. ‘Newly fused, by the look of it.’ He pointed off to one side, into what looked like impenetrable gloom. My eyesight was good, but Dieterling’s was apparently superhuman.

‘God . . .’ Gitta said, slipping a pair of camouflaged image-amplifier goggles to her eyes. ‘It’s huge.’

‘They’re not small animals,’ her husband said. He was looking in the same direction as Dieterling, his eyes squinting intently at something. ‘You’re right. That tree must have had - what, eight or nine fusions?’

‘At the very least,’ Dieterling said. ‘The most recent fusion might still be in its transition state.’

‘Still warm, you mean?’ Cahuella said.

I could see the way his mind was working. Where there was a tree with recent growth layers, there might be near-adult hamadryads as well.

We decided to set up camp in the next clearing, a couple of hundred metres further down the trail. The drivers needed a rest after a day pushing through the trail, and the vehicles tended to accumulate minor damage which had to be put right before the next stage. We were in no haste to reach our ambush point and Cahuella liked to spend a few hours each night hunting around the camp’s perimeter before retiring.

I used a monofilament scythe to widen the clearing, then helped with the inflation of the bubbletents.

‘I’m going into the jungle,’ Cahuella said, tapping me on the shoulder. He wore his hunting jacket, a rifle slung over one shoulder. ‘I’ll be back in an hour or so.’

‘Go easy with any near-adults you find,’ I said, only half joking.

‘This is just a fishing trip, Tanner.’

I reached over to the card table I had set up outside the tent, with some of our equipment on it. ‘Here. Don’t forget these, especially if you’re going to wander far.’ I held up the image-amp goggles.

He hesitated, then reached out and took the goggles, slipping them into a shirt pocket. ‘Thanks.’

He stepped away from the pool of light around the tents, unhitching the gun as he went. I finished the first tent, the one where Gitta and Cahuella were sleeping, and then went to find her to tell her it was ready. She was sitting in the cab of the vehicle, an expensive compad propped on her lap. She was thumbing through something indolently, skimming pages of what looked like poetry.

‘Your tent’s done,’ I said.

She closed the compad with something like relief and allowed me to lead her towards the tent’s opening. I had already checked the clearing for any lurking unpleasantnesses - the smaller, venomous cousins of hamadryads which we called dropwinders - but the place was safe. Still, Gitta moved hesitantly, afraid of putting her foot down on anything other than a brightly lit spot of ground, despite my reassurances.

‘You look like you’re enjoying yourself,’ I said.

‘Is that sarcasm, Tanner? Do you expect me to enjoy this?’

‘I told him it would be better for all of us if you stayed at the Reptile House.’

I unzipped the opening. Within was a pantry-sized airlock which kept the tent from deflating whenever someone came or went. We set up the three tents at the apexes of a triangle, linked together by pressurised corridors a few strides long. The tiny generator which fed the tents the air which kept them inflated was small and silent. Gitta stepped within and then said, ‘Is that what you think, Tanner - that this is no place for a woman? I thought attitudes like that died before they ever launched the Flotilla.’

‘No . . .’ I said, trying not to sound overly defensive. ‘That’s not what I think at all.’ I moved to seal the outer door between us, so that she could enter the tent in her own privacy.

But she put a hand up and held mine from the zip. ‘What is it you think, then?’

‘I think what’s going to happen here won’t be very pleasant.’

‘An ambush, you mean? Funny; I’d never have guessed that for myself.’

I said something foolish. ‘Gitta, you have to realise, there are things you don’t know about Cahuella. Or me, for that matter. Things about the work we do. Things we have done. I think you will soon have a better idea about some of those things.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘I think you should be ready for it, that’s all.’ I looked over my shoulder, towards the jungle where her husband had vanished. ‘I should get to work on the other tents, Gitta . . .’

When she answered her voice had an odd quality to it. ‘Yes, of course.’ She was looking at me intently. Perhaps it was the way the light played on it, but her face seemed extraordinarily beautiful to me then; like something painted by Gauguin. I think it was in that instant that my intention to betray Cahuella crystallised. The thought of it must have always been there, but it had taken that instant of searing beauty to bring it to light. If the shadows had fallen slightly differently across her face, I wondered, would I still have made that decision?

‘Tanner, you’re wrong, you know.’

‘About what?’

‘Cahuella. I know a lot more about him than you think. A lot more than anyone here thinks they do. I know he’s a violent man, and I know he’s done terrible things. Evil things. Things you wouldn’t even believe.’

‘You’d be surprised,’ I said.

‘No; that’s precisely the point, I wouldn’t be. I’m not talking about the violent little deeds he’s committed since you’ve known him. They’re barely worthy of consideration compared to the things he did before. And unless you’re aware of those things, you really don’t know him at all.’

‘If he’s so bad, why do you stay with him?’

‘Because he isn’t the evil man he used to be.’

Something flashed between the trees; a stammer of blue-white light, followed a moment later by the report of a laser-rifle. Something dropped through foliage to the ground. I imagined Cahuella stepping forward until he had found his kill; probably a small snake.

‘Some people would say that an evil man never really changes, Gitta.’

‘Then they’d be wrong. It’s only our deeds that make us evil, Tanner; they’re what define us, nothing else, not our intentions or feelings. But what are a few bad deeds compared to a life, especially the kinds of lives we can live now?’

‘Only some of us,’ I said.

‘Cahuella’s older than you think, Tanner. And the evil things he did were a long, long time ago, when he was much younger. They were what led me to him, eventually.’ She paused, glancing towards the trees, but before I could ask her what she had meant by that, she was already speaking again. ‘But the man I found wasn’t an evil one. He was cruel, violent, dangerous, but he was also capable of giving love; of accepting love from another human being. He saw beauty in things; recognised evil in others. He wasn’t the man I’d expected to find, but someone better. Not perfect - not by a long stretch - but not a monster; not at all. I found that I couldn’t hate him as easily as I’d hoped.’

‘You expected to hate him?’

‘I expected to do a lot more than that. I expected to kill him, or bring him to justice. Instead . . .’ Gitta paused again. There was another crack of blue light from the forest: the deadfall of another animal. ‘I found myself asking a question; one I’d never thought of before. How long would you have to live as a good man - doing good - before the sum of your good actions cancelled out something terrible you’d once done? Could any human life be long enough?’

‘I don’t know,’ I answered, truthfully. ‘But I do know one thing. Cahuella may be better than he used to be, but he’s still not anyone’s idea of citizen of the month, is he? If you define the way he is now as a man doing good, I’d hate to think what he was like before.’

‘You would, yes,’ Gitta said. ‘And I don’t think you could handle it, either.’

I bade her goodnight and returned to preparing the other tents.

TWENTY

In the midmorning, while the others struck camp, five of us walked back on foot until we had reached the point in the track where we had seen the hamadryad tree. From there it was an uncomfortable but short scramble through overgrowth until we reached the flared base. I led the party, sweeping the monofilament scythe ahead of me in an arc which cleared most of the vegetation.

‘It’s even bigger than it looked from the trail,’ Cahuella said. He was rosy-cheeked and jovial this morning, for his hunting last night had been successful, as we had discovered by the carcasses hung up outside the clearing. ‘How old do you think it is?’

‘It definitely predates the landing,’ said Dieterling. ‘Four hundred years old, perhaps. We’d need to cut it to know better.’ He began to stroll around the tree’s circumference, tapping the bark lightly with the back of his knuckles.

With us were Gitta and Rodriguez. They looked up towards the tree’s upper reaches, craning their necks and squinting against the sunlight which filtered through the jungle canopy.

‘I don’t like it,’ Gitta said. ‘What if . . .’

He had appeared out of earshot, but Dieterling answered her. ‘The chances of another snake coming by here are pretty damn minimal. Especially as this one seems to have fused very recently.’

‘Are you sure?’ Cahuella said.

‘Check it out for yourself.’

He was nearly round the back of the tree. We crunched through the overgrowth until we reached him.

The hamadryad trees were a mystery to the first explorers, in those dreamlike years before the war began. They had swept through this part of the Peninsula at haste, eyes wide for the wonders of a new world, searching for marvels, knowing that everything would be studied in greater detail in the future. They were like children ripping open presents, scarcely glancing at the contents of each wrapper before beginning to unpeel another gift. There was just too much to be seen.

If they had been methodical, they would have discovered the trees and decided that they were worthy of immediate further study, rather than simply consigning them to the growing list of planetary anomalies. Had they done so, they would only have needed to place a few trees under study for a few years before the secret would have been revealed to them. But it was many decades into the war before the proper nature of the trees was established.

They were rare, but distributed across a large area of the Peninsula. It was that very rarity which had made them the focus of early attention, for the trees were conspicuously different to the other forest species. Each rose to the height of the canopy and no higher - forty or fifty metres above the forest floor, depending on the surrounding growth. Each was shaped like a spiral candlestick, thickening towards the base. Near the top, the trees flared into a wide, flattened structure like a dark green mushroom, tens of metres across. It was these mushrooms which had made the hamadryad trees so obvious to the first explorers, overflying the jungle in one of the Santiago’s shuttles.

Now and then they found a clearing near a tree and set down to investigate on foot. The biologists amongst them had struggled to find an explanation for the trees’ shapes, or the strange differentiation in cell types which occurred around the tree’s perimeter and along radial lines through it. What was clear was that the wood at the heart of the trees was dead growth, with the living matter existing in a relatively thin layer around the husk.

The spiral candlestick analogy was accurate up to a point, but a better description, I felt, was of an enormously tall and thin helter-skelter, like the dilapidated old one I remembered from an abandoned fairground in Nueva Iquique, its pastel blue paint peeling away a little more with each summer. The tree’s underlying shape was more or less a tapering cylindrical trunk, but wrapped around this, ascending to the summit, was a helical structure whose spirals did not quite lie in contact with each other. The helix was smooth, patterned in geometric brown and green shapes which shimmered like beaten metal. In the gaps where the underlying trunk was visible, there was often evidence for a similar structure which had been worn down or absorbed into the tree, and perhaps levels of structure behind that too, though only a skilled botanist really had the eye to read those subtleties of tree growth.

Dieterling had indentified the major spiral around this tree. At the base, just where it looked as if the spiral ought to plunge into the ground like a root, it terminated in a hollow opening.

He pointed it out to me. ‘It’s hollow almost all the way to the top, bro.’

‘Meaning what?’ Rodriguez said. He knew how to handle the juvenile, but he was no expert on the creatures’ biological cycle.

‘Meaning it’s already hatched,’ Cahuella said. ‘The juveniles from this one have already left home.’

‘They eat their way out of their mother,’ I said. We still had no idea whether there were distinct hamadryad sexes, so it was entirely possible that they had eaten their way out of their father as well - or neither. When the war was over, probing hamadryad biology would fuel a thousand academic careers.

‘How big would they have been?’ Gitta asked.

‘As big as our own juve,’ I said, kicking the maw at the base of the spiral. ‘Maybe a touch smaller. But nothing you’d want to meet without some heavy firepower.’

‘I thought they moved too slowly to pose us any threat.’

‘That’s the near-adults,’ Dieterling said. ‘And even then, you wouldn’t necessarily be able to out-run it - not through overgrowth like this.’

‘Would it want to eat us - I mean, would it even recognise us as something to be eaten?’

‘Probably not,’ Dieterling said. ‘Which might not be much consolation as it slithers over you.’

‘Ease off it,’ Cahuella said, putting a hand round Gitta. ‘They’re like any wild animal - only dangerous if you don’t know what the fuck you’re doing. And we do know, don’t we?’

Something crashed through the overgrowth behind us. Startled, we all turned around, half expecting to see the eyeless head of a near-adult bearing down on us like a slow-moving freight train, crunching through the jungle which impeded its implacable slithering progress about as efficiently as fog.

Instead, what we saw was Doctor Vicuna.

The doctor had shown no inclination to follow us when we had left camp, and I wondered what had made him change his mind. Not that I was in any way glad of the ghoul’s company.

‘What is it, Doctor?’

‘I became bored, Cahuella.’ The doctor high-stepped through what remained of the overgrowth I had scythed. His clothes, as usual, were impeccable, even as ours picked up cuts and stains from the time in the field. He wore a knee-length dun field jacket, unzipped at the front. Around his neck dangled a pair of dainty image-amp goggles. His hair was kiss-curled, lending him the sordid air of a malnourished cherub. ‘Ah - and this is the tree!’

I stepped out of his path, my hand sweating around the haft of the monofilament scythe, imagining what it would do to the ghoul if I were to accidentally extend the cutting arc and flick it through him. Whatever pain he suffered in the process, I thought, could not be measured against the cumulative dose he had inflicted in his career.

‘Quite a specimen, isn’t it,’ Cahuella said.

‘The most recent fusion probably only happened a few weeks ago,’ Dieterling said, as comfortable with the ghoul as his master. ‘Take a look at the cell-type gradient here.’

The doctor ambled forward to see what Dieterling was talking about.

Dieterling had unpacked a slim grey device from the waist pocket of his hunting jacket. Of Ultra manufacture, it was the size of an unopened Bible, set with a screen and a few cryptically marked controls. Dieterling pressed one side of the device to the helix and thumbed one of the buttons. In shades of pale blue, vastly magnified cells appeared on the screen. They were hazy cylindrical shapes, packed together haphazardly like body bags in a morgue.

‘These are essentially epithelial cells,’ Dieterling said, sketching a finger across the image. ‘Note the soft, lipid structure of the cell membrane - very characteristic.’

‘Of what?’ Gitta said.

‘Of an animal. If I took a sample of your liver lining, it wouldn’t look too dissimilar to this.’

He moved the device to another part of the helix, a little closer to the trunk. ‘Now look. Totally different cells - arranged much more regularly, with geometric boundaries locked together for structural rigidity. See how the cell membrane is surrounded by an additional layer? That’s basically cellulose.’ He touched another control and the cells became glassy, filled with phantom shapes. ‘See those podlike organelles? Nascent chloroplasts. And those labyrinthine structures are part of the endoplasmic reticulum. All these things are defining characteristics of plant cells.’

Gitta tapped the bark where Dieterling had made the first scan. ‘So the tree is more like an animal here, and more like a plant - here?’

‘It’s a morphological gradient, of course. The cells in the trunk are pure plant cells - a cylinder of xylem around a core of old growth. When the snake first attaches itself to the tree, wrapping around it, it’s still an animal. But where the snake comes into contact with the tree, its own cells begin to change. We don’t know what makes that happen - whether the triggering cue comes from something in the snake’s own lymphatic system, or whether the tree itself supplies the chemical signal to begin fusion.’ Dieterling indicated where the helix merged seamlessly with the trunk. ‘This process of cellular unification would have taken a few days. When it was over, the snake was inseparably attached to the tree - had, in fact, become part of the tree itself. But most of the snake was still an animal at that point.’

‘What happens to its brain?’ Gitta asked.

‘It doesn’t need one anymore. Doesn’t even need anything we’d exactly recognise as a nervous system, to be frank.’

‘You haven’t answered my question.’

Dieterling smiled at her. ‘The mother’s brain is the first thing that the juveniles eat.’

‘They eat their mother?’ Gitta said, horrified.

The snakes merged with their host trees, becoming plants themselves. It only happened when the snakes were in their near-adult phase, large enough to spiral around the tree all the way from the ground to the canopy. By then young hamadryads were already developing in what passed for the creature’s womb.

The host tree had almost certainly already seen several fusions. Perhaps the original, true tree had long since rotted away, and what remained were only the locked spirals of dead hamadryads. It was likely, however, that the last snake to attach itself to the tree was still technically alive, having spread its photosynthetic cowl wide from the top of the tree, drinking sunlight. No one knew how long the snakes could have lived in that final brainless plant-phase. What was known was that another near-adult would arrive sooner or later and claim the tree for itself. It would slither up the tree and force its head through the cowl of its predecessor, then spread its own cowl over the old. Deprived of sunlight, the shadowed cowl would wither away quickly. The newcomer would fuse with the tree, becoming mostly plant. What little animal tissue remaining was there only to supply the young with food, born within a few months of the fusion. Some chemical trigger would cause them to eat their way out of the womb, digesting their mother as they went. Once they had eaten her brain, they would chew their way down the spiral length of her body, until they emerged at ground-level as fully formed, rapacious juvenile hamadryads.

‘You think it’s vile,’ Cahuella said, reading Gitta’s thoughts expertly. ‘But there are life-cycles amongst terrestrial animals which are just as unpleasant, if not more so. The Australian social spider turns to mush as her spiderlings mature. You have to admit it has a kind of Darwinian purity to it. Evolution doesn’t greatly care about what happens to creatures once they’ve passed on their genetic heritage. Normally adult animals have to stick around long enough to raise their young and safeguard them from predators, but hamadryads aren’t constrained by those factors. Even juveniles are nastier than any other indigenous animals, which means there’s nothing to protect them against. And they don’t need to learn anything they don’t already have hardwired into them. There’s almost no selection pressure to prevent the adults from dying the instant they’ve given birth. It makes perfect sense for the juveniles to gorge themselves on their mothers.’

It was my turn to smile. ‘You almost sound like you admire it.’

‘I do. The purity of it - who couldn’t admire that?’

I am not sure quite what happened then. I was looking at Cahuella, with half an eye on Gitta, when Vicuna did something. But the first flash of movement seemed to have come not from Vicuna but from my own man Rodriguez.

Vicuna had reached into his jacket and pulled out a gun.

‘Rodriguez,’ he said. ‘Step away from the tree.’

I had no idea what was happening, but I saw now that Rodriguez’s own hand was buried in his pocket, as if he had been on the point of reaching for something. Vicuna waggled the end of his gun emphatically.

‘I said step away.’

‘Doctor,’ I said, ‘would you mind explaining why you are threatening one of my men?’

‘Gladly, Mirabel. After I’ve dealt with him.’

Rodriguez looked at me, eyes wide in what looked like confusion. ‘Tanner, I don’t know what he’s on about. I was just going for my rations pack . . .’

I looked at Rodriguez, then at the ghoul.

‘Well, doctor?’

‘He has no rations pack in that pocket. He was reaching for a weapon.’

It made no sense. Rodriguez was already armed - he had a hunting rifle slung over one shoulder, just like Cahuella.

The two of them faced each other, frozen.

I needed to make a decision. I nodded at Cahuella. ‘Let me handle this. Get yourself and Gitta away from here; away from any possible line of fire. I’ll meet you back at the camp.’

‘Yes!’ Vicuna hissed. ‘Get away from here, before Rodriguez kills you.’

Cahuella took his wife and stepped hesitantly away from the tableau. ‘Are you serious, doctor?’

‘He seems adequately serious to me,’ Dieterling murmured. He was already edging away himself.

‘Well?’ I said, towards the ghoul.

Vicuna’s hand was trembling. He was no gunman - but no kind of marksmanship would have been necessary to take out Rodriguez at the distance that spaced them. He spoke slowly and with forced calm. ‘Rodriguez is an impostor, Tanner. I received a message from the Reptile House while you were here.’

Rodriguez shook his head. ‘I don’t need to listen to this!’

I realised that it was entirely possible that he had received some kind of message from the Reptile House. Normally I snapped on a comms bracelet before I left camp, but I had forgotten it in my haste this morning. Someone calling from the House would only have been able to get as far as the camp.

I turned to Rodriguez. ‘Then take your hand slowly out of your pocket.’

‘Don’t tell me you believe the bastard!’

‘I don’t know what I believe. But if you’re telling the truth, all you’ve got in there is a rations pack.’

‘Tanner, this is—’

I raised my voice. ‘Just do it, damn you!’

‘Careful,’ Vicuna hissed.

Rodriguez drew his hand from the pocket with magisterial slowness, glancing to myself and then Vicuna all the while. What came out, gripped between thumb and forefinger, was slim and black. The way he held it, in the perpetual gloom of the forest floor, it was almost possible to believe it was a rations pack. For a moment I did.

Until I saw that it was a gun, small and elegant and vicious; engineered for assassination.

Vicuna fired. Perhaps I had underestimated the skill that it would take to seriously incapacitate someone even when they stood so close, for the doctor’s slug only hit Rodriguez in the shoulder of his other arm, causing him to stagger back and grunt, but no more than that. Rodriguez’s gun flashed and the doctor fell backwards into the mulch.

On the edge of the clearing, Cahuella shrugged off his rifle and was on the point of bringing it to bear.

‘No!’ I started to shout, willing my master to save himself by getting as far away as possible from Rodriguez, but - as I belatedly realised - Cahuella was not the kind to walk away from a fight, even one in which his own life might be contested.

Gitta screamed for her husband to follow her.

Rodriguez levelled the gun towards Cahuella and fired . . .

And missed, his slug slicing through the bark of a nearby tree.

I tried to find some sense in what was happening, but there was no time. Vicuna appeared to have been correct. Everything that Rodriguez had done in the last few moments was consistent with the ghoul’s statement . . . which meant that Rodriguez was - what?

An impostor?

‘This is for Argent Reivich,’ Rodriguez said, drawing his aim again.

This time, I knew, he would not miss.

I raised the monofilament scythe, thumbed the invisibly fine cutting thread to its maximum, piezo-electrically maintained length: a hyper-rigid mono-molecular line extending fifteen metres ahead of me.

Rodriguez, out of the corner of his eye, caught what I was about to do, and made the one mistake which marked him as an amateur, rather than a professional assassin.

He hesitated.

I swung the scythe through him.

As the realisation of what had happened dawned on him - there could have been no immediate pain, for the cut was surgically clean - he dropped the gun. There was a terrible frozen moment, one in which I wondered if I had not made a mistake as grave as his hesitation, and that I had somehow failed to extend the scythe’s invisible line as far as I had imagined.

But there had been no mistake.

Rodriguez toppled to the ground, twice.

‘He’s dead,’ Dieterling said, when we were back in the one tent in the camp which had not been deflated. Three hours had passed since the incident by the tree, and now Dieterling was leaning over the body of Doctor Vicuna. ‘If only I had understood how these tools of his worked . . .’ Dieterling had spread a pile of the ghoul’s advanced surgical toys next to him, but their subtle secrets had refused to yield to him. The normal medical supplies had not been sufficient to save him from Rodriguez’s shot, but we had hoped that the doctor’s own magic - gleaned at considerable expense from Ultra traders - would have been powerful enough. Perhaps, in the right hands, it would have been - but the one man who could have used those tools profitably had been the one who most needed them.

‘You did your best,’ I said, a hand on Dieterling’s shoulder.

Cahuella looked down at the body of Vicuna with unconcealed fury. ‘Typical of that bastard to die on us before we could use him properly. How the hell are any of us going to be able to put those implants into a snake?’

‘Maybe catching the snake isn’t our absolute top priority now,’ I said.

‘You think I don’t know that, Tanner?’

‘Then try acting like it.’ He glared at me for my insubordination, but I continued anyway, ‘I didn’t like Vicuna, but he risked his life for you.’

‘And whose fucking fault was it that Rodriguez was an impostor? I thought you screened your recruits, Mirabel.’

‘I did screen him,’ I said.

‘Meaning what?’

‘The man I killed couldn’t have been Rodriguez. Vicuna seemed to agree with me, too.’

Cahuella looked at me as if I was something he had found stuck to the bottom of his shoe, then stormed out, leaving me alone with Dieterling.

‘Well?’ he said. ‘I hope you have some idea what happened out there, Tanner.’ He pulled a sheet over the dead Vicuna, then began to gather up the neatly glistening surgical tools.

‘I don’t. Not yet. It was Rodriguez . . . at least it looked like him.’

‘Try calling the Reptile House again.’

He was right; it was an hour since I had last tried, and I had not been able to get a call through then. As always, the girdle of comsats around Sky’s Edge was patchy and subject to constant military interference, elements mysteriously breaking down and coming back online for the nefarious purposes of other factions.

This time, however, the link worked.

‘Tanner? You’re all okay?’

‘More or less.’ I would elaborate on our loss later; for now I needed to know what Doctor Vicuna had been told. ‘What was the warning you relayed to us about Rodriguez?’

The man I was dealing with was called Southey; someone I had known for years. But I had never seen him look as disconcerted as he did now. ‘Tanner, I hope to God . . . we got a warning ourselves, from one of Cahuella’s allies. A tip-off about Rodriguez.’

‘Go on.’

‘Rodriguez is dead! They found his body in Nueva Santiago. He’d been murdered, then dumped.’

‘You’re sure it was him?’

‘We have his DNA on file. Our contact in Santiago ran an analysis on the body - it was a one-to-one match.’

‘Then the Rodriguez who came back from Santiago must have been someone else, is that what you’re saying?’

‘Yes. Not a clone, we think, but an assassin. He would have been surgically modified to look like Rodriguez; even his voice and smell must have been altered.’

I thought about that for a few moments before replying, ‘There’s no one on Sky’s Edge with the skill to do something like that. Especially not in the few days that Rodriguez was away from the Reptile House.’

‘No, I agree. But the Ultras could have done it.’

That much I knew, Orcagna having practically rubbed our faces in his superior science. ‘It would have to be more than just cosmetic,’ I said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Rodriguez - the impostor - still behaved like himself. He knew things only Rodriguez really knew. I know - I talked to him often in the last few days.’ Now that I considered those conversations, there had at times been something evasive about Rodriguez, but obviously nothing serious enough to rouse my suspicions at the time. There had been much that he had been perfectly willing to discuss.

‘So they used his memories as well.’

‘You think they trawled Rodriguez?’

Southey nodded. ‘It must have been done by experts, because there was no sign that it was the trawl itself that killed him. But again, they were Ultras.’

‘And you think they have the means to implant the memories into their assassin?’

‘I’ve heard of such things,’ Southey said. ‘Tiny machines which swarm through the subject’s mind, laying down new neural connections. Eidetic imprinting, they call it. The NCs tried it for training purposes, but they never got it to work really well. But if Ultras were involved . . .’

‘It would have been child’s play. It wasn’t just that the man had access to Rodriguez’s memories, though - it went deeper than that. Like he had almost become Rodriguez in the process.’

‘Maybe that’s why he was so convincing. Those new memory structures would have been fragile, though - the assassin’s own personality would have begun to emerge sooner or later. But by then Rodriguez would have gained your confidence.’

Southey was right: it was only in the last day or so that Rodriguez had seemed more than usually evasive. Was that the point when the assassin’s buried mind began to shine through the veil of camouflaging memories?

‘He gained it pretty well,’ I said. ‘If it wasn’t for Vicuna warning us . . .’ I told him about what had happened around the tree.

‘Bring the bodies back,’ Southey said. ‘I want to see how well they really disguised their man - whether it was cosmetic, or whether they tried to change his DNA as well.’

‘You think they went to that much trouble?’

‘That’s the point, Tanner. If they went to the right kind of people, it wouldn’t have been much trouble at all.’

‘To the best of my knowledge, there’s only one group of Ultras in orbit around the planet at the moment.’

‘Yes. I’m fairly sure that Orcagna’s people must have been involved in this. You met them, didn’t you? Did you think they could be trusted?’

‘They were Ultras,’ I said, as if that were answer enough. ‘I couldn’t read them like one of Cahuella’s usual contacts. That doesn’t mean they’d automatically betray us, though.’

‘What would they have to gain by not betraying us?’

That, I realised, was the one question I had never really asked. I had made the error of treating Orcagna like any other of Cahuella’s business contacts - someone who would not want to exclude dealing with Cahuella again in the future. But what if Orcagna’s crew had no intention of returning to Sky’s Edge for decades, even centuries? They could burn all their bridges with impunity.

‘Orcagna might not have known that the assassin was aimed at us,’ I said. ‘Someone affiliated to Reivich just presented them with a man who needed his appearance changed; another man who needed his memories transferred into the first . . .’

‘And you think it didn’t even occur to Orcagna to ask questions? ’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, even my own argument sounding weak.

Southey sighed. I knew what he was thinking. It was what I was thinking myself. ‘Tanner, I think we need to play it very carefully from here on in.’

‘At least one good thing’s come out of it,’ I said. ‘Now that the doctor’s dead, Cahuella’s had to abandon his snake quest. He just hasn’t realised it yet.’

Southey forced a thin smile. ‘We’ve already dug half the new pit.’

‘I wouldn’t worry about finishing the rest by the time we get back.’ I paused and checked the map again, the blinking dot which represented Reivich’s progress. ‘We’ll camp again tonight, about sixty klicks north of here. Tomorrow we’ll be on our way home.’

‘Tonight’s the night?’

With Rodriguez and the doctor dead, we would be undermanned when it came to the ambush. But there would be still be enough of us to make victory a near-mathematical certainty.

‘Tomorrow morning. Reivich should enter our trap two hours before noon, if he maintains his progress.’

‘Good luck, Tanner.’

I nodded and closed the connection with the Reptile House. Outside, I found Cahuella and told him what I had learned from Southey. Cahuella had calmed down a little since our last conversation, while his men worked around us packing up the rest of the camp. He was strapping a black leather bandolier from waist to shoulder, with numerous little leather pockets for cartridges, clips, ammo-cells and other paraphernalia.

‘They can do that kind of shit as well? Memory transfer?’

‘I’m not sure how permanent it would have been, but - yes - I’m reasonably sure they could have trawled Rodriguez so that Reivich’s man had enough of his knowledge not to arouse our suspicions. You’re less surprised that they could change his shape so convincingly?’

He seemed unwilling to answer me immediately. ‘I know they can . . . change things, Tanner.’

There were times when I felt I knew Cahuella as well as anyone; that at times we were as close as brothers. I knew him to be capable of a cruelty more imaginative and instinctive than anything I could devise. I had to work at being cruel, like a hard-working musician who lacked the easy, virtuoso flair of the true-born genius. But we saw things similarly, judged people with the same jaundiced eye and were both possessed of an innate skill with weapons. Yet there were times, like now, that it was as if Cahuella and I had never met; that there were infinite secrets he would never share with me. I thought back to what Gitta had told me the night before; her implication that what I knew about him was only the tip of the iceberg.

An hour later and we were on our way, with the two bodies - Vicuna and the bipartite Rodriguez - in refrigerated coffins, stowed in the last vehicle. The hard-shelled coffins had doubled as rations stores until now. Predictably enough, the hunting trip no longer felt like much of a holiday. I had never seen it like that, of course, but Cahuella certainly had, and I could read the tension in the muscles of his neck as he strained to look forward along the trail. Reivich had been a step ahead of us.

Later, when we stopped to fix a turbine, he said, ‘I’m sorry I blamed you back there, Tanner.’

‘I’d have done the same.’

‘That’s not the point, is it? I trust you like a brother. I did and I still do. You saved us all when you killed Rodriguez.’

Something green and leathery flapped over the road. ‘I prefer not to think of that impostor as Rodriguez. Rodriguez was a good man.’

‘Of course . . . it was just verbal shorthand. You - um - don’t think there are likely to be any more of them, do you?’

I had given the matter some thought. ‘We can’t rule it out, but I don’t think it’s very likely. Rodriguez had come back from a trip, whereas everyone else on the expedition hasn’t left the Reptile House for weeks - apart from you and me, of course, when we visited Orcagna. I think we can remove ourselves from suspicion. Vicuna might have been a possibility, but he’s neatly removed himself as well.’

‘All right. One other thing.’ He paused, casting a wary eye over his men as they hammered at something under an engine cowling with what looked like less than professional care. ‘You don’t think that might have actually been Reivich, do you?’

‘Disguised as Rodriguez?’

Cahuella nodded. ‘He did say he was going to get me.’

‘Yes . . . but my guess is he’s with the main party. That’s what Orcagna told us. The imposter might even have planned to lie low with us, not compromising his cover until the rest of the party came through.’

‘It could have been him, though.’

‘I don’t think so; not unless the Ultras are even cleverer than we thought. Reivich and Rodriguez were nowhere near the same size. I can believe they altered his face, but I can’t see them having the time to change his entire skeleton and musculature - not in a few days. Then they’d still have to adjust his body-image so he didn’t keep bumping into ceilings. No; their assassin must have been a man of similar build to Rodriguez.’

‘It’s possible he got a warning through to Reivich, though?’

‘Possible, yes - but if he did, Reivich isn’t acting on it. The weapons traces are still moving at the normal rate towards us.’

‘Then - essentially - nothing’s changed, right?’

‘Essentially nothing,’ I said, but we both knew that neither of us felt it.

Shortly afterwards his men made the turbine sing again and we were on our way. I had always taken the security of the expedition seriously, but now I had redoubled my efforts and rethought all my arrangements. No one was leaving camp unless they were armed, and no one was to leave alone - except, of course, for Cahuella himself, who would still insist on his nocturnal prowls.

The camp we set tonight would form the basis of our ambush, so I was determined to spend more than the usual amount of time searching for the best place to pitch the bubbletents. The camp had to be nearly invisible from the road, but close enough that we could mount an attack on Reivich’s group. I did not want us to become too separated from our munitions stores, which meant placing the tents no more than fifty or sixty metres into the trees. Before nightfall, we could scythe out strategic lines of fire through the wood and arrange fall-back routes for ourselves in case Reivich’s men laid down a heavy suppressing fire. If time allowed we would set deadfalls or mines along other, more obvious paths.

I was drawing a map in my mind, crisscrossing it with intersecting lines of death, when the snake began to cross our path.

My attention had wandered slightly from the route ahead, so it was Cahuella shouting ‘Stop!’ which first alerted me that something was happening.

Turbines cut; our vehicles bellied down.

Two or three hundred metres down the trail, just where the trail began to curve out of sight, the hamadryad had poked its head out of the curtain of greenery which marked the edge of the jungle. The head was a pale, sickly green, under the olive folds of its photosensitive cowl, retracted like a cobra’s hood. It was crossing from right to left; towards the sea.

‘Near-adult,’ Dieterling said, as if what we were looking at was a bug stuck to the windshield.

The head was nearly as big as one of our vehicles. Behind it came the first few metres of the creature’s snakelike body. The patterning was the same as I had seen on the helical structure wrapped around the hamadryad tree, very snakelike.

‘How big do you think it is?’ I asked.

‘Thirty, thirty-five metres. Not the biggest I’ve ever seen - that has to be a sixty-metre snake I saw back in ’71 - but this isn’t any juvenile. If it can find a tree which reaches the canopy and isn’t much higher than its length, it’ll probably begin fusion.’

The head had reached the other side of the road. It moved slowly, creeping past us.

‘Take us closer,’ Cahuella said.

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Are you sure? We’re safe here. It’ll pass soon. I know they don’t have any deeply wired defensive instincts, but it might still decide we look like something worth eating. Are you sure you want to risk that?’

‘Take us closer.’

I fired up the turbine, gunning it to the minimum number of revs sufficient to give us lift, and crept the vehicle forward. Hamadryads were thought to have no sense of sound, but seismic vibrations were another thing entirely. I wondered whether the air-cushion of our car, drumming against the ground, sounded exactly like part of the snake’s diet coming closer.

The snake had arced itself so that the length of two-metre-thick body spanning the road was always elevated. It continued to move slowly and smoothly, betraying absolutely no sign that it had even registered our presence. Perhaps Dieterling was right. Perhaps all the snake was interested in was finding a nice tall tree to curl itself around, so that it could give up this tedious business of having a brain and having to move around.

We were fifty metres from it now.

‘Stop,’ Cahuella said again.

This time I obeyed unquestioningly. I turned to look at him, but he was already hopping out of the car. We could hear the snake now: a constant low rumble as it pushed itself through foliage. It was not an animal sound at all. What it sounded like was the continuous crunching progress of a tank.

Cahuella reappeared at the side of the vehicle. He had gone round the back to where the weapons were stored and had drawn out his crossbow.

‘Oh, no . . .’ I started to say, but it was too late.

He was already racking a tranquilliser dart into the bow, coded for use against a thirty-metre adult. The weapon, on the face of it, seemed like an affectation, but it made a kind of sense. A huge quantity of tranquilliser would have to be delivered to an adult to dope it as we had the juvenile. Our normal hunting rifles were just not up to the job. A crossbow, on the other hand, could fire a much larger dart - and the apparent drawbacks of limited range and accuracy were hardly relevant when one was dealing with a deaf and blind thirty-metre snake which took a minute to move its body length.

‘Shut up, Tanner,’ Cahuella said. ‘I didn’t come out here to see one of these bastards and turn away from it.’

‘Vicuna’s dead. That means we have no one to implant those control electrodes.’

It was as if I had not spoken. He set off down the trail, the crossbow in one hand, the muscles in his muscular back defined against the sweat-sodden shirt he wore under his bandolier.

‘Tanner,’ Gitta said. ‘Stop him, before he gets hurt.’

‘He’s not in any real danger . . .’ I started to say.

But it was a lie, and I knew it. He might have been safer than if he had been this close to a juvenile, but the behaviour of near-adults was only poorly understood. Swearing, I opened the door on my side, jogged round to the back of the vehicle and unracked a laser-rifle for myself. I checked the ammo-cell’s charge, then loped after him. Hearing my footfalls against the dirt, Cahuella looked back irritatedly.

‘Mirabel! Get the hell back into the car! I don’t want anyone ruining this kill for me!’

‘I’ll keep my distance,’ I called.

The hamadryad’s head had vanished into the other side of the forest, leaving an arc of body spanning the road with the elegant bowstring curve of a bridge. The sound, now that I came closer, was immense. I could hear branches snapping along the snake’s length, and a relentless susurration of dry skin against bark.

And another noise - identical in timbre, but coming from another direction completely. For a moment my brain sluggishly refused to reach the obvious conclusion, trying to work out how the acoustic properties of the jungle could echo the hamadryad’s progress so effectively. I was still wondering about it when the second snake burst through the treeline to my right. It moved as slowly as the first, but it was very much closer, which made the thing’s half-metre per second progress seem a lot swifter. It was smaller than the first one we had seen, but still monstrous by any standards. And I remembered an uncomfortable fact about hamadryad biology. The smaller they were, the faster they were capable of moving . . .

But the snake brought its hooded, deltoid head to a stop, metres from me and metres above my own. Eyeless, it seemed to float against the sky like a malign, thick-tailed kite.

In all my years of soldiering, I had never been paralysed by fear. I knew that it happened to some people, but I wondered how it was possible and what kind of people they had really been. Now, belatedly, I was coming to an intimate understanding of just how it could happen. The flight reflex was not completely decoupled from volition: part of me knew that to run could be just as hazardous as to remain fixed to the spot, motionless. Snakes were blind until they located a target, but their infra-red and olfactory sensitivity was acute. There was no doubt that it knew I was standing beneath it, or else it would not have stopped.

I had no idea what to do.

Shoot it, I thought . . . but the laser-rifle was, in hindsight, not the best weapon I could have selected. A few pencil-thin holes right through its body were not going to massively impede this creature. No point aiming for specific areas of brain function, either: it hardly had a brain to begin with, even before giving birth to the young that would eat that tiny knot of neurones. The laser was a pulse-weapon, the beam too transient to be used as a blade. I would have been better off with the scythe I had used against the imposter . . .

‘Tanner. Stay still. It has a lock on you.’

Out of the corner of my eye - I didn’t dare move my head - I saw Cahuella, approaching in a near-crouch. He had the crossbow against his shoulder, squinting along the weapon’s long haft.

‘That won’t do much more than piss it off,’ I said, in not much more than a hiss.

Cahuella answered in a stage whisper, ‘Yeah. Big time. The dose was for the first one. This one’s no more than fifteen metres . . . that’s twelve per cent of the body volume, which means the dose’ll be eight times too strong . . .’ He paused and halted. ‘Or thereabouts.’

He was within range now.

Above me, the head swayed from side to side, tasting the wind. Perhaps, following the other, larger, adult, it was impatient to be moving on. But it could not let this possibility of prey pass without investigation. Perhaps it had not eaten in months. Dieterling had said that they always had one last meal before fusion. Maybe this one was too small to be ready to bind with a tree, but there was no reason to assume it was not hungry.

Moving my hands as slowly and smoothly as I dared, I slipped off the rifle’s safety-catch, feeling the subliminal shiver as the discharge cells powered up, accompanied by a faint rising whine.

The head bowed toward me, drawn by the rifle.

‘This weapon is now ready for use,’ the rifle said brightly.

The snake lunged, its wide mouth opening, the two attack-phase eyes gleaming at me from the mouth’s red roof, triangulating.

I fired, straight into the mouth.

The head smashed into the dirt next to me, its lunge confused by the laser pulses. Angered, the snake reared up, its mouth wide, emitting a terrible roar and a smell like a field of butchered corpses. I had squeezed off ten rapid pulses, a stroboscopic volley which had punched ten black craters into the roof of the mouth. I could see the exit wounds peppering the back of the head, each finger-wide. I’d blinded it.

But it had enough memory to remember roughly where I was. I stumbled back as the head daggered down again - and then there was a glint of bright metal cleaving the air, and the thunk of Cahuella’s crossbow.

His dart had buried itself in the neck of the snake, instantly discharging its payload of tranquilliser.

‘Tanner! Get the fuck away!’

He reached into his bandolier and extracted another dart, then cranked back the bow and slipped the second dart into place. A moment later it joined the other in the snake’s neck. That was, if he had done his sums correctly, and the darts were both coded for large adults, something like sixteen times the dose necessary to put this specimen to sleep.

I was out of harm’s way now, but I kept firing. And now I realised that we had another problem . . .

‘Cahuella . . .’ I said.

He must have seen that I was looking beyond rather than at him, for he stopped and looked over his shoulder, frozen in the action of reaching for another dart.

The other snake had curved round in a loop, and now its head was emerging from the left side of the trail, only twenty metres from Cahuella.

‘The distress call . . .’ he said.

Until now we had not even known they had any calls. But he was right: my wounding the smaller snake had drawn the interest of the first, and now Cahuella was trapped between two hamadryads.

But then the smaller snake began to die.

There was nothing sudden about it. It was more like an airship going down, as the head sunk towards the ground, no longer capable of being carried by the neck, which was itself sagging inexorably lower.

Something touched me on the shoulder.

‘Stand aside, bro,’ said Dieterling.

It seemed like an age since I had left the car, but it could only have been half a minute. Dieterling could never have been far behind me, yet for most of that time Cahuella and I felt completely alone.

I looked at what Dieterling was carrying, comparing it to the weapon I had imagined suitable for the task at hand.

‘Nice one,’ I said.

‘The right tools for the job, that’s all.’

He brushed past me, shouldering the matte-black bazooka he had retrieved from the weapons rack. There was a bas-relief Scorpion down the side of it and a huge semi-circular magazine jutting asymmetrically from one side. A targeting screen whirred into place in front of his eyes, churning with scrolling data and bullseye overlays. Dieterling brushed it aside, glanced behind to make sure I was out of range of the recoil blast, and squeezed the trigger.

The first thing he did was blow a hole through the first snake, like a tunnel. Through this he walked, his boots squelching through the unspeakable red carpet.

Cahuella pumped the last dart into the larger snake, but by then he was limited to doses calibrated for much smaller animals. It appeared not to notice that it had even been shot. They had, I knew, few pain receptors anywhere along their bodies.

Dieterling reached him, his boots red to the knee. The adult was coming closer, its head no more than ten metres from both of them.

The two men shook hands and exchanged weapons.

Dieterling turned his back on Cahuella and began to walk calmly back towards me. He carried the crossbow in the crook of his arm, for it was useless now.

Cahuella hefted the bazooka and began to inflict grievous harm on the snake.

It was not pretty. He had the bazooka set to rapid fire, mini-rockets streaking from its muzzle twice a second. What he did to the snake was more akin to pruning back a plant snip by snip. First he took the head off, so that the truncated neck hung in the air, red-rimmed. But the creature kept on moving. Losing its brain was obviously not really much of a handicap to it. The slithering roar of its progress had not abated at all.

So Cahuella kept shooting.

He stood his ground, feet apart, squeezing rocket after rocket into the wound, blood and gore plastering the trees on either side of him. Still the snake kept coming, but now there was less and less of it to come, the body tapering towards the tail. When only ten metres were left, the body finally flopped to the ground, twitching. Cahuella put a last rocket in it for good measure and then turned round and walked back towards me with the same laconic stroll Dieterling had used.

When he got close to me I saw that his shirt was filmed in red now, his face slick with a fine film of rouge. He handed me the bazooka. I safed it, but it was hardly necessary: the last shot he had fired, I saw, had been the last in the magazine.

Back at the vehicle, I opened the case which held replacement magazines and slotted a fresh one onto the bazooka, then racked it with the other weapons. Cahuella was looking at me, as if expecting me to say something to him. But what could I say? I could hardly compliment him on his hunting expertise. Apart from the nerve it took, and the physical strength to hold the bazooka, a child could have killed the snake in exactly the same manner.

Instead, I looked to the two brutally butchered animals which lay across our path, practically unrecognisable for what they had been.

‘I don’t think Vicuna could have helped us very much,’ I said.

He looked at me, then shook his head, as much in disgust at my own mistake - that I had forced him to save my own life and lose his chance to capture his prey - as acknowledging the truth of what I said.

‘Just drive, Tanner,’ he said.

That night we established the ambush camp.

Orcagna’s trace showed that Reivich’s party was thirty kilometres north of our position and moving south at the same steady rate he had maintained for days. They did not appear to be resting overnight as we did, but as their average rate was somewhat slower than what we were managing, they were not covering much more ground in a day. Between us and them was a river that would need to be forded, but if Reivich made no serious mistakes - or decided against pattern to stop for the night - he would still be five kilometres up the road by dawn.

We set up the bubbletents, this time shrouding each in an outer skin of chameleoflage fabric. We were deep in hamadryad country now, so I took care to sweep the area with deep-look thermal and acoustic sensors. They would pick up the crunching movement of any moderately large adults. Juveniles were another thing entirely, but at least juveniles would not crush our entire camp. Dieterling examined the trees in the area and confirmed that none of them had released juveniles any time recently.

‘So worry about the dozen other local predators,’ he said, meeting Cahuella and I outside one of the bubbletents.

‘Maybe it’s seasonal,’ Cahuella said. ‘The time when they give birth, I mean. That could influence our next hunting trip. We should plan it properly.’

I looked at him with a jaundiced eye. ‘You still want to use Vicuna’s toys?’

‘It’d be a tribute to the good doctor, wouldn’t it? It’s what he would have wanted.’

‘Maybe.’ I thought back to the two snakes which had crossed our path. ‘I also know we almost got ourselves killed back there.’

He shrugged. ‘The textbooks say they don’t travel in pairs.’

‘So you did your homework. It didn’t help, did it?’

‘We got out of it. No thanks to you, either, Tanner . . .’ He looked at me hard, then nodded at Dieterling. ‘At least he knew what kind of weapon was needed.’

‘A bazooka?’ I said. ‘Yes. It worked, didn’t it? But I don’t call that sport.’

‘It wasn’t sport by then,’ Cahuella said. His mood shifted capriciously and he placed a hand on my shoulder. ‘Still, you did your best with that laser. And we learned valuable lessons that will stand us in good stead when we come back next season.’

He was deadly serious, I saw. He really wanted that near-adult. ‘Fine,’ I said, wriggling free of his hand. ‘But next time I’ll let Dieterling run the whole expedition. I’ll stay back at the Reptile House and do the job you pay me for.’

‘I’m paying you to be here,’ Cahuella said.

‘Yes. To take down Reivich. But hunting giant snakes doesn’t figure in my terms of employment, the last time I checked.’

He sighed. ‘Reivich is still our priority, Tanner.’

‘Really?’

‘Of course. Everything else is just . . . scenery.’ He nodded and vanished into his bubbletent.

Dieterling opened his mouth. ‘Listen, bro . . .’

‘I know. You don’t have to apologise. You were right to pick the bazooka, and I made a mistake.’

Dieterling nodded and then went to the weapons rack to select another rifle. He sighted along it and then slung it over his shoulder on its strap.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m going to check the area again.’

I noticed that he was not carrying any image-amp goggles. ‘It’s getting dark now, Miguel . . .’ I nodded to my own pair, resting on a table next to the map which showed Reivich’s progress.

But Miguel Dieterling just smiled and turned away.

Later, much later, after I had set up about half the deadfalls and ambushes (I would rig the others at sunrise; if I did it now there would be too much of a danger of tripping them ourselves), Cahuella invited me into his tent.

‘Yes?’ I said, expecting another order.

Cahuella indicated a chessboard, bathed in the insipid green light of the bubbletent’s glowlamps.

‘I need an opponent.’

The chessboard was set up on a folding card table, with folding, canvas-backed seats stationed either side of it. I shrugged. I played chess, and even played it well, but the game held few enticements for me. I approached the game like any other duty, knowing I could not allow myself to win.

Cahuella leaned over the chessboard. He wore fatigues crossed by webbing; various daggers and throwing implements were attached to his belt, with the dolphin pendant hanging under his neck. When his hands moved across the board, I thought of an oldtime general positioning little penanted tanks and infantry-men on a vast sand-table. All the while, his face remained placid and imperturbable, the green radiance of the glowlamps reflected oddly in his eyes, as if some part of that radiance came from within. And all the while Gitta sat next to us, occasionally pouring her husband another thimble of pisco; seldom speaking.

I played a difficult game - difficult, because of the tactical contortions I forced myself through. I was a superior chess player to Cahuella, but he wasn’t very fond of losing. On the other hand, he was shrewd enough to guess if an opponent was not giving the game his all, so I had to satisfy his ego on both fronts. I played hard, forcing Cahuella into a corner, but incorporated a weakness into my position - something exceedingly subtle, but also potentially fatal. Then, just when it looked like I would put him in check, I arranged for my weakness to reveal itself, like the sudden opening of a hairline fracture. Sometimes, though, he failed to spot my weaknesses, and there was nothing to do but let him lose. The best I could do under those circumstances was contrive to make the margin of my own victory as narrow as possible.

‘You’ve beaten me again, Tanner . . .’

‘You played well, though. You have to allow me the occasional victory.’

Gitta appeared at her husband’s side and poured another centimetre of pisco into his glass.

‘Tanner always plays well,’ she said, eyeing me. ‘That’s why he’s a worthy opponent for you.’

I shrugged. ‘I do my best.’

Cahuella brushed the pieces from the table, as if in a tantrum, but his voice remained placid. ‘Another game?’

‘Why not,’ I said, knowing with weary certainty that this time I had to fail.

We finished the chess game. Cahuella and I finished a few drops of pisco, then reviewed our plan for the ambush, even though we had already been through it dozens of times and there was nothing we had left uncovered. But it was the kind of ritual we had to endure. Afterwards, we made one final check on the weapons, and then Cahuella took his and spoke quietly in my ear.

‘I’m stepping outside for a moment, Tanner. I want some final practice. I’d rather not be disturbed until I’m done.’

‘Reivich might see the flashes.’

‘There’s bad weather coming in,’ Cahuella said. ‘He’ll just assume it’s lightning.’

I nodded, insisted that I check the settings on the gun for him, then let him slip out into the night. Torchless, with the little miniature laser strapped diagonally across his back, he was quickly lost from sight. It was a dark night and I hoped he knew his way through the part of the jungle immediately surrounding the clearing. Like Dieterling, he was confident of his ability to see well enough in the dark.

A few minutes passed before I heard the pulse of his weapon: regular discharges every few seconds, followed by longer pauses which suggested he was checking his fire pattern or selecting new targets. Each pulse strobed the tree-tops with a sharp flash of light, disturbing wildlife from the canopy; black shadows which cut across the stars. Then I saw that something else - equally black, but far vaster - was obstructing a whole swathe of stars towards the west. It was a storm, as Cahuella had predicted, creeping in from the ocean, ready to engulf the Peninsula in monsoon. As if acknowledging my diagnosis, the night’s previously calm and warm air began to stir, a breeze toying with the tops of the trees. I returned to the tent, found a torch and began to follow the path Cahuella had taken, guided by the intermittent pulses of his gun, like a lighthouse beacon. The undergrowth became treacherous and it took me several minutes to find my way to the patch of ground - a small clearing - where he stood shooting. I doused my torch across his body, announcing my arrival.

Still squeezing off pulses, he said, ‘I told you not to disturb me, Tanner.’

‘I know, but there’s a storm coming in. I was worried you wouldn’t notice until it began to rain, and then you might have trouble finding your way back to the camp.’

‘I’m the one who told you there was a storm coming,’ he said, not turning to face me, still engrossed in his target practice. I could barely see what he was shooting at; his laser pulses knifed into a void of darkness devoid of detail. But I noticed that the pulses followed each other very precisely, even after he adjusted his stance, or unshouldered the rifle to slip in another ammo-cell.

‘It’s late, anyway. We should get some sleep. If Reivich is delayed it could be a long day tomorrow, and we’ll need to be sharp for it.’

‘You’re right, of course,’ he said, after due consideration. ‘I just want to make sure I can maim the bastard, if I choose.’

‘Maim him? I thought we were setting him up for a clean kill.’

‘What would be the point of that?’

I stepped toward him. ‘Killing him’s one thing. You can bet he wants to kill you, so there’s a kind of sense to it. But he hasn’t done anything to earn that kind of hatred, has he?’

He sighted along the gun and squeezed off a pulse. ‘Who said he has to, Tanner?’

Then he snapped the gun’s stock and sight into their stowage modes, slipping the gun on to his back, where it looked like a piece of frail rigging lashed to the side of a whale.

We walked in silence to the camp, the storm rising overhead like a cliff of obsidian, pregnant with lightning. The first drops of rain were falling through the tree-tops when we reached the camp. We checked the guns were protected from the elements, triggered our perimeter infringement detectors and then sealed ourselves into the tents. The rain began to drum against the fabric, like impatient fingers on a tabletop, and thunder roared somewhere to the south. But we were ready, and returned to our bunks to snatch what sleep we could before we had to rise to catch our man.

‘Sleep well tonight,’ Cahuella said, his head peering through the gash in my tent. ‘For tomorrow we fight.’

It was still dark. The storm was still raging. I woke and listened to the rain’s fusillade against the fabric of the bubbletent.

Something had troubled me enough to bring me from sleep. It happened, sometimes. My mind would work away at a problem, which had seemed clear-cut in daylight, until it found a catch. It was how I had filled in some of the more subtle security loopholes at the Reptile House; imagining myself as an intruder and then devising a way to penetrate some screen that I had imagined until then to be absolutely foolproof. That was what it felt like when I woke: that something unobvious had suddenly been revealed to me. And that I had been making a terrible error of assumption. But for a moment I could not quite recall the details of the dream; what had been vouchsafed to me by my own diligent subconscious processes.

And then I realised that we were being attacked.

‘No . . .’ I started to say.

But it was much too late for that.

One of the most pragmatic truths about war, and the way it affected us, was that many of the clichés were not very far removed from reality. War was about yawning chasms of inactivity, punctuated by brief, screaming interludes of action. And in those brief, screaming interludes, events happened both quickly and with dreamlike slowness, every instant burned into memory. That was how it was, especially during something as compressed and violent as an ambush.

There was no warning. Perhaps something had reached down into my dreams and alerted me, so that it was both the ambush and the realisation of my error that brought me from sleep, but by the time I awoke I had no conscious memory of what it was. A sound, perhaps, as they disabled the perimeter warning system - or maybe nothing more than a foot crunching through undergrowth, or the alarm call of a startled animal.

It made no difference.

There were three of them against the eight of us, and yet they cut us down with merciless ease. The three were dressed in chameleoflage armour, shape-shifting, texture-shifting, colour-shifting garments which enveloped them from head to foot: full-body suits like that were more advanced than the kinds the average militia had access to; technology which could only be bought through the Ultras. That had to be it, then - Reivich was also dealing with the lighthugger crew. And maybe he had paid them to deceive Cahuella, supplying false positional information. There was another possibility, too, which was what my sleeping mind had come up with.

Perhaps there were two Reivich parties, one moving south thirty kilometres north of here, with the heavy armaments which Orcagna was monitoring. I had assumed that was the only party. But what if there had been a second squad, moving ahead of them? Perhaps they had lighter armaments which could not be traced by the Ultras. The element of surprise would more than compensate for the deficiency in fire-power.

It had, too.

Their weapons were no more advanced or lethal than our own, but they used them with pinpoint accuracy, gunning down first the guards stationed outside the camp, before the guards had had a chance to aim their own weapons. But I was barely aware of this part of the attack; still struggling out of sleep, thinking at first that the light pulses and cracks of energy-discharge outside were only the dying spasms of the storm as it passed into the deep Peninsula. Then I heard the screams, and I began to realise what was happening.

By then, of course, it was far too late to do anything about it.

TWENTY-ONE

Finally, I woke. For a long time, lying in the golden morning light which streamed into Zebra’s room, I replayed the dreams in my head, until at last I could put them to rest and start examining my injured leg.

Overnight the healer had worked wonders, utilising a medical science well in advance of anything we’d had on Sky’s Edge. The wound was now little more than a whitish star of new flesh, and what damage remained was mainly psychological - the refusal of my brain to accept that my leg was now fully capable of performing its intended role. I rose from the couch and took a few awkward, experimental steps, finally making my way over to the nearest window, navigating the stepped levels of the broken floor, furniture helpfully shuffling aside to ease my passage.

In the light of day, or what passed for day in Chasm City, the great hole at the city’s heart looked even closer, even more vertiginous. It was not difficult to imagine how it had lured the first explorers who had come to Yellowstone, whether birthed from robot wombs or riding the first, risky starships that had come afterwards. The blotch of warm atmosphere spilling from the chasm was visible from space when other atmospheric conditions were favourable.

Whether they had crossed land in crawlers or come skimming down through cloud layers, that first sight of the chasm could never have been anything but heart-stopping. Something had injured the planet, thousands of centuries earlier, and this great open wound had still not healed. Some, it was said, had made the descent into the depths, equipped only with fragile pressure suits, and had found treasures upon which empires might be founded. If so, they had been careful to keep those treasures to themselves. But it had not stopped others coming, other chancers and adventurers; around them had accreted the first hints of what would eventually become this city.

There was no universally accepted theory to explain the hole, although the surrounding caldera - in which Chasm City lay, sheltered from winds, and the predation of flash-floods and the encroachment of methane-ammonia glaciers - hinted at something fairly catastrophic, and recent, too, on the geologic timescale - recent enough not to have been erased by the processes of weathering and tectonic reshaping. Yellowstone had probably had a close encounter with its gas giant neighbour which had injected energy into the planet’s core, and the chasm was one of the means by which that energy was slowly being bled back towards space, but something must have opened this escape route in the first place. There were theories about tiny black holes slamming into the crust, or fragments of quark matter, but no one really knew what had happened. There were also rumours and fairytales: of alien digs beneath the crust, evidence that the chasm had in some sense been artefactual, if not necessarily deliberate. Perhaps those aliens had come here for the same reason that humans had, to tap the chasm for its energy and chemical resources. I could see very clearly the tentacular pipes which the city extended over the maw towards the bottom, reaching down like grasping fingers.

‘Don’t pretend you’re not impressed,’ Zebra said. ‘There are people who’d kill for a view like this. Come to think of it, I probably know people who have killed for a view like this.’

‘That doesn’t really surprise me.’

Zebra had entered the room silently. At first glance she appeared to be naked, but then I saw that she was fully clothed, but in a gown of such translucence that it might as well have been made of smoke.

She carried my Mendicant clothes in her arms, washed and neatly folded.

I could see now that she was very thin. Beneath the blue-grey film of her gown black stripes covered her entire body, following the curves of her form, shadowing her genital region. The stripes simultaneously suppressed and emphasised the curves and angles of her body, so that she metamorphosed with each step she took towards me. Her hair ran in a stiff furrow down to the small of her back, ending above the striped swell of her buttocks. When she walked, she glided, like a ballet dancer, her small hooflike feet more for the purpose of anchoring her to the ground than supporting her weight. I could see now that had she chosen to play the Game, she would have made a hunter of considerable skill. She had, after all, hunted me - if only for the purposes of ruining her enemies’ entertainment.

‘On the planet where I come from,’ I said, ‘this would be considered provocative.’

‘Well, this isn’t Sky’s Edge,’ she said, placing my clothes on the couch. ‘It’s not even Yellowstone. In the Canopy, we do more or less what we please.’ She ran the palms of her hands down her hips.

‘Excuse me if this sounds rude, but were you born this way?’

‘Not remotely. I haven’t always been female, for what it’s worth, and I doubt that I’ll stay this way for the rest of my life. I certainly won’t always be known as Zebra. Who’d choose to be pinned down by one body, one identity?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, carefully, ‘but on Sky’s Edge it was beyond most people’s means to modify themselves in any way at all.’

‘Yes. I gather you were all too busy killing each other.’

‘That’s a fairly reductive summary of our history, but I don’t suppose it’s too far from the truth. How much do you know about it, anyway?’ Not for the first time since she had entered the room, I was reminded of the troubling dream of Cahuella’s camp, and how Gitta had looked at me in the dream. Gitta and Zebra did not have a great deal in common, but in my confused state of waking, I found it easy to transfer some of Gitta’s attributes onto Zebra: her lithe build, her high cheekbones and dark hair. It was not that I did not find Zebra alluring in her own right. But she was stranger than any creature - human or otherwise - that I’d ever shared a room with.

‘I know enough,’ Zebra said. ‘Some of us here are quite interested in it, in a perverse way. We find it amusing and quaint and horrifying at the same time.’

I nodded at the people caught in the wall, the tableau that I’d imagined was a piece of artwork.

‘I find what happened here fairly horrifying.’

‘Oh, it was. But we lived through it, and those of us who survived never really knew the plague at its most ferocious.’ She was standing close to me now, and I felt myself aroused by her for the first time. ‘Compared to the plague, war seems very alien. Our enemy was our city, our own bodies.’

I took one of her hands and held it in my own, pressing it against my chest. ‘Who are you, Zebra? And why do you really want to help me?’

‘I thought we went through that last night.’

‘I know, but . . .’ There was no real conviction in my voice. ‘They’re still after me, aren’t they? The hunt won’t have ended just because you brought me to the Canopy.’

‘You’re safe while you stay here. My rooms are electronically shielded, so they won’t be able to get a fix on your implant. Besides, the Canopy itself is out of bounds for the Game. The players don’t want to draw too much attention to themselves.’

‘So I have to stay here for the rest of my life?’

‘No, Tanner. Just another two days and then you’re safe.’ She removed her hand from mine and used it to caress the side of my head, finding the bulge where the implant lay. ‘The thing Waverly put inside your head is wired to stop transmitting after fifty-two hours. That’s how they prefer to play.’

‘Fifty-two hours? One of the little rules Waverly mentioned?’

Zebra nodded. ‘They experimented with different durations, of course.’

It was too long. My Reivich trail was cold enough as it was, but if I waited another two days, I wouldn’t stand a chance.

‘Why do they play?’ I said, wondering whether her answer would accord with what Juan, the rickshaw kid, had told me.

‘They’re bored,’ Zebra said. ‘Many of us here are postmortal. Even now, even with the plague, death is still only a remote worry for most of us. Maybe not as remote as it was seven years ago, but still not the animating force it must be to a mortal like yourself. That small, almost silent voice urging you to do something today because tomorrow might be too late . . . it just isn’t there for most of us. For two hundred years Yellowstone’s society hardly changed. Why create a great work of art tomorrow when you can plan an even better one for fifty years hence?’

‘I understand,’ I said. ‘Some of it, anyway. But it should be different now. Didn’t the plague make most of you mortal again? I thought it screwed around with your therapies; interfered with the machines in your cells?’

‘Yes, it did. The medichines had to be instructed to dismantle themselves, turning to harmless dust, or they killed you. It didn’t stop there, either. Even genetic techniques were difficult to implement, because they relied so heavily on medichines to mediate the DNA rescripting procedures. About the only people who didn’t have a problem were the ones who’d inherited extreme-longevity genes from their parents, but they were never a majority.’

‘Not everyone else had to abandon immortality, though.’

‘No, of course not . . .’ She paused, as if to collect her thoughts. ‘The hermetics, you’ll have seen them - well, they still have all the machines inside them, constantly correcting cell damage. But the price they pay for it is they can’t move freely in the city. Once they leave their palanquins they have to restrict themselves to a few environments guaranteed to be free of residual plague spore, and even then there’s a small risk.’

I looked at Zebra, trying to judge her. ‘But you’re not a hermetic. Are you no longer immortal?’

‘No, Tanner . . . it’s nowhere near as simple as that.’

‘Then what?’

‘After the plague, some of us found a new technique. It enabled us to keep the machines inside ourselves - most of them, anyway - and still walk unprotected in the city. It’s a kind of medication; a drug. It does many things, and no one know how it works, but it seems to barrier our machines against the plague, or weaken the efficacy of any plague spore which enter our bodies.’

‘This medication . . . what is it like?’

‘You don’t want to know, Tanner.’

‘Suppose I were interested in immortality as well?’

‘Are you?’

‘It’s a hypothetical viewpoint, that’s all.’

‘I thought so.’ Zebra nodded sagely. ‘Where you come from, immortality’s something of a pointless luxury, isn’t it?’

‘For those not descended from the momios, yes.’

‘Momios?’

‘That was what we called the sleepers on the Santiago - they were immortal. The crew weren’t.’

‘We? You talk as if you were actually there.’

‘Slip of the tongue. The point is, there’s not much point being immortal if you’re not going to survive more than ten years without getting shot or blown up in a skirmish. Besides, the price the Ultras are charging, nobody could afford it even if they wanted it.’

‘And would you have wanted it, Tanner Mirabel?’ Then she kissed me, and pulled back to lock eyes with me, much as Gitta had in my dream. ‘I intend to make love to you, Tanner. Do you find that shocking? You shouldn’t. You’re an attractive man. You’re different. You don’t play our games - don’t even understand them - though I imagine you’d play them reasonably well if you wished. I don’t know what to make of you.’

‘I have the same problem,’ I said. ‘My past is a foreign country.’

‘Nice line, except it isn’t remotely original.’

‘Sorry.’

‘But in a way, it’s true, isn’t it? Waverly told me that when he ran a trawl on you he didn’t come up with anything clear-cut. He said it was like trying to put together a broken vase. No; that’s not quite what he said, either. He said it was almost like trying to put together two, or even three, broken vases, and not knowing which piece belonged where.’

‘Revival amnesia,’ I said.

‘Well, perhaps. The confusion looked a little more profound than that, Waverly said . . . but let’s not talk about him.’

‘Fine. But you still haven’t told me about this medication.’

‘Why are you so interested?’

‘Because I think I might have already encountered it. It’s Dream Fuel, isn’t it? It’s what your sister was investigating when she was killed for her troubles.’

She took her time answering. ‘That coat . . . it’s not yours, is it?’

‘No, I obtained it from a benefactor. What has that got to do with anything?’

‘It made me think you might be trying to trick me. But you really don’t know much about Dream Fuel, do you?’

‘Until a couple of days ago I’d never heard of it.’

‘Then there’s something you should probably know,’ Zebra said. ‘I injected you with a small quantity of Fuel last night.’

‘What?’

‘It wasn’t much, I assure you. I probably should have asked you, but you were injured and tired and I knew there was very little risk.’ Then she showed me the small bronze wedding-gun she had used, one full vial of Fuel in her cache. ‘Fuel protects those of us who still have machines inside our bodies, but it also has general healing properties. That’s why I gave it to you. I’ll need to get some more.’

‘Will that be easy?’

She gave me a half-smile and then shook her head. ‘Not as easy as it used to be. Unless you happen to have a hotline to Gideon.’

I was about to ask her what she had meant by the remark about the coat, but now she had distracted me. I didn’t think I had heard that name before.

‘Gideon?’

‘He’s a crime lord. No one knows much about him, what he looks like, where he lives. Except he’s got absolute control of Dream Fuel distribution across the city and the people who work for him are very serious about their work.’

‘And now they’re limiting the supply? Just when everyone’s become addicted to it? Maybe I should have a word with Gideon.’

‘Don’t get any more involved than you have to, Tanner. Gideon is extremely bad news.’

‘You sound as if you’re speaking from experience.’

‘I am.’ Zebra walked to the window and ran a hand over the glass. ‘I told you about Mavra already, Tanner. My sister, the one who used to love this view?’ I nodded, remembering the conversation we’d had shortly after arriving here. ‘I also told you she was dead. Well, Gideon’s people were the people my sister got involved with.’

‘They killed her?’

‘I’ll never know for sure, but that’s what I think. Mavra believed they were strangling us, withholding the one substance the city needs. Dream Fuel’s dangerous stuff, Tanner - there isn’t enough of it to go around, and yet for most of us it’s the most precious substance imaginable. It’s not just the kind of thing people kill for; it’s the kind of thing people fight wars for.’

‘So she wanted to persuade Gideon to open up the supply?’

‘Nothing so naïve; Mavra was nothing if not a pragmatist. She knew Gideon wasn’t going to let it go that easily. But if she could find out how the stuff was being manufactured - even what the stuff was - she could pass on that knowledge to other people so that they could synthesise it for themselves. At the very least she’d have broken the monopoly.’

‘I admire her for trying. She must have known it might get her killed.’

‘Yes. She was like that. She wouldn’t give up a hunt.’ Zebra paused. ‘I always promised her that if anything happened, I’d ...’

‘Pick up where she left off?’

‘Something like that.’

‘Maybe it isn’t too late. When all this blows over . . .’ I touched my head. ‘Maybe I’ll help you find Gideon.’

‘Why would you do that?’

‘You helped me, Zebra. It would be the least I could do.’ And, I thought, because Mavra sounded a lot like me. Perhaps she had come close to finding what she was looking for. If so, those who remembered her - and I counted myself as one now - owed it to her to carry on her work. There was something else, too.

Something about Gideon, and who he reminded me of - sitting, spiderlike, at the dark centre of a web of absolute control, imagining himself invulnerable. I thought again of Cahuella, and what had passed through my mind in sleep. ‘The Dream Fuel you gave me. Is that why I had such strange dreams?’

‘It does that, sometimes. Especially if it’s your first dose. It’s working its way through your brain, tinkering with neural connections. That’s why they call it Dream Fuel. But that’s only half of it.’

‘Does that make me immortal now?’

Zebra let the smoke-coloured gown fall away from her and I pulled her to me, looking into her face.

‘For today, yes.’

I woke before Zebra, dressing in the Mendicant clothes which she had washed, and quietly paced her rooms until I found the things I was looking for. My hand lingered over the huge weapon she had rescued me with, which she had just left lying in the annexe to her apartment as casually as a walking stick. The plasma-rifle would have been a useful piece of artillery on Sky’s Edge; using it inside a city seemed almost obscene. On the other hand, so did dying.

I hefted the weapon. I hadn’t ever handled anything exactly like it, but the controls were placed intuitively and the readouts showed familiar status variables. It was a very delicate weapon and I didn’t rate its chances of surviving very long if it came into contact with a trace of the plague. But that was no reason to leave it lying around, almost inviting me to steal it.

‘Careless, Zebra,’ I said. ‘Very careless indeed.’

I thought back to the night before; how the main thing on her mind must have been tending to my injury. It was perhaps understandable that she had dumped the gun at the door and then forgotten to do anything about it, but it was still negligent. I put the gun down again, quietly.

She was still asleep when I went back into the room. I had to move carefully, trying to avoid causing the furniture to move any more than necessary in case the faint noise and motion woke her up. I found her greatcoat and rummaged through the pockets.

Currency - plenty of it.

And a set of fully charged ammo-cells for the plasma-rifle. I stuffed the money and the cells into the pockets of the coat I’d stolen from Vadim - the one Zebra had found so interesting - and then dithered about whether to leave a note or not. In the end I found a pen and paper - after the plague, old-fashioned writing materials must have come back into vogue - scrawling something to the effect that I was grateful for what she had done, but I was not the kind of man who could wait two days knowing I was being hunted, even though she had offered a kind of sanctuary.

On my way out I picked up the plasma-rifle.

Her cable-car was parked where she had left it, in a niche adjacent to her complex of rooms. Again, she had been hasty - the vehicle was powered, and its control panel was still aglow and awaiting instructions.

I had watched her work the controls and judged that the action of driving was semi-automatic - the driver did not have to choose which cables to employ, just used the joysticks and throttle controls to point the vehicle in a particular direction and set the speed. The cable-car’s internal processors did the rest, selecting the cables which allowed the desired route to be achieved or approximated with something approaching optimal efficiency. If the driver tried to point the car into a part of the Canopy where there were no cables, the car would presumably reject the command, or pick a roundabout route which achieved the same ends.

Still maybe there was more skill to operating a cable-car than I’d imagined, because the ride began sickeningly, like a small boat pitching in a squall. Yet somehow I managed to keep the vehicle moving forward, descending through the latticelike enclosure of the Canopy, even though I had no idea where I was going. I had a destination in mind - a very specific one, in fact - but the night’s activity had completely erased my sense of direction, and I had no idea where Zebra’s apartment lay, except that it was near the chasm. At least now it was daytime, with the morning sun climbing up the side of the Mosquito Net, and I could see far across the city, beginning to recognise certain characteristically deformed buildings that I must have seen yesterday, from other angles and elevations. There was a building which looked uncannily like a human hand, grasping from the sky, its fingers elongating into tendrils which quickly merged with others, from adjacent structures. Here was another, which resembled an oak tree, and others which expanded into a froth of shattered bubbles, like the face of someone stricken by an awful pestilence.

I pushed the car downwards, the Canopy rising above me like an oddly textured cloud deck, into the unoccupied hinterland which separated Canopy from Mulch. The ride became rougher, now - fewer purchase points for the cable-car, and longer, sickening slides as it descended down single strands.

By now, I imagined Zebra would have noticed my absence. A few moments would suffice for her to verify the loss of her weapon, currency and car - but then what would she do? If the Game was pervasive in Canopy society, then Zebra and her allies could hardly report my theft. Zebra would have to explain what I had been doing in her place, and then Waverly would be implicated, and the two of them would be revealed as saboteurs.

The Mulch rose into view below me, all twisted roads and floods and barnacled slums. There were fires sending smoke trails into the air and lights there now; at least I had hit an inhabited district. I could even see people outside, and rickshaws and animals, and if I had opened the car’s door, I imagined I would have smelled whatever it was they were cooking or burning in those fires.

The car lurched and began to fall.

There had been sickening moments before, but this one seemed to last longer. And now an alarm was shrieking in the cockpit. Then something like normal motion resumed again, although it was noticeably bumpier and the vehicle’s rate of descent was swifter than seemed prudent. What had happened? Had the cable snapped, or had the car simply run out of handholds for an instant, plummeting before it found another line?

Finally I looked at the console and I saw a pulsing schematic of the cable-car, with a red box flashing around the area of damage.

One of the arms was gone.

TWENTY-TWO

Someone was attacking me.

Trusting the vehicle to find its own way down as quickly and as safely as possible, I retrieved Zebra’s plasma-rifle, steadying myself as the pitch rocked and swayed, my concentration not aided by the shrill insistence of the alarm. I moved back onto the rear bay, past the passenger seat where I’d lain the previous evening. Bracing myself, I knelt and opened the side door, watching it gull open. Then I leaned across and opened its counterpart on the other side, and pushed myself out as far as I could, into the wind, the ground still several hundred metres below me. I risked a quick glance up at the arm assembly, observing the cauterised stump where one of the arms had been shot clean off with some kind of beam weapon.

Then I looked up and back along my route of descent. Two other cable-cars were following me, about two hundred metres higher up and the same distance behind me. A black figure was leaning from the closest car, shouldering something which - even as I watched - flashed a light too intense for words. A line of pink ionised-air slammed past me like a piston, ozone hitting my nose almost before the thunderclap of the collapsing vacuum-tunnel sheared open by the beam weapon.

I looked down. We had lost another hundred metres, but it was still too high for my tastes. I wondered how the vehicle would manage with only one arm.

I flicked on Zebra’s rifle, praying that the weapon was not equipped with a user-recognition facility. If it was, she’d disabled it. Sensing that I was bringing the weapon to shoulder level, the sight adjusted itself to bring its retinal-projection systems into line with my eyes. I felt the weapon shiver as gyroscopes and accumulators came online, making it seem as if some magic energy coursed through it. Reserve ammo-cells weighing down my pockets like lead ballast, I waited for the retinal aiming system to adjust to my eyes so I could get off a shot. For a moment the system was confused, perhaps because it was configured for Zebra’s own peculiarly dark and equine eyes and was having trouble adjusting to my own. The retinal graphics kept springing up, almost focusing - and then crashing in a morass of indecipherable error symbols.

Another line of pink air ripped past me, then another, gouging a silver scratch in the side of the cable-car. The stench of hot metal and plastic filled the cabin for an instant.

‘Shit,’ I said. The retinal system was down, but it wasn’t as if my target was halfway to the horizon, or that I was trying for pinpoint precision. I just wanted to shoot the bastards out of the sky, and if the act ended up being rather messy and involving more than the usual amount of collateral damage, so be it.

I squeezed off a shot, feeling the beam-recoil nudge my shoulder.

My own beam-trail knifed backward, just missing the closest car. That was good. I had intended to just miss, on my first shot. I drew some return fire, throwing myself back into the cabin while the shot lanced past. Now I was forcing my opponent to spread his fire, forcing him to choose between disabling my vehicle and taking me out. I leaned out, shouldered the weapon in one quick fluid movement, something almost beneath conscious thought, and this time I wasn’t planning on missing.

I fired.

Because I was aiming for the front of the closest vehicle, I had an easier, more vulnerable target than my opponent. I watched the lead cable-car blow apart in a grey cloud of fused innards. The driver must have died instantly, I assumed, but the gunner had fallen out of the car during the first instant of the explosion. I watched the black-clad figure plummet towards the Mulch, weapon dropping alongside, and then heard nothing as the person hit the ground amidst a confusion of stalls and lashed-together dwelling places.

Something felt wrong. I could feel it coming; unravelling into mind. Another Haussmann episode. I fought it; tried desperately to anchor myself to the present, but it was already as if a second, faint layer of reality was trying to settle over me.

‘Go to hell,’ I said.

The other car loitered, continuing its descent for a moment, then turning around with a quick and elegant exchange of cable-arms. I watched it rise to the Canopy, and then - for the first time since I had become aware of the attack - realised that the siren was still shrieking in the cabin. Except that now it had gained a new level of urgency.

I placed the weapon down, then navigated the bucking car to the control chair. I could feel the Haussmann episode clawing its way to the front of my head, like a seizure on the point of happening.

The ground was coming up too fast. We were almost dropping, I realised - probably just skimming down a single strand of cable. People, rickshaws and animals were fleeing the area below, although with no real agreement on where it was I was likely to touch down. I got into the chair and worked the controls, largely randomly, hoping that there was something I could do which would level off the rate of descent. And then the ground was so close I could read the expressions on the Mulch people below and none of them looked overjoyed at my arrival.

And then I hit the Mulch.

The conclave room was deep inside the Palestine; sealed from the rest of the ship by massive bulkhead doors which had been decorated in ornate metal scrollwork, festooning like alloy vines. Inside was a massive rectangular table surrounded by twenty high-backed seats, less than a dozen of which were occupied. The matter of the messages from home was one of utmost security, and it was considered normal that the other vessels had sent only two or three delegates apiece. They sat around the table now, their stiffly suited figures reflected in the table’s polished mahogany surface, so dark and mirrorlike that it resembled a slab of perfectly still moonlit water. Rising from the centre of the table was a projection apparatus which was cycling through the technical schematics contained in the first message, skeletal graphics of dazzling complexity flashing into existence.

Sky sat next to Balcazar, listening to the faint labours of the old man’s medical tabard.

‘. . . and this modification would appear to give us more elaborate control of the confinement bottle topology than we yet have,’ said the Palestine’s senior propulsion theorist, freezing one of the schematics. ‘Coupled with the other things we’ve seen, it should give us a steeper deceleration profile . . . not to mention the ability to throttle back the flow without experiencing magnetic blow-back. That would let us turn off an anti-matter engine while there’s still fuel in the reservoir - and restart it later - something we can’t do with the current design.’

‘Could we make those mods, even if we trusted them?’ asked Omdurman, the Baghdad’s commanding officer. He wore a glossily black tunic flashed with grey and white sigils of rank. Coupled with the paleness of his skin and the deep black of his hair and beard, he was a study in monochrome.

‘In principle, yes.’ Beneath a sheen of perspiration, the propulsion tech’s face was impassive. ‘But I’ll be honest with you. We’d be making large-scale alterations within centimetres of the confinement bottle, which has to keep functioning perfectly the whole time we’re working. We can’t shunt the anti-matter somewhere else until we’re done. One wrong move and you won’t need so many seats at the next conclave.’

‘Damn the next conclave,’ murmured Balcazar.

Sky sighed and dug a finger between the damp edge of his collar and the skin of his neck. It was unpleasantly warm in the conclave room, almost soporifically so. Nothing felt right on this ship. There was an aura of strangeness aboard the Palestine that Sky had not been expecting; one that was heightened all the more by the things that were not strange at all. The ship’s layout and design had been instantly familiar, so that as soon as the Captain and he were escorted from their shuttle, he felt he knew exactly where he was. Though they were diplomatic visitors rather than prisoners, they were under constant armed guard, but had that supervision been lax enough for him to vanish into the ship, he was certain he would have been able to find his way to any part of it unaided and perhaps even unseen, exploiting his own knowledge of the Santiago’s blind spots and short-cuts, all of which were probably replicated on the Palestine. But in nearly every respect other than basic topology, the ship was subtly different, as if he had awakened into a world almost but not quite correct in the most mundane of details. The décor was different, signs and markings in unfamiliar script and language, with slogans and murals painted where the Santiago had blank walling. The crew wore different uniforms, flashed with sigils of rank he could not quite interpret, and when they spoke amongst themselves he understood almost nothing they said. They had different equipment and they saluted each other aggressively at every opportunity. Their body language was like a tune being played slightly offkey. The internal temperature felt warmer than on his own ship, and more humid - and there was a constant smell, as of cooking, wherever they went. It was not actually unpleasant, but it served to reinforce the feelings of foreignness he felt. It might have been his imagination, too, but even the gravity felt heavier, his footsteps hammering hard against the flooring. Perhaps they had upped their spin rate slightly so that when they arrived at Journey’s End they would have an advantage over the other colonists. Perhaps they had done it just to make everyone uncomfortable during the conclave, and turned up the heating while they were at it. Or perhaps he was imagining it.

The conclave itself had been tense, but not quite tense enough that he feared - if that was the word - for the Captain’s health. Balcazar had become more alert by then, almost fully lucid, for the relaxant that Rengo had administered had been designed to wear off by the time of their arrival. Some of the other senior crew members, Sky observed, were almost as infirm as his own Captain; supported by their own bio-medical rigs and fussed over by their own aides. It was quite an idiosyncratic collection of wheezing ironmongery; almost as if the machines had decided to meet and had dragged their fleshly hosts along for the ride.

They had talked mainly about the messages from home, of course. Everyone agreed that the two messages had been genuine in origin, if not necessarily guaranteed to be truthful, and that they were probably not a complex hoax perpetrated by one of the ships against the rest of the Flotilla. Each frequency component in either radio message had been subjected to a specific delay relative to its neighbour, due to the clouds of interstellar electrons lying between Sol and the Flotilla. That smearing would have been very difficult to fake convincingly, even if a transmitter could have been dropped sufficiently far behind the ships to send the message. There was never any mention of the sixth ship, and the Captain never alluded to anything connected to it. Perhaps it was truly the case that the existence of the sixth ship was only known about on the Santiago. A secret worth keeping, in other words.

‘Of course,’ said the propulsion theorist, ‘it could all be a trick.’

‘But why would anyone want to send us harmful information?’ asked Zamudio, the commander of the host ship. ‘Whatever happens to us won’t make any difference to anyone back home, so why try and hurt us?’

‘The same argument applies to any beneficial data,’ said Omdurman. ‘There’s no reason for them to send that either. Except common human decency.’

‘Damn human decency . . . damn it to hell,’ Balcazar said.

Sky spoke up at that point, raising his voice above that of the Captain. ‘I can think of arguments either way, actually.’ They looked at him patiently, as one might humour a child attempting to tell a joke. Hardly anyone in the room must have known who he was, beyond the fact that he was supposedly Titus Haussmann’s son. It suited him perfectly well: being underestimated was a highly satisfactory state of affairs.

He continued, ‘The organisation that launched the Flotilla might still exist in some shape and form back home, perhaps clandestinely. They’d still have an interest in helping us on our way, if only to ensure that their earlier efforts weren’t wasted. We might still be the only interstellar expedition under way; don’t forget that. We might still be the only hope anyone has of reaching another star.’

Omdurman stroked his bearded chin. ‘I suppose that’s possible. We’re like a great mosque being built: a project that will take hundreds of years and which no one will see in its entirety . . .’

‘Damn them . . . damn them all.’

Omdurman faltered, but pretended not to have heard. ‘. . . yet those who know they’ll die before the end is reached can still feel some satisfaction at having contributed something to the whole, even if it’s only the tiniest chip in the least significant pattern. The trouble is we know precious little about what’s really happened back home.’

Zamudio smiled. ‘And even if they did send more thorough news updates, we still wouldn’t know how much to trust them.’

‘Back to square one, in other words,’ said Armesto, from the Brazilia. He was the youngest of the Captains; not much older than Sky. Sky studied him carefully, taking the outline of a possible enemy; one that might not assume definition until years or decades hence.

‘Equally, I can think of reasons they might want to kill us,’ Sky said. He turned to Balcazar. ‘With your permisssion, of course?’

The Captain’s head jolted up, as if he had been on the point of sleep.

‘Go head, Titus, dear boy.’

‘Suppose we’re not the only game in town.’ Sky leaned forward, his elbows hard against the mahogany. ‘It’s a century since we left home. There may be faster ships on the drawing board now; maybe even on their way. Maybe there are factions that want to stop us reaching Swan so they can claim it for themselves. Granted, they could always fight us for it, but we’re four large ships and we do have nuclear armaments.’ The devices he was talking about had been put aboard for landscape engineering when they reached Journey’s End - blasting mountain passes, or scooping out natural harbours - but they were perfectly capable of being used as weapons. ‘We wouldn’t be a pushover. From their point of view, it would be a lot simpler to persuade us to destroy ourselves.’

‘So what you’re saying is, there are equally strong reasons for trusting the message as not trusting it?’

‘Yes. And the same argument applies to the second one; the one warning us from adopting the modifications.’

The propulsion theorist coughed. ‘He’s right. All we can do is assess the technical content of the message for ourselves.’

‘That won’t be easy.’

‘Then we take a massive risk.’

So it had gone on; arguments for and against trusting the messages bounced around fruitlessly. There had been suggestions that one or other party was withholding valuable knowledge - true enough, Sky thought - but no fingers had been pointed directly and the conclave had ended in a mood of unease rather than outright hostility. All the ships had agreed to continue sharing their interpretation of the messages, together with the establishment of a special pan-Flotilla expert group to examine the technical feasibility of the suggested modifications. It was agreed that no ship would act unilaterally, and there would be no attempt to implement the modifications without the express agreement of all other parties. It was even suggested that any ship that wanted to go it alone was welcome to do so, but they would have to pull away from the main body of the Flotilla, increasing their separation to four times the current distance.

‘That’s an insane proposal,’ said Zamudio. He was a tall, handsome man, much older than he seemed, who had been blinded by the flash from the Islamabad. A camera was strapped to one of his shoulders like a seadog’s parrot, tracking this way and that, seemingly of its own volition. ‘When we launched this expedition we did it in a spirit of camaraderie, not as a race to be the first to claim the prize.’

Armesto squared his jaw. ‘Then why are you so unwilling to share those supplies you’ve hoarded with the rest of us?’

‘We aren’t hoarding supplies,’ Omdurman said with little discernible conviction. ‘Any more than you’ve been withholding spare parts for our sleeper berths, as a matter of fact.’

Zamudio’s camera snapped onto him. ‘Why, that’s a ridiculous . . .’ He trailed off before speaking again. ‘No one’s denying that there are differences in the qualities of life on the ships. Far from it. It was always part of the plan that it should be like that. From the outset it was always intended that the ships should organise their own affairs independently of one another, if for no other reason than to ensure that not everyone made the same unforeseeable mistakes. Does that mean we all end up with the same basic standard of living aboard each ship? No; of course not. Something would be very wrong if it did. It’s inevitable that there should be subtly differing mortality rates amongst the crew; a simple reflection of the differing emphasis placed upon medical science by the ship regimes.’ He had their attention now, so he lowered his voice, gazing into the middle distance while his camera eye snapped from face to face. ‘Yes, sleeper berth fatalities will vary from ship to ship. Sabotage? I don’t think so, comforting as that thought might be.’

‘Comforting?’ someone said, as if they had misheard him.

‘Yes, exactly that. There’s nothing more comforting than paranoid conspiracy-mongering, especially where it hides a deeper problem. Forget talk of saboteurs; think instead of poor operational procedures; inadequate technical understanding . . . I could go on.’

‘Enough damned prattling,’ Balcazar said, in a flash of lucidity. ‘This isn’t what we came to discuss. If anyone wants to act on the damned message, let them. I’ll be more than interested in observing the results.’

But it seemed unlikely that anyone would be the first to make that move. As the Captain had implied, the natural impulse would surely be to let someone else make the first mistake. Another conclave would take place in three months, after the messages had been reviewed in greater detail. The general shipwide populace would be informed of the existence of the messages sometime after that. The accusations that had been thrown around in the conclave room were quietly forgotten. Cautiously, there was talk that the whole issue, far from heightening inter-ship tensions, might lead to a modest thawing in relations.

Now Sky sat with Balcazar in the homegoing shuttle.

‘Not long until we get back to the Santiago, sir. Why don’t you try and get some rest?’

‘Damn you, Titus . . . if I wanted rest I’d . . .’ But Balcazar had fallen asleep before he managed to complete the end of the sentence.

The home ship was an outlined speck on the taxi’s head-up display. Sometimes it seemed to Sky that the ships of the Flotilla were like the tiny islands of a small archipelago, spaced by stretches of water which nearly ensured that each island was over the horizon from its nearest neighbour. It was always night in the archipelago, too, and the fires of the islands were practically too faint to be seen except when one was close anyway. It took a leap of faith to steer away from one of those islands into the darkness, relying on the navigational systems of the taxi not to take them into oceanic waters. Mulling modes of assassination, as was his wont, Sky thought of sabotaging a taxi’s autopilot. It would have to be done just before someone he wanted to kill embarked on what they thought would be a journey to one of the other ships. It would be a simple enough matter to confuse the taxi to the point where it headed in the wrong direction entirely, sliding into blackness. Combine that with a fuel loss or life-support failure, and the possibilities were enticing indeed.

But not for him. He always accompanied Balcazar, so that particular mode was of limited value.

His mind returned to the conclave. The other Flotilla Captains had done their best not to show that they noticed Balcazar’s lapses of concentration and - at times - outright sanity, but Sky had seen the way they exchanged concerned glances across the polished mahogany gulf of the conference table, just when they imagined Sky to be looking elsewhere. It obviously troubled them immensely that one amongst their number was palpably losing his mind. Who was to say that Balcazar’s strain of madness did not lie in wait for all of them, once they reached his age? Sky, of course, did not once acknowledge that there was anything of concern in his Captain’s state of health. That would have been the gravest of disloyalties. No; what Sky had done was to maintain a poker-faced semblance of obedient solemnity in the presence of his Captain, nodding dutifully at every deranged utterance from his master, never once letting slip that he considered Balcazar as thoroughly mad as any of the other Captains feared was the case.

A loyal servant, in other words.

A reminding ping from the taxi’s console. The Santiago was looming large now, though it was still hard to see with the cabin’s interior lights on. Balcazar was snoring and drooling at the same time, a silvery stream of saliva adorning one of his epaulettes like a subtle new indication of rank.

‘Kill him,’ Clown said. ‘Go on; kill him. There’s still time.’

Clown was not really present in the taxi - Sky knew that - but he was here in some sense, his high, quavery voice seeming to come not from within Sky’s skull, but from some distance behind it.

‘I don’t want to kill him,’ Sky said, adding a silent ‘yet’ for his own benefit.

‘You know you do really. He’s in the way. He’s always been in the way. He’s a sick old man. You would really be doing him a favour by killing him now.’ Clown’s voice softened. ‘Look at him. He’s sleeping like a little baby. I expect he’s having a happy dream about his boyhood.’

‘You can’t know that.’

‘I’m Clown. Clown knows everything.’

A soft metallic voice on the console warned Sky that they were about to enter the prohibited sphere around his own ship. The taxi would shortly be seized by the automated traffic vectoring system and guided to its berth.

‘I’ve never killed anyone before,’ Sky said.

‘But you’ve often thought of it, haven’t you?’

There was no point arguing with that. Sky fantasised about killing people all the time. He thought of ways to do it to his enemies - people who had slighted him, or whom he suspected of speaking about him behind his back. Some people, it seemed to him, should be killed for no other reason than that they were weak or trustful. Aboard a ship like the Santiago, there was every opportunity to commit murder, but very little chance of doing it in a way which would avoid detection. Nonetheless Sky’s fertile imagination had brooded on this problem long enough to have thought up a dozen plausible strategies for reducing the numbers of his enemies.

But until Clown had spoken to him now, it had been enough to entertain the fantasies. Playing those gruesome little deaths over and over in his mind, slowly embroidering them, had been sufficient reward for him. Clown was right though: what was the point of drafting elaborate blueprints in painstaking detail if one at some point did not begin the business of building?

He looked at Balcazar again. So peaceful, as Clown had said.

So peaceful.

And so vulnerable.

TWENTY-THREE

It could have been worse.

I could have hit the ground without hitting the Mulch first, without first punching through two layers of festering, skeletally framed dwellings and stalls. When the car came to a stop, it was pitched nose-down in semi-darkness; faint lights and fires burned around me. I could hear raised voices, but they sounded more excited and angry than hurt, and I dared to hope that no one had been crushed by my arrival. After a few seconds I eased myself from the seat, quickly appraising my condition. I found nothing obviously broken, although everything that could have been broken was at least bruised. Then I climbed back up the length of the car, hearing the voices approach, and agitated scrabbling sounds which might have been curious children picking through the wreckage, or the noises of disturbed rats. I grabbed the weapon, checking I still had the currency I had taken from Zebra, then left the vehicle, stepping onto a precarious bamboo platform which had been neatly punctured by the car’s nose.

‘Can you hear me?’ I called, into the darkness, certain someone could. ‘I’m not your enemy. I’m not from the Canopy. These are Mendicant clothes; I’m an offworlder. I need your help very urgently. The Canopy people are trying to kill me.’

I said it in Norte. It would carry a lot more conviction than if I’d spoken Canasian, the language of the Chasm City aristocracy.

‘Put down the weapon, then, and start explaining how you came by it.’ It was a man’s voice, accented differently from the Canopy dwellers I had met. His words were imprecise, as if there was something wrong with his palette. He spoke Norte, too, but it sounded faltering, or perhaps over-precise, without the ritual elisions which come from true familiarity. He continued, ‘You arrived in a cable-car, as well. That will also require explanation.’

I could see the man now, standing on the edge of the bamboo platform. But he wasn’t a man at all.

I was looking at a pig.

He was small and pale-skinned, and he stood on his hind legs with the same awkward ease that I remembered from the other pigs. Goggles occluded his eyes, held in place by strands of leather tied around the back of his head. He wore a red poncho. In one trotter-fingered hand he held a cleaver with the kind of casual dexterity which suggested he used it professionally, and had long since ceased to be intimidated by its sharpness.

I didn’t put down the weapon; not immediately.

‘My name is Tanner Mirabel,’ I said. ‘I arrived from Sky’s Edge yesterday. I was looking for someone and wandered into the wrong part of the Mulch by mistake. I was captured by a man called Waverly and forced to take part in the Game.’

‘And you managed to escape, with a gun like that and a cable-car? Quite a trick for a newcomer, Tanner Mirabel.’ He spoke my name as if it were an oath.

‘I’m wearing Mendicant clothes,’ I said. ‘And as you’ll have noticed, my accent is that of someone from Sky’s Edge. I speak a little Canasian, if that’s easier for you.’

‘Norte is fine. We pigs aren’t as stupid as you all like to think.’ He paused. ‘Your accent got you that gun? Quite an accent, in that case.’

‘People helped me,’ I said. I was about to mention Zebra by name, then thought better of it. ‘Not everyone in the Canopy agrees with the Game.’

‘That’s true,’ the man said. ‘But they’re still Canopy, and they still piss on us.’

‘He could have been helped,’ another voice said, a woman’s this time. Looking into the gloom, I saw a taller, female-looking pig approach the man, carefully picking her way through the detritus of my arrival, her expression unrevealing, as if she did this every day. She reached out and took his elbow. ‘I’ve heard of such people. Sabs, they call themselves. Saboteurs. What does he look like, Lorant?’

The first pig - Lorant - snatched off the goggles and offered them to the woman. She was strangely pretty, human hair framing her snouted, doll-like face in greasy curtains. She pushed the goggles to her eyes for a moment, nodding. ‘He doesn’t look Canopy. He’s human, for a start - as their God intended. Except for his eyes, although maybe that’s a trick of the light.’

‘It’s no trick,’ Lorant said. ‘He can see us without goggles. I noticed that when you arrived. His gaze locked onto you.’ He retrieved the goggles from the female pig and said, in my direction, ‘Perhaps some of what you have told us is true, Tanner Mirabel. Not all of it though, I’d wager.’

You would not lose your bet, I thought, almost mouthing the words. ‘I don’t intend you any harm,’ I said, and then made a grand show of placing the weapon down on the bamboo, reasonably sure I could reach for it if the pig made a move towards me with the cleaver. ‘I’m in a lot of trouble and the Canopy people will return to finish me off before very long. I’m not sure I haven’t made enemies of the saboteurs as well, since I stole from them.’ I gambled that admitting theft from the Canopy would not harm me in Lorant’s eyes, but might actually do my cause some good. ‘There’s something else, too. I don’t know anything about people like you - good or otherwise.’

‘But you know that we’re pigs.’

‘It’s hard to miss, isn’t it?’

‘Like our kitchen. You didn’t miss that either, did you?’

‘I’ll pay for it,’ I said. ‘I have currency, as well.’ I reached into the voluminous pockets of Vadim’s coat, dredging a wad from the depths. ‘This isn’t much,’ I said. ‘But it might cover some of your costs.’

‘Except this isn’t our property,’ Lorant said, studying my outstretched hand. He would have to step forward if he wished to accept it, and at the moment neither of us was prepared to commit to that level of trust. ‘The man who owns this kitchen is away visiting his brother’s shrine in the Monument to the Eighty. He won’t be back until sundown. He’s not a man disposed to leniency or forgiveness. And then I will have to trouble him with news of the damage you have done, and he will naturally turn his anger on me.’

I offered him half of another wad, cutting deep into the reserves I had taken from Zebra. ‘Maybe this will ease your troubles, Lorant. That’s another ninety or hundred Ferris marks. Anything more, I might begin to suspect you were fleecing me.’

He might have smiled at that point; I could not be sure. ‘I can’t shelter you, Tanner Mirabel. Too dangerous.’

‘What he means,’ the other pig said, ‘is that there will be an implant in your head. The Canopy people will know where you are, even now. And if you have angered them, that puts all of us in danger.’

‘I know about the implant,’ I said. ‘And that’s what I need you to help me with.’

‘Help you get it out?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I know someone who can do that for me. Her name is Madame Dominika. But I’ve no idea how to get to her. Could you take me there?’

‘Do you have any idea where that would be?’

‘Grand Central Station,’ I said.

The pig looked around the wreckage of the kitchen. ‘Well, I don’t suppose I am going to be doing a great deal of cooking today, Tanner Mirabel.’

They were refugees from the Rust Belt.

Before that, they’d been refugees from somewhere else - the cold, cometary fringes of another solar system. But the cook and his wife - I couldn’t think of them as just pigs any more - had no real idea how the first of their kind had ever got there, just theories and myths. The one that sounded the most likely was that they were distant, abandoned descendants of a centuries-old programme in genetic engineering. Pigs’ organs had once been used for human transplant surgery - there were more similarities than differences between the two species - and it seemed likely that the pigs had been an experiment to make the animal donors even more humanlike by blending human genes into their own DNA. Perhaps it had gone much further than anyone had intended, so that a spectrum of genes had accidentally transferred intelligence to the pigs. Or perhaps that had been the idea all along, with the pigs an aborted attempt at producing a servile race with none of the nasty drawbacks of machines.

At some point, the pigs must have been abandoned; left out in deep space to fend for themselves. Perhaps it was just too much bother to systematically hunt them down and kill them, or perhaps the pigs themselves had broken free of the labs and established their own secretive colonies. By then, Lorant said, they were more than one species anyway, each having a different mix of human and pig genes, and there were groups of pigs which lacked the ability to form words, even though they had all the right neural mechanisms in place. I remembered the pigs I’d met before being rescued by Zebra; how the first of them had made grunting sounds at me which had almost seemed like an attempt at language. Perhaps the attempt had been a lot closer than I’d imagined.

‘I met some of your kind,’ I said. ‘Yesterday.’

‘You can call us pigs, you know. We aren’t bothered. It’s what we are.’

‘Well, these pigs appeared to be trying to kill me.’

I told Lorant what had happened, sketching in the broad details without explaining exactly what I had been doing trying to get to the Canopy in the first place. He listened intently as I spoke, then began to shake his head, slowly and sadly.

‘I don’t think they really wanted you, Tanner Mirabel. I think they probably wanted the people coming after you. They would have recognised that you were being chased. They were probably trying to persuade you to come with them, to shelter.’

I thought back to what had happened, and though I wasn’t totally convinced, I did begin to wonder if things had really happened the way Lorant said.

‘I shot one of them,’ I said. ‘Not fatally, but the leg would have needed surgery.’

‘Well, don’t feel too bad about it. They probably weren’t little angels, you know. We get a lot of problems around here with gangs of young pigs, raising hell and causing damage.’

I surveyed the damage I had caused. ‘I suppose the last thing you needed was me.’

‘It can all be mended, I dare say. But I think I will help you on your way before you do any more damage, Tanner Mirabel.’

I smiled. ‘That would probably be for the best, Lorant.’

After they had come down from the Rust Belt, Lorant and his wife had found themselves in the employment of a man who must have been amongst the richer individuals in the Mulch. They had their own ground-vehicle: a methane-driven tricycle with enormous balloon-wheels. The superstructure of the vehicle was a mish-mash of plastic and metal and bamboo, shrouded by rain sheets and parasols; it looked to be on the point of falling to pieces if I so much as breathed in its general direction.

‘You don’t have to look so disgusted,’ Lorant’s wife said. ‘It goes. And I don’t think you’re exactly in a position to complain.’

‘Never a truer word was said.’

But it worked, tolerably, and the balloon-wheels did a passable job of smoothing out the imperfections in the roadbed. Once Lorant had agreed to my terms, I managed to persuade him to detour to the place where the wreckage of the other cable-car had come down. By the time we got there a large crowd had assembled, and I then had to persuade Lorant to wait while I pushed through to the middle. There, in what remained of the front of the cable-car, I found Waverly, dead, his chest impaled on a piece of Mulch bamboo, just like one of the deadfalls I had rigged for Reivich. His face was a mass of blood, and might have been unrecognisable except for the blood-filled crater where his monocle had been. It must have been surgically attached.

‘Who did this?’

‘Harvested,’ said a stooped woman next to me, spitting the word through the gaps in her tooth. ‘That’s good optics, that is. Get a good price for that, they will.’

I resisted any burning curiosity to find out who ‘they’ were.

I walked back to Lorant’s tricycle, feeling that in some way part of my own conscience had been ripped out, no less brutally than Waverly’s eyepiece.

‘Well,’ Lorant said, while I climbed back into the tricycle. ‘What is it you took from him?’

‘You think I went back for a trophy?’

He shrugged, as if the matter were of no importance. But as we moved off, I had to ask myself just why I had gone back, if it was not for the reason he had thought.

The journey to Grand Central Station took an hour, though it seemed to me that much of this time was spent doubling back on our route to avoid areas of the Mulch which were either feared or impassable. It was possible that we only travelled three or four kilometres from the place where I had been attacked by Waverly’s people. Nonetheless, none of the landmarks I had made out from Zebra’s apartment were visible here - or if they were, I was seeing them from unrecognisable angles. My earlier sense of having found my feet - the sense that I had begun to assemble a mental map of the city - evaporated like a ridiculous dream. It would happen eventually, of course, if I spent enough time working on it. But not today; not tomorrow, and maybe not for weeks to come. And I didn’t plan on staying that long.

When we finally arrived at Grand Central Station, it was as if less than a heartbeat had elapsed since I was last there, desperately trying to detach myself from Quirrenbach. It was much earlier in the day now - not even noon, as far as I could tell by the angle of the sun on the Net - but no sense of that penetrated the station’s gloomy interior. I thanked Lorant for bringing me this far, and asked him if he would allow me to buy him a meal in addition to what I had already paid him, but he declined, refusing to get out of the driving seat of his trike. With goggles and fedora on and his clothes drawn up tightly around his face, he looked completely human, but I guess the illusion would have been harder to sustain indoors. Pigs, it appeared, were not universally loved and there were whole swathes of the Mulch which were out of bounds to them.

We shook hands - and trotters - anyway, and then he drove away into the Mulch.

TWENTY-FOUR

My first port of call was the broker’s tent, where I sold Zebra’s weapon at what was probably an extortionate mark-down on its true value. I could hardly complain; I was less interested in cash than in losing the weapon before it could be traced to me. The broker asked if it was hot, but I could see there was no real interest in his eyes. The rifle was far too cumbersome and conspicuous for an operation like the Reivich job. The only place you could walk into with a piece of hardware like that and not raise eyebrows would be a convention of heavy-artillery fetishists.

Madame Dominika, I was gratified to see, was still open for business. This time I didn’t need to be dragged there, but walked in willingly, my coat pockets swinging with the ammo-cells I had forgotten to sell.

‘She no open for business,’ said Tom, the kid who had originally hassled Quirrenbach and myself.

I palmed a few notes and slapped them on the table before Tom’s goggle-eyed face. ‘She is now,’ I said, and pushed on through to the tent’s inner chamber.

It was dark, but it took only a second or two for the room’s interior to snap into view, as if someone had turned on a very faint grey lantern. Dominika was sleeping on her operating couch, her generous anatomy shrouded in a garment which might have begun life as a parachute.

‘Wake up,’ I said, not too loudly. ‘You’ve got a customer.’

Her eyes opened slowly, like cracks in swelling pastry. ‘What is this, you got no respect?’ The words came out quickly, but she sounded too lethargic to register real alarm. ‘You ain’t come barging in here.’

‘My money seemed to cut some ice with your assistant.’ I dredged up another note and flashed it in front of her face. ‘How does this look to you?’

‘I don’t know, I can’t see nothing. What wrong with your eyes? Why they like that?’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my eyes,’ I said, and then wondered how convincing I sounded to her. After all, Lorant had said something similar. And it was a long time since I had experienced any difficulty seeing in the dark.

I extinguished that line of thought - unsettling as it was - and kept up the pressure on Dominika. ‘I need you to do a job for me, and to answer a few questions. That’s not asking too much, is it?’

She propelled her bulk from the couch, fitting her lower reaches into the steam-powered harness which waited by her side. I heard a hiss of leaking pressure as it took her bulk. Then Dominika moved away from the bed with all the grace of a barge.

‘What kind job, what kind questions.’

‘There’s an implant I need removing. Then I need to ask some questions about a friend of mine.’

‘Maybe I ask you questions about friend too.’ I had no idea what she meant by that, but before I could ask, she had turned on the tent’s interior light, exposing her waiting instruments, clustered around the couch which I now saw was spattered with faint rusty scabs of dried blood of varying vintage and hue. ‘But that cost too. Show me implant.’ I did, and after examining it for a few moments, her sharp thimbled fingers digging into the side of my head, she seemed satisfied. ‘Like Game implant, but you still alive.’

Evidently that meant it could not possibly be a Game implant, and for a moment there was no faulting her logic. After all, how many of the hunted ever stood a chance of making it back to Madame Dominika and having the trace removed from their skulls?

‘Can you remove it?’

‘If neural connections shallow, no problem.’ Saying this, she guided me to the couch and swung a viewing device in front of her eyes, chewing her lower lip as she peered into my skull. ‘No. Neural connections shallow; barely reach cortex. Good news for you. But look like Game implant. How it get there? Mendicants?’ Then she shook her head, the rolls of flesh around her neck oscillating like counterweights. ‘No, not Mendicants, unless you lie to me yesterday, when you say you no have implants. And this insertion wound new. Not even day old.’

‘Just get the damned thing out,’ I said. ‘Or else I walk out of here with the money I’ve already given the kid.’

‘That you can do, but you no find better than Dominika. That not threat, that promise.’

‘Then do it,’ I said.

‘First you ask question,’ she said, levitating around the couch to prep her other instruments, swapping her thimbles with impressive dexterity. She carried a pouch of them somewhere down in the infolded complexity of her waist, finding those she wanted by touch alone, without cutting or pricking her fingers in the process.

‘I have a friend called Reivich,’ I said. ‘He arrived a day or two ahead of me and we’ve lost touch. Revival amnesia, the Mendicants said. They could tell me he was in the Canopy, but no more than that.’

‘And?’

‘I think there was a good chance he sought your services.’ Or could not avoid them, I thought. ‘He would have had implants that needed removing, like Mister Quirrenbach, the other gentleman I travelled with.’ Then I described Reivich to her, aiming for the kind of vaguely correct level of recall which would imply friendship rather than an assassin’s physiometric target profile. ‘It’s very important that we get in contact, and so far I haven’t succeeded.’

‘What make you think I know this man?’

‘I don’t know - how much do you think it would take? Another hundred? Would that jog your memory?’

‘Dominika’s memory, it not so fast this time of morning.’

‘Two hundred then. Now is Mister Reivich springing to mind?’ I watched as a look of theatrical recollection appeared on her face. I had to hand it to her, she did it with style. ‘Oh, good. I’m so glad.’ If only she knew exactly how much.

‘Mister Reivich, he special case.’

Of course he was. An aristocrat like Reivich, even on Sky’s Edge, would have had almost as much ironmongery floating around in his body as a Belle Epoque high-roller; maybe more than some top-level Demarchists. And, like Quirrenbach, he would not even have heard of the Melding Plague until he arrived around Yellowstone. No time either to seek out the few remaining orbital clinics capable of doing the extraction work. He would have been in a hurry to get down to the surface and lose himself in Chasm City.

Dominika would have been his first and last chance at salvation.

‘I know he was a special case,’ I said. ‘And that’s why I know you’d have a means to contact him.’

‘Why I want contact him?’

I sighed, realising that this was going to be hard work, or expensive, or both. ‘Supposing you removed something from him, and he seemed healthy, and then a day later you discovered that there was something anomalous with the implant you’d removed - that perhaps it had plague traces. You’d be obliged to contact him then, wouldn’t you?’

Her expression hadn’t changed during all this, so I decided a little harmless flattery ought to be brought into play.

‘It’s what any self-respecting surgeon would do. I know not everyone around here would bother chasing up a client like that, but as you’ve just said, no one’s better than Madame Dominika.’

She grunted acknowledgement. ‘Client information, confidential, ’ Dominika added, but we both knew what that meant.

A few minutes later, I was a few dozen notes lighter, but I also had an address in the Canopy; something called Escher Heights. I had no idea how specific it was - whether it referred to a single apartment, or a single building, or simply some predefined region of the tangle.

‘Now you close eyes,’ she said, pushing a blunt thimbled fingertip against my forehead. ‘And Dominika work her magic.’

She administered a local anaesthetic before getting to work. It didn’t take her long, and I felt no real discomfort as she removed the hunt implant. She might as well have been excising a cyst. I wondered why Waverly had not thought to include an anti-tamper system in the implant, but perhaps that had been considered just a tiny bit too unsporting. In any case - in so far as I understood things, based on what I had gleaned from Waverly and Zebra - in the normal rules of play the implant’s telemetry was not meant to be accessed by the people actually doing the hunting. They were allowed to chase the prey using whatever forensic techniques they liked, but homing in on a buried neural transmitter was just too easy. The implant was purely for spectators, and for the people like Waverly who monitored the progress of the game.

Idly, as my mind free-associated on Dominika’s couch, I thought of the refinements I might have introduced if it had been up to me. For a start, I would have made the implant very much harder to remove, putting in the deep neural connections Dominika had worried about, and then an anti-tamper system; something which would fry the brain of the subject if anyone tried removing the implant ahead of time. I would also make sure that the hunters carried their own implants, equally difficult to remove. I’d arrange for the two types of implant - hunter and hunted - to emit some kind of coded signal which each recognised. And when the parties approached each other within some predefined radius - say a city block, or less - I would arrange for both implants to inform their wearers of the proximity of the other, via the deep neural connections I had already sewn. I would cut the voyeurs out of the loop completely; let them track the game in their own fashion. Make the whole thing more private, and limit the number of hunters to a nice round number, like one. That way the whole thing would become infinitely more personal. And why limit the hunt to a mere fifty hours? In a city the size of this one, it struck me that the hunt could easily last tens of days, or longer, provided the target was allowed sufficient time to run and hide in the maze of the Mulch. For that matter, I saw no reason to limit the arena of play to the Mulch alone, or even to Chasm City. Why not every settlement on the planet, if they wanted a real challenge?

Of course, there was no way they’d go for it. What they wanted was a quick kill; a night’s blooding, with as little expense, danger and personal involvement as possible.

‘Okay,’ Dominika said, pressing a sterilised pad against the side of my head. ‘You done now, Mister Mirabel.’ She held the implant between two fingers, glinting like a tiny grey jewel. ‘And if this not hunt implant, then Dominika skinniest woman in Chasm City.’

‘You never know,’ I said, ‘miracles do happen.’

‘Not to Dominika.’ Then she helped me from the couch. I felt a little light-headed, but when I fingered the head wound it felt tiny and there was no sign of infection or scarring. ‘You no curious?’ she asked, as I shrugged myself back into Vadim’s coat, anxious for the anonymity it afforded despite the heat and humidity.

‘No curious - I mean not curious - about what?’

‘I say I ask you questions about friend.’

‘Reivich? We’ve already covered that.’

She began packing away her thimbles. ‘No. Mister Quirrenbach. Other friend, the one you with yesterday.’

‘Actually, Mister Quirrenbach and I were more acquaintances than friends. What was it anyway?’

‘He pay me not to tell you this, good money. So I say nothing. But you rich man now, Mister Mirabel. You make Mister Quirrenbach seem poor. You get Dominika’s drift?’

‘You’re saying Quirrenbach bribed you into secrecy, but if I top his bribe I can bribe you out of it?’

‘You smart cookie, Mister Mirabel. Dominika’s operations, they no give you brain damage.’

‘Enthralled to hear it.’ With a long-suffering sigh I reached into my pockets again and asked her to tell me what it was Quirrenbach had not wanted me to know. I was unsure exactly what it was I was expecting - very little, perhaps, since my mind had not really had time to dwell on the idea that Quirrenbach had ever had something to hide.

‘He come in with you,’ Dominika said. ‘Dressed like you, Mendicant clothes. Ask for implants out.’

‘Tell me something I don’t know.’

Dominika smiled then, a salacious smile, and I knew that whatever it was she was about to inflict on me, she was going to enjoy it.

‘He no have implants, Mister Mirabel.’

‘What do you mean? I saw him on your couch. You were operating on him. You’d shaved his hair.’

‘He tell me make it look good. Dominika, she no ask questions. Just do what client says. Client always right. ’Specially when client pay good, like Mister Quirrenbach. Client say fake surgery. Shave hair, go through motion. But I never open his head. No need. I scan him anyway - nothing in there. Him already clean.’

‘Then why the hell would—’

And then suddenly it all made sense. Quirrenbach did not need to have his implants removed because - if he had ever had any to start with - they had been removed years earlier, during the plague. Quirrenbach was not from Grand Teton at all. He was not even from outside the system. He was local talent, and he had been recruited to follow me down and find out what was making me tick.

He had been working for Reivich.

Reivich had reached Chasm City ahead of me, travelling down while I was still having my memories reassembled by the Ice Mendicants. A few days’ lead was not much, but it had obviously been sufficient time to recruit some help. Quirrenbach might have been his first point of contact. And then Quirrenbach had returned to orbit and mingled with the immigrants who had just arrived from beyond the system. His mission would have been simple enough. Investigate the people revived from the Orvieto and find someone who might just possibly be a hired killer.

I thought back to how it had all happened.

First I had been accosted by Vadim in the commons of the Strelnikov. I had shrugged off Vadim, but a few minutes later I had seen him beating up Quirrenbach. I had crossed the commons sphere, forcing Vadim to give up on Quirrenbach, and then I had beaten up Vadim myself. I remembered well how it had been Quirrenbach who urged me not to kill him.

At the time, I put it down to forgiveness on his part.

Afterwards Quirrenbach and I had then crawled to Vadim’s quarters. I remembered again how Quirrenbach had at first seemed uneasy as we rifled through his belongings - Quirrenbach questioning the morality of what I was doing. I had argued with him, and then Quirrenbach had been forced to go along with the theft.

All along, I hadn’t seen the obvious: that Quirrenbach and Vadim were working together.

Quirrenbach had needed a way to get close to me without rousing my suspicions; a way to find out more about me. The two of them had set me up; Vadim undoubtedly hurting Quirrenbach in the commons, but only because they needed that realism. They must have known I would be unable to resist intervening, especially after my earlier brush with Vadim. Later, when we had been attacked in the carousel, I remembered how I had seen Quirrenbach standing to one side, restrained by the other man, while I took the brunt of Vadim’s punishment.

I should have seen it then.

Quirrenbach had latched onto me, which implied that he was very good at his job; that he had singled me out amongst all the passengers on the ship - but it was not necessarily like that. Reivich might have employed half a dozen other agents to tail other passengers, all using different strategems to get close to their targets. The difference was, the others were all shadowing the wrong person, and Quirrenbach - by luck or intuition or deduction - had hit the bullseye. But there was no way he could have known for sure. In all the conversations we had had, I had still been careful enough not to give away anything which would have established my identity as Cahuella’s security man.

I tried to put myself in Quirrenbach’s position.

It must have been very tempting for him and Vadim to kill me. But they could not do that; not until they had become totally certain that I was the real assassin. If they had killed me then, they would never know for sure that they had got the man they were after - and that doubt would always shadow them.

So Quirrenbach had probably been planning to tail me for as long as it took; as long as it took to establish a pattern; that I was after a man called Reivich for some purpose unspecified. Visiting Dominika’s was an essential part of his disguise. He must not have realised that as a soldier I would lack implants and would therefore not require the good Madame’s talents. But he had taken it calmly - trusting me with his belongings while he was under the knife. Nice touch, Quirrenbach, I thought. The goods had served to reinforce his story.

Except again, in hindsight, I should have realised. The broker had complained that Quirrenbach’s experientials were bootlegged; that they were copies of originals he had handled weeks earlier. And yet Quirrenbach said he had only just arrived. If I checked the manifests of lighthuggers arriving in the last week, would I even find that a ship had come in from Grand Teton? Perhaps, or perhaps not. It depended on how fastidious Quirrenbach had been in the manufacturing of his cover. I doubted that it went very deep, since he would have had only a day or two to manufacture the whole thing from scratch.

All things considered, he hadn’t done an entirely bad job.

It was sometime after noon, when I had finished with Dominika, that the next Haussmann episode happened. I was standing with my back against the wall of Grand Central Station, idly watching a skilled puppeteer entertain a small group of children. The puppeteer worked above a miniature booth, operating a tiny model of Marco Ferris, making the delicately jointed, spacesuited figurine descend a rockface formed from a heap of crumbled masonry. Ferris was supposed to be climbing into the chasm, because there was a pile of jewels at the base of the slope guarded by a fierce, nine-headed alien monster. The children clapped and screamed as the puppeteer made the monster lunge at Ferris.

That was when my thoughts stalled and the episode inserted itself, fully-formed.

Afterwards - when I’d had time to digest what had been revealed to me - I thought about the one that had come before it. The Haussmann episodes had begun innocently enough, reiterating Sky’s life according to the facts as I knew them. But they’d begun to diverge, at first in small details and then with increasing obviousness. The references to the sixth ship didn’t belong in any orthodox history that I’d ever heard of, and nor did the fact that Sky had kept alive the assassin who had murdered, or been given the means to murder, his father. But those were minor aspects of the story compared with the idea that Sky had actually murdered Captain Balcazar. Balcazar was just a footnote in our history; one of Sky’s predecessors - but no one had ever intimated that Sky had actually killed him.

Clenching my fist, blood raining against the floor of the concourse, I began to wonder what I’d really been infected with.

‘There wasn’t anything I could do about it. He was sleeping there, not making a sound - I never suspected anything was wrong.’

The two medics examining Balcazar had come aboard the instant the ship was secure, after Sky had raised the alarm about the old man. Valdivia and Rengo had closed the airlock behind them so that they had space to work. Sky watched them intently. They both looked weary and sallow, with bags under their eyes from overwork.

‘He didn’t cry out, gasp for air, anything like that?’ said Rengo.

‘No,’ Sky said. ‘Not a peep.’ He made a show of looking distraught, but was careful not to overdo it. After all, with Balcazar out of the way, the path to the Captaincy was suddenly much clearer than it had been before, as if a complicated maze had suddenly revealed itself to have a very simple route to its heart. He knew that; they knew it too - and it would have been even more suspicious if he had not tempered his grief with the merest hint of pleasure at his considerable good fortune.

‘I’ll bet those bastards on the Palestine poisoned him,’ Valdivia said. ‘I always was against him going over, you know.’

‘It was certainly a stressful meeting,’ Sky said.

‘That was probably all it took,’ Rengo said, scratching at the raw pink skin under his eye. ‘There’s no need to blame it on the others. He just couldn’t take the stress.’

‘There’s nothing I could have done, then?’

The other medic was examining the prosthetic web across Balcazar’s chest, strapped on beneath the side-buttoned tunic which the men had now opened. Valdivia prodded the device doubtfully. ‘This should have given off an alarm. You didn’t hear one, I take it?’

‘As I said, not a peep.’

‘Damn thing must have broken down again. Listen, Sky,’ Valdivia said. ‘If a word of this gets out, we’re absolutely done for. That damn web was always breaking down, but the way Rengo and I have been over-stretched recently . . .’ He blew out air and shook his head in disbelief at the hours he had been working. ‘Well, I’m not saying we didn’t repair it, but obviously we couldn’t spend all our time nursing Balcazar to the exclusion of everyone else. I know they’ve got gear on the Brazilia better than this clapped-out rubbish, but what good does it do us?’

‘Very little,’ Sky said, nodding keenly. ‘Other people would have died if you had devoted too much attention to the old man. I understand perfectly.’

‘I hope you do, Sky - because there’s going to be one hell of a shitstorm once news of his death leaks out.’ Valdivia looked at the Captain again, but if he was hoping for a miraculous recovery, there was no sign of it. ‘We’re going to come under examination for the quality of our medical support. You’re going to be grilled about the way you handled the trip over to the Palestine. Ramirez and those other council bastards are going to try and say we screwed up. They’re going to try and say you were negligent. Trust me; I’ve seen it all before.’

‘We all know it wasn’t our fault,’ Sky said. He looked down at the Captain, the snail-trail of dried saliva still adorning his epaulette. ‘He was a good man; he served us well, long after he should have retired. But he was old.’

‘Yes, and he would have died in a year or so, no matter what happened. But try explaining that to the ship.’

‘We’ll just have to watch our backs, then.’

‘Sky . . . you won’t say a word, will you? About what we’ve told you?’

Someone was banging on the airlock, trying to get into the taxi. Sky ignored the commotion. ‘What do you want me to say, exactly?’

The medic drew in a breath. ‘You have to say the web gave you a warning. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t act on it. You couldn’t have - you didn’t have the resources or the expertise, and you were a long way from the ship.’

Sky nodded, as if all this was perfectly reasonably and exactly what he would have suggested. ‘Just so long as I never imply that the prosthetic web never actually worked in the first place?’

The two medics glanced at each other. ‘Yes,’ said the first. ‘That’s exactly it. No one will blame you, Sky. They’ll see that you did everything you could have done.’

The Captain, now that Sky thought about it, looked very peaceful now. His eyes were shut - one of the medics had fingered down his eyelids to give the man some semblance of dignity in death. It was, as Clown had said, entirely possible to imagine that the man was dreaming of his boyhood. Never mind that the man’s childhood, aboard the ship, had been every bit as sterile and claustrophobic as Sky’s own.

The knocking on the airlock had not stopped. ‘I’d better let that fellow in,’ Sky said.

‘Sky . . .’ the first medic said imploringly.

He put a hand on the man’s forearm. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

Sky composed himself and palmed the door control. Behind, there were at least twenty people all wanting to be first into the cabin. They were all trying to get a look at the dead Captain, professing concern while secretly hoping this was not another false alarm. Balcazar had been in the distasteful habit of almost dying for several years now.

‘Dear God,’ said one of them, a woman from Propulsion Concepts. ‘It’s true, isn’t it . . . what in heaven’s name happened?’

One of the medics started to speak, but Sky was faster. ‘His prosthetic web malfunctioned,’ he said.

‘What?’

‘You heard me. I was watching Balcazar the whole time. He was fine until his web started making an alarm sound. I opened his tunic and looked at the diagnostic readout. It said he was having a coronary.’

‘No . . .’ one of the medics said, but he might as well have been addressing an empty room.

‘And you’re sure he wasn’t having one?’ the woman said.

‘Hardly. He was talking to me at the time, quite lucidly. No sign of discomfort, just annoyance. Then the web told me it was going to attempt defibrillation. Needless to say, he became quite agitated at that point.’

‘And what happened then?’

‘I started to try and remove the web, but with all the lines running into him, I realised it was going to be impossible in the seconds I had before the defib began. I had no choice but to get away from Balcazar. I might have been killed myself had I been touching him.’

‘He’s lying!’ the medic said.

‘Ignore him,’ Sky said placidly. ‘He’s bound to say that, isn’t he? I’m not saying this was deliberate . . .’ He allowed the word to linger, so that it would at least have time to settle in people’s imaginations before he moved on. ‘I’m not saying this was deliberate, just a terrible mistake due to overwork. Look at the two of them. These two men are close to nervous exhaustion. It’s no wonder they started making mistakes. We shouldn’t blame them too much for that.’

There. When the conversation was replayed in people’s memories, what would stick out would not be Sky trying to weasel out of accepting the blame himself, but Sky being magnanimous in victory; even compassionate. They would see that and applaud, while at the same time conceding that some blame should still be apportioned to the sleepwalking medics. They would see no harm in that, Sky thought. A great and respected old man had died under regrettable circumstances. It was only right and proper that there should be some recrimination.

He had covered himself well.

An autopsy would establish that the Captain had indeed died from heart failure, although neither the autopsy nor the memory readout from the prosthetic web would ever quite elucidate the precise chronology of his death.

‘You did very well,’ Clown said.

True; but Clown deserved some credit as well. It was Clown who had told him to unbutton the tunic when Balcazar was asleep, and Clown who had shown him how to access the web’s private functions so that he could program it to deliver the defibrillating pulse even though the Captain was as well as he had ever been lately. Clown had been clever, even if on some level Sky knew that this knowledge had always been his. But Clown had dredged it from his memory, and for that he was thankful.

‘I think we make a good team,’ Sky said, under his breath.

Sky watched the bodies of the men tumble into space.

Valdivia and Rengo had died by the simplest means of execution available aboard a spacecraft: asphyxiation in an airlock, followed by ejection into the vacuum. The trial into the old man’s death had taken up two years of shiptime; grindingly slow as appeals were lodged, discrepancies found in Sky’s account. But the appeals had failed and Sky had managed to explain the discrepancies to almost everyone’s satisfaction. Now a retinue of senior ship’s officers crowded around the adjacent portholes, straining for a glimpse into the darkness. They had already heard the dying men thumping on the door of the airlock as the air was sucked from the chamber.

Yes, it was a harsh punishment, he reflected - more so, given the already overstretched medical expertise aboard the ship. But such crimes could not be taken lightly. It hardly mattered that these men had not meant to kill Balcazar with their negligence - although that lack of intention itself was open to doubt. No; aboard a ship negligence was itself scarcely less a crime than mutiny. It would have been negligent, too, not to make examples of these men.

‘You murdered them,’ Constanza said, quietly enough so that only he heard it. ‘You may have convinced the others, but not me. I know you too well for that, Sky.’

‘You don’t know me at all,’ he said, his voice a hiss.

‘Oh, but I do. I’ve known you since you were a child.’ She smiled exaggeratedly, as if the two of them were sharing an amusing piece of smalltalk. ‘You were never normal, Sky. You were always more interested in twisted things like Sleek than real people. Or monsters like the infiltrator. You’ve kept him alive, haven’t you?’

‘Kept who alive?’ he said, his expression as strained as Constanza’s.

‘The infiltrator.’ She looked at him with narrow, suspicious eyes. ‘If it even happened that way. Where is he, anyway? There are a hundred places you could hide something like that aboard the Santiago. One day I’ll find out, you know, put an end to whatever sadistic little experiment you’re running. The same way I’ll eventually prove that you framed Valdivia and Rengo. You’ll get your punishment.’

Sky smiled, thinking of the torture chamber where he kept Sleek and the Chimeric. The dolphin was several degrees less sane than he had ever been: an engine of pure hate that existed only to inflict pain on the Chimeric. Sky had conditioned Sleek to blame the Chimeric for his confinement, and now the dolphin had assumed the role of Devil against the God that Sky had become in the Chimeric’s eyes. It had been much easier to shape the Chimeric that way, giving him a figure to fear and despise as well as one to revere. Slowly but surely, the Chimeric was approaching the ideal Sky had always had in mind. By the time the Chimeric was needed - and that would not be for years to come - the work would be done.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said.

A hand rested on his shoulder. It was Ramirez, the leader of the executive council, the shipwide body with the power to elect someone to the vacant Captaincy. Ramirez, they were saying, was very likely to be Balcazar’s successor.

‘Monopolising him again, Constanza?’ the man said.

‘We were just going over old times,’ she answered. ‘Nothing that can’t wait, I assure you.’

‘He did us proud, don’t you think, Constanza? Other men might have been tempted to give those fellows the benefit of the doubt, but not our Sky.’

‘Not him, no,’ Constanza said, before turning away.

‘There’s no room for doubt in the Flotilla,’ Sky said, watching the two bodies dwindle. He nodded to the Captain, lying in state in his own cooled casket. ‘If there’s one lesson that dear old man taught me, it’s never to give any house room to uncertainty.’

‘That dear old man?’ Ramirez sounded amused. ‘Balcazar, you mean?’

‘He was like a father to me. We’ll never see his like again. If he were alive, these men would be lucky to get away with anything as painless as asphyxiation. Balcazar would have seen a painful death as the only valid form of deterrence.’ Sky looked at him intently. ‘You do agree, don’t you, sir?’

‘I . . . wouldn’t pretend to know.’ Ramirez seemed slightly taken aback, but he blinked and continued speaking, ‘I had no great insights into Balcazar’s mind, Haussmann. Word is, he wasn’t at his very sharpest towards the end. But I suppose you’d know all about that, having been his favourite.’ Again that hand on his shoulder. ‘And that means something to some of us. We trusted Balcazar’s judgement, just as he trusted Titus, your father. I’ll be frank: your name has been bandied about . . . what would you think to . . .’

‘The Captaincy?’ No sense in beating about the bush. ‘It’s a bit premature, isn’t it? Besides - someone with your own excellent record and depth of experience . . .’

‘A year ago, I might have agreed. I will probably take over, yes - but I’m not a young man, and I doubt that it’ll be very long before questions are being asked about my likely successor.’

‘You have years ahead of you, sir.’

‘Oh, I may live to see Journey’s End, but I’ll be in no position to oversee the difficult early years of the settlement. Even you will no longer be a young man when that happens, Haussmann . . . but you will be much younger than some of us. Importantly, I see you have nerve as well as vision . . .’ Ramirez glanced at Sky oddly. ‘Something’s troubling you, isn’t it?’

Sky was watching the dots of the executed men dissolve into darkness, like two tiny spots of cream dropped into the blackest coffee imaginable. The ship was not under thrust, of course - it had been drifting for Sky’s entire life - which meant that the men were taking an eternity to fall away.

‘Nothing, sir. I was just thinking. Now that those two men have been ejected, and we don’t have to carry them with us any more, we’ll be able to decelerate just that little bit harder when it comes time to initiate the slow-down burn. That means we can stay in cruise mode a little longer, at our current speed. It means we’ll reach our destination sooner. Which means those men have, in some small, barely sufficient way, paid us back for their crimes.’

‘You do come out with the oddest things, Haussmann.’ Ramirez tapped him on the nose and leaned closer. There had never been any danger of the other officers overhearing the conversation, but now he was whispering. ‘Word of advice. I wasn’t joking when I said your name had been bandied about - but you aren’t the only candidate, and one wrong word from you could have a disastrous effect on your chances. Am I making myself clear?’

‘Crystal, sir.’

‘Good. Then watch your step, keep your head about you at all times, and you may be in with a chance.’

Sky nodded. He imagined that Ramirez expected him to feel grateful for this titbit of confidentiality, but what Sky actually felt - and did his level best to hide - was unmitigated contempt. As if the wishes of Ramirez and his cronies in any way influenced him! As if they actually had any say in whether he became Captain or not. The poor, blind fools.

‘He’s nothing,’ Sky breathed. ‘But I’ve got to let him feel he is useful to us.’

‘Of course,’ Clown said, for Clown had never been far away. ‘It’s what I would do.’

TWENTY-FIVE

After the episode had happened, I walked around the concourse until I found a tent where I could rent the use of a telephone for a few minutes. Everyone relied on phones now that the city’s original elegantly swift data networks had stopped working. It was something of a comedown for a society whose machines had once elevated the art of communication into an effortless form of near-telepathy, but the phones had become a minor fashion accessory in their own right. The poor didn’t have them and so the rich flaunted them, the larger and more conspicuous the better. The phone I rented looked like a crude, military-hardened walkie-talkie: a bulky black handheld unit with a popup two-d screen and a matrix of scuffed push-buttons marked with Canasian characters.

I asked the man renting the phone what I needed to do to reach both an orbital number and someone in the Canopy. He gave me a long and involved explanation about both, the details of which I struggled to hold in my head. The orbital number was easier since I already knew it - engraved onto the Mendicant business card which Sister Amelia had left me - but I had to get through four or five temperamental network layers before I reached it.

The Mendicants conducted their business in an interesting manner. They maintained ties with many of their clients long after they had left Hospice Idlewild. Some of those clients, on ascending to positions of power in the system, returned favours to the Mendicants - donations which allowed them to keep their habitat solvent. But it went beyond that. The Mendicants relied on their clients returning to them for additional services - information and the something which could only be described as the politest kind of espionage, so it was always in their interests to be in easy reach.

I had to walk out of the station, into the rain, before the phone was able to hook into any of the city’s surviving data systems. Even then it took many seconds of stuttering attempts before an informational route was established to the Hospice, and once our conversation began it was punctuated by significant timelags and dropouts as data packets ricocheted around near-Yellowstone space, occasionally arcing off on parabolas which never returned.

‘Brother Alexei of the Ice Mendicants, how may I serve God through you?’

The face which had appeared on the screen was gaunt and lantern-jawed, the man’s eyes gleaming with calm benevolence, like an owl. One of the eyes, I noticed, was surrounded by a deep purple bruise.

‘Well, well,’ I said. ‘Brother Alexei. How nice. What happened? Fell on your trowel?’

‘I’m not sure I follow you, friend.’

‘Well, I’ll jog your memory for you. My name is Tanner Mirabel. I came through the Hospice a few days ago, from the Orvieto.’

‘I’m . . . not sure I recall you, brother.’

‘Funny. Don’t you remember how we exchanged vows in the cave?’

He gritted his teeth, all the while maintaining that benevolent half-smile. ‘No . . . sorry. Drawing a blank there. But please continue. ’

He was wearing an Ice Mendicant smock, hands clasped across his stomach. Behind him, I was afforded a view of climbing stepped vineyards which rose up and up until they curved overhead, bathed in the mirrored light of the habitat’s sunscreens. Little chalets and rest places dotted the steps, blocks of cool white amidst the overwhelmingly florid green, like icebergs on a briny sea.

‘I need to speak to Sister Amelia,’ I said. ‘She was very kind to me during our stay and she dealt with my personal affairs. I seem to remember you and she are acquainted?’

The look of placidity did not diminish. ‘Sister Amelia is one of our kindest souls. It does not surprise me that you wish to show your gratitude. But I am afraid she is indisposed in the cryocrypts. Perhaps I can - in my own way - at least be of service, even if my own ministerings can not even begin to approximate the degree of devotion tended you by the divine Sister Amelia?’

‘Have you hurt her, Alexei?’

‘God forgive you.’

‘Cut the pious act. I’ll break your spine if you’ve hurt her. You realise that, don’t you? I should have done it while I had the chance.’

He chewed on that for a few moments before responding, ‘No, Tanner . . . I haven’t hurt her. Does that satisfy you?’

‘Then get me Amelia.’

‘Why is it so urgent that you speak to her, and not me?’

‘I know from the conversations we had that Sister Amelia dealt with a lot of newcomers coming through the Hospice, and I’d like to know if she ever remembered dealing with a Mister . . .’ I started saying Quirrenbach, then bit my tongue.

‘Sorry, didn’t quite catch the name.’

‘Never mind. Just put me through to Amelia.’

He hesitated, then asked me to repeat my own name again. ‘Tanner,’ I said, gritting my teeth.

It was like we had only just been introduced. ‘Just a moment of your - um - patience, brother.’ The look was still in place, but his voice had an edge of strain to it now. He lifted one sleeve of his frock, exposing a bronze bracelet into which he spoke, very softly and possibly in a tongue specific only to the Mendicants. I watched an image appear on the bracelet, but it was far too small for me to identify anything other than a pink blur which might have been a human face, and which might also have been Sister Amelia. There was a pause of five or six seconds before Alexei lowered the sleeve of his smock.

‘Well?’

‘I cannot reach her immediately, brother. She is tending to the slush . . . to the sick, and one would be sorely inadvised to interrupt her when she is so engaged. But I have been informed that she has been seeking you as much as you seek her.’

‘Seeking me?’

‘If you would care to leave a message where Amelia may reach you . . .’

I killed the connection to the Hospice before Alexei had completed his sentence. I imagined him standing in the vineyard, staring glumly down at whichever deadened screen he had been addressing, his words trailing off. He had failed. He had failed to trace me, as must have been his intention. Reivich’s people, it appeared, had also reached and infiltrated the Mendicants. They had been waiting for me to resume contact, hoping that by some indiscretion I would reveal my location.

It had almost worked.

It took me a few minutes to find Zebra’s number, remembering that she had called herself Taryn before revealing the name used by her contacts in the sabotage movement. I had no idea if Taryn was a common first name in Chasm City, but for once luck was on my side - there were less than a dozen people with that as first name. There was no need to phone them all, since the phone showed me a map of the city and only one number was anywhere near the chasm. The connection was much swifter than the one to the Hospice, but it was far from instantaneous, and still plagued by episodes of static, as if the signal had to worm along a continent-spanning telegraphic cable, rather than jump through a few kilometres of smog-laden air.

‘Tanner, where are you? Why did you leave?’

‘I . . .’ I paused, on the verge of telling her I was near Grand Central Station, if that was not adequately obvious from the view behind me. ‘No, I’d better not. I think I trust you, Zebra, but you’re too close to the Game. It’s better if you don’t know.’

‘You think I’d betray you?’

‘No, although I wouldn’t blame you if you did. But I can’t risk anyone finding out via you.’

‘Who’s left to find out? You did a fairly comprehensive job on Waverly, I hear.’ Her striped face filled the screen, monochrome skin tone offset by the bloodshot pink of her eyes.

‘He played the Game from both sides. He must have known it would get him killed sooner or later.’

‘He may have been a sadist, but he was one of us.’

‘What was I supposed to do - smile nicely and ask them to desist?’ A warm squall of harder rain lashed out of the sky, and I moved under the ledged side of a building for protection, cupping my hand over the phone, Zebra’s image dancing like a reflection in water. ‘I had nothing personal against Waverly, in case you wondered. Nothing that a warm bullet wouldn’t have fixed.’

‘You didn’t use a bullet, from what I heard.’

‘He put me in a position where killing him was my only option. And I did it efficiently, in case you were wondering.’ I spared her the details of what I had found when I caught up with Waverly on the ground; it would not change anything to know he had been harvested by the Mulch.

‘You’re quite capable of looking after yourself, aren’t you? I began to wonder when I found you in that building. Mostly, they don’t even make it that far. Certainly not if they’ve been shot. Who are you, Tanner Mirabel?’

‘Someone trying to survive,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about what I took from you. You took care of me, and I’m grateful, and if I can find a way of repaying you for that and the things I took, I will.’

‘You didn’t have to go anywhere,’ Zebra said. ‘I said I’d offer you sanctuary until the Game was over.’

‘I’m afraid I had business I had to attend to.’ It was a mistake; the last thing Zebra needed to know about was the business with Reivich, but now I had invited her to speculate about just what it would take to bring a man out of hiding.

‘The odd thing is,’ she said, ‘I almost believe you when you say you’ll pay me back. I don’t know why, but I think you’re a man of your word, Tanner.’

‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘And I think one day it’ll be the death of me.’

‘What’s that meant to mean?’

‘Never mind. Is there a hunt tonight, Zebra? I thought you might know, if anyone would.’

‘There is,’ she said, after consideration. ‘But I don’t see how it concerns you, Tanner. Haven’t you learned your lesson yet? You’re lucky to be alive.’

I smiled. ‘I guess I’m just not sick enough of Chasm City yet.’

I returned the rented phone to its owner and considered my options. Zebra’s face and the timbre of her voice lurked behind every conscious thought. Why had I called her? There had been no reason for it, except to apologise, and even that was pointless; a gesture more aimed at ameliorating my conscience than aiding the woman from whom I had stolen. I had been well aware how much my betrayal would hurt her, and well aware that I was not going to be able to pay her back at any point in the foreseeable future. Yet something had made me make that call, and when I tried to pare away my superficial motives to find what really lay below them, all I found was a mélange of emotions and impulses: her smell; the sound of her laugh, the curve of her hips and the way the stripes on her back had contorted and released when she rolled aside from me after our lovemaking. I did not like what I found, so I slammed the lid on those thoughts just as if I had opened a box of vipers . . .

I walked back into the crowds of the bazaar, letting their noise oppress my thoughts into submission, concentrating instead on the now. I still had money; I was still a rich man by Mulch standards, no matter how little influence it counted for in the Canopy. Asking around and comparing prices, I found a room for rent, a few blocks across the Mulch, in what was apparently one of the less rundown districts.

The room was shabby, even by Mulch standards. It was one cubic corner element in a teetering eight-storeyed encrustation of structures lashed around the footslopes of a major structure. On the other hand, it also looked very old and established, having gained its own parasitic layer of encrustations in the form of ladders, staircases, horizontal landings, drainage conduits, trellises and animal cages, so while the complex might not be the safest in the Mulch, it had obviously endured for some years and was unlikely to choose my arrival as a sign to start collapsing. I accessed my room via a series of ladders and landing traverses, my feet padding over rents in the wattlelike bamboo flooring, street level dizzyingly far below. The room was lit by gas lamps, although I noticed that other parts of the complex were furnished with electricity, served by constantly droning methane-powered generators somewhere below, machines which were locked in furious competition with the local street musicians, criers, muezzins, vendors and animals. But I soon stopped noticing the sounds, and when I drew the room’s blinds, it became tolerably dark.

The room contained no furniture except a bed, but that was all that I needed.

I sat down on it and thought about all that had happened. I felt myself free of any Haussmann episodes for the time being and that allowed me to look back on those that I had experienced so far, with something bordering on cool, clinical detachment.

There was something wrong about them.

I’d come to kill Reivich and yet - almost accidentally - I was getting glimpses of something larger, something I didn’t like the shape of. It wasn’t just the Haussmann episodes, although they were a large part of it. Certainly they had begun normally enough. I hadn’t exactly welcomed them, but given that I already knew roughly what form they were going to take, I thought I could ride them out.

But it wasn’t happening like that.

The dreams - episodes now, since they had begun to invade daylight - were revealing a deeper history: additional crimes which no one even suspected Sky had committed. There was the question of the infiltrator’s continued existence; the sixth ship - the fabled Caleuche - and the fact that Titus Haussmann had believed Sky to be one of the immortals. But Sky Haussman was dead, wasn’t he? Hadn’t I seen his crucified body in Nueva Valparaiso? Even if that body had been faked, it was a matter of public record that, in the dark days following the landing, he had been captured, imprisoned, tried, sentenced and executed, all in full view of the people.

So why did I have my doubts that he was really dead?

It’s just the indoctrinal virus screwing with your head, I told myself.

But Sky wasn’t the only thing troubling me as I fell asleep.

I was overlooking a rectangular room, as if the chamber were a dungeon or baiting pit, and I was standing on some balconied observation gallery. The room was blindingly white, walled and floored in shiny ceramic tiles, but strewn with large glossy green ferns and artfully arranged tree branches, creating a tableau of jungle vegetation. And there was a man on the floor.

I thought I recognised the chamber.

The man was curled up in a foetal position, naked, as if he had just been placed there and been allowed to wake. His skin was pallid and was covered in a sheen of sweat, like sugar glazing. Gradually he raised his head and opened his eyes, looking around, and tried slowly rising to his feet - tried, and then stumbled into another permutation of the huddle in which he had begun. He could not stand because one of his legs ended in a clean, bloodless stump just below the ankle, like the sewn-up end of a sausage. He tried again, and this time managed to reach a wall, hopping to get there, before balance deserted him. There was a look of inexpressible terror on his face. The man started shouting, and then his shouts became more frantic.

I watched him shiver. And then something moved on the other side of the room, in a dark alcove situated in one of the white walls. Whatever it was moved slowly and silently, but the man was aware of its presence, and now his shouts became shrieks, like the squealing of a pig being slaughtered. The thing emerged from the alcove on the other side of the room, dropping in a bundle of dark coils, thick as a human thigh. It still moved languidly, hooded head rising to test the air, and yet more of it struggled from the alcove. By now the man’s screams were punctuated by sharp silences as he drew breath, a contrast which only served to heighten the dread in the sounds he made. And I felt nothing, except a kind of expectancy, my heart tight in my chest, as the hamadryad moved towards the man, and there was nowhere he could run to.

I woke, sweating.

A while later I hit the streets. I had slept for most of the afternoon, and while I did not exactly feel refreshed - my mind, certainly, was in a worse state of turmoil than it had been before - I was at least not so crippled with tiredness. I moved through lazy Mulch traffic: pedestrians, rickshaws, steam and methane-driven contraptions; the occasional palanquin, volantor or cable-car passing through, though never lingering for very long. I noticed that I attracted less attention than when I had first entered the city. Unshaven, my eyes sunk into tired sockets, I was looking more like I belonged in the Mulch.

The late afternoon vendors were setting up stalls, some of them already hanging lanterns in preparation for the coming dusk. A misshapen, maggot-like methane-filled dirigible navigated ponderously overhead, someone lashed to a gondola beneath it calling out slogans through a megaphone. Broken neon images flickered over a projection screen hanging beneath the gondola. I heard what sounded like a muezzin call across the Mulch, calling the faithful to prayer, or whatever observance they practised here. And then I saw a man with pendulous, jewel-studded ears whose mobile stall was hung with small wicker baskets holding snakes of every size and colour imaginable. When I watched him open a cage and prod one of the darker snakes, its coils shifting uneasily, I thought of the ceramic-white room in my dream which I now recognised as the pit where Cahuella kept the juvenile, and shivered, and wondered what any of it meant.

Later, I bought a gun.

Unlike the weapon I had stolen from Zebra, and then pawned, it was neither cumbersome nor conspicuous. It was a small pistol which I could comfortably slip into one of the pockets of the greatcoat. It was manufactured offworld. The gun fired ice-slugs: bullets of pure water-ice accelerated to supersonic speed by a captive jacket which was driven down the barrel by a sequenced ripple of magnetic fields. Ice-slugs did as much damage as metal or ceramic bullets, but when they shattered into the body, their fragments melted away invisibly. The main advantage in such a weapon was that it could be charged from any supply of reasonably pure water, although it worked best with the carefully pre-frozen cache of slugs in the weapon’s manufacturer-supplied cryo-clip. It was also nearly impossible to trace the owner of such a gun if a crime had been committed, making it an ideal assassination tool. It didn’t matter that the slugs had no autonomous target-seeking capacity, or that they would not penetrate some kinds of armour. Something as absurdly powerful as Zebra’s rifle would make sense as an instrument of assassination only if I got an opportunity to kill Reivich from halfway across the city, which was very unlikely. It was never going to be the kind of kill where you sat in a window squinting through the telescopic sight of a high-powered rifle, waiting until the target intersected the cross-hairs, his image wavering through kilometres of heat-haze. It was always going to be the kind where you walked into the same room and did it with a single bullet at close range, close enough to see the whites of his fear-dilated eyes.

Evening fell over the Mulch. Apart from the streets in the area immediately around the bazaars, pedestrian traffic thinned out and the shadows cast by the towering roots of the Canopy began to assume an air of sullen menace.

I got to work.

The kid driving the rickshaw might have been the same one who had originally taken me into the Mulch, or his virtually interchangeable brother. He had the same aversion to my planned destination as well - unwilling to ferry me where I wanted to go until I sweetened the proposition with the promise of a generous tip. Even then he was reluctant, but we set off anyway, navigating through the darkening glade of the city at a pace which suggested he was more than eager to complete the journey and return home. Some of his nervousness rubbed off on me, because I found my hand wandering into the pocket of my coat to feel the comforting cold mass of the gun, reassuring as any talisman.

‘What you want, mister? Ev’ryone know this no good part of Mulch, you better stay out of it, you smart.’

‘That’s what people keep telling me,’ I said. ‘So I suppose you’d better assume that I’m not as intelligent as I seem.’

‘I no say that, mister. You pay plenty fine; you plenty smart feller. I just give you good advice, is all.’

‘Thanks, but my advice to you is to just drive and keep your eye on the road. Let me worry about the rest.’

It was a conversation killer, but I wasn’t in much of a mood for idle banter. Instead I watched the darkening trunks of the buildings creep past, their deformities beginning to assume a weird normality, a strange sense that this was how all cities were meant to look, ultimately.

There were parts of the Mulch relatively uncovered by Canopy, and parts where the density of the overlying structures could not have been any higher, so that the Mosquito Net itself was completely blocked out and when the sun was at its zenith, none of its light permeated to the ground. These were supposedly the worst areas of the Mulch: areas of permanent night where crime was the only law which mattered, and where the inhabitants played games which were no less bloody and cruel than those favoured by the people who lived overhead. I could not persuade the rickshaw kid to take me into the heart of the slum zone, so I settled for being dropped on the perimeter, pocketed hand wrapped around the slug-gun.

I trudged through the ankle-deep rainwater for several minutes until I reached the side of a building which I recognised from the description Zebra had given me, and then crouched in a niche which offered some protection from the rain. Then I waited, and waited, while the last meagre traces of daylight vanished from the scene and all the shadows merged conspiratorially into one great city-hugging pall of gloomy grey.

And then waited, and waited again.

Night fell across Chasm City, the Canopy lighting up above me, the arms of the linked structures dimpled with light like the glowing tentacles of phosphorescent sea-creatures. I watched cable-cars move through the tangle, their motion like pebbles skipping waves as they swung from line to line. An hour passed and I readjusted my position dozens of times, never finding one that was comfortable for more than a few minutes, before cramps began to set in. I’d take out the gun and sight along it, and I allowed myself the luxury of wasting a slug, shooting at the side of the building across from me, anticipating the recoil and getting a feel for the weapon’s accuracy or lack thereof. No one disturbed me, and I doubt that there was anyone close enough to hear the gun’s high-pitched shots.

Finally, however, they came.

TWENTY-SIX

I watched the car drop down two or three blocks away: sleek and black as polished coal, with five telescopic arms retracting on the roof. The side door cracked open and four people spilled out of it, cradling weapons which made my own little gun look like a bad joke. Zebra had told me there was a hunt going down tonight, though that was nothing unusual; hunts were the norm rather than the exception. But she had also - after considerable persuasion - revealed the likely site for the bloody revelry. There was a lot riding on it, the failure to kill me having ruined a perfectly good night’s entertainment for the paying voyeurs who followed each chase.

‘I’ll tell you where it is,’ she had said. ‘Only on the grounds that you use that information to keep away from it. Is that understood? I saved you once, Tanner Mirabel, but then you betrayed my trust. That hurt. It doesn’t particularly dispose me towards helping you a second time.’

‘You know what I’ll do with that information, Zebra.’

‘Yes, I suppose I do. At least you haven’t lied to me, I’ll give you that. You really are a man of your word, aren’t you?’

‘I’m not all that you think I am, Zebra.’ I felt I owed her that, if she had not already worked that part out for herself.

She had told me the sector that had been cleared for the chase. The subject, she said, had already been acquired and equipped with an implant - sometimes they made several raids on a given night, and kept the victims asleep until a gaming slot arose.

‘Does anyone ever escape, Zebra?’

‘You did, Tanner.’

‘No, I mean, really escape, without being helped by the sabs. Does that happen?’

‘Sometimes,’ she said. ‘Sometimes - maybe more often than you’d think. Not because the hunted manage to outwit the chasers, but because the organisers occasionally allow it. Otherwise, it would get boring, wouldn’t it?’

‘Boring?’

‘There’d be no element of chance. The Canopy would always win.’

‘That certainly wouldn’t do,’ I said.

I watched them creep through the rain now, guns swept ahead of them, their masked faces darting from side to side, examining every nook and cranny. The target must have been dropped in this zone a few minutes before, quietly, perhaps not even fully awake, like the naked man in the white-walled room, slowly coming to his senses to realise that he was sharing his confines with something unspeakable.

There were two women and two men, and as they came closer I saw that their masks were a combination of theatrical decoration and practicality. The two women both wore cat masks: long tapering feline eyeslits packed with specialised lenses. Their gloves were clawed, and when their black, high-backed cloaks parted, I saw that their clothes were patterned in tiger stripes and leopard spots. Then I realised that they were not clothes at all, but furred synthetic skin, and that those clawed gloves were not gloves but unsheathed hands. One of the women grinned, flashing jewelled fangs, sharing a cruel joke with her friends. The men were not so ostentatiously transformed, their animal personae derived solely from their costumes. The nearest man had a bear’s head, his own face peering from under the bear’s upper jaw. His companion’s face sported two ugly, faceted insect eyes which constantly caught and refracted the light of the suspended Canopy.

I waited until they were twenty metres from my place of hiding, then made my move, sprinting across their path in a low, crablike crouch, convinced that none of them would get their weapons onto me in time. I was right, although they were better than I had thought they would be, scything the water behind my heels, but not quite reaching me until I had found shelter on the other side of the street.

‘It’s not him,’ I heard one of them say, probably one of the women. ‘He’s not meant to be here!’

‘Whoever it was needs a good shooting, that’s all I know. Fan out; we’ll get the little shit.’

‘I’m telling you, it isn’t him! He should be three blocks south - and even if it was him, why would he leave shelter?’

‘We were about to find him, that’s why.’

‘He was too fast. Mulch aren’t usually so fast.’

‘So you’ve got a challenge. You complaining?’

I risked a view around the edge of my protective niche. A bolt of lightning had chosen that moment to strike; they were framed for me in complete clarity.

‘I just saw him!’ I heard the other woman shout, and now I heard the whine of an energy-discharge, followed by a burst of projectile weapons fire farting across the night.

‘There’s something funny with his eyes,’ the first woman said. ‘They were glowing in his face!’

‘Now you’re getting spooked, Chanterelle.’ It was the voice of one of the men, maybe the ursine one, very close now. I still held the mental image of them in my mind, burned into my memory, but I ran the image forward in my head, allowing them to walk to where I now knew they would be, like actors following stage instructions. Then I moved from my cover, squeezing off three shots, three precise squeaks from the gun, barely having to re-aim, since the view I saw agreed so well with the image in my head. I shot low, dropping three of the four with shots to the thigh, deliberately aiming wide with the last one, and then swung myself back behind the wall.

You don’t take a thigh shot and keep standing. Maybe it was my imagination, but I think I heard three separate splashes as they impacted with the water. It was rather hard to tell, since the other thing you seldom do after you’ve taken a thigh shot is remain silent. The wound I had taken the night before had been reasonably painless by comparison, executed with precision, by a duelling beam-weapon with a very narrow spread. Even so, I hadn’t exactly enjoyed the experience.

My gamble was that the three on the ground were essentially out of play, unable to aim their weapons even if they hadn’t dropped them out of reach. They might try to fire a few pot-shots in my general direction, but - like the woman who had shot me in the leg - they were not using the kinds of weapon which forgave inaccuracy. As for the fourth, she figured in my plans, which was why she wasn’t currently emptying her soul into a puddle of warm rain.

I stepped out of cover, making sure my gun was conspicuous - no mean feat, given its size, and I began to wish I also had Zebra’s huge club of a rifle for moral support.

‘S ... stop,’ the woman who was standing said. ‘Stop, or I’ll drop you.’

She was twelve to fifteen metres from me, her weapon still trained in roughly my direction: Miss Leopardskin with the spotted cat’s-eye mask, only now her saunter had lost most of its cattiness.

‘Put down the toy,’ I said. ‘Or I put it down for you.’

If she’d stopped to contemplate the wounds I’d inflicted on her whimpering friends, it might have occurred to her that I was a more than averagely good shot and therefore capable of doing exactly what I said. But evidently she wasn’t the contemplative type, because what she did was to minutely raise the angle of her gun, and I watched her supporting forearm tense as if in anticipation of the recoil from the shot.

So I fired first, and her gun went spinning out of her hand with a chime of ricocheting ice-slugs. She made a little canine yelp, hastily examining her hand to check that she still had all her fingers.

I was insulted. Who did she think I was, some kind of amateur?

‘Good,’ I said. ‘You’ve dropped it. How wise; it’ll save me putting a slug through your brachial nerve. Now step away from your pisspoor excuses for friends and start walking back towards the vehicle.’

‘They’re hurt, you bastard.’

‘Look on the bright side. They could be dead.’ And they would be too, I thought, if they didn’t reach help in the reasonably imminent future. The water around them was already assuming an ominous cherry-coloured complexion, in what little light there remained. ‘Do what I told you,’ I said. ‘Walk towards the cable-car and we’ll take it from there. You can call for help once we’re airborne. Of course, if they’re very lucky, someone from the Mulch may get to them first.’

‘You piece of shit,’ she said. ‘Whoever you are.’

Dodging my gun between the woman and her moaning friends, I trudged between the bodies, examining them out of the corner of my eye. ‘Hope none of them have implants,’ I said. ‘Because I hear the Mulch people like to harvest, and I’m not sure they’re too particular about going through paperwork first.’

‘You piece of shit.’

‘Why are you so upset with me, just because I had the nerve to fight back?’

‘You’re not the target,’ she said. ‘I don’t know who you are, but you’re not the target.’

‘Who are you, incidentally?’ I tried to remember the one name I had heard the hunting quartet use. ‘Chanterelle? Is that your name? Very aristocratic. I bet your family was high in the Demarchy before the Belle Epoque went belly-up.’

‘Don’t imagine you understand anything about me or my life.’

‘As if I wanted to.’ I leaned down and retrieved one of the rifles, inspecting its readout cartouches to ascertain that it was still functional. I felt edgy, even though I had the situation essentially under control. I had the feeling - indefinable, but present nonetheless - that another of their number had lurked behind the main party, was even now scoping me out through the sight of something high-powered and unsportingly accurate. But I tried not to let it show. ‘I’m afraid you were set up, Chanterelle. Here. Look at the side of my head. Can you see it? There’s a wound there, for an implant. But it never functioned properly.’ I took a risk, assuming that Waverly would have done the work on the real victim before he died, or would have been replaced at short notice by an equally surly understudy. ‘You were tricked. The man was working for saboteurs. He wanted to lead you into a trap. So the implant was modified, so that the positional trace was no longer accurate.’ I grinned cockily, though I had no idea whether such a thing was possible. ‘You thought I was blocks from here, so you weren’t expecting an ambush. You also weren’t expecting me to be armed, but - hey - some days you get the bear.’ Then I glanced down at her ursine friend. ‘No, sorry - my mistake. Today I got the bear, didn’t I?’

The man thrashed in the water, his palms clenched around his thigh. He started to say something, but I kicked him quiet.

Chanterelle had almost reached the black wedge of the cable-car. A large part of my gamble depended on the vehicle being empty, but it was only now that I felt reasonably sure that the risk had payed off and there was no one hiding inside.

‘Get in,’ I said. ‘And don’t try any funny tricks; I’m not known for my massive sense of humour.’

The car was sumptuously laid out, with four plush maroon seats, a glittering control panel and a well-appointed drinks cabinet ensconced in one wall, along with a rack of gleaming weapons and trophies. Keeping the gun aimed at the back of her neck, I had Chanterelle take us aloft.

‘I presume you have a destination in mind,’ she said.

‘Yes, but for now I just want you to find a nice altitude and loiter. You can give me a tour of the city, if you like. It’s a wonderful night for it.’

‘You’re right,’ Chanterelle said. ‘You’re not known for your sense of humour. In fact you’re about as hilarious as the Melding Plague.’ But after delivering this bon mot she grudgingly laid in a course and let the car do its swinging thing before turning around slowly to face me. ‘Who are you, really, and what do you want with me?’

‘I’m who I said I was - someone brought into your little game to add some well-needed equality.’

Her hand moved quickly to the side of my head - evidence of either bravery or considerable stupidity, given the proximity of my gun to her skull, and my demonstrated eagerness to use it.

She rubbed the place where Dominika had excised the hunt implant.

‘It’s not there,’ Chanterelle said. ‘If it ever was.’

‘Then Waverly lied to me as well.’ I observed her face for an anomalous reaction, but my use of the man’s name did not seem to strike her as unreasonable. ‘He never put the device in at all.’

‘Then who were we following?’

‘How am I supposed to know? You don’t use the implants to track your prey, do you? Or is that some new refinement I wasn’t aware of?’ As I spoke, the car made one of its intermittent sickening swoops, leaping between cables which were just a shade too far apart for comfort.

Chanterelle did not even flinch.

‘Do you mind if I call for help for my friends?’

‘Be my guest,’ I said.

She sounded more nervous making the call than at any point since we had met. Instead Chanterelle spun a story about going down into the Mulch to film a documentary she was making, and how she and her friends had been waylaid by a gang of vicious juvenile pigs. She said this with such conviction that I almost believed it myself.

‘I’m not going to harm you,’ I said, wondering how plausible I sounded. ‘I just want some information from you - information of a very general nature, which it won’t hurt you to provide - and then I want you to take me somewhere in the Canopy.’

‘I don’t trust you.’

‘Of course you don’t. I know I wouldn’t. And I’m not asking you to. I’m not putting you in a situation in which your trust of me is even remotely relevant. I’m just pointing a gun to your head and giving you orders.’ I licked my lips, thirsty and dry. ‘You either do what I say or you get to redecorate the interior of this car with your cranium. It’s not the hardest choice in the world, is it?’

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Tell me about the Game, Chanterelle. I’ve heard Waverly’s side of it, and what he said sounded very reasonable, but I want to be sure I’m getting the whole picture. You’re capable of that, aren’t you?’

As it was, Chanterelle was eloquent. Part of this I put down to the natural helpfulness which befalls anyone with a gun at their head. But a lot more of it, I thought, stemmed from the fact that Chanterelle rather liked the sound of her own voice. And I could not really fault her for that. It was a very nice voice and it came out of a very comely head.

Her family line was Sammartini, which I learned was one of the major clans in the pre-plague power-structure, a lineage which extended right back to the Amerikano era. Families who could trace their descents that far back were highly regarded; the closest thing to Royalty in the rarefield heights of Belle Epoque society.

Her family had connections with the most famous clan of all, the Sylvestes. I remembered Sybilline telling me about Calvin, the man who had resurrected the forgotten and discredited technologies of neural scanning which enabled the living to be translated - fatally, as it happened - into immortal computer simulations of themselves.

Of course, it hadn’t really bothered the Transmigrants that their bodies were destroyed in the course of the scanning. But when the simulations themselves started to fail, no one was quite so happy. There had been seventy-nine volunteers in the first wave of Transmigrants - eighty if you counted Calvin himself - and the majority of those simulations had stopped running long before the plague began to attack the logical substrates on which they were being computed. To commemorate the dead, they had built a vast and dejected Monument to the Eighty in the centre of the city, where shrines of the departed were tended by those relatives who remained corporeal. It was still there, after the plague had come.

The family of Chanterelle Sammartini were amongst the commemorated. ‘But we were lucky,’ she said, almost chattily. ‘The Sammartini scans were amongst the five per cent which never failed, and because my grandmother and father already had children, our lineage persisted corporeally.’

I tried to get my head around this. Her family had bifurcated - one thread of it propagating in simulation, the other in what we laughingly called actuality. And to Chanterelle Sammartini this was no more or less usual than as if she had relatives who lived overseas, or in another part of the system. ‘Because there was no stigma,’ she said, ‘our family sponsored further research, picking up where Calvin left off. Our ties with House Sylveste had always been close, and we had access to most of his research data. We made breakthroughs very quickly. Nonlethal modes of scanning.’ Her tone of voice changed, querulously. ‘Why do you want to know this? If you’re not Mulch, you must be Canopy. In which case you already know what I’m telling you.’

‘Why do you assume I’m not Mulch?’

‘You’re clever, or at least not irredeemably stupid. That isn’t a compliment, incidentally. It’s simply an observation.’

Evidently the idea that I might be from beyond the system was so outside Chanterelle’s accepted norms that it did not even enter her head.

‘Why don’t you just entertain me. Have you been scanned, Chanterelle?’

Now she really looked at me as if I was stupid. ‘Of course.’

‘Interactive scans - what do you call them?’

‘Alpha-level simulations.’

‘So there’s a simulation of you running right now, somewhere in the city?’

‘In orbit, idiot. The technology which facilitates the scans would never have survived the plague if it hadn’t been quarantined.’

‘Of course, silly me.’

‘I go up six or seven times a year for a refresh. It’s like a little holiday, visiting Refuge. That’s a habitat high above the Rust Belt, safe from any plague spore. And then I have the scan and my last two or three months of experience are assimilated by the simulation of me which is already running. I don’t think of her as a copy of me any more. She’s more like an older and wiser sister who knows everything which has ever happened to me - as if she’s been looking over my shoulder my whole life.’

‘It must be very reassuring,’ I said, ‘to know that even if you die, you won’t really be dying at all; just dispensing with one mode of existence. Except none of you even die physically, do you?’

‘That might have been true before the plague. It isn’t now.’

I thought back to what Zebra had said. ‘What about you? You’re not a hermetic, obviously. Were you one of the immortals who were born with genes for extreme longevity?’

‘Mine weren’t the worst you could inherit, if that’s what you mean.’

‘But not the best, either,’ I said. ‘Which means you were probably still reliant on machines in your blood and cells to keep correcting nature’s little mistakes. Am I right?’

‘It doesn’t take a massive deductive leap.’

‘And those machines? What happened to them after the plague?’ I looked down as we passed over a suspended railway line, one of the quadrilaterally symmetric steam locomotives sliding through the night with a string of carriages behind it, bound for some remote district of the city. ‘Did you have them self-destruct, before plague spore reached them? I gather that’s what most of your kind had to do.’

‘What business is it of yours?’

‘I’m just wondering whether you’re a Dream Fuel user, that’s all.’

But Chanterelle did not answer me directly. ‘I was born in 2339. I’m one hundred and seventy-eight standard years old. I’ve seen wonders you can’t even imagine, terrors that would make you shrivel. I’ve played at being God, explored the parameters of that game, and then moved beyond it, like a child discarding a simplistic plaything. I’ve seen this city shift and change a thousand times, becoming ever more beautiful - ever more radiant - with each transformation, and I’ve seen it change into something vile and dark and poisonous, and I’ll still be here when it claws its way back to the light, whether that’s a century or a thousand years from now. Do you think I would discard immortality that easily, or confine myself to a ridiculous metal box like some cowering child?’ Behind her cat’s-eye mask, her own vertically pupilled eyes flared ecstatically. ‘God, no. I’ve drunk from that fire, and it’s a thirst you never quench. Can you grasp the thrill that it is to walk in the Mulch, amidst so much strangeness, unprotected, knowing that the machines are still inside me? It’s a savage thrill; like firewalking or swimming with sharks.’

‘Is that why you play the Game as well? Because it’s another savage thrill?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I think you used to be more bored than you remember. That’s why you play, isn’t it? That’s what I gathered from Waverly. By the time the plague hit, you and your friends had exhausted every legal experience society could offer you, every experience that could possibly be staged or simulated, every game or adventure or intellectual challenge.’ I looked at her, daring her to contradict me. ‘But it was never enough, was it? You were never testing your own mortality. Never confronting it. You could leave the system, of course - plenty of danger and excitement and potential glory out there - but if you did that, you’d be leaving behind the support system of your friends; the culture in which you grew up.’

‘There’s more to it than that,’ Chanterelle said, seemingly willing to volunteer information when she thought I was misjudging her and her kind. ‘Some of us did leave the system. But those that did knew what they were throwing away. They could never be scanned again. Their simulations could never be updated. Eventually they would diverge so far from the living copy that there would be no compatibility.’

I nodded. ‘So they needed something much closer to home. Something like the Game. A way to test themselves - to push themselves to the edge, and invoke a little danger, but in a controlled manner.’

‘And it was good. When the plague came, and we could do what we chose, we began to remember what it felt like to live.’

‘Except that you had to kill to do it.’

There was not even a flinch. ‘No one who hadn’t earned it.’

She believed it, too.

As we continued our flight across the city I asked more questions, trying to discover how much Chanterelle knew about Dream Fuel. I’d made a vow to Zebra that I’d help her avenge her sister’s death, and that meant finding out as much as possible about the substance and its supplier, the mysterious Gideon. Chanterelle was clearly a Dream Fuel user, but it quickly became apparent that she didn’t know anything more about the drug than any of the other people I’d spoken to.

‘Let me get a few things straight in my head,’ I said. ‘Was there any mention of Dream Fuel before the plague?’

‘No,’ Chanterelle said. ‘I mean, it’s sometimes difficult to remember what it was like before, but I’m sure Dream Fuel only emerged in the last seven years.’

‘Then whatever it is might just have some connection with the plague, don’t you think?’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘Look, whatever Dream Fuel is, it protects you against the plague, allows you to walk in the Mulch with all those machines floating inside you. That suggests to me that there might be an intimate relationship between the two; that Fuel recognises the plague and can neutralise it without harming the host. That can’t be accidental.’

Chanterelle shrugged. ‘Then someone must have engineered it.’

‘Which would make it another kind of nanomachinery, wouldn’t it?’ I shook my head. ‘Sorry, but I don’t believe anyone could have engineered something that useful; not here and now.’

‘You can’t guess at the kind of resources Gideon has.’

‘No, I can’t. But you can tell me what you know about him, and we can work from there.’

‘Why are you so interested?’

‘A promise I made to someone.’

‘Then I’ll have to disappoint you. I don’t know anything about Gideon, and I don’t know anyone who does. You’d need to talk to someone closer to the line of supply, I think.’

‘You don’t even know where he operates from, where his production labs are?’

‘Somewhere in the city, that’s all.’

‘You’re sure of that? The first time I encountered Dream Fuel was . . .’ I trailed off, not wanting to tell her too much about how I’d been revived in Hospice Idlewild. ‘Not on Yellowstone.’

‘I can’t know for sure, but I’ve heard that it isn’t manufactured in the Canopy.’

‘Which leaves the Mulch?’

‘I suppose so.’ She squinted, the vertical pupils of her eyes becoming thin slivers. ‘Who are you, anyway?’

‘Now that,’ I said, ‘would take rather too long to explain. But I’m sure you’ve guessed the essentials.’

She nodded at the controls. ‘We can’t circle for ever.’

‘Then take us to the Canopy. Somewhere public, not too far from Escher Heights.’

‘What?’

I showed Chanterelle the place name Dominika had given me, hoping that my ignorance of the nature of the address - whether it constituted a domicile or a whole district - was not too obvious.

‘I’m not sure I know that place.’

‘My, but my finger is growing tense. Rack your memory, Chanterelle. Failing that, there has to be map somewhere in this thing. Why don’t you look it up?’

Grudgingly she did as I asked. I hadn’t known about the existence of a map of the Canopy, but I figured such a thing had to exist, even if it was buried deep in the processor of the cable-car.

‘I remember it now,’ she said. The map glowing on the console looked like an enlargement of the synaptic connections in part of the human brain, labelled in eye-hurting Canasian script. ‘But I don’t know that district too well. The plague took on strange forms there. It’s different - not like the rest of the Canopy, and some of us don’t like it.’

‘No one’s asking you to. Just take me there.’

It was a half-hour’s travel through the interstices, skirting the chasm in a long undulating arc. It was visible only as an absence, a circular black occlusion in the luminous sprawl of the Canopy. It was ringed in the lights of the undomed peripheral structures, like phosphorescent lures around the jaw of some monstrous benthic predator. The occasional ledged structure was visible deeper into the maw, down for a depth of a kilometre, and the city’s enormous taplines extended even deeper, sucking air, power and moisture, but they were hardly visible at all. Even at night, a constant dark exhalation rose from the maw.

‘There it is,’ Chanterelle said, eventually. ‘Escher Heights.’

‘I understand now,’ I said.

‘What?’

‘Why you don’t like it.’

For several square kilometres, with a vertical extent of several hundred metres, the forestlike tangle of the Canopy transmuted into something very different: a jumbled agglomeration of freakish crystalline shapes, like something magnified from a geology textbook, or a photomicrograph of a fantastically adapted virus. The colours were glorious, pinks and greens and blues picked out by the lanterns of dug-out rooms and tunnels and public spaces threading the crystals. Great layered sheets of greyish-gold, like muscovite, rose in tiers above the topmost layer of the Canopy. Brittle turquoise encrustations of tourmaline curled into spires; there were pinkish rods of quartz the size of mansions. Crystals threaded and interpenetrated one another, their complex geometries folding around each other in ways no mind could ever have purposefully intended. It almost hurt to look at Escher Heights.

‘It’s insane,’ I said.

‘Hollow, mostly,’ Chanterelle said. ‘Otherwise it could never hang so high. The parts which broke away were absorbed into the Mulch years ago.’ I looked down, under the looming, luminous crystalline mass, and saw what she meant: blocky, overly-geometric concentrations of Mulch, like a carpet of lichen, covering the shards of the fallen city.

‘Can you find somewhere public nearby where we can land?’

‘I’m doing it,’ Chanterelle said. ‘Although I don’t know what good it will do. You can hardly walk into a plaza with a gun at my head.’

‘Maybe people will assume we’re a living exhibit and leave us alone.’

‘Is that as far as your plan goes?’ She sounded disappointed in me.

‘No, actually. It goes a bit further than that. This coat, for instance, has very capacious pockets. I know I can conceal the gun in one without any difficulty, and I can keep it pointed at you without it looking as if I’m just exceptionally pleased to see you.’

‘You’re serious, aren’t you? You’re going to walk through the plaza with a gun at my back.’

‘It would look a little silly if I pointed it at your front. One of us would have to walk backwards, and that wouldn’t do. We might bump into one of your friends.’

TWENTY-SEVEN

We landed with the absolute minimum of ceremony.

Chanterelle’s cable-car had come to rest on a ledge of flat metal buttressed out from the side of Escher Heights, large enough to accommodate about a dozen other vehicles. Most of them were cable-cars, but there were a couple of stubby-winged volantors. Like all the other flying machines I had seen in the city, they had the sleek, hyper-adapted look which told me they had been built before the plague. It must have been difficult, flying them through the warped thicket the city had become, but perhaps the owners just enjoyed the challenge of flying through the tangle. Perhaps it was even a kind of high-risk sport.

People were coming and going from their vehicles, some of which were private and some of which carried the insignia of taxi firms. Other people were just standing around the edge of the landing pad, peering at the rest of the city through pedestal-mounted telescopes. Everyone, without exception, was outlandishly dressed, in billowing capes or overcoats, offset with studiedly bizarre headgear, patterned in a riot of colours and textures which made even the surrounding architecture look a little on the restrained side. People wore masks or hid behind shimmering veils or elegant fans and parasols. There were bio-engineered pets on leashes, creatures which conformed to no known taxonomy, like cats with lizard crests. And some of the pets were not even as strange as their owners. There were people who had become centaurs; fully quadrupedal. There were people who, while still basically conforming to the standard-issue human shape, had twisted and stretched it so far that they looked like avant garde statues. One woman had elongated her skull to such an extent that it resembled the horned beak of an exotic bird. Another man had transformed himself into one of the ancient mythic prototypes of an extraterrestrial, his body preposterously thin and elongated, his dark slitted eyes like almonds.

Chanterelle told me these kind of changes could be effected in days; weeks at the most. It was possible that someone who was sufficiently determined could reshape their body image a dozen times in a year; with the same frequency with which I thought about cutting my hair.

And I expected to find Reivich in such a place?

‘If I were you,’ Chanterelle said, ‘I wouldn’t stand around staring all day. I take it you don’t want people to realise you aren’t from around here?’

I felt the ice-slug gun in my pocket and hoped that she saw my arm tense as I found it. ‘Just walk on. When I want advice I’ll ask for it.’ Chanterelle continued wordlessly, but after a few steps I began to feel guilty at snapping at her so strongly. ‘I’m sorry; I realise you were trying to help.’

‘It’s in my interests,’ the woman said, out of the corner of her mouth, as if sharing an anecdote. ‘I don’t want you attracting so much attention that someone makes a move on you and I end up getting caught in the crossfire.’

‘Thanks for the concern.’

‘It’s self-preservation. How could I feel concerned for you when you’ve just hurt my friends and I don’t even know your name?’

‘Your friends will be okay,’ I said. ‘This time tomorrow they won’t even be limping, unless they choose to keep their injuries for show. And they’ll have a very good story to tell in hunt circles.’

‘What about your name, then?’

‘Call me Tanner,’ I said, and forced her on.

A warm, moist wind blew across us as we crossed the pad towards the arched entrance which led back into Escher Heights. A few palanquins darted ahead of us like moving tombstones. At least it had decided not to rain. Perhaps rain was less frequent in this part of the city, or perhaps we were sufficiently high to escape the worst of it. My clothes were still wet from standing in the Mulch, but in this respect Chanterelle looked no better than I.

The arch led into a brightly lit enclosure cool with perfumed air, the ceiling strung with lanterns and banners and slowly spinning circulators. The corridor followed a gentle curve to the right, crossing ornamental pools via stone bridges. For the second time since arriving in the city I saw koi gaping up at me.

‘What’s the big deal with the fish?’ I asked.

‘You shouldn’t talk about them like that. They mean a lot to us.’

‘But they’re just koi.’

‘Yes, and it was just koi that gave us immortality. Or the first steps towards it, anyway. They live a long time, koi. Even in the wild, they don’t really die of old age. They just get larger and larger until their hearts can’t cope. But it’s not the same as dying of old age.’

I heard Chanterelle murmur something which might have been ‘koi be blessed’ as she crossed the bridge, and allowed my own lips to echo the sentiment. I didn’t want to be seen or doing anything unusual.

The walls were crystalline, an endlessly repeating motif of bustling octagons, but at intermittent distances they had been hollowed out to admit little boutiques and parlours, offering services in florid scrawls of neon or pulsing holographic light. Canopy people were shopping or strolling, most of them couples who at least looked young, although there were very few children present, and those I saw might well have been neotenous adults in their latest body image, or even androform pets programmed with a few childlike phrases.

Chanterelle led me into a much larger chamber, a huge vaulted hall of crystalline magnificence, into which several malls and plazas converged on multiple levels. Chandeliers the size of re-entry capsules hung from the ceiling. The paths tangled around each other, meandering past koi ponds and ornamental waterfalls, encircling pagodas and teahouses. The centre of the atrium was given over to a huge glass tank, encased in smoked filigreed metal. There was something in the tank, but there were too many people packed around the perimeter, jostling parasols and fans and leashed pets, for me to see what it was.

‘I’m going to sit down at that table,’ I said, waiting until Chanterelle acknowledged me. ‘You’re going to walk over to that teahouse and order a cup of tea for me and something for yourself. Then you’re going to walk back to the table and you’re going to look like you’re enjoying it.’

‘You’re going to keep that gun on me the whole time?’

‘Look on it as a compliment. I just can’t keep my eyes off you.’

‘You’re hilarious, Tanner.’

I smiled and eased myself into the chair, suddenly conscious of the Mulch filth in which I was caked, and the fact that, surrounded by the gaudily dressed canopy strollers, I looked like an undertaker at a carnival.

I half expected Chanterelle not to return with the tea. Did she really think I would shoot her here, in the back? Did she also imagine I had the skill to be able to aim the gun from my pocket, and not run the risk of hitting someone else? She should have just strolled away from me, and that would have been the end of our acquaintance. And - like her friends - she would have a very good story to tell, even if the night’s hunting had not gone quite as planned. I would not have blamed her. I tried to summon up some dislike for her, but nothing much welled up. I could see things from Zebra’s side clearly enough, but what Chanterelle had said also made sense to me. She believed the people they hunted were bad people who ought to die for what they had done. Chanterelle was wrong about the victims, but how was she to know? From her point of view - denied the exquisite viewpoint which I had experienced thanks to Waverly - Chanterelle’s actions were almost laudable. Wasn’t she doing the Mulch a favour by culling its sickest?

It was enough that I allowed this notion into my head, even if I stopped short of preparing a bed for it.

Sky Haussmann would have been very proud of me.

‘Don’t look so grateful, Tanner.’

Chanterelle had returned with the tea.

‘Why did you come back?’

She placed the two cups on the ironwork top of the table, then lowered herself into the seat opposite me, as sinuously as any cat. I wondered if Chanterelle’s nervous system had been adjusted to give her that edge of felinity, or whether it just came from a lot of practice. ‘I suppose,’ she said, ‘I wasn’t quite bored with you yet. Quite the opposite, perhaps. Intrigued. And now that we’re somewhere public, I don’t find you half as threatening.’

I sipped the tea. It was almost tasteless, the oral equivalent of an exquisitely pale watercolour.

‘There must be more to it than that.’

‘You kept your word about my friends. And you could have killed them, I think. But instead you did them a favour. You showed them what pain is really like - real pain; not the soft-edged approximation you get from experientials - and, like you said, you gave them something to brag about afterwards. I’m right, aren’t I? You could have killed them just as easily, and it would not have made any difference to your plans.’

‘What makes you think I have plans?’

‘The way you ask questions. I also think that, whatever it is you need to do, you don’t have long to do it.’

‘Can I ask another question?’

Chanterelle nodded, and used the moment to remove the cat’s-eye mask from her face. Her eyes were leonine, inset with a vertical pupil, but other than that her face was rather human, broad and open, with high cheekbones, framed by a halo of auburn curls which tumbled to her neckline.

‘What is it, Tanner?’

‘Just before I shot your friends, one of them said something. It might have been you, but I don’t remember so well.’

‘Go on. What was it?’

‘That there was something wrong with my eyes.’

‘That was me,’ Chanterelle said, uneasily.

So I had not been imagining it. ‘What did you say? What was it you saw?’

Her voice lowered now, as if she was conscious of how strange the whole conversation had become.

‘It was like they were glowing, like there were two glowing dots in your face.’ She spoke quickly, nervously. ‘I assumed you must have been wearing some kind of mask, and that you discarded it before you emerged again. But you weren’t, were you?’

‘No. No, I wasn’t. But I wish I was.’

She looked into my eyes, the vertical slits of her own eyes narrowing as she focused intently. ‘Whatever it was, it isn’t there now. Are you telling me you don’t know why that happened?’

‘I guess,’ I said, finishing the watery tea with no great enthusiasm, ‘it will have to remain one of life’s little mysteries.’

‘What kind of an answer is that?’

‘The best I’m capable of giving at this moment in time. And if that sounds like the kind of thing someone who was a little scared of what the truth might hold might say, maybe you’re not entirely wrong.’ I reached under the coat and scratched my chest, my skin itching beneath the sweat-sodden Mendicant clothes. ‘I’d rather drop the subject for now.’

‘Sorry I raised it,’ Chanterelle said, heavy with irony. ‘Well, what happens now, Tanner? You’ve already told me you were surprised that I came back. That suggests to me that my presence isn’t vital to you, or you’d have done something about it. Does it mean we go our separate ways now?’

‘You almost sound disappointed.’ I wondered if Chanterelle was aware that my hand had not been on the hilt of the gun for several minutes now, and that the weapon had barely entered my thoughts during that time. ‘Am I that fascinating to you, or are you just more bored than I imagined?’

‘A bit of both, probably. But you are fascinating, Tanner. Worse than that, you’re a puzzle I’ve only half solved.’

‘Half already? You’d better slow down. I’m not as unfathomable as you think. Scratch the surface and you might be surprised at how little lies beneath. I’m just—’

What was I going to tell her - just a soldier, just a man keeping his word? Just a fool who did not even know when it was time to break it?

I stood up, conspicuously removing my hand from the gun pocket. ‘I could use your help, Chanterelle, that’s all. But there’s not much more to me than meets the eye. If you want to show me something of this place, I’d be grateful. But you can walk away now.’

‘Do you have any money, Tanner?’

‘A little. Nothing that would amount to much here, I’m afraid.’

‘Show me what you have.’

I pulled out a fistful of greasy Ferris notes, laying them in their sad entirety on the table. ‘What does that buy me, another cup of tea if I’m lucky?’

‘I don’t know. It’s enough to buy you another set of clothes, which I think you could use if you want to blend in at least approximately.’

‘Do I look that out of place?’

‘You look so out of place, Tanner, you might be in serious danger of starting a fashion. But somehow I don’t think that’s quite what you had in mind.’

‘Not really, no.’

‘I don’t know Escher Heights well enough to recommend the best, but I saw some boutiques on the way in which we should be able to outfit you.’

‘I’d like to look at that tank first, if you don’t mind.’

‘Oh, I know what that is. That’s Methuselah. I’d forgotten they kept him here.’

I knew the name, vaguely, and I had the impression it had already been half-remembered once this evening. But Chanterelle was leading me away. ‘We can come back later, when you don’t stand out so much.’

I sighed and put up my hands in surrender. ‘You can show me the rest of Escher Heights as well.’

‘Why not. The night’s still young, after all.’

Chanterelle made some calls while we walked to a nearby boutique, chasing up her friends and establishing that they were all alive and safe in the Canopy, but she did not leave a message for any of them, and then never mentioned them again. That, I supposed, was how it went: many of the people I saw in Escher Heights would be cognisant of the Game, and might even follow it avidly, but none would admit it to themselves, beyond the private parlours where the sport’s existence was acknowledged and celebrated.

The boutique was staffed by two gloss-black bipedal servitors, far more sophisticated than any I had seen in the city so far. They kept oozing insincere compliments, even when I knew that I looked like a gorilla which had accidentally broken into a theatrical supplier’s. With Chanterelle’s guidance, I settled on a combination which wouldn’t offend or bankrupt me. The trousers and jacket were of similar cut to the Mendicant clothes I now gratefully discarded, but were cut from fabrics which were wildly ostentatious by comparison, all dancing metallic threads in coruscant golds and silvers. I felt conspicuous, but when we left the boutique - Vadim’s coat billowing raffishly behind me - people gave me no more than a fleeting glance, rather than the studied suspicion I’d elicited before.

‘So,’ Chanterelle said, ‘are you going to tell me where you’re from?’

‘What have you worked out for yourself?’

‘Well, you’re not from around here. Not from Yellowstone; almost certainly not from the Rust Belt; probably not from any other enclave in the system.’

‘I’m from Sky’s Edge,’ I said. ‘I came in on the Orvieto. Actually, I assumed you’d have figured out that much from my Mendicant clothes.’

‘I did, except the coat confused me.’

‘This old thing? It was donated to me by an old friend in the Rust Belt.’

‘Sorry, but no one donates a coat like that.’ Chanterelle fingered one of the lustrous, rough-cut patches which had been quilted over it. ‘You have no idea what this signifies, have you?’

‘All right; I stole it. From someone who had stolen it himself, I expect. A man who had worse coming to him.’

‘That’s fractionally more plausible. But when I first saw it, it made me wonder. And then when you mentioned Dream Fuel . . .’ She had lowered her voice to speak the last two words, barely breathing them.

‘Sorry, you’ve lost me completely. What does Dream Fuel have to do with a coat like this?’

But even as I said it I remembered how Zebra had hinted at the same connection. ‘More than you seem to realise, Tanner. You asked questions about Dream Fuel which made you look like an outsider, and yet you were wearing the kind of coat which said you were part of the distribution system; a supplier.’

‘You weren’t telling me everything you knew about Dream Fuel then, were you?’

‘Almost everything. But the coat made me wonder if you were trying to trick me, so I was careful what I said.’

‘So now tell me what else you know. How big is the supply? I’ve seen people inject themselves with a few cubic centimetres at a time, with maybe a hundred or so ccs in reserve. I’m guessing use of Dream Fuel’s restricted to a relatively small number of people; probably you and your élite, risk-taking friends and not many others. A few thousand regular users across the city, at the very maximum?’

‘Probably not far off the mark.’

‘Which would imply a regular supply, across the city, of - what? A few hundred ccs per user per year? Maybe a million ccs per year across the whole city? That isn’t much, really - a cubic metre or so of Dream Fuel.’

‘I don’t know.’ Chanterelle looked uncomfortable discussing what was obviously an addiction. ‘That seems about right. All I know is the stuff’s harder to get hold of than it used to be a year or two ago. Most of us have had to ration our use; three or four spikes a week at the most.’

‘And no one else has tried manufacturing it?’

‘Yes, of course. There’s always someone trying to sell fake Dream Fuel. But it’s not just a question of quality. It’s either Fuel or it isn’t.’

I nodded, but I didn’t really understand. ‘It’s obviously a seller’s market. Gideon must be the only person who has access to the right manufacturing process, or whatever it is. You postmortals need it badly; without it you’re dead meat. That means Gideon can keep the price as high as he likes, within reason. What I don’t see is why he’d restrict the supply.’

‘He’s raised the price, don’t you worry.’

‘Which might simply be because he can’t sell as much of it as he used to, because there’s a bottleneck in the manufacturing chain; maybe a problem with getting the raw materials or something.’ Chanterelle shrugged, so I continued, ‘All right, then. Explain what the coat means, will you?’

‘The man who donated you that coat was a supplier, Tanner. That’s what those patches on your coat mean. Its original owner must have had a connection to Gideon.’

I thought back to when Quirrenbach and I had searched Vadim’s cabin, reminding myself now that Quirrenbach and Vadim had been secret accomplices. ‘He had Dream Fuel,’ I said. ‘But this was up in the Rust Belt. He can’t have been that close to the supply.’

No, I added to myself, but what about his friend? Perhaps Vadim and Quirrenbach had worked together in more ways than one: Quirrenbach was the real supplier and Vadim merely his distributor in the Rust Belt.

I already wanted to speak to Quirrenbach again. Now I’d have more than one thing to ask him about.

‘Maybe your friend wasn’t that close to the supply,’ Chanterelle said. ‘But whatever the case, there’s something you need to understand. All the stories you hear about Gideon? About people vanishing because they ask the wrong questions?’

‘Yes?’ I asked.

‘They’re all true.’

Afterwards I let Chanterelle take me to the palanquin races. I thought there might be a chance that Reivich would show his face at an event like that, but although I searched the crowds of spectators, I never saw anyone who might have been him.

The circuit was a complicated, looping track that wormed its way through many levels, doubling under and over itself. Now and then it even extended beyond the building, suspended far above the Mulch. There were chicanes and obstacles and traps, and the parts which looped out into the night were not barriered, so there was nothing to stop a palanquin going over the edge if the occupant took the corner too sharply. There were ten or eleven palanquins per race, each travelling box elaborately ornamented, and there were stringent rules about what was and wasn’t permitted. Chanterelle said these rules were taken only semi-seriously, and it wasn’t unusual for someone to equip their palanquin with weapons to use against the other racers - projecting rams, for instance, to shove an opponent over the edge on one of the aerial bends.

The races had begun as a bet between two bored, palanquin-riding immortals, she said. But now almost anyone could take part. Half the palanquins were being ridden by people who had nothing to fear from the plague. Major fortunes were lost and won - but mainly lost - in the course of a night’s racing.

I suppose it was better than hunting.

‘Listen,’ Chanterelle said as we were leaving the races. ‘What do you know about the Mixmasters?’

‘Not too much,’ I said, giving as little away as possible. The name was vaguely familiar, but no more than that. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘You really don’t know, do you? That settles it, Tanner; you really aren’t from around here, as if there was any doubt.’

The Mixmasters predated the Melding Plague and were one of the system’s comparatively few old social orders which had weathered the blight more or less intact. Like the Mendicants, they were a self-supporting guild, and like the Mendicants, they concerned themselves with God. But there the similarity ended. The Mendicants - no matter what their other agendas happened to be - were there to serve and glorify their deity. The Mixmasters, on the other hand, wanted to become God.

And - by some definitions - they’d long ago succeeded.

When the Amerikanos settled Yellowstone, the better part of four centuries ago, they brought with them all the genetic expertise of their culture: genomic sequences, linkage and function maps for literally millions of Terran species, including all the higher primates and mammals. They knew genetics intimately. It was how they had arrived on Yellowstone in the first place, sending their fertilised eggs via frail robot envoys; machines which, upon arriving, fabricated artificial wombs and brought those eggs to term. They hadn’t lasted, of course - but they had left their legacy. DNA sequences allowed later descendants to merge Amerikano blood with their own, enriching the biodiversity of the resettlers, who came by ship rather than seed-carrying robot.

But the Amerikanos left more than that. They also left vast files of expertise, knowledge which had not so much been lost as allowed to grow stale, so that subtle relationships and dependencies were no longer appreciated. It was the Mixmasters who appropriated this wisdom. They became the guardians of all biological and genetic expertise, and they expanded that sphere of brilliance via trade with Ultras, who occasionally offered snippets of foreign genetic information, alien genomes or manipulative techniques pioneered in other systems. But, for all this, the Mixmasters had seldom been at the hub of Yellowstone power. The system, after all, was in thrall to the Sylveste clan, that powerful old-line family which advocated transcendence via cybernetic modes of consciousness-expansion.

The Mixmasters had made a living, of course, since not everyone subscribed utterly to the Sylveste doctrine, and also because the gross failures of the Eighty had soured many on the idea of transmigration. But their work had been discreet: correcting genetic abnormalities in newborns; ironing out inherited defects in supposedly pure clan lines. It was work which became more invisible the more adeptly it was done, like an exceedingly efficient assassination, in which the crime did not appear to have happened at all, and in which no one remembered who the victim was in the first place. The Mixmasters worked like the restorers of damaged art, trying to bring as little of their own vision to the matter as possible. And yet the power of transformation they held was awesome. But it was held in check, because society could not tolerate two massively transforming pressures operating at once, and on some level the Mixmasters knew this. To unleash their art would have been to rip Yellowstone culture to shreds.

But then the plague had come. Society had indeed been ripped to shreds, but like an asteroid blasted with a too-small demolition charge, the pieces had not gained sufficient escape velocity to fly apart completely. Yellowstone society had crashed back into existence - fragmented, jumbled and liable to crumble at any instant, but it was society nonetheless. And a society in which the ideologies of cybernetics were, momentarily, a kind of heresy.

The Mixmasters had slipped effortlessly into the power vacuum. ‘They maintain parlours throughout the Canopy,’ Chanterelle said. ‘Places were you can get your heritage read, check out your clan affiliations, or look over the brochures for makeovers.’ She indicated her eyes. ‘Anything you weren’t born with, or weren’t meant to inherit. Can be transplants - although that’s reasonably rare, unless you’re after something outrageous like a set of Pegasus wings. More likely it’s going to be genetic. The Mixmasters rewire your DNA so that the changes happen naturally - or as close to naturally as makes no difference.’

‘How would that happen?’

‘It’s simple. When you cut yourself, does the wound heal over in fur, or scales? Of course not - there’s a knowledge of your body’s architecture buried deep in your DNA. All the Mixmasters do is edit that knowledge, very selectively, so that your body carries on doing its job of maintenance against injury and wear and tear, but with the wrong local blueprint. You end up growing something that was never meant to be expressed in your phenotype.’ Chanterelle paused. ‘Like I said, there are parlours throughout the Canopy where they ply their trade. If you’re curious about your eyes, perhaps we should stop by.’

‘What have my eyes got to do with it?’

‘Don’t you think there’s something wrong with them?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, trying hard not to sound sullen. ‘But maybe you’re right. Maybe the Mixmasters can tell me something. Are they confidential?’

‘As confidential as anyone around here.’

‘Great. That really reassures me.’

The nearest parlour was one of the holographically fronted booths we had already passed on our way in, overlooking a tranquil pool filled with gape-mouthed koi. Inside, it made Dominika’s tent seem spacious. The male attendant wore a relatively sober tunic in ash-grey, offset only by the sigil of the Mixmasters below his shoulder: a pair of outstretched hands spanned by a cat’s cradle of DNA. He was sitting behind a floating console shaped like a boomerang, above which various molecular projections were rotating and pulsing, their bright primary colours evoking nursery toys. His gauntleted hands were dancing above the molecules, orchestrating complex cascades of fission and recombination. I was certain that he had noticed us immediately we entered the booth, but he made no show of it and continued his manipulations for another minute or so before deigning to acknowledge our presence.

‘I presume I may be of assistance.’

Chanterelle took the lead. ‘My friend wants his eyes examined.’

‘Does he now.’ The Mixmaster canted aside his console, producing an eyepiece from his tunic. He leaned closer to me, nose wrinkling in what was probably justified distaste at my smell. He squinted through the eyepiece, scrutinising both my eyes, so that the vast lens seemed to fill half the room. ‘What about his eyes?’ he asked, bored.

On the way to the booth we’d rehearsed a story. ‘I was a fool,’ I said. ‘I wanted eyes like my partner’s. But I couldn’t afford Mixmaster services. I was in orbit and—’

‘What were you doing in orbit if you couldn’t afford our prices?’

‘Getting myself scanned, of course. It doesn’t come cheap; not if you want a good provider who’ll keep you properly backed up.’

‘Oh.’ It was an effective end to that line of enquiry. The Mixmasters were ideologically opposed to the whole idea of neural scanning, arguing that the soul could only be maintained biologically, not by capturing it in some machine.

The attendant shook his head, as if I had betrayed some solemn promise.

‘Then you were indeed foolish. But you know that already. What happened?’

‘There were Black Geneticists in the carousel; bloodcutters, offering much the same services as the Mixmasters, but at a much lower cost. Since the work I sought didn’t involve large-scale anatomical reconstruction, I thought the risk was worth it.’

‘And of course now you come crawling to us.’

I offered him my best apologetic grin, placating myself by imagining the several interesting and painful ways in which I could have killed him, there and then, without breaking into a sweat.

‘It’s several weeks since I returned from the carousel,’ I said. ‘And nothing’s happened to my eyes. They still look the same. I want to know if the bloodcutters did anything other than fleece me.’

‘It’ll cost you. I’ve a good mind to charge you extra just because you were stupid enough to go to bloodcutters.’ Then, barely perceptibly, his tone softened. ‘Still, perhaps you’ve already learned your lesson. I suppose it depends on whether I find any changes.’

I did not particularly enjoy much of what followed. I had to lie on a couch, more intricate and antiseptic than the one in Dominika’s, then wait while the Mixmaster immobilised my head using a padded frame. A machine lowered down above my eyes, extending a hair-fine filament which quivered slightly, like a whisker. The probe wandered over my eyes, mapping them with stuttering pulses of blue laser light. Then - very quickly, so that it felt more like a single sting of cold - the whisker dropped into my eye, snatched tissue, retracted, moved to another site and re-entered, perhaps a dozen times, on each occasion sampling a different depth of the interior. But it all happened so swiftly that before my blink reflex had initiated, the machine had done its work and moved to the other eye.

‘That’s enough,’ the Mixmaster said. ‘Should be able to tell what the bloodcutters did to you, if they did anything - and why it isn’t taking. A few weeks, you said?’

I nodded.

‘Perhaps it’s too soon to rule out success.’ I had the feeling he was talking to himself more than us. ‘Some of their therapies are actually rather sophisticated, but only those which they’ve stolen in their entirety from us. Of course they cut all the safety margins and use outdated sequences.’

He lowered himself into his seat again, folding down the console, which immediately threw up a display too cryptic to make any sense to me: all shifting histograms and complex boxes full of scrolling alphanumerics. A huge eyeball popped into reality, half a metre in diameter, like a disembodied sketch from one of da Vinci’s notebooks. The Mixmaster made sweeping movements with his gauntlets and chunks of the eyeball detached like slices of cake, exposing deeper strata.

‘There are changes,’ he said, after kneading his chin for several minutes and burrowing deeper into the hovering eye. ‘Profound genetic changes - but there are none of the usual signatures of Mixmaster work.’

‘Signatures?’

‘Copyright information, encoded into redundant base pairs. The bloodcutters probably didn’t steal their sequences from us in this case, or else there’d be residual traces of Mixmaster design.’ He shook his head emphatically. ‘No; this work never originated on Yellowstone. It’s fairly sophisticated, but . . .’

I pulled myself from the couch, wiping a tear of irritation from my cheek. ‘But what?’

‘It’s almost certainly not what you asked for.’

Well, I knew that much had to be the case, since I had never asked for anything in the first place. But I made appropriate noises of surprise and annoyance, knowing the Mixmaster would enjoy my shock at having been duped by the bloodcutters.

‘I know the kind of homeobox mutations you need for a cat’s-eye pupil, and I’m not seeing major changes in any of the right chromosomal regions. But I am seeing changes elsewhere, in the parts which oughtn’t to have been edited at all.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘Not immediately, no. It doesn’t help that the sequences are fragmentary in most chains. The specific DNA changes are normally inserted by a retrovirus, one which would be engineered by us - or bloodcutters - and programmed to effect the right mutations for the desired transformation. In your case,’ he continued, ‘the virus doesn’t seem to have copied itself very efficiently. There are very few intact strands where the changes are expressed fully. It’s inefficient, and it might explain why the changes haven’t begun to affect the gross structure of your eye. But it’s also nothing I’ve seen before. If this is really bloodcutter work, it might mean that they’re using techniques we don’t know anything about.’

‘This isn’t good, is it?’

‘At least when they stole their techniques from us, there was some guarantee they’d work, or wouldn’t be actively dangerous.’ He shrugged. ‘Now, I’m afraid, there’s no such guarantee. I imagine you’re already beginning to regret that visit. But it’s rather too late for regrets.’ ‘Thanks for your sympathy. I presume if you can map these changes, you can also undo them?’ ‘That’ll be much harder than making them in the first place. But it could be done, at a cost.’ ‘You don’t surprise me.’ ‘Will you be requiring our services, then?’

I moved towards the door, letting Chanterelle walk ahead of me. ‘I’ll be sure to let you know, believe me.’

I was unsure how she expected me to act after the examination, whether she imagined that the Mixmaster’s enquiries would jog my memory, and that I would suddenly realise just what it was that was wrong with my eyes and how they had ended up like that? Maybe she had. And - just maybe - so had I, clinging to the idea that the nature of my eyes was something I had temporarily forgotten, a long-delayed aspect of the revival amnesia.

But nothing like that happened.

I was none the wiser, but even more unsettled, because I knew that something was really happening, and I could no longer dismiss how my eyes seemed to glow in my face. There had to be more to it than that. Since arriving in Chasm City, I had been growing steadily more aware of a faculty I had never known before: I could see in the dark, when other people needed image-intensifying goggles or infra-red overlays. I had noticed it for the first time - without really consciously recognising it - when I had entered the ruined building and looked upwards to see the staircase which had led me to safety, and to Zebra. There should not have been enough light for me to see what I had seen, but of course I had more than my share of other things to worry about. Later, after the cable-car had crashed into Lorant’s kitchen, the same thing had happened. I had crawled from the wrecked vehicle and seen the pig and his wife long before they saw me - even though I was the only one not looking through night-goggles. And again, too doped on adrenalin to reflect on the matter, I’d let it pass, although by then it was not quite so easy to put out of mind.

Now, though, I knew that there was some deep genetic shift taking place in my eyes, and that nothing which had happened before had been my imagination. Perhaps the changes were already complete, irrespective of the degree of genetic fragmentation which the Mixmaster had observed.

‘Whatever he told you,’ Chanterelle said, ‘it wasn’t what you wanted to hear, was it?’

‘He didn’t tell me anything. You were there; you heard every word he said.’

‘I thought maybe some of it would make sense to you.’

‘That was my hope, but none of it did.’

We ambled back to the open area where the teahouse was, my mind running like an unchecked flywheel. Someone had tampered with my eyes on the genetic level, reprogramming them to grow in an alien manner. Could it have been initiated by the Haussmann virus? Perhaps - but what did seeing in the dark have to do with Sky? Sky hated the dark; feared it totally.

But he couldn’t see in it.

The change could not have happened since I had arrived on Yellowstone, unless Dominika had done it when I was having the implant removed. I had been conscious, but sufficiently disorientated that she might have been able to do it. But that didn’t fit. I had experienced the night-vision before that.

What about Waverly?

It was possible, especially from the chronological aspect. I’d been unconscious in the Canopy while Waverly installed the implant. That would have allowed only a few hours between administration of the genetic treatment and the onset of physical changes in the eye. Given that the changes could be thought of as a kind of controlled growth, it seemed nowhere near long enough, but maybe it was, given that only a relatively small area of cells was affected, rather than a major organ or large region of the anatomy. And suddenly I saw that it was at least possible from the point of view of motivation. Waverly had been working for both sides, and he had tipped off Zebra about me, giving me a sporting chance of making it alive through the game. Was it also possible that he had opted to give me another advantage, that of night-vision?

It was possible, yes. It was even comforting.

But nothing I was ready to believe in.

‘You wanted to look at Methuselah,’ Chanterelle said, pointing towards the large metal-framed tank I had seen earlier. ‘Well, now’s your chance.’

‘Methuselah?’

‘You’ll see.’

I pushed my way through the throng of people rimming the tank. Actually, it was not necessary to do much pushing. People tended to get out of my way before I even made eye contact, pulling the same look of nasal insult that I had seen on the face of the Mixmaster. I sympathised with them.

‘Methuselah’s a fish,’ Chanterelle said, joining me against the smoky-green glass. ‘A very big and very old one. The oldest, actually.’

‘How old?’

‘No one knows, except that he’s at least as old as the Amerikano era. That makes him comfortably older than any organism alive on this planet, with the possible exception of a few bacterial cultures. ’

The huge and bloated koi, unspeakably ancient, filled the tank like a basking sea-cow. His eye, as large as a plate, observed us with a complete lack of sentience; as if we were looking into a slightly tarnished mirror. Whitish cataracts spanned the eye like chains of islands on a slate-grey sea. His scales were pale and almost entirely colourless, and the distended bulk of his body was marred by odd protrusions and lacunae of diseased flesh. His gills opened and closed with a slowness that suggested it was only the stirring of the currents in the tank that animated the fish.

‘How come Methuselah didn’t die like the other koi?’

‘Maybe they remade his heart for him, or gave him other hearts, or a mechanical one. Or maybe he just doesn’t need to use it very much. I understand it’s very cold in there. The water’s nearly freezing, so they put something in his blood to keep it liquid. His metabolism is about as slow as it can get without stopping altogether. ’ Chanterelle touched the glass, her fingers leaving a frosty imprint against the chill. ‘He’s worshipped, though. The old venerate him. They think that by communing with him - by touching his glass - they ensure their own longevity.’

‘What about you, Chanterelle?’

She nodded. ‘I did once, Tanner. But like everything, it’s just a phase you grow out of.’

I gazed into that mirrorlike eye again, wondering what Methuselah had seen in all his years, and whether any of that data had percolated down to whatever passed for memory in a bloated old fish. I had read somewhere that goldfish had exceptionally short spans of recall; that they were incapable of remembering something for more than a few seconds.

I was sick of eyes for one day; even the unknowing, uncomprehending eyes of an immortal and venerated koi. So my gaze wandered momentarily down, beneath the sagging curve of Methuselah’s jaw, to the wavering bottle-green gloom which was the other side of the tank, where a dozen or so faces were crowded against the glass.

And saw Reivich.

It was impossible, but there he was; standing almost exactly opposite me on the other side of the tank, his face registering supreme calm, as if lost in the contemplation of the ancient animal between us. Methuselah stirred a fin - a movement indescribably languid - and the current caused the face of Reivich to swirl and distort. When the water calmed, I dared to imagine that what I would see would be only one of the locals who possessed the same set of genes for bland aristocratic hand-someness.

But when the water settled, I was still looking at Reivich.

He hadn’t seen me; though we were standing opposite each other, his gaze hadn’t yet intersected mine. I averted mine, while still holding him in peripheral vision, then reached in my pocket for the ice-slug gun, almost shocked to find that it was still there. I flicked off the safety.

Reivich still stood there, unreacting.

He was very close. Despite what I had said to Chanterelle earlier in the evening, I felt reasonably sure I could put a slug through him now, without removing the gun from the concealment of my coat. If I fired three slugs I could even allow for the distortion caused by the intervening water; bracketing my angle of fire. Would the slugs leave the gun with sufficient muzzle velocity to pass through two sheets of armoured glass and the water in between them? I couldn’t guess, and maybe it was academic anyway. From the angle at which I’d need to fire to take out Reivich, there was something else in the way.

I couldn’t simply kill Methuselah . . . could I?

Of course I could. It was just a question of pulling the trigger and putting the giant koi out of whatever extremely simplistic mental state it was currently in, certainly nothing sophisticated enough to be termed misery, I was sure. It would be a crime no more heinous than damaging some prized work of art.

The unseeing silver bowl of Methuselah’s eye drew my gaze.

There was no way I could do it.

‘Damn,’ I said.

‘What is it?’ Chanterelle said, almost blocking me as I pulled away from the side of the glass, reversing into the press of jostlers behind me, rubbernecking to get a glimpse of the fabled fish.

‘Someone I just saw. On the other side of Methuselah.’ I had the gun half out of the pocket now; it would only take an inadvertent glimpse for someone to see what I was about to do.

‘Tanner, are you insane?’

‘Very probably several kinds of insane,’ I said. ‘But I’m afraid it doesn’t change anything. I’m perfectly happy with my current delusional system.’ And then - approximating a leisured stroll - I started to walk around to the other side of the tank, the perspiration from my palm dampening the metal of the gun. I eased it fractionally from my pocket, hoping that the gesture looked casual, like someone extracting a cigar case, but freezing before the action was complete, as if something else had snared their attention.

I turned the corner.

Reivich was gone.

TWENTY-EIGHT

‘You were going to kill someone,’ Chanterelle said as her cable-car brachiated home, swinging through the lantern-bedecked brain coral growth of the Canopy with the Mulch hung below, dark except for a dappling of scattered fires.

‘What?’

‘You had your gun half out of your pocket like you meant to use it. Not the way you showed it to me - not as a threat - but like you weren’t going to say a word before you squeezed the trigger. Like you were just going to walk up, put a bullet through someone and walk away.’

‘There’d be little point lying, would there?’

‘You have to start talking to me, Tanner. You have to start telling me something. You said I wouldn’t like the truth because it would complicate things. Well, trust me - this is complicated enough. Are you ready to let some of that mask slip, or are we going to carry on this game?’

I was still playing the whole incident over in my head. The face had been that of Argent Reivich, and he had been standing only a few metres from me, in a public place.

Was it possible he had actually seen me all along, and was much cleverer than I had realised? If he’d recognised me, he could have left the area in the opposite direction while I walked around Methuselah. I’d been too fixated on the idea of him still standing up against the glass to pay enough attention to the people who had just left. So it was possible, yes. But in accepting that Reivich had been aware of my presence all along, I opened myself up to a far more unsettling set of questions. Why had he stayed there, if he had already seen me? And how had we met each other so easily? I hadn’t even been looking for him at that point; I was just getting the feel of the area before I began the real work of tightening the net. As if that was not enough, now that I reviewed the few moments which separated my discovery of Reivich from the moment when I realised he had left, I became aware that something else had happened. I had seen something or someone, but my mind had suppressed it, concentrating my attention on the imminent kill.

I had seen another face in the glass - another face that I knew, standing very close to Reivich.

She had erased the surface markings, but the underlying bone structure was reasonably intact, and her expression very familiar.

I had seen Zebra.

‘I’m still waiting,’ Chanterelle said. ‘There’s only so much of that meaningful frown I can take, you know.’

‘I’m sorry. It’s just—’ I found myself grinning. ‘I almost think you might like me for who I am.’

‘Don’t push your luck, Tanner. Only a couple of hours ago you were pointing a gun at me. Most relationships that start like that tend to go downhill.’

‘Ordinarily, I’d agree. But you also happened to be pointing a gun at me, and your gun was considerably larger than mine.’

‘Hmm, maybe.’ She sounded far from convinced. ‘But if we’re going to take it any further - and make of that what you will - you’d better start elaborating on that dark and mysterious past of yours. Even if there are things you don’t really want me to know.’

‘Oh, there are plenty of those, believe me.’

‘Then get them out into the open. By the time we get back to my place, I want to know why that man was going to die. And if I were you, I’d seriously try and persuade me that he deserves it - whoever it was. Otherwise you might begin to slip in my estimation.’

The car pitched and swayed, but I no longer found the motion really sickening.

‘He deserves to die,’ I said. ‘But I can’t say he’s a bad man. If I’d been in his place, I’d have done exactly what he did.’ Except done it professionally, I thought, and not left anyone alive afterwards.

‘Mm, bad start, Tanner. But please continue.’

I thought about giving Chanterelle the sanitised version of my story - before realising that there was no sanitised version. So I explained about about my soldiering days, and how I had fallen into Cahuella’s orbit. I told her that Cahuella was a man of both power and cruelty, but not genuinely evil since he was also a man of trust and loyalty. It was not hard to respect him and to want to earn his respect in return. I suppose there was something very primitive about the relationship between Cahuella and me: he was a man who desired excellence in everything around him - in his surroundings; in the accoutrements he collected; in the way he chose his sexual partners, like Gitta. He also desired excellence in his employees. I considered myself a fine soldier, bodyguard, liege, man-at-arms, assassin; whatever label suited. But only in Cahuella could I measure my excellence against any kind of absolute.

‘A bad man, but not a monster?’ Chanterelle said. ‘And that was enough reason for you to work for him?’

‘He also paid pretty well,’ I said.

‘Mercenary bastard.’

‘There was something else, too. I was valuable to him because I had experience. He wasn’t willing to risk losing that wisdom by placing me in situations of undue danger. So a lot of the work I did for him was purely advisory - I hardly ever had to carry a weapon. We had real bodyguards for that; younger, fitter, stupider versions of myself.’

‘And how did the man you saw in Escher Heights come into it?’

‘The man’s name is Argent Reivich,’ I said. ‘He used to live on Sky’s Edge. The family name’s rather well established there.’

‘It’s also an old name in the Canopy.’

‘I’m not surprised. If Reivich already had connections here, that would explain why he managed to infiltrate the Canopy so quickly, when I was still getting soaked down in the Mulch.’

‘You’re getting ahead of yourself. What brought Reivich here? And you, for that matter?’

I told her how Cahuella’s weapons had fallen into the wrong hands, and how those wrong hands had used them against Reivich’s family. How Reivich had traced the arms back to my employer, and his determination to exact revenge.

‘That’s rather honourable of him, don’t you think?’

‘I have no quarrel with Reivich about that,’ I said. ‘But if I’d done it, I’d have made sure everyone died. That was his one mistake; the one I can’t forgive him for.’

‘You can’t forgive him for leaving you alive?’

‘It wasn’t an act of mercy, Chanterelle. Quite the opposite. The bastard wanted me to suffer for failing Cahuella.’

‘Sorry, but the logic’s just a little too tortuous for me.’

‘He killed Cahuella’s wife - the woman I should have been protecting. Then he left Cahuella, Dieterling and me alive. Dieterling was lucky - he looked dead. But Reivich deliberately left Cahuella and me alive. He wanted Cahuella to punish me for letting Gitta die.’

‘Did he?’

‘Did he what?’

She sounded like she was about to lose patience with me. ‘Did Cahuella do anything to you afterwards?’

The question seemed simple enough to answer. No, obviously, he hadn’t - because Cahuella had died afterwards. His injuries had eventually killed him, even though they hadn’t appeared particularly life-threatening at the time.

So why did I find it difficult to answer Chanterelle? Why did my tongue stumble on the obvious, and something else come to mind? Something that made me doubt that Cahuella had died?

Finally I said, ‘It never came to that. But I had to live with my shame. I guess that was a kind of punishment in its own right.’

‘But it didn’t have to have happened that way; not from Reivich’s perspective.’

We were passing through a part of the Canopy now that resembled a solid map of the alveoli in a lung: endlessly branching globules, bridged by dark filaments of what might have been coagulated blood.

‘How could it have been otherwise?’ I said.

‘Maybe Reivich spared you because with you it wasn’t personal. He knew that you were just an employee and that his argument wasn’t with you but with Cahuella.’

‘Nice idea.’

‘And just possibly the right one. Has it occurred to you that you don’t have to kill this man at all, and that you might owe him your life?’

I was beginning to tire of this particular line of debate.

‘No, it hadn’t - for the pure and simple reason that it’s completely irrelevant. I don’t care what Reivich thought of me when he decided to let me live - whether it was intended as a punishment or an act of mercy. It doesn’t matter at all. What matters is that he did kill Gitta, and that I swore to Cahuella that I’d avenge her death.’

‘Avenge her death.’ She smiled humourlessly. ‘It’s all so conveniently mediaeval, isn’t it? Feudal honour and bonds of trust. Oaths of fealty and vengeance. Have you checked the calendar recently, Tanner?’

‘Don’t even pretend to understand any of this, Chanterelle.’

She shook her head vehemently. ‘If I did, I’d start worrying about my sanity. What in hell’s name have you come here for - to satisfy some ridiculous promise, an eye for an eye?’

‘Now you put it like that, I don’t see it as being particularly laughable.’

‘No, it’s not remotely laughable, Tanner. It’s tragic.’

‘To you, maybe.’

‘To anyone with an angstrom of detachment. Do you realise how much time will have passed by the time you get back to Sky’s Edge?’

‘Don’t treat me like a child, Chanterelle.’

‘Answer my damned question.’

I sighed, wondering how I had let things get so far out of control. Had our friendship just been an anomaly; an excursion away from the natural state of things?

‘At least three decades,’ I replied, as if the time I was expressing was of no consequence at all, like a matter of weeks. ‘And before you ask, I’m well aware of how much could change in that time. But not the important things. They’ve already changed, and much as I wish they would, they won’t change back. Gitta’s dead. Dieterling’s dead. Mirabel’s dead.’

‘What?’

‘I said Cahuella’s dead.’

‘No, you didn’t. You said Mirabel’s dead.’

I watched the city slide by outside, my mind buzzing, wondering what kind of state my head must be in for a slip of the tongue like that. That wasn’t the kind of mistake you could easily ascribe to fatigue. The Haussmann virus was clearly having a worse effect on me than I’d dared assume: it had gone beyond simply infecting my waking hours with shards of Sky’s life and times and was beginning to interfere with my most basic assumptions about my own identity, undermining my perception of self. And yet . . . even that was a comforting assumption. The Mendicants had told me their therapy would burn out the virus before too long . . . yet the Sky episodes were becoming more insistent. And why would the Haussmann virus bother making me confuse events that had happened in my own past, rather than Sky’s? Why did it care if I confused Mirabel with myself?

No. Not Mirabel. Cahuella.

Disturbed - not wanting to remember the dream I’d had, of the time when I’d been looking down on the man in the white room with the missing foot - I tried to recapture the thread of the conversation.

‘All I’m saying is . . .’

‘What?’

‘All I’m saying is, that when I get back, I’m not expecting to find what I left. But it won’t be any worse. The people who mattered to me were already dead.’

The Haussmann virus was really screwing me up.

I was starting to see Sky as myself and Tanner Mirabel was increasingly becoming . . . what? A detached third person, not really me at all?

I remembered my confusion at Zebra’s, after I had been playing the chess game over in my mind, time and time again. How sometimes I appeared to win and sometimes I appeared to lose.

But it had always been the same game.

That must have been the start of it. The slip of the tongue just meant that the process had taken a step beyond my dreams, just like the Haussmann virus.

Disturbed, I tried to recapture the thread of the conversation.

‘All I’m saying is, when I get back, I’m not expecting to find what I left. But it won’t be any worse. The people who mattered to me were dead before I left.’

‘I think it’s about satisfaction,’ she said. ‘Like in the old experientials, where the nobleman throws down his glove and says he demands satisfaction. That’s how you function. I thought it was absurd at first, when I used to indulge in those experientials. I thought it was too comical to even be part of history. But I was wrong. It wasn’t just part of history. It was still alive and well, reincarnated in Tanner Mirabel.’ She had replaced her cat’s-eye mask now, an act which served to focus attention onto the sneer of her mouth, a mouth I suddenly wanted to kiss, even though I knew the moment - if it had ever existed - was gone for ever. ‘Tanner demands satisfaction. And he’s going to go to any lengths to get it. No matter how absurd. No matter how stupid or pointless, or how much of a prick he ends up making himself look.’

‘Please don’t insult me, Chanterelle. Not for what I believe in.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with belief, you pompous oaf. It’s just stupid male pride.’ Her eyes narrowed to slits and her voice took on a new vindictiveness which I still managed to find attractive, from some quiet retreat where I observed our argument like a neutral spectator. ‘Tell me one thing, Tanner. One little thing which in all of this you haven’t explained.’

‘Only the best for you, little rich girl.’

‘Oh, very incisive. Don’t give up the day job for the cut and thrust of debate, Tanner - your rapier wit might be too much for all of us.’

‘You were about to ask me a question.’

‘It’s about this boss of yours - Cahuella. He felt this urge to hunt for Reivich himself, when he learned that Reivich was moving south towards the - what did you call it? The Reptile House?’

‘Go on,’ I said, testily.

‘So why didn’t Cahuella feel he had to end the job? Surely the fact that Reivich killed Gitta would have made it even more of a personal thing for Cahuella. Even more a case of - dare I say it - demanding satisfaction?’

‘Get on with it.’

‘I’m wondering why I’m talking to you, and not Cahuella. Why didn’t Cahuella come here?’

I found it hard to answer, at least not to my own satisfaction. Cahuella had been a hard man, but he had never been a soldier. There were skills which I had learned on a level below recall, which Cahuella simply lacked - and would have taken half a lifetime to gain. He knew weapons, but he did not really know war. His understanding of tactics and strategy was strictly theoretical - he played the game well, and understood the subtleties buried in its rules - but he had never been thrown into the dirt by the concussion of a shell, or seen a part of himself lying beyond reach on the ground, quivering like a beached jellyfish. Experiences like that did not necessarily improve one - but they certainly changed one. But would any of those deficits have handicapped him? This was not war, after all. And I had hardly come well equipped for it myself. It was a sobering thought, but I found it hard to entirely dismiss the idea that Cahuella might have already succeeded by now.

So why had I come here, rather than him?

‘He would have found it difficult to get off the planet,’ I said. ‘He was a war criminal. His freedom of movement was restricted.’

‘He’d have found a way round it,’ Chanterelle said.

The troubling thing was, I thought she was right. And it was the last thing in the world I wanted to think about.

‘It’s been nice knowing you, Tanner. I think.’

‘Chanterelle, don’t—’

As the door of the cable-car sealed us from each other, I saw her shake her head, expressionless behind that mask of cattish indifference. Her cable-car lofted, hauling itself away with a series of whisking noises, underpinned by the musical creaking as the cables stressed and released like catgut.

At least she had resisted the temptation to dump me in the Mulch.

But she had dumped me in a part of the Canopy I had no knowledge of. What exactly had I been expecting? I suppose, somewhere at the back of my mind was the thought that we might have ended up sharing a bed by the end of the evening. Given that we had commenced our affair by pointing weapons at each other and trading threats, it would certainly have been an unanticipated coda. She was beautiful enough as well - less exotic than Zebra; perhaps less sure of herself - a trait which undoubtedly brought out the protector in me. She would have laughed in my face at that - stupid male pride - and of course she would have been correct. But so what. I liked her, and if I needed justification for that attraction, it hardly mattered how irrational it was.

‘Damn you, Chanterelle,’ I said, without very much conviction.

She had left me on a landing ledge, similar to the touchdown point outside Escher Heights, but significantly less busy - Chanterelle’s car had been the only one here, and now that was gone. A muted rain was descending, like a constant moist exhalation from some great dragon poised over the Canopy.

I walked to the edge, feeling Sky come down with the rain.

TWENTY-NINE

He was doing his rounds of the sleepers.

Sky and Norquinco were far along one of the train tunnels that stretched along the ship’s spine, their feet clanging against catwalked flooring. Occasionally strings of robot freight pods clattered past along the track, ferrying supplies to and from the small band of technicians who lived at the far end of the ship, studying the engines night and day like worshipping acolytes. Here came one now, its orange hazard lights flashing as it rumbled towards them. The train almost filled the corridor. Sky and Norquinco stepped into a recess while the shipment went past. Sky noticed Norquinco slipping something into a shirt pocket, a piece of paper covered with what looked like a series of numbers partially crossed-out.

‘Come on,’ Sky said. ‘I want to make it to node three before the next shipment comes along.’

‘No problem,’ the other man said. ‘The next one isn’t due for . . . seventeen minutes.’

Sky looked at him oddly. ‘You know that?’

‘Of course. They do run to a timetable, Sky.’

‘Of course; I knew that. I just couldn’t see why anyone in their right mind would actually memorise the times.’

They walked on in silence to the next node. This far from the main living areas, the ship was uncommonly quiet, with hardly any sound of air-pumps or any of the other chugging systems of life-support. The sleepers, for all that they needed constant cybernetic supervision, drew very little power from the ship’s grid. The momios’ refrigeration systems did not have to work hard, for the sleepers had been deliberately situated close to naked space; slumbering only metres from the absolute chill of interstellar vacuum. Sky wore a thermal suit, his breath blasting out in white gouts with each exhalation. Periodically he lifted the hood over his head until he felt warm again. Norquinco, by contrast, kept his hood permanently up.

It was a long time since he’d had any contact with Norquinco. They had barely spoken since Balcazar’s death, after which Sky had spent time establishing himself in a position of considerable seniority within the crew. From head of security he had moved to overall third-in-command, and now second-in-command, with only Ramirez standing between him and absolute control of the Santiago. Constanza was still problematic, of course, even though he had relegated her to a minor role in security - but he would not allow her to upset his plans. In the new regime, Captain was an extremely precarious position. A state of cold war existed between all the ships; internal shipboard politics were a web of paranoia in which errors of judgement were punished mercilessly. It would take only one carefully engineered scandal to oust Ramirez; murdering him would begin to look just a little too suspicious. Sky had something in mind; a scandal that would remove Ramirez and provide a convenient cover for his own plans.

They reached the node and descended to one of the six sleeper modules situated at that point on the spine. Each module held ten berths, and accessing each berth was itself an awkward process, so it wasn’t possible to visit more than a small fraction of the momios in a single day. Yet throughout his climb to second-in-command, Sky had never allowed himself to spend too much time away from the sleepers.

The task of visiting them all, checking on their progress, had, however, become easier with each year. Now and then one of the sleeper berths failed, ensuring that the momio could never be revived. Sky had mapped the dead laboriously, noting clusters which might signify some rogue support system. But by and large the deaths were distributed randomly along the spine. It was all that could be expected from such ancient machinery, both delicate and highly experimental at the time the Flotilla had departed. Messages from back home suggested that they had made great improvements in cryonics technology - advances which would have made these sleeper caskets look scarcely more civilised than Egyptian sarcophagi. But that didn’t help anyone on the Flotilla. It was far too risky to try to improve the existing berths.

Sky and Norquinco crawled through the hull until they reached the first sleeper module. They emerged into one of the ten berths spaced around its circumference. Sensing them, pressure had flooded into the chamber, lights warmed and status displays came alive, but it remained deathly cold.

‘This one’s dead, Sky . . .’

‘I know.’ Norquinco had not visited many of the sleepers before; this was the first time Sky had felt it necessary to have him along. ‘I marked this one down as a failure on one of my earlier inspections.’

The casket’s warning icons were pulsing all the shades of hell, to no avail. The glass cover remained hermetic, and Sky had to peer close to satisfy himself that the sleeper really was dead, and not about to become the victim of malfunctioning readouts. But there was no arguing with the mummified form he glimpsed within. He glanced at the sleeper’s nameplate, checked it against his list and was satisfied that his judgement before had been wise.

Sky left the chamber, Norquinco following him, and they moved along to the next.

Similar story. Another dead passenger, killed by a similar error. No point even thinking about keeping this one thawed. There was unlikely to be a single intact cell anywhere in her body.

‘What a waste,’ Norquinco said.

‘I don’t know,’ Sky said. ‘Maybe some good can come of these deaths. Norquinco, I’ve brought you here for a reason. I want you to listen carefully and be very certain that nothing I say goes beyond these walls. Understand?’

‘I wondered why you wanted to meet me again. It’s been a few years, Sky.’

Sky nodded. ‘Yes, and there’ve been a lot of changes. I’ve kept my eye on you, though. I’ve watched you find a niche for your skills, and I’ve seen how good you are at your job. The same goes for Gomez - but I’ve already spoken to him.’

‘What is this all about, Sky?’

‘Two things, really. I’ll come to the most urgent in a moment. First of all I want to ask you about something technical. What do you know about these modules?’

‘What I need to know, no more and no less. There are ninety-six of them spaced along the spine, ten sleepers to each.’

‘Yes. And a lot of those sleepers are dead now.’

‘I don’t follow, Sky.’

‘They’re dead mass. Not just the sleepers, but all the useless machinery which is no longer being used to support them. Add it up and it’s a sizeable fraction of the ship’s total mass.’

‘I still don’t follow.’

Sky sighed, wondering why nothing was ever as clear to other people as it was to him. ‘We don’t need that mass any more. Right now it doesn’t hurt us, but as soon as we start slowing down, it’ll prevent us braking as fast as we’d like. Shall I spell it out? That means if we want to come to a stop around 61 Cygni-A, we have to start slowing down sooner than we’d otherwise need to. On the other hand, if we could detach the modules we don’t need now, we’d be able to slow down harder and faster. That would give us a lead on the other ships. We could reach the planet months ahead of anyone else; time to pick the best landing sites and establish surface settlements.’

Norquinco thought about it. ‘That won’t be easy, Sky. There are, um, safeguards. The modules aren’t meant to be detached until we reach orbit around Journey’s End.’

‘I’m well aware of that. That’s why I’m asking you.’

‘Ah. I, um, see.’

‘Those safeguards must be electronic. That means they can eventually be bypassed, given time. You still have years in which to do it - I won’t want to detach the modules until the absolute last moment before we begin slowing down.’

‘Why wait until then?’

‘You still don’t get it, do you? This is cold war, Norquinco. We have to keep the element of surprise.’ He stared hard at the man, knowing that if he decided he could not trust Norquinco, he would soon have to kill him. But he was gambling that the problem itself would entice Norquinco.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I mean, yes, technically, I could hack those safeguards. It would be difficult - monumentally difficult - but I could do it. And it would take years. Perhaps a decade. To do the work covertly, it would have to be carried out under the camouflage of the six-monthly total system audits . . . that’s the only time when those deep-layer functions are even glimpsed, let alone accessed.’ His mind was racing ahead now, Sky saw. ‘And I’m not even on the squad that runs those audits.’

‘Why not? You’re clever enough, aren’t you?’

‘They say I’m not a “team player”. If they were all like me, those audits wouldn’t take half as long as they do.’

‘I can see how they’d have difficulty adjusting to your ethos,’ Sky said. ‘That’s the problem with genius, Norquinco. It’s seldom appreciated.’

Norquinco nodded, foolishly imagining that their relationship had finally traversed that hazy line between mutual usefulness and genuine friendship. ‘A prophet is without honour, et cetera. You’re right, Sky.’

‘I know,’ Sky said. ‘I’m always right.’

He opened his computer slate, shuffling through layers of data until he found the abstracted map of the sleepers. It looked like a strange species of cactus rendered in neon: a spiny, many-branched plant. The living were marked with red icons; the dead with black. For years now, Sky had been segregating the living from the dead, until several sleeper modules were filled only with dead momios. It was very tricky work because it required moving the living while they were still frozen, uncoupling their caskets and transporting them by train from one part of the spine to another while they were kept cool on reserve power. Sometimes you ended up with another dead momio.

It was all part of the plan. When the time came, and with Norquinco’s assistance, Sky would be ready.

But there was another matter he wanted to talk to Norquinco about.

‘You said there was something else, Sky.’

‘Yes. There is. Do you remember, Norquinco, when we were much younger? Before my father died? You and I and Gomez spoke about something. We called it the sixth ship, but you had another name for it.’

Norquinco looked at him suspiciously, as if certain that there must be a trap. ‘You mean the, um, Caleuche?’

Sky nodded. ‘Yes, exactly that. Remind me - what was the story behind that name again?’

Norquinco filled in more details about the myth than Sky remembered from the first time. It was as if Norquinco had done some research of his own.

But when he had finished, having told Sky about the dolphin that accompanied the ghost ship, he said, ‘It doesn’t exist, Sky. It was just a story we liked to tell each other.’

‘No. That’s what I thought, but it was real. Is real, in fact.’ Sky looked at him carefully, studying the effect his words had on Norquinco. ‘My father told me. Security have always known that it exists. They know a thing or two about it, too. It’s about half a light second behind us, and it’s about the same size and shape as the Santiago. It’s another Flotilla ship, Norquinco.’

‘Why have you waited until now to tell me, Sky?’

‘Because until now I haven’t had the means to do anything about it. Now, though . . . I do have the means. I want to go there, Norquinco - take a small expedition to her. But it has to be conducted in absolute secrecy. The strategic value of that ship is beyond imagining. There’ll be supplies on her. Components. Machines. Drugs. Everything we’ve had to make do without for decades. More than that, though, she’ll have antimatter on her, and she’ll probably have a functioning propulsion system. That’s why I want Gomez along. But I’ll need you as well. I don’t expect to find anyone alive on her, but we’ll have to get into her; warm her systems and bypass her security.’

Norquinco looked at him wonderingly. ‘I can do that, Sky.’

‘Good. I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’

He told Norquinco that they would leave for the ghost ship as soon as he could arrange to take a shuttle without anyone suspecting his real intention - a problem that in itself would require some careful planning. They would be gone for several days, too, and no one must notice that either. But the risk, he thought, would be worth it. That ship was sitting behind them like a lure, inviting them to plunder the riches that lay aboard her. Only Sky even knew for sure that the ghost ship existed.

‘You know,’ Clown murmured, with him again, ‘it would be a crime to ignore it.’

When Sky had left me - the episode, as usual, had occupied only an instant of actual time - I reached into my pocket for the gun, wondering as I did about the phallic significance of that gesture. Then I shrugged and did the only thing which seemed reasonable, which was to walk towards the light, and the entrance which fed back into the particular neighbourhood of the Canopy where I had been deposited.

I entered the plaza-like interior, trying to put a cocky swagger into my stride, as if by feedback it might make me feel more confident. The place was just as bustling as Escher Heights, even though it was now well beyond midnight. But the architecture was like nothing I had seen. It had been hinted at in the place where Waverly worked me over, and the geometries which passed for domestic in Zebra’s rooms. But here, that curvilinear juxtaposition of mismatched topologies, stomachlike tubes and doughy walls and ceilings had been pushed to a mind-wrenching extreme.

I wandered around for an hour, studying the faces and occasionally sitting down near a koi pond (they were ubiquitous), just letting recent events jostle around in my mind. I kept hoping that one of the patterns would strike me as being somehow more truthful than the rest, and that I’d then know what was happening, and what my own part in it all was. But the patterns were halfhearted and incomplete, shards missing and troubling asymmetries spoiling their veracity. Maybe a more intelligent man than I might have seen something, but I was too tired to search for any artfully concealed subtleties. All I knew was the surface events. I’d been sent here to kill a man and, despite all the odds, I had found myself standing only a few metres from him, before I was even properly searching for him. I ought to have felt elated, even though I had failed to put the moment to proper use. But what I felt instead was a queasy sense of wrongness, as if I had drawn four aces in the first hand of a poker game.

The kind of luck which felt like the prelude to ill fortune.

I reached into my pocket, feeling the wad of money I still had. There was less than I’d begun the night with - the clothes and the consultation with the Mixmaster hadn’t come cheap - but I wasn’t out of cash just yet. I retraced my steps back towards the ledge where Chanterelle had left me, debating what to do next; knowing only that I wanted to speak to Zebra again.

As I prepared to leave the plaza, a swarm of brightly attired socialites emerged from the night, attended by pets, servitors and floatcams, looking for all the world like a procession of mediaeval saints served by cherubim and seraphim. A pair of baroquely ornamented bronze palanquins followed, both no larger than a child’s coffin, with a more austere model trailing some distance behind: a hard-edged grey box with a tiny grilled window set into the front. It had no manipulators and I could hear its motors labouring, leaving a greasy trail behind it.

I had a plan, but not much of one. I’d mingle with the party and try and find out if any of them knew Zebra. From there, I could work out a way of getting to her, even if meant forcing one of them to take me there by cable-car.

The party halted, and I watched as a man with a head like a crescent moon removed a cachet of Dream Fuel vials from a pocket. He did it carefully, trying to make sure general passers-by wouldn’t see what he had, but not attempting to hide the Fuel from the rest of the party.

I melted into the shadows, satisfied that no one had noticed me until then.

The other members of the party clustered around the man and I saw the gleam of wedding-guns and less ceremonial syringes, both men and women in the party tugging down collars to plunge steel into skin. The two child-sized palanquins remained with the group, but the plainer one was circling the party, and I saw one or two of the people in the group eye it nervously, even as they waited to spike themselves with Fuel.

The grey palanquin wasn’t part of the group.

I’d just come to that conclusion when it halted, the front of the palanquin wheezing open, belching vapour from its hinges, and a man almost stumbling out. Someone in the party screamed and pointed at him, and in an instant the party as a whole had fallen back; even the miniature palanquins raced away from the man.

There was something terribly wrong with him.

Down one half of his naked body he was deceptively normal; as cruelly handsome and young as any in the party he’d approached. But the other half of him was submerged in a glistening growth that locked him rigid, countless branching filaments of silver-grey piercing his flesh, radiating outwards for tens of centimetres until they became only an indistinct grey haze. As he shuffled forward, the haze of filaments made a constant, barely audible tinkling noise as tiny shards detached themselves like seeds.

The man tried to speak, but what came out of his lopsided mouth was only an appalling moan.

‘Burn him!’ someone in the party shouted. ‘For God’s sake, burn him!’

‘The brigade are on their way already,’ someone else said.

The man with the moon-shaped head stepped a little closer to the plague victim, brandishing a single, nearly-exhausted vial.

‘Is this what you want?’

The plague victim moaned something, still stumbling closer. He must have risked it, I thought, retaining his implants while not taking the proper precautions to protect himself. Perhaps he’d chosen a cheap palanquin that lacked the hermetic security of a more expensive model. Or perhaps he’d only taken to the device after the plague had reached him, hoping that the spread would be slower if he were barriered from further exposure.

‘Here. Take this and leave us all alone, quickly. The brigade won’t take long to get here.’

The moon-faced man threw him the vial; the plague victim lunged forward to try and grab it with his good arm. He missed, and the vial shattered on the ground, leaking its reserve of Fuel.

But the plague victim fell forwards anyway; hitting the ground so that his face almost touched the small scarlet puddle. The impact raised a grey cloud of shattered extrusions from his body, but I couldn’t tell if the moan he emitted at that point was pleasure or pain. With his good arm, he clawed a few drops of Fuel towards his mouth, while the party looked on with horror and fascination, maintaining their distance but capturing the incident on camera. The spectacle had attracted a few other people by then, and they all studied the man as if his contortions and moans were simply a bizarre piece of performance art.

‘He’s an extreme case,’ someone said. ‘I’ve never seen that degree of asymmetry. Do you think we’re far enough away from him?’

‘You’ll find out eventually.’

The man was still thrashing stiffly on the ground when the brigade arrived from inside the plaza. They couldn’t have had far to travel. It was a detachment of armoured technicians, propelling a cumbersome machine which resembled an extremely large, open-fronted palanquin, marked with bas-relief biohazard symbols. Oblivious to their presence, the plague victim kept clawing at the Fuel even as they pushed the humming machine over him and lowered a door over its front. The technicians moved with clinical speed, communicating with precise hand gestures and whispers as their machine thumped and hummed. The party watched wordlessly; no sign now of the Dream Fuel or the devices they’d been using to administer it. Then the technicians propelled their machine backwards, leaving only polished ground behind, one of them sweeping the area with something that looked like a cross between a broom and a mine-detector. After a few sweeps he gave a thumbs-up signal to his colleagues and followed them back into the plaza, behind the still-humming machine.

The party lingered, but the incident had obviously taken the shine off their immediate plans for the night. Before very long they’d all vanished into a pair of private cable-cars, and I’d had no chance to insinuate myself.

But I noticed something on the ground, near where the moon-faced man had been standing. At first I thought it was another vial of Dream Fuel, but as I moved closer - before anyone else saw it - I realised that it was an experiential. It had probably fallen out of his pocket when he retrieved his cachet of Fuel.

I knelt down and picked it up. It was slim and black, and the only marking on it was a tiny silver maggot near the top.

With Vadim, I’d found a similar set of experientials at the same time that I’d found his supply of Dream Fuel.

‘Tanner Mirabel?’

The voice held only the slightest hint of curiosity.

I looked around, because the voice had come from behind me. The man who’d spoken was dressed in a dark coat, making the minimum necessary concession to Canopy fashion. His face was unsmiling and grey, like an undertaker on a bad day. There was also a martial tautness to his posture, evidenced in the way the muscles in his neck were rigidly defined.

Not a man to be trifled with, whoever he was.

He spoke softly, hardly moving his lips now that he had my complete attention. ‘I am a professional security specialist,’ he said. ‘I am armed with a neurotoxic weapon which can kill you in under three seconds, silently, and without drawing the slightest attention to myself. You would not even have time to blink in my direction.’

‘Well, enough pleasantries,’ I said.

‘You recognise that I am a professional,’ the man said, nodding to emphasise his words. ‘Like you, I have been trained to kill in the most efficient manner possible. I hope that gives us some common ground and that we can now discuss matters reasonably.’

‘I don’t know who you are or what you want.’

‘You don’t have to know who I am. Even if I told you, I’d be forced to lie, and what would be the point of that?’

‘Fair point.’

‘Good. In which case, my name’s Pransky. As for the other matter, that’s easier. I’m here to escort you to someone who wants to meet you.’

‘What if I don’t want to be escorted?’

‘That’s entirely your choice.’ He still spoke calmly and quietly, like a young monk reciting his breviary. ‘But you will have to satisfy yourself that you can absorb a dose of tetrodotoxin of sufficient potency to kill twenty people. Of course, it’s entirely possible that your membrane biochemistry is unlike that of any other living human being - or advanced vertebrate, for that matter. ’ He smiled, flashing a row of brilliant white teeth. ‘But you’ll have to be the judge of that, I’m afraid.’

‘I probably wouldn’t want to run that risk.’

‘Sensible fellow.’

Pransky beckoned with an open palm that I should walk on, past the kidney-shaped koi-pond which was the focal point of this annexe of the building.

‘Before you get too cocky,’ I said, standing my ground, ‘you might like to know that I’m also armed.’

‘I do know,’ he said. ‘I could tell you the specification of your weapon now, if you wanted me to. I could also tell you the probability of one of your ice-slugs managing to kill me before I inject you with the toxin, and I don’t think you’d be very impressed by the odds. Failing that, I could tell you that your gun is currently in your right pocket and your hand isn’t, which does rather limit its usefulness. Shall we proceed?’

I started moving. ‘You’re working for Reivich, aren’t you?’

For the first time something in his face told me he wasn’t in total control of the situation. ‘Never heard of him,’ he said, irritated. And I allowed myself a smile. It wasn’t much of a victory, but it was better than nothing. Of course, Pransky could have been lying. But had he wanted to, I was sure he could have concealed it more effectively. But I’d caught him off guard.

Inside the plaza, there was a vacant silver palanquin waiting for me. Pransky waited until no one was paying us any attention, then had the palanquin clam open, revealing a plush red seat.

‘You’ll never guess what I’m about to ask,’ Pransky said.

I got into the machine, easing myself into the seat. After the door had closed I experimented with some of the controls set into the interior, but none of them did anything. Then, in deathly silence, the palanquin started moving. I looked through the little green window and watched the plaza glide by, Pransky walking slightly ahead of me.

Then I started feeling drowsy.

Zebra looked me over, a long and cool appraisal such as I might have expended on a new rifle. Her expression was difficult to judge. All the theories I’d concocted had depended on her either looking very pleased or very annoyed to be reacquainted with me.

Instead she just looked worried.

‘What the hell’s going on?’ I said. ‘If you don’t mind my asking.’

She stood legs akimbo, shaking her head slowly as she answered me, ‘You’ve got one hell of a nerve to ask me what I’m doing, after all you did to me.’

‘Right now I’d say we’re even.’

‘Where’d you find him, and what was he doing?’ she asked Pransky.

‘Hanging around,’ the man said. ‘Attracting too much attention. ’

‘I was trying to get to you,’ I said to Zebra.

Pransky gestured towards one of the markedly utilitarian chairs which served for furniture in the room to which I had been brought. ‘Have a seat, Mirabel. You’re not going anywhere in a hurry.’

‘I’m surprised you were in any rush to meet me again,’ Zebra said. ‘After all, you didn’t exactly overstay your welcome last time.’

My gaze tracked over Pransky, trying to place him in this and figure out how much he knew.

‘I left a note,’ I said, plaintively. ‘And I called you back to apologise. ’

‘And the fact that you thought I might know where a Game was going down was sheer coincidence.’

I shrugged, exploring the parameter space of discomforts offered by the stiffly unyielding seat. ‘Who else was I going to call?’

‘You piece of shit, Mirabel. I don’t know why I’m doing this, you know. You don’t deserve it at all.’

Zebra still looked like Zebra, unless you focused on the specifics. She had muted her skin-tone now, so that the stripes were little more than rushlike grey blades folded around the contours of her face, delineations that vanished altogether in a certain light. The frill of rigid black hair had become a blonde bob, trimmed in a blunt fringe across her forehead. Her clothes were unostentatious and she wore a coat of similar cut to my own, one which reached past her stiletto-booted ankles and trailed into a pool of dark fabric around her feet. The only thing it lacked was the matrix of rough patches which adorned Vadim’s original.

‘I never pretended to deserve anything,’ I said. ‘Although I do think the one thing I might deserve is an explanation. Can we take it as read that you and I almost met earlier this evening, except that there was a substantial bulk of fish between us, name of Methuselah?’

‘I was standing behind you,’ Zebra said. ‘If you saw me, you saw my reflection. It’s not my fault you didn’t turn around.’

‘You could have said something.’

‘You were hardly excessively loquacious yourself, Tanner.’

‘All right; can we start at the beginning?’ I looked at Pransky, soliciting his permission as much as Zebra’s. ‘How about I tell you what I think, and we take it from there?’

‘Sounds eminently reasonable to me,’ said the little security expert.

I drew in a deep breath, aware that I was comitting myself further than at any point since my arrival. But here, now, it had to be done. ‘You’re working for Reivich,’ I said. ‘Both of you.’

Pransky looked at Zebra. ‘He mentioned that name earlier. I don’t know who he means.’

‘It’s all right,’ Zebra said. ‘I do.’

I nodded, feeling a paradoxical sense of relief, resignation, I supposed. It didn’t greatly comfort me to find out that Zebra was working for the man I had been sent to assassinate - most especially now that she had captured me. But there was also a defeatist pleasure in seeing one particular mystery cleared up.

‘Reivich must have contacted you as soon as he got here,’ I said. ‘You’re - what - some kind of freelancer? A security specialist in your own right, like Pransky here? It would make sense. You knew how to handle a weapon, and you were a step ahead of Waverly’s people when they were hunting me down. The whole hunt sabotage story was just a screen. For all I know you play it every night with the best of them. There. How am I doing?’

‘It’s fascinating stuff,’ Zebra said. ‘Please continue.’

‘You were detailed by Reivich to find me. He had a suspicion someone had been sent from Sky’s Edge, so it was just a matter of putting your ears to the ground and listening. The musician was part of the operation as well - the front man who trailed me down from the Mendicant habitat.’

‘Who’s the musician?’ Pransky said. ‘First Reivich, now the musician. Do these people actually exist?’

‘Shut up,’ Zebra said. ‘And let Tanner continue.’

‘The musician was good,’ I said. ‘But I’m not sure whether I gave him enough to go on; whether I allowed him to establish beyond any doubt that I was the man he wanted, and not just some innocent immigrant.’ I looked towards Zebra for confirmation, but since none was forthcoming, I continued, ‘Maybe all the musician could tell Reivich was that I was still a possibility. So you kept tabs on me. Somehow you had contacts in the hunt movement - maybe connections with a group of genuine saboteurs, for all I know. And via Waverly, you found out I’d been recuited as a victim.’

‘What is he talking about?’ Pransky said.

‘The truth, unfortunately,’ Zebra said, dispensing a withering look towards the security specialist, who was probably her subordinate, her understudy or dogsbody. ‘At least regarding the hunt. Tanner wandered into the wrong part of the Mulch and got himself captured. He put up a good fight, too, but they might have killed him if I hadn’t made it in time.’

‘She had to save me,’ I said. ‘There wasn’t anything noble about it, though. Zebra only wanted information. If I died, no one would be able to establish whether or not I’d really been the man sent to kill Reivich. That would put Reivich in an uncomfortable situation; he wouldn’t be able to relax for the rest of his life. There’d always be the danger that the real assassin was closing in. A lot of sleepless nights. That’s how it went, wasn’t it, Zebra?’

‘It might,’ she said. ‘If I happened to be colluding in your own delusions.’

‘Then why did you save me, if it wasn’t to keep me alive and find out if I was really the man?’

‘For the same reasons I told you. Because I hate the hunt, and I wanted to help you live.’ She shook her head, almost apologetically. ‘Sorry, Tanner. Much as I’d love to help you with your particular paranoid construct, it doesn’t go any deeper than that. I’m who I said I was, and I acted for the reasons I said. And I’d be grateful if you restricted discussion of the sabs to an absolute minimum, even in Pransky’s esteemed company.’

‘But you just told me - him - you know who Reivich is.’

‘I do, now. But I didn’t then. Shall we continue? Maybe you ought to hear my side of things.’

‘I can’t wait.’

Zebra inhaled, looking interestedly around the doughlike acreage of the ceiling before her gaze snapped back to me. I had a feeling what she was about to say was not unrehearsed.

‘I rescued you from Waverly’s hunt clique,’ Zebra said. ‘Don’t fool yourself into imagining that you might have made it out alive yourself, Tanner. You’re good - that’s obvious - but no one’s that good.’

‘Maybe you just don’t know me well enough.’

‘I’m not sure I want to. May I continue?’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘You stole things from me. Not just clothes and money, but a weapon you shouldn’t have known how to use. I won’t even mention the cable-car. You could have stayed where you were until the implant stopped transmitting, but for some reason you thought you’d be safer on your own.’

I shrugged. ‘I’m still alive, aren’t I?’

‘For the moment,’ Zebra conceded. ‘But Waverly isn’t, and he was one of the few allies we had at the core of the movement. I know you killed him, Tanner - the trail you left was so hot you might as well have sprinkled plutonium wherever you went.’ She strolled around the room, the stiletto heels of her boots clicking against the floor like a pair of matched metronomes. ‘That was unfortunate, you know.’

‘Waverly just got in the way. It’s not like the sadistic bastard was on my Christmas list.’

‘Why didn’t you wait?’

‘I had other business to attend to.’

‘Reivich, right? I expect you’re dying to know where I got that name from, and how I know what it means to you.’

‘I think you were in the process of telling me.’

‘After you ditched my car,’ Zebra said. ‘You showed up in Grand Central Station. It’s where you called me from.’

‘Go on.’

‘I was curious, Tanner. By then I already knew Waverly was dead, and that didn’t make sense. You should have been the dead man - even with the gun you stole from me. So I began to wonder just who it was I’d been sheltering. I had to find out.’ She stopped pacing; the clicking of her heels abated. ‘It wasn’t difficult. You were inordinately interested in finding out where the night’s Game was going to happen. So I told you. If you were there, I thought I’d be there myself.’

I thought back to what seemed like hundreds of hours earlier, but was in fact only the evening of the long night in which I was still immersed. ‘You were there, when I caught Chanterelle?’

‘It wasn’t what I was expecting.’

Of course not - how could it have been? I said, ‘Then what about Reivich? How does he come into it?’

‘Via a mutual acquaintance of ours by the name of Dominika.’ Zebra smiled, knowing she had surprised me with that.

‘You went to Dominika?’

‘It made sense. I had Pransky tail you to Escher Heights while I went to the bazaar and talked to the old woman. I knew you’d had the device removed, you see. And since you’d been at the bazaar earlier in the day, Dominika was bound to know who’d done the operation, if it wasn’t her. Which of course it was, which simplified matters enormously.’

‘Is there anyone in Chasm City she hasn’t deceived?’

‘Possibly, somewhere, but only as an extreme theoretical possibility. Actually, Dominika is a rather pure expression of our city’s driving paradigm, which is that there is nothing and no one who can’t be bought, given the right price.’

‘What did she tell you?’

‘Only that you are a very interesting man, Tanner, and that you had a particular interest in locating a gentleman named Argent Reivich. A man who happened to have arrived in Escher Heights only a few days earlier. Now, isn’t that a coincidence, given that Pransky just happens to have followed you to that part of the Canopy?’

The svelte little security man felt it was his time to take over the narrative. ‘I tailed you for most of the night, Tanner. You really began to hit it off with Chanterelle Sammartini, didn’t you? Who’d have thought it - you and her.’ He shook his head, as if some basic physical law of the universe had been violated. ‘But you wandered around like old friends. I even saw you at the palanquin races.’

‘How tiresomely romantic,’ Zebra drawled, without interrupting Pransky’s flow.

‘I called Taryn and had her meet me,’ the man said. ‘Then we followed the two of you - discreetly, of course. You visited a boutique and came out looking a new man - or at least not quite your old self. Then you went to the Mixmaster. Now he was a tougher nut to crack. He wouldn’t tell me what you wanted in there and I’m awfully keen to find out.’

‘Just a check-up,’ I said.

‘Well, maybe.’ Pransky knitted together his long and elegant fingers and then made knuckle-popping sounds. ‘Perhaps it doesn’t matter. It’s certainly hard to see how it could relate to what happened next.’

I tried to sound interested. ‘Which was?’

‘That you nearly killed someone,’ Zebra said, silencing her associate with a soundless cuff of the air. ‘I saw you, Tanner. I was on the point of approaching you and asking you what you were doing and then suddenly you were taking a gun out of your pocket. I couldn’t see your face, but I’d been following you long enough to know it was you. I watched you move with the gun in your hand; smoothly and calmly, as if this was all you’d ever been born to do.’ She paused. ‘And then you put the gun away, and no one else had been paying enough attention to you to notice what you’d done. I watched you look around, but it was obvious that whoever it was you’d seen was gone - if he’d ever been there. It was Reivich, wasn’t it?’

‘You seem to know so much, you tell me.’

‘I think you came here to kill him,’ Zebra said. ‘Why, I don’t know. Reivich is an old family in the Canopy, but they don’t have as many enemies as some. Yet it makes sense. That would explain why you were so desperate to get into the Canopy that you’d wander into a hunt. And why you were so reluctant to stay in the safety of my home. It was because you were scared of losing Reivich’s trail. Tell me I’m right, Tanner.’

‘Would there be any point denying it?’

‘Not a great deal, no, but you’re welcome to try.’

She was right. Just as I had unburdened myself to Chanterelle earlier in the night, I did the same for Zebra. But it felt less intimate. Perhaps it was the fact that Pransky was standing there absorbing it all. Or the feeling that the two of them actually knew more about me than they had said, and that very little of what I was telling them was news. I told them that Reivich was someone from my homeworld, not a genuinely bad man, but one who had done something very bad out of foolishness or weakness, and had to be punished for that with no less severity than if he had been born a snarling knife-twisting psychopath.

When I had finished - when Zebra and Pransky had grilled me to exhaustion, examining every facet of my story as if looking for a flaw they knew must be present - there was one last question, and it was mine.

‘Why have you brought me here, Zebra?’

Hands on hips, her elbows jutting from the black enclosure of her coat, she said, ‘Why do you think?’

‘Curiosity, I suppose. But that’s not enough.’

‘You’re in danger, Tanner. I’m doing you a favour.’

‘I’ve been in danger since I came here. That’s nothing new to me.’

‘I mean real danger,’ Pransky said. ‘You’re in too deep. You’ve attracted too much attention.’

‘He’s right,’ Zebra said. ‘Dominika was the weak link. She may have alerted half the city by now. Reivich almost certainly knows you’re here, and he probably knows you nearly killed him tonight.’

‘That’s what I don’t understand,’ I said. ‘If he’s already been warned of my presence, why the hell was he making himself such an easy target? If I’d been a fraction faster I’d have killed him.’

‘Maybe the meeting was a coincidence,’ Pransky said.

Zebra looked at him scornfully. ‘In a city this big? No; Tanner’s right. That meeting happened because Reivich arranged for it to happen. And there’s something else, too. Look at me, Tanner. Notice anything different?’

‘You changed your appearance.’

‘Yes. And it isn’t the hardest thing to do, believe me. Reivich could have done the same - nothing drastic; just enough to ensure that he wasn’t immediately recognisable in a public place. A few hours under the knife at most. Even a halfway competent bloodcutter could have done it.’

‘Then that doesn’t make any sense,’ I said. ‘It’s like he was taunting me. Like he wanted me to kill him.’

‘Maybe he did,’ Zebra said.

There had been moments when I thought I might never see the outside of that room; that it was where Pransky and Zebra had brought me to die.

Pransky was clearly a professional, and Zebra was no stranger to death herself, given her affiliation with the sabotage movement.

Yet they didn’t kill me.

We took a cable-car to Zebra’s place, Pransky going off on some other errand. ‘Who is he?’ I asked, once we were alone. ‘Some kind of hired help?’

‘Private intelligence,’ Zebra said, discarding her coat in a black puddle. ‘It’s all the rage these days. There are rivalries in the Canopy - feuds and quiet wars, sometimes between families, and sometimes within.’

‘You thought he could help trace me.’

‘Seems I wasn’t wrong.’

‘I still don’t know why, Zebra.’ Once again I looked beyond the room, towards the maw of the chasm which was like the rim of a volcano around which a city festered, on the eve of its own destruction. There was some dawnlight on the horizon. ‘Unless you think you can use me in some way - in which case I’m afraid you’re wrong. I’m not interested in any Canopy power games you might be involved in. I’m only here to do one thing.’

‘To kill a seemingly innocent man.’

‘It’s a cruel universe. Do you mind if I sit down?’ I helped myself to a seat before she had answered me, the mobile furniture shuffling into place beneath me like an obsequious servant. ‘I’m still a soldier at heart and it’s my job not to question these things. The instant I start doing that is the instant I stop doing my job properly.’

Zebra, all angularity and knifelike edges, folded herself into the sumptuousness of the seat opposite me, retracting her knees beneath her chin.

‘Someone’s after you, Tanner. That’s why I had to find you. It’s dangerous for you to stay here. You have to get out of the city.’

‘It’s nothing I didn’t expect. Reivich will have hired all the help he can get his hands on.’

‘Local help?’

It was an odd question. ‘Yes, I suppose. You wouldn’t hire someone who didn’t already know the city.’

‘Whoever’s after you isn’t local, Tanner.’

I tensed in the seat, causing its buried musculature to generate massaging ripples. ‘What do you know?’

‘Not very much, except that Dominika said someone had been trying to find you. A man and a woman. They acted like they’d never been here before. Like offworlders. And they were very interested in finding you.’

‘A man already did,’ I said, thinking of Quirrenbach. ‘He followed me down from orbit, posing as an offworlder. I lost him in Dominika’s. It’s possible he returned with reinforcements.’ Vadim, perhaps. But it would be quite a trick to mistake Vadim for a woman.

‘Is he dangerous?’

‘Anyone who lies for a living is dangerous.’

Zebra summoned one of her ceiling-tracked servitors, having the machine bring us a tray laden with carafes of varying size and colour. Zebra poured me a goblet of wine and I let it wash away some of the accumulated taste of the city, dull some of the roaring in my mind.

‘I’m very tired,’ I said. ‘You offered me sanctuary here a day ago, Zebra. Can I accept that offer now, if only until daybreak?’

She looked at me over the smoked rim of her glass. It was already daybreak, but she knew what I meant. ‘After all you’ve done, you think I’ll keep an offer like that open?’

‘I’m an optimist,’ I said, with what I hoped was the appropriate tone of utter resignation.

Then I took another sip of wine and began to realise how exhausted I really was.

THIRTY

The expedition to the ghost ship almost never left the Santiago. Sky and his two associates, Norquinco and Gomez, had made it as far as the cargo bay when Constanza appeared out of the shadows.

She looked much older now, Sky thought, prematurely aged compared to himself. It was hard to believe that the two of them had once been near-equals; children exploring the same dark and labyrinthine wonderland. Now the shadows etched themselves unflatteringly into her face, emphasising the wrinkles and folds of her habitual expression.

‘Do you mind if I ask where you’re planning to go?’ Constanza said, standing between them and the shuttle that they had gone to great trouble to make ready. ‘I’m not aware that anyone was supposed to be leaving the Santiago.’

‘I’m afraid you weren’t in the loop on this one,’ Sky said.

‘I’m still a member of security, you supercilious little worm. How does that put me outside the loop?’

Sky glanced at the others, willing them to let him do the talking. ‘I’ll be blunt, then. It’s a matter that exceeds even the usual security channels. I can’t be specific, but the nature of this mission is both delicate and diplomatic.’

‘Then why isn’t Ramirez with you?’

‘It’s a high-risk mission; a possible trap. If I’m caught, Ramirez loses his second-in-command, but the routine functioning of the Santiago won’t be greatly affected. And if it is a genuine attempt to improve relations, the other ship can’t complain that we aren’t sending a senior officer.’

‘Captain Ramirez would still know about this, though?’

‘I should imagine so. He authorised it.’

‘We’ll just check then, shall we?’ She elevated her cuff, ready to speak to the Captain.

Sky allowed himself an instant of indecision before acting, weighing the outcome of two equally hazardous strategies. Ramirez did genuinely think there was a diplomatic operation in progress; an excuse that would enable Sky to leave the Santiago for a couple of days without too many questions being asked. It had taken years to lay the groundwork for that deception, faking messages from the Palestine, doctoring the real messages as they came in. But Ramirez was a clever man, and his suspicions might be raised if Constanza started showing too much interest in the validity of the mission.

So he rushed her, knocking her to the hard, polished floor of the bay. Her head whacked against the ground and she went deathly still.

‘Have you killed her?’ Norquinco said.

‘I don’t know,’ Sky said, kneeling down.

Constanza was still alive.

They dragged her unconscious body across the cargo bay and arranged it artfully next to a pile of smashed freight pallets. It looked as if she had been exploring the bay on her own and had been knocked out when a tower of pallets had toppled over, catching her on the head.

‘She won’t remember the encounter,’ Sky said. ‘And if she doesn’t come round of her own accord before we’re back, I’ll find her myself.’

‘She’ll still have her suspicions,’ Gomez said.

‘That won’t be a problem. I’ve set up evidence trails which’ll make it look like Ramirez and Constanza were complicit in authorising - ordering - this expedition.’ He looked at Norquinco, who had actually done much of the work of which he spoke, but the other man’s expression was impassive.

They left before there was any chance of Constanza coming round. Normally Sky would have fired up the shuttle’s engines as soon as he was free of the docking bay, but that would have made their leaving all the more obvious. Instead, he gave the shuttle a small kick of thrust while it was hidden behind the Santiago - just enough to push it up to one hundred metres per second relative to the Flotilla - and then turned the engines off. With the cabin lights dimmed and maintaining strict comms silence, they fell backwards away from the mother ship.

Sky watched the hull slide by like a grey cliff. He had taken measures to conceal his own absence from the Santiago - and in the current atmosphere of paranoia very few people would ask awkward questions anyway - but there was no way that the departure of a small ship could ever be completely concealed from the other vessels. But Sky knew from experience that their radar scans were focused on detecting missiles moving between ships, rather than something falling slowly behind. In fact, now that the race was on to strip mass from all the ships, it was common for surplus equipment to be discarded. Junk was usually sent drifting forward, so that the Flotilla would never run into it while decelerating, but that was a minor detail.

‘We’ll drift for twenty-four hours,’ Sky said. ‘That’ll put us nine thousand kilometres behind the last ship in the Flotilla. Then we can turn on engines and radar and make a dash to the Caleuche. Even if they notice our thrust flame, we’ll still get there ahead of any other shuttle they send after us.’

‘What if they do send something?’ Gomez said. ‘We might still only have a few hours of grace. Maybe a day at best.’

‘Then we’d better use our time wisely. A few hours will be enough to get aboard and establish what happened to her. A few hours more will give us the time we need to find any intact supplies she’s carrying - medical equipment, sleeper berth parts, you name it. We can fit enough aboard the shuttle to make a difference. If we find too much to bring back, we’ll hold her until the Santiago can dispatch a larger fleet of shuttles.’

‘You’re talking as if we’d go to war over her.’

Sky Haussmann answered, ‘Maybe she’d be worth it, Gomez.’

‘Or maybe she was cleaned out years ago by one of the other ships. Considered that, haven’t you?’

‘Yes. And I’d regard that as reasonable grounds for war as well.’

Norquinco, who had barely spoken since the departure, was examining a bewilderingly complex general schematic of one of the Flotilla ships. It was the kind of thing he could get lost in for hours, his eyes glazed, ignoring sleep and food until he had solved some problem to his satisfaction. Sky envied him that single-minded devotion to one task, while flinching from the idea of ever allowing himself to become that obsessive. Norquinco’s value to him was highly specific: a tool that could be applied to certain well-defined problems with predictable results. Give Norquinco something complicated and arcane and he was in his element. Coming up with a plausible model for what the Caleuche’s internal data networks might be like was exactly that kind of problem. It could never be more than an educated guess, but there was no one Sky would rather have had doing the guessing.

He replayed what little they knew about the ghost ship. What was clear enough was that the Caleuche must once have been an acknowledged part of the Flotilla, built and launched with the other ships from Mercury orbit. Her construction and launch could never have been kept secret, even if she must have once had some more prosaic name than that of the mythical ghost ship. She would have accelerated up to cruising speed with the other five ships, and for a time - many years, perhaps - she would have travelled with them.

But something had happened during those early decades of the crossing to Swan. As political and social upheavals racked the home system, the Flotilla had become steadily more isolated. The home system had become months and then years of light-travel time away, until true communication became difficult. Technical updates had continued to arrive from home, and the Flotilla had continued to send reports back, but the intervals between these transmissions had become longer and longer, the messages increasingly desultory. Even when messages from home did arrive, they were often accompanied by contradictory ones; evidence of squabbling factions with different agendas, not all of which involved the Flotilla arriving safely at Journey’s End. Now and then a general news report was picked up, and the ships of the Flotilla even learned the unsettling truth that there were factions back home who were denying that they had ever existed. By and large these attempts to rewrite history were not taken seriously, but it was disconcerting to hear that they had gained even a toehold.

Too much time and distance, Sky thought, the words playing in his head like a mantra. So much boiled down to that, in the end.

And what it also meant was that the ships of the Flotilla became less and less accountable to any other parties save themselves; that it became easier to collectively suppress the truth of whatever had happened to the Caleuche.

Sky’s grandfather - or rather, Titus Haussmann’s father - must have known exactly what had happened. He had probably imparted some of that truth to Titus, but perhaps not all of it. It might also have been the case that by the time Titus’s father had died even he had not been entirely sure what had happened. Sky could only guess at the depth of Old Man Balcazar’s knowledge, as well. The Captain had evidently believed that the sixth ship existed, but he had seemed unwilling or unable to speculate as to its origin. There were, in Sky’s opinion, two likely scenarios. In the first, there had been some dispute between the ships which had culminated in an attack on the Caleuche. It could even have extended to the use of the harbourmakers; the landscaping nuclear weapons. Balcazar had revealed little other than that the ship was dark. Very probably the radar echo matched the profile of a Flotilla vessel, but there could still have been crippling damage. Afterwards, the other ships might have been so shamed by their actions that they had chosen to blank them from the historical record. One generation would have to live with the shame, but not the one that followed.

The other idea, and the one Sky favoured, was less dramatic but perhaps even more shaming. What if something had gone terribly wrong with the Caleuche - a plague aboard her, say - and the other ships had chosen to offer no assistance? Worse things had happened in history, and who could blame the others for fearing contamination themselves?

Shameful, perhaps. But also perfectly understandable.

What it also meant was that they would have to be very careful. He would assume nothing except that every situation was potentially lethal. Equally, he would accept the risks involved because the prize was so great. He thought of the antimatter which she had to be carrying, still dormant in her penning reservoir, waiting for the day when it should have been used to slow her down. That day might still come, but not in the way her designers had ever anticipated.

Or, for that matter, any of the other ships.

Within a few hours they had escaped the main body of the Flotilla. Once a radar beam from the Brazilia lingered over them, like the fingers of a blind person probing an unfamiliar object. The moment was tense, and while they were being scrutinised Sky wondered if this had not, after all, been a fatal misjudgement. But the beam moved on and never returned. If the Brazilia had assumed anything it must have accepted that the radar echo signified only a chunk of receding debris; some useless, irrepairable machine jettisoned into the void.

After that they were alone.

It was tempting to fire up the thrusters, but Sky kept his nerve and maintained the drift for the twenty-four hours he had promised. No transmissions came from the Santiago, satisfying him that their absence had not yet become problematic. Had it not been for the company of Norquinco and Gomez, he would have been more alone now - further from human company - than at any point in his life. How terrifying this isolation would once have been to the small boy who had been so terrified of the dark when he had been trapped in the nursery. Almost unthinkable, to have willingly drifted this far from home.

Now, though, it was for a purpose.

He waited until the exact second, then turned on the engines again. The flame burned a deep lilac: clean and pure against the stars. He was careful to avoid shining the thrust beam directly back towards the Flotilla, but there was no way he could hide it completely. It hardly mattered; they had the edge now, and whatever the other ships chose to do, Sky would reach the Caleuche first. It would give him, he thought, a small foretaste of what the greater victory would be like, when he brought the Santiago to Journey’s End ahead of the others. It was as well to remember that everything he did now was only part of that larger plan.

But there was a difference, of course. Journey’s End was definitely out there; definitely a world which he knew to be real. He still had only Balcazar’s word that the Caleuche existed at all.

Sky turned on the long-range phased-array radar and - much like the Brazilia had done - extended a hand gropingly into the darkness.

If it was out there, he would find it.

‘Can’t you just leave him alone?’ Zebra said.

‘No. Even if I was ready to forgive him - which I’m not - I still have to know why he taunted me the way he did; what he was hoping to get out of it.’

We were in Zebra’s apartment. It was late morning; the cloud cover over the city was sparse, the sun was high and the place looked melancholy rather than Satanic; even the more warped buildings assumed a certain dignity, like patients who’d learned to live with gross deformity.

Which did nothing to make me feel any less disturbed; convinced more than ever that there was something fundamentally wrong with my memories. The Haussmann episodes hadn’t stopped, yet the bleeding from my hand had become much less severe than it had been at the start of the infection cycle. It was almost as if the indoctrinal virus had catalysed the unlocking of memories which were already present; memories at stark odds with the official version of events on the Santiago. The virus might have been close to burning itself out, but the other Haussmann memories were coming on more strongly than ever, my association with Sky becoming more complete. Originally it had been like watching a play; now it was like playing him; hearing his thoughts; feeling the acrid taste of his hatred.

But that wasn’t all of it. The dream I’d had the afternoon before, of looking down on the injured man in the white enclosure, had troubled me more than I could easily explain at the time, but now, having had time to think about it, I thought I knew why.

The injured man could only have been me.

And yet my viewpoint had been that of Cahuella, looking down into the hamadryad pit at the Reptile House. I could have put that down to tiredness, but it hadn’t been the only time I’d seen the world through his eyes. In the last few days there’d been odd snatches of memory and dream where I’d been more intimate with Gitta than I thought had ever been the case; instants when I felt I could bring to mind every hidden curve and pore of her body; instants when I imagined tracing my hand across the hollow of her back or the swell of her buttocks; instants when I thought I knew the taste of her. But there was something else about Gitta, too - something my thoughts couldn’t or wouldn’t home in on; something too painful.

All I knew was that it had something to do with the way she’d died.

‘Listen,’ Zebra said, refilling my coffee cup, ‘could it just be that Reivich has a death wish?’

I tried to focus on the here and now. ‘I could have satisfied that for him on Sky’s Edge.’

‘Well, a specific type of death wish, then. Something that has to be satisfied here.’

She looked lovely, her fading stripes permitting the natural geometry of her face to show more clearly, like a statue deprived of gaudy paint. But sitting face to face with each other over breakfast was as close as we had come since Pransky had brought us together. We hadn’t shared a bed, and it was not just because I’d been inhumanly tired. Zebra hadn’t invited it, and nothing in the way she behaved or dressed had suggested that our relationship had ever been anything other than coolly professional. It was as if in changing her exterior markings she had also shed an entire mode of behaviour. I felt no real loss, not just because I was still fatigued and incapable of focusing my thoughts on anything as simple and devoid of conspiracy as physical intimacy, but also because I sensed her earlier actions had somehow been part of an act.

I tried to feel betrayal, but nothing came. It wasn’t as if I’d been honest with Zebra myself, after all.

‘Actually,’ I said, looking at Zebra’s face again, and thinking how easily she’d changed herself, ‘there is another possibility.’

‘Which is?’

‘That the man I saw wasn’t Reivich at all.’ And then I put down the empty coffee cup and stood up.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Out.’

We cabled to Escher Heights.

The car nudged down, its retractable legs kissing the rain-slick ground of the ledge. There was more traffic now than when I had last visited the place - it was daytime, after all - and the costumes and anatomies of the strollers were fractionally less ostentatious, as if I was seeing a different cross-section of Canopy society, the more reserved citizens who eschewed nights of delirious pleasure-fulfilment. But they were still extreme by any standards I had defined before arriving here, and while there was no one whose proportions deviated radically from the basic adult human norm, within that boundary every possible permutation was on display. Once you got beyond the obvious cases of outlandish skin pigmentation and body hair, it was not always possible to tell what was hereditary and what was the work of Mixmasters or their shadier kin.

‘I hope there’s a point to this excursion,’ Zebra said as we disembarked. ‘In case you’ve forgotten, there are two people following you. You say they might be working for Reivich, but don’t forget Waverly had his friends as well.’

‘Would Waverly’s friends be arriving from offworld?’

‘Probably not. Unless they were just posing as offworlders, like Quirrenbach.’ She closed the door of the car behind her and the vehicle immediately took itself off on some other errand. ‘He might have come back with reinforcements. It would make sense for him to try and pick up the trail in Dominika’s, if that’s where you lost Quirrenbach in the first place. Wouldn’t it?’

‘It would make perfect sense,’ I said, hoping that I had kept the edge from my voice.

We walked to the rim of the landing ledge, to one of the pedestal-mounted telescopes. The railing which encircled the ledge was chest-high, but the telescopes all had little plinths at their bases, which meant that one was standing further from the ground, the drop all the more vertiginous. I cupped the end of the telescope to my eyes and panned around an arc of the city, struggling with the focus wheel until I realised that nothing would ever be in focus when there was so much murk in the air. Compressed by perspective, the tangle of the Canopy looked ever more complex and vegetative, like a cross-section through densely veined tissue. Reivich was out there, I knew, somewhere in that tangle; a single corpuscle caught in the pulmonary flow of the city.

‘See anything?’ Zebra asked.

‘Nothing yet.’

‘You sound tense, Tanner.’

‘Wouldn’t you be tense, in my position?’ I slammed the scope round on its pedestal. ‘I’ve been sent here to kill someone who probably doesn’t deserve it, and my only justification for it is some absurd adherence to a code of honour no one here understands or even respects. The man I’ve been sent to kill might be taunting me. Two other people might be trying to kill me. I’ve got one or two problems with my memories. And on top of that one of the people I thought I could trust has been lying to me all along.’

‘I don’t follow,’ Zebra said, but it was obvious from the tone of her voice that she did; more than sufficiently. She did not necessarily understand, but she did follow.

‘You aren’t who you say you are, Zebra.’

The wind whipped at us, almost snatching her answer away. ‘What?’

‘You’re working for Reivich, aren’t you?’

She shook her head angrily, almost laughing at the ludicrous-ness of the assertion, but she overdid it. I was not the world’s best liar, but neither was Zebra. The two of us should have started a self-help group.

‘You’re mad, Tanner. I always thought you were a little on the edge, but now I know. You’re over it. Way over.’

‘The night you found me,’ I said, ‘you were working for him even then, from the very first moment we met. The sabotage story was a cover - a pretty good one, I have to say, but a cover nonetheless.’ I stepped down from the plinth, suddenly feeling vulnerable, as if a particularly strong gust might cast me over for the long fall down to the Mulch. ‘Maybe I really was kidnapped by Gameplayers. But you already had your eye on me before then. I’d assumed I’d shaken the tail Reivich put on me - Quirrenbach - but there must have been someone else, keeping more distance so they weren’t so obvious. But you lost me until Waverly put the hunt implant in my skull. Then you had a way of tracking me again. How am I doing so far?’

‘Insane, Tanner.’ But there was no conviction in her words.

‘Do you want to know how I realised? Apart from all the little details which just didn’t add up?’

‘Astonish me.’

‘You shouldn’t have mentioned Quirrenbach. I never said his name. In fact, I was very careful not to, just in case you made a slip and it came out. Seems my luck was in.’

‘You bastard.’ She said it sweetly, so that - to anyone watching us from a distance - it might have been a term of affection, the kind lovers give themselves. ‘You sly bastard, Tanner.’

I smiled. ‘You could have used an excuse if you’d wanted. You could have said that Dominika mentioned his name when you asked who I’d been travelling with. I was half expecting you to do that, and I’m not quite sure I know how I’d have reacted. But it’s all moot now, isn’t it? Now we know just who you are.’

‘What were the little details, out of curiosity?’

‘Professional pride?’

‘Something like that.’

‘You made it far too easy for me, Zebra. You left your vehicle active so I could steal it. You left your weapon where I could find it, and enough money to make a difference. You wanted me to do it, didn’t you? You wanted me to steal those things, because then you’d know for sure who I was. That I’d come to kill Reivich.’

She shrugged. ‘Is that all?’

‘Not really, no.’ I drew Vadim’s coat tighter around myself. ‘It didn’t escape my attention that we made love the first time we met, despite the fact that you barely knew me. It was good too, for what it’s worth.’

‘Oh, don’t flatter me. Or yourself, for that matter.’

‘But the second time, although you seemed relieved, I wouldn’t say you were particularly happy to see me. And I didn’t feel anything sexual pass between us at all. At least not from you. It took me a while to work out why, but I think I understand now. The first time you needed intimacy, because you were hoping it would lead me into saying something incriminating. So you invited me to sleep with you.’

‘There’s such a thing as free will, Tanner. You didn’t have to go along with me, unless you want to admit your brain is ruled by your dick. And I didn’t get the impression you regretted any of that.’

‘Probably because I didn’t. I’d have been too tired if you had made any overtures the second time - but that was never on the cards, was it? You knew all you needed to by then. And the first time was strictly professional. You slept with me for information.’

‘Which I didn’t get.’

‘No, but that hardly mattered. You got it later, when I skipped with your gun and car.’

‘It’s a real sob story, isn’t it?’

‘Not from where I’m standing.’ I glanced over the edge. ‘From where I’m standing it’s a story that might just end with you taking a very long fall, Zebra. You know I’ve come a long way to kill Reivich. Did it occur to you that I might not have too many qualms about killing anyone who tries to stop me?’

‘There’s a gun in your pocket. Use it if it’ll make you feel any better.’

I reached for the gun to check it was still there, then kept my hand in my pocket. ‘I could kill you now.’

To her credit, she managed not to flinch. ‘Without taking your hand out of your pocket?’

‘You’re welcome to try me.’ It felt like a charade; like a scripted piece we had fallen into rehearsing. It also felt like we had no choice but to follow the script to its conclusion, whatever that happened to be.

‘Do you really think you could hit me like that?’

‘It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve killed someone firing from this angle.’ But, I thought, it would be the first time I had meant to do it. After all, I had not intended to kill Gitta. I was also unsure I really wanted to kill Zebra.

Had not meant to kill Gitta . . .

I’d been trying not to think about it, but like a maze with only one exit, my thoughts always meandered back to that one moment. Now, after long repression, they welled up and exploded like a gang of rowdy gatecrashers. I had not remembered it before now. Gitta had died, yes, but I had comfortably avoided thinking too closely about the manner of her death. She had died in the attack - so what else was there to think about? Nothing.

Except the simple fact that I had killed her.

This is what I remembered.

Gitta awoke first. She was the first to hear the attackers as they swept past the cordon, concealed in the strobe-lighting of the electrical storm. Her yelps of fear woke me, her naked body tensing against me. I saw three of them: three silhouetted shapes cast against the fabric of the tent, like grotesqueries in a shadow theatre. When each pulse of lightning flashed, they were somewhere else - sometimes one of them, sometimes two, sometimes all three. I could hear screaming - recognising in the timbre of each exclamation one of our own people. The screams were very short and concentrated, like trumpet blasts.

Ionisation-trails scythed through the tent and the force of the storm reached through the gashes like a creature of rain and wind. I cupped my hand across Gitta’s mouth and felt under my pillow for the gun I had placed there before retiring, satisfied when my hand detected its cool presence and found its contoured grip.

I slipped from the bunk. No more than a second or two had passed since I had first become consciously aware of the attack.

‘Tanner?’ I called, hardly able to hear my own voice against the storm’s threnody. ‘Tanner, where the hell are you?’

I left Gitta under the thin caul of a blanket, shivering despite the heat and humidity.

‘Tanner?’

My night-vision began to come online, the interior details of the ruined tent creeping into greyish clarity. It was a good modification; worth what it had cost to obtain from the Ultras. Dieterling had persuaded me to have it, after having the same mod himself. The gene splice led to a layer of reflective material - an organic substance called tapetum - being laid down behind my retinae. The tapetum reflected light back, maximising absorption. It even shifted the wavelength of the reflected light, fluorescing at the optimum sensitivity of the retinae. The Ultras had said the only drawback of the splice - if you could call it a drawback - would be that my eyes would seem to flash back at anyone who shone a bright light in my face.

Eyeshine, they called it.

But I rather liked the idea of that. Long before anyone saw my eyeshine, I would have already seen them.

The splice went deeper than that, of course. They had packed my retinae with gene-tinkered rods with a photon-detection efficiency close to optimal, thanks to modified forms of the basic photosensitive chromoprotein pigments; a simple matter of tweaking a few genes on the X chromosome. I had a gene normally inherited only by women which allowed me to differentiate nuances of the colour red I had never imagined before. I even had a cluster of snake-derived cells, pits spaced around the rim of my corneas, which were capable of registering near infrared and ultraviolet, and which had grown neuronal connections back into my optic centre so that I processed the information as a visual overlay on my normal field of view, the way snakes do. But I had yet to activate the snake vision. Like all my faculties, it could be activated and suppressed by tailored retroviruses, triggering brief, controlled cancers which erected or dismantled the necessary cellular structures in a matter of days. I needed time, though, to learn the proper use of each faculty. First, enhanced night-vision. Then, later, colours beyond normal sight.

I pushed through the partition which divided the tent, into Tanner’s part, where our chess table was still set up; still displaying the checkmate I had won against him, as I always did.

Tanner - naked but for a pair of khaki shorts - was kneeling down at the side of his bunk, like a man tying his shoes or examining a blister on his foot.

‘Tanner?’

He looked up toward me, his hands engulfed in something black. A moan drifted from his mouth, and as my vision sharpened I saw why. He had very little foot below the ankle, and what remained looked more like charcoal than human flesh, just as liable to shatter into black shards at the merest touch.

Now I recognised the stink of incinerated human meat.

He stopped moaning, quite suddenly, as if a subroutine in his mind had judged the gesture inessential to his immediate survival, cancelling the pain. And then he spoke, with ridiculous calm and accuracy.

‘I’m hurt, quite badly, as you can probably see. I don’t think I’m going to be much use to you.’ And then: ‘What’s wrong with your eyes?’

A figure stepped through a gash in one wall. His night-vision goggles hung around his neck and the flashlight rigged to his gun played across us, coming to rest on my face. His chameleoflage stammered towards compatibility with the interior.

I blasted his guts open.

‘There’s nothing wrong with my eyes,’ I said when the after-image of my weapon discharge had dissolved to a thumb-shaped pink bruise in my visual field. I stepped over the corpse of the attacker, carefully refraining from placing my unshod foot in the spreading entrails. I walked over to the rifle rack, pulled down a huge but currently superfluous bosonic beam weapon - too heavy to be used against enemy this close - and tossed it onto Tanner’s bunk. ‘Nothing wrong with my eyes at all. Now use that as a crutch and start earning your pay. We’ll get you a new foot if we get out of it, so just think of it as a temporary loss.’

Tanner looked from his wound to the gun and then back to the wound, as if weighing one against the other.

Then I moved.

I put my weight on the stock of the boser-rifle and tried to put the pain into some sealed compartment at the back of my head. My foot was ruined, but what Cahuella said was right. I could live without it - the blast had done a very professional job of cauterisation - and if I managed to survive the attack, obtaining a new foot would be a matter of a few weeks’ discomfort. In terms of mortality, I had sustained worse injuries when I was regular soldier fighting against the NCs. But my mind didn’t see it that way. What it saw was that part of me was simply not there any more, and it did not quite know how to process that absence.

Light - hard and blue and artificial - impaled the tent. Two of the enemy - I had counted three before the dead one shot me - were still out there. Our tent was big enough that it might look as if we were a larger force than we really were, so the other two might be laying down a suppressing fire before moving in to mop up anyone they had not already taken out.

I made my way over to the body, my vision darkening at the edges, as if seen through a tube of foreboding clouds. I knelt down until I could reach the dead man, unclipping his torch and taking his night-vision goggles. Cahuella had shot him blind, in near total darkness, and while the shot was a fraction low for my tastes, it had done the job. I remembered how, only a few hours earlier, I had watched him pump shots into the night, as if there was something there only he could see.

‘They did something to you and Dieterling,’ I said, clenching my teeth as I spoke and hoping that I was comprehensible. ‘The Ultras . . .’

‘It’s nothing to them,’ he said, his broad frame turning towards me like a wall. ‘They all have it. They live in nearly total darkness on their ships, so that they can bathe in the glories in the universe more easily, when they’ve left sunlight behind. Are you going to live, Tanner?’

‘If any of us do.’ I snapped the night-vision goggles over my eyes and saw the room brighten in hues of choleric green. ‘There wasn’t much blood loss, but I can’t do anything about shock. That’s bound to set in soon, and then I’m not going to be very much use to you.’

‘Get yourself a gun, something useful at close range. We’ll go and see what damage we can do.’

‘Where’s Dieterling?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s dead.’

Automatically, barely having to think about it, I tugged a compact pistol from the rack, flicking its ammo-cell to readiness and hearing the shrill whine as its condensers charged up.

Gitta screamed from the next partition.

Cahuella pushed through ahead of me and then stopped dead just beyond the drape. I nearly knocked him over, the stock of the boser-rifle scuffling against the floor as I tried to approximate walking. I had no need for the goggles now, since the room was already lit by the tent’s glowlamp, which Gitta must have ignited. She was standing up in the middle of the space, clutching a dun-coloured blanket around her.

One of the attackers stood behind her, one hand drawing her head back by a clump of scalp-hair, the other holding a wickedly serrated knife to the convex whiteness of her throat.

She made no scream now. The only sounds she allowed herself were small and snatched, like someone choking.

The man holding her had removed his helmet. He was not Reivich, just some mildly competent thug who might have fought with or against me during the war, or against both sides. His face was lined and his black hair was tied back in a topknot, like a Samurai. He was not exactly grinning - the situation was too tense for that - but there was something in his expression which suggested he was enjoying it.

‘You can stop or you can take a step closer,’ he said, his rough voice accentless and surprisingly reasonable. ‘Either way I’m going to kill her. It’s just a matter of time.’

‘Your friend’s dead,’ Cahuella said, needlessly. ‘If you kill Gitta, I’ll kill you as well. Except for every second she suffers, I’ll make it an hour for you. How’s that for generosity?’

‘Fuck you,’ the man said, and drew the blade across her throat. A caterpillar of blood formed beneath the track of the incision, but he had been careful not to draw too deeply. Good with his knife, I thought. How many ways had he practised to cut with such precision?

Gitta, to her credit, hardly flinched.

‘I’ve got a message for you,’ he said, lifting the blade slightly from her skin, so that the scarlet bloom on its edge was clearly visible. ‘It’s from Argent Reivich. Does that surprise you in any way? It shouldn’t, because I understand you were expecting him. Only just not so soon.’

‘The Ultras lied to us,’ Cahuella said.

The man smiled now, but only briefly. The pleasure was all in his eyes, narrowed to ecstatic slits. I realised we were dealing with a psychopath and that his actions were essentially random.

There was not going to be a negotiated settlement.

‘There are factions amongst them,’ the man said. ‘Especially between crews. Orcagna lied to you. You needn’t take it personally. ’ His fist tensed on the knife again. ‘Now, would you be so good as to put down that gun, Cahuella?’

‘Do it,’ I whispered, still standing behind him. ‘No matter how good your vision is, there’s only a tiny area of him not covered by Gitta, and I doubt you’re that confident of your aiming just yet.’

‘Don’t you know it’s rude to whisper?’ the man said.

‘Do it,’ I hissed. ‘I can still save her.’

Cahuella dropped the gun.

‘Good,’ I said, still whispering. ‘Now listen carefully. I can hit him from here, without harming Gitta. But you’re in the way.’

‘Talk to me, you fuck.’ The man pushed the knife against her skin so that the blade depressed a valley of flesh without actually breaking it. It would only take a flick now and he would sever her carotid artery.

‘I’m going to shoot through you,’ I said to Cahuella. ‘It’s a beam weapon, so it’s only the line of sight that matters. From the angle where I’m going to fire, I won’t hit any vital organs. But be ready for it.’

The man’s hand brought the knife deeper, so that the valley was suddenly rivened, and blood welled from its depths. Time slowed down, and I watched him begin to drag the knife across her throat.

Cahuella started to speak.

I fired.

The pencil-thin particle beam chewed through him, entering his back an inch or so to the left of his spine, in the upper lumbar region, around the twentieth or twenty-first vertebra. I hoped I missed the right common iliac vein, and that the beam angle would direct its energies between the left lung and the stomach. But it was not precision surgery, and I knew that Cahuella would have to count himself lucky if this did not actually kill him. I also knew that, if it were a question of dying to save Gitta, he would accept that wholeheartedly, and would even order me to make it so. I paid very little attention to Cahuella anyway, since Gitta’s position effectively limited the range of angles I could select. It was simply a matter of saving her, no matter what it did to her husband.

The particle beam fired for less than a tenth of a second, although the ion trail lingered long after, in addition to the track it had seared on my vision. Cahuella fell to the ground in front of me, like a sack of corn dropped from the ceiling.

And so did Gitta, with a hole bored neatly in her forehead, her eyes still open and seemingly alert, and the blood still oozing from the partial throat-wound.

I had missed.

There was no avoiding that; no softening or sweetening of that one acidic message. I had meant to save her, but intention meant nothing. What mattered was the red weal above her eyes where I had hit her, meaning to hit the man holding a knife to her throat.

The beam had missed him completely.

I had failed. In the one moment where failure mattered most; in the one moment of my life where I actually thought I could win - I had failed. Failed myself, and Cahuella, by betraying the terrible burden of trust he had implicitly placed in me, without saying a word. His wound was serious, but with the proper attention, I had had little doubt that he would live.

But there was no saving Gitta. I wondered who was the luckier.

‘What’s wrong?’ Zebra asked. ‘Tanner, what’s wrong? Don’t look at me like that, please. I’m beginning to think you might actually do it.’

‘Can you give me a good reason why I shouldn’t?’

‘Only the truth.’

I shook my head minutely. ‘Sorry, but you’ve just given it to me, and it wasn’t anywhere near enough.’

‘It wasn’t everything.’ Her voice was quiet and somehow relieved. ‘I’m not working for him any more, Tanner. He thinks I am, but I’ve betrayed him.’

‘Reivich?’

She nodded, face down, so that I could barely see her eyes. ‘Once you stole from me, I knew you were the man Reivich was running from. I knew you were the assassin.’

‘It didn’t take a great deal of deduction, did it?’

‘No, but it was important to be sure. Reivich wanted the man isolated and removed from the picture. Killed, not to put too fine a point on it.’

I nodded. ‘That would make sense.’

‘I was meant to do it as soon as I had definite evidence you were the killer. That way Reivich would be able to put the matter out of his mind for good - he wouldn’t have to worry that the wrong man had been killed and that the real assassin was still out there somewhere.’

‘You had more than a few opportunities to kill me.’ My hand softened on the gun now. ‘So why didn’t you?’

‘I almost did.’ Zebra was talking quicker now, voice hushed even though no one was remotely within earshot. ‘I could have done it in the apartment, but I hesitated. You can’t blame me. So then I let you take the gun and the car, knowing I could trace either.’

‘I should have realised. It seemed easy at the time.’

‘Credit me with more sense than to let that happen by accident. Of course, there was another way to trace you if that failed. You still had the Game implant.’ She paused. ‘But then you crashed the car, had the implant taken out. That only left the gun, and I wasn’t getting a very clear trace from it. Maybe you damaged it in the car crash.’

‘Than I called you from the station, after I’d visited Dominika.’

‘And told me where you’d be later on. I hired Pransky to help me. He’s good, don’t you think? Admittedly his socials skills could use a little work, but you don’t pay people like that for their charm and diplomacy.’ Zebra took a breath and wiped a film of accumulated rain from her brows, exposing a strip of clean flesh beneath the caul of sooty water. ‘Not as good as you, though. I saw you attack the Gamers - the way you injured three of them and then kidnapped the fourth, the woman. I had you targeted the whole time that was happening. I could have opened your cranium from a kilometre away, and you wouldn’t have felt an itch before your brains hit the street. But I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t just kill you like that. And that’s when I betrayed Reivich.’

‘I felt someone watching me. I never guessed it was you.’

‘And even if you had, would you have guessed I was a twitch of an eyelid away from killing you?’

‘Eyelid-triggered sniper’s rifle? Now what would a nice girl like you be doing with something like that?’

‘What now, Tanner?’

I withdrew my empty hand from my pocket, like a conjuror whose trick had gone spectacularly wrong.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But it’s wet out here and I need a drink.’

THIRTY-ONE

Methuselah looked very much the same as when I had last seen him, floating in his tank like a monstrous piscine iceberg. There was a small crowd around him, just as before - people who would linger for a few minutes at the marvel of the age before realising that, really, all it was was a large old fish, and that, size apart, there was really nothing about Methuselah which was intrinsically more interesting than the younger, leaner, nimbler koi which thrived in the ponds. Worse than that, in fact, since the one thing I noticed was that no one turned away from Methuselah looking quite as happy as when they had arrived. Not only was there something disappointing about the fish, there was something ineluctably sad as well. Maybe they were too scared that in Methuselah they glimpsed the inert grey hulk of their own futures.

Zebra and I drank tea, and no one paid us any attention.

‘The woman you met - what was her name again?’

‘Chanterelle Sammartini,’ I said.

‘Pransky never explained what happened to her. Were you together when he found you?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘We’d argued.’

Zebra did a creditable double-take. ‘Wasn’t arguing part of the bargain? I mean, if you kidnap someone, don’t you generally assume that there’s going to be some arguing?’

‘I didn’t kidnap her, no matter what you think. I invited her to take me to the Canopy.’

‘With a gun.’

‘She wasn’t going to accept the invitation otherwise.’

‘Good point. And did you keep this gun on her the whole time you were up here?’

‘No,’ I said, not entirely comfortable with this line of debate. ‘No, not at all. It turned out not be necessary. We found we could tolerate each other’s company without it.’

Zebra arched an eyebrow. ‘You and the Canopy rich kid actually hit it off?’

‘After a fashion,’ I said, feeling oddly defensive.

From across the atrium, Methuselah flicked a pelvic fin and the suddenness of the gesture - no matter how feeble or involuntary - generated a mild frisson amongst the onlookers, as if a statue had just twitched. I wondered what kind of synaptic process had triggered that gesture, whether there was any intention behind it, or whether - like the creaking of an old house - Methuselah occasionally just moved, no closer to thought than wood.

‘Did you sleep with her?’ Zebra asked.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Sorry to disappoint you, but there just wasn’t time.’

‘You’re not comfortable talking about this, are you?’

‘Would you be?’ I shook my head, as much to clear it of confusion as to deny anything deeper about my relationship with Chanterelle. ‘I expected to hate her for what she did; the way she played the game. But as soon as I started talking to her I realised it wasn’t that simple. From her point of view there was nothing barbaric about it at all.’

‘Nice and convenient, that.’

‘I mean she didn’t realise - or believe - that the victims were not the kind of people she’d been told they were.’

‘Until she met you.’

I nodded carefully. ‘I think I gave her pause for thought.’

‘You’ve given us all pause for thought, Tanner.’ And then Zebra drank what remained of her tea in silence.

‘You again,’ the Mixmaster said, in a tone which conveyed neither pleasure nor disappointment, but a highly refined amalgam of the two. ‘I had imagined that I had answered all your questions satisfactorily during your last visit. Evidently I was mistaken.’ His heavy-lidded gaze alighted on Zebra, a twinge of non-recognition disturbing the genetically enhanced placidity of his expression. ‘Madame, I see, has had a considerable makeover since the last occasion.’

It had been Chanterelle, of course, but I decided to let the bastard have his amusement.

‘She had the number of a good bloodcutter,’ I said.

‘And you emphatically didn’t,’ the Mixmaster said, sealing the outer door of his parlour against other visitors. ‘I’m talking about the eyework, of course,’ he said, ensconcing himself behind his floating console while the two of us stood. ‘But why don’t we dispense with the lie that this work had any connection with bloodcutters?’

‘What’s he talking about?’ Zebra asked, entirely with justification.

‘A small internal matter,’ I said.

‘This gentleman,’ the Mixmaster said, with laboured emphasis on the last word, ‘visited me a day ago, to discuss some genetic and structural anomalies in his eyes. At the time he claimed that the anomalies were the result of inferior intervention by bloodcutters. I was even prepared to believe him, though the edited sequences bore none of the usual signatures of bloodcutter work.’

‘And now?’

‘Now I believe that the changes were done by another faction entirely. Shall I spell it out?’

‘Please do.’

‘The work bears certain signatures which suggest that the sequences were inserted using the genetics techniques common to Ultras. Neither more nor less advanced than bloodcutter or Mixmaster work - just different, and highly individual. I should have realised much sooner.’ He allowed himself a smile, obviously impressed by his own deductive skills. ‘When Mixmasters perform a genetic service, it’s essentially permanent, unless the client specifies otherwise. That doesn’t mean that the work isn’t reversible, in most cases - it just means that the genetic and physiological changes will be stable against reversion to the older form. Bloodcutter work is the same, for the simple reason that bloodcutter sequences are generally bootlegged from Mixmasters, and the ’cutters haven’t the ingenuity to embed obsolescence into those same sequences. They steal code, but they don’t hack it. But Ultranauts do things rather differently.’ The Mixmaster cradled his long and elegant fingers before his chin. ‘Ultras sell their services with an in-built obsolescence; a mutational clock if you will. I’ll spare you the details; suffice to say that, within the viral and enzymic machinery which mediates the expression of the new genes inserted into your own DNA, there is a time-keeping mechanism, a clock which functions by counting the accumulation of randomness in a strand of foreign reference DNA. Needless to say, once these errors exceed a pre-defined limit, cellular machinery is unshackled which suppresses or corrects the altered genes.’ Again the Mixmaster smiled. ‘Of course, I’m simplifying tremendously. For a start, the clocks are set to trigger gradually, so that production of the new proteins and the division of cells into new types doesn’t cease suddenly. Otherwise it could be fatal - especially if the changes allowed you to live in an otherwise hostile environment, like oxygenated water or an ammonia atmosphere.’

‘You’re saying Tanner’s eyes were touched by Ultras?’

‘You catch on extraordinarily swiftly. But there’s rather more to it than that.’

‘There generally is,’ I said.

The Mixmaster danced his hands over the console, fingers plucking at invisible harp strings, causing reams of genetics data to spring into the air, particular sequences of Ts and As and Gs and Cs highlighted and cross-linked to a series of physiological and functional maps of the human eye and the associated brain regions of visual comprehension. He looked like a wizard suddenly accompanied by ghostly - and gory - familiars.

‘Something very odd has happened here,’ the man said, his fingers ceasing their too-dexterous dance. He sketched a particular block of base-pairs, the cross-linking rungs of DNA. ‘These are the pairs which are allowed to grow progressively more random; the internal clock.’ His finger moved to another highlighted block which looked superficially identical. ‘And this is the reference map, the unmutated DNA. It’s by comparing these - by noting the number of mutational changes - that the clock is driven.’

‘There don’t seem to be very many changes,’ Zebra said.

‘A few statistically minor point deletions or frame shifts,’ the Mixmaster said. ‘But nothing significant.’

‘Meaning what?’ I asked.

‘Meaning that the clock has not had very long to run. The two sets of DNA have hardly begun to diverge.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘That means that the work was done very recently; definitely within the last year, and perhaps only a few months ago.’

‘Why is that a problem?’ Zebra asked.

‘Because of this.’ Now his finger moved across a densely tangled blob, rendered in lilac. ‘This is a transcription factor; a protein that regulates the expression of a particular set of genes. It is not, however, a normally occurring human protein. Its only function - and it has been engineered for this purpose - is to suppress the newly inserted genes in your eye. It should not be present in large quantities until the mutational clock has been triggered. Yet I found it in abundance.’

‘Could the Ultras have deceived Tanner?’

The Mixmaster shook his head. ‘Not likely. There’d be no economic gain in doing so. The genetics changes would still have been made, so it’s not as if it would be cheaper for them to reset the clock. In fact it would harm their longterm profits, because Tanner - if that’s your name - would have sought the services of another crew.’

‘I take it you have an alternative explanation?’

‘I do, but you may not like it.’ Once again he delivered a smile of utter salaciousness. ‘It would be exceedingly difficult to reset the mutational clock to zero without triggering all sorts of secondary anti-tamper safeguards. Even for a Mixmaster. I could do it, but it would be far from trivial work. But the opposite procedure would be considerably simpler.’

‘The opposite procedure?’ I leaned forward, feeling that some kind of fundamental revelation was almost within my grasp. It wasn’t a feeling I much enjoyed.

‘Setting the clock forward, so that the new genes are switched off.’ He said that, and then allowed himself a moment’s contemplative silence, spinning the projected eyeball with the tip of one finger, a singularly macabre globe. ‘It would be simpler because there would be no safeguards. It would never occur to the Ultras to protect against that kind of tampering, because it would only harm the client. Which is not to say it would be easy. It would, however, be an order of magnitude easier than setting the clock back. It could be attempted by any bloodcutter who understood the problem.’

‘Go on.’

His voice took on a gravitas it had lacked a moment earlier, as if he had triggered his own mutational change to deepen the response of his larynx. ‘For some reason, someone set your clock forward, Tanner.’

Zebra looked at me.

‘You mean Tanner’s changes are fading?’ she asked. I realised that she still had no idea what form these changes took.

‘That was probably the intention,’ the Mixmaster said. ‘Whoever did it was not entirely lacking in competence. Once the clock had been wound, the cells in your eye would have begun manufacturing normal human proteins, cell division following the normal blueprint.’ He sighed. ‘But whoever did it was either sloppy or hasty or both. They reset only a fraction of the clocks, and then imperfectly. There’s a small war going on in your eye, between different components of the Ultra genetics machinery. Whoever tried to reset the clock thought they were turning the machine off, but all they really did was throw a spanner in its works.’ A note of sorrow entered his voice. ‘Such haste. Such dreadful haste. Of course, whoever it was more than deserved to fail. The question is why they thought it was worth doing in the first place.’ His eyes opened in expectation, and I realised he thought I was going to give him an answer.

But I saw no sense in giving him that pleasure, much as I would have liked to. Instead I said, ‘I want a scan. A full-body scan. You can do that, can’t you?’

‘It depends what you want it for; the kind of resolution you want me to achieve.’

‘Nothing too fine. I just want you to look for something. Tissue damage. Internal. Wounds which may or may not have healed.’

‘I can but try,’ the man said, gesturing to the couch, a skatelike scanning device already gliding down from the ceiling.

It did not take very long. In all honesty, I would have been surprised if the Mixmaster scan had revealed anything other than what I was dreading and expecting. It was just a question of seeing it revealed in the cold indices of a readout; just a question of finally burying any residual traces of denial - and, for that matter, hope, which might have remained.

The skate imaged my body core, learning my inner secrets via a manifold of sensory techniques. The machine was really just a highly modified form of trawl, adjusted to cope with the cellular and genetic structure of the whole body, rather than the specialised flavours of neural tissue alone. Given time, it could resolve matter down to the atomic level; right to the border of quantum fuzziness, but there was no need for such precision now, and the scan was commensurately rapid.

And what it showed chilled me to the core. Something which should have been there was missing.

Something which should have been missing was there.

THIRTY-TWO

‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost,’ Zebra said.

She had forced me to sit down in the atrium and drink something hot and sweet and nondescript.

‘You can’t begin to imagine.’

‘What was so bad, Tanner? It must have been something you were expecting, or you wouldn’t have asked the Mixmaster to give you the scan.’

‘Let’s say fearing, rather than expecting, shall we?’

I didn’t know where or when to begin, or even with whom. Ever since arriving around Yellowstone my memories had been damaged, and I’d had the added complication of the indoctrinal virus to deal with. The virus had given me unwelcome glimpses into the psyche of Sky Haussmann, and yet at the same time aspects of my own past had begun to come back into focus; who I was; what I was doing; why I wanted to kill Reivich. All of those things, disturbing as they’d been, I could have come to terms with. But it hadn’t stopped there. It hadn’t even stopped when I started thinking and feeling my way through Sky’s past; vouchsafed secrets no one else knew about his crimes. Nor had it stopped when I started having confused thoughts about Gitta; remembering her from Cahuella’s viewpoint rather than my own.

Even that I could have begun to rationalise, with some effort. Contamination of my own memories by Cahuella’s? Well, it was possible. Memories could be recorded and transferred, after all. I couldn’t begin to imagine why some of Cahuella’s experiences should have become intermingled with my own, but it wasn’t unthinkable that it had happened.

But the truth - the truth that I was beginning to glimpse - was more disturbing than that.

I wasn’t even wearing the right body.

‘It isn’t easy to explain,’ I said.

Zebra answered in a hiss, ‘People don’t just walk into Mixmaster parlours and ask to be scanned for internal tissue damage - not unless they half expect to find something.’

‘No, I . . .’ I stopped. Had I imagined it, or had I just seen that face again, near the mingling crowds around Methuselah? Perhaps now I was really hallucinating, pushed over the edge by what the Mixmaster had shown me. Perhaps it was my destiny to see Reivich everywhere I looked now, no matter what the circumstances.

‘Tanner . . . ?’

I dared not look any deeper into the crowd. ‘There should have been something there,’ I said. ‘A wound which should have been present, but wasn’t. Something which happened to me once. It was healed . . . but nothing heals that perfectly.’

‘What type of wound?’

‘My memories tell me I lost a foot. I can tell you exactly how it happened; exactly how it felt. But there’s no sign of the injury.’

‘Well, the regrowth procedure must have been very sophisticated. ’

‘What about the other wound, then? A wound the man I was working for sustained at the same time? He took a beam-weapon discharge right through him, Zebra. That showed up.’

‘You’re losing me, Tanner.’ She looked around, her gaze catching on something or someone for an instant before returning to me. ‘Are you trying to tell me you’re not who you think you are?’

‘I’m giving it some serious consideration, let’s say that much.’ I waited a moment, then added, ‘You’ve seen him too, haven’t you?’

‘What?’

‘Reivich. I just saw him; for a moment I thought I might be imagining him. But I wasn’t, was I?’

Zebra opened her mouth to say something - a denial, quick and fluid, but it just didn’t come. Her veneer had cracked. ‘Everything I told you is true,’ she said quietly, when words returned. ‘I’m not working for him any more. But you’re right. You did just see him.’ After a pause, she said, ‘Except that isn’t really Reivich.’

I nodded; I’d half guessed the truth already. ‘A lure?’

‘Something like that, yes.’ She consulted her tea. ‘You knew there’d be time for him to change his appearance as soon as he arrived in the city. In fact, it would be the only sensible thing for him to do. And that’s exactly what he did. The real Reivich is out there now, somewhere in the city, but you’d need to take a tissue sample, or get him under a Mixmaster scanner before you’d know for sure. And even then you might not be certain. They can change everything, you know, given time. Even Reivich’s DNA might not betray him, given enough money.’ Zebra paused. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the man, still hovering at the fringe of the crowd gathered round the big fish. It was him, yes - or at least an extremely good facsimile. Zebra said, ‘Reivich knew his cover was good, but he still wanted to flush you out. That way he could sleep at night and - if he wished - revert to his old appearance and identity.’

‘So he persuaded someone to assume his shape.’

‘There was no persuasion involved. The man was more than willing.’

‘Someone with a death wish?’

She shook her head. ‘No more than any other immortal in the Canopy. His name is Voronoff, I believe, although I don’t know for sure, since I was never that close to Reivich. You won’t have heard of Voronoff, but his name’s fairly well-known in Canopy circles. He’s one of the most extreme Gamers; someone for whom the hunt was always going to be too tame. He’s good, too - or else he wouldn’t still be alive.’

‘You’re wrong,’ I said. ‘I have heard of Voronoff.’

I told her about the man I had seen jumping into the mist in the chasm, when Sybilline had taken me to the restaurant at the end of the stalk.

‘That makes sense,’ she said. ‘Voronoff’s into anything involving extreme personal risk, provided there’s a large element of skill involved. Dangerous sports, anything which gives a genuine adrenalin kick, and which forces him to confront the thin border between mortality and his own longevity. He would never stoop to hunting now; he’d just regard it as an amusement, not a real game. Not because of its unfairness, but because there’s no personal risk to the participants.’

‘Except for one participant, of course.’

‘You know what I mean.’

She was silent for a moment before continuing, ‘People like Voronoff are extremists. For them the usual methods of controlling boredom just don’t work any more. It’s like they developed a tolerance for it. They need something stronger.’

‘And putting himself in the firing line was just the ticket.’

‘It was controlled. Voronoff had a network of spies and informers keeping track of you. When you first thought you’d seen him, he’d already seen you.’ She swallowed. ‘The first time, he kept Methuselah between you and himself. It wasn’t any accident. He was more in control than you ever realised.’

‘It was a mistake, though. He made it too easy. He made me wonder what was going on.’

‘Yes,’ Zebra said, knowingly. ‘But by then it was far too late to stop him. Voronoff was out of our control.’

I looked into her faintly striped face, not needing to prompt her further. She said, ‘Voronoff liked his role too much. It suited him too well. For a long time he acted the way he was meant to - keeping a discreet distance; never letting you see him. The idea was that he would plant a trail of clues which would lead you to him, but in such a way that you thought you’d done all the work yourself. But he wanted more than that.’

‘More danger.’

‘Yes.’ She said it with deep finality. ‘Laying down clues and waiting for you to follow them wasn’t enough for Voronoff. He started to make himself more prominent - placing himself at ever greater risk, but always maintaining an edge of control. That’s why I said he’s good. But Reivich didn’t like it, for obvious reasons. Voronoff was no longer serving him. He was serving himself; finding a new way to stave off the boredom. And I think it worked, being in that role.’

‘Not for me it didn’t.’

I stood up, almost upsetting the table as I did so. And one hand was already beginning the journey to my pocket.

‘Tanner,’ Zebra said, quickly, reaching for the hem of my coat as I stepped away from her, ‘killing him won’t change a thing.’

‘Voronoff,’ I said, at the top of my voice - not actually shouting it, but projecting like an actor of great reknown. ‘Voronoff - turn around and step away from the crowd.’

The gun gleamed in my hand, and now people began to notice it for the first time.

The man who looked like Reivich met my gaze and managed not to look too surprised. But he was not the only one who met my gaze. I had managed to get everyone’s attention by now, and those who were not trying to read my expression were fixated by the gun. If the hunt was as endemic amongst Canopy dwellers as I had been led to believe, many of these people would have seen and handled weapons of far greater potency than the pistol I hefted now. But never in a place as public as this; never with such crass vulgarity. Judging by the looks of shock and bewilderment and revulsion I saw, I might as well have been pissing on the ornamental lawn which fringed the koi pond.

‘Maybe you didn’t hear me, Voronoff.’ I sounded sweetly reasonable to my own ears. ‘I know who you are and what this is all about. If you know anything about me you’ll also know that I’m fully capable of using this.’ I had the gun aimed in his direction now, double-handed stance with my feet slightly spread.

‘Drop it, Mirabel.’

It was not a voice I had heard recently, nor had it come from the crowd. I felt a touch of soft metallic cold against the nape of my neck.

‘Are you deaf? I said drop the piece. Do it fast or your head’ll be following it down.’

I started lowering the piece, but that wasn’t good enough for the speaker standing behind me. He increased the pressure against my neck in a manner which strongly suggested it would be in my best interest to let the gun drop.

I did.

‘You,’ the man said, evidently addressing Zebra. ‘Kick the gun to me, and don’t even think about trying anything creative.’

She did as she was told.

I saw a hand reach out in my peripheral vision and snatch the gun from the ground; the pressure of the weapon against my neck changed slightly as the man knelt. But he was good; I could tell that, so - like Zebra - I wasn’t tempted to even think about trying anything creative. That was good, because I was all out of creativity.

‘Voronoff, you fool,’ said the voice. ‘Look what you nearly got us into.’ And then I heard clicking sounds as the gun was inspected, followed by a tut of amusement from the hidden speaker, whose voice I almost recognised. ‘It’s empty. The damn thing was empty all along.’

‘News to me,’ I said.

‘I did it,’ Zebra said, shrugging. ‘You can’t blame me, can you? I had a feeling you might end up pointing it at me, so I just took a precaution.’

‘Next time, don’t bother,’ I said.

‘Not that it exactly mattered,’ Zebra said, doing a poor job of masking her annoyance. ‘You never even tried to fire the fucking thing, Tanner.’

I angled my eyes upwards, as if I was trying to look behind my own head. ‘Are you involved with this clown?’

That got me an acute stabbing pain between the ears. The man said, projecting his voice out to the people who were staring at us, ‘All right; this is Canopy security; the situation is under control.’ I saw a flash of identity in my peripheral vision; a leatherbound card embossed with scrolling data which he waved at the crowd.

It seemed to have the desired effect; about half the people drifted away and the others tried to pretend that they had never really been interested in what was going on. The pressure eased and the man sidled around to my front, pulling up a seat for himself. Voronoff had also joined us, the exact facsimile of Reivich disporting himself opposite me with a scowl of displeasure written across his face.

‘Sorry for spoiling your little game,’ I said.

The other man was Quirrenbach, although he had changed his appearance since our last encounter, looking meaner, leaner and a great deal less patient and bewildered. The gun in his hand was small and dainty enough to have been a gimmicky cigarette-lighter.

‘How’s the symphony coming on?’

‘That was a very sneaky thing you did, Mirabel; leaving me like that. I suppose I should thank you for returning the money that you made on my experientials, but you’ll excuse me if I don’t overwhelm you with a flood of gratitude.’

I shrugged. ‘I had a job to do. You didn’t figure in it.’

‘How’s that job looking now?’ Voronoff said, still sneering at me. ‘Time for a rethink, Mirabel?’

‘You tell me.’

Quirrenbach flashed a quick grin at me, like an aggressive ape. ‘Tough talk from someone who didn’t even know his gun wasn’t loaded. Maybe you’re not quite the professional hotshot we’ve been led to believe.’ He reached over and helped himself to my tea, maintaining eye contact all the while. ‘How did you know he wasn’t Reivich, by the way?’

‘Have a guess,’ Zebra said.

‘I could kill you for betraying us,’ Quirrenbach said to her. ‘But right now I’m not sure I can muster the enthusiasm.’

‘Why don’t you start with Voronoff, dickhead?’

He looked at Zebra, then at the man disguised as Reivich, as if weighing the idea seriously. ‘That really wouldn’t do, would it?’ Then his attention returned to me. ‘We caused quite a stir back there, Mirabel. It won’t be long before what passes for authority here comes to take a look, and I really don’t think any of us want to be around when that happens.’

‘So you’re really not Canopy security?’

‘Sorry to shatter your illusions.’

‘Oh, don’t worry about that,’ I said. ‘They were shattered quite some time ago.’

Quirrenbach smiled and stood up, the tiny little gun still nestling in his fist, as if with one spasm of his fingers he might crush it to shreds. He danced the barrel between Zebra and myself, holding his fake ID in the other hand like a talisman. Voronoff, meanwhile, produced a weapon of his own; between them they had us comprehensively covered. We walked through the crowd, Quirrenbach daring anyone to pay us anything more than glancing interest. Neither Zebra or myself made any attempt to resist or escape; it would not have been worth it.

Only three vehicles were parked on the landing ledge, cowled dark shapes glossy with rainwater, roof-mounted arms partially extended in readiness for flight, like three upturned dead spiders. One was the car in which Zebra and I had arrived. I recognised one of the other cars as well, but not the one to which Quirrenbach was leading us.

‘Are you going to kill me now?’ I asked. ‘Because if you are, you could save yourself a lot of trouble by throwing me over the edge here. There’s no need to spice up my last moments with a ride through the Canopy.’

‘I don’t know how I’ve managed without your brilliant shards of wit, Mirabel,’ Quirrenbach said, with a long-suffering sigh. ‘And, incidentally - not that you care - the symphony happens to be coming along rather splendidly, thank you.’

‘That wasn’t a cover?’

‘Ask me about it in a hundred years.’

‘If we’re going to talk about people who hesitate to kill others,’ Voronoff said, ‘you might crop up in the discussion, Mirabel. You could have dropped me when we first met around Methuselah. I’m rather puzzled that you didn’t at least try. And don’t say there was a fish in the way. You may be many things, Mirabel, but sentimental isn’t one of them.’

He was right: I had hesitated, much as I preferred not to admit it to myself. In another life - at least on another world - I would have dropped Reivich (or Voronoff) almost before I had mentally acknowledged their presence. There would have been no ethical debates about the value of an immortal fish.

‘Maybe I knew you weren’t the right man,’ I said.

‘Then again, maybe you just didn’t have the nerve.’ It was dark, but I caught the quick flash of Quirrenbach’s grin. ‘I know your background, Mirabel. We all do. You were pretty good, once, back on Sky’s Edge. Trouble was, you just didn’t know when to pack it in.’

‘If I’m so washed up, why the special attention?’

‘Because you’re a fly,’ Voronoff said. ‘Sometimes they need swatting.’

The vehicle readied itself as we approached, a door opening in one side like a drooling tongue, plush steps set into its inner surface. A pair of heavies shadowed the door, packing indecently large weapons. Any lingering thoughts I had entertained of resistance vanished at that point. They were professionals. I had a feeling they wouldn’t even allow me the dignity of jumping over the side; that if I tried it they would put a pair of slugs in my spine on the way down.

‘Where are we going?’ I asked, not sure if I really wanted to know the answer, or if I could even expect an honest reply.

‘Space,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘For a meeting with Mister Reivich.’

‘Space?’

‘Sorry to disappoint you, Mirabel. But Reivich isn’t in Chasm City at all. You’ve been chasing shadows.’

THIRTY-THREE

I looked at Zebra. She looked at me. Neither of us said anything.

The vehicle into which the heavies escorted us had the reek of newness, leather trim sweating sumptuousness. There was an isolated rear compartment with six seats and a moundlike central table, with soft muzak filling the air and elegant neon designs worked into the ceiling. Voronoff and one of the heavies sat opposite us, weapons still at readiness. Quirrenbach and the other man entered the front compartment, visible only as smoky shadows through the partition.

The car rose very smoothly, with a soft snicking from the roof arms, like someone crocheting at great speed.

‘What did he mean, space?’ I asked.

‘A place called Refuge. One of the high orbital carousels,’ Voronoff said. ‘Not that it makes any real difference to you. I mean, it’s not as if you’re just tagging along for the ride, is it?’

Someone had mentioned Refuge since my arrival in the city, but I could not quite place the reference.

‘What happens when we get there?’

‘That’s for Mister Reivich to know and you to find out. You might call it negotiation. But don’t expect to take too many bargaining chips to the table, Mirabel. From what I hear, you’re all cleaned out.’

‘I’ve still got a few surprises up my sleeve.’ But I sounded about as convincing as a drunk tramp boasting of his sexual prowess. Through the side windows I watched the hovering crystalline mass of Escher Heights recede, and - not inconsequentially - I saw the other car, the vehicle which did not belong to Zebra, unfurl its arms to maximum extension and commence following us at a polite distance.

‘What now?’ I asked, ignoring the heavy. ‘Your game’s up, Voronoff. You’re going to have to find a new mode of pleasure.’

‘It isn’t about pleasure, you idiot. It’s about pain.’ He leaned forward, imposing his bulk across the table. He looked like Reivich, but his body language and manner of speaking was all wrong. There was no hint of a Sky’s Edge accent and his physicality would have been alien to Reivich’s aristocracy. ‘It’s about pain,’ he repeated. ‘Because pain is what it keeps away. Do you understand?’

‘Not really, but go ahead.’

‘You don’t usually think of boredom as something similar to pain. That’s because you’ve only been exposed to it in relatively small doses. You don’t know its true colour. The difference between the boredom you know and the boredom I know is like the difference between touching snow and putting your hand in a vat of liquid nitrogen.’

‘Boredom isn’t a stimulus, Voronoff.’

‘I’m less sure,’ he said. ‘There is, after all, a part of the human brain which is responsible for the sensation we call boredom. You can’t argue with that. And it must logically be made active by some external stimulus, just like the brain centre for taste or sound.’ He raised a hand. ‘I anticipate your next point. That’s one of my talents, you see - anticipation. You might say it’s symptomatic of my condition. I’m a neural net which is so well adapted to its input that it hasn’t evolved in years. But to return to the point in hand. You were doubtless going to say that boredom is an absence of stimulus, not the presence of a particular one. I say there is no difference; that the glass is both half empty and half full. You hear silence between notes; I hear music. You see a pattern of black on white; I see a pattern of white on black. More than that, in fact - I see both.’ He grinned again, like a maniac who had been chained in a dungeon for years and was now having a meaningful conversation with his own shadow. ‘I see everything. You can’t help it when you reach my - what shall I call it? - depth of experience?’

‘You’re quite mad, aren’t you?’

‘I’ve been mad,’ Voronoff said, apparently not taking it as an insult. ‘I’ve been through madness and come out the other side. Now being mad would bore me as much as sanity.’

I knew he was not mad, of course - at least not screamingly insane. If he had been, he would have been no use to Reivich as a lure. Voronoff had to have some residual grasp on reality. His mental state was almost certainly unlike anything I had ever experienced - and I had certainly known boredom - but it would be lethal to assume he was in anything other than absolute control of his faculties.

‘You could end it all,’ I said, helpfully. ‘Suicide can’t be the hardest thing to arrange in a city like this.’

‘People do,’ Zebra said. ‘People like Voronoff. They don’t call it suicide, of course. But they suddenly take an unhealthy interest in activities with a very low survival-probability, like diving into the gas giant or saying hello to the Shrouders.’

‘Why not, Voronoff?’ And then it was my turn to smile. ‘No, wait. You almost did it, didn’t you? Posing as Reivich. You were hoping I’d kill you, weren’t you? A way out of the pain with something approaching dignity. The wise old immortal gunned down by the out-of-town thug, just because he happened to take on the persona of a murderous fugitive?’

‘With no bullets? That’d be a trick worth dying to see, Mirabel.’

‘Good point.’

‘Except,’ Zebra said, ‘you realised you liked it too much.’

Voronoff looked at her with ill-concealed venom. ‘Liked what too much, Taryn?’

‘Being hunted. It actually eased the pain, didn’t it?’

‘What would you know about the pain?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Be honest, Voronoff. She’s right, isn’t she? For the first time in years you actually remembered what it was like to live. That’s why you started taking stupid risks - to keep that buzz alive. But nothing was good enough, was it? Even jumping into the chasm was just mildly amusing.’

He looked at us with new eagerness. ‘Have you ever been hunted? Have you any idea what it’s like?’

‘I’m afraid I have had that pleasure,’ I said. ‘And fairly recently, too.’

‘I’m not talking about your little hunting games,’ Voronoff said, spitting the words with total contempt. ‘Scum in pursuit of scum - present company excepted, of course. When they hunted you, Mirabel, they stacked the odds so heavily in their favour they might as well have blindfolded you and put a slug through your head before they even let you run.’

‘Funnily enough, I would have almost agreed with you at the time.’

‘But it could have been different. They could have made it fair. Let you get further away before they came after you, so that your death wasn’t absolutely inevitable. Allowed you to find your hiding places and use them. That would have made a difference, wouldn’t it?’

‘Almost,’ I said. ‘Of course, there would have been the small matter that I never volunteered for it.’

‘Maybe you would have, too. If it was worth it. If there was a prize. If you thought you could make it through the game.’

‘What was your prize, Voronoff?’

‘The pain,’ he said. ‘Its absolution. For a few days at least.’

I started to answer him, probably. I think I did, anyway. It might have been Zebra, or it might have been the taciturn heavy with the bludgeon-sized gun. All I remember with any clarity is what happened several seconds later, the intervening moments neatly edited from memory. There must have been a pulse of light and heat, at first, as the other car opened fire on us. Then there would have been a blast of eardrum-piercing sound as the shockwave of the beam weapon slammed through the flensed-open cabin, followed by an explosion of metal and plastic and composites as the car’s innards eviscerated themselves in a hot cloud of fused machinery. Then we would have dropped, as the shattered roof-mounted arms, amputated and twisted by the attack, lost their grip on the cables.

A second or so later our descent was arrested, violently, and that was when, approximately, something like normal consciousness resumed. My first memory - before the pain hit - was that the car was upside down, with the moundlike table now dimpling down from the ceiling, and the neon-patterned floor evincing a gaping, jagged hole, through which the lower reaches of the city - the festering complexity of the Mulch - was far too clear, and far too far below.

The heavy was gone, except for his gun, which was rattling to and fro on the new floor as the car lurched and swayed, adjusting to its precarious new equilibrium. The heavy’s hand was still present, clasped around the gun. It had been neatly severed by shrapnel. Seeing the bony details of the wrist reminded me of the absence of my foot in the tent, after we had been ambushed by Reivich’s people; the way I had pawed at the stump and held my blood-drenched palm to my face, in abject denial that a part of me had been removed, like a strip of annexed territory.

Except - as I now knew - none of that had happened to me.

Zebra and I had tumbled into one corner of the cabin, thrown together in an untidy embrace. There was no sign of Voronoff - or any parts of Voronoff. I was being assailed by waves of pain, but as I began to pay particular attention to my discomfort, I decided there was nothing sharp enough to be actual broken bones.

The car swayed and creaked. It was remarkably quiet, apart from our breathing and the soft moaning which came from Zebra.

‘Tanner?’ she said, opening her eyes to pained slits. ‘What just happened?’

‘We were attacked,’ I said, realising that she had had no knowledge of the other vehicle; that she had not been expecting anything at all, whereas I had been mentally tensed for some kind of intervention. ‘A heavy beam weapon, probably. I think we’re stuck in the Canopy.’

‘Are we safe?’ she asked, wincing as she untangled one limb. ‘No; wait. Stupid question. Incredibly stupid question.’

‘Are you hurt?’

‘I umm . . . just a moment.’ Her eyes, glazed as they were, conspired to glaze a degree more, for an instant. ‘No; nothing that can’t wait for a few hours.’

‘What did you just do?’

‘Checked my body-image for damage.’ She said it dismissively. ‘How about you, Tanner?’

‘I’ll make it. Assuming any of us makes it.’

The car lurched, slipping vertically downwards before something arrested its progress, shakily. I tried to keep my gaze away from the maw in the floor, but if anything, the Mulch looked further away than ever, like a street map held at arm’s length. A few of the lowermost merged limbs of the Canopy intersected the view, but they were spindly and uninhabited, and served only to enhance the sense of tremendous height. Shadows moved beyond the smoky partition, and the vehicle budged again.

‘Someone will rescue us,’ Zebra said. ‘Won’t they?’

‘Someone may not want to intervene in what is clearly a private matter.’ Then I nodded at the partition. ‘At least one of them is alive in there. I think we’d better move before they do anything we might regret, like shooting us.’

‘Move where, Tanner?’

I looked down at the gap in the floor. ‘We’re not exactly spoilt for choice, are we?’

‘You’re mad.’

‘Just possibly,’ I said, kneeling at the edge of the hole, spreading my arms wide around the rim and preparing to lower my head through it. ‘But I find it goes with the territory, Zebra.’

I lowered myself through the aperture until my feet found purchase against the gnarled top-surface of the Canopy branch against which we’d come to rest. It was a narrow branch; we were very close to its extremity, where it tapered to a fine, tendrilled point, like the nub of an onion. Once I had my balance, I reached up and helped Zebra through, though with the extreme elongation of her limbs, she hardly needed my assistance.

Zebra looked up, appraising the looming bulk of the ruined vehicle. What had been the roof was a mass of scorched and melted components, only one of the telescopic arms remaining, which was the arm which was holding the vehicle in place, clutching precariously and twistedly at a somewhat higher branch. It looked like it would take very little more than a breeze to send the whole mass careering down to the Mulch. Quirrenbach and the other heavy, who’d been in the forward compartment, were inside, but they were struggling with the door, which was wedged against a protrusion from the branch.

‘Voronoff’s still alive,’ I said, gesturing a little distance up the branch, where it thickened. He was crawling along it, slowly but methodically, and I decided the branch must have broken an otherwise unintentional fall.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘He won’t get very far.’

The shot was precise and surgical; sufficient yield to make a point, yet not enough to risk cutting through the branch. It made Voronoff stop in his tracks, but for a moment he did not look back in our direction.

Zebra looked up, into the overlying mass of structural branches, where the figure who had fired the shot was standing. She stood with her hips slightly canted to one side, the stock of a heavy rifle resting against the convexity of one thigh.

Chanterelle shouldered the weapon, then commenced climbing down via an improvised staircase of linking branches. Above, her car was parked intact, and three other dark-clad figures had spilled out onto the branch. They were covering her as she worked her way down to our level with even larger and nastier weapons.

It was a small thing at first; just a smudge of phosphors on the deep radar screen. But it signified volumes. For the first time since leaving the Flotilla they had encountered something that lay behind them; something other than light years of empty space. Sky turned up the beam intensity and focused the phased-array on the specific region where the echo had come back from.

‘It’s got to be it,’ Gomez said, leaning over his shoulder. ‘Got to be the Caleuche. There can’t be anything else out there.’

‘Maybe we’re just seeing another piece of discarded junk,’ Norquinco said.

‘No.’ Sky watched as the phased-array teased out details, turning the smudge into something with density and shape. ‘It’s much too big for that. I think it is the ghost ship. Nothing else that big could be trailing us.’

‘How big is it, exactly?’

‘Wide enough,’ Sky said. ‘But I can’t get an estimate of the length. She’s keeping her long axis aligned with us, just as if she still has some navigational control.’ He tapped keys, squinting as more numbers popped up next to the echo. ‘Width is spot-on for a Flotilla ship. Same profile too - the radar’s even picking out some asymmetries which line up with where we’d expect the antennae clusters to be on the forward sphere. She doesn’t seem to be rotating - they must have sapped her spin for some reason.’

‘Maybe they got bored with gravity. How far away is she?’

‘Sixteen thousand klicks. Which, considering we’ve come half a light second, isn’t bad. We can reach her in a few hours at minimal burn.’

They debated it for a few minutes, then agreed that a quiet approach made the best sense now. The fact that the ship had kept herself aligned with the Flotilla meant that it was no longer possible to think of her as a drifting, dead hulk. She still had some autonomy. Sky doubted that there could be living crew aboard her, but it must now be considered a real - if remote - possibility. At the very least, automated defence systems might be functioning. And they might or might not take kindly to the swift, unannounced approach of another ship.

‘We could always announce ourselves,’ Gomez said.

Sky shook his head. ‘They’ve been following us quietly for the best part of a century without ever making any attempt to talk to us. Call me paranoid, but I think that just might suggest they’re not particularly interested in visitors, whether they announce themselves or not. Anyway, I don’t believe for one minute that there’s anyone aboard. She has some systems still running, that’s all - just enough to keep her antimatter safe and make sure she doesn’t drift too far from the Flotilla.’

‘We’ll know soon enough,’ Norquinco said. ‘As soon as we get within visual range. Then we can take a look at the damage.’

The next two hours passed agonisingly slowly. Sky modified their approach trajectory to take them slightly to one side, so that the phased-array could begin to pick out some elongation in the radar echo. The results, when they came in, were no surprise: the Caleuche fitted the profile of a Flotilla ship almost exactly, except for some small but puzzling deviations.

‘Probably damage marks,’ Gomez said. He looked at the radar echo, bright now, and the absence of anything else on the screen only served to emphasise how isolated they were. There had not even been any response from the rest of the Flotilla; no sign that any of the other ships had noticed anything going on. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I’m almost disappointed.’

‘You are?’

‘At the back of my mind I kept wondering if it wouldn’t turn out to be something stranger.’

‘A ghost ship isn’t strange enough for you?’ Sky adjusted the course again, swinging them around to approach the ship from the other side.

‘Yes, but now that we know what it is, so many possibilities are ruled out. You know what I used to think it might be? Another ship sent out from home, much later than the Flotilla - something a lot faster and more advanced. Sent here to follow us at a safe distance - maybe just to observe us, but perhaps to step in and help us if anything went seriously wrong.’

Sky did his best to look contemptuous, but secretly he shared some of Gomez’s feelings. What if it got worse, he thought? What if the Caleuche turned out to have no useful supplies on her at all, and no safe way of exploiting her antimatter? Just because something had spawned a myth did not automatically mean it had to contain anything of substance. He thought of the original Caleuche: the ghost ship which was to supposed to haunt the waters of southern Chile, the dead aboard her trapped in an eternal and grisly celebration, sending mournful accordion music out across the waves. But whenever the real Caleuche was sighted, it always had the magical ability to turn into a seaweed-infested lump of rock or a piece of driftwood.

Maybe that was all they were going to find now.

The final hour passed as slowly as those that had preceded it, but at the end of that time they were rewarded with their first faint glimpse of the ghost ship. It was a Flotilla vessel all right - they might have been approaching the Santiago, except that the Caleuche had no lights on her at all. They could only see her by shining the shuttle’s searchlights, and by the time they had come closer - to within a few hundred metres of the drifting ship’s hull - they could pick out details just one tantalising spot at a time.

‘Command looks intact,’ Gomez said as the searchlight tracked across the huge sphere at the front of the ship. The sphere was dotted with dark windows and sensor apertures, with comms antennae protruding from circular pits, but there was no sign of any inhabitation or power. The front hemisphere of the globe was pored with countless tiny impact craters, too, but that was also the case for the Santiago, and at first glance this ship seemed not to have suffered any more damage than that.

‘Take us further down the spine,’ Gomez said. Norquinco, behind them, was busying himself with more schematics of the old ship.

Sky tapped the thrusters lightly, sending them cruising slowly past the command sphere and then the cylindrical module that followed it, the one that would have held the Caleuche’s own shuttles and freight stores. Everything looked exactly as it should have done. Even the entry ports were situated in the same places.

‘I’m not seeing any major damage,’ Gomez said. ‘I thought the radar showed—’

‘It did,’ Sky said. ‘But the damage was all on the other side. We’ll loop around to the engine section and come back up.’

They tracked slowly down the spine, the searchlights revealing circles of bright detail amidst greater darkness. Sleeper module after sleeper module passed by. Sky had started counting them, half expecting that some might be missing, but after a while he knew there was no point. They were all still present and correct; the ship - apart from the minor abrasive weathering - was still exactly as she had been when launched.

‘There’s something about her, though,’ Gomez said, squinting. ‘Something that doesn’t look quite right.’

‘I don’t see anything out of place,’ Sky said.

‘She looks normal enough to me, too,’ Norquinco said, looking up momentarily from the far more interesting prospect of his data schematics.

‘No, she doesn’t. She looks like she’s not quite in focus. Can’t you see that as well?’

‘It’s a contrast effect,’ Sky said. ‘Your eyes can’t deal with the difference in illumination between the lit and unlit parts.’

‘If you say so.’

They continued in silence, not really wanting to acknowledge that what Gomez had said was true and that there was something not quite right about the Caleuche. Sky remembered what Norquinco had told him about the ghost ship story; how it was said that the old sailing ship had been able to surround itself with mist so that no one ever saw it clearly. Thankfully, Norquinco refrained from reminding him of that. It would have been about all he could take.

‘There’s no infra-red from the sleeper berths,’ Gomez said eventually, when they were most of the way down the spine. ‘I don’t think that’s a good sign, Sky. If the berths were still operational, we’d see the infra-red from the cooling systems. You can’t keep something cold without making heat somewhere else. The momios can’t still be alive.’

‘Then cheer up,’ Sky said. ‘You wanted a ghost ship; now you’ve got one.’

‘I don’t think there are ghosts on it, Sky. Just a lot of dead people.’

They passed the end of the spine, where it coupled to the propulsion unit. They were closer now - only ten or fifteen metres from the hull - and the details should have been pin-sharp, but there was no denying what Gomez had pointed out. It was as if the ship was being seen behind a screen of slightly mottled glass, blurring every edge except the one between the ship and space. It was as if the ship had melted slightly and then resolidified.

It wasn’t right.

‘Well, there’s no sign of major damage to the propulsion section, ’ Gomez said. ‘The antimatter must still be inside, kept penned on residual power.’

‘But there’s no sign of any power at all. Not a single running light.’

‘So she’s turned off every non-essential system. But the antimatter has to be inside her, Sky. That means whatever happens here, our journey won’t have been completely in vain.’

‘Let’s see what she looks like on the other side. We know there’s something wrong with her there.’

They curved around, executing a hairpin turn beyond the gaping mouths of the exhaust vents. Gomez was right, of course - the antimatter had to be there, and that had never been in doubt. Had her engines exploded the way the Islamabad’s had done, there would have been nothing left at all except for a few unusual trace elements added to the interstellar medium. There must still be enough antimatter inside her to slow down the whole ship, and all the containment systems must still be operating normally. Sky’s people could use that antimatter. They could either experiment with it in place, testing the Caleuche’s engines in ways they would never have risked with their own ship - thereby finding a way to squeeze more efficiency from them - or they could use the ghost ship as a single huge rocket stage, tethering it to the Santiago and enormously boosting their deceleration curve, before discarding the Caleuche at some still significant fraction of the speed of light. But there was a third way that appealed to Sky more than either of those two possibilities: gain experience with the handling of antimatter aboard the ghost ship, and then transfer only the reservoir back to the Santiago, where it could be connected up to their own fuel supply. That way, no fuel would be wasted decelerating dead mass - and the whole thing could be kept reasonably secret as well.

Now they turned around and began to track up the other side. The radar scans had forewarned them that there would be some kind of asymmetry; something different about this side of the ship, but when they saw what it was they had trouble believing their eyes. Gomez swore softly, Sky echoing the sentiment with a slow nod. All along her length, from the bulbous command sphere to the rear of the propulsion section, the ship’s side had erupted outwards in a queasy leprous mass: a froth of globular blisters packed as dense as frogspawn. They studied it wordlessly for at least a minute, trying to rationalise what they saw with what they believed the sixth ship to be.

‘Something strange happened here,’ Gomez said, the first to speak. ‘Something very, very strange. I’m not sure I like it, Sky.’

‘You think I like it any more than you do?’ Sky answered.

‘Take us away from the hull,’ Norquinco said, and for once Sky obeyed him without question. He tapped the thrusters, pushing the shuttle out to two hundred metres. They waited silently until they could get a better look at the ghost ship. The more he looked at it, the more it looked like blistered flesh, Sky thought, or possibly badly healed scar tissue. It certainly did not look like anything he would have expected.

‘There’s something up ahead,’ Gomez said, pointing. ‘Look. Tucked away near the command sphere. It doesn’t seem to be part of her.’

‘It’s another ship,’ Sky said.

They crept closer, nervously probing the dark mass with searchlights. Almost lost within the bubbled explosion of fleshlike hull was a much smaller, intact spacecraft. It was the same size as their shuttle - the same basic shape, in fact. Only its markings and details were different.

‘Shit. Someone got here ahead of us,’ Gomez said.

‘Perhaps,’ Sky said. ‘But they could have been here for decades.’

‘He’s right,’ Norquinco said. ‘I don’t think it’s one of ours, though.’

They crept closer to the other shuttle, wary now of a trap, but the other ship looked equally as dead as the much larger craft alongside it. It was guyed to the Caleuche - moored to her hull by three lines which had been fired into the hull with penetrating grapples. That was standard emergency equipment on a shuttle, but Sky had never expected to see it used in this fashion. There were intact docking hatches on the Caleuche’s far side - why had the shuttle not used those?

‘Bring us in nice and slowly,’ Gomez said.

‘I’m doing it, aren’t I?’ But docking with the derelict shuttle was much harder than it looked - their own thrusters kept blowing it away. When the two ships did finally come together, it was with a good deal more violence than Sky would have wished. But the hatch seals held, and he was able to divert some of their own power to the other craft, booting up its own systems which must only have been sleeping. It felt too easy, but the shuttles had always been designed for complete compatibility across the docking systems of all the ships.

Lights stammered on and the airlock began to establish equal pressure on either side of the lock.

The three of them suited up and strapped on the specialised sensors and comms equipment they had brought along for the expedition, and then each took one of the security-issue machine-guns with torches strapped to them which Sky had appropriated. With Sky leading they floated through the connecting tunnel until they were emerging in a well-lit shuttle cabin superficially similar to the one they had left. There were no cobwebs or floating veils of dust to suggest that any time at all had passed since the shuttle had been vacated. A few status displays had even come back online.

There was, however, a body.

It was spacesuited, and very obviously dead - although none of them wanted to look at the grinning skull behind the faceplate longer than necessary. But the figure seemed not to have died violently. It was seated calmly in the pilot’s position, with the two arms of the spacesuit folded across its lap, gloved fingers touching as if in quiet prayer.

‘Oliveira,’ said Gomez, reading the nameplate on the helmet. ‘That’s a Portuguese name. He must have come from the Brazilia.’

‘Why did he die here?’ said Norquinco. ‘He had power, didn’t he? He could have made it back home.’

‘Not necessarily.’ Sky pointed to one of the status displays. ‘He might have had power, but he certainly didn’t have any fuel. He must have burned it all getting here in a hurry.’

‘So what? There must still be dozens of shuttles inside the Caleuche. He could have ditched this one and taken another one back.’

Gradually they formed a working hypothesis to explain the dead man’s presence. No one had heard of Oliveira, but then again he was from another ship and he would certainly have vanished many years ago.

Oliveira must have learned about the Caleuche as well, perhaps in the same way Sky had: a slow accretion of rumour which had eventually hardened into fact. Like Sky, he had decided to go back and see what the ghost ship had to offer, perhaps hoping to score some massive advantage for his own crew, or - just possibly - himself. So he had taken a shuttle, secretly, one presumed, but he had also decided to make the dash at a high fuel expenditure. Perhaps he was forced into this strategy by a narrow window in which his absence would not be noticed. It must have seemed a reasonable risk to take. After all, as Gomez had said, there would be fuel supplies aboard the Caleuche - other shuttles, for that matter. Getting back ought not to have proved problematic.

Yet evidently it had.

‘There’s a message here,’ Norquinco said, peering over one of the readouts.

‘What?’

‘Like I said. A message. From, um, him, I presume.’ Before there was any time for Sky to ask him, Norquinco had called up the message, translated it through several software protocols and then piped it through to their suits, with the audio track playing over the normal comms channel and the visual component projected as a head-up display, making Oliveira’s ghostly form seem to join them in the cabin. He was still wearing the same suit he had died in, but now he had the helmet visor raised over the helmet’s crown so that they could see his face properly. He was a young-looking man with dark skin and a look in his eyes of both horror and profound resignation.

‘I think I’m going to kill myself,’ he said, speaking Portuguese. ‘I think that’s what I’m going to do. I think it’s the only sensible course of action. I think, in my circumstances, that’s what you would have done. It won’t take any great courage on my behalf. There are a dozen painless ways to kill yourself in a spacesuit. Some of them are better than painless, I’m told. I’ll know soon enough. Let me know if I died with a smile on my face, won’t you? I hope I do. Anything else just wouldn’t be fair, would it?’

Sky had to concentrate to follow the words, but it was not insurmountably difficult. As security officer it had been his duty to have a good grasp of the Flotilla’s other languages - and Portuguese was a lot closer to Castellano than Arabic.

‘I’m going to assume that you - whoever you are - have come here for much the same reason I did. Sheer, unadulterated greed. Well, I can’t really blame you for that - and if you’ve come here for some infinitely more altruistic reason, you must accept my very humble apologies. But somehow I doubt it. Like me, you must have heard about the ghost ship and wondered what she had on board worth plundering. I just hope that you didn’t make quite the same miscalculation I did, concerning her fuel supplies. Or maybe you did, and you already understand exactly what I’m talking about, because you’ve been inside her. And if you do need the fuel, and you haven’t been inside her yet, well - I’m sorry - but you have something of a disappointment coming. If that’s quite the word I’m looking for.’ He paused, glancing down at the top of his suit’s life-support tabard. ‘Because she isn’t quite what you thought she is. She’s infinitely less. And infinitely more. I should know. I’ve been inside her. We both have.’

‘Both?’ Sky said, aloud.

It was as if the man had heard him. ‘Or maybe you haven’t found Lago yet. Did I mention Lago? I should have - my mistake. He used to be a good friend of mine, but now I think he’s the reason I’m going to kill myself. Oh, I can’t get home without fuel, I know that - and if I asked for help, I’d be executed for coming here in the first place. Even if the Brazilia didn’t hang me, the other ships would. No - there’s really no way out. But like I said, it’s Lago that really has me convinced. Poor, poor Lago. I only sent him to look for fuel. I’m really so very sorry.’ Suddenly, as if snapping out of a muse, he seemed to look all of them in the eye individually. ‘Did I tell you the other thing? That if you can, you should leave immediately? I’m not sure I did.’

‘Turn the fucking thing off,’ Sky said.

Norquinco hesitated, then obeyed, leaving Oliveira’s ghost hanging there with them, frozen in the middle of his soliloquy.

THIRTY-FOUR

‘Get out,’ Chanterelle said when the forward door had opened and Quirrenbach’s bruised and bloodied face had looked out. ‘You too,’ she said, pointing the barrel of her gun at the other heavy, who - unlike his associate - was still conscious.

‘I think I owe you thanks,’ I said, doubtfully. ‘You were hoping I’d survive that attack, weren’t you?’

‘It occurred to me you might. Are you all right, Tanner? You look a bit on the pale side.’

‘It’ll pass.’

Chanterelle’s three friends, who had maintained a surly detachment, had Voronoff; he was already safely aboard Chanterelle’s car, nursing a shattered wrist. They’d given me barely more than a sideways glance, but I couldn’t blame them for that. The last time we had met had been when I put bullets through their legs.

‘You’re in grave trouble,’ Quirrenbach said, once we were in the car and he had Chanterelle’s undivided attention. ‘Whoever you are.’

‘I know who she is,’ Voronoff said, gazing down at his wrist while the car deployed a little servitor to tend the wound. ‘Chanterelle Sammartini. She’s a hunt player. One of the better ones, whatever that means.’

‘How the hell would you know?’ Quirrenbach said.

‘Because she was with Mirabel the night he tried to take me down. I had her checked out.’

‘Not very thoroughly,’ Quirrenbach said.

‘Piss off. You were meant to be shadowing him, in case you forgot.’

‘Now, now, boys,’ Zebra said, the gun resting casually on her knee. ‘Just because they’ve taken your big guns from you, no need to squabble.’

Quirrenbach stabbed a finger at Chanterelle. ‘Why the hell is Taryn still holding a gun, Sammartini? She’s one of us, in case you didn’t realise.’

‘According to Tanner she stopped working for you some time ago.’ Chanterelle smiled. ‘Frankly, I’m not surprised.’

‘Thanks,’ Zebra said, guardedly. ‘I’m not sure why you trust me, though. I mean, I definitely wouldn’t.’

‘Tanner said I should. Tanner and I have had a few points of disagreement, but I’m prepared to take his word on this one. Can I trust you, Zebra?’

She smiled. ‘You’re not exactly spoilt for choice, are you?’ Then added, ‘Well, Tanner - what happens now?’

‘Exactly what Quirrenbach had in mind all along,’ I said. ‘A trip to Refuge.’

‘You’re joking, aren’t you? It has to be a trap.’

‘It’s also the only way I’ll ever end this. Reivich knew that as well, didn’t he?’

Quirrenbach said nothing for a few moments, as if uncertain of whether he had won, or had in fact lost beyond all hope of redemption. Then, weakly, he said, ‘We’ll need to go to the space-port, then.’

‘Eventually, yes.’ Now it was my turn to play games. ‘But there’s somewhere I want to go first, Quirrenbach. Somewhere closer. And I think you know how to take me there.’

I pulled out the vial of Dream Fuel which Zebra had given me; spent now. ‘Ring any bells?’

I hadn’t known for certain that Quirrenbach would be any closer to the Dream Fuel production centre than Vadim, but it was a reasonable guess. Vadim had carried supplies of the drug, but his little empire of extortion was restricted to the Rust Belt and its orbital environs. Only Quirrenbach moved freely between Chasm City and space, and the chances were therefore good that Quirrenbach brought the vials up with him on a recent visit.

Which meant Quirrenbach might know where the source was.

‘Well?’ I said. ‘Am I warm?’

‘You don’t know what you’re getting into, Tanner. No idea at all.’

‘You just let me worry about that. You worry about taking us there.’

‘Taking us where?’ Chanterelle asked.

I turned to her. ‘I made a deal with Zebra that I’d continue the investigations her sister was making when she vanished.’

Chanterelle looked at Zebra. ‘What happened?’

Zebra spoke quietly. ‘My sister asked one too many awkward questions about Dream Fuel. Gideon’s goons got to her, and I’ve wanted to know why ever since. She wasn’t even trying to close them down, just to find out more about the source.’

‘It most certainly won’t be what you’re expecting,’ Quirrenbach said, looking at me beseechingly. We were brachiating away from Grand Central Station, where we’d dropped off Voronoff and the heavies. ‘For pity’s sake, Tanner. See sense. There’s no need for you to embark on some personal crusade, especially given that you’re an outsider. You have no need - or right, for that matter - to meddle in our affairs.’

‘He doesn’t need one,’ Zebra said.

‘Oh, spare me the righteous indignation. You use the substance yourself, Zebra.’

She nodded. ‘And so do a few thousand other people, Quirrenbach. Largely because we haven’t got much of a choice.’

‘There’s always a choice,’ he said. ‘So the world looks a little bleaker without implants? Fine; learn to live with it. And if you don’t like that, there’s always the hermetic approach.’

Zebra shook her head. ‘Without implants we start dying of old age; most of us anyway. With them we’ve got to live half a life cowering inside machines. Sorry, but that’s not what I call much of a choice. Not when there’s a third way.’

‘Then you have precisely no moral grounds for objecting to the existence of Dream Fuel.’

‘I’m not objecting, you tedious little man. I just want to know why the stuff isn’t easier to get hold of, when we need it so badly. Every month it gets harder to find; every month I end up paying Gideon - whoever he might be - a little more for his precious elixir.’

‘Such is the nature of supply and demand.’

‘Shall I hit him for you?’ Chanterelle said brightly. ‘It’d be no trouble at all.’

‘That’s very generous of you,’ Zebra said, evidently pleased that she and Chanterelle had found some common ground. ‘But I think we want him conscious for the time being.’

I nodded. ‘At least until he gets us to the manufacturing centre. Chanterelle? Are you still sure you want to come with us?’

‘I’d have stayed at the station if I wasn’t, Tanner.’

‘I know. But it’ll be dangerous. We might not all walk out of this.’

‘He’s right,’ Quirrenbach said, who must still have hoped that I could be talked out of this. ‘I’d give the matter some serious thought if I were you. Wouldn’t it make more sense to come back later, with a properly prepared squad; even something vaguely resembling a plan?’

‘What, and miss having your undivided attention?’ I said. ‘It’s a big city, Quirrenbach, and an even bigger Rust Belt. Who’s to say I’d ever see you again if we agreed to postpone this little trip?’

He snuffled. ‘Well, you still can’t force me to take you there.’

I smiled. ‘You’d be surprised. I could force you to do just about anything if I wanted to. It’s really just a matter of nerves and pressure points.’

‘You’d torture me, is that it?’

‘Let’s just say I’d apply some very convincing arguments.’

‘You bastard, Mirabel.’

‘Just drive, will you?’

‘And watch where you’re driving,’ Zebra said. ‘You’re taking us way too low, Quirrenbach.’

She was right. We were skirting the Mulch now, skimming only a hundred or so metres above the tops of the highest slums - and the ride consisted of sickening undulations due to the lack of threads at this altitude.

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘So just shut up and enjoy the ride.’

Suddenly we were skimming down a slum canyon, descending a single long thread that vanished into murky, caramel-brown water at the canyon’s end. Fires burned in the ramshackle structures either side of us and steam-powered boats huffed and puffed out of our way as the cable-car approached the waterline.

‘I was right, wasn’t I,’ I said to Quirrenbach. ‘You and Vadim were a team, weren’t you?’

‘I think the relationship might be better characterised as one of master and slave, Tanner.’ He worked the controls with quite some skill, retarding our descent the instant before we hit the muddy water. ‘That act of Vadim’s - the big, stupid thug? It wasn’t an act.’

‘Did I kill him?’

He rubbed at one of his own bruises. ‘Nothing Dream Fuel couldn’t fix, in the end.’

I nodded. ‘That’s more or less what I thought. So what is it, Quirrenbach? You must know. Is it something they synthesise?’

‘That depends what you mean by synthesise,’ he said.

‘So he went mad,’ Sky said. ‘He got stuck here and knew there was no way he could get back home safely. There isn’t any mystery to that.’

‘Do you think Lago was real?’ asked Gomez.

‘Maybe. It doesn’t really matter. We still have to go in, don’t we? If we find the man, we’ll know that much is true. Look,’ Sky did his best to sound reasonable, ‘what if he killed Lago? They might have had some argument, after all. Maybe it was killing his friend that drove him insane.’

‘Assuming, of course, that he was insane,’ Gomez said. ‘And not simply a perfectly rational man who’d had to confront something terrible.’

They decoupled from Oliveira’s shuttle a few minutes later, leaving the dead man inside as they had found him. Cautiously, with gentle taps of thrusters, they flew around to the undamaged side of the Flotilla ship.

‘The damage is confined totally to the other side,’ Gomez said. ‘It doesn’t look like the kind of hull scorching the Santiago sustained when the Islamabad blew up, but the geometric extent is similar, wouldn’t you say?’

Sky nodded, remembering his mother’s shadow burned into the side of the hull. Whatever had happened to the Caleuche had been shockingly different, but it was clearly symptomatic of damage of some sort.

‘I don’t see how there can be a connection,’ he said.

There was a chime from the console - one of the automated warning systems Norquinco had rigged up. Sky glanced towards the other man. ‘What is it? Do we have a problem?’

‘Not a technical one, but, um, still a problem. Someone’s just scanned us with a phased-array.’

‘Where did it originate from? The Flotilla?’

‘That direction, but not precisely. I think it must be another shuttle, Sky - making a similar approach to the one we used.’

‘Probably following our thrust trail,’ Gomez said. ‘Well - how long have we got?’

‘I can’t tell you, not without bouncing a radar beam off them as well. Could be a day; could be six hours.’

‘Shit. Well, let’s get in and see what we can find.’

They had moved around to the undamaged side of the command sphere now and were casting around for a suitable docking port. Sky did not want to try and land inside the Caleuche, but there were still plenty of surface points where the shuttle could have anchored itself for a quick crew transfer. Normally the larger ship would have responded to the shuttle’s approach by activating one of the ports; guidance lights would have begun to shine and the port would have extended restraining clamps to guide the shuttle home the last few metres. If there had been any power left at all inside her, those docking mechanisms should still have woken up, even after decades of inactivity. But though the shuttle chirped its approach signal, nothing happened.

‘All right,’ Sky said. ‘We’ll do what Oliveira did: use the grapples.’

He positioned the shuttle over a docking port and let the grapples whip away and bury themselves silently in the Caleuche’s hull. Then the shuttle began to pull itself in, like a spider ascending a strand of cobweb. The grapples did not appear to have anchored themselves firmly - they began to give, like hooks in flesh - but they would hold for now. Even if the shuttle broke loose from its mooring while they were inside the larger ship, the shuttle’s autopilot would prevent it from drifting away.

Still suited up, they moved to the airlock again and cycled through to vacuum. Sky’s positioning had been excellent; their own docking seal was exactly aligned with the ship’s, with the manual controls set to one side in a recessed panel. Sky knew from his experience on the Santiago that the airlocks were well designed; even if no one had opened it in years, the manual opening controls should still function perfectly.

It was simple. There was a lever you turned by hand, and that would crank aside the outer door. Once inside the exchange chamber, there would be a more comprehensive panel with pressure gauges and controls to allow the space to be flooded with air from within the ship. If there was no pressure on the other side, the door would allow him to pass even more easily.

He reached out his gloved hand, ready to grasp the lever. But as soon as his fingers closed around the metal he knew something was wrong.

It didn’t feel like metal at all.

It felt like meat.

Even as he was registering that, another part of his mind had sent the signal to his hand to apply the twisting motion that would begin to crank the door aside. But the lever was incapable of being rotated. Instead, it just deformed in his hand, stretching as if made out of jelly. He looked closer, nearly pressing his faceplate against the panel. Now that he could see it properly, it was obvious why the lever would never work: it blended in to the rest of the panel. In fact, all the controls were like that; merging seamlessly with the background. He looked at the door, carefully now. There was no seam between it and its frame - only a smooth continuation.

It was as if the Caleuche was made of grey dough.

The cable-car had become just another vessel on the brown ooze of the Mulch river. Quirrenbach was using the car’s arms to propel it along against the sluggish flow, reaching out on either side to brush against the overhanging slums. He had obviously done it many times before.

‘We’re approaching the edge of the dome,’ Zebra said, pointing ahead and up.

She was right. One of the merged domes of the Mosquito Net came down here, with the slums scraping against its filthy brown surface. It was hard to believe that overhanging, sloped ceiling had ever been transparent.

‘The inner or outer edge?’ I said.

‘The inner,’ Zebra said. ‘Which means . . .’

‘I know what it means,’ I said, before she could answer. ‘Quirrenbach’s taking us towards the chasm.’

THIRTY-FIVE

The canyon grew darker as we approached the Net, the overhanging structures more precariously stacked above us until they arched over forming a rough-hewn tunnel dripping unspeakable fluids. Hardly anyone lived here, even given the squalid population pressure of the Mulch.

Quirrenbach took us underground; powerful lights glared from the front of the cable-car. Occasionally I saw rats moving in the gloom, but no sign of any people; human or pig. The rats had reached the city aboard Ultra ships - genetically engineered to serve aboard the ships as cleaning systems. But a few had escaped centuries ago, shrugging off their gloss of servitude, reverting to feral type. They scampered away from the bright ellipses cast by the cable-car’s lights, or swam quickly through the brown water trailing V-shaped wakes.

‘What is it you want, Tanner?’ Quirrenbach said.

‘Answers.’

‘Is that all? Or are you after your own private supply of Dream Fuel? Go on. You can tell me. We’re old friends, after all.’

‘Just drive,’ I said.

Quirrenbach pushed us forward, the tunnel branching and bifurcating. We were in a very old part of the city now. Decrepit as this underground warren seemed, it might not have changed very much since the plague.

‘Is this really necessary?’ I said.

‘There are other ways in,’ he said. ‘But only a few people know about this one. It’s discreet, and it’ll make you seem like someone with a right to get to the heart of the action.’

Presently he brought the car to a halt. I hadn’t realised it, but Quirrenbach had steered it over a tongue of dry ground which rose out of the water near one stained and dilapidated wall, festooned in grey mould.

‘We have to get out here,’ he said.

‘Don’t even think about trying anything,’ I said. ‘Or you’ll become an interesting new addition to the décor down here.’

But I allowed him to lead us out anyway, leaving the cable-car parked on the mudspit. There were deep grooves in the ground where the skids of other cars had created impressions. Evidently we were not the first to use this landing place.

‘Follow me,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘It isn’t far.’

‘Do you come here often?’

Now there was a note of honesty in his voice. ‘Not if I can help it. I’m not a big player in the Dream Fuel operation, Tanner. Not a very large cog. I’d be a dead man if some people knew I was even bringing you this far. Can we make this a discreet visit?’

‘That depends. I told you I wanted some answers.’

He had reached something in the wall. ‘There’s no way I can take you close to the centre of things, Tanner - start understanding that, will you? It just isn’t possible. It’s best if you go in alone. And don’t even think about causing trouble. You’d need more than a few guns for that.’

‘So what are you taking us to?’

But instead of answering, he yanked at something hidden in the slime-covered grime of the wall, hauling aside a sliding panel. It was almost above our heads; a rectangular hole two metres long.

Wary of tricks - like Quirrenbach using the hole as an escape route - I went first. Then I helped Quirrenbach up, and then Chanterelle. Zebra came last, casting a wary eye behind her. But no one had followed us, and the only eyes watching us depart belonged to the tunnel’s rats.

Inside, we crawled, crouching, along a low, square steel-lined tunnel for what seemed like hundreds of metres, but which was probably only a few dozen. I had lost all sense of direction now, but part of my mind insisted that we had all along been approaching closer and closer to the edge of the chasm. It was possible that we were beyond the fringe of the Mosquito Net now. Above us, beyond only a few metres of bedrock, might have been poisonous atmosphere.

But eventually, just when my back was beginning to ache with something that went beyond discomfort into real, paralysing pain, we emerged into a much larger chamber. It was dark at first, but Quirrenbach turned on a matrix of ancient lights stapled to the ceiling.

Something ran from one end of the chamber to the other, emerging from one wall and vanishing into the other. It was a dull silver tube, three or four metres wide, like a pipeline. Jutting from it on one side, at an oblique angle, was what looked like a branch of the same tube: exactly the same diameter, but terminating in a smooth metal end-cap.

‘You recognise this, of course,’ Quirrenbach said, indicating the longer part of the pipe.

‘Not exactly,’ I said. I had expected one of the others to say something, but no one seemed any wiser than me.

‘Well, you’ve seen it many times.’ Then he walked up to the pipe. ‘It’s part of the city’s atmospheric supply system. There are hundreds of pipes like this, reaching down into the chasm, down into the cracking station. Some carry air. Some carry water. Some carry superheated steam.’ He knuckled the pipe, and now I noticed that there was an oval panel in the part which jutted out, more or less the same size as the panel which he had found in the wall. ‘This one normally carries steam.’

‘What is it carrying now?’

‘A few thousand atmospheres. Nothing to worry about.’

Quirrenbach placed his hands on the panel and slid it aside. It moved smoothly, revealing a curve of dark green glass, framed by clean silver metal inset with controls. They were marked with a very old style of writing; words which were almost but not quite Norte.

Amerikano.

Quirrenbach tapped a few keys, and I heard a series of distant thumps. Moments later, the whole pipe thrummed as if sounding a monstrously low note. ‘That’s the steam flow being rerouted along another network, for inspection mode.’

He pressed a button and the thick green glass whisked aside, revealing a mass of bronze machinery, nearly filling the bore of the pipe. At either end it was all pistons and accordioned sections, festooned with pipes and metal whiskers, servo-motors and black suction pads. It was difficult to tell whether it was ancient - something from the Amerikano period - or much more recent, cobbled together since the plague. Either way, it didn’t look very reliable. But in the middle of the machine was a skeletal space equipped with two large padded seats and some rudimentary controls. It made a wheeler look like an exercise in spaciousness.

‘Start talking,’ I said.

‘It’s an inspection robot,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘A machine for wriggling along the pipe, checking for leaks, weak spots, that kind of thing. Now it’s . . . well, you figure it out.’

‘A transportation system.’ I studied it myself, wondering what were the chances of riding it and surviving. ‘Clever, I’ll give you that. Well - how long will it take to go where it goes?’

‘I’ve ridden it once,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘It wasn’t any picnic.’

‘You didn’t answer my question.’

‘An hour or two to get down below the mist layer. Same time to come back. I don’t advise that you spend too long when you get there.’

‘Fine. I’m not planning to. Will I pass for someone in the know if I take this thing down?’

He eyed me over. ‘Only people in the know arrive via this route. With Vadim’s coat you’ll pass for a supplier, or at least someone in the loop - provided you don’t open your mouth too much. Just tell whoever meets you that you’ve come to see Gideon.’

‘Sounds like it couldn’t be easier.’

‘Oh, you’ll manage. A monkey could run the machine. Sorry. No offence intended.’ Quirrenbach smiled quickly and nervously. ‘Look, it’s easy. You won’t have any trouble telling when you’ve arrived.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Especially as you’re coming along for the ride.’

‘Bad move, Tanner. Bad move.’ Quirrenbach started looking around for moral support.

‘Tanner’s right,’ Zebra said, shrugging. ‘It would make a kind of sense.’

‘But I’ve never been close to Gideon. They won’t necessarily take me any more seriously than they take Tanner. What am I supposed to say when they ask why we’re there?’

Zebra glared at him. ‘Improvise, you spineless little shit. Say you heard some rumours about Gideon’s health, and you wanted to check them out for yourself. Say there are stories about the quality of the final product reaching the streets. It’ll work. It’s the same kind of story that got my sister close to Gideon, after all.’

‘You’ve no idea whether she got close at all.’

‘Well, just do your best, Quirrenbach - I’m sure Tanner will be there to give you all the moral support you need.’

‘I’m not doing it.’

Zebra waved her gun towards him. ‘Want a rethink?’

He looked down the barrel of the gun, then at Zebra, his lips pursed. ‘Damn you as well, Taryn. Consider your bridges well and truly burned, as far as our professional relationship is concerned.’

‘Just get in the machine, will you?’

I turned to Zebra and Chanterelle. ‘Take care. I don’t think you’ll be in any danger here, but keep an eye out in any case. I expect to be back within a few hours. Can you wait that long?’

Zebra nodded. ‘I could, but I’m not planning to. There’s enough room in that thing for three of us, if Chanterelle can hold the fort back here.’

Chanterelle shrugged. ‘Can’t say I’m exactly looking forward to spending a few hours up here on my own, but I think I’d rather be here than down there. I guess this is one you owe to your sister?’

Zebra nodded. ‘She’d have done the same for me, I think.’

‘Way to go. I just hope the trip’s worth it.’

I spoke to Chanterelle now. ‘Don’t put yourself in any more danger than necessary. We can find our own way out of here if we have to, so if anything happens . . . you know where the car’s parked.’

‘Don’t worry about me, Tanner. Just take care of yourself.’

‘It’s a habit of mine.’ I slapped Quirrenbach on the shoulder, with all the hearty bonhomie I’d have liked to have felt. ‘Well, are you ready? You never know. You might be inspired on the way down; something even more depressing than normal.’

He looked at me grimly. ‘Let’s get this over with, Tanner.’

Despite what Zebra had said, there was barely room for two people in the inspection robot, and it was a painful squeeze to accommodate a third. But Zebra’s articulation was not fully human, and she had an uncanny ability to fold herself into what space remained, even if the process caused her some discomfort.

‘I hope to God this isn’t going to take too long,’ she said.

‘Start her up,’ I told Quirrenbach.

‘Tanner, there’s still . . .’

‘Just start the fucking thing up,’ Zebra said. ‘Or the only composing you’ll be doing is decomposing.’

That did the trick; Quirrenbach pressed a button and the machine rumbled into life. It clunked its way along the pipe, moving like a slow mechanical centipede. The machine’s front and back moved jerkily, the suction grips hammering the wall, but the part where we were seated travelled relatively smoothly. Though there was no steam in the tunnel now, the metal sides were hot to the touch and the air was like a steady belch from the depths of hell. It was cramped and dark except for the weak illumination from the basic controls placed in front of our seats. The pipeline walls were smooth as glacial ice, polished that way by the monstrous pressures of the steam. Though the pipe had started out horizontally, it soon began to curve, gently at first, and then to something that was not far off vertical. My seat was now a deeply uncomfortable harness from which I was hanging, constantly aware of the kilometres of pipe that fell away below me and the fact that all that was stopping me dropping into those depths was the suction pressure of the cups arrayed around the inspection robot.

‘We’re heading for the cracking station, aren’t we?’ Zebra said, raising her voice above the machine’s hammering progress. ‘That’s where they make it, isn’t it?’

‘Makes a kind of sense,’ I said, thinking about the station. That was where all the pipes came from: the city’s great taproots. The station nestled deep in the chasm, lost under the perpetual mist layer. It was where titanic conversion machines sucked in the hot, raw gaseous poison rising from the chasm’s depths. ‘It’s out of the way of any jurisdiction, and the people who crew it must have the kinds of advanced chemical tools they’d need to synthesise something like Dream Fuel.’

‘You think everyone who works down there is in on the secret?’

‘No; probably just a small clique of workers producing the drug, unknown to anyone else in the station. Isn’t that the case, Quirrenbach?’

‘I told you,’ he said, adjusting a control so that our rate of progress increased, the hammering becoming a harsh tattoo. ‘I was never allowed close to the source.’

‘So how much do you know, exactly? You must know something about the synthesis process.’

‘Why would it interest you if I did?’

‘Because it doesn’t make much sense to me,’ I said. ‘The plague made a lot of things stop working. Implants - complicated ones, anyway. Sub-cellular nano robots; medichines - whatever you want to call them. That was bad news for the postmortals, wasn’t it? Their therapies usually needed some intervention by those little machines. Now they had to make do without.’

‘And?’

‘Suddenly something else shows up which almost does the job just as well. Better, in some ways. Dream Fuel’s childishly easy to administer - it doesn’t even need to be tailored to the person it’s being used on. It heals injuries and it restores memories.’ I thought back to the man I’d seen thrashing on the ground, desperate for a tiny drop of the scarlet stuff even though the plague had already subsumed half his body. ‘It even confers protection from the plague for people who haven’t discarded their machines. It’s almost too good to be true, Quirrenbach.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning I’m wondering how something that useful ended up being invented by criminals. It would be hard enough to imagine it being created before the plague, even when the city still had the means to create wonderful new technologies. Now? There are parts of the Mulch where they haven’t even got steam power. And while there might be a few high-tech enclaves in the Canopy, they’re more interested in playing games than developing miracle cures. But that seems to be exactly what they’ve ended up with - even if the supply is currently a little tight.’

‘It didn’t exist before the plague,’ Zebra said.

‘Too much of a coincidence,’ I said. ‘Which makes me wonder if they might both have the same origin.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself that you’re the first to have had that thought.’

‘No, I wouldn’t dream of it.’ I scraped sweat from my brow, already feeling like I’d been in a sauna for an hour. ‘But you have to admit the point is valid.’

‘I wouldn’t know. I don’t profess any great interest in the matter.’

‘Not even when the fate of the city might depend on it?’

‘Except it wouldn’t, would it? A few thousand postmortals, ten at the most. Dream Fuel may be a precious substance to those who’ve acquired a dependence on it, but for the majority it’s of no consequence whatsoever. Let them die; see if I care. In a few centuries everything that’s happened here will be little more than a historical footnote. I, meanwhile, have considerably larger and more ambitious fish to fry.’ Quirrenbach adjusted some more controls, tapping a gauge here and there. ‘But then I’m an artist. All this is mere diversion. You, on the other hand . . . I confess I really don’t understand you, Tanner. Yes, you may now have some obligation to Taryn, but your interest in Dream Fuel was apparent from the moment we searched Vadim’s cabin. By your own admission you came here to murder Argent Reivich, not to sort out a minor supply shortage in our sordid little drugs industry.’

‘Things became a little more complicated, that’s all.’

‘And?’

‘There’s something about Dream Fuel, Quirrenbach. Something that makes me think I’ve seen it before.’

But there was a way in. Sky, Norquinco and Gomez located it by undocking and scouting around the ship for another thirty minutes, until they found the hole that Oliveira and Lago must have used to get inside. It was only a few tens of metres from where Oliveira’s shuttle was parked; near the point where the spine connected to the rest of the ship. It was so small that Sky had missed it completely on the first pass, lost as it was amongst the blisterlike protuberances on the ship’s ruined side.

‘I think we should go back,’ Gomez said.

‘We’re going in.’

‘Didn’t you listen to a word of what Oliveira said to us? And doesn’t it worry you in the slightest that this ship appears to be made of something strange? That it looks like a crude attempt at copying one of our ships?’

‘It worries me, yes. It also makes me even more determined to get inside.’

‘Lago went inside as well.’

‘Well, I guess we’ll just have to keep a look-out for him, won’t we?’ Sky was ready now. He had not bothered removing his helmet since the last time he had gone through the airlock.

‘I also want to see what’s inside,’ Norquinco said.

‘One of us at least should stay aboard the shuttle,’ Gomez said. ‘If the ship that swept us with the radar gets here in the next few hours, it would be good to have someone ready to do something about it.’

‘Fine,’ said Sky. ‘You just volunteered for the job.’

‘I didn’t mean . . .’

‘I don’t care what you meant. Just accept it. If Norquinco and I run into anything that needs your input, you’ll be the first to know.’

They left the shuttle, using thruster harnesses to cross the short distance to the Caleuche’s hull. When they landed near the hole it was like touching down on a softly yielding mattress. They stood up, gripped to the ship by the adhesive soles of their shoes.

There was an obvious and vital question that Sky had almost managed not to ask himself, but now it must be dealt with. There was no way in his experience that the hull of a ship could be transmuted to this sponge-like state. Metal simply did not do that by itself - even if it had been exposed to the glare of an antimatter explosion. No; whatever had happened here was far beyond his experience. It was as if the ghost ship’s hull had been replaced, atom by atom, by some new and disturbingly pliant substance which replicated the old details in only the broadest terms. There was shape and texture and colour, but no function, like a crude cast of the original ship. Was he even standing on the Caleuche, or was that just another flawed assumption?

Sky and Norquinco walked to the lip of the hole, poking the muzzles of their guns into the gloom. The lip was ragged and scorched with heat marks and had the puckered, wrinkled look of a half-closed mouth. A metre or two below the surface, however, the wall of the hole was lined with a thick, fibrous mass which glistened gently as their torchlight skittered across it. Sky thought he recognised that mass; it was a matrix of extruded diamond fibres embedded in epoxy, a quick-drying paste that could be used to repair hull punctures. Oliveira had probably located a weak spot on the Caleuche - he must have taken the time to make a density map before selecting this point - and had then used something to cut through, a laser torch or even the exhaust of his shuttle. Once he had bored the shaft, he had lined it with the spray-on sealant from his shuttle’s emergency kit, presumably to prevent it collapsing shut.

‘We’ll go in this way,’ Sky said. ‘Oliveira must have found the most promising entry point; there’s no sense in duplicating his effort when we’ve so little time to spare.’

They checked that the inertial compasses built into their suits were functioning accurately, defining their current position as a zero point. The Caleuche was neither spinning nor tumbling, so the compasses would prevent them getting lost once they were inside, but even if the compasses proved unreliable, they would be able to retrace their way to the wound in the hull, deploying a line as they went.

Sky halted in his thoughts, wondering why he had just thought of the hole in the hull as a wound?

They went in, Sky first. The hole led into a rough-walled tunnel which cut straight into the hull, threading down for ten or twelve metres. Normally by this point - had the ship been the Santiago - they would have passed right through the hull’s outer integument and would be passing through a series of narrow service cavities, squeezing between the multitude of data-lines, power cables and refrigerant pipes; perhaps even one of the train tunnels. There were, Sky knew, points where the hull was more or less solid for several metres, but he was reasonably sure this was not one of them.

Now the sides of the shaft, or tunnel, or however he preferred to think of it, had become harder and more glossy - less like elephant hide and more like insect chitin. He shone his torch light ahead into the gloom, the beam sliding off the shining black surface. Then - just when it looked like it would end abruptly - the shaft jogged violently to the right. Fully suited, with the additional bulk of the thruster harness, it was an effort to squeeze round the bend - but at least the smooth-sided shaft would not snag his suit or rip away any vital component. He looked back and saw Norquinco following him, the other man’s slightly larger bulk making the exercise even less easy.

But now the shaft widened out, and after it intersected with another the going became even easier. Periodically Sky stopped and asked Norquinco to ensure that the line was spooling out properly and that the line was still taut, but the inertial compasses were still functioning properly, recording their movements relative to the entry point.

He tried the radio. ‘Gomez? Can you read me?’

‘Loud and clear. What have you found?’

‘Nothing. Yet. But I think we can say with some confidence that this isn’t the Caleuche. Norquinco and I must be twenty metres into the hull, and we’re still moving through what feels like solid material.’

Gomez waited for a few moments before answering. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’

‘No, not if we keep on assuming this is a ship like our own. I don’t think it is. I think it’s something else - something we definitely weren’t expecting.’

‘Do you think it came from home - that it’s something they sent out after we left?’

‘No. They’ve only had a century, Gomez. I don’t think that’s enough time to come up with something like this.’ They slithered deeper. ‘It doesn’t feel like anything human. It doesn’t even feel like we’re inside a machine.’

‘But whatever it is, it just happens to look exactly like one of our own ships from the outside.’

‘Yes - until you get close. My guess is it altered its shape to mimic us; some kind of protective camouflage. Which worked, didn’t it? Titus . . . my father . . . he always thought there was another Flotilla ship trailing us. That was disturbing, but it could be explained by some event which had happened in the past. If he’d known there was an alien ship following us, it would have changed everything.’

‘What could he have done about it?’

‘I don’t know. Alert the other ships, perhaps. He would have assumed it meant us harm.’

‘Maybe he was right.’

‘I don’t know. It’s been out here an awfully long time. It hasn’t done much in all those years.’

Something happened then - a noise that they felt, rather than heard, like the sonorous clang of a very large bell. They were floating through vacuum so the reverberation must have been transmitted through the hull.

‘Gomez - what the hell was that?’

His voice came through weakly. ‘I don’t know - nothing happened here. But you’re suddenly a lot fainter.’

After we had been descending for nearly two hours, I saw something below, far down the vertical pipeline.

It was a faint golden glow, but it was coming closer.

I thought about the episode I had just had. I could still taste Sky’s fear as he entered the Caleuche; hard and metallic like the taste of a bullet. It seemed very much like the fear I was feeling myself. We were both descending into darkness; both of us seeking answers - or rewards - but also knowing that we were placing ourselves in great danger, with very little idea of what lay ahead. The way the episode resonated with my present experience was chilling. Sky had gone beyond simply infecting my mind with images. Now he seemed to be steering me, shaping my actions to commemorate his own ancient deeds; like a puppeteer whose strings stretched across three centuries of history. I clenched my fist, expecting that the episode would have caused blood to gush from my hand.

But my palm was perfectly dry.

The inspection robot continued its clunking descent. Nothing that Quirrenbach had done lately had made the machine move any faster. It was unbearably hot now and I reckoned none of us would have survived more than three or four hours before dying of heat exhaustion.

But it was getting lighter.

I soon saw why. Below us, but coming closer now, was a section of pipeline walled in filthy glass. Quirrenbach made the machine rotate so that none of us were easily visible by the time the robot began to descend through the transparent section. I still had a good view of the dark chamber we were moving through, a cavernous room infested with looming curved machinery: huge stovelike pressure vessels connected by networks of shiny intestinal tubing and festooned with slender catwalks. Rows of mighty turbines stretched away across the floor like sleeping dinosaurs.

We had reached the cracking station.

I looked around, wondering at the silent vastness.

‘There doesn’t seem to be anyone on duty,’ Zebra said.

‘Is this normal?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘This part of the operation more or less runs itself. But I’d hated to have picked the one day when there was someone on duty who noticed the three of us coming down.’

Many dozens of pipes, much like the one I was descending, reached to the ceiling, a wide circular sheet of glass spoked by dark metal supports, and then rammed through it. Beyond it was only a stained soot-grey fog, for the cracking station lay deep in the chasm and was usually covered by the mist. Only when the fog parted momentarily, cleaved open by the chaotic thermals which spiralled up the chasm’s side, could I see the immense sheer walls of planetary rock rising above. Far, far above was the antenna-like extension of the stalk, where Sybilline had taken me to watch the mist jumpers. That had been only a couple of days ago, but it felt like an eternity.

We were far beneath the city now.

The inspection robot continued its descent. I had expected that we would stop somewhere near the floor of the cracking chamber, but Quirrenbach carried us slowly below the turbine floor, into darkness again. Perhaps there was another chamber to the cracking station, below the one we had passed through. I managed to cling to this idea for a while . . . until I knew that we had descended much too far for that to be the case.

The pipe we were in reached completely through the cracking station.

We were going deeper still. The pipe made a few jogging changes of direction, almost threading sideways at one point, and then we were descending again. It was so hot now that it was an effort to stay awake. My mouth was so dry that just thinking of drinking a glass of cold water was too much like mental torture. Somehow I stayed conscious, however - knowing I would need clarity of mind when I arrived wherever the robot was taking me.

Another thirty or forty minutes, then I saw another light below me.

It looked like journey’s end.

‘You too. Norquinco - check the . . .’ But even as he said it, Sky directed his torch back up the shaft they had come down, and he could see how the previously taut line was now beginning to drift, as if it had length to spare. It must have been severed somewhere further up the shaft.

‘Let’s get out now,’ Norquinco said. ‘We haven’t come very far - we can still find our, um, way back.’

‘Through solid hull? That line didn’t cut itself.’

‘Gomez has cutting equipment on the shuttle. He can get us out if he knows where we are.’

Sky thought about it. Everything that Norquinco said was correct, and any right-thinking person would now be doing their utmost to get back to the surface. Part of him wanted to do that as well. But another, stronger part was even more determined to understand what this ship - if it was a ship - actually meant. It was alien; he felt utterly sure of that now - and that meant it was the first evidence of alien intelligence any human being had ever witnessed. And - staggering though the odds were - it had latched itself onto his Flotilla, finding the slow, frail arks in the immensity of space. Yet it had chosen not to contact them, instead shadowing them for decades.

What would he find inside it? The supplies he had hoped to find aboard the Caleuche - even the unused antimatter - might be insignificant prizes compared to what really lay here, waiting to be exploited. Somehow or other this ship had matched velocities with the Flotilla, achieving eight per cent of lightspeed - and something made him certain that the alien ship had not found that in any way difficult; that achieving this speed had probably been trivially simple. Somewhere inside this worm-ridden solid black hull there had to be recognisable mechanisms which had pushed her up to her current speed, and which he might be able to exploit - not necessarily understand, he admitted that - but certainly exploit.

And perhaps, much more than that.

He had to go deeper. Anything less than that would be failure. ‘We’re carrying on,’ he told Norquinco. ‘For another hour. We’ll see what we find in that time, and we’ll be careful not to get lost. We still have the inertial compasses, don’t we?’

‘I don’t like it, Sky.’

‘Then think about what you might learn. Think of how this ship might work - its data networks; its protocols; the very paradigms underpinning her design. They might be exquisitely alien; as far beyond our modes of thinking as - I don’t know - a strand of DNA is beyond a single-chain polymer. It would take a special kind of mind to even begin to grasp some of the principles which might be at play. A mind of unusual calibre. Don’t tell me you aren’t the slightest bit curious, Norquinco.’

‘I hope you burn in hell, Sky Haussmann.’

‘I’ll take that as a yes.’

The inspection robot shunted itself into another branch of the pipe, just like the one where Quirrenbach had found it back on the surface. The hammering of the suction pads slowed, quietened and stopped, the machine ticking quietly to itself. We were in complete darkness and silence except for distant, thunder-like sounds of superheated steam roaring through remote parts of the pipe network. I touched the hot metal of the pipe with the tip of my finger and felt the faintest of tremors. I hoped that it didn’t mean there was a wall of scalding, thousand-atmosphere steam slamming towards us.

‘It’s still not too late to turn back,’ Quirrenbach said.

‘Where’s your sense of curiosity?’ I said, feeling like Sky Haussmann goading Norquinco forwards.

‘About eight kilometres above us, I think.’

That was when someone slid back a panel on the side of the pipe and looked at all three of us as if we were a consignment of excrement someone had sent down from Chasm City.

‘I know you,’ the man said, nodding at Quirrenbach. Then he nodded once at me and once at Zebra. ‘I don’t know you. And I certainly don’t know you.’

‘And I don’t know you from shit,’ I said, getting my own word in before the man who had opened the pipe could get the edge over me. I was already heaving myself out of the robot, relishing the chance to stretch my legs for the first time in hours. ‘Now show me where I can get a drink.’

‘Who are you?’

‘The man asking you for a fucking drink. What’s wrong? Did someone seal up your ears with pig shit?’

He seemed to get the message. I’d gambled that the man wouldn’t be a major player in whatever operation was going on down here and that a large part of his job description would consist of taking abuse from visiting thugs a little higher up the food chain.

‘Hey, no offence, man.’

‘Ratko, this is Tanner Mirabel,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘And this is . . . Zebra. I phoned through to say we were on our way down to see Gideon.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘And if you didn’t get the message, that’s your fucking problem, not mine.’

Quirrenbach appeared impressed enough to want to join in. ‘That’s fucking right. And get the fucking man the . . . get the man the fucking drink he asked for.’ He wiped a sleeve across his parched lips. ‘And get me one too, Ratko, you, er, fucking little cocksucker.’

‘Cocksucker? That’s good, Quirrenbach. Really good.’ The man patted him on the back. ‘Keep on taking the assertiveness lessons - they’re really paying off.’ Then he looked at me with what was almost an expression of sympathy, a professional-to-professional thing. ‘All right. Follow me.’

We followed Ratko out of the pipe room. His expression was difficult to read, since his eyes were hidden behind grey goggles sprouting various delicate sensory devices. He wore a coat patterned like Vadim’s, but of shorter cut, its patches a little less rough and more lustrous.

‘So, friends,’ Ratko said. ‘What brings you down here?’

‘Call it a quality inspection,’ I said.

‘No one’s complaining about quality that I hear of.’

‘Then maybe you haven’t been listening too well,’ Zebra said. ‘The shit’s getting harder and harder to track down.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, really,’ I said. ‘It’s not just the Fuel shortage. There’s a problem with purity. Zebra and I supply Fuel to a portfolio of clients all the way up to the Rust Belt. And we’re getting complaints. ’ I tried to sound menacingly reasonable. ‘Now - that could mean a problem somewhere in the chain of supply between here and the Belt - there are a lot of weak links in that chain, and believe me, I’m investigating them all. But it could also mean the basic product is getting degraded. Cut, watered, whatever you want to call it. That’s why we’re making this a personal visit, with Mister Quirrenbach’s assistance. We need to see that there’s still such a thing as high-quality Dream Fuel being manufactured in the first place. If there isn’t, someone’s been lying to someone else and there’s going to be more shit hitting the fan than in a Force Ten shitstorm. Either way, it’s bad news for someone.’

‘Hey, listen,’ Ratko said, holding up his hands. ‘Everyone knows there are problems at source level. But only Gideon can help you with the why.’

I threw out a line. ‘I hear he enjoys his privacy.’

‘He doesn’t have much choice, does he?’

I laughed, trying to make it sound as convincing as possible, without understanding what I was laughing at. But the way the man with the goggles had said it, he obviously thought he had made a joke of some kind.

‘No, I guess not.’ I changed the tone of my voice, now that he and I had established some shaky grounds for mutual respect. ‘Well, let’s put our relationship on a more friendly footing, shall we? You can put my doubts about the immediate quality of the product to rest by providing me with - how shall we say - a small commercial sample?’

‘What’s wrong?’ Ratko said, reaching into his coat and handing me a small, dark-red vial. ‘Got high on your own supply once too often?’

I took the vial, Zebra passing me her wedding-gun. I knew I had to do it; that only Fuel would enable me to unlock the final secrets of my past.

‘You know how it is,’ I said.

Sky and Norquinco pushed onwards, always keeping a wary eye on the inertial compasses. The shaft branched and twisted, but the head-up displays on their helmets always showed their positions relative to the shuttle, together with the route they had so far followed, so there was no real possibility of getting lost, even if they might encounter obstructions on the way out. The route they had taken led more or less to the middle of the ship, and now they were heading roughly forward, towards where the command sphere should be. They had been carrying on for perhaps five minutes when there was another bell-like reverberation, as if the entire hull had been struck like a gong. It seemed fractionally stronger this time.

‘That’s it,’ Norquinco said. ‘Now we’re going back.’

‘No, we’re not. We lost the line already, and we already have to cut ourselves out. Now it just means we have some more to cut through.’

Reluctantly now, Norquinco followed him. But something was changing. Their suit sensors were beginning to pick up traces of nitrogen and oxygen instead of hard vacuum. It was as if air were slowly building up inside the shaft; as if the two clangs they had heard had been part of some immense alien airlock.

‘There’s light ahead,’ Sky said when the air pressure had reached one atmosphere and begun climbing beyond it.

‘Light?’

‘Sickly yellow light. I’m not imagining it. It’s like it’s coming from the walls themselves.’

He turned off his torch light, ordering Norquinco to do likewise. For a moment they were in near darkness. Sky shivered, feeling again the old, never-entirely-vanquished terror of darkness which the nursery had instilled in him. But then his eyes began to adjust to the ambient illumination and it was almost as if they still had the torches on. Better, in fact, for the pale yellow light reached far ahead of them, revealing the tract of the tunnel for tens of metres.

‘Sky? There’s something else.’

‘What?’

‘I suddenly feel like I’m crawling downhill.’

He wanted to laugh; wanted to put Norquinco down, but he felt it too. Something was definitely pressing his body against one side of the shaft. It was soft now, but as he crawled further (and now it really was a kind of crawling), it increased in strength, until he felt almost as if he was back aboard the Santiago, with her spin-generated artificial gravity. But the alien ship had been neither spinning nor accelerating.

‘Gomez?’

The answer, when it came, was incredibly faint. ‘Yes. Where are you?’

‘Deep. We’re somewhere near the command sphere.’

‘I don’t think so, Sky.’

‘That’s what our inertial compasses say.’

‘Then they must be wrong. Your radio emissions are coming from halfway down the spine.’

For the second time he felt terror, but now it had nothing to do with the absence of light. They had not been crawling for anywhere near the length of time needed to get that far down the ship. Had the hull somehow reshaped itself while they were inside, ferrying them helpfully along? The radio emissions must be correct, he thought - Gomez must have a reasonably accurate fix on their positions from signal triangulation, even though the mass of the intervening hull made his estimate imprecise. But that meant the inertial compasses had been lying almost as soon as they entered the ship. And now they were moving through some kind of static gravitational field; something intrinsic to the hull rather than an illusion created by acceleration or rotation. It appeared able to tug them in arbitrary ways depending on the geometry of the shaft. No wonder the inertial compasses had given false readings. Gravity and inertia were so subtly entwined that you could hardly bend one without bending the other.

‘They must have complete control of the Higgs field,’ Norquinco said, wonderingly. ‘It’s a pity Gomez isn’t here. He’d have a theory by now.’

The Higgs field, Norquinco reminded Sky, was something that was believed to pervade all space; all matter. Mass and inertia were not actually intrinsic properties of the fundamental particles at all, but were simply effects of the drag imposed on them as they interacted with the Higgs field - like the drag imposed on a celebrity trying to cross a room full of admirers. Norquinco seemed to think that the builders of the ship had found a way to let the celebrity slip through unmolested - or to impede its progress even further. It was as if the builders could turn up or turn down the density of admirers, and restrict or enhance their ability to pester the celebrity. That was, he knew, a hopelessly crude way of imagining something that Gomez - and perhaps even Norquinco - might be able to begin to glimpse without layers of metaphor, seeing straight to the glistening mathematical heart of it, but for Sky it was sufficient. The builders could manipulate gravity and inertia as easily as they manipulated the sickly yellow light, and perhaps without giving it much more thought.

Which meant, of course, that his hunch had been right. If there was something aboard this ship which could teach him that technique, imagine what it could do for the Flotilla - or for the Santiago, anyway. They had been trying to shed mass for years, so that they could delay their deceleration to the last possible moment. What if they could just turn the Santiago’s mass off, like a light switch? They could enter Swan’s system at eight per cent of the speed of light and come to a dead stand-still in orbit around Journey’s End, cutting their speed in an instant. Even if nothing that dramatic was possible, any reduction in the ship’s inertia - even if it were only a few per cent - would have been welcome.

The external air pressure was now well above one and a half atmospheres, although it was climbing less quickly now. It was warm, heavy with moisture and some other trace gases which, while harmless, would not have been present in the same ratios in the air Sky normally breathed. Gravity reached a plateau of half a gee; it occasionally ducked below that value, but it was never higher. And the sickly yellow light was now bright enough to read by. Now and then they had to crawl across an indentation in the floor of the shaft which was full of thick, dark liquid. There were traces of it everywhere: a bloodlike red smear sliming every surface.

‘Sky? This is Gomez.’

‘Speak up. I can hardly hear you.’

‘Sky; listen to me. We’ll have company within five hours. There are two shuttles approaching us. They know we’re here. I risked a radar bounce off them to get a distance fix.’

Fine; by now he would probably have done the same thing himself. ‘Leave it at that. Don’t speak to them or do anything that would let them identify us as having come from the Santiago.’

‘Just get out of there, will you? We can still make a run for it now.’

‘Norquinco and I aren’t done yet.’

‘Sky, I don’t think you realise—’

He broke off the link, more interested in what lay ahead. Something was coming towards them, moving down the same shaft. It transported itself with grublike oscillations of its fattened pink-white body, like a maggot.

‘Norquinco?’ he said, bringing his gun to the fore and pointing it down the shaft, ‘I think someone’s come to welcome us aboard.’ He wondered how frightened he sounded.

‘I can’t see anything. No; wait - now I can. Oh.’

The creature was only the size of an arm; not really large enough to do either of them any physical harm. It lacked any obviously dangerous organs; no jaws that Sky could see. At the front was only a crownlike frill: translucent tendrils which waved ahead of the creature. Even if they had been venomous, he was still safe in his suit. The creature appeared to have neither eyes nor manipulative limbs. He repeated these reassuring observations to himself, examined his state of mind and was slightly disappointed to find that he was still just as frightened as before.

But the maggot did not seem particularly frightened by the newcomers. It simply halted and waved its ghostly tendrils in their direction. The thing’s pale pink segmented body blushed a deeper shade of red, and then an arterial red secretion oozed from between the segments, forming a fresh scarlet puddle beneath it. Then the puddle extended tendrils of its own, creeping forward as if running downhill. Sky felt his sense of what was vertical shift dizzyingly, as if there had been a local change in the direction of gravity. The red fluid trickled towards them like a scarlet tide, and then it was flowing up and around their suits. For a moment Sky felt that he had been turned upside down, and he was falling. The red veil passed over his faceplate, as if seeking a way into his suit. Then it passed.

Gravity returned to normal. Breathing hard, still terrified, he watched the puddle of red return to the maggot and then seep back into the creature. The maggot was red for a moment, then the blush slowly faded back to pink.

Then the maggot did something very odd, not turning itself in the shaft, but reversing itself; the tendrils retracting into the body at one end and popping out the other. The creature undulated back into the shaft’s yellow depths. It was as if nothing at all had happened.

Then a voice spoke to them. It boomed through the walls at Godlike volume, and it sounded too deep to be human.

‘It’s good to have some company,’ it said, in Portuguese.

‘Who are you?’ Sky said.

‘Lago. Come and see me, please; it isn’t very far now.’

‘And what if we choose to leave you?’

‘I’ll be sad, but I won’t stop you.’

The reverberations of the Godlike voice died down, all as it had been before the maggot had arrived. The two of them were breathing hard, as if they had just been sprinting. Long moments passed before Norquinco spoke. ‘We’re going back to the shuttle. Now.’

‘No. We’re going onwards, just as we told Lago we would.’

Norquinco gripped Sky’s arm. ‘No! This is insanity. Did you just erase what happened from your short-term memory?’

‘We were invited further into the ship by something which could already have killed us if it had that in mind.’

‘Something which called itself Lago. Even though Oliveira . . .’

‘Didn’t actually say that Lago was dead.’ Sky fought to hold the fear from his voice. ‘Just that something had happened to him. Personally, I’m interested in finding out what that something was. And also anything else this ship, or whatever it is, might be able to tell us.’

‘Fine. Then go ahead. I’m going back.’

‘No. You’re staying here, coming with me.’

Norquinco hesitated before answering. ‘You can’t force me.’

‘No, but I can certainly make it worth your while.’ Now it was Sky’s turn to place his hand on the other man’s arm. ‘Use your imagination, Norquinco. There must be things here that could shatter every paradigm we’ve ever recognised. At the very least there must be things here that can get us to Journey’s End ahead of the other ships, perhaps even give us a tactical advantage when they arrive behind us and start contesting territorial rights.’

‘You’re aboard an alien spacecraft and all you can think of is petty human issues like squabbles over land rights?’

‘Believe me, those things won’t seem so petty in a few years.’ He grasped Norquinco’s arm even tighter, feeling the layers of suit fabric compress beneath his grip. ‘Think, man! Everything could stem from this one moment. Our whole history could be shaped by what happens here and now. We aren’t small players, Norquinco; we’re colossi. Grasp that, just for a instant. And start thinking of the kinds of rewards that come to men who make history happen. Men like us.’ He thought back to the Santiago; of the hidden room where he kept the Chimeric infiltrator. ‘I’ve already made longterm plans, Norquinco. My safety is guaranteed on Journey’s End, even if events turn against us. If that should happen, I’d also arrange for your own safety, your own security. And if things didn’t turn against us, I could make you a very powerful man indeed.’

‘And if I should turn around now, and go back to the shuttle?’

‘I wouldn’t hold it against you,’ Sky said softly. ‘This is a terrifying place, after all. But I wouldn’t guarantee you any sanctuary in the years that lie ahead.’

Norquinco dislodged Sky’s grip from his arm, looking away until he had found his answer. ‘All right. We go on. But we don’t spend more than an hour in this place.’

Sky nodded, though the gesture was wasted. ‘I’m pleased, Norquinco. I knew you were a man who’d see sense.’

They advanced. The going became easier now, as if the shaft was always sloping downwards - it hardly required any effort at all to slither down it. Sky thought of the way the red fluid had moved around him. The local control of gravity was so precise that the fluid had looked alive, flowing like a vastly accelerated slime mould. The creatures that had built the ship had learned to do far more than alter the Higgs field. They could play it like a piano.

Whatever they are, he thought - whether they were all like the maggot - they had to be millions of years in advance of humanity. The Flotilla must seem inexpressibly primitive to them. Perhaps they had not even been sure it was the product of intelligent thinking at all. And yet it had interested them.

The shaft opened out into a huge, smooth-walled cavern. They had emerged a little way up the side of one of its scalloped walls, but the place was so thick with cloying vapour that it was difficult to see the other side. The chamber was bathed in foetid yellow light and the floor was hidden beneath an enormous lake of red fluid which must have been many metres deep. There were dozens of maggots in the lake, some of them almost completely submerged. Many of them were of slightly different sizes and shapes to the one they had seen so far. Some were much larger than a man, and their end-tendrils included specialised appendages and, perhaps, sensory organs. One in particular was looking at Sky and Norquinco now, with a single human-looking eye on the end of a stalk. But by far the largest maggot sat in the middle of the lake, its pale pink body rising metres from the water; tens of metres long. It turned the end of its body towards them, a small crown of tendrils waving frondlike in the air.

There was a mouth beneath the frond; absurdly small against the size of the maggot. It was human in shape, fringed in red, and when it spoke - emitting an immense, booming voice - it formed human sound shapes.

‘Hello,’ it said. ‘I’m Lago.’

I held the vial up to the light for a moment before slipping it into the breach. The way the red fluid twinkled, the way it flowed sluggishly one moment and then with blinding speed the next . . . it reminded me far too much of the red lake at the heart of the Caleuche. Except that there never was a Caleuche, was there? Just something much stranger, to which the ghost ship myth had attached itself like a parasite. And hadn’t that memory of Sky’s always been there, at the back of my mind? I had recognised Dream Fuel from almost the moment I saw it.

There was enough in that red lake to drown in, I thought.

I slammed the wedding gun against my neck and pushed the Fuel into my carotid artery. There was no rush; no hallucinogenic transition. Fuel was not a drug in that sense; it acted globally across the brain rather than hitting any single region. It wanted only to arrest cellular decay and to repair recent damage; bringing memories back into focus and re-establishing connective pathways that had recently been broken. It seemed to tap into a recent map of what had been, as if the body carried a lingering field which changed more slowly than the cellular patterns themselves. That was why Fuel was able to fix both injuries and memories just as easily, without the drug itself knowing anything about physiology or neuro-anatomy.

‘Quality shit,’ Ratko said. ‘I only use the best myself, man.’

‘Then you’re saying that not everything that comes out of here is as good?’ Zebra asked.

‘Hey, like I said. One for Gideon.’

Ratko led the three of us along a series of twisting, makeshift tunnels. They had been equipped with lights and a rudimentary floor, but they were more or less bored through solid rock. It was as if the complex had been tunnelled back into the chasm wall.

‘I keep hearing rumours,’ I said. ‘About Gideon’s health. Some people think that’s why he’s letting the cheap stuff hit the streets. Because he’s too ill to manage his own lines of supply.’

I hoped I had not said anything which would betray my ignorance of the true situation. But Ratko just said, ‘Gideon’s still producing. That’s all that matters right now.’

‘I won’t know until I see him, will I?’

‘He’s not a pretty sight, I hope you realise.’

I smiled. ‘Word gets around.’

THIRTY-SIX

While Ratko was leading us towards Gideon I allowed the next episode to happen. That was how it seemed, anyway: that now it was up to me when it happened, as if it were simply a case of digging through three-hundred-year-old memories, sorting them into something like chronological order and letting the next lot flood my mind. There was nothing jarringly unfamiliar about it any more. It was as if I half knew exactly what was going to happen, but just hadn’t given the matter much recent thought, like a book I hadn’t opened in a long time, but whose story could never completely surprise me.

Sky and Norquinco were climbing down from the shaft where they had emerged, negotiating the chamber’s slippery, scalloped sides until they were standing near the shore of the red lake.

The maggot which rested in the lake, tens of metres away, had just introduced itself as Lago.

Sky steeled himself. He felt a tremendous sense of fear and strangeness, but he was convinced that it was his destiny to survive this place.

‘Lago?’ he said. ‘I don’t know. From what I gather, Lago was a man.’

‘I’m also that which existed before Lago.’ The voice, though loud, was calm and strangely lacking in menace. ‘This is difficult to say through Lago’s language. I am Lago, but I am also Travelling Fearlessly.’

‘What happened to Lago?’

‘That’s also not easy. Excuse me.’ There was a pause while gallons of red fluid gushed out of the maggot into the lake, and then gallons more flowed up into the maggot. ‘That’s better. Much better. Let me explain. Before Lago there was just Travelling Fearlessly, and Travelling Fearlessly’s helper grubs, and the void warren.’ The tendrils seemed to point out the cavern’s sides and ceiling. ‘But then the void warren was damaged, and many poor helper grubs had to be . . . there isn’t any word in Lago’s mind for this. Broken down? Dissolved? Degraded? But not lost fully.’

Sky looked at Norquinco, who had not said a word since entering the chamber. ‘What happened before your ship was damaged?’

‘Yes - ship. That’s it. Not void warren. Ship. Much better.’ The mouth smiled horribly and more red fluid rained out of the creature. ‘It’s a long time ago.’

‘Start at the beginning. Why were you following us?’

‘Us?’

‘The Flotilla. The five other ships. Five other void warrens.’ Despite his fear, he felt anger. ‘Christ, it’s not that difficult.’ Sky held up his fist and opened his fingers one at a time. ‘One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Understand? Five. There were five other void warrens, built by us - by people like Lago - and you chose to follow us. I’d like to know why.’

‘That was before the damage. After the damage, there were only four other void warrens.’

Sky nodded. So it understood something of what had happened to the Islamabad, anyway. ‘Meaning you don’t remember it as well?’

‘Not very well, no.’

‘Well, do your best. Where did you come from? What made you latch onto our Flotilla?’

‘There’ve been too many voids. Too many for Travelling Fearlessly to remember all the way back.’

‘You don’t have to remember all the way back. Just tell me how you got where you did.’

‘There was a time when there were just grubs, even though there had been many voids. We looked for other types of grub but didn’t find any.’ Meaning, Sky assumed, that there had been a time when Travelling Fearlessly’s people had crossed space, but not encountered any other form of intelligence.

‘How long ago was this?’

‘Ages ago. One and a half turns.’

Sky felt a chill of cosmic awe. Perhaps he was wrong, but he strongly suspected that the maggot was talking about rotations of the Milky Way; the time taken for a typical star at the current distance from the galactic centre to make one complete orbit. Each of those orbits would take more than two hundred million years . . . meaning that the grub’s racial memory - if that was what it was - encompassed more than three hundred million years of space travel. The dinosaurs had not even been a sketch on the evolutionary drawing board three hundred million years ago. It was a span of time that made humans, and everything humans had done, seem like a layer of dust on the summit of a mountain.

‘Tell me the rest.’

‘Then we did find other grubs. But they weren’t like us. Not like grubs at all, really. They didn’t want to . . . tolerate us. They were like a void warren but . . . empty. Just the void warren.’

A ship with no living things aboard it.

‘Machine intelligences?’

The mouth smiled again. It was quite obscene, really. ‘Yes. Machine intelligences. Hungry machines. Machines that eat grubs. Machines that eat us.’

Machines that eat us.

I thought of the way the maggot had said that; as if all it amounted to was a mildly irritating aspect of reality; something that had to be endured but which could not really be blamed upon anyone. I remembered my revulsion at the thought of the maggot’s defeatist mode of thinking.

No - not my revulsion, I told myself. Sky Haussmann’s.

I was right - wasn’t I?

Ratko led the three of us through the crudely excavated tunnels of the Dream Fuel factory. Now and then we passed through widened chambers, dimly lit, where workers in glossy grey coats leaned over benches so densely covered with chemical equipment that they resembled miniature glass cities. There were enormous retorts filled with litres of dark, twinkling blood-red Dream Fuel. At the very end of the production line, neat racks of filled vials waited ready for distribution. Many of the workers had goggles like those worn by Ratko, specialised lenses clicking and whirring into place for each task in the production process.

‘Where are you taking us?’ I said.

‘You wanted a drink, didn’t you?’

Quirrenbach whispered, ‘He’s taking us to see the man, I think. The man runs all this, so don’t underestimate him - even if he does have quite an unusual belief system.’

‘Gideon?’ Zebra asked.

‘Well, that’s part of it,’ Ratko said, obviously misunderstanding her.

We passed through another series of production labs, and then were led into a rough-walled office where a wizened old man lay - or sat, it wasn’t immediately clear - before an enormous, battered metal desk. The man was in a kind of wheelchair: a brutish, black, armoured contraption which was simmering gently, steam whispering out of leaking valves. Feedlines reached from the chair back into the wall. Presumably it could be decoupled from them when he needed to move around, gliding on the skeletal, curved-spoke wheels from which his chair was suspended.

The man’s body was hard to make out under its layers of aluminised blanketing. Two exquisitely bony arms emerged, the left placed across his thigh, the right toying with the army of black control levers and buttons set into one arm of the chair.

‘Hello,’ Zebra said. ‘You must be the man.’

He looked at each of us in turn. The man’s face was skin draped over bone, worn almost parchment-thin in places, so that he had a strangely translucent quality to him. But there was still an aura of handsomeness to him, and his eyes, when they finally looked in my direction, were like two piercing chips of interstellar ice. His jaw was strong, set almost contemptuously. His lips quivered as if he were on the verge of replying.

Instead, his right hand moved across the array of controls, depressing levers and pushing buttons with a dexterity that surprised me. His fingers, though they were thin, looked as strong and dangerous as the talons of a vulture.

He lifted his hand from the levers. Something started happening inside the chair, a rapid noisy clatter of mechanical switches. When the clatter stopped the chair began to speak, synthesising his words with a series of chime-like whistles which - if you concentrated - could be understood.

‘Self-evidently. What can I do for you?’

I stared at him in wonder. I had been assuming that Gideon would be many things, but I had never imagined anything like this.

‘You can fix us the drinks Ratko promised,’ I said.

The man nodded - the movement was economical, to say the least - and Ratko went to a cupboard set into a rocky niche in one corner of the office. He came back with two glasses of water. I drank mine in one gulp. It didn’t taste too bad, considering it had probably been steam only a little while earlier. Ratko offered something to Zebra and she accepted with clear misgivings, thirst obviously suppressing concerns that we might be poisoned. I put the empty glass down on his battered metal desk.

‘You’re not quite what I was expecting, Gideon.’

Quirrenbach nudged me. ‘This isn’t Gideon, Tanner. This is, well . . .’ and then he trailed off before adding weakly, ‘The man, like I said.’

The man punched a new set of orders into the chair. There was more clattering - it went on for about fifteen seconds - before the voice began to pipe out again, ‘No, I’m not Gideon. But you’ve probably heard of me. I made this place.’

‘What,’ said Zebra. ‘This maze of tunnels?’

‘No,’ he said, after another pause while the chair processed the words. ‘No. Not this maze of tunnels. This whole city. This whole planet.’ He had programmed a pause at that point. ‘I am Marco Ferris.’

I remembered what Quirrenbach had just told me about the man having an unusual belief system. Well, this certainly fitted the bill. But I couldn’t help but feel some sneaking empathy with the man in the steam-driven wheelchair.

After all, I wasn’t exactly sure who I was any more.

‘Well, Marco,’ I said. ‘Answer a question for me. Are you running this place, or is Gideon in charge? In fact, does Gideon even exist?’

The chair cluttered and clacked. ‘Oh, I am definitely running this place, Mister . . .’ He dismissed my name with a minute wave of his other hand; too much trouble to stop mid-sentence and query me. ‘But Gideon is here. Gideon has always been here. Without Gideon, I would not be here.’

‘Well, why don’t you take us to see him?’ Zebra said.

‘Because there is no need. Because no one gets to see Gideon without excellent reason. You do all your business through me, so why involve Gideon? Gideon is just the supplier. He doesn’t know anything.’

‘We’d still like a word with him,’ I said.

‘I’m sorry. Not possible. Not possible at all.’ He backed the chair away from the desk, the huge curved-spoke wheels rumbling on the floor.

‘I still want to see Gideon.’

‘Hey,’ said Ratko, stepping forward to interpose between myself and the man who thought he was Marco Ferris. ‘You heard the man, didn’t you?’

Ratko moved, but he was an amateur. I dropped him, leaving him moaning on the floor with a fractured forearm. I motioned to Zebra to lean down and help herself to the gun Ratko had been about to pull. Now we were both armed. I pulled out my own weapon, while Zebra aimed the other gun at Ferris, or whoever the man really was.

‘Here’s the deal,’ I said. ‘Take me to Gideon. Or take me to Gideon weeping in agony. How does that sound?’

He pushed and tugged at another set of controls, causing the chair to unplug itself from its steam feedlines. I suppose there could have been weapons set into the chair, but I didn’t think they would be fast enough to do him much good.

‘This way,’ Ferris said, after another, briefer period of clattering.

He took us along more tunnels, spiralling downwards again. The chair propelled itself along with a series of rapid puffs, Ferris steering it expertly through narrow chicanes of rock. I wondered about him. Quirrenbach - and perhaps Zebra - appeared to accept that he was delusional. But then if he wasn’t who he claimed, who was he?

‘Tell me how you got here,’ I said. ‘And tell me what it has to do with Gideon.’

More clattering. ‘That’s a long story. Luckily it’s one I’ve often been asked to recount. That’s why I have this pre-programmed statement ready.’

The chair clattered some more and then the voice recommenced: ‘I was born on Yellowstone, created in a steel womb and raised by robots. That was before we could transport living people from star to star. You had to be grown from a frozen egg cell; coaxed to life by robots that had already arrived.’ Ferris had been one of the Amerikanos; that much I knew already. That period was such a long time ago - before even Sky Haussmann’s time - that, in my mind at least, it had begun to blend into a general historical background of sailing ships, conquistadors, concentration camps and black plagues.

‘We found the chasm,’ Ferris told me. ‘That was the odd thing. No one had seen it from Earth’s system, even with the best instruments. It was too small a feature. But as soon as we started exploring our world, there it was. A deep hole in the planet’s crust, belching heat and a mixture of gases we could begin to process for air.

‘It made very little sense, geologically. Oh, I’ve seen the theories - how Yellowstone must have been tidally stressed by an encounter with the gas giant in the distant past, and how all that heat energy in her core has to percolate to the surface, escaping through vents like the chasm. And perhaps there’s some truth in that, though it can’t be the whole story. It doesn’t explain the strangeness of the chasm; why the gases are so different to the rest of the atmosphere: warmer, wetter, several degrees less toxic. It was almost like a calling card. That, in fact, is exactly what it was. I should know. I went down into it to see what was at the bottom.’

He had gone in with one of the atmospheric explorers, spiralling deeper and deeper into the chasm until he was well below the mist layer. Radar kept him from smashing into the sides, but it was still hazardous, and at some point his single-seat craft had suffered a power lapse, causing it to sink even deeper. Eventually he had bottomed out, thirty kilometres beneath the surface. His ship had landed on a layer of lightly packed rubble which filled the entire floor of the chasm. Automated repair processes had kicked in, but it would take tens of hours before the ship could carry him back up to the surface.

With nothing better to do, Ferris had donned one of the atmosphere suits - designed to cope with extremes of pressure, temperature and chemistry - and had begun exploring the layer of rubble. He called it the scree. The warm, wet, oxygen-rich air was steaming up through the gaps in the rocks.

Ferris scrambled down, finding a route through the rubble. It was perilously hot, and he could have fallen to his death many times, but he managed to keep his footing and negotiate a route which took him down hundreds of metres. The rubble pressed down on the layers below, but there were always gaps he could squeeze through; places where he could anchor pitons and lines. The thought of dying was with him always, but it was only ever an abstract thing. None of the first-born Amerikanos had ever had to understand death; they’d never had to watch people grow older than themselves and die. It was something that they did not grasp on a visceral level.

Which was good. Because if Ferris had understood the risks a little better, and understood exactly what death entailed, he probably would not have gone as deeply into the scree as he had.

And he would never have found Gideon.

They must have expanded through space until they met another species, Sky thought - some kind of robot or cyborg intelligence.

Gradually, tediously, he got something resembling a coherent story out of Travelling Fearlessly. The grubs had been a peaceable, innocent starfaring culture for many millions of years until they had run into the machines. The grubs had expanded into space for arcane reasons of their own which Travelling Fearlessly was not able to explain, except to convey that they had little to do with curiosity or a need for resources. It seemed to be simply what grubs did; an imperative which had been hardwired into them in evolutionary antiquity. They had no overwhelming interest in technology or science for their own sakes, seeming to get by on techniques they had acquired so long ago in racial memory terms that the underlying principles had been forgotten.

Predictably, they had not fared well when their outlying colonies had encountered the grub-eating machines. The grub-eaters began to make slow incursions into grub space, pressuring the aliens to modify behaviour patterns that had been locked rigid for tens of millions of years. To survive, the grubs first had to grasp that they were being persecuted.

Even that took a million years to sink in.

Then, with glacial slowness, they began, if not to fight back, then at the very least to develop survival strategies. They abandoned their surface colonies and evacuated themselves entirely into interstellar space, the better to hide from the grub-eaters. They constructed void warrens as large as small planets. By and by they encountered the harried remnants of other species who were also being persecuted by the eaters, though they had a different name for them. The grubs appropriated technologies as it suited their needs, usually without bothering to understand them. Control of gravity and inertia had come from a symbiotic race called the Nestbuilders. A form of instantaneous communication had been bequeathed by a culture who called themselves the Jumper Clowns. The grubs had been sternly admonished when they had asked if the same principles might be extended to instantaneous travel. To the Jumper Clowns there was a fine, blasphemous line between faster-than-light signalling and travel. The one was acceptable within tightly specified parameters of usage. The other was an unspeakable perversion; a concept so distasteful that it caused refined Jumper Clowns to shrivel up and die in revulsion.

Only the most uncouth of young species failed to grasp this.

But for all the technologies that the grubs and their loose allies held, it was never enough to beat the machines. They were always swifter; always stronger. Now and then there were organic victories, but the general drift of things was always such that the grub-eaters would win.

Sky was thinking about that when Gomez called him again. The urgency in his voice was obvious despite the weakness of the signal.

‘Sky. Bad news. The two shuttles have launched a pair of drones. They might just be cameras, but my guess is they’ll have anti-collision warheads on them. They’re on high-gee trajectories and they’ll reach us in about fifteen minutes.’

‘They wouldn’t do it,’ Norquinco said. ‘They wouldn’t attack us without first finding out what’s going on here. They’d run the risk of destroying a whole Flotilla ship which has, um, survivors and supplies on it, just like we thought it would have.’

‘No,’ Sky said. ‘They’d do it - if only to stop us getting hold of whatever they think’s on her.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘Why not? It’s exactly what I’d do.’

He told Gomez to sit tight and killed the link. The fraction of a day he had imagined they would have to themselves had now compressed down to less than a quarter of an hour. It was probably not enough time to make it back to the shuttle and get away, even if there had been no obstructions to cut through. But there was still time to do something. Time, in fact, to hear the rest of what Travelling Fearlessly had to say. It might make all the difference. Trying not to think of the minutes ticking away, and the missiles haring closer, he told the grub to continue his story.

The grub was happy to oblige.

‘Gideon,’ the man in the chair said, after he had curtailed the telling of his story with an abrupt sequence of commands.

We had arrived in a natural cavern, high up on one side of a concave rock face. There was a ledge here, large enough to accommodate the wheelchair. I thought of pushing Ferris over the edge, but there was a sturdy-looking safety rail, uninterrupted except for a point where it allowed entrance to a caged spiral staircase that led all the way down to the chamber’s floor.

‘Fuck,’ Quirrenbach said, looking over the edge.

‘You’re getting the hang of it,’ I said.

I would have been as shocked as Quirrenbach, I suppose - except that I’d been forewarned by what Sky had found inside the Caleuche. There was another maggot down there - bigger even than the one Sky had seen, I thought - but it was alone; there were no helper grubs with it.

‘This wasn’t quite what I was expecting,’ Zebra said.

‘It’s not what anyone’s ever expecting,’ the man in the chair said.

‘Someone please tell me what the fuck that thing is,’ Quirrenbach said, like someone hanging very grimly onto the last tattered shred of sanity.

‘Much what it looks like,’ I said. ‘A large alien creature. Intelligent, too, in its own special way. They call themselves the grubs.’

Quirrenbach spoke through clenched jaw, the words emerging one at a time. ‘How. Do. You. Know.’

‘Because I had the pleasure of meeting one before.’

‘When?’ Zebra asked.

‘A long, long time ago.’

Quirrenbach sounded like a man on the edge of a nervous breakdown. ‘You’re losing me, Tanner.’

‘Believe me, I’m not quite sure I believe it all myself.’ I nodded at Ferris. ‘You and him - the maggot - you have quite a relationship going, don’t you?’

The chair clattered. ‘It’s really rather simple. Gideon gives us something we need. I keep Gideon alive. What could be fairer than that?’

‘You torture it.’

‘Sometimes he needs encouragement, that’s all.’

I looked down at the maggot again. It rested in a metal enclosure, a steep-sided bath that was knee-deep in brackish dark fluid, like squid ink. He was chained in place, and all around him loomed scaffolding and catwalks. Obscure, industrial-looking machines waited on gantries to be moved over the maggot. Electrical cables and fluid lines plunged into him at various points along his length.

‘Where did you find him?’ Zebra said.

‘Here, as it happens,’ Ferris told her. ‘He was inside the remains of a ship. It had crashed here, at the base of the chasm, maybe a million years ago. A million years. But that’s nothing to him. Though damaged and incapable of flight, the ship had kept him alive, in semi-hibernation, for all that time.’

‘It just crashed here?’ I said.

‘There was more to it than that. It was running away from something. What, I’ve never really found out.’

I interrupted the sequence of sounds emanating from the chair. ‘Let me guess. A race of sentient, killer machines. They’d been attacking his race - and others - for millions of years themselves; harrying them from star to star. Eventually the grubs were pushed back into interstellar space, cowering away from starlight. But something must have driven this one here - a spying mission or something.’

He punched a new statement into the chair, which piped, ‘How would you know all this?’

‘Like I just told Quirrenbach: me and the maggots go back a long, long way.’

I retrieved Sky’s memory of what his grub had told him. The fugitive species learned that to survive at all they had to hide, and hide expertly. There were pockets of space where intelligence had not arisen in recent times - sterilised by supernova explosions, or neutron star mergers - and these cleansed zones made the best hiding places. But there were dangers. Intelligence was always waiting to emerge; new cultures were always evolving and spilling into space. It was these outbreaks of life which drew the predatory machines. They placed automated watching devices and traps around promising solar systems, ready to be triggered as soon as new spacefaring cultures stumbled upon them. So the grubs and their allies - the few that remained - grew intensely paranoid and watchful for the signs of new life.

The grubs had never really paid much attention to Earth’s system. Curiosity was still something that required an effort of will for them, and it was not until the signs of intelligence around Earth became blatant that the grubs forced themselves to become interested. They watched and waited to see if the humans would make any forays into interstellar space, and for centuries, and then thousands of years, nothing happened.

But then something did happen, and it was not auspicious.

What Ferris had learned from Gideon dovetailed exactly with what Sky had learned aboard the Caleuche. Ferris’s grub had been chased for hundreds of light years - across centuries of time - by a single pursuing enemy. The enemy machine moved faster than the grub ship, able to make sharper turns and steeper decelerations. The enemy made the grubs’ mastery of momentum and inertia look hamfisted in the extreme. Yet, fast and strong as the killing machines were, they had limitations - it might have been more accurate to call them blindspots - which the grubs had carefully documented over the millennia. Their techniques of gravitational sensing were surprisingly crude for such otherwise efficient killers. Grub vessels had sometimes survived attacks by hiding themselves near - or within - larger camouflaging masses.

Finding the yellow world, with the killing machine closing on him fast, Gideon had seen his chance. He had located the deep geologic feature with an emotion as close to blessed joy as his neurophysiology allowed.

On the approach, the enemy had engaged him with long-range weapons. But the grub had hidden his ship behind the planet’s moon, the salvo of antimatter slugs gouging a chain of craters across the moon’s surface. The grub had waited until the moon’s position allowed him to make a rapid, unseen descent into the atmosphere and then into the chasm, the potential hideaway he had already scouted from space. He had enlarged and deepened it with his own weapons, burrowing further and further into the world’s crust. Fortunately, the thick, poisonous atmosphere camouflaged most of his efforts. But on the way in he had made a terrible error, brushing the sheer walls with his projected skein of armouring force. A billion tonnes of rubble had come crashing down, entombing him when he had meant only to hide until the killing machine moved on to seek another target. He had expected to wait perhaps a thousand years, at the longest - an eyeblink in grub terms.

It had been considerably longer than that before anyone came.

‘He must have wanted you to find him,’ I said.

Ferris answered, ‘Yes. By then he figured the enemy must have moved on. He was using the ship to signal his presence, altering the ratios of gases in the chasm. Warming them, too. He was sending out other signals too - exotic radiation. But we didn’t even detect that.’

‘I don’t think the other grubs did either.’

‘For a long time, I think they kept in touch. I found something in his ship - something that didn’t seem to be part of it, intact where all else showed signs of great antiquity and loss of function. It was like a glittering dandelion ball about a metre wide, just floating in its own chamber, suspended in a cradle of force. Quite beautiful and mesmerising to look at.’

‘What was it?’ Zebra asked.

He had anticipated her question. ‘I tried to find out for myself, but the results I got - based on the extremely crude and limited tests I was capable of running - were contradictory; paradoxical. The thing seemed to be astonishingly dense; capable of stopping solar neutrinos dead in their tracks. The way it distorted light-rays around itself suggested the presence of an immense gravitational field - yet there was nothing. It simply floated there. You could almost reach out and touch it, except that there was a barrier all around it that made your fingers tingle.’ All the while that he had been speaking, Ferris had been entering another sequence of commands into his chair, his fingers moving with the effortless speed of an arpeggiating pianist. ‘I did eventually learn what it was, of course, but only by persuading the grub to tell me.’

‘Persuasion?’ I said.

‘He has what we may think of as pain receptors, and regions of his nervous system that produce emotional reactions analogous to fear and panic. It was only a matter of locating them.’

‘So what was it?’ Zebra asked.

‘A communicational device, but a very singular one.’

‘Faster than light?’

‘Not quite,’ he answered me, after the usual pause. ‘Certainly not in the sense that you’d recognise it. It doesn’t transmit or receive information at all. It - and its brethren aboard other grub vessels - don’t need to. They already contain all the information which ever would have been received.’

‘I’m not sure I understand,’ I said.

‘Then let me rephrase what I’ve just said,’ Ferris said, who must have had a reply already queued up. ‘Each and every one of their communicational devices already contains every message that would ever need to be communicated to the vessel in question. The messages are locked inside it, but are inaccessible until the scheduled moment of release. Somewhat in the manner of sealed orders on an old-time sailing ship.’

‘I still don’t follow,’ I said.

Zebra nodded. ‘Me neither.’

‘Listen.’ The man - with what must have been considerable expenditure of effort - leaned forward in his seat. ‘It’s really very simple. The grubs retain a record of every message they would have sent, across all their racial history. Then, deep in their future - deep in what is still our future - they merge the records into something. What, I’ve never really understood - just that it’s some kind of hidden machinery distributed throughout the galaxy. I confess the details have always eluded me. Only the name is clear, and even then the translation is probably no more than approximate. ’ He paused, eyeing us all with his peculiarly cold eyes. ‘Galactic Final Memory. It is - or will be - some kind of vast, living archive. It exists now, I think, only in partial form: a mere skeleton of what it will be, millions or billions of years from now. The point, nonetheless, is simple. The archive - whatever it is - transcends time. It keeps in touch with all the past and future versions of itself, down to the present epoch and deeper into our past. It’s constantly shuffling data up and down, running endless iterations. And the grubs’ communicational device is, as near as I understand it, a chip off the old block. A tiny fragment of the archive, carrying only time-tagged messages between the grubs and a handful of allied species.’

‘What’s to stop the grubs reading messages earlier than they were sent, and figuring out how to avoid future events?’

Again, Ferris had seen that one coming. ‘They can’t. The device’s messages are all encoded - without the key, you can’t get at them. That’s the clever part. The key itself, so far as the grub understood it, would appear to be the instantaneous gravitational background radiation of the universe. When the grubs put a message into the communicational device - this is how they store them, as well - the device senses the gravitational heartbeat of the universe - the ticks of pulsars spiralling towards each other; the low moans of distant black holes devouring stars at the hearts of galaxies. It hears them all, and creates a unique signature: a key with which it encrypts the incoming message. Every device carries those messages, but they can’t be read out until the device satisfies itself that the gravitational background is the same. Or nearly the same - it has to allow for the spatial position of the message recipient, of course. That gives the devices an effective range of a few thousand light-years, apparently - once they get separated beyond that distance, they just don’t recognise the background signature as being correct any more. And any attempt to fake that background, to try and predict what the future gravitational signature of the universe will be like, based on the known contributions - well, it never seems to work. The devices just fold up and die, apparently.’

For centuries, then, the grub must have been able to keep in some kind of contact with its remote allies. Then it had begun to approach the message-store limit of its own communicational device and had begun to transmit only sparingly. The enemy, it was said, had access to those messages as well - their own copies of the devices - so there was always a danger in using them. The creature had imagined that it had been lonely before, when it was being chased, but now it began to understand that it had never really known solitude. Solitude was a hard crushing force, akin to the mountains of rock above it. Yet it had stayed sane, allowing itself to talk to its allies every few tens of years, maintaining a fragile sense of kinship, that it still played a small role in the greater arena of grub affairs.

But Ferris had removed the grub from its ship, severing it with the communicational device. That must have been the start of the creature’s true descent into grub madness.

‘You milk it, don’t you?’ I said. ‘Milk it for Dream Fuel. And more than that. You use its terror and loneliness. You distil those impressions and sell them.’

Ferris piped, ‘We’ve got probes sunk into his brain, reading his neural patterns. Run them through some software up in the Rust Belt, and we get to distil it into something a human can just about handle.’

‘What’s he talking about?’ Zebra asked.

‘Experientials,’ I said. ‘The black kind, with a small maggot motif near the top. I tried one, as a matter of fact. I didn’t know quite what to expect.’

‘I’ve heard of them,’ Zebra said. ‘But I’ve never tried one, and I wasn’t even sure they weren’t an urban myth.’

‘No, they’re for real.’ I remembered the welter of emotions that the experiential had fed into my brain, when I’d tried it aboard the Strelnikov. The predominant feelings had been of awful, crushing claustrophobia and fear - yet underpinned with the gut-churning sense that no matter how oppressive the claustrophobia was, it was preferable to the predator-haunted void beyond. I could still taste the terror that the experiential had instilled in me; subtly alien in flavour, yet recognisable for all that. At the time I’d had trouble understanding why people would pay to experience something like that, but now it all made much more sense. It was all about extremes of experience; anything that would blunt boredom’s edge.

‘What does he get for doing it?’ Zebra asked.

‘Relief,’ said Ferris.

I saw what he meant. Down in the black slime which filled the tank, grey-suited workers were sloshing around with what looked like huge cattle-prods. They were knee-deep in the black stuff. Now and then one of them would run the tip of his prod across the grey side of the maggot, causing a shiver of pain to run along its blimplike length. Pale red stuff squirted out of pores in his mottled silvery skin. One of the workers moved to catch it in a flask.

At the other end, a high, shrill squeal sounded from his mouth parts.

‘I guess he isn’t making Dream Fuel like he used to,’ I said, feeling sickened. ‘What is it? Some kind of organic machinery?’

‘I suppose so,’ Ferris answered, managing to convey the minimum of interest as he did so. ‘He brought the Melding Plague here, after all.’

‘Brought it?’ Zebra said. ‘But he’s been here thousands of years.’

‘Yes. And for all that time he was dormant, until we arrived, scurrying around on the surface with our pathetic little settlements and cities.’

‘Did he know he had it?’ I asked.

‘I very much doubt it. The plague was probably something he carried without even knowing it; an old infection to which he had long since adapted. Dream Fuel might have been only slightly younger; a protection they evolved or engineered for themselves: a living stew of microscopic machines constantly secreted by their bodies. The machines were immune to the plague and held it in check, but they did much more than that. They healed and nourished their host, conveyed information to and from his secondary grubs . . . eventually, I think, it became so much a part of them that they could no longer have lived without it.’

‘But somehow the plague reached the city,’ I said. ‘How long have you been down here, Ferris?’

‘The better part of four interminable centuries, ever since I discovered him. The plague meant nothing to me, of course - I had nothing in me that it could harm. Conversely, his Dream Fuel - his very blood - kept me alive, without access to any other life-extension procedures.’ He fingered the silver blanket over his frame. ‘Of course, the ageing process has not been totally arrested. Fuel is beneficial, but it is emphatically no miracle cure.’

I asked, ‘Then you’ve never seen Chasm City?’

‘No - but I know what happened.’ He looked hard at me; I felt my body temperature drop under the scrutiny of his gaze. ‘I prophesied it. I knew it would happen; that the city would turn monstrous and fill itself with demons and ghouls. I knew that our cleverest, swiftest and tiniest machines would turn against us; corrupting minds and flesh; bringing forth perversities and abominations. I knew there would come a time when we would have to turn to simpler machines; to older and cruder templates.’ He raised a finger, accusingly. ‘All this I foresaw. Do you imagine that I engineered this chair in a mere seven years?’

At the other end of the maggot I saw a worker leaning from a catwalk with something that looked like a chain-saw. He was carving off a huge iridescent scab from the back of Gideon.

I looked at the mottled patch on my coat.

‘That’s good, Ferris,’ Zebra said. ‘You mind if I ask you one final question, before we get on our way?’

He punched his answer into the chair. ‘Yes?’

‘Did you prophesy this?’

Then she took out her gun and shot him.

On the way back up I thought about what Ferris had shown me and what I had learned from Sky’s memories.

The grubs had observed a massive release of energy in the vicinity of the Earth system: five sparks of fire which bore the signature of matter-antimatter annihilation. Five void warrens being pushed up to a speed which would cause no indignation to the Jumper Clowns: a mere eight per cent of light. It was, nonetheless, quite an achievement considering that the primates had still been bashing each other around with bones only a million years earlier.

By the time the five human ships were noticed, the grubs had suffered terrible losses themselves. Their once mighty void warrens had been smashed and shattered by skirmishes with the enemy. In a period which the long-lived grubs looked back upon with sorrow, the warrens had been sundered; split into tinier, nimbler sub-warrens. The large grubs were social creatures and the sundering caused them immense pain, even though they were able to stay in limited contact with their siblings using the Jumper Clowns’ superluminal signalling system.

Eventually, one of the sub-warrens latched onto the five human ships. The sub-warren reshaped itself to match one of the ships it was following. Statistical analysis of ten million years of encounters had shown that the tactic benefited the grubs in the long run, even though it could be disastrous in any single meeting.

Travelling Fearlessly’s plan was simple enough in grub terms. He would study the humans and decide what must be done about them. If they showed signs of expanding massively into this volume of space, creating the kind of disturbance which the eaters would find it hard to miss, then it might prove necessary to cull them. Amongst the surviving species, there were some which had taken it upon themselves to perform such painful-but-necessary cullings.

Travelling Fearlessly hoped that it would not come to that. He hoped that the humans would remain a low-level nuisance that did not require immediate culling. If all they planned to do was settle one or two immediate solar systems, they could probably be left alone for now. Culling was itself an act which ran the risk of attracting eaters, so it was never to be performed unless there was excellent reason. As decades passed and the humans made no move, hostile or otherwise, Travelling Fearlessly moved the void warren closer and closer to the cluster of human ships. Perhaps the thing to do was make his presence known; establish dialogue with the humans and explain the awkwardness of the situation. The grub had been working out how to make the first move when one of the ships had blown up.

The explosion was consistent with the complete detonation of several tonnes of antimatter. Travelling Fearlessly’s void warren had caught much of the blast, damaging the ship’s camouflage integument and killing many of the grubs who had been working near the skin. Their death agonies had reached Travelling Fearlessly through their secretions. He had absorbed what he could of their individual memories, even as the wounded helper grubs were dissolved back down into their organic constituents.

In pain, with half his memories lacerated, Travelling Fearlessly had moved the void warren away from the Flotilla.

But someone had noticed. Oliveira and Lago had arrived shortly afterwards, not really sure what to expect, half believing the old story of a ghost ship; a sixth original member of the Flotilla which had been expunged from history.

That, of course, was not what they had found.

Oliveira had sent Lago in first, to find the fuel they needed to get back, and Lago had quickly realised that he was not in any human ship. When the helper grubs had brought him to Travelling Fearlessly’s chamber, things had gone poorly. Travelling Fearlessly had only been trying to help the creature by pointing out that he did not need to use his spacesuit; that they both breathed the same air. But perhaps the way he had done this - by having helper grubs eat the man’s suit away - had, in hindsight, not been ideal. Lago had become upset and had begun to hurt the helper grubs with the cutting torch. As the fire burned the helpers, Travelling Fearlessly drank in their agonised secretions as if the pain was his own.

It was unpleasant, but he had no choice but to dismantle Lago. Lago, of course, hadn’t taken to that very enthusiastically either, but by then it was too late. The helper grubs had detached most of his extremities and the more interesting components from inside Lago, learning how the various bits of him worked and fitted together, before dissolving his central nervous system into the secretion. Travelling Fearlessly had ingested as many of Lago’s memories as he could make sense of. He had learned how to make the same kinds of sounds as Lago, and how to impart meaning to those sounds, and - copying Lago - he had made a mouth for himself. Other grubs had copied Lago’s sensory organs, or even incorporated bits of him into themselves.

Now, having come to a greater understanding, Travelling Fearlessly understood why Lago had not taken well to his first view of the maggot-ridden chamber. He felt sorry for what he had been forced to do to Lago and tried to make amends by using as much of Lago’s memory and component parts as he could.

He was sure the humans would appreciate this gesture.

‘After Lago came, it was very lonely again,’ the mouth said. ‘Much lonelier than before.’

‘You didn’t grasp loneliness until you ate him, you fucking stupid maggot.’

‘That is . . . possible.’

‘All right - listen to me carefully. You’ve explained to me that you feel pain. Good. I needed to know that. You presumably have a well-developed instinct for self-preservation, too, or you wouldn’t have survived until now. Well, I have a harbourmaker with me. If you don’t understand the concept, look it up in Lago’s memory. I’m sure he knew.’

There was a pause while the maggot shifted uncomfortably; red fluid sloshing around like seawater under a beached whale. Harbourmakers were nuclear warheads; equipment carried by the Flotilla to assist in the development of Journey’s End.

‘I understand.’

‘Good. Perhaps you can use that gravity trick to stop it from working, but I’m willing to bet that you can’t generate arbitrarily strong fields that easily, or you’d have used something similar to immobilise Lago when he started giving you difficulties.’

‘I told you too much.’

‘Yes, you probably did. But I still want to know more. About this ship, mainly. You were engaged in a war, weren’t you? You may not have been winning it, but my guess is you wouldn’t have survived until now without weapons of some description.’

‘We don’t have weapons.’ The grub’s mouth looked affronted. ‘Only armouring skein.’

‘Armouring skein?’ Sky thought about it for a few moments, trying to get his head into the grub’s mode of thinking. ‘Some kind of projected force technology, is that it? You can put up some kind of field around this ship?’

‘We could, once. But the necessary parts were damaged when the fifth void warren was destroyed. Now only a partial skein can be created. It’s no use at all against an adept enemy like the grub eaters. They see the holes.’

‘All right, listen to me. Do you sense the two small machines approaching us?’

‘Yes. Are they also friends of Lago?’

‘Not quite.’ Well, the shuttle crews might be, he thought - but they were very unlikely to be friends of Sky Haussmann, and that was all that really mattered. ‘I want you to use your skein against those machines - or I use the harbourmaker against you. Is that clear?’

The grub seemed to understand. ‘You want me to destroy them?’

‘Yes. Or I’ll destroy you.’

‘You wouldn’t do that. It would kill you.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Sky said amicably. ‘I’m not Lago; I don’t think like him, and I certainly don’t act like him.’

He selected one of the nearer grubs and unloaded part of the machine-gun’s clip into the creature. The slugs punched thumb-sized holes in the creature’s pale-pink integument. He watched the red stuff drain out and then heard an awful shrill cry come from some part of the creature. Except he was wrong about that, now that he paid attention. The shrill cry was coming from the large grub; not the one that he had shot.

He watched the injured one collapse down into the sea of red, until only part of it was showing. Several other helper grubs undulated towards it and began to prod it with their feelers.

Gradually, the keening sound of anguish died down to a low moan.

‘You hurt me.’

‘I was just making a point,’ Sky said. ‘When Lago hurt you, he hurt you indiscriminately because he was scared. I’m not scared. I hurt you because I want you to know exactly what I’m capable of.’

A couple of helper grubs were thrashing their way ashore only metres from where Sky and Norquinco were standing.

‘No,’ Sky said. ‘Don’t come any closer or I’ll shoot another one - and don’t try any funny tricks with gravity, or I’ll make the harbourmaker go off.’

The grubs halted, their fronds waving hysterically.

The yellow light - the light that bathed the whole chamber - died for a second. Sky was not expecting darkness. For an instant the terror of it was total. He had forgotten that the grubs controlled the light. In darkness, they could do almost anything. He imagined them emerging from the red lake, dragging him into it by his heels. He imagined being eaten by them, the way Lago had been. There might come a point where he could no longer tell the harbourmaker to go off; could no longer erase his own agony.

Perhaps he should do it now.

But the yellow light returned.

‘I did as you asked,’ Travelling Fearlessly said. ‘It was hard. It took all our power to push the skein out to that distance.’

‘Did it work?’

‘There are two more out there - smaller void warrens.’

The shuttles. ‘Yes. But they won’t be here for a little while. Then you can do the same trick again.’ He called Gomez. ‘What happened? ’

‘The probes just blew up, Sky - like they’d hit something.’

‘Nuclear?’

‘No. They weren’t carrying harbourmakers.’

‘Good. Stay where you are.’

‘Sky - what the hell is going on inside there?’

‘You don’t want to know, Gomez - you really don’t want to know.’

He had to strain to pick out the next question. ‘Did you find - what was his name? Lago?’

‘Oh yes, we found Lago. Didn’t we, Lago?’

Now Norquinco was speaking. ‘Sky. Listen. We should go now. We don’t have to kill the other people. We don’t want to start a war between the ships.’ He raised his voice, his helmet speaker booming out across the red lake. ‘You can protect us in other ways, can’t you? You could move us; move this whole ship - this whole void warren, to safety? Out of the range of the shuttles?’

‘No,’ Sky said. ‘I want those shuttles destroyed. If they want a war between the ships, they’ll get one. We’ll see how long they last.’

‘For God’s sake, Sky.’ Norquinco reached out to him, as if to grasp him. Sky stepped away and lost his footing on the chamber’s hard and slick surface. Suddenly he was toppling over; falling backwards into the red brine. He landed on his backpack, half submerged in the shallows. The red liquid sloshed across his faceplate with strange eagerness, as if seeking a way into his suit. Out of the corner of his eye he saw two helper grubs undulating towards him. Sky thrashed, but he could not get a grip on any surface to lift himself out, let alone stand up.

‘Norquinco. Get me out.’

Norquinco moved cautiously to the edge of the red lake. ‘Maybe I should leave you there, Sky. Maybe that would be the best thing for all of us.’

‘Get me out, you bastard.’

‘I didn’t come here to do any evil, Sky. I came here to help the Santiago - and maybe the rest of the Flotilla.’

‘I have the harbourmaker.’

‘But I don’t think you have the courage to let it off.’

The grubs had reached him now - two and then a third he had not seen approaching. They were poking and prodding him with differently shaped clusters of appendages, exploring his suit. He thrashed, but the red fluid seemed to be thickening, conspiring to hold him prisoner.

‘Get me out, Norquinco. That’s your last warning . . .’

Norquinco still stood over him, but he had not come any closer to the edge. ‘You’re sick, Sky. I’ve always suspected it, but I never saw it until now. I really don’t know what you’re capable of.’

Then something he had not been expecting happened. He had stopped thrashing because it was almost too much effort, and now he was being lifted out of the red fluid, the fluid itself seeming to elevate him, while the grubs pushed him gently. Shivering with fear, he found himself on the shore. The last traces of the red fluid raced off him.

For a moment, wordlessly, he stared at Travelling Fearlessly, knowing that the grub sensed his attention.

‘You believe me, don’t you. You won’t kill me. You know what it would mean.’

‘I don’t want to kill you,’ Travelling Fearlessly said. ‘Because then I’d be lonely again, like I was before you came.’

He understood, and the understanding itself was vile. It still cherished his company even after he had inflicted pain on it; even after he had murdered part of it. The thing was so desperately lonely that it even desired the presence of its torturer. He thought of a small child screaming in absolute darkness, betrayed by a friend that had never properly existed, and - while at the same time hating it absolutely for its weakness - did at least understand.

And that made his hatred all the more intense.

He had to kill another grub before he persuaded Travelling Fearlessly to destroy the two approaching shuttles, and this time it was not just the murder of the grub that agonised the creature. Generating the skein seemed to pain it as well, as if the grub could sense the ship’s damage.

But by then it was over. He could have stayed; could have kept torturing the grub until it told him all it knew. He could have forced the grub to show him how the ship moved, and found out whether it was capable of taking them to Journey’s End quicker than the Santiago. He could even have considered bringing some of the Santiago’s crew here, aboard the void warren - living in its endless tunnels, forcing the grubs to adjust the air mix and temperature until it suited human tastes. How many could the alien ship have supported - dozens, or hundreds? Perhaps even the momios, if they were woken? Maybe some of them would have had to be fed to the helper grubs to keep them happy, but he could have lived with that.

But he decided, instead, to destroy the ship.

It was simpler by far; it freed him from negotiating with the grub; freed him from the sense of revulsion he felt when he recognised its loneliness. It also freed him from running the risk of the void warren ever falling into the hands of the other Flotilla vessels.

‘Let us leave,’ he told Travelling Fearlessly. ‘Clear a route right to the surface, near where we came in.’

He heard sonorous clangs as passageways were rerouted; airlocks opening and shutting. A breeze caressed the red water.

‘You can leave now,’ the grub told him. ‘I’m sorry that we had a disagreement. Will you come back soon?’

‘Count on it,’ Sky said.

Later, they pulled away in the shuttle. Gomez still had no idea what had happened; no idea why the approaching forces had simply blown up.

‘What did you find in there?’ he asked. ‘Did anything that Oliveira said make sense, or was he just insane?’

‘I think he was insane,’ Sky said. Norquinco made no comment; they had barely spoken at all since the incident by the lake. Perhaps Norquinco thought it would slip from his memory if it was not remarked upon - an understandable lapse of nerve in a tense situation. But Sky kept replaying the fall in his mind; remembering the red tide fingering his faceplate; wondering how many molecules of it had actually slipped through.

‘What about the medical supplies - did you find anything? And did you get any idea what happened to her hull?’

‘We found out a few things,’ Sky said. ‘Just get us away from here, will you? Max thrust.’

‘But what about the propulsion section? I need to look at the containment; need to see if we can get that antimatter . . .’

‘Just do it, Gomez.’ He offered a comforting lie. ‘We’ll come back for the antimatter another time. She isn’t going anywhere.’

The void warren pulled away from them. Gomez looped them around to her intact side, then kicked in the shuttle’s thrusters. Once they had moved two or three hundred metres from her, it was impossible to tell that she was anything other than what she seemed to be. For a fleeting instant Sky thought of her again as the Caleuche: the ghost ship. They had been so wrong; so utterly wrong. But no one could blame them for that - the truth, after all, had been far stranger.

There would be trouble, of course, when they returned to the Flotilla. One of the other ships had sent their own shuttles here, which meant that Sky would probably face recrimination; perhaps even some kind of tribunal. But he had planned for that, knowing that, with shrewdness, he could use the moment to his advantage. The trail of evidence he had created with Norquinco’s help would, when revealed, point to Ramirez as having orchestrated the expedition to the Caleuche, with Constanza part of the conspiracy. Sky would be revealed as none other than an unwitting stooge of his Captain’s megalomaniac schemes. Ramirez would be removed from the Captaincy; perhaps even executed. Constanza would certainly be punished. There would, needless to say, be very little doubt in anyone’s minds as to who should succeed Ramirez in the Captaincy.

Sky waited another minute or so, not daring to leave it longer than that in case Travelling Fearlessly suspected what was going to happen and tried to prevent it in some way. Then he made the harbourmaker go off. The nuclear flash was bright and clean and holy, and when the sphere of plasma had spread itself thin, like a flower whose bloom turned from blue-white to interstellar black, there was nothing left at all.

‘What did you just do?’ Gomez said.

Sky smiled. ‘Put something out of its misery.’

‘I should have killed him,’ Zebra said, as the inspection robot neared the surface.

‘I know how it feels,’ I said. ‘But we probably wouldn’t have been able to walk out if you had.’ She had aimed for his body, but it had never been very obvious where Ferris ended and his wheelchair began. Her shot had only damaged his support machinery. He had moaned, and when he’d tried to compose a sentence the inner workings of the chair had rattled and scraped before delivering a scrambled sequence of piped sounds. I suspected it would take a lot more than one ill-judged shot to kill a four-hundred-year-old man whose blood was almost certainly supersaturated with Dream Fuel.

‘So what good did that little jaunt do?’ she asked.

‘I’ve been asking myself the same question,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘All we know now is a little more about the means of production. Gideon’s still down there, and so’s Ferris. Nothing’s changed.’

‘It will,’ I said.

‘Meaning what?’

‘That was just a scouting expedition. When all this is over, I’m going back there.’

‘He’ll be expecting us next time,’ Zebra said. ‘We won’t be able to breeze in so easily.’

‘We?’ Quirrenbach said. ‘Then you’re already committed to this return trip, Taryn?’

‘Yes. And do me a favour. Call me Zebra from now on, will you?’

‘I’d listen to her if I were you, Quirrenbach.’ I felt the inspection robot begin to tilt over back to the horizontal as we approached the chamber where I hoped Chanterelle would still be waiting. ‘And yes, we’re going back, and no, it won’t be so easy the second time.’

‘What do you hope to achieve?’

‘As someone close to me once said, there’s something down there that needs to be put out of its misery.’

‘You’d kill Gideon, is that it?’

‘Rather than live with the idea of it suffering, yes.’

‘But the Dream Fuel . . .’

‘The city will just have to learn to live without it. And whatever other services it owes to Gideon. You heard what Ferris said. The remains of Gideon’s ship are still down there, still altering the chemistry of the gases in the chasm.’

‘But Gideon isn’t in the ship now,’ Zebra said. ‘You don’t think he’s still influencing it, do you?’

‘He’d better not be,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘If you killed him, and the chasm stopped supplying the city with the resources it needs . . . can you honestly imagine what would happen?’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘And it would probably make the plague look like a minor inconvenience. But I’d still do it.’

Chanterelle was waiting for us when we arrived. She opened the exit hatch nervously, studying us for a fraction of a second before deciding that we were the ones who had gone down. She put aside her weapon and helped us out, each groaning at the relief of no longer being inside the pipe. The air in the chamber was far from fresh, but I gulped in exultant lungfuls.

‘Well?’ Chanterelle said. ‘Was it worth it? Did you get close to Gideon?’

‘Close enough.’ I said.

Just then something buried in Zebra’s clothes began to chime, like a muffled bell. She handed me her gun and then fished out one of the clumsy, antique-looking phones which were the height of modernity in Chasm City.

‘Must have been trying to reach me the whole time we were coming up the tube,’ she said, flipping open the viewscreen.

‘Who is it?’ I asked.

‘Pransky,’ Zebra said, pushing the phone against her ear, while I told Chanterelle that the man was a private investigator who was peripherally involved in all that had happened since my arrival. Zebra spoke to him in a low voice, one hand cupped round her mouth to muffle the conversation. I couldn’t hear anything that Pransky was saying, and only a half of what Zebra said - but it was more than enough to get the gist of the conversation.

Someone, presumably one of Pransky’s contacts, had been murdered. Pransky was at the crime scene even as he spoke, and from the way Zebra was talking to him, he sounded agitated; like it was the last place in the world he wanted to be.

‘Have you . . .’ She was probably about to ask him if he’d alerted the authorities, before realising that where Pransky was, there was no such thing as law; even less than in the Canopy.

‘No, wait. No one has to know about this until we get there. Stay tight.’ And with that, Zebra cuffed the phone shut, returning it to her pocket.

‘What’s up?’ I asked.

‘Someone’s killed her,’ Zebra said.

Chanterelle looked at her. ‘Killed who?’

‘The fat woman. Dominika. She’s history.’

THIRTY-SEVEN

‘Could it have been Voronoff?’ I asked as we approached Grand Central Station. We had left him at the station before going down to see Gideon, but killing Dominika didn’t seem to fit in with what I knew about the man. Killing himself, perhaps, in an interesting and boredom-offsetting manner, but not a well-known figure like Dominika. ‘It doesn’t seem like his style to me.’

‘Not him, and not Reivich either,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘Though only you can know that for sure.’

‘Reivich’s no indiscriminate killer,’ I said.

‘Don’t forget Dominika made enemies easily,’ Zebra said. ‘She wasn’t exactly the best person in the city at keeping her mouth shut. Reivich could have killed her for talking about him.’

‘Except we already know he isn’t in the city,’ I said. ‘Reivich is in an orbital habitat called Refuge. That was true, wasn’t it?’

‘To the best of my knowledge, Tanner, yes,’ Quirrenbach said.

There was no sign of Voronoff, but that was hardly to be expected: when we’d let him go, I’d never seriously expected him to stay there. Nor had it mattered. Voronoff’s role in the whole affair was incidental at best, and if I ever did need to speak to him again, his celebrity would make it easy enough to track him down.

Dominika’s tent looked exactly as I remembered it, squatting in the middle of the bazaar. The flaps were drawn, and there were no customers in the vicinity, but there was nothing to suggest that a murder had taken place here. There was no sign of her helper trying to drag anyone into the tent, but even that absence was not especially noticeable, since the bazaar itself was remarkably subdued today. There must not have been any arriving flights; no influx of willing customers for her neural excisions.

Pransky was waiting just beyond the door, peering through a tiny gap in the material.

‘You took your time getting here.’ Then his funereal gaze assimilated Chanterelle, myself and Quirrenbach, and his eyes widened momentarily. ‘Well, well. A veritable hunting party.’

‘Just let us in,’ Zebra said.

Pransky held the door open and admitted us into the reception chamber where I had waited while Quirrenbach was on the slab.

‘I must warn you,’ he said softly. ‘Everything is exactly as I found it. You won’t like what you’re about to see.’

‘Where’s her kid?’ I asked.

‘Her kid?’ he said, as if I had used some piece of obscure street argot.

‘Tom. Her helper. He can’t be far away. He might have seen something. He might also be in danger.’

Pransky clicked his tongue. ‘I didn’t see any “kid”. There was more than enough to occupy my mind. Whoever did this was . . .’ He trailed off, but I could imagine what his mind was dealing with.

‘It can’t be local talent,’ Zebra said, in the silence which followed. ‘No one local would waste a resource like Dominika.’

‘You said the people after me weren’t local.’

‘What people?’ Chanterelle said.

‘A man and a woman,’ Zebra answered. ‘They paid a visit to Dominika, trying to trace Tanner. They definitely weren’t from the city. An odd couple, as far as I can tell.’

I said, ‘You think they came back and killed Dominika?’

‘I’d say they’re fairly near the top of possible suspects, Tanner. And you still have no idea who they might be?’

I shrugged. ‘I’m a popular man, evidently.’

Pransky coughed. ‘Maybe we should, um . . .’ He gestured with one grey hand towards the inner chamber of the tent.

We stepped through, into the part of the tent where Dominika performed her operations.

Dominika was floating on her back, half a metre above her surgical couch, suspended in that position by the steam-powered, articulated-boom suspended harness which encased her lower half. The harness’s pneumatics were still hissing, gentle fingers of vapour rising towards the ceiling. Top-heavy, she had canted back to an angle where her hips floated higher than her shoulders. The head of someone thinner than Dominika would probably have lolled to one side, but the rolls of fat around her neck kept her face pointed at the ceiling, and her eyes were wide open, glazed white, her jaw hanging slackly open.

Snakes covered her body.

The largest of them were dead, draped across her girth like patterned scarves, their inanimate bodies reaching to the bed. There was no doubting that they were dead; they’d been slit along the belly with a knife, and their blood had painted ribbons on the couch. Smaller snakes were still alive, coiled across her belly, or the couch, although they hardly moved even when I approached them, which I did with exquisite caution.

I thought of the snake sellers I had seen in the Mulch. That was where these animals had come from, purchased solely to provide detail to this tableau.

‘I told you you wouldn’t like it,’ Pransky said, his voice cutting through the stunned silence of our party. ‘I’ve seen some sick things in my time, believe me, but this must be . . .’

‘There’s a method to it,’ I said, softly. ‘It’s not as sick as it seems.’

‘You must be insane.’ Pransky had said it, but I had no doubt that the sentiment was felt by the others present. It was hard to blame them for that, but I knew what I was saying was right.

‘What do you mean?’ Zebra asked. ‘A method—’

‘It’s meant as a message,’ I said, moving around the levitating corpse so that I could get a better look at her face. ‘A kind of calling-card. A message to me, actually.’

I touched Dominika’s face, the slight pressure of my hand making her head turn to one side, so that the others could see the neat wound bored into the middle of her forehead.

‘Because,’ I said, voicing what I knew to be the truth for the first time, ‘Tanner Mirabel did it.’

Somewhere near my sixtieth birthday - though I had long since ceased to mark the passage of time (what was the point, when you were immortal?) and had doctored ship’s records to obscure the details of my own past - I knew that the time had come to make my move. The choice of time was not really mine, forced upon me by the mechanics of our crossing, but I could still let the moment pass if I wished, forgetting about the plans which had occupied my mind so thoroughly for half my life. My preparations had been meticulous, and had I chosen to abandon them, my plans would never have come to light. For a moment I allowed myself the bittersweet pleasure of balancing vastly opposed futures: one in which I was triumphant; one in which I submitted meekly to the greater good of the Flotilla, even if that meant hardship for my own people. And for the tiniest of moments I hesitated.

‘On my mark,’ said Old Man Armesto of the Brazilia.

‘Deceleration burn ignition in, twenty seconds.’

‘Agreed,’ I said, from the vantage point of my command seat, poised high in the bridge. Two other voices echoed me with tiny timelags; the Captains of the Baghdad and the Palestine.

Journey’s End lay close ahead, its star the brighter of the 61 Cygni pair, a bloodshot lantern in the night. Against all the odds, against all the predictions, the Flotilla had crossed interstellar space successfully. The fact that one ship had been destroyed did not taint that victory in the slightest degree. The planners who had launched the fleet had always known that there would be losses. And those losses, of course, had not been confined solely to that ship. Many of the momio sleepers would never see their destination. But that, too, had not been unexpected.

It was, in short, a triumph, however one looked at it.

But the crossing was not yet finished; the Flotilla still at cruise velocity. Though only the tiniest of distances remained to be crossed, it was the most significant part of the journey. That, at least, was not something the planners had ever guessed. They had never predicted the depth of disharmony that would creep into the enterprise over time.

‘Ten seconds,’ said Armesto. ‘Good luck to all of us. Good luck and Godspeed. It’ll be a damned close race now.’

Not as close as you think, I thought.

The remaining seconds counted down, and then - not quite synchronously - three suns blazed in the night where an instant before there had been only stars. For the first time in a century and a half the engines of the Flotilla were burning again - wolfing down matter and antimatter and spewing out pure energy, beginning to whittle down the eight per cent of light velocity which the Flotilla still had.

Had I chosen otherwise, I would have heard the great structural skeleton of the Santiago creak as the ship adjusted itself to the stress of deceleration. The burn itself would have been a low, distant rumble, felt rather than heard, but no less exhilarating for that. But I had made my decision; nothing had changed.

‘We have indications of clean burns across the board . . .’ said the other Captain, before a note of hesitation entered his voice. ‘Santiago; we have no indication that you have initiated your burn . . . are you experiencing technical difficulties, Sky?’

‘No,’ I said, calmly and crisply. ‘No difficulties at this moment.’

‘Then why haven’t you initiated your burn!’ It was less a question than a scream of indignation.

‘Because we’re not going to.’ I smiled to myself; the cat was well and truly out of the bag. The crux point had been passed; one possible future selected and another discarded. ‘Sorry, Captain, but we’ve decided to stay in cruise mode a little longer.’

‘That’s madness!’ I swore I could hear Armesto’s spittle spraying against the microphone like surf. ‘We have intelligence, Haussmann - good intelligence. We know damn well that you haven’t made any engine modifications that we haven’t made as well. You have no means of reaching Journey’s End ahead of us! You have to initiate burn now and follow the rest of us . . .’

I toyed with the armrest of my seat. ‘Or what, exactly?’

‘Or we’ll . . .’

‘Do nothing. We all know it’s fatal to turn off those engines once they’re burning antimatter.’ That was true. Any antimatter engine was ferociously unstable, designed to keep burning until it had exhausted all its reactant, supplied from the magnetic-confinement reservoir. The whispering engine techs had a technical name for the particular magnetohydrodynamic instability which prevented the flow from being curtailed without leakage, but all that mattered was the consequence: the fuel for the deceleration phase had to be stored in a completely separate reservoir from that which had boosted the ship up to cruise speed. And now that the other three ships had initiated burn, they were more or less committed to it.

By not following them, I had betrayed a terrible trust.

‘This is Zamudio of the Palestine,’ said another voice. ‘We have stable flow here, green lights across the board . . . we’re going to attempt a mid-burn shutdown before Haussmann falls too far ahead of us. We may never get as good a chance as this.’

‘For God’s sake, don’t do it!’ said Armesto. ‘Our own simulations say a shutdown has only a thirty per cent chance of . . .’

‘Our sims say it’s better than that . . . marginally.’

‘Hold on, please. We’re sending you our technical data . . . don’t make a move until you’ve seen it, Zamudio.’

They debated the matter for the next hour, tossing simulations back and forth, arguing about the interpretation. They thought that their conversations were private, of course, but my agents had long ago placed bugs on the other ships, just as I assumed they had bugged my own. I listened, quietly amused, as the arguments grew more frantic and rancorous. It was no small matter, to risk an antimatter detonation after a century and a half of travel. Under ordinary circumstances they would have extended their debate for months, perhaps even years, weighing the significance of every small gain against every possible death. But all the while they were slowing down, with the Santiago pulling triumphantly ahead of them, and every instant that they delayed made that distance worse.

‘We’ve talked enough,’ Zamudio said. ‘We’re initiating shutdown. ’

‘Please, no,’ Armesto said. ‘At least let us think about it for a day, will you?’

‘And let that bastard creep ahead of us? Sorry, but we’re already committed to a shutdown.’ Zamudio’s voice became businesslike as he read status variables aloud. ‘Damping thrust in five seconds . . . bottle topology looks stable . . . constricting fuel flow . . . three . . . two . . . one . . .’

What followed was only a howl of static. One of the new suns had suddenly turned nova, outshining its brethren. It was a white rose, edged in purple which shaded to black. I stared at it wordlessly, marvelling at the hellfire. A whole ship gone in an eyeblink, just the way Titus had told me the Islamabad had died. There was something cleansing about that white light . . . something bordering on the pious. I watched as it faded. A breath of hot ions slammed into my own ship, a ghost of what had been the Palestine, and for a moment the status displays across the bridge quavered and ran with static, but the ships of the Flotilla were now so far apart that the demise of one could not harm the others.

When comms returned, I heard the voice of the other Captain speaking. ‘You bastard, Haussmann,’ Armesto said. ‘You did that.’

‘Because I was cleverer than any of you?’

‘Because you lied to us, you piece of shit!’ Now I recognised the voice of Omdurman. ‘Titus was worth a million of you, Haussmann . . . I knew your father. Compared to him you’re just . . . nothing. Dirt. And you know what the worst of it is? You’ve killed your own people as well.’

‘I don’t think I’d be quite that stupid,’ I said.

‘Oh, don’t count on it,’ Armesto said. ‘I told you our intelligence was good, Haussmann. We know your ship like our own.’

‘We have intelligence too,’ Omdurman said. ‘You haven’t got any damned tricks up your sleeve. You’ll have to start slowing down or you’ll overshoot our destination; come to dead-stop in interstellar space.’

‘It’s not going to happen like that,’ I said.

This was nothing like the way I had planned it, but sometimes you just had to abandon the precise letter of the plan, following instead the broad outline; hearing the grand shape of a symphony rather than the individual notes. With Norquinco’s assistance I had made some modifications to my command seat. I flipped up a cover set into the black leather of the armrest, unfolding a flat, button-studded console which I placed across my lap. My fingers skated across the matrix of buttons, bringing up a map. It was the cactus-like schematic of the ship’s spine, showing the sleepers and their corporeal status.

Over the years, I had worked very diligently to separate the wheat from the chaff.

I had made sure that as many of the dead as possible were collected together in their own sleeper rings, studded along the spine. It had been laborious work at first, for the sleepers died not according to my neatly devised plans but in ways that were annoyingly random. At first, anyway. Then I had begun to get the magic touch. I needed only to wish that certain momios would die and it seemed to happen. Of course, there were rituals that needed to be performed for the magic to work properly. I had to visit them, touch their caskets. Sometimes (though it seemed to me that I worked unconsciously) I would make tiny adjustments to the settings of their support systems. It was not that I deliberately set out to harm them . . . but in some way that I could not quite fathom, my handiwork was always sufficient to bring about that end. In truth, it was magic.

And it had served me powerfully. The dead and the living were now quite separated. One whole row of sleeper rings - sixteen of them, holding one hundred and sixty caskets - was now occupied solely by the demised. Half of another row; another eighty-six dead. A quarter of the sleepers were gone now.

I tapped the sequence of commands which I had long ago committed to memory. Norquinco had given me that sequence, after years of covert work. It had been a stroke of genius, recruiting him to the cause. According to all the technical manuals, and the best expert advice, what I was about to do should not have been possible, prevented by a slew of safety interlocks. Over the years, as he had slowly worked his way through the hierarchy of the audit team, Norquinco had found ways around every supposedly watertight failsafe, concealing his labours by stealth and cunning.

And with the work Norquinco had grown in confidence. At first, I had been surprised by this transformation, until I realised that it had always been inevitable, once the man had been ensconced into the audit team. Norquinco had been forced to go through the motions of functioning in a normal human environment, rather than his usual studied isolation. As he had risen to a position of seniority in the team, Norquinco had moulded himself to the role with worrying adaptability. There came a point when I no longer had to intervene in Norquinco’s promotions.

But I’d never really forgiven him for his betrayal aboard the Caleuche.

We met only periodically; each time I noticed an incremental increase in Norquinco’s cockiness. At first, it had been easy to dismiss. The work was proceeding apace, Norquinco’s reports detailing each layer of safeguards which he had breached. I had demanded demonstrations to show that the work had really been done, and Norquinco had obliged. I had had no doubt that the task would be completed to my satisfaction by the time I needed it.

But there had been a glitch.

Four months earlier, after the last layer of safeguard machinery had been bypassed, the work, to all intents and purposes, was complete. And suddenly I understood why Norquinco had been so obliging.

‘The technical term for the arrangement I am about to propose,’ Norquinco said, ‘is, I believe, blackmail.’

‘You’re not serious.’

We had met alone along the spine corridor, near node seven, during one of our inspection tours. ‘Oh, I’m very serious, Sky. You realise that now, don’t you?’

‘I’m getting the picture.’ I looked along the corridor. I thought I could see a pulsing orange glow somewhere down it. ‘What exactly is it you want, Norquinco?’

‘Influence, Sky. The audit squad isn’t enough now. It’s a dead-end job for computer geeks. Technical work just doesn’t interest me any more. I’ve been aboard an alien spacecraft. That changes one’s expectations. I want something more challenging. You promised me glories when we were aboard the Caleuche; I haven’t forgotten. Now I want some of that power and responsibility.’

I chose my words carefully. ‘There’s a world of difference between hacking some software and running a ship, Norquinco.’

‘Oh, don’t patronise me. I do realise that, you arrogant bastard. That’s what I said about wanting a challenge. And don’t think I want your job either - not yet, anyway. I’ll let the law of natural succession work for me there. No; I want a senior officer’s position - one echelon below you will do nicely. A cushy position with excellent prospects for when we make landfall. I’ll carve up a little fiefdom for myself on Journey’s End, I think.’

‘I think you’re reaching, Norquinco.’

‘Reaching? Yes, of course I’m reaching. Otherwise blackmail wouldn’t have to come into it.’

The orange glow down the corridor had grown closer, accompanied by a faint rumbling. ‘Getting you onto the audit team was one thing, Norquinco. You at least had the right background. But there’s no way I can get you into any officer’s position - no matter how many strings I pull.’

‘That’s not my problem. You’re always telling me how clever you are, Sky. Now all you have to do is use some of that cleverness; use your skill and judgement to find a way to get me into an officer’s uniform.’

‘Some things just aren’t possible.’

‘Not for you, Sky. Not for you. Or are you going to disappoint me?’

‘If I can’t find a way . . .’

‘Then everyone else will find out about your little plan for the sleepers. Not to mention what happened with Ramirez. Or Balcazar, for that matter. And I haven’t even mentioned the grub.’

‘You’ll be implicated too.’

‘I’ll say I was only following orders. It was only recently that I realised what you had in mind.’

‘You knew all along.’

‘But no one will know that, will they?’

I was about to answer, but the noise of the approaching freight transport would have forced me to raise my voice. The string of pods was rumbling towards us along its rail, returning from the engine section. Wordlessly, the two of us walked backwards until we had reached one of the recesses which allowed us to stand aside as the train slid by. The trains, like much else on the Santiago, were old and not particularly well cared-for. They functioned, but much non-essential equipment had been removed from them for use elsewhere, or not fixed when it malfunctioned.

We stood silently shoulder to shoulder as the train neared us, filling the corridor completely except for a narrow gap either side of its blunt body. I wondered what was going through Norquinco’s mind at that exact moment. Did he seriously imagine that I would take his blackmail proposal seriously?

When the rumbling string of pods was only three or four metres away, I pushed Norquinco forward, so that he went sprawling onto the rail.

I saw the man’s body get pushed violently forward until I could no longer see it. The train continued for a few moments and then slowed down, but not with any great urgency. By rights the transport should have stopped the instant it detected an obstacle in its path, but that was undoubtedly one of the functions which had stopped working years ago.

There was a hum of labouring motors and the smell of ozone.

I squeezed out of the recess. It was difficult, and would have been impossible had the train been in motion, but there was just enough room for me to push past the string of pods until I reached the front. I hoped that my actions would not dislodge something and allow the train to continue, or I would certainly be crushed.

I reached the front, expecting to see Norquinco’s mangled remains squashed between the train and its rail.

But Norquinco was lying beside the rail. His toolkit lay crumpled under the front of the train.

I knelt down to examine the man. He had received a glancing impact to the head which had broken the skin, blood pouring out copiously, but the skull did not seem to be fractured. He was still breathing, though unconscious.

I had an idea. Norquinco was now inconvenient to me, and would have to die at some point - probably sooner rather than later - but what I had just thought of was too tempting, too poetic, to ignore. It would be dangerous, however, and I would need not to be disturbed for some time - at least thirty minutes, I judged. By then the lateness of the shipment would be all too obvious. But would anyone do anything about it immediately? I doubted it; from what I had gathered, the trains were no longer very reliable at the best of times. It made me smile. I had become emperor of this miniature state, but the one thing I had not done was make the trains run on time.

Ensuring that the toolkit was still blocking the train, I picked up Norquinco and carried him upship towards node six. It was hard work, but at sixty I had the physique of a thirty-year-old man and Norquinco had lost much of his youthful weight.

Six sleeper rings were connected to this node: sixty sleepers, some of them dead. I racked my memory, recalling as best as I could the ages and sexes of the passengers. There were, I felt sure, at least three amongst those sixty who could pass as Norquinco - especially if the accident was restaged in such a way that the man’s facial features were crushed beyond recognition by the train.

I worked my way towards the skin of the ship. I was sweating and short of breath by the time I reached the berth where I judged the best candidate to lie. This was one of the frozen living, I saw, and that suited my plans excellently. With Norquinco still unconscious, I accessed the casket controls and set about warming the passenger. Normally the process would have taken several hours, but I had no interest in limiting cellular damage. No one would autopsy the corpse when it was found under the train, and there would be no reason to think that I had swapped the body.

My personal comm bracelet chimed. ‘Yes?’

‘Captain Haussmann? Sir, we have a report of a possible technical malfunction with a train in spine corridor three, near node six. Should we send a breakdown team along to check it out?’

‘No, no need for that,’ I said, with what I hoped was not undue haste. ‘I’ll check it out myself. I’m near enough.’

‘You sure about that, sir?’

‘Yes, yes . . . no sense in wasting effort is there?’

When the passenger was warm - but now brain dead - I lifted him from the casket. Yes; he was passably close in build to Norquinco, with the same hair colour and skin tone. To the best of my knowledge, Norquinco had no romantic connections with anyone else on the Santiago - but even if he had, his lover was not going to be able to tell them apart once I was done.

I lifted Norquinco and placed him in the casket. The man was still breathing - once or twice he had even moaned before slipping back into unconsciousness. I stripped him naked and then arranged the web of biomonitors across his body. The inputs adhered automatically to his skin, adjusting themselves minutely. Some would burrow neatly beneath his skin, worming towards internal organs.

A series of lights flicked to green across the fascia of the casket, signifying that the unit had accepted Norquinco. The lid closed.

I studied the main status panel.

Programmed sleep time was another four years. By then the Santiago would have already made orbit around Journey’s End and it would be time for the sleepers to warm and step onto their new Eden.

Four years suited my plans, too.

Satisfied, I readied myself for the difficult task of lugging the other passenger back to the spine corridor. First, however, I had to dress the barely warm corpse in the clothes I had just taken from Norquinco.

When I reached the spine I positioned the man ten metres ahead of the train, which was still straining against its obstruction, filling the air with the smell of burning armatures. Then I found a heavy, long-handled wrench from a recessed stores locker. I used the wrench to pulp the man’s face into unrecognisability, feeling the bones crack like lacquer beneath each blow. Then I went back to the train and delivered a series of swiping strikes to the jammed toolkit, until it sprang free.

The train, no longer obstructed, began to pick up speed immediately. I had to run ahead of it to avoid being pulped against the wall. I stepped gingerly over the dead man and then retired to a safety alcove, watching with detached fascination as the string of freight pods gathered speed. It hit the man and snowploughed him along, mangling him in the process.

Finally, some distance down the corridor, the train came to a standstill.

I crept behind it. I had been through this before, half an hour earlier, and had been mildly surprised when I had found that Norquinco was only knocked out. That had, of course, been a blessing in disguise . . . but now there was to be no disappointment. The train had done its work creditably. Now, rather than the crushed toolkit, what made it stop was some sluggishly responding safety-mode . . . but it had been much too late to save the passenger.

I lifted my sleeve and spoke into my comms bracelet. ‘Sky Haussmann here. I’m afraid there’s been a terrible, terrible accident. ’

That had all been four months ago; a regrettable coda to our relationship, but Norquinco had, ultimately, not let me down. I assumed so, at least - and would know for sure in a few moments.

On the main viewscreen was a view looking down the spine of the Santiago from a vantage point a few metres above the hull. It was an exercise in vanishing points, crisp perspectives that would have thrilled a Renaissance artist. The sixteen sleeper rings containing the dead marched away, diminishing in size, foreshortened towards ellipses.

And now the first and closest of them began to move, kicked loose by a series of pyrotechnic charges studded around the ring. The ring uncoupled from the hull and drifted lazily away from it, tipping slowly to one side as it moved. Umbilicals stretched between ship and ring to breaking point and then snapped cleanly, whiplashing back. Frozen gases trapped in severed pipes erupted in crystal clouds. Somewhere, alarms began to sound. I heard them only dimly, though they seemed to be causing considerable consternation amongst my crew.

Behind the first ring, the second was breaking loose as well. The third trembled and shucked itself loose from its moorings. All along the spine the pattern was repeated. I had arranged it well. I had thought to have all the rings blow their separation charges at once, so that they would drift away in clean, parallel lines, but there was no poetry in that. It pleased me instead to stagger the releases, so that the rings seemed to follow each other, as if obeying some buried migratory instinct.

‘Do you see what I’m doing?’ I asked.

‘I see it well enough,’ the other Captain said. ‘And it sickens me.’

‘They’re dead, you fool! What do they care now, if they’re buried in space or carried with us to Journey’s End?’

‘They’re human beings. They deserve to be treated with dignity, even if they’re dead. You can’t just throw them overboard.’

‘Ah, but I can, and I have. Besides - the sleepers hardly matter. What they mass is inconsequential compared to the mass of the machines that accompany them. We have a real advantage now. That’s why we’ll stay in cruise mode longer than you.’

‘One quarter of your sleepers isn’t much of an edge, Haussmann. ’ The other Captain had obviously been doing his homework. The kind of calculations I had run could not have been far from his own thoughts. ‘What kind of lead does that give you over us when you make orbit around Journey’s End? A few weeks at best?’

‘It’ll be enough,’ I said. ‘Enough to select the plum landing sites and get our people down there and dug in.’

‘If you have anyone left. You killed a lot of those dead, didn’t you? Oh, we know what kind of losses you should have run, Haussmann. Your death-rate should not have been much higher than our own. We had intelligence, remember? But we’ve only lost one hundred and twenty sleepers ourselves. The same goes for the other ships. How did you become so careless, Haussmann? Was it that you wanted them to die?’

‘Don’t be silly. If it suited my purposes to have them die, why wouldn’t I have killed more of them?’

‘And try and settle a planet with a handful of survivors? Don’t you know anything about genetics, Haussmann? Or incest?’

I started to say that I had thought of that as well, but what was the point of letting the bastard know all my plans? If his intelligence was as good as he claimed, let him find these things out for himself.

‘I’ll cross that bridge when I reach it,’ I said.

Zamudio was the one who finally gave the others a temporary edge - even if it probably wasn’t in quite the way he would have planned. But the Palestine’s Captain must have thought he stood a very good chance of damping his antimatter flow, or else he would not have tried stopping his engine.

The explosion had been as hard and radiantly white as I remembered from the day in the nursery when the Islamabad had gone up.

But the next day, something unexpected happened.

In the instants before Zamudio’s ship had blown up, it had still been transmitting technical data to its two allies, both locked in the same deceleration burn that Zamudio had tried unsuccessfully to abort. I could guess that much myself, even though I was not directly privy to that flow of information. That was the other odd thing. The rest of the Flotilla had become grudgingly united against me. I hadn’t really expected that, but in hindsight I should have realised that it would happen. I had given the bastards a common enemy. In a way, it was to my credit. There was only one of me, yet I had raised such fear in the other Captains that they had thought it best to amalgamate against me, despite all that had happened between them.

And now this - Zamudio clawing back from the grave.

‘That technical data was more useful than he realised,’ Armesto said.

‘It didn’t do Zamudio much good,’ I said.

By now there was an appreciable redshift between my ship and the other two Flotilla craft, beginning to fall behind me as they decelerated. But the communications software effortlessly removed all distortion, save for the increasing timelag which accompanied the break-up of the Flotilla.

‘No,’ Armesto said. ‘But in their sacrifice they gave us something tremendously valuable. Shall I explain?’

‘If it pleases you,’ I said, with what I hoped was a convincing show of boredom.

But rather than being bored, I was actually a little scared.

Armesto told me about the technical data, squirted across from the Palestine until the last nanosecond before it detonated. It concerned the attempts that had been made to shut down the flow of antimatter. It had always been known that the procedure was almost bound to be fatal, but until then the precise failure mode had been unclear, glimpsed only fleetingly in computer simulations. There had been speculation that if the failure mode could be understood sufficiently well, it might even be possible to counteract it by subtle manipulation of the fuel-flow. It was nothing that could be tested in advance. Now, however, a kind of test had been made for them. The telemetry from the ship had ended just after the failure mode had begun to arise, but it still probed closer into that instability regime than any carefully harnessed laboratory test or computer simulation.

And it had taught them well.

Enough information could be extracted from those numbers to guess how the failure mode must have evolved. The numbers, fed into the on-board simulations devised by the propulsion teams, hinted at a strategy for containing the imbalance. Tweak the magnetic bottle topology slightly and the injection stream could be neatly curtailed with no risk of normal-matter blowback or antimatter leakage. It was still, of course, hellishly risky.

Which did not stop them trying it.

My ship was falling ahead of the Brazilia and the Baghdad, and those latter two ships had flipped over to bring their engines forward for the deceleration phase. The bright spikes of those antimatter torches pin-pricked the minutely redshifted hemisphere of sky to the rear of the Santiago, like a pair of hot blue sibling suns. The thrust beams of the two deceleration ships were not to be underestimated as potential weapons, but neither Armesto or Omdurman would have the nerve to sweep their torches over my ship. Their argument was with me, not with the many viable colonists I still carried. Equally, I could consider igniting my own engine and dousing one of the two laggard ships with the Santiago’s exhaust - but the other vessel would almost certainly take that as a incitement to kill me, whether or not I still carried passengers. My simulations showed that I would not be able to realign my own flame before the other ship took me out in a single baptism of hellfire.

Not an option, I thought . . . and that meant I would have to live with those two enemies unless I found another way of destroying them. I was still considering the possibities when, in perfect synchrony, the two drive flames to the rear winked out.

I waited, breath held, for the twin blossoms of nuclear light which would signify that the antimatter drives had malfunctioned during shutdown.

But they never came.

Armesto and Omdurman had succeeded in quenching their flames, and now they were coasting with me, albeit with the lower velocities they had gained during the time they were decelerating.

Armesto contacted me. ‘I hope you saw what we just did, Sky. That changes everything, doesn’t it?’

‘Nowhere near as much as you’d like to think.’

‘Oh, don’t play games. You know what it means. Omdurman and I now have the ability to turn on our engines for however short a time we want. You don’t. That makes all the difference.’

I mulled this over. ‘It changes nothing. Our ships still have almost the same relative rest-mass as they did a day ago. You are still obliged to continue decelerating now if you want to make orbit around 61 Cygni-A. My ship’s lighter by the mass of the sleeper rings I ejected. That still gives me the edge over you. I’m staying in cruise mode until the last minute.’

‘You’re forgetting something,’ Armesto said. ‘We have our dead as well.’

‘It’s too late to make a difference. You’re cruising slower than me. And you said it yourself - you never sustained as many casualties as we did.’

‘We’ll find a way to make the difference, Haussmann. You’re not getting ahead of us.’

I looked at the long-range displays, which showed the vastly magnified dots of the other two ships. They were flipping over again, slowly but surely. I watched the dots elongate into thin lines, then contract again.

And then the dots were haloed by twin auras of exhaust radiation.

The two other ships were rejoining the chase.

‘It’s not over,’ Armesto said.

A day later, I watched the dead drift away from the other two ships.

It was twenty-four hours since Armesto and Omdurman had resumed the chase, demonstrating their ability to control their drive flames in a manner that was not yet within my grasp. The death of the Palestine had been a blessing in disguise for them . . . even if the better part of a thousand colonists had been killed in the process.

Now the other two ships were moving at the same relative speed as the Santiago, once again cruising towards Journey’s End. And they were trying very hard to beat me at my own game. There was a kind of inevitability to this, of course. My ship was still less massive than theirs . . . which meant they would have to shed mass if they wanted to follow the same cruise/deceleration curve as I did.

Which meant throwing their own dead into space.

There was nothing elegant about the way they did it. They must have worked overnight to smash through the same countermeasures which it had taken Norquinco nearly his entire life to circumvent . . . but they had the advantage over Norquinco in that they were not trying to complete this work in secret. Aboard the Brazilia and the Baghdad, every hand must have been turned towards that goal, working furiously. I almost envied them. So much easier when there was no need to work covertly . . . but so infinitely less elegant, too.

On the high-magnification image I watched sleeper rings peel off randomly from the two other ships, more like autumn leaves falling from a tree than anything orchestrated. The image resolution was too poor to be sure, but I suspected there were actually space-suited teams crawling around outside those ships with cutting tools and explosives. They were dislodging the sleeper rings by brute force.

‘You still can’t win,’ I told Armesto.

Armesto deigned to reply, though I’d half expected the other ships to maintain radio silence from here on in. ‘We can and we will.’

‘You said it yourself. You don’t have as many dead as us. No matter how many you throw away, it’ll never be sufficient.’

‘We’ll find a way to make it sufficient.’

Later, I guessed at what kind of strategy that might be. No matter what happened next, the ships were no more than two or three months from Journey’s End. With carefully rationed supplies, some colonists could be woken ahead of schedule. The revived momios could be kept alive on board the ship with the crew, albeit in conditions which would border on the dehumanising, but it might be sufficient. Every ten colonists that were woken meant a sleeper ring which could be ejected, and a concomitant reduction in ship’s mass, allowing a sharper deceleration profile.

It would be slow and dangerous - and I expected that they would lose perhaps one in ten that they tried to revive under such sub-optimal conditions - but it might be just enough to offset the mass difference.

Enough to give them, if not an edge over me, than at least parity.

‘I know what you intend,’ I told Armesto.

‘I doubt it very much,’ the old man answered.

But I soon saw that he was right. After the initial flurry of sleeper ring ejections, there followed a pattern: one ejection every ten hours or so. That was exactly what I would have expected, ten hours to thaw every colonist in a ring. There would only be a handful of people on each ship with the expertise to do that, so they would have to work sequentially.

‘It won’t save you,’ I said.

‘I think it will, Sky . . . I think it will.’

Which was when I knew what had to be done.

THIRTY-EIGHT

‘What do you mean, you killed her?’ Zebra asked, the five of us still studying the grotesque tableau of Dominika’s death.

‘That’s not what I said,’ I answered. ‘I said Tanner Mirabel killed her.’

‘And you are?’ Chanterelle said.

‘If I told you, I’m not completely sure you’d believe me. As a matter of fact I’m having a little trouble dealing with it myself.’

Pransky, who had been listening to our exchange, raised his voice and spoke with solemn surety. ‘Dominika’s still warm. And rigor mortis hasn’t set in yet. If your whereabouts can be accounted for over the last few hours - which I suspect is strongly the case - you’re hardly a prime suspect.’

Zebra tugged at my sleeve. ‘What about the two people I said were after you, Tanner? They acted like outsiders, according to Dominika. They might have killed her for snitching about them.’

‘I don’t even know who they are,’ I said. ‘At least, I can’t be sure. Not about the woman, anyway, but I’m willing to hazard a guess about the man.’

‘Who do you think it is?’ Zebra said.

Quirrenbach cut in, ‘I really don’t think we should spend too long here; not unless you want to tangle with what passes for authority here. And believe me, that’s not especially high on my agenda.’

‘Much as it grieves me to agree with him,’ Chanterelle said, ‘he has a fairly good point, Tanner.’

‘I don’t think you should call me that any more,’ I said.

Zebra shook her head slowly. ‘Who do we call you, then?’

‘Not Tanner Mirabel, anyway.’ I nodded at Dominika’s body. ‘It must have been Mirabel who killed her. The man who’s following me is Mirabel. He did this; not me.’

‘This is insane,’ Chanterelle said, to general nods of agreement, although no one much looked like they were enjoying proceedings. ‘If you’re not Tanner Mirabel, then who are you?’

‘A man called Cahuella,’ I said, knowing that this was only half of the truth.

Zebra placed her hands against her hips. ‘And you didn’t feel like telling any of us this until now?’

‘Until recently I didn’t realise it.’

‘No? Just slipped your mind, did it?’

I shook my head. ‘I think Cahuella altered my memories - his memories - to suppress his own identity. He needed to do it temporarily, to escape from Sky’s Edge. His own memories and face would have incriminated him. Except when I say “he”, I mean “me”, really.’

Zebra squinted at me, as if trying to tell if her earlier judgements had been fatally incorrect. ‘You actually believe this, don’t you?’

‘It’s taken me a little while to come to terms with it, believe me.’

‘He’s clearly snapped,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘The odd thing is, I assumed it would take rather more than the sight of one dead fat woman to push him over the edge.’

I punched him. It was quick; I allowed him no warning at all, and in any case, under the permanent threat of Chanterelle’s gun, he was in no position to fight back. I watched him fall, slipping on the floor which was slick with some spilled medical fluid, one hand rising to nurse his jaw before he even hit the ground.

Quirrenbach slipped into the shadow beneath the couch, yelping as he made contact with something.

For a moment I wondered if he had touched a snake which had found its way to the floor. But instead, something much larger emerged from the shadow. It was Dominika’s kid, Tom.

I reached a hand out towards him. ‘Come here. You’re safe with us.’

She had been killed by the same man who had visited her before, asking questions about me. An offworlder, yes - much like you, Tom said, casually at first, and then repeating himself in a tone that was altogether more suspicious. Not just much like Tanner - but very like him indeed.

‘It’s all right,’ I said, putting a hand on his shoulder. ‘The man who killed Dominika only looked like me. It doesn’t mean I’m him.’

Tom nodded his head slowly. ‘You no sound like him.’

‘He talked differently?’

‘You talk fancy, mister. The other man - the man who look like you - he don’t use so many words.’

‘The strong silent type,’ Zebra said. Then she drew the kid away from me, wrapping her long lean limbs around him protectively. I was touched, for a moment. It was the first time I had seen any hint of compassion shown by someone from the Canopy for a Mulch-born; the first time I had seen any hint that either party regarded the other as human. Of course I knew what Zebra believed - that the game was evil - but it was another matter to see that belief acted out in a simple gesture of giving comfort. ‘We’re sorry about Dominika,’ she said. ‘You have to believe it wasn’t us.’

Tom sniffed. He was upset, but the shock of her death had yet to set in, and he was still reasonably coherent and eager to help us. At least I hoped it was because the shock had not set in; the other possibility - that he was just immunised against that kind of pain - was too unpleasant to contemplate. I could handle it in a soldier, but not in a kid.

‘Was he alone?’ I asked. ‘I was told that two people were looking for me; a man and a woman. Do you know if this was the same man?’

‘Same guy,’ the kid said, turning his face away from the suspended corpse of Dominika. ‘And he not alone this time either. Woman with him, but she no look happy this time.’

‘She looked happy the first time?’ I said.

‘Not happy, but . . .’ The kid faltered, and I could see that we were making unreasonable demands on his vocabulary. ‘She look like she comfortable with guy; like friends. He nicer then - more like you.’

It made sense. The first time he’d paid a trip to Dominika’s would have been a fishing trip; gathering what information he could about the city and - hopefully - where he could find the man he wanted to kill, whether that man was me or Reivich or both of us. It might have made sense to kill Dominika there and then, but he must have suspected she could be of use to him in the future. So he had let her live, until he returned, with the snakes he must have bought in the bazaar.

And then he had killed her in a manner which he knew would speak to me; a private code of ritual murder which opened seams into the heart of my being.

‘The woman,’ I said. ‘She was offworld too?’

But Tom seemed no wiser than I about that.

Using Zebra’s phone, I called Lorant, the pig whose kitchen I had half-destroyed during my descent from the Canopy, an eternity ago. I told him I had a final huge favour to ask of him and his wife, which was only that they look after Tom until things quietened down. A day, I said, although in truth I plucked the figure from my head at random.

‘I look after myself,’ Tom said. ‘No want stay with pig.’

‘They’re good people, trust me. You’ll be much safer there. If word gets out that someone witnessed Dominika being killed, the same man will come back. If he finds you, he’ll kill you,’ I said.

‘I always got to hide?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Only for as long as it takes for me to kill the man who did this. And believe me, I’m not planning on spending the rest of my life doing it.’

The concourse was still quiet when we left the tent, meeting the pig and his wife just beyond the cataract of greasy rain which fell endlessly down the building’s overhung side, like a curtain of yellowing calico. The kid went with them, nervously at first, but then Lorant scooped him aboard and their balloon-wheeled vehicle vanished into the murk like an apparition.

‘He’ll be safe, I think,’ I said.

‘You think he’s in that much danger?’ Quirrenbach said.

‘More than you can imagine. The man who killed Dominika isn’t exactly overburdened with a conscience.’

‘You sound like you know him.’

‘I do,’ I said.

Then we returned to Chanterelle’s car.

‘I’m confused,’ Quirrenbach said, as he climbed into the vehicle’s bubble of dryness and light. ‘I don’t know who I’m dealing with any more. I feel like you’ve just pulled the carpet from under me.’

He was looking at me.

‘All because I found the dead woman?’ Pransky said. ‘Or because Mirabel has started going mad?’

‘Quirrenbach,’ I said, ‘I need to know of places where someone might buy snakes; probably not far from here.’

‘Did you hear anything of what we just said?’

‘I heard,’ I said. ‘I just don’t want to talk about it right now.’

‘Tanner,’ Zebra said, then stopped herself. ‘Or whoever you say you are. Does this business about your name have anything to do with what the Mixmaster told you?’

‘That wouldn’t by any chance be the same one you visited with me, would it?’ It was Chanterelle speaking now, and it was all I could do to nod, as if in that gesture I made my final acceptance of the truth.

‘I know some local snake sellers,’ Quirrenbach said, almost to ease the tension. He leaned forward, over Zebra’s shoulder, and fed orders into the car. It lifted smoothly, quickly spiriting us above the stench and chaos of the rain-sodden Mulch.

‘I had to know what was wrong with my eyes,’ I told Chanterelle. ‘Why they seemed to have been tampered with genetically. What the Mixmaster told me when I returned with Zebra was that the work had probably been done by Ultras, and then undone - crudely, as it happened - by someone else; someone like the Black Geneticists.’

‘Go on.’

‘That wasn’t quite what I wanted to hear. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn’t to find out that I must have been in some way complicit in the act.’

‘You think you willingly did this to your eyes?’

I nodded. ‘It wouldn’t be without its uses. Someone with an interest in hunting, perhaps, might consider it. I can see very well in the dark now.’

‘Who?’ Chanterelle said.

‘Good question,’ Zebra echoed. ‘But before you answer it, what about the full-body scan you had when we visited the Mixmaster? What was the significance of that?’

‘I was looking for evidence of old injuries,’ I said. ‘Both wounds were inflicted at about the same time. I was rather hoping to find one and rather hoping not to find the other.’

‘Any particular reason why?’

‘Tanner Mirabel had a foot shot off by Reivich’s gunmen. The foot could have been replaced by an organic prosthesis, or a cultured copy cloned from his own cells. But either way it would need to be surgically attached to the stump. Now, maybe with the best medical skills available on Yellowstone, that kind of work could be done invisibly. But not on Sky’s Edge. There’d be plenty of microscopic evidence - signs which should have easily shown up in a Mixmaster scan.’

Zebra nodded, accepting that much. ‘Maybe that’s true. But if you’re not Tanner - as you claim - how do you know it ever happened to him?’

‘Because I seem to have stolen his memories.’

Gitta dropped to the floor of the tent at almost the same moment as Cahuella.

Neither of them made much of a sound. Gitta had died - in as far as it mattered - the instant the beam from my weapon reached into her skull and turned her brain tissue into something resembling funereal ash; barely enough of it to cup in your hands and watch slipping in grey streams between your fingers. Her mouth opened slightly wider, but I doubted that she’d had any time to register my actions before thought itself failed. I hoped - devoutly - that the last thing Gitta thought, literally, was that I was about to do something which would save her. As she fell, the gunman’s knife etched deeper into her throat, but by then there was nothing left of her capable of feeling pain.

Cahuella - impaled by the beam which should have spared Gitta and killed the guard - exhaled softly, like the last sigh of someone falling gratefully into sleep. He had lost consciousness with the shock of the beam’s passage; a small mercy for him.

The gunman lifted his face to me. He did not understand, of course. What I had done had made no conceivable sense. I wondered how long it would take before he realised that the shot which had killed Gitta - with such geometric precision, bored straight through the forehead - had in fact been intended for him. How long would it take him before he realised the simple truth, which was that I was not quite the crack shot I had dared to imagine, and that I had killed the one person I was striving to save.

There was a moment of strained silence, during which time he might have come halfway to that realisation.

I did not give him time to finish the journey.

And this time, I neither missed nor stopped shooting when the task was obviously done. I emptied an ammo-cell into the man, and kept firing until the barrel was a cherry-red glow in the tent’s dim light.

For a moment I stood with three ostensibly dead bodies at my feet. Then some soldiering instinct snapped into play and I moved again, assimilating what I could.

Cahuella was breathing, though profoundly unconscious. I had reduced the Reivich gunman into an object lesson in cranial anatomy. I felt a spasm of remorse, guilt at having taken his execution well beyond any sensible limit. It was, I suppose, the last twitch of a dying professional soldier. In the exhaustion of that ammo-cell I had crossed some threshold into some less clinical realm where there were even fewer rules, and where the efficiency of a kill counted for infinitely less than the measure of hatred expended.

I put down the gun and knelt closer to Gitta.

I had no need of the medical kit to tell she was dead and irretrievably so, but I did it anyway: running the pocket neural imager across her head, watching as the little embedded screen turned red with messages of fatal tissue damage; deep cerebral injury; extensive cortical trauma. Even if we had a trawl in the tent, it would not have been able to skim her memories and thereby capture a ghost of her personality. I had ensured that she was too severely harmed for that; that the very biochemical patterns themselves were lost. I kept her alive, anyway: strapped a life-support cuirass across her chest and watched as it gave lie to the notion she was dead, colour flowing back into her cheeks as blood circulation resumed. It would keep her body intact until we got back to the Reptile House. Cahuella would kill me if I did anything less than that.

I turned to him, finally. His injuries were almost trivial; the beam had cut through him, but the pulse had been extremely brief and the beam width at its narrowest focus. Most of the internal damage would have been caused not by the beam itself but by the explosive vaporisation of water trapped in his cells, a series of tiny scalding concussions tracing the beam path. Cahuella’s entrance and exit wounds were so small they were hard to find. There should not be any internal bleeding; not if the beam had cauterised as it gnawed through him, as I intended. There would be harm, yes . . . but I had no reason to suppose he would not survive, even if the best I could do for him here was maintain his current coma with another cuirass.

I strapped the device on, left him resting peacefully next to his wife, then grabbed the gun, palmed in a fresh ammo-cell and secured the perimeter again, supporting myself with the improvised crutch of another rifle, trying not to think about what had been done to my foot, while knowing - on a level of abstract detachment which was anything but reassuring - that it was nothing that could not be fixed, given time.

It took me five minutes to satisfy myself that the rest of Reivich’s men were dead; as were almost all of our own except for Cahuella and myself. Dieterling was the only lucky one of us; the only one who had taken a minor wound. It looked worse than it was, and because the head-grazing shot had put him into unconsciousness, the enemy had assumed he was dead.

An hour later, close to collapse myself, blackouts fogging my vision like the awesome thunderhead which had preluded the night’s storm, I managed to get Cahuella and his wife into the vehicle. Then I managed to get Dieterling awake, though he was weak and confused by blood loss. At times, I remember, I screamed aloud because of the pain.

I slumped into the control seat of the vehicle and started it moving. Every part of me was fighting an agonised war to drag me into sleep, but I knew I had to move now - and start moving south - before Reivich sent another attack squad; something he would surely consider if the last squad failed to return on time.

Dawn seemed an eternity away, and when finally pinkish daylight oozed over the now cloudless seaward horizon, I had already hallucinated its coming a dozen times. Somehow I got us back to the Reptile House.

But it would have been better for everyone if I had never made it.

THIRTY-NINE

We stopped at three snake sellers before we found one who knew who we were talking about: a stranger - evidently offworld - who had bought enough snakes for the keeper to be able to shut up shop for the rest of the day. That had been yesterday: the man had obviously planned Dominika’s murder long before her actual execution.

The man, the snake seller said, looked a lot like me. Not precisely, but the resemblance was strong if you squinted, and we both spoke with a similar accent, even though the man was far less loquacious.

Of course we spoke similarly. We were not just from the same planet. We were from the same Peninsula.

‘What about the woman who was with him?’ I asked.

He had not mentioned a woman, but there was something in the way he fingered the extremities of his waxed moustache which told me I was right to ask.

‘Now you’re beginning to take up my time,’ he said.

‘Is there anyone or anything in this city which can’t be bought?’ I said, slipping him a note.

‘Yeah,’ the man said, laughing quietly. ‘But I’m not it.’

‘What about the woman?’ I asked, eyeing a caged snake the colour of spearmint. ‘Describe her.’

‘Don’t have to, do I? Don’t they all look the same?’

‘Don’t who all look the same?’

He laughed, louder this time, as if he found my ignorance hysterical. ‘The Mendicants, of course. Seen one, seem ’em all.’

I looked at him in horror.

I had made a call to the Mendicants the day after I arrived in Chasm City. I was trying to reach Sister Amelia; to ask her what - if anything - she knew about Quirrenbach. I had not been able to get through to her; had instead spoken to Brother Alexei and his black eye. But I had been told that she was as interested in seeking me as I was her. The remark had not meant much at the time. But now it detonated in my skull like a starshell.

Sister Amelia was the woman with Tanner.

Zebra’s contacts had not even hinted that the woman was from the Mendicant order. The snake seller, on the other hand, was sure. Maybe I was wrong in assuming that the other woman was always Amelia. But I thought otherwise. I figured she had to be slipping in and out of disguise; either deliberately, or because she just wasn’t thorough enough in maintaining whatever new identity she had concocted.

What was her part in this?

I had trusted her implicitly after my revival. I had allowed her to help my mind heal after the identity-shattering processes of reefersleep. And in the whole time I had spent in the Mendicant habitat, nothing she had done had given any hint that my trust was anything other than well-placed.

But how much did she trust me?

Tanner - the real Tanner - might have come through Hospice Idlewild after me. He must have come through on the same ship from Sky’s Edge, his revival delayed a little after my own, just as my own had been delayed a little after that of Reivich. But I had already used the name Tanner Mirabel, which meant that Tanner had to be travelling under an identity other than his own. Unless he wanted to sound screamingly insane, his mind pulverised by adverse reefersleep trauma, he would not have advertised his real name too quickly. Better to keep up the lie and let the Mendicants think he was someone else.

It was getting confusing. Even I was getting confused. I tried not to think how this must look to Zebra, Chanterelle and the others.

I was not Tanner Mirabel.

I was . . . something else. Something hideous and reptilian and ancient which my mind recoiled from, but which I could not really continue to ignore. When Amelia and the other Mendicants had revived me, I had been travelling under Tanner’s name and I also carried what appeared to be his memories, skills and - more importantly - the knowledge of his immediate mission. I had never thought to question any of it; everything had seemed correct. Everything had seemed to fit in place.

But all of it had been false.

We were still talking to the snake seller when Zebra’s phone chimed again, a noise almost lost in the ceaseless susurration of rain and the hissing of caged reptiles. She took the phone from her jacket, staring at it suspiciously without actually answering it.

‘It’s coming in on your name, Pransky,’ Zebra said. ‘But you’re the only person who knows that number, and you’re standing right next to me.’

‘I think you should be very careful before answering that call,’ I said. ‘If it’s from who I think it is.’

Zebra cuffed the phone open; Pandora opening the lid of her box, fearful of what might lie within. Speckles of rain dimpled the screen, like a parade of tiny glass beetles. Zebra lifted the phone to her face and said something quietly.

Someone answered her. She said something back - her tone uncertain - and then turned her face to mine.

‘You were right, Tanner. It’s for you.’

I took the phone from her, wondering how something so innocent could contain so much evil. Then I looked into a face which was very much like my own.

‘Tanner,’ I said quietly.

There was an appreciable delay before the man answered, amusement in his voice. ‘Are you asking or telling?’

‘Very funny.’

‘I’ve got something to tell you, you know.’ The voice was faint, backdropped by sounds of machinery. ‘I don’t know if you’ve quite put the pieces together yet.’

‘I’m beginning to.’

Another delay. Tanner was in space, I realised - somewhere near Yellowstone, but appreciable fractions of a light-second away from low-orbit; probably out near the belt of habitats where the Mendicants held tenancy. ‘Good. I won’t insult you by using your real name; not just yet. But this much I will tell you.’

I felt myself stiffen.

‘I’ve come to do what Tanner Mirabel does, which is to complete something he started. I’ve come to kill you - just as you came to kill Reivich. Symmetric, don’t you think?’

‘If you’re in space then you’re already going in the wrong direction. I know you were here before. I found your calling card with Dominika.’

‘Nice touch with the snakes, wasn’t it? Or haven’t you quite figured that part out yet?’

‘I’m doing my best.’

‘I’d love to chat, I really would.’ The face smiled. ‘And maybe we’ll still get the chance.’

I knew it was bait, but I fell for it anyway. ‘Where are you?’

‘On my way to an engagement with someone dear to your heart.’

‘Reivich,’ Quirrenbach said quietly, and I nodded, remembering how Quirrenbach had claimed to be taking us into space - for a meeting with Reivich - before Chanterelle rescued us.

One of the high carousels, he had said. A place called Refuge.

‘Reivich doesn’t figure in this,’ I said. ‘He’s an accessory; nothing more. This is only about you and me. We don’t have to make it any more than it already is.’

‘Quite a change of tune from a man who was intent on killing Reivich up to only a few hours ago,’ Tanner said.

‘Maybe I’m not the man I thought I was. But why do you have to go after Reivich?’

‘Because he’s an innocent.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means he’ll bring you to me.’ Tanner’s smile flashed on the screen, daring me to find fault with his logic. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? You came here to kill him, but you’d rather save him than have me do the job for you.’

I had no idea how I felt, in all truth. Tanner was forcing me to confront questions I had skirted around until now while I dealt with the schism in my memories. But that schism had opened into a cleft which had ripped my past from me and left something poisonous in its place. If I was Cahuella - and everything now pointed to that - then I hated myself to the core.

But I could not hate Tanner any less. He had killed Gitta.

No: we killed her.

The thought - the crushing logic of it - hit home. We shared memories now, whole intermingled strands of past. Tanner’s memories were not truly mine, but now that I’d carried them in my head, I could never be entirely free of their influence. He had killed Gitta; now I carried the memory of having done it myself; the memory of having killed the most precious entity in my universe. But it was worse; far worse than that. Tanner’s crimes were nothing compared to those that I’d suppressed; buried in the memories I had hidden beneath Tanner’s, but which were now upwelling into my consciousness. I still felt like Tanner; still felt that his past was the right one, but I’d glimpsed enough of the truth to know that this was only an illusion which would grow less and less convincing with time; that it was Cahuella’s past and memories which really belonged in this body. And even that was not the end of it, for Cahuella himself was only a kind of shell, overlaying an even deeper set of memories.

I didn’t want to think about that, but I could see the way things were headed.

I had stolen Tanner’s memories; made myself think - temporarily - that I was really him. Then - as I began to shrug aside this disguise - began to suffer the effects of the indoctrinal virus, catalysing the release of even deeper layers of memory; glimpses into my hidden history; one that went back centuries.

Back to Sky Haussmann.

Something gave in me as the full realisation of what I was sunk in. My knees buckled; I dropped to the rain-slicked ground and felt the urge to vomit. I had dropped the phone; now it lay beside me, up-ended so that I could still see Tanner’s face, his expression quizzical.

‘Something the matter?’ he asked.

I spoke into the phone.

‘Amelia,’ I said, at first barely a whisper, then repeating her name more audibly. ‘She’s with you, isn’t she? You tricked her.’

‘Let’s just say she’s been very useful to me.’

‘She doesn’t know what you mean to do, does she?’

Tanner seemed to find this amusing. ‘She’s a very trusting soul. She had her doubts about you, you know. Apparently, after you’d discharged yourself from the Mendicants, she became aware of certain irregularities in your genetic code - evidence of what she naturally thought was congenital illnesses. She tried to contact you, but you were already becoming a very slippery customer.’ Tanner smiled again. ‘By then I’d revived and recovered my faculties. I remembered who I was and why I was on that flight from Sky’s Edge. That I was after you, because you’d stolen my identity and memories. Of course, I didn’t let Amelia know any of that. I just told her that you and I were brothers and that you were just a little confused. A little harmless deception. You can’t blame me for it.’

No; that was true enough. I had also lied to Amelia; hoping that she’d give me a lead on Reivich.

‘Let her go,’ I said. ‘She’s nothing to you.’

‘Oh, but she’s much more than that. She’s another reason to bring you here. Another reason why we should meet, Cahuella.’

His face was frozen for a moment, then the link terminated, leaving us standing in the rain. I passed the phone back to Zebra.

‘What about the other injury?’ she asked, as we scudded back across the city in her car. ‘You said Tanner had lost a foot, and now there was no evidence of that ever happening. But that wasn’t the only thing you had the Mixmaster look for.’ She shook her head. ‘You know, I want to keep calling you Tanner. It isn’t easy, you know - talking to someone who denies their own name.’

‘Believe me, it isn’t easy from my side of the conversation, either.’

‘Tell us about the other injury, then.’

I drew in breath. This was the hardest part of all. ‘Tanner shot someone once. A man who he was working for. A man called Cahuella.’

‘Nice of him,’ Chanterelle said.

‘No; it wasn’t like that. Tanner was actually doing this man a favour when he shot him. It was a hostage situation. Tanner had to fire a weapon through the man to . . .’ My voice gained a crack, ‘to kill one of the gunmen, who had Cahuella’s wife at knifepoint. It wasn’t going to kill Cahuella. Tanner knew that with the angle of the beam, it wouldn’t seriously injure the man.’

‘And?’

‘Tanner made the shot.’

Zebra said, ‘And it worked?’

In my mind’s eye I watched Gitta fall to the floor, not via the knifeblade, but through Tanner’s errant shot. ‘The man lived,’ I said, after a few moments. ‘Tanner’s knowledge of anatomy was faultless. It came from being a professional killer, you see. They teach assassins which organs they need to hit to ensure a kill. But the knowledge can just as easily be inverted; to find the safest route for a beam to take through a body.’

‘You make it all sound so surgical,’ Chanterelle said.

‘That’s just what it was.’

I told them the Mixmaster’s scan had found a healed, elongated wound running through my body, consistent with a beam weapon entering my back and exiting my abdomen, at a positive angle. The wound had shown up on his scan like the dissipating vapour trail of an aircraft.

‘But that means . . .’ Zebra started to say.

‘Shall I spell it out for you? It means I’m the man Tanner Mirabel was working for. Cahuella.’

‘This gets worse,’ Quirrenbach said.

‘Hear him out,’ Zebra said. ‘I was there when we visited the Mixmaster, remember. He isn’t making all of this up.’

I turned to Chanterelle. ‘You saw the genetic changes which had been worked on my eyes. Cahuella had that done to himself; it was work he paid the Ultras to perform on him. Hunting was a hobby of his.’

But there was more to it than that, wasn’t there? Cahuella wanted to be able to see at night because he hated darkness, hated the memory of being small and alone and forgotten, waiting in the nursery.

‘You’re still talking of Cahuella like he’s some third person,’ Zebra said. ‘Why? Aren’t you sure that you’re him?’

I shook my head, remembering kneeling in the rain; every absolute blasted away. That sense of total dislocation was still there, but in the intervening time I’d contained it; built a scaffold around it, a structure - however rickety - which would at least allow me to function in the present.

‘Circumstantially, yes. But if I have his memories, they’re fragmented - no more clear than Tanner’s.’

‘Let’s get this straight,’ said Quirrenbach. ‘You haven’t got a fucking clue who you are, is that it?’

‘No,’ I said, admiring my own calm. ‘I’m Cahuella. I’m completely sure of it now.’

‘Tanner wants you dead?’ Zebra said, as we left Chanterelle’s car at the perimeter of the station concourse. ‘Even though you and he used to be close?’

Images of a white room - of a man crouched naked on its floor - flashed across my mind’s eye like glimpses in a strobe light, gaining tiny increments of clarity with each repetition.

‘Something very bad happened,’ I said. ‘The man I am - Cahuella - did something very bad to Tanner. I’m not sure I blame Tanner for wanting revenge.’

‘I don’t blame him, or you, or whoever it was,’ Chanterelle said. ‘Not if you - Tanner - shot him.’

She frowned, but I couldn’t blame her for that. Keeping track of these shifting layers of identity and memory was like holding the weave of a complex tapestry in mind.

‘Tanner missed,’ I said. ‘His shot was meant to save Cahuella’s wife, but he ended up killing her instead. I think it may have been the first and last mistake of his career. Not bad, when you think about it. And everything he did was in the heat of the moment.’

‘You sound like you don’t really blame him for coming after you,’ Zebra said.

Our group trooped into the concourse, which was noticeably busier than when we had last been here, only a few hours before. Nothing resembling officialdom had yet claimed Dominika’s tent, although there were also no customers anywhere near it. I presumed her body was still alive, still suspended above the couch where she worked her acts of neural exorcism; still gilded by snakes. Word of her death must surely have spread far into the Mulch by now, but the sheer illegality of it - cutting against all the unspoken laws of who could and could not be touched - still served to enforce a zone of exclusion around the tent.

‘I don’t think anyone would blame him,’ I said. ‘Because what I did to him . . .’

The white room returned - except this time I shared the perspective of the crouched man; felt his nakedness and his excruciating fear; a fear that opened up rifts of emotion he’d never imagined before, like a man glimpsing hallucinogenic new colours.

Tanner’s perspective.

The creature stirred in the alcove, uncoiling itself with languid patience, as if - in some simple loop of its tiny brain - it understood that its prey was not going anywhere in a hurry.

The juvenile was not a large hamadryad; it must have been birthed from its tree-mother in the last five years, judging by the roseate hue of its photovoltaic hood, furled around its head like the wings of a resting bat. They lost that colour as they neared maturity, since it was only fully grown hamadryads which were long enough to reach the tree-tops and unfurl their hoods. If the creature was allowed to grow, in a year or two the roseate shade would darken to a spangled black: a dark quilt studded with the iridophore-like photovoltaic cells.

The coiled thing lowered itself to the floor, like a bundle of stiff rope tossed from a ship to the quayside. For a moment it rested, its photovoltaic hood opening and closing softly and slowly, like the gills of a fish. It was very large indeed, now that he could see it more closely.

He had seen hamadryads dozens of times in the wild, but never closely, and never in their entirety; only a glimpse between trees from a safe distance. Even though he had never been near one without possessing a weapon which could easily kill it, there had never been an encounter which was not without a little fear. He understood. It was natural, really: the human fear of snakes, a phobia written into the genes by millions of years of prudent evolution. The hamadryad was not a snake, and its ancestors did not remotely resemble anything which had ever lived on Earth. But it looked like a snake; it moved like a snake. That was all that mattered.

He screamed.

FORTY

‘You may have let me down in the end,’ I said, mouthing a silent message to Norquinco, who was far beyond any means of hearing me, ‘but I can’t deny that you did an exemplary job.’

Clown smiled at that.

‘Armesto, Omdurman? I hope you’re watching this. I hope you can see what I am about to do. I want it to be clear. Crystal clear. Do you understand?’

Armesto’s voice came though after the timelag, as if halfway to the nearest quasar. It was faint because the other ships had sloughed all non-essential communications arrays: hundreds of tonnes of redundant hardware.

‘You’ve burned all your bridges, son. There’s nothing left for you to do now, Sky. Not unless you manage to persuade any more of your viables to cross the River Styx.’

I smiled at the classical reference. ‘You still don’t seriously think I murdered some of those dead, do you?’

‘No more than I think you murdered Balcazar.’ Armesto was silent for a few moments; silence broken only by static; cracks and pops of interstellar noise. ‘Make of it what you want, Haussmann . . .’

My bridge officers looked awkwardly at him when Armesto mentioned the old man, but none of them were going to do more than that. Most of them must have already had their suspicions. They were all loyal to me now; I had bought their loyalty, promoting non-achievers to positions of prominence in the crew hierarchy, just as dear Norquinco had tried to blackmail me into doing. They were weak, for the most part, but that did not concern me. With the layers of automation Norquinco had bypassed, I could practically run the Santiago myself.

Perhaps it would come to that soon.

‘You’ve forgotten something,’ I said, enjoying the moment.

Armesto must have been confident that nothing had been forgotten, beginning to think that the chase was winnable.

How wrong he was.

‘I don’t think I have.’

‘He’s right,’ came the voice of Omdurman on the Baghdad, similarly faint. ‘You’ve used up all your options, Haussmann. You don’t have another edge.’

‘Except this one,’ I said.

I tapped commands into my seat command console. Felt, subliminally, the hidden layers of ship subsystems bend to my will. On the main screen, looking along the spine, was a view very similar to the one I had seen when I had detached the sixteen rings of the dead.

But it was different now.

Rings were leaving all along the spine, around all six faces. There was still a harmony to it - I was too much of a perfectionist for anything else - but it was no longer an ordered line of rings. Now, every other ring amongst the eighty remaining was detaching. Forty rings broke away from the spine of the Santiago . . .

‘Dear God,’ said Armesto, when he must have seen what was happening. ‘Dear God, Haussmann . . . No! You can’t do that!’

‘Too late,’ I said. ‘I’m already doing it.’

‘Those are living people!’

I smiled. ‘Not any more.’

And then I turned my attention back to the view, before the glory of what I had done had passed. Truly, it was beautiful to watch. Cruel, too - I admitted that. But what was beauty without a little cruelty at its heart?

Now I knew I’d win.

We took the Zephyr to the behemoth terminal, the train hauled by the same huge, dragonlike locomotive that had brought Quirrenbach and me into the city only a few days earlier.

Using what little reserves of currency I had left, I bought a fake identity from one of the marketeers, a name and a cursory credit-history just about robust enough to get me off the planet and - if I was lucky - into Refuge. I had come in as Tanner Mirabel, but I did not dare try and use that name again. Normally it would have been a matter of reflex for me to pull a false name out of the air and slip into that disguise, but now something made me hesitate when selecting my new identity.

In the end, when the marketeer was about to lose his patience, I said, ‘Make me Schuyler Haussmann.’

The name meant almost nothing to him, not even the surname worthy of comment. I said the name to myself a few times, becoming sufficiently familiar with it that I would act with the right start of recognition if my name came over a public address system, or if someone whispered it across a crowded room. Afterwards, we booked ourselves onto the next available behemoth making the haul up from Yellowstone.

‘I’m coming, of course,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘If you’re serious about protecting Reivich, I’m the only way you’re going to get anywhere near him.’

‘What if I’m not serious?’

‘You mean what if you might still be planning to kill him?’

I nodded. ‘You’ve got to admit, it’s still a possibility.’

Quirrenbach shrugged. ‘Then I’ll simply do what I was always meant to do. Take you out at the earliest opportunity. Of course, my reading of the situation is that it won’t come to that - but don’t imagine for a moment that I wouldn’t do it.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

Zebra said, ‘You need me, of course. I’m also a line to Reivich, even if I was never as close to him as Quirrenbach.’

‘It might be dangerous, Zebra.’

‘What, and visiting Gideon wasn’t?’

‘Fair point. And I’ll admit I’m grateful for any help I can get.’

‘Then you’ll want me as well,’ Chanterelle said. ‘After all, I’m the only one of us here who really knows how to hunt someone down.’

‘Your gaming skills aren’t in question,’ I said. ‘But it won’t be like a hunt. If I know Tanner - and I’m afraid I may know him as well as he knows himself - he won’t be following any rulebook.’

‘Then we’ll just have to play dirty before he does, won’t we.’

For the first time in ages I laughed a laugh that wasn’t totally insincere.

‘I’m sure we can rise to the occasion.’

Quirrenbach, Zebra, Chanterelle and I lifted an hour later; the behemoth making one arcing swoop over Chasm City before lofting itself into the lowering clouds, twisted like phantasms by the collision between Yellowstone’s relentless winds and the belching updraft of the chasm itself. I looked down and the city looked tiny and toylike, the Mulch and the Canopy hardly separated at all, compressed into one tangled and intricate urban layer.

‘Are you all right?’ Zebra said to me, returning to our table with drinks.

I turned away from the window. ‘Why?’

‘Because you almost look like you miss the place.’

When the journey was almost over; when the success of what I had planned was becoming apparent - when, openly, they were beginning to talk of me as a hero - I visited my two prisoners.

In all the years, no one had ever located the chamber deep inside Santiago, though some - Constanza in particular - had come close to guessing that it must exist. But the chamber drew only parsimoniously from the ship’s power and life-support systems grid, and even Constanza’s undoubted skill and persistence had not been sufficient to bring its location to light. Which was good, for although the situation was less critical now, there had been long years in which the chamber’s discovery would have ruined me. Now, however, my situation was secure; I had enough allies to weather minor scandals, and I had dealt effectively with most of those who stood against me.

Technically, of course, there were three prisoners, although Sleek did not really fit into the latter category. His presence had merely been useful to me, and - irrespective of how he viewed it - I did not view his incarceration as a genuine punishment. As ever upon my arrival he flexed within his tank, but lately he only moved sluggishly, his small dark eye only dimly registering my presence. I wondered how much of his earlier life he remembered, confined in a tank that was oceanically vast compared to the one where he had been for the last fifty years.

‘We’re nearly there, aren’t we?’

I turned around, surprised after all this time to hear the croak of Constanza’s voice.

‘Very nearly,’ I answered. ‘I’ve just seen Journey’s End with my own eyes, you know - as a fully formed world, not just a bright star. It’s really quite wonderful to see it, Constanza.’

‘How long has it been?’ She tried to look at me, straining against her constraints. She was tied to a stretcher which had been cranked to an angle of forty-five degrees.

‘Since I brought you here? I don’t know - four, five months?’ I shrugged, as if the matter had barely occupied my thoughts. ‘It doesn’t really matter, does it?’

‘What did you tell the rest of the crew, Sky?’

I smiled. ‘I didn’t need to tell them anything. I made it look as if you’d committed suicide by jumping out of one of the airlocks. No need to provide a body that way. I just let the others draw their own conclusions.’

‘They’ll figure out what happened one day.’

‘Oh, I doubt it. I’ve given them a world, Constanza. They want to canonise me, not crucify me. I don’t see that changing for a very long time.’

She had always been problematic, of course. I had discredited her after the Caleuche incident, bringing to light a trail of faked evidence which placed her in the same conspiratorial frame as Captain Ramirez. That was the end of her career in security. She had been lucky to avoid execution or imprisonment, especially in the desperate days that had followed the detachment of the sleeper modules. But Constanza had never ceased to give me cause for concern, even when she had been demoted to menial work. The crew as a whole were willing to accept that the detachment had been a desperate but necessary act; a conclusion I pushed them towards, via propaganda and lies concerning the other ships’ intentions. I did not even think of it as a crime myself. Constanza thought otherwise, and spent her last years of liberty trying to unravel the labyrinth of misinformation I had recently woven around myself. She was always probing into the Caleuche incident; protesting that Ramirez had been innocent, and she insisted on wild speculation about the manner in which Old Man Balcazar had really died; that his two medics had been wrongfully executed. At times, she even raised doubts about the way Titus Haussmann had died.

Finally, I decided I had to silence her. Faking her suicide required only a little preparation, as did bringing her to the torture chamber unseen by anyone else. She had spent most of that time drugged and restrained, of course, but I had allowed her little windows of lucidity now and again.

It was good to have someone to talk to.

‘Why did you keep him alive for so long?’ Constanza said.

I looked at her, marvelling at how aged she had become. I remembered when we had both stood against the glass of the large dolphin tank; near-equals.

‘The Chimeric? I knew he’d come in useful, that’s all.’

‘To torture?’

‘No. Oh, I saw that he was punished for what he’d done, but that was only the start of it. Here. Why don’t you take a better look at him, Constanza?’ I adjusted the angle of her stretcher, until she faced the infiltrator. He was completely mine now, and did not require restraining at all. Nonetheless - for my peace of mind - I kept him chained to the wall.

‘He looks like you,’ Constanza said wonderingly.

‘He has twenty additional facial muscles,’ I said, with paternal pride. ‘They can pull the flesh of his skin into any configuration he wants, and hold it there. And he hasn’t aged much since I brought him here. I think he can still pass for me.’ I rubbed my face, feeling the rough texture of the cosmetics I wore to offset my unnatural youthfulness. ‘And he’ll do anything - anything - that I ask of him. Won’t you, Sky?’

‘Yes,’ the Chimeric answered.

‘What are you planning? To use him as a decoy?’

‘If it comes to that,’ I said. ‘Which, frankly, I doubt.’

‘But he only has one arm. They’ll never mistake him for you.’

I wheeled Constanza back into the position she had been in upon my arrival. ‘That’s not an insurmountable problem, believe me.’ I paused and produced a huge, long-needled syringe from the kit of medical instruments I kept next to the God-Box, the device I had used to smash and remake the infiltrator’s mind.

Constanza saw the syringe. ‘That’s for me, isn’t it?’

‘No,’ I said, moving over to the dolphin tank. ‘It’s for Sleek. Dear old Sleek, who has served me so loyally over the years.’

‘You’re going to kill him?’

‘Oh, I’m sure he’d regard it as a mercy by now.’ I unlatched the top of his tank, wrinkling my nose at the appalling smell of the brackish water in which he lay. Sleek flexed again, and I put a calming hand across his dorsal region. His skin, once as smooth and glossy as polished stone, was now like concrete.

I injected him, pushing the needle through an inch of fat. He moved again, almost thrashing, and then became stiller. I looked at his eye, but it looked as expressionless as ever.

‘He’s dead, I think.’

‘I thought you’d come to kill me,’ Constanza said, unable to keep the nervous relief from her voice.

I smiled. ‘With a syringe like that? You must be joking. No; this one’s for you.’

I picked up another one; smaller this time.

Journey’s End, I thought, gripping the support strut in the Santiago’s free-fall observation blister. It was an apt name. The world hung below me now, like a green paper lantern lit by a dimming candle. Swan, 61 Cygni-A, was not a bright sun, and even though the world was in a tight orbit around the dwarf, daylight here was not the same thing that Clown had shown me in pictures of Earth. It was a sullen, paltry kind of illumination. The star’s spectrum was acutely red, even though it still looked white to the naked eye. But none of this was surprising. Even before the Flotilla had left home, a century and a half earlier, they had known how much energy the world would receive in its orbit.

Deep in Santiago’s cargo hold, too light to have ever been worth sacrificing, was a thing of diaphanous beauty. Teams were preparing it even now. They had extracted it from the starship, anchored it to an orbital transfer tug and towed it beyond the planet’s gravitational field, out to the Lagrange point between Journey’s End and Swan. There, stationed by minute adjustments of ion-thust, the thing would float for centuries. That at least was the plan.

I looked away from the limb of the planet, towards interstellar space. The other two ships, the Brazilia and the Baghdad, were still out there. Current estimates placed their arrival three months in the future, but there was an inevitable margin of error.

No matter.

The first wave of shuttle flights had already made several return trips to and from the surface, and many transponder-equipped cargo packages had already been dropped, ready to be found in a few months’ time. A shuttle was descending now, its deltoid shape dark against a tongue of equatorial landmass which the geography section was calling the Peninsula. Doubtless, I thought, they would come up with something less literal given a few more weeks. Five more flights would be all it took to get all the remaining colonists down to the surface. Another five would suffice to transport all the crew and the heavy equipment which could not be dropped via cargo packages. The Santiago would remain in orbit, a skeletal hulk denuded of anything remotely useful.

The shuttle’s thrusters fired briefly, kicking it onto an atmospheric insertion course. I watched it dwindle until it was out of sight. A few minutes later, near the horizon, I thought I saw the glint of re-entry fire as it touched air. It would not be long before it was on the ground. A preliminary landing camp had already been established, near the southern tip of the Peninsula. Nueva Santiago, we were thinking of calling it - but again, it was early days.

And now Swan’s Pupil was opening.

It was too far away to see, of course, but the angstrom-thin plastic structure was being unfurled at the Lagrange point.

The placement was almost perfect.

A torch beam seemed to fall on the sombre world below, casting an ellipsoidal region of brightness. The beam moved, hunting - reshaping. When they had adjusted it properly, it would double the solar illumination falling on the Peninsula region.

There was life down there, I knew. I wondered how it would adjust to the change in ambient light, and found it hard to stir up much enthusiasm.

My communications bracelet chimed. I glanced down, wondering who amongst my crew would have the nerve to interrupt this moment of triumph. But the bracelet merely informed me that there was a recorded message waiting for me in my quarters. Annoyed - but nonetheless curious - I pushed myself out of the observation blister, through a gasket of locks and transfer wheels, until I reached the main, spinning part of our great ship. Now that I was in a gravitational zone, I walked freely, calmly, not allowing the faintest hint of doubt to show on my face. Now and then crew and senior officers passed me, saluting; sometimes even offering to shake my hand. The general mood was one of utter jubilation. We had crossed interstellar space and arrived safely at a new world, and I had brought us here before our rivals.

I stopped and talked with some of them - it was vital to cement alliances, for troubled times lay ahead - but all the while my mind was on the recorded message, wondering what it could mean.

I soon found out.

‘I assume by now you’ve killed me,’ Constanza said. ‘Or at the very least made me disappear for good. No; don’t say a word - this isn’t an interactive recording, and I won’t take very much of your precious time.’ I was looking at her face on the screen in my quarters: a face that looked fractionally younger than the last time I had seen her. She continued, ‘I recorded this some time ago, as you’ve probably gathered. I downloaded it into the Santiago’s data network and had to intervene once every six months to prevent it being delivered to you. I knew that I was an increasingly sharp thorn in your side, and thought the chances were good that you would find a way of getting rid of me before too long.’

I smiled despite myself, remembering how she had demanded to know how long I had held her prisoner.

‘Well done, Constanza.’

‘I’ve ensured that a copy will reach a number of senior officers and crew, Sky. Of course, I don’t really expect that I will be taken seriously. You’ll have certainly doctored the facts surrounding my disappearance. That doesn’t matter; it’s enough that I’ve sown a seed of doubt. You’ll still have your allies and admirers, Sky, but don’t be surprised if not everyone is prepared to follow your leadership with blind obedience.’

‘Is that all?’ I said.

‘There’s one final thing,’ she said, almost as if she had expected me to speak at that point. ‘Over the years, I’ve amassed a great deal of evidence against you, Sky. Much of it is circumstantial; much of it open to different shades of interpretation, but it’s a life’s work and I’d hate to see it go to waste. So - before I recorded this message - I took what I had and concealed it in a small, hard-to-find place.’ She paused.

‘Have we reached orbit around Journey’s End yet, Sky? If so, there’s little point trying to find the materials. By now they’re almost certainly on the surface.’

‘No.’

Constanza smiled. ‘You can hide, Sky, but I’ll always be there, haunting you. No matter how much you try and bury the past; no matter how effectively you remake yourself as a hero . . . that package will always be there, waiting to be found.’

Later, much later, I stumbled through the jungle. Running was difficult for me, but that had very little do with my age. The hard part was keeping my balance with only one arm, my body always forgetting that necessary asymmetry. I had lost the arm in the very earliest days of the settlement. It had been a dreadful accident, even though the pain of it was only an abstract memory now. My arm had been incinerated; burned to a crisp black stump when I held it in front of the wide muzzle of a fusion torch.

Of course, it hadn’t been an accident at all.

I had known for years that I might have to do it, but had kept delaying it until we were down on the planet. I had to lose the arm in such a way that no medical intervention could save it, which ruled out a neat, painless severing operation. Equally, I had to be able to survive the loss of it.

I had been hospitalised for three months after the accident, but I had pulled through. And then I had began to resume my duties, word escaping around the planet - and out to my enemies - of what had happened. Gradually it had settled into the mass consciousness that I only had one arm. Years had passed and the fact had become so obvious that it was barely mentioned any more. And no one had ever suspected that losing the arm was just a tiny detail in a greater plan; a precaution set in place years or decades before it might become useful. Well, now the time had come when I could be thankful for that forethought. I was a fugitive now, even as I approached my eightieth birthday.

Things had gone well enough in the early years of the colony. Constanza’s message from the grave had taken the shine off for a while, but before very long the people’s need for a hero had overridden any nagging doubts they might have had about my suitability for the role. I had lost some sympathisers, but gained the general goodwill of the mob, a trade-off I considered acceptable. Constanza’s hidden package had never come to light, and as time passed I began to suspect that it had never existed; that the whole thing had been a psychological weapon designed to unnerve me.

Those early days were heady times. The three months’ good grace which I had given the Santiago had been enough time for us to establish a network of small surface camps. We had three well-fortified main settlements by the time the other starships braked into orbit above them. Nueva Valparaiso, near the equator (it would make a fine site for a space elevator one day, I thought) was the latest. Others would follow. It had been a good start, and it had seemed unthinkable then that the people - with a few loyal exceptions - would turn so viciously against me.

Yet they had.

I could see something ahead, through the dense-packed rain-forest foliage. A light. Definitely artificial, I thought - perhaps the allies I was supposed to be meeting. I hoped that was the case anyway. I did not have many allies now. The few left in the orthodox power structure had managed to break me out of custody before the trial, but they had not been able to assist me in reaching sanctuary. Very probably those friends would be shot for their treason. So be it. They had made the necessary sacrifice. I had expected nothing less.

At first it had not even been a war.

The Brazilia and the Baghdad had arrived in orbit, confronted by the skeletal hulk of the old Santiago. For long months nothing had happened, the two allied ships maintaining a chill observational silence. Then they had launched a pair of shuttles on trajectories which would bring them down in the Peninsula’s northern latitudes. I had wished I could have saved a speck of antimatter in the old ship, just to fire up its engine for a moment, and to douse the shuttles with that killing lance. But I had never learned the trick of shutting down an antimatter reservoir.

The shuttles had come down, then made further flights back up to orbit, ferrying down sleepers.

More long months of waiting.

And then the attacks had begun: skirmish squads moving down from the north, striking against the Santiago’s nascent settlements. So what that there were barely three thousand people on the whole planet. It was enough for a small war . . . and it had been quiet at first, giving both sides time to dig in, consolidate . . . breed.

Not really a war at all.

But my own side were still trying to have me executed for war crimes. It was not that they were interested in peace with the enemy - too much had happened for that - but they certainly blamed me for bringing about the whole situation. They would kill me and then return to the fray.

Ungrateful sons of bitches. They had twisted everything now. They had even changed the name of the planet, as a kind of joke. Not Journey’s End any more.

Sky’s Edge.

Because of the edge I had given them to be the first to arrive.

I hated it. I knew what they meant by it: a sick acknowledgement of the necessary crime; a reminder of what had brought them here.

But the name was sticking.

Now I paused; not merely to catch my breath. I had never really liked the jungle. There were rumours of things in it - large things which slithered. But no one I trusted had ever seen one. Just stories then - that was all.

Just stories.

But I was still lost. The light I had seen earlier was gone now. It might have been obstructed by a thick patch of trees . . . or perhaps I’d imagined it all along. I looked around me. It was very dark, and everything looked the same. The sky was blackening overhead - 61 Cygni-B, normally the brightest star in the sky apart from Swan, was below the horizon - and the jungle would soon just be a darkening extension of that blackness.

Perhaps I was going to die here.

But then I thought I saw movement far ahead, a milky shape which I at first assumed was the same patch of light I’d seen earlier. But this milky shape was much closer - approaching me, in fact. It was man-shaped and it was stepping towards me through the overgrowth. It shone, as if imbued with its own inner luminosity.

I smiled. I recognised the shape now. I shouldn’t have been afraid. I should have remembered that I was never truly alone; that my guide would always appear to show me the way forward.

‘You didn’t think I’d forget you, did you?’ Clown said. ‘Come on. It’s not far now.’

Clown led me on.

It had not been my imagination; not completely. There was a light ahead, gleaming through the trees like spectral fog. My allies . . .

By the time I reached them Clown was no longer with me. He had faded away like a retinal burn. That was the last time I ever saw him - but he had done well to bring me this far. He had been the only trusted friend of my life, even though I knew that he was just a psychological figment, a subconscious entity projected into daylight, born from memories of the tutelary persona I had known in the nursery aboard the Santiago.

What did that matter?

‘Captain Haussmann!’ called my friends through the trees. ‘You made it! We were beginning to think the others hadn’t managed . . .’

‘Oh, they played their parts well,’ I said. ‘I imagine they’ve been arrested by now - if they haven’t already been shot.’

‘That’s the odd thing, sir. We are hearing reports of arrests - and they’re saying they’ve recaptured you.’

‘That wouldn’t make any sense, would it?’

But it would, I thought - if the man they thought they had recaptured only looked like me; if the man only looked like me because buried beneath the supple skin of his face was an armature of twenty additional muscles which allowed him to mimic almost anyone. He would talk and act like me too, as he had been conditioned over years to do so; trained to think of me as his God; his only desire to obey me selflessly. And the missing arm? Well, that was a dead giveaway, wasn’t it? The man they had arrested looked like Sky Haussmann and was missing an arm as well.

There couldn’t be any doubt that they had recaptured me. There’d be a trial, of sorts, during which the prisoner might appear incoherent - but what more would they expect from an eighty-year-old man? He was probably going senile. The best thing would be to make some kind of example of him; something as public as possible. Something no one was going to forget in a hurry, even if it bordered on the inhumane. A crucifixion might fit the bill.

‘This way, sir.’

There was a vehicle waiting in the pool of light, a tracked surface rover. They bundled me aboard it and then we sped through the forest trail. We drove through night for what felt like hours, always further and further away from anything resembling civilisation.

Eventually they brought me to a large clearing.

‘Is this it?’ I said.

They nodded in unison. I knew the plan by then, of course. The climate was against me now. It was not a time for heroes - they preferred to redefine them as war criminals. My allies had sheltered me until now, but they had not been able to stop my arrest. It had been all they could do to spring me from the makeshift detention centre in Nueva Iquique. Now that my double had been recaptured, I would have to disappear for a little while.

Here in the jungle they had devised a means to protect me for good; no matter how the fortunes of my allies in the main settlements waxed and waned. They had buried a fully-functioning sleeper berth here, with the power supply to keep it working for many decades. They thought there was a risk involved in using it, but they also thought I was really eighty years old. I figured the risk was a lot less than they imagined. By the time I was ready to wake up - I’d give it a century at the very least - my helpers would have access to much better technology. It wouldn’t be a problem to revive me. It probably wouldn’t even be a problem to repair my arm.

All I had to do was sleep until the right time. I would be tended across the decades by my allies - just as I had tended the sleepers who rode the Santiago.

But with infinitely more devotion.

They hitched the surface rover to something buried beneath overgrowth - a metal hook - and then pulled the vehicle forward, dragging aside a camouflaged door set into the clearing’s floor, revealing steps sinking down into a well-lit, clinically clean chamber.

Helped by two of my people, I was escorted down the stairs, until I reached the waiting sleeper-casket. It had been refurbished since it had carried someone from Sol system, and it would suit my needs excellently.

‘We’d best get you under as soon as possible,’ said my aide.

I smiled and nodded at the man, and then allowed him to slip a hypodermic into my arm.

Sleep came quickly. The last thing I remembered, just before it closed over me, was that when I woke up I would need a new name. Something that no one would ever connect to Sky Haussmann - but which, nonetheless, would provide me with some tangible link to the past. Something that only I knew the meaning of.

I thought back to the Caleuche, remembering what Norquinco had told me about the ghost ship. And I thought about the poor, psychotic dolphins aboard the Santiago; of Sleek in particular; of the way his hard, leathery body had thrashed as I pushed poison into him. There had been a dolphin with the ghost ship, too, but for a moment I couldn’t remember its name, or even be certain that Norquinco had told me. I would find out when I woke, I thought.

Find out and use that name.

FORTY-ONE

Refuge was a kilometre-long blackened spindle, unrelieved by exterior lights; visible only by the way it occluded background stars and the silvery spine of the Milky Way. Very few other ships were seen coming or going, and those that we saw were just as dark and anonymous as the habitat. As we vectored in, one end of the spindle opened out in four triangular segments, like the highly adapted jaw of an eyeless marine predator. Insignificant as plankton, we drifted in.

The berthing chamber was just large enough to take a ship like ours. Docking clamps folded out, followed by concertina-like transfer tunnels, mating with the airlocks spaced around the equatorial belt of the ship’s main sphere.

Tanner’s here, I thought. From the moment we stepped into Refuge, he might be on the point of killing me and anyone who got too close to our little vendetta.

It wasn’t something I was going to forget easily.

Refuge sent armed drones into the ship, gloss-black spheroids bristling with guns and sensors which swept us for concealed arms. Of course we’d brought none with us; not even Yellowstone’s security was sloppy enough for that. By the same token, I hoped that Tanner had also come in unarmed - but I wasn’t counting on it.

With Tanner, you didn’t count on anything.

The robots betrayed a level of technology appreciably more advanced than anything I’d encountered since my revival, with the possible exception of Zebra’s furniture. Presumably unaugmented humans were not considered a serious transmission risk, but it might have been the case that we would have been denied entry if one of us had been carrying a plague-susceptible implant. Human officials moved in once the robots had completed the preliminary work, carrying significantly less brutal-looking guns, weapons which they toted with an air of embarrassed apology. They were excessively polite and I began to understand why.

No one gets here without an invitation.

We had to be treated like the honoured guests that we were.

‘I called ahead, of course,’ Quirrenbach said, while we waited in the airlock for our documents to be processed. ‘Reivich knows we’re here.’

‘I hope you warned him about Tanner.’

‘I did what I could,’ he said.

‘What does that mean?’

‘It means Tanner’s definitely here. Reivich won’t have turned him away.’

I was sweating as it was; worried that my fake identity would not be enough to get me into Refuge. But now the sweat on my brow turned into droplets of ice. ‘What in hell’s name is he playing at?’

‘Reivich must feel that he and Tanner still have some business to attend to. He’ll have invited him.’

‘He’s insane. Tanner might kill him just for kicks, even if his real argument’s with me. Don’t forget my own imperative was to complete a mission; to keep my word that I’d track down Reivich. I don’t know whether that impulse came from Tanner or Cahuella. But I wouldn’t like to stake my life on it.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘Those robots will have sprayed listening devices over every square angstrom of this room. You’re not here for a spot of quiet bloodshed, remember.’

‘Strictly tourism,’ I said, grimacing.

The armoured outer door reopened, rust flakes chipping in free-fall from its hinges.

A third-tier official came in, not even armed this time, nor clad in muscular armour. He wore a look of pained evasiveness, homing in on me like a heat-seeking slug. ‘Mister Haussmann? I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but we’re experiencing an administrative problem in processing your application for entry into Refuge.’

‘Really?’ I said, trying to sound remotely surprised. I could hardly complain: Sky Haussmann had got me out of Yellowstone’s atmosphere, which was all that could be reasonably expected of him.

‘I’m sure it’s nothing serious,’ the official said, sincerity chiselled into his face. ‘We frequently experience conflict between our records and those of the rest of the system; it’s to be expected after the recent unpleasantness.’

Recent unpleasantness. He was talking about the plague.

‘I’m sure the matter can be resolved with a slightly more thorough examination, a few physiological cross-checks; nothing too complicated.’

I bridled. ‘What kind of physiological cross-check, exactly?’

‘A retinal scan, that kind of thing.’ The official was snapping his fingers at something or someone beyond our view. Almost immediately another robot entered the airlock, a dove-grey sphere politely devoid of any nasty weapons, bearing the Mixmaster sigil.

‘I’m not submitting to a retinal scan,’ I said, as reasonably as I could. I knew it wouldn’t take a machine to spot the oddity of my eyes. A human barely had to glance at me in the right light to see there was something strange about the way I looked back at them.

My remark had the same effect on the official as a slap across the cheek, causing an almost tangible blanching. ‘I’m sure we can come to some kind of arrangement . . .’

‘No,’ I said. ‘I very much doubt that, I’m afraid.’

‘Then I’m afraid—’

Quirrenbach stepped between us. ‘Let me handle this,’ he mouthed, before speaking aloud to the man. ‘Excuse my colleague; he’s a little nervous around officialdom. There’s been an honest mistake, as I’m sure you appreciate. Will you accept the word of Argent Reivich?’

The man looked flustered. ‘Of course . . . provided I have his guarantees . . . and that it’s in person . . .’

He hadn’t needed to ask who Argent Reivich was, I noticed.

Quirrenbach snapped his fingers at me. ‘Stay here; I’ll square things with him. It shouldn’t take more than half an hour.’

‘You’re going to ask Reivich to sign me in?’

‘Yeah,’ Quirrenbach said, without a hint of humour. ‘Ironic, isn’t it.’

I didn’t have to wait long.

Reivich appeared on a screen in the holding pen where the Refuge officials held those pending a decision on entry. It was not too much of a shock to see his face, since I had already met Voronoff, who looked exactly the same. But there was something unique about the real Reivich; some essence Voronoff had not succeeded in capturing. It was nothing I could quite place. I suppose it was just the difference between someone playing a game - however earnestly - and someone whose intentions are deadly serious.

‘This is quite a turn-up,’ Reivich said. He looked pale but healthy, a white tunic with a high collarless neck his only visible item of clothing. He was backdropped by a mural of interlocking algebraic symbols, denoting part of the mathematic theory of Transmigration. ‘You asking me for entry, and me agreeing to it.’

‘You let Tanner in,’ I said. ‘Are you sure that was wise?’

‘No, but I’m sure it’ll prove interesting. Assuming he’s who you say he is, and you’re who you say you are.’

‘One or both of us might want to kill you.’

‘Do you?’

It was an admirable question; straight to the point. I gave him the dignity of appearing to think it over before answering. ‘No, Argent. I did once, but that was before I knew who I was. Finding out you’re not who you think you are does rather change one’s priorities.’

‘If you’re Cahuella, then my men killed your wife.’ His voice was thin and reedy, like a child’s. ‘I’d have thought you were even more keen to have me killed.’

‘Tanner killed Cahuella’s wife,’ I said. ‘The fact that he thought he was going to save her doesn’t really alter things.’

‘Are you Cahuella or not, in that case?’

‘I might have been, once. Now Cahuella doesn’t exist.’ I looked hard into the screen. ‘And frankly, I don’t think anyone’s going to mourn him, are they?’

Reivich pursed his lips distastefully. ‘Cahuella’s weapons butchered my family,’ he said. ‘He sold arms which murdered my loved ones. For that I could gladly have tortured him.’

‘If you’d killed Gitta, that would have been more torture than you could ever have inflicted on him with knives and electrodes.’

‘Would it? Did he really love her that much?’

I examined my memories, in the hope of answering him. In the end all I could offer was, ‘I don’t know. He was a man capable of a lot of things. All I do know is that Tanner loved her at least as much as Cahuella.’

‘But Gitta did die. What did that do to Cahuella?’

‘It made him very hateful,’ I said, thinking back to the white room, which still lingered slightly beyond recall, like a nightmare not quite brought to mind after waking. ‘But he took that hatred out on Tanner.’

‘Tanner lived though, didn’t he?’

‘Some part of him,’ I said. ‘Not necessarily any part we’d call human.’

Reivich was silent for a minute, the difficulty of our meeting obviously weighing hard on him. Finally he said, ‘Gitta. She was the only innocent in any of this, wasn’t she? The only one who didn’t deserve any of it.’

There was no arguing with that.

The hollow interior of Refuge was locked in perpetual gloom, like a city in blackout. Unlike the gloom of Chasm City, this was deliberate; a state of affairs willed into being by the groups which claimed tenancy here. There was nothing resembling a native ecology. The interior was unpressurised apart from trace gases, and every square inch of the walls was occupied by sealed, windowless structures, linked by an intestinal tangle of transit tubes. The dimly glowing tubes were the only source of illumination, which wasn’t saying much - and if it had not been for the enhanced biology of my eyes, I doubted that I’d have been able to see anything at all.

Yet the place hummed with a sense of barely managed power; a constant subliminal rumble which transmitted itself into the bones. The balcony we stood on was sheeted over with airtight glass, but even so I had the feeling that I was standing in the corner of a vast, shadowy turbine room in which every generator was spinning at full tilt.

Reivich had given the authorisation for Refuge security to let me in, provided my party were escorted to him. I had misgivings about this - it was too much out of my control - but we had absolutely no choice but to comply with Reivich’s wishes. This was where the chase ended - on his territory. And by sleight of hand, it was no longer Reivich who was being chased.

It might have been Tanner.

Maybe it was me.

Refuge was sufficiently small that there was no real drawback in walking from point to point within its interior; a fact aided by the relatively weak artificial gravity which the habitat’s lazy spin imparted. We were led into one of the connecting tunnels: a three-metre-wide tube fashioned from thick smoky glass, with intermittent glass irises spaced along its length, dilating open and shut to allow us passage and to make abundantly clear the fact that we were being shepherded, like food passing along the gullet. The walk took us further along the main axis of the spindle, gravity rising as we descended from the endcap, but never reaching anything like one gee. The unlit structures of Refuge towered over us like canyon walls at night, and there was no sense whatsoever that anyone else inhabited the place. The truth was that the kind of clientèle which Refuge serviced were the kind of people who demanded absolute discretion, even from others like themselves.

‘Has Reivich been mapped yet?’ I asked, realising that it was an obvious question which so far hadn’t occurred to me. ‘After all, that’s why he’s here.’

‘Not yet,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘There are all sorts of physiological tests which need to be made first, to ensure that the mapping is optimised - cell membrane chemistry, neurotransmitter properties, glial cell structure, blood-brain volume, that kind of thing. You only get one shot at it, you see.’

‘Reivich’s going for the full destructive scan?’

‘Something very close to it. It’s still the way to get the best resolution, they say.’

‘Once he’s scanned, he won’t have to worry about an irritation like Tanner.’

‘Not unless Tanner follows him.’

I laughed - before I realised that Quirrenbach wasn’t making a joke.

‘Where do you think Tanner’s now?’ Zebra said, walking to my left, her heels clicking on the floor, her elongated reflection like dancing scissors in the wall’s reflection.

‘Somewhere Reivich has his eye on him,’ I said. ‘Along with Amelia, I hope.’

‘Is she really to be trusted?’

‘She might be the only person who hasn’t betrayed one of us,’ I said. ‘At least not intentionally. But I’m sure of one thing. Tanner’s stringing her along only until she ceases to be of use to him. Once that moment comes - and it might be soon - she’ll be in very great danger.’

Chanterelle said, ‘You came here to save her?’

For a moment I wanted to answer in the affirmative; to dredge up some tiny crumb of self-respect and pretend that I was a human being capable of something other than wickedness. And maybe it wouldn’t have been entirely untrue - maybe Amelia was a large part of the reason I’d come here, knowing it was everything that Tanner wanted. But she wasn’t the largest part, and the last thing I felt like doing was lying any more, least of all to myself.

‘I came here to end what Cahuella started,’ I said. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

The smoked-glass tunnel wound its way up again, towards the far endcap of Refuge, and then punched its way into the lightless side of one of the looming airtight structures. At the end of this particular stretch of tunnel was another iris, currently sealed. But this one was gloss-black, and it was impossible to see what lay beyond it.

I walked up to it and pressed my cheek against the unyielding metal, straining to hear something.

‘Reivich?’ I called. ‘We’re here! Open up!’

The door irised open, more ponderously than those we’d passed through earlier on.

Cool green light streamed through the opening arcs, bathing us in its insipidity. Suddenly the fact that I didn’t have a weapon - that none of us were armed - hit home. I might die in a second, I thought - and probably not even know it when it happened. I had allowed myself to be admitted into the lair of a man who had everything to fear from me, and no reason in the universe to trust me. Did that make Reivich or myself the bigger fool? I couldn’t begin to guess. All I knew was that I wanted to get out of Refuge as quickly as possible.

The door opened fully, revealing a bronze-walled antechamber, with vivid green lamps hanging from the ceiling. Bas-relief gold symbols scurried around the walls, iterating similar mathematical statements to those I had seen when I’d spoken to Reivich; the incantations which could shatter a mind into ones and zeros; pure number.

There was no doubt that he was here.

The door closed behind us and another irised ahead, revealing a much larger space, like the inside of a cathedral. The room was bathed in golden light, yet its extremities were so far away that they were lost in shadow. I could see the slight curvature of Refuge’s floor, an effect accentuated by the interlocking bronze and silver chevrons which patterned the floor.

The air smelled of incense.

A man sat in the distance, in the middle of a pool of brighter light shafting from a stained-glass window far above. He sat facing away from us, in a high-backed chair of ornate construction, wreathed in gold. A trio of slender bipedal servitors stood a few metres from the chair, presumably awaiting instructions. I studied the shape of his head, almost lost in shadow itself, and knew that I was standing behind Reivich.

I remembered when I thought I had seen him, near the immortal fish in Chasm City. How quickly I had reacted, slipping out my gun and chasing around the fish tank to confront and kill him. I was sure that I would have done so if Voronoff had not been a second faster than I.

Now I didn’t feel any pressing need to kill him.

A voice, like sandpaper rasping against sandpaper, said, ‘Turn me around so that I may face my guests, please.’ The statement itself was a laboured thing, punctuated by wheezes and words less spoken than whispered.

One of the servitors stepped forward, treading with the inhuman silence of their kind, and swivelled Reivich around.

What faced us was not what I was expecting.

It was not possible . . .

Reivich looked like a corpse: a cadaver briefly animated by the application of electrical puppetry. He did not look like anything living. He did not look like anything which had a right to speak, or to be able to curve his mouth in the semblance of a smile.

He reminded me of a less healthy version of Marco Ferris. We could see only his head and the tips of his fingers. The rest of him was lost beneath a thick quilted blanket, from which trailed medical feedlines, curving around into a compact life-support module clamped to one arm of the chair, a smaller version of the cuirass which I had used to keep Gitta ‘alive’ while I returned her body to the Reptile House. His head was little more than a skull around which skin had been draped; skin which was mottled black where it wasn’t already a shade of bruised purple. His eyesockets had been enucleated; fine cables trailed from the darkness between his lids, running into the same life-support module. There were only a few wisps of hair left on his crown, like the few trees which will always remain standing directly under an airblast. His jaw hung slackly open, his tongue a black slug filling his mouth.

He raised a hand. Apart from a few liver spots, it was that of a much younger man.

‘I see you’re disturbed,’ Reivich said.

I realised now that the voice didn’t come from him at all, but from the life-support module. It still sounded feeble. Presumably even the act of subvocalising was an effort to him.

‘You did it,’ Quirrenbach said, stepping closer to the man he still worked for. ‘You took the scan.’

‘Either that or I didn’t get enough sleep last night,’ Reivich said, his voice like wind. ‘On balance I’m inclined to think the former.’

‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘What went wrong?’

‘Nothing went wrong.’

‘You shouldn’t look like this,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘You look like a man on the edge of death.’

‘Perhaps because I am.’

‘The scan failed?’ Zebra said.

‘No, Taryn, it didn’t. The scan was a complete success, I’m told. My neural structure was acquired flawlessly.’

‘You did it too soon,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘That’s right, isn’t it? You couldn’t wait for all the medical checks. And this is what it did to you.’

Reivich’s head approximated a nod. ‘People like myself, and Tanner - and yourself,’ he said, directing his gaze at me, ‘lack medichines. Almost no one on Sky’s Edge has it in their cells, except for the very few who were able to afford the services of the Ultras. And even those that could often chose some other kind of longevity procedure.’

‘We had other things to concern us,’ I said.

‘Of course we did. Which is why we dispensed with such luxuries. The trouble was, I’d need medichines to protect my cells against the effect of the scan.’

‘The old style? Hard and fast?’ I said.

‘The best, if you listen to the theorists. Everything else is a compromise. The simple fact is that if you want to get your soul into the machine - and not just some blurred impression - you have to die in the process. Or at least suffer what would ordinarily be lethal injury.’

‘So why didn’t you protect yourself with medichines?’ Quirrenbach said.

‘There wasn’t time to do it properly. Medichines have to be carefully matched to the user, and introduced into the body slowly. Otherwise the effect is massive toxic shock. You die before the medichines can aid you.’

‘If you used Sylveste’s equipment,’ I said carefully, remembering what I’d been told of those experiments, ‘you shouldn’t even be breathing.’

‘It was an updated process, based on Sylveste’s original work. But you’re right - even allowing for technical refinements, I should be quite dead. As it happens, I was administered with enough broad-spectrum medichinery to survive the scan - at least temporarily.’ He waved his hand at the life-support module and the three attendant servitors. ‘Refuge supplies these machines. They’re trying to stabilise the cellular damage and introduce more refined variants of medichines, but I suspect they’re only doing it out of obligation.’

‘You think you’re going to die?’ I said.

‘I feel it in my bones.’

I tried to imagine what it would have been like for him; that agonising instant of neural capture, like being caught in the glare of the brightest flare imaginable; a radiance which shone beneath the skin, into the marrow itself, turning him into a smoky glass sculpture of himself, for that piercing instant.

The rapid analytic beams of the scan, focused down to cellular-resolution, would have swept through his brain at a speed only fractionally faster than the speed of synaptic impulses, keeping slightly ahead of the cortical messages proclaiming the havoc spreading through his mind. By the time the scan reached his brain-stem, no information would have yet reached that part regarding the disruption being suffered by the layers of his mind situated above. Because of that slight edge, the overall snapshot of his brain would have been completely normal, apart from the slight blurring caused by the finite spatio-temporal resolution of the process. The scan would have been finished before Reivich had recognised that it had begun - and by the time his mind began to keel over under the shock of the procedure, whole neural routines crashing into coma, it would not matter at all.

He would have been captured.

And even the damage should not have mattered; should not have been anything which the medichines could not have repaired, almost as swiftly as the injuries took place. Like shelling a building, dislodging bricks, but with a team of fanatical builders inside, putting right the harm before the next shell arrived . . .

But Reivich had never taken that path.

Reivich had opted to die; had opted to suffer assault on every cell in his brain and surrounding tissue, but knowing that, no matter what the consequences for his physical body, his essence would remain, captured for eternity and - at last - recorded in a form which could not be erased by anything as trivial as assassination or war.

Part of him had made it.

But not the part we were looking at.

‘If you’re going to die,’ I said, ‘if you accept that it’s inevitable - and that you must have known this would happen before the scan - why didn’t you just die in the scan?’

‘I did,’ Reivich said. ‘By at least a dozen medical criteria which would satisfy courts of law in other systems. But I also knew that Refuge’s machines could bring me back to life, albeit transiently.’

‘You could have waited,’ Quirrenbach said. ‘Another few days, and they could have matched your medichine requirements perfectly. ’

Reivich’s bony shoulders moved beneath the quilt; a shrug. ‘But then I would have been forced to accept a less accurate scan, in order to give the medichines a chance to function. It wouldn’t have been me.’

‘I don’t suppose Tanner’s arrival had anything to do with it?’ I asked.

Reivich seemed to find that amusing; the curve of his smile increasing minutely. Soon, I thought, we would all see the real smile beneath his face; the one written in bone. He could not have very long left now.

‘Tanner made my choice rather easier,’ Reivich said. ‘I won’t dignify him with any influence on my circumstances beyond that.’

‘Where is he?’ Chanterelle asked.

‘He’s here,’ the withered creature in the chair said. ‘He’s been here - in Refuge - for more than a day. We haven’t met yet, though.’

‘You haven’t met?’ I shook my head. ‘What the hell’s he been up to since he arrived, in that case? And what about the woman with him?’

‘Tanner underestimated my influence here,’ Reivich said. ‘Not just here in Refuge, but in the vicinity of Yellowstone as a whole. You did too, didn’t you?’

‘Forget me. Let’s talk about Tanner. He’s a much more interesting subject.’

Reivich’s fingers caressed the edge of the quilt. One hand remained entirely concealed beneath it - assuming there was another hand. I tried to reconcile this apparition with the young aristocrat I had been following, but there was nothing they seemed to have in common. The machine even stripped Reivich of his Sky’s Edge accent.

‘Tanner came to Refuge intending to kill me,’ he said. ‘But his main reason for coming here was to draw you from the shadows.’

‘You think I don’t know that?’

‘I’m rather surprised you came, put it like that.’

‘Tanner and I have unfinished business.’

‘Such as?’

‘I can’t let him kill you, even as an incidental detail. You don’t deserve it. You acted in revenge - stupidly, even - but not dishonourably.’

The head canted forward again, this time in mute acknowledgement of what I had just said. ‘If Cahuella hadn’t tried to ambush my squad, Gitta would never have died. And he deserved worse than he got.’ The eyeless sockets lifted to me, as if some reflex demanded that he ‘look’ in the direction of whoever he was addressing, even though his vision was undoubtedly being relayed from some hidden camera situated in the chair. Reivich said, ‘But of course, it’s you I’m talking to, isn’t it. Or do you still pretend otherwise?’

‘I don’t pretend anything. I’m just not Cahuella. Not any more. Cahuella died the day he stole Tanner’s memories. What’s left is . . . someone else. Someone who didn’t exist before.’

An eyebrow raised above one of the enucleated sockets. ‘A better man?’

‘Gitta asked me a question once. How long would you have to live; how much good would you need to do, to compensate for one act of pure evil you’d committed as a younger man? It struck me as an odd question at the time, but I understand now. She knew, I think. She knew exactly who Cahuella was; exactly what he’d done. Well, I don’t know the answer to that question, even now. But I think I’m going to find out.’

Reivich seemed unimpressed. ‘Is that the entirety of your unfinished business with Tanner?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘The woman with him. Amelia. She’s a Mendicant, no matter what disguise she’s travelling under. I believe Tanner will kill her the instant she ceases to be of use to him.’

‘You came to save her, putting yourself in danger? How gallant.’

‘Gallantry doesn’t come into it. It’s . . . human goodness.’ The words sounded completely alien to me, but I wasn’t ashamed of speaking them. ‘Maybe this place could use a little more of it, don’t you think?’

‘You’d kill him - the man whose memories you carry? Isn’t that a little close to suicide?’

‘I’ll worry about the ethical problems when I’ve cleaned the blood up.’

‘I admire your clarity of mind,’ Reivich said. ‘It makes what’s about to happen all the more interesting.’

I tensed. ‘What are you talking about?’

‘I told you Tanner was here, didn’t I? I meant here; literally here. I’ve had him entertained at my pleasure until you arrived.’

A rectangle of deeper shadow interrupted the gloom behind Reivich. From out of it stepped a man who looked very much like myself.

FORTY-TWO

Once again I felt the spasm of need; the soldier’s instinct to reach for an instrument of death. But there was nothing to hand, and in any case, for all my bravado, I knew that the one thing that I would not be able to do would be to kill Tanner Mirabel in cold blood. It would be too much like shooting myself.

Sister Amelia of the Ice Mendicants came behind him, emerging from the darkness into the chamber’s glade of golden light. She was no longer dressed as a Mendicant - her clothes were functionally dowdy - but she was unmistakable. She wore a symbolic snowflake pendant around her neck.

Tanner stepped forward until he towered over Reivich’s seat. Dressed in a dark greatcoat which almost reached the floor, he was taller than I had been expecting - an inch or so above me - and deported himself differently: a swagger which was just one element of a bodily choreography we barely shared, for all our physical similarity. We did not exactly look like twins, but we could have been brothers, or the same man seen in different illumination, where the changed aspects of shadows subtly differentiated our characters. There was a cruel set to Tanner’s face which I thought I had never seen in my own, but maybe I had just not looked in the mirror at the right times.

Amelia was the first to speak. ‘What’s going on? I don’t understand. ’

‘Good question,’ Tanner said, placing a gloved hand on the high, scrolled back of Reivich’s chair. ‘Very good question indeed.’ Then he peered over the back of the chair until he was looking down into the sightless face of the man he had come to kill. ‘Any time you feel like answering that, you go ahead and do it, handsome. ’

‘You realise who I am, then?’ Reivich said.

‘Yeah. You went for the quick and dirty, obviously. Let me guess. Extensive neural, cellular and genetic trauma. The goons here probably buffered you with medichines, but that would have been like trying to shore up a collapsing building with drinking straws. I’d say - judging by the look of things - you’ve probably only got a few hours left, maybe not even that. Am I right?’

‘Unerringly so,’ Reivich said. ‘I hope that gives you some consolation. ’

‘Consolation for what?’ Tanner was fingering Reivich’s head now, tracing it as one might trace the texture of an antique globe.

‘You arrived too late to kill me.’

‘I could make amends.’

‘Very good. But what use would it be? You could crush this body of mine and I’d thank you for it with my dying breath. Everything that I am - everything I ever knew or felt - is preserved for eternity.’

Tanner stepped back. His tone was businesslike now. ‘The scan was successful?’

‘Entirely. I’m running even as we speak, somewhere in Refuge’s vast distributed architecture of processors. Backup copies of me have already been transmitted to five other habitats even I can’t name. You could detonate a nuclear weapon in Refuge and it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference.’

It was obvious now that the version of Reivich I had spoken to only an hour earlier had been the scanned copy. The two were playing a game together; co-conspirators. Reivich was right. Nothing that Tanner could do now would have any meaning. And maybe that did not matter to Tanner, since in drawing me here, he’d already achieved his primary aim.

‘You’d die,’ Tanner said. ‘You expect me to believe that doesn’t matter to you?’

‘I don’t know what you believe. Frankly, Tanner, it’s of no real interest to me either way.’

‘Who are you?’ Amelia said, incomprehension flooding her face. I realised that even until now, he’d maintained her trust, concealing the true nature of his mission. ‘Why are you talking about killing?’

‘Because it’s what we do,’ I said. ‘We’ve both lied to you. The difference is I never had any plans to kill you.’

Tanner reached for her. But he was not quite fast enough; too keen to linger around Reivich. Amelia padded across the floor’s chevrons, bewilderment on her face. ‘Please tell me what’s going on!’

‘No time,’ I said. ‘You just have to trust us. I lied to you and I’m sorry - but I wasn’t myself when I did it.’

Chanterelle said, ‘You’d better believe him. He risked his life to come here, and it was mainly to save you.’

‘She’s telling the truth,’ Zebra said.

I looked into Tanner’s eyes. He was still stationed behind Reivich’s chair. The three servitors stood inert, as if oblivious to all that was happening around them.

‘There’s just one of you, Tanner,’ I said. ‘I think your number’s finally up.’ I turned to the others. ‘We can take him, if you let me lead. I’ve got his memories. I’ll anticipate every move he makes.’

Quirrenbach and Zebra flanked me, Chanterelle slightly to my rear, while Amelia retreated further behind us.

‘Be careful,’ I whispered. ‘He might have smuggled a weapon into Refuge, even if we didn’t.’

I took two steps closer to Reivich’s throne.

Something moved under the quilt. His other hand, unseen until now, emerged from darkness, clutching a tiny jewelled gun. He levelled it with impressive speed, all frailty gone in the instant of aiming, and squeezed off three shots. The projectiles slammed past me, leaving silver smears on my retina.

Quirrenbach, Zebra and Chanterelle dropped to the floor.

‘Remove them,’ Reivich croaked.

The servitors came to life, all three of them gliding silently past me like ghosts, before kneeling down to pick up the bodies. They carried them away from the light, like spirits returning to the dark of a forest, laden with trophies.

‘You piece of shit,’ I said.

‘They’ll live,’ Reivich said, returning his hand beneath the quilt. ‘They’re just tranquillised.’

‘Why?’

‘I was wondering the same thing myself,’ Tanner said.

‘They spoilt the symmetry. Now it’s just the two of you, don’t you see? The perfect conclusion to your hunt.’ He tilted his skull towards me. ‘You must admit, the simplicity is appealing.’

‘What is it you want?’ Tanner said.

‘What I want is what I already have. The two of you in the same room. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?’

‘Not long enough,’ I said. ‘You know more than you admitted, don’t you?’

‘Let’s just say that the intelligence I gained before leaving Sky’s Edge was intriguing, to say the least.’

‘Maybe you know more than me,’ I said.

Reivich poked the nozzle of the gun from under the quilt again, this time directing it back towards Tanner. His aim was no more than approximate, but it seemed to have the desired effect, causing Tanner to step away from the chair until we were equidistant from it. Then he said, ‘Why don’t the two of you tell me what you remember? Then I’ll fill in the gaps.’ He nodded at Tanner. ‘You can start, I think.’

‘Where would you like me to begin?’

‘You can start with the death of Cahuella’s wife, since you brought it about.’

I felt a weird instinct to defend him. ‘He didn’t kill her deliberately, you shit. He was trying to save her life.’

‘Does it matter?’ Tanner said, contemptuously. ‘I just did what I had to do.’

‘Unfortunately you missed,’ Reivich said.

Tanner seemed not to hear. He was speaking now, recounting what he remembered. ‘Maybe I missed; maybe I didn’t. Maybe I knew I’d rather kill her than have her live without her being mine.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘That isn’t how it happened. You tried to save her . . .’

But I wondered if I really knew.

Tanner continued, ‘Aftewards, I knew Gitta was finished. I could save Cahuella, though. His injuries weren’t that bad. So I kept them both on life-support until I got back to the Reptile House.’

I nodded involuntarily, remembering the hellish length of the journey back through the jungle, suppressing the pain of my own severed foot. Except it never happened to me . . . it happened to Tanner, and I only knew about it from his memories . . .

‘When I got back I was met by some of Cahuella’s other staff. They took the bodies from me and did what they could for Gitta, even though they knew it was pointless. Cahuella was in a coma for a few days, but he came round eventually. He didn’t remember too much of what had happened, though.’

I remembered waking after a long and dreamless sleep, choked by fever, consumed with the knowledge that I’d been impaled. And remembered not remembering what had happened. I called for Tanner, and was told that he was injured but alive. No one mentioned Gitta.

‘Tanner came to see me,’ I said, taking over the narrative. ‘I saw that he had lost a foot, and knew that something very bad had happened to us. But I hardly remembered anything, except that we had gone north to set up an ambush for Reivich’s party.’

‘You asked for Gitta. You remembered she’d been with us.’

Fragments of that long-forgotten conversation were coming back to me now, as if recalled through layers of gauze.

‘And you told me. Everything. You could have lied - made up some story which protected you; said that Reivich’s man had killed her - but you didn’t. You told it exactly as it happened.’

‘What would have been the point?’ Tanner said. ‘You’d have remembered it all eventually.’

‘But you must have known.’

‘Must have known what?’ Reivich said.

‘That I’d kill you for it.’

‘Ah,’ Reivich said, a soft phlegmatic chuckle emerging from his life-support module. ‘Now we’re almost there. The crux of it all.’

‘I didn’t think you’d kill me,’ Tanner said. ‘I thought you’d forgive me. I didn’t even think I’d need forgiveness.’

‘Maybe you didn’t know me quite as well as you thought.’

‘Maybe I didn’t.’

Reivich tapped his empty hand against the ornate armrest of his chair, his blackened nails clicking against the metalwork. ‘So you had him murdered,’ he said, addressing me. ‘But in a manner tailored to your own obsessions.’

‘I don’t really remember,’ I said.

And it was almost the truth.

I recalled looking down on Tanner, imprisoned within that ceilingless white enclosure. I remembered the way he slowly became aware of his predicament; aware that he was not alone. That something else shared the space with him.

‘Tell me what you remember,’ Reivich said, turning to Tanner.

His voice was as flat and devoid of emotion as Reivich’s synthetic tones. ‘I remember being eaten alive. It’s not something you forget in a hurry, believe me.’

And I remembered how the hamadryad had died almost instantly, killed by the alien poisons which every human carried; a fatal clash of metabolisms. The creature had spasmed and curled like a loose firehose.

‘We slit it open,’ I said. ‘Removed Tanner from its throat. He wasn’t breathing. But his heart was still beating.’

‘You could have ended it there and then,’ Reivich said. ‘A knife to the heart, and it would have been over. But you had to take one more thing from him, didn’t you?’

‘I needed his identity. His memories, particularly. So I had him kept alive on a cuirass while a trawl was prepared.’

‘Why?’ Reivich said.

‘To chase you. I knew by then that you’d left the planet; that you’d soon be aboard a lighthugger making the run to Yellowstone. I’d punished Tanner. Now I had to do the same to you, for Gitta’s sake. But I needed to become Tanner to do it.’

‘You could have become anyone on the planet.’

‘His skills suited me. And I had him to hand.’ I paused. ‘It was never meant to be permanent. I suppressed my own identity just long enough to get aboard the ship. Tanner’s memories were meant to fade gradually. They’d remain as a residue - as they do now - but distinct from my own.’

‘And your other secrets?’

‘My eyes? That was something I had to hide. It worked, too. But now they’ve returned to their altered state. Maybe that was how I meant it to happen.’

‘You still don’t remember all of it,’ Reivich said, smiling horribly. ‘There was more to it, you know. More than just the eyes.’

‘How would you know?’

He raised a hand, tapping what remained of his teeth in an odd gesture of knowing. ‘You forget. I’d already persuaded the Ultras to betray you to me. Finding out the rest of what they did to you was simple enough.’ He smiled again. ‘I had to know who I was dealing with, you see. What you were capable of.’

‘And now you know?’

‘I think you’re a man who might surprise even himself, Cahuella. Except you claim you’re not him, of course.’

‘I hate him as much as you do,’ I said. ‘I’ve seen things from Tanner’s perspective. I know what he did to him. He isn’t me.’

‘So you share sympathies with Tanner?’

I shook my head. ‘The Tanner I know died in a pit. It doesn’t matter that something survived. It isn’t him. It’s just a monster Cahuella made.’

Tanner sneered. ‘You think you can kill me?’

‘I wouldn’t have come here if I didn’t.’

Tanner moved forward quickly, approaching the chair. He was going to kill Reivich; I knew it. But Reivich was ahead of him; he had the gun out and drawn before Tanner had taken more than two paces. ‘Now, now,’ he said. ‘What’s the point of you two settling your differences if you do it without an audience?’

I remembered Amelia, somewhere in the shadows. I wondered what she made of all this.

Tanner took a step back, raising his empty gloved palms. ‘I suppose you’re wondering how I survived,’ he said, to me.

‘It had crossed my mind.’

‘You should never have left me alive, even if I was only kept that way by the cuirass.’ He shook his head pitifully. ‘You couldn’t do it; not after the snake failed you. So you told one of your men to do it for you, while you got the hell away from the Reptile House.’

What he said was true, although it was only in his telling that my memories crystallised into surety. ‘I headed south,’ I said. ‘Towards a camp occupied by NC defectors. They had surgeons with them. I knew they’d be able to suppress the work the Ultras had done on me, camouflage my genes and make me look like Tanner. I always intended to return to the Reptile House before leaving the planet.’

‘But you never got the chance,’ Reivich said. ‘The NCs reached the Reptile House while you were away with Dieterling. They killed most of your people, except for Tanner, for whom they had a grudging respect. They brought him back to consciousness.’

‘Bad mistake,’ Tanner said. ‘Even without a foot, I took their weapons and killed them all.’

I remembered none of that, not even faintly. Of course not - those events had happened after Tanner had been trawled; after I had stolen his memories.

‘What happened next?’ I asked.

‘I had a month to get aboard the lighthugger, before it left orbit.’ Tanner angled himself down and scratched his ankle under his greatcoat. ‘I wasn’t far behind. I got my foot fixed and came after you. I killed Dieterling, you know - how else do you think I got so close to him? Walked up to him in the wheeler and popped him.’ He made the gesture, as if he was re-enacting the murder.

It was a classic piece of misdirection.

When Tanner rose to his full height, he did so in a movement swift and fluid. A knife arced from his hand, executing a faultlessly computed trajectory across the room. His aim was perfect - he’d even allowed for the coriolis drift caused by Refuge’s lazy rotation.

The knife buried itself in the back of Reivich’s head.

A digital moan came from the life-support module; an artificially stable note which kept up even when Reivich’s head tilted lifelessly forward on his chest. The gun slipped from his hand and clattered on the floor. I made a move for it, knowing this was probably my only chance to achieve at least parity with Tanner.

But he was faster. He sent me flying, my spine cracking against the floor in a fall which blasted the air out of my lungs. Tanner’s foot kicked the gun by accident, sending it skittering into the twilight between the pool of golden light and the shadows encompassing it.

Tanner reached for the knife and retrieved it from Reivich’s skull, monomolecular blade shimmering with prismatic patterns, like a skein of oil on water.

He won’t risk throwing the knife, I thought. If he missed, he’d lose his only weapon . . .

‘You’re finished, Cahuella. This is where it ends.’

He had the knife in one hand, balanced gingerly in his gloved palm. With the other hand he reached around the front of Reivich’s face and snapped the optical feeds from his eye-sockets, each line trailing ropy filaments of congealing blood.

‘It ended for you a long time ago,’ I said, stepping forward into his radius of attack. He swept the knife through the air, the blade scything silver arcs, parting the air so surgically that its passage was totally silent.

‘Then what does that make you?’ Tanner pushed Reivich’s body out of the chair, the thin, quilt-shrouded figure falling to the floor like a bag of dried wood.

‘I don’t know,’ I said. ‘But I’m nothing like you.’

I tried to time the angle of his swipes with the knife, trying to focus on those specific Tanner memories which would serve me now; what he knew about combat in close quarters.

It was impossible. There was no way I could get an edge on him - and he had the advantage that he didn’t have to fight to retrieve those memories. They came unbidden, deep as reflex.

I lunged, hoping to twist his free arm, to unbalance him before he could bring the blade to bear.

My timing was off.

I didn’t feel the cut itself; only the cold which seeped in after it. I dared not look down, but in my peripheral vision I could see the gash in my chest, right through my clothing. It was not nearly deep enough to kill me - not even down to the ribs - but that was only luck on my part. Next time, he would have me. I was sure of it.

‘Tanner!’

It was not my voice. It was Amelia, calling from the shade. I saw her, half lost in darkness, reaching out to me.

Of course. To her I was still Tanner. She had no other name for me. She had Reivich’s gun.

‘Throw it to me!’ I shouted.

She threw it. The gun slammed into the floor, then skidded for metres, chips of its jewelled husk flaking off.

I spun from Tanner and ran for the gun.

I fell to my knees, sliding until I was within reach of the gun. My hand closed on the grip.

Tanner’s knife flew through the air and slammed into my hand. I dropped the gun, yelling in pain, seeing the point of the knife jutting from my palm like the sail of a yacht.

Tanner ran towards me, his footfalls racing into the echoless gloom. Tears clouding my eyesight, I picked up the gun with my other hand and tried to aim it at him.

I squeezed off a shot, feeling the delicate recoil of the gun. The blur of the projectile glistened past Tanner, missing him by inches. I re-aimed and squeezed the trigger again.

The gun did nothing.

Tanner crashed into me, kicking the useless weapon away for good measure. Forcing me to the ground, kneeling over me like a victor, he wrestled with me while I tried to stab him with the edge of the knife projecting from my palm.

Tanner caught my wrist above my impaled hand and smiled for a second. He’d won now. He knew it. It was just a question of removing the blade from my palm and turning it against myself.

Out of the corner of my vision I saw Reivich’s slumped corpse, his mouth agape, his few teeth catching the golden glow of the chamber.

I remembered him tapping his teeth.

And finally remembered the other thing Cahuella had bought from the Ultras; the transformation that went deeper than vision; the hunter’s aid he had never mentioned to Tanner Mirabel.

What use is it to hunt in the night, if you can’t kill what you catch?

I opened my jaw wide; wider than strict human anatomy allowed. I seemed to find a muscle inside myself that I had not known was there before; a muscle anchored high in the roof of my mouth. Something cracked in my jaw, painlessly.

With my good arm I cradled Tanner’s head, turning his face to mine while he struggled with the knife, thinking it would do him some good.

He looked into my mouth, and must have seen it then.

‘You’re dead,’ I said. ‘It wasn’t just snake-vision I bought from them, you see.’

I felt my venom glands activate, pumping poison along the microfine channels bored through my articulated fangs.

And drew Tanner to me, like the final embrace of a long-lost brother.

And bit deep into his neck.

EPILOGUE

For a long time I just stood looking out the window.

The woman who was sitting in my office must have thought I’d forgotten she was there. I could see her face reflected in the floor-to-ceiling glass, still waiting for an answer to the question she had just asked. I hadn’t forgotten her or her question. I was just wondering how something that had once seemed so strange could now seem so familiar.

The city hadn’t changed much since my arrival.

It had to be me, then.

The window was spattered by rain falling from the Mosquito Net, hard diagonal slashes of it. They said it never really stopped raining in Chasm City, and maybe that was true, but it missed the nuances that rain was capable of. Sometimes it came down straight and soft like a cool mist, alpine clean. Sometimes, when the steam dams around the chasm opened and sent pressure changes squalling across the city, it came at you sideways, lashing and acid-tongued, like defoliant.

‘Mister Mirabel . . .’ she said.

I turned back from the window. ‘I’m sorry. I got caught up in the view. Where were we?’

‘You were telling me about Sky Haussmann, how you think he . . .’

She had heard most of what I was willing to tell anyone by then; how I believed Sky had emerged from hiding and remade a new life for himself as Cahuella. I suppose it was odd that I was speaking of these things at all - much less to a prospective recruit - but I’d liked her and she’d been more than usually willing to listen to me. We had finished a few pisco sours - she was from Sky’s Edge as well - and the time had slipped by.

‘Well?’ I asked, interrupting her. ‘How much of it are you prepared to believe?’

‘I’m not sure, Mister Mirabel. How would you have found all this out, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘I met Gitta,’ I said. ‘And she told me something which makes me think Constanza was telling the truth.’

‘You think Gitta found out who Cahuella was, before anyone else?’

‘Yes. There’s a good chance she stumbled on Constanza’s evidence, and that led her to Cahuella, even though it was at least two centuries since Sky had supposedly been executed.’

‘And when she found him?’

‘She was expecting a monster, but that wasn’t quite what she got. He wasn’t the same man Constanza had known. Gitta tried to hate him, I think, but couldn’t.’

‘What do you think made her certain she’d found him?’

‘His name, I think. He took it from the legend of the Caleuche, the ghost ship. Cahuella was its dolphin; a link to his past he couldn’t quite sever.’

‘Well, it’s certainly an interesting theory.’

I shrugged. ‘Probably no more than that. You’ll hear stranger stories if you spend any time here, believe me.’

She was a recent arrival to Yellowstone; like me a soldier, but one who had been sent here not on some errand but because of a clerical error.

‘How long have you been here, Mister Mirabel?’

‘Six years,’ I said.

I looked to the picture window. The view across the city had not changed greatly since I had returned from Refuge. The thicket of the Canopy stretched away like a section through someone’s lung: a convoluted black tangle against the brown backdrop of the Mosquito Net. They were talking about cleaning it next year.

‘That’s a long time, six years.’

‘Not for me.’

Saying that, I thought about the time when I had come round in Refuge. I must have slipped beneath consciousness through the blood I had lost from the wound Tanner had inflicted on me, even though I had barely felt it at the time. My clothes had been slit open, a turquoise medicinal salve applied to the suture-like gash where his knife had passed through. I was lying on a couch, with one of the slender servitors eyeing me.

I was a mass of bruises, and each breath hurt. My mouth felt strange, as if it no longer belonged to me.

‘Tanner?’

It was Amelia’s voice. She moved into focus next to me, her face angelic, just as she had looked on the day of my revival in the Mendicant habitat.

‘That isn’t my name,’ I said, startled when my voice came out perfectly normally, apart from a slight rasp of fatigue. My mouth did not feel like it should be capable of anything as subtle as language.

‘So I gather,’ Amelia said. ‘But it’s the only one I know you by, so it will have to suffice for now.’

I was too weak to argue, and not even sure I wanted to.

‘You saved me,’ I said. ‘I owe you a debt of thanks.’

‘You seemed to save yourself,’ she said. The room was much smaller than the one where Reivich had died, but it was illuminated in the same shade of autumnal gold and the walls were chiselled with the same intricate mathematics that I had seen elsewhere in Refuge. The light played on the snowflake she wore around her neck. ‘What happened to you, Tanner? What happened to make you capable of killing a man in that way?’

Her question sounded accusatory, except for the tone in which it was delivered. She was not blaming me, I realised. Amelia appeared to recognise that I was not necessarily responsible for the horrors of my own past, any more than a waking man is responsible for the atrocities he commits in his sleep.

‘The man I was,’ I said, ‘was a hunter.’

‘The man you were talking about? The man called Cahuella?’

I nodded. ‘He had snake genes inserted into his eyes, amongst other tricks. He wanted to be able to hunt any creature in the dark on equal terms. I thought that was as far as it went. I was wrong about that.’

‘But you didn’t know?’

‘Not until it was time. Reivich knew, though. He knew Cahuella had venom glands, and the means to deliver the venom into a host. The Ultras must have told him.’

‘And he tried to tell you?’

I moved my head up and down on the pillow. ‘Maybe he wanted one of us to live more than the other. I just hope he made the right choice.’

‘Of course he did,’ Zebra said.

I turned around - painfully - to see her standing on the other side of the bed. ‘Reivich told the truth, then,’ I said. ‘About the gun. You were only put to sleep.’

‘He wasn’t a bad person,’ Zebra said. ‘He wouldn’t have wanted anyone harmed except the man who killed his family.’

‘But I’m still alive. Does that mean he failed?’

She shook her head slowly. She looked radiant in the golden light, and I realised that I wanted her intensely, no matter how we had betrayed each other or what lay in the future; no matter that I did not even have a name by which she could call me. ‘I think he got what he wanted, in the end. Most of it, anyway.’

There was something in her voice which told me she was not telling me everything she knew. ‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I don’t suppose anyone’s told you,’ Zebra said. ‘But Reivich lied to all of us.’

‘About what?’

‘His scan.’ She looked towards the ceiling, the lines of her face defined in golden highlights. Her skin stripes were still faintly visible. ‘It was a failure. It was done too hastily. He wasn’t captured. ’

I went through the motions of registering disbelief, even though I could tell Zebra was telling the truth.

‘But it can’t have failed. I spoke to the copy after he’d been scanned.’

‘You thought you did. Apparently it was just a beta-level simulation, a mockup of Reivich programmed to mimic his responses and make you think the scan had been successful.’

‘Why, though? Why did he feel the need to pretend it had worked?’

‘I think it was for Tanner’s benefit,’ she said. ‘Reivich wanted Tanner to think everything had been in vain; that even killing Reivich’s physical body was a meaningless gesture.’

‘Except it wasn’t,’ I said.

‘No. Reivich would have died anyway, sooner or later - but it was really Tanner that did it.’

‘And he knew, didn’t he? The whole time we were with Reivich, he knew he was going to die, and the scan had failed.’

‘Does that mean he won?’ Zebra said. ‘Or did he lose everything? ’

I reached out and took her hand and squeezed it. ‘It doesn’t matter now. None of it matters now. Tanner, Cahuella, Reivich - they’re all dead.’

‘All of them?’

‘All of them that really matters.’

And then I looked up into the sourceless gold light, for what seemed like an eternity, until Zebra and Amelia left me alone. I was tired; the kind of absolute weariness that feels too much a burden to escape through sleep. Sleep did come, though, eventually. And with it dreams. I had hoped it would be otherwise, but with dreaming came the white room, and the pristine horror of what had happened there; what had happened to me; what I had inflicted on myself.

Later - much later - I returned to Chasm City. It was a long journey back, and it was interrupted by a stopover at the Mendicant habitat, where I returned Amelia to her duties. She had taken it all remarkably well, and when I offered to help her in some way - not really knowing how I could - she deflected all such intentions and asked only that I make a donation to the Ice Mendicants when I was able to.

I promised her I would. It was a promise I held to.

Quirrenbach, Zebra and I arranged a meeting with Voronoff upon our return to the Canopy.

‘It’s about the Game,’ I said. ‘We’re proposing a major restructure of the whole operation.’

‘Why do you imagine it could interest me?’ Voronoff yawned.

‘Hear us out,’ Quirrenbach said, and started to explain the framework the three of us had worked out since our time in Refuge. It was complex, and for a while we did not seem to be getting through to Voronoff. But gradually comprehension dawned.

He listened to what we had to say.

And finally he said that he liked our ideas. That maybe it could be made to work.

We proposed a new form of the hunt; something we would call Shadowplay. In essence it would be similar to the old, underground Game which the city had spawned since the plague. But in every detail it would be radically different, not the least of which would be legality. We would take the Game into the limelight, establish sponsorship rules and a framework which guaranteed coverage and commentary to whoever wanted the vicarious thrill of a manhunt. Our chasers would be more than just rich kids looking for a night’s quick thrill. They’d be hand-trained experts; hunter-assassins. We’d school them in professionalism and construct elaborate personae around them, cults of personality which would elevate the Game to the status of art. We would recruit from the best existing players, of course. Chanterelle Sammartini had already agreed to be our first employee. I had no doubts that she would fit the role perfectly.

But we would change more than just the hunters.

No victims this time. The hunted would be volunteers. It sounded insane, but this was the part Voronoff quickly warmed to.

There would be no prize for the survivors other than survival itself. But with it would come immense prestige. We would have all the volunteers we needed: drawn from the vast pool of bored, affluent near-immortals who filled the Canopy. In the revised form of the Game, they would have finally found a way to inject a controlled edge into their lives. They’d sign contracts with us, detailing the terms of a particular contest: the duration, the permitted range of play and the types of weapon allowed by the assassin. All they would need to do was stay alive until the contract expired. They would be famous and envied. Others would follow, anxious to do a little better: a longer contract; more challenging terms of play.

We would use tracking implants, of course - but they would not function in the same way as the device Waverly had installed in my skull, and which Dominika had so kindly removed at short notice. Assassin and hunted would carry matched pairs, and they would be primed to activate and transmit only when within a certain range of each other - again, covered by the terms of the contract. Both parties would know when that happened - a ringing tone in the skull, or something similar. And in that final hour of the chase, media would be allowed to descend for the first time, witnessing the end - however it played out.

Voronoff joined us, eventually. He was our first customer.

We called our company Omega Point; soon there were others, and we welcomed the competition. Within a year of operation, we had pushed the memory of the old hunt into oblivion. It was not a part of the city’s history that anyone wanted enshrined. And that was the way it happened.

At first, we were careful to allow our clients to survive the terms of their contracts, for the most part. Our assassins would lose their trail at the critical moment or misfire whatever single-shot weapon had been specified in the contract. It was a way of building up an initial client list, so that our name would spread more rapidly.

Once that began to happen, we got serious. Now it was for real; now they really did have to fight to stay alive for the duration.

And the majority managed it. The odds on being killed during a game of Shadowplay fluctuated somewhere around thirty per cent - safe enough so that players were not actively discouraged from participation, no matter how bored - but with enough of an edge to make survival, winning, something to be prized.

Omega Point became very rich indeed. Within two years of my arrival in Chasm City I counted myself amongst the hundred wealthiest individuals - corporeal or otherwise - in the whole Yellowstone system.

But I never forgot the pledge I had made to myself, during the long journey up to Refuge.

That if I survived, I would change everything.

With Shadowplay, I had started. But it was not enough. I had to alter the city totally. I had to destroy the system that had allowed me to flourish; to unbalance the unspoken equilibrium between Mulch and Canopy. I began by recruiting my newest hunters from the Mulch itself. There was no real risk to myself in doing this, for the Mulchers were as adept at the art as anyone I’d find in Canopy - and just as receptive to the training methods I advocated.

Just as the game had made me rich, I made my best players wealthy beyond their dreams. And watched as some of that wealth seeped back into the Mulch.

It was a small start. It might take years - decades, even - before there was a noticeable change to the hierarchy in Chasm City. But I knew it would happen. I had promised myself that it would. And though I had broken promises in the past, I was never going to do it again.

After a while, I began to call myself Tanner again. I knew it was a lie; that I had no right to that name; that I had stolen memories and then life itself from the man who really was Tanner Mirabel.

But what did any of that matter?

I thought of myself as the custodian of his memories; all that he had been. He had not exactly been a good man, not by any reasonable definition of the word. He had been callous and violent, and he had approached the arts of science and murder with the studied distance of a geometer. Yet he had never been truly evil, and in the moment which effectively sealed his life - when he shot Gitta - he had been trying to do something good.

What had happened to him afterwards; what had happened to turn him into a monster - none of that mattered. It did not tarnish what Tanner had been before.

It was, I thought, as good a name as any. And there would never be a day when it felt like any name but my own.

I decided not to fight it.

I realised that I had slipped into another reverie. The woman in my office was waiting for me to say something.

‘Well, do I get the job or not?’

Yes, she probably did, but there would be other candidates to see before I made my final decision. I stood up and shook her small, lethal hand. ‘You’re certainly near the top of the list. And even if you don’t get the position we’ve discussed, there’s another reason I might want to keep your name on file.’

‘Yes?’

I thought about Gideon; still imprisoned down there after all these years. I had vowed that I would go down into the chasm again - if only to kill him - but the time had never been right. I knew he was still alive, since Dream Fuel was still reaching the city, albeit in tiny, sought-after quantities. There was still a perverse trade to be had in selling his terrors, distilled into a format humans could just assimilate. But he must surely be close to death now, and there could not be very much time left before my vow would become meaningless.

‘Just an operation I might have in mind; that’s all.’

‘And when would that be?’

‘A month or so from now; maybe three or four.’

She smiled again. ‘I’m good, Mister Mirabel. You’d better hope I don’t get poached by someone else in the meantime.’

I shrugged. ‘If it happens, it happens.’

‘Well, who knows.’

We shook hands again, and she began walking towards the door. I looked out the window; dusk was settling in now, lights burning in the Canopy; cable-cars tiny motes of light swinging through the eternal brown twilight. Down below, like a plain strewn with campfires, the lamps and night markets of the Mulch reflected a sullen red glow towards the Net. I thought of the millions of people who had found a way to think of this city as home, even after the transformations it had been through since the plague. It was thirteen years ago, after all. There were adults down there who had no real memories of what the place had been like before.

‘Mister Mirabel?’ she said, hesitating at the door. ‘One other thing?’

I turned around and offered a polite smile. ‘Yes?’

‘You’ve been here longer than I have. Did there ever come a point when you actually liked this place?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said, shrugging. ‘I just know one thing.’

‘Which is?’

‘Life’s what you make it.’

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Contents

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

The dead ship was a thing of obscene beauty.

Skade looped around it in a helical pseudo-orbit, her corvette’s thrusters drumming a rapid tattoo of corrective bursts. The starscape wheeled behind the ship, the system’s sun eclipsed and revealed with each loop of the helix. Skade’s attention had lingered on the sun for a moment too long. She felt an ominous tightening in her throat, the onset of motion sickness.

It was not what she needed.

Irritated, Skade visualised her own brain in glassy three-dimensional complexity. As if peeling a fruit, she stripped away layers of neocortex and cortex, flinging aside the parts of her own mind that did not immediately interest her. The silvery loom of her implant web, topologically identical with her native synaptic network, shimmered with neural traffic, packets of information racing from neuron to neuron at a kilometre per second, ten times faster than the crawl of biological nerve signals. She could not actually perceive those signals moving - that would have required an accelerated rate of consciousness, which would have required even faster neural traffic - but the abstraction nonetheless revealed which parts of her augmented brain were the most active.

Skade zoomed in on a specific locus of brain function called the Area Postrema, an ancient tangle of neural circuitry that handled conflicts between vision and balance. Her inner ear felt only the steady pressure of her shuttle’s acceleration, but her eyes saw a cyclically changing view as the background wheeled behind the ship. The ancient part of her brain could only reconcile that mismatch by assuming that Skade was hallucinating. It therefore sent a signal to another part of her brain that had evolved to protect the body from ingesting poisons.

Skade knew there was no point blaming her brain for making her feel nauseous. The hallucination/poison connection had worked very well for millions of years, allowing her ancestors to experiment with a wider diet than would otherwise have been possible. It just had no place here and now, on the chill, dangerous edge of another solar system. She supposed it would have made sense to erase such features by deftly rewiring the basic topology, but that was a lot easier said than done. The brain was holographic and messy, like a hopelessly overcomplicated computer program. Skade knew, therefore, that by ‘switching off’ the part of her brain that was making her feel nauseous, she was almost certainly affecting other areas of brain function that shared some of the same neural circuitry. But she could live with that; she had done something similar a thousand times before, and she had seldom experienced any cognitive side effects.

There. The culprit region pulsed pink and dropped off the network. The nausea vanished; she felt a great deal better.

What remained was anger at her own carelessness. When she had been a field operative, making frequent incursions into enemy territory, she would never have left it until now to make such a modest neural adjustment. She had become sloppy, and that was unforgivable. Especially now that the ship had returned: an event that might prove to be as significant to the Mother Nest as any of the war’s recent campaigns.

She felt sharper now. The old Skade was still there; she just needed to be dusted off and honed now and then.

[Skade, you will be careful, won’t you? It’s clear that something very peculiar has happened to this ship.]

The voice she heard was quiet, feminine and confined entirely to her own skull. She answered it subvocally.

I know.

[Have you identified it? Do you know which of the two it is, or was?]

It’s Galiana’s.

Now that she had swept around it, a three-dimensional image of the ship formed in her visual cortex, bracketed in a loom of shifting eidetic annotation as more information was teased out of the hulk.

[Galiana’s? The Galiana’s? You’re sure of that?]

Yes. There were some small design differences between the three that left together, and in as much as this matches either of the two that haven’t come back yet, it matches hers.

The presence took a moment to respond, as it sometimes did. [That was our conclusion as well. But something has clearly happened to this ship since it left the Mother Nest, wouldn’t you say?]

A lot of somethings, if you ask me.

[Let’s begin at the front and work backwards. There is evidence of damage - considerable damage: lacerations and gouges, whole portions of the hull that appear to have been removed and discarded, like diseased tissue. Plague, do you think?]

Skade shook her head, remembering her recent trip to Chasm City. I’ve seen the effects of the Melding Plague up close. This doesn’t look like quite the same thing.

[We agree. This is something different. Nonetheless, full plague quarantine precautions should be enforced; we might still be dealing with an infectious agent. Focus your attention towards the rear, will you?]

The voice, which was never quite like any of the other voices she heard from other Conjoiners, took on a needling, tutorial quality, as if it already knew the answers to the questions it posed. [What do you make of the regular structures embedded in the hull, Skade?]

Here and there, situated randomly, were clusters of black cubes of varying size and orientation. They appeared to have been pressed into the hull as if into wet clay, so that their faces were half-concealed by the hulk’s hull material. They radiated curving tails of smaller cubes, whipping out in elegant fractal arcs.

I’d say those are what they were trying to cut out elsewhere. Obviously they weren’t fast enough to get them all.

[We concur. Whatever they are, they should certainly be treated with the utmost caution, although they may very well be inactive now. Perhaps Galiana was able to stop them spreading. Her ship was able to make it this far, even if it returned home on autopilot. You are sure that no one is alive aboard it, Skade?]

No, and I won’t be until we open her up. But it doesn’t look promising. No movement inside, no obvious hotspots. The hull’s too cold for any life-support processes to be operational unless they’re carrying a cryo-arithmetic engine.

Skade hesitated, running a few more simulations in her head as background processes.

[Skade . . . ?]

There could be a small number of survivors, I admit - but the bulk of the crew can’t be anything other than frozen corpses. We might be able to trawl a few memories, but even that’s probably being optimistic.

[We’re really only interested in one corpse, Skade.]

I don’t even know if Galiana’s aboard it. And even if she is . . . even if we directed all our efforts into bringing her back to the living . . . we might not succeed.

[We understand. These are difficult times, after all. While it would be glorious to succeed, failure would be worse than never having attempted it. At least in the eyes of the Mother Nest.]

Is that the Night Council’s considered opinion?

[All our opinions are considered, Skade. Visible failure cannot be tolerated. But that doesn’t mean we won’t do our best. If Galiana is aboard, we will do what we can to bring her back to us. But it must be done in absolute secrecy.]

How absolute, precisely?

[Knowledge of the ship’s return will be impossible to conceal from the rest of the Mother Nest. But we can spare them the torment of hope, Skade. It will be reported that she is dead, beyond hope of revival. Let our compatriots’ grief be quick and bright, like a nova. It will only make their efforts against the enemy more strenuous. But in the meantime we will work on her with diligence and love. If we bring her back to the living, her return will be a miracle. We will be forgiven our bending of the truth here and now.]

Skade caught herself before she laughed aloud. Bending of the truth? It sounds like an outright lie to me. And how are you going to ensure that Clavain sticks to your story?

[Why do you imagine Clavain will be a problem, Skade?]

She answered the question with a question of her own. Don’t tell me you’re planning on not telling him either?

[This is war, Skade. There is an old aphorism concerning truth and casualty with which we will not presently detain you, but we’re certain you grasp the point. Clavain is a major asset in our tactical armoury. His thinking is unlike any other Conjoiner’s, and for that reason he gives us a constant edge against the enemy. He will grieve and grieve quickly, like the others, and it will be painful. But then he will be his old self again, just when we need him the most. Better that, don’t you think, than to inflict upon him some protracted period of hope and - likely - crushing disappointment?]

The voice shifted its tone, perhaps sensing that it still needed to make its point convincingly. [Clavain is an emotional man, Skade - more so than the rest of us. He was old when he came to us, older in neurological terms than any other recruit we have ever gained. His mind is still mired in old ways of thinking. We mustn’t ever forget that. He is fragile and needs our care, like a delicate hothouse flower.]

But lying to him about Galiana ...

[It may never come to that. We’re getting ahead of ourselves. First we have to examine the ship - Galiana may not be aboard after all.]

Skade nodded. That would be the best thing, wouldn’t it? Then we’d know that she’s still out there, somewhere.

[Yes. But then we’d have to address the small matter of whatever happened to the third ship.]

In the ninety-five years since the onset of the Melding Plague, the Conjoiners had learned a great deal about contamination management. As one of the last human factions to retain an appreciable pre-plague technology, they took quarantine very seriously indeed. In peacetime the safest and easiest option would have been to examine the ship in situ, as it drifted through space on the system’s edge. But there was too much risk of the Demarchists noticing such activity, so the investigations had to be conducted under cover of camouflage. The Mother Nest was already equipped to take contaminated craft, so it was the perfect destination.

But precautions still had to be taken, and that entailed a certain amount of work out in open space. First, servitors removed the engines, lasering through the spars that braced them on either side of the lighthugger’s tapering conic hull. An engine malfunction could have destroyed the Mother Nest, and while such a thing was nearly unthinkable, Skade was determined to take no chances while the nature of what had happened to the ship remained mysterious. While that was going on, she ordered tractor rockets to haul slugs of black unsublimated cometary ice out to the drifter, which servitors then slathered on to the hull in a metre-thick caulk. The servitors completed their work quickly, without ever coming into direct contact with the hull. The ship had been dark to begin with; now it became impossibly black.

Once that was done, Skade fired grapples into the ice, anchoring tractor rockets all around the hulk. Since the ice would be bearing all the structural stress of moving the ship, she had to attach a thousand tractors to avoid fracturing any one part of the caulk. It was exquisitely beautiful when they all ignited: a thousand pinpricks of cold blue flame stabbing out from the black spirelike core of the drifter. She kept the acceleration slow, and her calculations had been so accurate that she needed only one small corrective burst before the final approach to the Mother Nest. Such bursts were timed to coincide with blind spots in the Demarchist’s sensor coverage, blind spots which the Demarchists thought the Conjoiners knew nothing about.

Inside the Mother Nest, the hulk was hauled into a five-kilometre-wide ceramic-lined docking bay. The bay had been designed specifically for handling plague ships and was just large enough to accommodate a lighthugger with its engines removed. The ceramic walls were thirty metres thick and every item of machinery inside the bay was hardened against known plague strains. The chamber was sealed once the ship was inside it, along with Skade’s hand-picked examination team. Because the bay had only the most meagre data connections with the rest of the Mother Nest, the team had to be primed to deal with isolation from the million other Conjoiners in the Nest. That requirement made for operatives who were not always the most stable - but Skade could hardly complain. She was the rarest of all: a Conjoiner who could operate entirely alone, deep in enemy territory.

Once the ship was secured, the chamber was pressurised with argon at two atmospheres. All but a fine layer of ice was removed from the ship by delicate ablation, with the final layer melted away over a period of six days. A flock of sensors hovered around the ship like gulls, sniffing the argon for any traces of foreign matter. But apart from chips of hull material nothing unusual was detected.

Skade bided her time, taking every possible precaution. She did not touch the ship until it was absolutely necessary. A hoop-shaped imaging gravitometer whirred along the ship, probing its internal structure, hinting at fuzzy interior details. Much of what Skade saw matched what she expected to see from the blueprints, but there were strange things that should not have been there: elongated black masses which corkscrewed and bifurcated through the ship’s interior. They reminded her of bullet trails in forensic images, or the patterns sub-atomic particles made when they passed through cloud chambers. Where the black masses reached the outer hull, Skade always found one of the half-buried cubic structures.

But there was still room in the ship for humans to have survived, even though all the indications were that none still lived. Neutrino radar and gamma-ray scans elucidated more of the structure, but still Skade could not see the crucial details. Reluctantly, she moved to the next phase of her investigation: physical contact. She attached dozens of mechanical jackhammers around the hull, along with hundreds of paste-on microphones. The hammers started up, thudding against the hull. She heard the din in her spacesuit, transmitted through the argon. It sounded like an army of metalsmiths working overtime in a distant foundry. The microphones listened for the metallic echoes as the acoustic waves propagated through the ship. One of Skade’s older neural routines unravelled the information buried in the arrival times of the echoes, assembling a tomographic density profile of the ship.

Skade saw it all in ghostly grey-greens. It did not contradict anything that she had already learned, and improved her knowledge in several areas. But she could glean nothing further without going inside, and that would not be easy. All the airlocks had been sealed from inside with plugs of molten metal. She cut through them, slowly and nervously, with lasers and hyperdiamond-tipped drills, feeling the crew’s fear and desperation. When she had the first lock open she sent in an exploratory detachment of hardened servitors, ceramic-shelled crabs equipped with just enough intelligence to get the job done. They fed images back into her skull.

What they found horrified Skade.

The crew had been butchered. Some had been ripped apart, squashed, dismembered, pulped, sliced, fragmented. Others had been burned or suffocated or frozen. The carnage had evidently not happened quickly. As Skade absorbed the details, she began to picture how it must have happened: a series of pitched battles and last stands in various parts of the ship, with the crew raising makeshift barricades against the invaders. The ship itself had done its desperate best to protect its human charges, rearranging interior partitions to keep the enemy at bay. It had tried to flood certain areas with coolant or high-pressure atmosphere, and in those cells Skade found the corpses of strange, ungainly machines - conglomerations of thousands of black geometric shapes.

She formed a hypothesis. It was not difficult. The cubes had glued themselves on to the outside of Galiana’s ship. They had multiplied, growing as they absorbed and reprocessed the ship’s integument. In that respect it was indeed a little plaguelike. But the plague was microscopic; one never saw the individual elements of the spore with the naked eye. This was more brutal and mechanistic, almost fascistic, in the way it replicated. The plague at least imbued transformed matter with something of its earlier characteristics, yielding chimeric phantasms of machine and flesh.

No, Skade told herself. She was certainly not dealing with the Melding Plague, as comforting as that might now have been.

The cubes had wormed into the ship and then formed attacking units - soldier conglomerations. These soldiers had done the killing, advancing slowly away from each infection point. Judging by the remains they were lumpy and asymmetric, more like dense swarms of hornets than individual entities. They must have been able to squirm through the tiniest opening, reassembling on the other side. Nonetheless, the battle had taken time. By Skade’s estimate, it might have taken many days for the whole ship to fall. Many weeks, even.

She shivered at the thought of it.

A day after they had first entered, her servitors found some human bodies that were nearly intact, except that their heads had been swallowed by black helmets of surrounding cubes. The alien machinery appeared inert. The servitors removed parts of the helmets and found that prongs of machine-growth reached into the corpses’ skulls, through the eye sockets or the ears or the nasal cavity. Further study showed that the prongs had bifurcated many times, until they reached microscopic scale. They extended deep into the brains of the dead, establishing connections with their native Conjoiner implants.

But the machines, and their hosts, were now very much dead.

Skade tried to work out what had happened; the ship’s records were thoroughly scrambled. It was obvious that Galiana had encountered something hostile, but why hadn’t the cubes simply destroyed her ship in one go? The infiltration had been slow and painstaking, and it only made sense if the cubes wanted to keep the ship intact for as long as possible.

There had been another ship: two had gone on - what had happened to that one?

[Ideas, Skade?]

Yes. But nothing I like.

[You think the cubes wanted to learn as much as possible, don’t you?]

I can’t think of any other reason. They put taps into their minds, reading their neural machinery. They were intelligence-gathering.

[Yes. We agree. The cubes must have learned a great deal about us. We have to consider them a threat, even if we don’t yet know where Galiana was when they found her. But there is a glimmer of hope, wouldn’t you say?]

Skade failed to see what that glimmer could possibly be. Humanity had been searching for an unambiguous alien intelligence for centuries. All they had found so far had been tantalising leads - the Pattern Jugglers, the Shrouders, the archaeological remains of another eight or nine dead cultures. They had never encountered another extant machine-using intelligence, nothing to measure themselves against.

Until now.

And what this machine-using intelligence did, so it seemed, was stalk, infiltrate and slaughter, and then invade skulls.

It was not, Skade conceded, the most fruitful of first encounters.

Hope? Are you serious?

[Yes, Skade, because we don’t know that the cubes were ever able to transmit that knowledge back to whatever it was that sent them. Galiana’s ship made it back home, after all. She must have steered it here, and she would not have done that if she thought there was any danger of leading the enemy back to us. Clavain would be proud, I think. She was still thinking of us; still thinking of the Mother Nest.]

But she ran the risk ...

The voice of the Night Council cut her off sharply. [The ship is a warning, Skade. That is what Galiana intended and that is how we must read it.]

A warning?

[That we must be ready. They are still out there, and one way or another we will meet them again.]

You almost sound as if you were expecting them to arrive.

But the Night Council said nothing.

It was another week before they found Galiana, for the ship was vast and there had been many changes to its interior that prohibited a rapid search. Skade had gone inside it herself, along with other sweep teams. They wore heavy ceramic armour over their pressure suits, oiled carapacial plaques that made movement awkward unless one exercised great care and forethought. After several minutes of fumbling and locking herself into postures that could only be got out of by laborious back-tracking, Skade wrote a hasty body-image/motion patch and assigned it to run on a clump of idle neural circuits. Things became easier then, though she had the unpleasant feeling that a shadowy counterpart of herself was driving her. Skade made a mental note to revise the script later, so that the movement routines would feel totally voluntary no matter how illusory that might be.

By then the servitors had done about all they were able. They had secured large volumes of the ship, spraying diamond-fibred epoxy over the ruins of the alien machines, and they had DNA-sampled most of the corpses in the explored zones. Every individual sample of genetic material had been identified against the crew manifests in the Mother Nest, preserved since the departure of the exploratory fleet, but there were many names on the list that had yet to be matched to DNA samples.

There were bound to be names Skade would never match. When the first ship had returned home, the one carrying Clavain, the Mother Nest had learned that there had been a decision in deep space, dozens of light-years out, to split the expedition. One party wanted to come back home, having heard rumours of war against the Demarchists. They also felt that it was time to deliver the data they had already accrued - far too much to be transmitted home.

The separation had not been acrimonious. There had been regret, and sadness, but no real sense of disunity. After the usual period of debate typical of any Conjoiner decision-making process, the split came to be viewed as the most logical course of action. It allowed the expedition to continue, while safeguarding the return of what had already been learned. But while Skade knew exactly who had chosen to stay out there in deep space, she had no way of knowing what had happened subsequently. She could only guess at the exchanges that had taken place between the remaining two ships. The fact that this was Galiana’s ship did not mean that she had to be on it, so Skade readied herself for the inevitable disappointment should that prove to be the case.

More than that, it would be a disappointment for the entire Mother Nest. Galiana was their figurehead, after all. She was the woman who had created the Conjoiners in the first place, four hundred years ago and eleven light-years away, in a huddle of labs beneath the surface of Mars. She had been away for nearly two centuries; long enough to assume the mythic stature that she had always resisted during her time amongst them. And she had returned - if she was indeed aboard this ship - on Skade’s watch. It hardly mattered that she was very likely dead, along with all the others. For Skade, it would be enough to bring home her remains.

But she found more than remains.

Galiana’s resting place, if it could be called that, was a long way from the central core of the ship. She had secured herself behind armoured barricades, well away from the others. Careful forensic study showed that the data links between Galiana’s resting place and the remainder of the ship had been deliberately severed from within. She had obviously tried to isolate herself, cutting her mind off from the other Conjoiners on the ship.

Self-sacrifice or self-preservation? Skade wondered.

Galiana was in reefersleep, cooled down to a point where all metabolic processes were arrested. But the black machines had still reached her. They had smashed through the armour of the reefersleep casket, cramming themselves into the space between Galiana and the casket’s interior surface. When the casket was dismantled, the machines formed a mummylike shell of pure black around Galiana. There was no doubt that it was she: scans peering through the cocoon picked out bone structure, which matched Galiana’s perfectly. The body within appeared to have suffered no damage or decay during the flight, and the sensors were even able to pick up weak signals from Galiana’s implant web. Although the signals were too faint to allow mind-to-mind linkage, it was clear that something inside the cocoon was still capable of thought, and was still reaching out.

Attention shifted to the cocoon itself. Chemical analysis of the cubes drew a blank: they appeared not to be ‘made’ of anything, or to possess any kind of atomic granularity. The faces of the cubes were simply blank walls of sheer force, transparent to certain forms of radiation. They were very cold - still active in a way that none of the other machines had been so far. But the individual cubes did not resist being prised away from the larger mass, and once they were separated they shrunk rapidly, dwindling down to microscopic size. Skade’s team attempted to focus scanners on the cubes themselves, trying to glimpse anything buried beneath the facets, but they were never quick enough. Where the cubes had been they found only a few micrograms of smouldering ashes. Presumably there were mechanisms at the heart of the cubes that were programmed to self-destruct under certain circumstances.

Once Skade’s team had removed most of the surrounding plaque, they took Galiana to a dedicated room nestling in one wall of the spacecraft bay. They worked in extreme cold, determined not to inflict more damage than had already been done. Then, with immense care and patience, they began to peel away the final layer of alien machinery.

Now that they had less obstructive matter to peer through, they began to get a clearer impression of what had happened to Galiana. The black machines had indeed forced their way into her head, but the accommodation appeared more benign than had been the case with any of her crew. Her own implants had been partly dismantled to make way for the invading machines, but there was no sign that any major brain structures had been harmed. Skade had the impression that the cubes had been learning how to invade skulls until then, but that with Galiana they had finally found out how to do it without hurting the host.

And now Skade felt an optimistic rush. The black structures were concentrated and inert. With the right medichines it would be possible - trivial, even - to dismantle them, ripping them out cube by cube.

We can do it. We can bring her back, as she was.

[Be careful, Skade. We’re not home and dry just yet.]

The Night Council, as it transpired, was right to be cautious. Skade’s team began removing the final layer of cubes, beginning at Galiana’s feet; they were pleased when they found that the underlying tissue was largely undamaged, and continued to work upwards until they reached her neck. They were confident that she could be warmed back to body temperature, even if it would be a more difficult exercise than a normal reefersleep revival. But when they began to expose her face, they learned that their work was far from over.

The cubes moved, slithering without warning. Sliding and tumbling over each other, contracting in nauseating waves, the final part of the cocoon oozed into Galiana like a living oil slick. The black tide sucked itself into her mouth, her nose, her ears and her eye-sockets, flowing around her eyeballs.

She looked the way Skade had hoped she would: a radiant home-coming queen. Even her long black hair was intact, frozen and fragile now, but exactly as it had been when she had left them. But the black machinery had re-established itself inside her head, augmenting the formations that were already present. Scans showed that there was still little displacement of her own brain tissue, but more of her implant loom had been dismantled to make way for the invader. The black parasite had a crablike aspect, extending clawed filaments into different parts of her brain.

Slowly, over many days, they brought Galiana back to just below normal body temperature. All the while Skade’s team monitored the invader, but it never changed, not even as Galiana’s remaining implants began to warm and re-interface with her thawing brain tissue.

Perhaps, Skade dared to wonder, they might still win?

She was, it turned out, almost right.

She heard a voice. It was a human voice, feminine, lacking the timbre - or the strange Godlike absence of timbre - that ordinarily meant that the voice was originating inside her skull. This was a voice that had been shaped in a human larynx and propagated through metres of air before being decoded by a human auditory system, accumulating all manner of subtle imperfections along the way. It was the sort of voice that she had not heard in a very long time.

The voice said, ‘Hello, Galiana.’

Where am I?

There was no answer. After a few moments the voice added kindly, ‘You’ll have to speak as well, if you can. It’s not necessary to do more than attempt to make the sound shapes; the trawl will do the rest, picking up the intention to send electrical signals to your larynx. But simply thinking your response won’t work, I’m afraid - there are no direct links between your mind and mine.’

The words seemed to take an eternity to arrive. Spoken language was horridly slow and linear after centuries of neural linkage, even if the syntax and grammar were familiar.

She made the intention to speak, and heard her own amplified voice ring out. ‘Why?’

‘We’ll come to that.’

‘Where am I? Who are you?’

‘You’re safe and sound. You’re home; back in the Mother Nest. We recovered your ship and revived you. My name’s Skade.’

Galiana had been aware only of dim shapes looming around her, but now the room brightened. She was lying on her back, canted at an angle to the horizontal. She was inside a casket very much like a reefersleep casket but with no lid, so that she was exposed to the air. She saw things in her peripheral vision, but she could not move any part of her body, not even her eyes. A blurred figure came into focus before her, leaning over the open maw of the casket.

‘Skade? I don’t remember you.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ the stranger replied. ‘I didn’t become one of the Conjoined until after your departure.’

There were questions - thousands of questions - that needed to be asked. But she could not ask all of them at once, most especially not via this clumsy old way of communicating. So she had to begin somewhere. ‘How long have I been away?’

‘One hundred and ninety years, almost to the month. You left in ...’

‘2415,’ Galiana said promptly.

‘... Yes. And the present date is 2605.’

There was much that Galiana did not properly remember, and much that she did not think she wanted to remember. But the essentials were clear enough. She had led a trio of ships away from the Mother Nest, into deep space. The intention was to probe beyond the well-mapped frontier of human space, exploring previously unvisited worlds, looking for complex alien life. When rumours of war reached the three vessels, one ship had turned back home. But the other two had carried on, looping through many more solar systems.

As much as she wanted to, she could not quite recall what had happened to the other ship that had continued the search. She felt only a shocking sense of loss, a screaming vacuum inside her head that should have been filled with voices.

‘My crew?’

‘We’ll come to that,’ Skade said again.

‘And Clavain and Felka? Did they make it back, after all? We said goodbye to them in deep space; they were supposed to return to the Mother Nest.’

There was a terrible, terrible pause before Skade answered. ‘They made it back.’

Galiana would have sighed if sighing were possible. The feeling of relief was startling; she had not realised how tense she had been until she learned that her loved ones were safe.

In the calm, blissful moments that followed, Galiana looked more closely at Skade. In certain respects she looked exactly like a Conjoiner from Galiana’s era. She wore a plain outfit of pyjamalike black trousers and loosely cinched black jacket, fashioned from something like silk and devoid of either ornamentation or any indication of allegiance. She was ascetically thin and pale, to the point where she looked on the ravenous edge of starvation. Her facial tone was waxy and smooth - not unattractive, but lacking the lines and creases of habitual expression. And she had no hair on either her scalp or her face, lending her the look of an unfinished doll. So far, at least, she was indistinguishable from thousands of other Conjoiners: without mind-to-mind linkage, and devoid of the usual cloud of projected phantasms that lent them individuality, they could be difficult to tell apart.

But Galiana had never seen a Conjoiner who looked anything like Skade. Skade had a crest - a stiff, narrow structure that began to emerge from her brow an inch above her nose, before curving back along the midline of her scalp. The narrow upper surface of the crest was hard and bony, but the sides were rilled with beautifully fine vertical striations. They shimmered with diffraction patterns: electric blues and sparkling oranges, a cascade of rainbow shades that shifted with the tiniest movement of Skade’s head. There was more to it than that, however: Galiana saw fluidlike waves of different colours pump along the crest even when there was no change in its angle.

She asked, ‘Were you always like that, Skade?’

Skade touched her crest gently. ‘No. This is a Conjoiner augmentation, Galiana. Things have changed since you left us. The best of us think faster than you imagined possible.’

‘The best of you?’

‘I didn’t mean to put it quite that way. It’s just that some of us have hit the limitations of the basic human bodyplan. The implants in our heads enable us to think ten or fifteen times faster than normal, all the time, but at the cost of increased thermal dissipation requirements. My blood is pumped through my crest, and then into the network of rills, where it throws off heat. The rills are optimised for maximum surface area, and they ripple to circulate air currents. The effect is visually pleasing, I’m told, but that’s entirely accidental. We learned the trick from the dinosaurs, actually. They weren’t as stupid as you’d think.’ Skade stroked her crest again. ‘It shouldn’t alarm you, Galiana. Not everything has changed.’

‘We heard there’d been a war,’ Galiana said. ‘We were fifteen light-years out when we picked up the reports. First there was the plague, of course ... and then the war. The reports didn’t make any sense. They said we were going to war against the Demarchists, our old allies.’

‘The reports were true,’ Skade said, with a trace of regret.

‘In God’s name, why?’

‘It was the plague. It demolished Demarchist society, throwing open a massive power vacuum around Yellowstone. At their request, we moved in to establish an interim government, running Chasm City and its satellite communities. Better us than another faction, was the reasoning. Can you imagine the mess that the Ultras or the Skyjacks would have made? Well, it worked for a few years, but then the Demarchists started regaining some of their old power. They didn’t like the way we’d usurped control of the system, and they weren’t prepared to negotiate a peaceful return to Demarchist control. So we went to war. They started it; everyone agrees about that.’

Galiana felt some of her elation slipping away. She had hoped that the rumours would turn out to be exaggerations. ‘But we won, evidently,’ she said.

‘... No. Not as such. The war’s still happening, you see.’

‘But it’s been ...’

‘Fifty-four years.’ Skade nodded. ‘Yes. I know. Of course, there’ve been lapses and lulls, ceasefires and brief interludes of détente. But they haven’t lasted. The old ideological schisms have opened up again, like raw wounds. At heart they’ve never trusted us, and we’ve always regarded them as reactionary Luddites, unwilling to face the next phase of human transcendence.’

Galiana felt, for the first time since waking, an odd migrainous pressure somewhere behind her eyes. With the pressure came a squall of primal emotions, howling up from the oldest part of her mammalian brain. It was the awful fear of being pursued, of sensing a host of dark predators coming closer.

Machines, said a memory. Machines like wolves, which came out of interstellar space and locked on to your exhaust flame.

You called them wolves, Galiana.

Them.

Us.

The odd moment abated.

‘But we worked together so well, for so long,’ Galiana said. ‘Surely we can find common ground again. There are more things to worry about than some petty power struggle over who gets to run a single system.’

Skade shook her head. ‘It’s too late, I’m afraid. There have been too many deaths, too many broken promises, too many atrocities. The conflict has spread to other systems, wherever there are Conjoiners and Demarchists.’ She smiled, though the smile looked forced, as if her face would instantly spring back to its neutral state the moment she relaxed her muscles. ‘Things aren’t quite as desperate as you’d imagine. The war is turning in our favour, slowly but surely. Clavain returned twenty-two years ago, and immediately began to make a difference. Until his return we had been on the defensive, falling into the trap of acting like a true hive mind. That made our movements very easy for the enemy to predict. Clavain snapped us out of that prison.’

Galiana tried to force the memory of the wolves from her mind, thinking back to the time she had first met Clavain. It had been on Mars, when he had been fighting against her, a soldier in the Coalition for Neural Purity. The Coalition opposed her mind-augmenting experiments and saw the utter annihilation of the Conjoiners as the only tolerable outcome.

But Clavain had seen the larger picture. First, as her prisoner, he had made her realise how terrifying her experiments had seemed to the rest of the system. She had never really grasped that until Clavain patiently explained it to her, over many months of incarceration. Later, when he had been freed and terms of cease-fire were being negotiated, it was Clavain who had brought in the Demarchists to act as a neutral third party. The Demarchists had drawn up the cease-fire document and Clavain had pushed Galiana until she signed it. It had been a masterstroke, cementing an alliance between the Demarchists and the Conjoiners that would endure for centuries, until the Coalition for Neural Purity barely merited a footnote in history. Conjoiners continued with their neurological experiments, which were tolerated and even encouraged provided they made no attempts to absorb other cultures. Demarchists made use of their technologies, brokering them to other human factions.

Everyone was happy.

But at heart, Skade was right: the union had always been an uneasy one. A war, at some point, was almost inevitable - especially when something like the Melding Plague came along.

But fifty-four damned years? Clavain would never have tolerated that, she thought. He would have seen the terrible waste in human effort that such a war entailed. He would either have found a way to end it decisively, or he would have sought a permanent cease-fire.

The migrainelike pressure was still with her, now a little more intense than before. Galiana had the disturbing sense that something was peering through her eyes from inside her skull, as if she was not its only tenant.

We narrowed the distance to your two ships, with the unhurried lope of ancient killers who had no racial memory of failure. You sensed our minds: bleak intellects poised on the dangerous verge of intelligence, as old and cold as the dust between the stars.

You sensed our hunger.

‘But Clavain ...’ she said.

‘What about Clavain?’

‘He would have found a way to end this, Skade, one way or another. Why hasn’t he?’

Skade looked away for an instant, so that her crest was a narrow ridge turned edge-on. When she turned back she was attempting to shape a very odd expression on to her face.

You saw us take your first ship, smothering it in a caulk of inquisitive black machines. The machines gnawed the ship apart. You saw it detonate: the explosion etched a pink swan-shape on to your retina, and you felt a net of minds being ripped away, like the loss of a thousand children.

You tried to get further away, but by then it was too late.

When we reached your ship we were more careful.

‘This isn’t easy, Galiana.’

‘What isn’t?’

‘It’s about Clavain.’

‘You said he returned.’

‘He did. And so did Felka. But I’m sorry to tell you that they both died.’ The words arrived one after another, slow as breaths. ‘It was eleven years ago. There was a Demarchist attack, a lucky strike against the Nest, and they both died.’

There was only one rational response: denial. ‘No!’

‘I’m sorry. I wish there was some other way . . .’ Skade’s crest flashed ultramarine. ‘I wish it had never happened. They were valuable assets to us ...’

‘“Assets”?’

Skade must have sensed Galiana’s fury. ‘I mean they were loved. We grieved their loss, Galiana. All of us.’

‘Then show me. Open your mind. Drop the barricades. I want to see into it.’

Skade lingered near the side of the casket. ‘Why, Galiana?’

‘Because until I can see into it, I won’t know whether you’re telling the truth.’

‘I’m not lying,’ Skade said softly. ‘But I can’t allow our minds to talk. There is something inside your head, you see. Something we don’t understand, other than that it is probably alien and probably hostile.’

‘I don’t believe ...’

But the pressure behind her eyes suddenly became acute. Galiana experienced a vile sense of being shoved aside, usurped, crushed into a small ineffectual corner of her own skull. Something inexpressibly sinister and ancient now had immediate tenancy, squatting behind her eyes.

She heard herself speak again.

‘Me, do you mean?’

Skade seemed only mildly taken aback. Galiana admired the other Conjoiner her nerve.

‘Perhaps. Who would you be, exactly?’

‘I don’t have a name other than the one she gave me.’

‘“She”?’ Skade asked amusedly. But her crest was flickering with nervous pale greens, showing terror even though her voice was calm.

‘Galiana,’ the entity replied. ‘Before I took her over. She called us - my mind - the wolves. We reached and infiltrated her ship, after we had destroyed the other. We didn’t understand much of what they were at first. But then we opened their skulls and absorbed their central nervous systems. We learned much more then. How they thought; how they communicated; what they had done to their minds.’

Galiana tried to move, even though Skade had already placed her in a state of paralysis. She tried to scream, but the Wolf - for that was exactly what she had called it - had complete control of her voice.

It was all coming back now.

‘Why didn’t you kill her?’ Skade said.

‘It wasn’t like that,’ the Wolf chided. ‘The question you should be asking is a different one: why didn’t she kill herself before it came to this? She could have, you know; it was within her power to destroy her entire ship and everyone inside it simply by willing it.’

‘So why didn’t she?’

‘We came to an arrangement, after we had killed her crew and left her alone. She would not kill herself provided we allowed her to return home. She knew what it meant: I would invade her skull, rummage through her memories.’

‘Why her?’

‘She was your queen, Skade. As soon as we read the minds of her crew, we knew she was the one we really needed.’

Skade was silent. Aquamarines and jades chased each other in slow waves from brow to nape. ‘She would never have risked leading you here.’

‘She would, provided she thought the risk was outweighed by the benefit of an early warning. It was an accommodation, you see. She gave us time to learn, and the hope of learning more. Which we have, Skade.’

Skade touched a finger to her upper lip and then held it before her as if testing the direction of the wind. ‘If you truly are a superior alien intelligence, and you knew where we were, you’d already have come to us.’

‘Very good, Skade. And you’re right, in a sense. We don’t know exactly where Galiana has brought us. I know, but I can’t communicate that knowledge to my fellows. But that won’t matter. You are a starfaring culture - fragmented into different factions, it is true - but from our perspective those distinctions do not matter. From the memories we drank, and the memories in which we still swim, we know the approximate locus of space that you inhabit. You are expanding, and the surface area of your expansion envelope grows geometrically, always increasing the likelihood of an encounter between us. It has already happened once, and it may have happened elsewhere, at other points on the sphere’s boundary.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’ Skade asked.

‘To frighten you. Why else?’

But Skade was too clever for that. ‘No. There’s got to be another reason. You want to make me think you might be useful, don’t you?’

‘How so?’ the voice of the Wolf purred amusedly.

‘I could kill you here and now. After all, the warning has already been delivered.’

Had Galiana been able to move, or even just blink, she would have signalled an emphatic ‘yes’. She did want to die. What else had she to live for, now? Clavain was gone. Felka was gone. She was sure of that, as sure as she was that no amount of Conjoiner ingenuity would ever free her of the thing inside her head.

Skade was right. She had served her purpose, performed her final duty to the Mother Nest. It knew that the wolves were out there, were, in all likelihood, creeping closer, scenting human blood.

There was no reason to keep her alive a moment longer. The Wolf would always be looking for a chance to escape her head, no matter how vigilant Skade was. The Mother Nest might learn something from it, some marginal hint of a motive or a weakness, but against that had to be set the awful consequences of its escape.

Galiana knew. Just as the Wolf had access to her memories, so, by some faint and perhaps deliberate process of back-contamination, she sensed some of its own history. There was nothing concrete; almost nothing that she could actually put into words. But what she sensed was an aeons-old litany of surgical xenocide; of a dreadful process of cleansing waged upon emergent sentient species. The memories had been preserved with grim bureaucratic exactitude across hundreds of millions of years of Galactic time, each new extinction merely an entry in the ledger. She sensed the occasional frenzied cleansing - a cull that had been initiated later than was desirable. She even sensed the rare instance of brutal intercession where an earlier cull had not been performed satisfactorily.

But what she did not sense, ever, was ultimate failure.

Suddenly, shockingly, the Wolf eased aside. It was letting her speak.

‘Skade,’ Galiana said.

‘What is it?’

‘Kill me, please. Kill me now.’

ONE

Antoinette Bax watched the police proxy unfold itself from the airlock. The machine was all planar black armour and sharp articulated limbs, like a sculpture made from many pairs of scissors. It was deathly cold, for it had been clamped to the outside of one of the three police cutters which now pinned her ship. A rime of urine-coloured propellant frost boiled off it in pretty little whorls and helices.

‘Please stand back,’ the proxy said. ‘Physical contact is not advised.’

The propellant cloud smelt toxic. She slammed down her visor as the proxy scuttled by.

‘I don’t know what you’re hoping to find,’ she said, following at a discreet distance.

‘I won’t know until I find it,’ the proxy said. It had already identified the frequency for her suit radio.

‘Hey, look. I’m not into smuggling. I like not being dead too much.’

‘That’s what they all say.’

‘Why would anyone smuggle something to Hospice Idlewild? They’re a bunch of ascetic religious nuts, not contraband fiends.’

‘Know a thing or two about contraband, do you?’

‘I never said ...’

‘Never mind. The point is, Miss Bax, this is war. I’d say nothing’s ruled out.’

The proxy halted and flexed, large flakes of yellow ice cracking away from its articulation points. The machine’s body was a flanged black egg from which sprouted numerous limbs, manipulators and weapons. There was no room for the pilot in there, just enough space for the machinery needed to keep the proxy in contact with the pilot. The pilot was still inside one of the three cutters, stripped of nonessential organs and jammed into a life-support canister.

‘You can check with the Hospice, if you like,’ she said.

‘I’ve already queried the Hospice. But in matters such as this, one likes to be absolutely certain that things are above board - wouldn’t you agree?’

‘I’ll agree to anything you like if it gets you off my ship.’

‘Mm. And why would you be in such a hurry?’

‘Because I’ve got a slush ... sorry, a cryogenic passenger. One I don’t want thawing on me.’

‘I’d like to see this passenger very much. Is that possible?’

‘I’m hardly likely to refuse, am I?’ She had expected as much, and had already donned her vacuum suit while waiting for the proxy to arrive.

‘Good. It won’t take a minute, and then you can be on your way.’ The machine paused a moment before adding, ‘Provided, of course, that there aren’t any irregularities.’

‘It’s this way.’

Antoinette thumbed back a panel next to her, exposing a crawlway that led back to Storm Bird’s main freight bay. She let the proxy take the lead, determined to say little and volunteer even less. Her attitude might have struck some as obstinate, but she would have engendered far more suspicion had she started to be helpful. The Ferrisville Convention’s militia were not well liked, a fact which they had long since factored into their dealings with civilians.

‘This is quite a ship you have, Antoinette.’

‘That’s Miss Bax to you. I don’t remember us being on first-name terms.’

‘Miss Bax, then. But my point stands: your ship is outwardly unremarkable, but betrays all the signs of being mechanically sound and spaceworthy. A ship with such a capacity could run at a profit on any number of perfectly legal trade routes, even in these benighted times.’

‘Then I’d have no incentive to take up smuggling, would I?’

‘No, but it makes me wonder why you’d waste such an opportunity by running a peculiar errand for the Hospice. They have influence, but not, so far as we can gather, very much in the way of actual wealth.’ The machine halted again. ‘You have to admit, it’s a bit of a puzzler. The usual route is for the frozen to come down from the Hospice, not go up to it. And even moving a frozen body around is unusual - most are thawed before they ever leave Idlewild.’

‘It’s not my job to ask questions.’

‘Well, it does rather happen to be mine. Are we nearly there yet?’

The freight bay was not currently pressurised, so they had to cycle through an internal airlock to reach it. Antoinette turned the lights on. The enormous space was empty of cargo but filled with a storage lattice, a three-dimensional framework into which cargo pallets and pods were normally latched. They began to clamber their way through it, the proxy picking its way with the fastidious care of a tarantula.

‘It’s true, then. You are flying with an empty hold. There’s not a single container in here.’

‘It’s not a crime.’

‘I never said it was. It is, however, exceedingly odd. The Mendicants must be paying you extremely good money if you can justify a trip like this.’

‘They set the terms, not me.’

‘Curioser and curioser.’

The proxy was right, of course. Everyone knew that the Hospice cared for the frozen who had just been off-loaded from recently arrived starships: the poor, the injured, the terminally amnesiac. They would be thawed, revived and rehabilitated in the Hospice’s surroundings, tended by the Mendicants until they were well enough to leave, or at least able to complete a minimum set of basic human functions. Some, never regaining their memories, decided to stay on in the Hospice, training to become Mendicants themselves. But the one thing the Hospice did not routinely do was take in the frozen who had not arrived on an interstellar ship.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘What they told me was this: there was a mistake. The man’s documentation was mixed up during the off-loading process. He was confused with another puppy who was only meant to be checked over by the Hospice, not actually revived. The other man was supposed to be kept cold until he was in Chasm City, then warmed up.’

‘Unusual,’ the proxy said.

‘Seems the guy didn’t like space travel. Well, there was a fuck-up. By the time the error was discovered, the wrong frozen body was halfway to CC. A serious screw-up and one that the Hospice wanted to get sorted out before the mess got worse. So they called me in. I picked up the body in the Rust Belt and now I’m rushing it back to Idlewild.’

‘But why the hurry? If the body’s frozen, surely ...’

‘The casket’s a museum piece, and it’s received a lot of rough handling in the last few days. Plus, there are two sets of families starting to ask awkward questions. The sooner the pups are switched back, the better.’

‘I appreciate that the Mendicants would wish to keep the matter discreet. The Hospice’s reputation for excellence would be tarnished if this got out.’

‘Yeah.’ She allowed herself to feel the tiniest hint of relief, and for a dangerous instant was tempted to throttle back on the studied obstinacy. Instead she said, ‘So now that you can see the whole picture, how about letting me get on my way? You wouldn’t want to piss off the Hospice, would you?’

‘Most certainly not. But having come this far, it would be a shame not to check out the passenger, wouldn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ she intoned. ‘A real shame.’

They reached the casket. It was an unremarkable-looking reefersleep unit, tucked near the back of the freight bay. It was matte-silver, with a smoked-glass rectangular viewing window set into the top surface. Beneath that, covered by its own smoked-glass shield, was a recessed panel containing controls and status displays. Indistinct coloured traces flickered and moved beneath the glass.

‘Strange place to put it, this far back,’ said the proxy.

‘Not from my point of view. It’s close to my belly door - it was quick to load and it’ll be even quicker to off-load.’

‘Fair enough. You don’t mind if I take a closer look, do you?’

‘Be my guest.’

The proxy scuttled to within a metre of the casket, extending sensor-tipped limbs but not actually touching any part of it. It was being ultra-cautious, unwilling to run the risk of damaging Hospice property or doing anything that might endanger the casket’s occupant.

‘You said this man came in to Idlewild recently?’

‘I only know what the Hospice told me.’

The proxy tapped a limb against its own body, thoughtfully. ‘It’s odd, because there haven’t been any big ships coming in lately. Now that knowledge of the war’s had time to reach the furthest systems, Yellowstone isn’t quite the popular destination it used to be.’

She shrugged. ‘Have a word with the Hospice then, if it bothers you. All I know is I’ve got a puppy and they want it back.’

The proxy extended what she took to be a camera, probing close to the viewing window set into the casket’s upper surface.

‘Well, it’s definitely a man,’ it said, as if this would be news to her.

‘Deep in reefersleep, too. Mind if I pop back that status window and take a look at the read-outs, while I’m here? If there’s a problem, I can probably arrange an escort to get you to the Hospice in double-quick time ...’

Before she could answer or frame a plausible objection, the proxy had flipped back the smoked-glass panel covering the matrix of controls and status displays. The proxy leant closer, steadying itself against the spars of the storage lattice, and swept the scanning eye back and forth across the display, dithering here and there.

Antoinette looked on, sweating. The displays appeared convincing enough, but anyone who knew their way around a reefersleep casket would have been instantly suspicious. They were not quite as they should have been had the occupant been in a state of normal cryogenic hibernation. Once that suspicion had been aroused, all it would take would be a few more enquiries, a little burrowing into some of the hidden display modes, and the truth would be laid bare.

The proxy scrutinised the read-outs and then pulled back, apparently satisfied. Antoinette closed her eyes for an instant, and then regretted it. The proxy approached the display again, extending a fine manipulator.

‘I wouldn’t touch that if I were ...’

The proxy tapped commands into the read-out panel. Different traces appeared - squirming electric-blue waveforms and trembling histograms.

‘This doesn’t look right,’ the proxy said.

‘What?’

‘It’s almost as if the occupant’s already dea—’

A new voice boomed out. ‘Begging your pardon, Little Miss...’

Under her breath she swore. She had told Beast to shut up while she was dealing with the proxy. But perhaps she should be relieved that Beast had decided to ignore that particular order.

‘What is it, Beast?’

‘An incoming transmission, Little Miss - beamed directly at us. Point of origin: Hospice Idlewild.’

The proxy jerked back. ‘What’s that voice? I thought you said you were alone.’

‘I am,’ she replied. ‘That’s just Beast, my ship’s subpersona.’

‘Well, tell it to shut up. And the transmission from the Hospice isn’t intended for you. It’s a reply to a query I transmitted earlier ...’

The ship’s disembodied voice boomed, ‘The transmission, Little Miss ... ?’

She smiled. ‘Play the damned thing.’

The proxy’s attention jerked away from the casket. Beast was relaying the transmission on to her helmet faceplate, making it seem as if the Mendicant was standing in the middle of the freight bay. She assumed the pilot was accessing its own telemetry feed from one of the cutters.

The Mendicant was a woman, one of the New Elderly. As always, Antoinette found it slightly shocking to see a genuinely old person. She wore the starched wimple and vestment of her order, emblazoned with the Hospice’s snowflake motif, and her marvellously veined and aged hands were linked beneath her chest.

‘My apologies for the delay in responding,’ she said. ‘Problems with our network routing again, wouldn’t you know. Well, formalities. My name is Sister Amelia, and I wish to confirm that the body ... the frozen individual ... in the care of Miss Bax is the temporary and beloved property of Hospice Idlewild and the Holy Order of Ice Mendicants, and that Miss Bax is kindly expediting its immediate return ...’

‘But the body’s dead,’ the proxy said.

The Mendicant continued, ‘... and as such, we would be grateful for the absolute minimum of interference from the authorities. We have employed Miss Bax’s services on several previous occasions and we have experienced nothing less than total satisfaction with her handling of our affairs.’ The Mendicant smiled. ‘I’m sure the Ferrisville Convention appreciates the need for discretion in such a matter ... after all, we do have something of a reputation to uphold.’

The message ended; the Mendicant blinked out of reality.

Antoinette shrugged. ‘See - I was telling the truth all along.’

The proxy eyed her with one of its cowled sensors. ‘There’s something going on here. The body inside that casket is medically dead.’

‘Look, I told you the casket was an old one. The read-out’s faulty, that’s all. It’d be pretty stupid to carry a dead body around in a reefersleep casket, wouldn’t it?’

‘I’m not done with you.’

‘Maybe not, but you’re done with me now, aren’t you? You heard what the nice Mendicant lady said. Expediting its immediate return, I think that was the phrase she used. Sounds pretty official and important, doesn’t it?’ She reached across and flipped the cover back over the status panel.

‘I don’t know what you’re up to,’ the proxy told her, ‘but rest assured, I’ll get to the bottom of it.’

She smiled. ‘Fine. Thanks. Have a nice day. And now get the fuck off my ship.’

Antoinette held the same heading for an hour after the police had left, maintaining the illusion that her destination was Hospice Idlewild. Then she veered sharply, burning fuel at a rate that made her wince. An hour later she had passed beyond the official jurisdiction of the Ferrisville Convention, leaving Yellowstone and its girdle of satellite communities. The police made no effort to catch up with her again, but that did not surprise her. It would have cost them too much fuel, she was outside their technical sphere of influence and, since she had just entered the war zone, there was every chance that she was going to end up dead anyway. It was simply not worth their bother.

On that cheering note, Antoinette composed and transmitted a veiled message of thanks to the Hospice. She was grateful for their assistance and, as her father had always done under similar circumstances, promised to reciprocate should the Hospice ever need her help.

A message came back from Sister Amelia. Godspeed and good luck with your mission, Antoinette. Jim would be very proud.

I hope so, Antoinette thought.

The next ten days passed relatively uneventfully. The ship performed perfectly, without even offering her the kind of minor technical faults that would have been satisfying to repair. Once, at extreme radar range, she thought she was being shadowed by a couple of banshees - faint, stealthy signatures hovering on the limit of her detection capability. Just to be on the safe side she readied the deterrents, but after she had executed an evasive pattern, showing the banshees just how difficult it would be to make a hard-docking against Storm Bird, the two ships fell back into the shadows, off to look for another victim to plunder. She never saw them again.

After that brief excitement, there was not an awful lot to do on the ship except eat and sleep, and she tried to do as little of the latter as she could reasonably get away with. Her dreams were repetitious and disturbing: night after night she was taken prisoner by spiders, snatched from a liner making a burn between Rust Belt carousels. The spiders carried her off to one of their cometary bases on the edge of the system, where they cracked open her skull and plunged glistening interrogation devices into the soft grey porridge of her brain. Then, just when she had almost been turned into a spider, had almost had her own memories erased and been pumped full of the implants that would bind her into their hive mind, the zombies arrived. They smashed into the comet in droves of wedge-shaped attack ships, firing corkscrewing penetration capsules into the ice, which melted through it until they reached the central warrens. There they spewed forth valiant red-armoured troops who tore through the maze of cometary tunnels, killing spiders with the humane precision of soldiers trained never to waste a single flèchette, bullet or ammo-cell charge.

A handsome zombie conscript pulled her from the spider interrogation /indoctrination room, applied emergency procedures to flush the invading machines from her brain, then replaced and sutured her skull and finally put her into a recuperative coma for the long trip back to the civilian hospitals in the inner system. He held her hand while she was taken into the cold ward.

It was nearly always the same fucking thing. The zombies had infected her with a propaganda dream, and although she had taken the usual recommended regimen of flushing agents, she could never clear it out completely. Not that she even wanted to, particularly.

The one night when she had slept untroubled by Demarchist propaganda, she had spent the entire time dreaming sad dreams of her father instead.

She knew that the zombie propaganda was, to some extent, an exaggeration. But only in the details: no one argued about what the Conjoiners did to anyone unfortunate enough to become their prisoner. Equally, Antoinette was certain, it would not exactly be a picnic to be taken prisoner by the Demarchists.

But the conflict was a long way away, even though she was technically in the war zone. She had chosen her trajectory to avoid the main battlefronts. Now and then Antoinette saw distant flashes of light, signifying some titanic engagement taking place light-hours from her present position. But the silent flashes had an unreal quality about them, allowing her to pretend that the war was over and that she was merely on some routine interplanetary haul. That was not too far from the truth, either. All the neutral observers said that the war was in its dying days, with the zombies losing ground on all fronts. The spiders, by contrast, were gaining by the month, pushing towards Yellowstone.

But even if its outcome was now clear, the war was not yet over, and she could still become a casualty if she was careless. And then she might find out exactly how accurate that propaganda dream was.

She was mindful of this as she backed in towards Tangerine Dream, the largest Jovian-type planet in the entire Epsilon Eridani system. She was coming in hard at three gees, Storm Bird’s engines straining at maximum output. The gas-giant world was an ominous pale orange mass that bulged towards her, heavily pregnant with gravity. Counter-intrusion satellites were sewn around the Jovian, and these beacons had already latched on to her ship and had started bombarding it with increasingly threatening messages.

This is a Contested Volume. You are in violation of ...

‘Little Miss ... are you certain about this? One must respectfully point out that this is completely the wrong trajectory for an orbital insertion.’

She grimaced. It was about all she could manage at three gees. ‘I know, Beast, but there’s an excellent reason for that. We’re not actually going into orbit. We’re going into the atmosphere instead.’

‘Into the atmosphere, Little Miss?’

‘Yes. In.’

She could almost hear the cogs churning away as antiquated subroutines were dusted off for the first time in decades.

Beast’s subpersona lay in a cooled cylindrical housing unit about the size of a space helmet. She had seen it only twice, both times during major strip-downs of the ship’s nose assembly. Wearing heavy gloves, her father had eased it from its storage well and they had both looked at it with something close to awe.

‘In, did you say?’ Beast repeated.

‘I know it’s not exactly normal operational procedure,’ Antoinette said.

‘Are you absolutely certain of this, Little Miss?’

Antoinette reached into her shirt pocket and removed a shred of printed paper. It was oval, frayed and torn at the edges, with a complex design marked in lambent gold and silver inks. She fingered the scrap as if it were a talisman. ‘Yes, Beast,’ she said. ‘More certain than I’ve ever been of anything, ever.’

‘Very well, Little Miss.’

Beast, obviously sensing that argument would get it nowhere, began to prepare for atmospheric flight.

The schematics on the command board showed spines and clamps being hauled in, hatches irising and sliding shut to maintain hull integrity. The process took several minutes, but when it was done Storm Bird looked only slightly more airworthy than it had before. Some of the remaining bulges and protrusions would survive the trip, but there were still a few spines and docking latches that would probably get ripped off when it hit air. Storm Bird would just have to manage without them.

‘Now listen,’ she said. ‘Somewhere in that brain of yours are the routines for in-atmosphere handling. Dad told me about them once, so don’t go pretending you’ve never heard of them.’

‘One shall attempt to locate the relevant procedures with all haste.’

‘Good,’ she said, encouraged.

‘But might one nonetheless enquire why the need for these routines was not mentioned earlier?’

‘Because if you’d had any idea what I had in mind, you’d have had all the more time to talk me out of it.’

‘One sees.’

‘Don’t sound hurt about it. I was just being pragmatic.’

‘As you wish, Little Miss.’ Beast paused just long enough to make her feel guilty and hurtful. ‘One has located the routines. One respectfully points out that they were last used sixty-three years ago, and that there have been a number of changes to the hull profile since then which may limit the efficacy of ...’

‘Fine. I’m sure you’ll improvise.’

But it was no simple thing to persuade a ship of vacuum to skim an atmosphere, even the upper atmospheric layer of a gas giant - even a ship as generously armoured and rounded as hers. At best, Storm Bird would come through this with some heavy hull damage that would still allow her to limp home to the Rust Belt. At worst, the ship would never see open space again.

And nor, in all likelihood, would Antoinette.

Well, she thought, at least there was one consolation: if she trashed the ship, she would never have to break the bad news to Xavier.

So much for small mercies.

There was a muted chime from the panel.

‘Beast ...’ Antoinette said, ‘was that what I thought it was?’

‘Very possibly, Little Miss. Radar contact, eighteen thousand klicks distant, three degrees off dead ahead; two degrees off ecliptic north.’

‘Fuck. Are you certain it isn’t a beacon or weapons platform?’

‘Too large to be either, Little Miss.’

She did not need to do any mental arithmetic to work out what that meant. There was another ship between them and the top of the gas giant; another ship close to the atmosphere.

‘What can you tell me about it?’

‘It’s moving slowly, Little Miss, on a direct course for the atmosphere. Looks rather as if it’s planning to execute a similar manoeuvre to the one you have in mind, although they’re moving several klicks per second faster and their approach angle is considerably steeper.’

‘Sounds like a zombie - you don’t think it is, do you?’ she said quickly, hoping to convince herself otherwise.

‘No need to speculate, Little Miss. The ship has just locked a tight-beam on to us. The message protocol is indeed Demarchist.’

‘Why the fuck are they bothering to tight-beam us?’

‘One respectfully suggests you find out.’

A tight-beam was a needlessly finicky means of communication when two ships were so close. A simple radio broadcast would have worked just as well, removing the need for the zombie ship to point its message laser exactly at the moving target of Storm Bird.

‘Acknowledge whoever it is,’ she ordered. ‘Can we tight-beam them back?’

‘Not without redeploying something one just went to rather a lot of trouble to retract, Little Miss.’

‘Then do it, but don’t forget to haul it back in afterwards.’

She heard the machinery push one of the spines back into vacuum. There was a rapid chirp of message protocols between the two ships and then suddenly Antoinette was looking at the face of another woman. She looked, if such a thing were possible, more tired, drawn and edgy than Antoinette felt.

‘Hello,’ Antoinette said. ‘Can you see me as well?’

The woman’s nod was barely perceptible. Her tight-lipped face suggested vast reserves of pent-up fury, like water straining behind a dam. ‘Yes. I can see you.’

‘I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone out here,’ Antoinette offered. ‘I thought it might not be a bad idea to respond by tight-beam as well.’

‘You may as well not have bothered.’

‘Not have bothered?’ Antoinette echoed.

‘Not after your radar already illuminated us.’ The woman’s shaven scalp gleamed blue as she looked down at something. She did not appear to be very much older than Antoinette, but with zombies you could never be sure.

‘Um ... and that’s a problem, is it?’

‘It is when we’re trying to hide from something. I don’t know why you’re out here, and frankly I don’t much care. I suggest that you abort whatever you’re planning. The Jovian is a Contested Volume, which means that I’d be fully within my rights to blast you out of the sky right now.’

‘I don’t have a problem with zom ... with Demarchists,’ Antoinette said.

‘I’m delighted to hear it. Now turn around.’

Antoinette glanced down again at the piece of paper she had removed from her shirt pocket. The design on it showed a man wearing an antique spacesuit, the kind with accordioned joints, holding a bottle up to his gaze. The neck ring where his helmet should have been latched was a broken ellipse of gleaming silver. He was smiling as he looked at the bottle, which shone with gold fluid. No, Antoinette thought. It was time to be resolute.

‘I’m not turning around,’ she said. ‘But I promise I don’t want to steal anything from the planet. I’m not going anywhere near any of your refineries, or anything like that. I won’t even open my intakes. I’m just going in and out, and then I won’t bother you again.’

‘Fine,’ the woman said. ‘I’m very glad to hear that. The trouble is it’s not really me that you need to be worried about.’

‘It isn’t?’

‘No.’ The woman smiled sympathetically. ‘It’s the ship behind you, the one I don’t think you’ve even noticed yet.’

‘Behind me?’

The woman nodded. ‘You have spiders on your tail.’

That was when Antoinette knew she was in real trouble.

TWO

Skade was wedged between two curving black masses of machinery when the alert came in. One of her feelers had detected a change in the ship’s attack posture, an escalation in the state of battle readiness. It was not necessarily a crisis, but it certainly demanded her immediate attention.

Skade unplugged her compad from the machinery, the fibreoptic umbilical whisking back into the compad’s housing. She pressed the blank slate of the compad against her stomach, where it flexed and bonded with the padded black fabric of her vest. Almost immediately the compad began backing up its cache of data, feeding it into a secure partition in Skade’s long-term memory.

Skade crawled through the narrow space between the machine components, arching and corkscrewing through the tightest spaces. After twenty metres she reached the exit point and eased herself partway through a narrow circular aperture that had just opened in one wall. Then Skade froze, falling perfectly silent and still; even the colour waves in her crest subsided. The loom of implants in her head detected no other Conjoiners within fifty metres, and confirmed that all monitoring systems in this corridor were turning a blind eye to her emergence. But still she was cautious, and when she moved - looking up and down the corridor - she did so with exquisite calm and caution, like a cat venturing into unfamiliar territory.

There was no one in sight.

Skade pulled herself entirely free of the aperture, then issued a mental command that made it sphincter tight, forming an invisibly fine seal. Only Skade knew where these entry apertures were, and the apertures would only show themselves to her. Even if Clavain detected the presence of the hidden machinery, he would never find a way to reach it without using the brute force that would trigger the machinery to self-destruct.

The ship was in free fall, still, so Skade presumed, sidling closer to the enemy ship they had been chasing. Weightlessness suited Skade. She scampered along the corridor, springing from contact point to contact point on all fours. Her movements were so precise and economical that she sometimes seemed to travel within her own personal bubble of gravity.

[Report, Skade?]

She never knew precisely when the Night Council was going to pop into her head, but she had long since stopped being fazed by its sudden apparitions.

Nothing untoward. We haven’t even scratched the surface of what the machinery’s capable of doing, but so far everything’s working just the way we thought it would.

[Good. Of course, a more extensive test would be desirable ...]

Skade felt a flush of irritation. I already told you. At the moment it takes careful measurement to detect the influence of the machinery. That means we can perform clandestine tests under the cover of routine military operations.

Skade pounced into a junction, kicking off towards the bridge. Forcing calm, tuning her blood chemistry, she continued, I agree that we need to do more before we can equip the fleet, but the instant we increase testing we risk widespread knowledge of our breakthrough. And I don’t just mean within the Mother Nest.

[Your point is well made, Skade. There is no need to remind us. We were merely stating the facts. Inconvenient or otherwise, more extensive tests must take place, and they must take place soon.]

She passed another Conjoiner on his way to a different part of the ship. Skade peered into his mind, glimpsing a surface slurry of recent experiences and emotions. None of it interested her or was of tactical relevance. Beneath the slurry were deeper layers of memory, mnemonic structures plunging down into opaque darkness like great drowned monuments. All of it was hers to sift and scrutinise, but again none of it interested her. Down at the very deepest level Skade detected a few partitioned private memories that he did not think she could read. For a thrilling instant she was tempted to reach in and edit the man’s own blockades, screening one or two tiny cherished memories from their owner. Skade resisted; it was enough to know that she could.

By way of return she felt the man’s mind send enquiring probes into her own, and then flinch away at the stinging denial of access. She felt the man’s curiosity, doubtless wondering why someone from the Closed Council had come aboard the ship.

This amused her. The man knew of the Closed Council, and might even have some inkling of the Council’s super-secret core, the Inner Sanctum. But Skade was certain that he had never even imagined the existence of the Night Council.

He passed her by; she continued on her way.

[Reservations, Skade?]

Of course I have reservations. We’re playing with God’s own fire. It’s not something you rush into.

[The wolves won’t wait for us, Skade.]

Skade bristled, hardly needing to be reminded of the wolves. Fear was a useful spur, she admitted that, but it could only make so much difference. As the old saying went, the Manhattan Project wasn’t built in a day. Or was that Rome? Something to do with Earth, anyway.

I haven’t forgotten about the wolves.

[Good, Skade. We haven’t, either. And we very much doubt that the wolves have forgotten about us.]

She felt the Night Council withdraw, retreating to some tiny un-locatable pocket in her head where it would wait until next time.

Skade arrived at the bridge of Nightshade, conscious that her crest was pulsing livid shades of rose and scarlet. The bridge was a windowless spherical room deep inside the ship, large enough to contain five or six Conjoiners without seeming cramped. But for now only Clavain and Remontoire were present, just as they had been when she left. They were both lying in acceleration hammocks, suspended in the middle of the sphere, their eyes closed as they tapped into the wider sensory environment of Nightshade. They looked absurdly restful, with their arms neatly folded across their chests.

Skade waited while the room threw a separate hammock around her, wrapping her in a protective mesh of lianalike vines. Idly, she skimmed their minds. Remontoire’s was fully open to her, even his Closed Council partitions appearing as mere demarcations rather than absolute barriers. His mind was like a city made of glass, smoked here and there, but never entirely opaque. Seeing through Closed Council screens had been one of the first tricks that the Night Council had taught her, and it had proven useful even after she had joined the Closed Council. Not all Closed Council members were privy to exactly the same secrets - there was the Inner Sanctum, for a start - but nothing was hidden from Skade.

Clavain was frustratingly harder to read, which was why he both fascinated and disturbed her. His neural implants were of a much older configuration than anyone else’s, and Clavain had never allowed them to be upgraded. Large parts of his brain were not subsumed by the loom at all, and the neural bondings between these regions and the Conjoiner parts were sparse and inefficiently distributed. Skade’s search-and-retrieve algorithms could extract neural patterns from any part of Clavain’s brain that had been subsumed by the loom, but even that was a lot easier said than done. Searching Clavain’s mind was like being given the keys to a fabulous library that had just been swept through by a whirlwind. By the time she located what she was looking for, it was usually no longer relevant.

Nonetheless, Skade had learned a great deal about Clavain. It was ten years since Galiana’s return, but if her reading of his mind was accurate - and she had no reason to doubt that it was otherwise - Clavain still had no real idea about what had happened.

In common with the whole of the Mother Nest, Clavain knew that Galiana’s ship had encountered hostile alien entities in deep space, machines that had come to be called the wolves. The wolves had infiltrated the ship, ripping open the minds of her crew. Clavain knew that Galiana had been spared and that her body was still preserved; he knew also that there was a structure of evident wolf origin lodged in her skull. What he did not know, and to the best of Skade’s knowledge had never suspected, was that Galiana had returned to consciousness; that there had been a brief window of lucidity before the Wolf had spoken through her. More than one, in fact.

Skade recalled lying to Galiana, telling her that Clavain and Felka were already dead. It had not been easy at first. Like any Conjoiner, Skade viewed Galiana with awe. She was the mother of them all, the queen of the Conjoined faction. Equally, the Night Council had reminded Skade that she had a duty to the Mother Nest that superseded her reverence towards Galiana. It was her duty to make maximum use of the windows of lucidity to learn what could be learned of the wolves, and that meant unburdening Galiana of any superfluous concerns. Hurtful as it had felt at the time, the Night Council had assured her it was better in the long run.

And gradually Skade had come to see the sense of it. It was not really Galiana she was lying to, after all, but a shadow of what Galiana had been. And one lie naturally demanded another, which was why Clavain and Felka had never learned of the conversations.

Skade withdrew her mental probes, settling for a routine level of intimacy. She allowed Clavain access to her surface memories, sensory modalities and emotions, or rather to a subtly doctored version of them. At the same time Remontoire saw precisely as much as he expected to see - but again, doctored and modified to suit Skade’s purposes.

The acceleration hammock tugged Skade into the centre of the sphere, next to the other two. Skade folded her arms under her breasts, settling them over the curved plate of the compad, which was still whispering its findings into her long-term memory.

Clavain’s presence asserted itself. [Skade. Nice of you to join us.]

I sensed a change in our attack readiness, Clavain. I imagine it has something to do with the Demarchist ship?

[Actually, it’s a little more interesting than that. Take a look.]

Clavain offered her one end of a data feed from the ship’s sensor net. Skade accepted the feed, instructing her implants to map it into her sensorium with her usual filters and preferences.

She experienced a pleasing instant of dislocation. Her body, the bodies of her companions, the room in which they floated, the great sleek carbon-black needle of Nightshade - all these things shifted to insubstantiality.

The Jovian was a massive presence ahead, wrapped in an ever-moving geometrically complex cloud of interdicted zones and safe passages. An angry swarm of platforms and sentries whipped around the world in tight precessional orbits. Closer, but not much closer, was the Demarchist ship that Nightshade had been chasing. It was already touching the top of Tangerine Dream’s atmosphere, beginning to glow hotter. The shipmaster was taking a risk with the atmospheric dive, hoping to gain concealment beneath a few hundred kilometres of overlying cloud.

It was, Skade reflected, a move born of desperation.

Transatmospheric insertions were risky, even for ships built to make skimming passes into the upper layers of Jovians. The shipmaster would have had to slow down before attempting the plunge, and would be moving slowly again upon return to space. Aside from the camouflaging effect of the overlying air - the benefits of which depended on the armoury of sensors that the pursuing ship carried, and on what could be detected by low-orbit satellites or floating drones - the only advantage in making a skim was to replenish fuel reserves.

In the early years of the war, both sides had used antimatter as their main energy source. The Conjoiners, with their camouflaged manufactories on the edge of the system, were still able to produce and store antimatter in militarily useful quantities. Even if they could not, it was common knowledge that they had access to even more prodigious energy sources. But handling antimatter was something that the Demarchists had not been able to do for more than a decade. They had fallen back on fusion power, for which they needed hydrogen, ideally dredged from the oceans within gas giants where it was already compressed into its metallic state. The shipmaster would open the ship’s fuel scoops, sucking in and compressing atmospheric hydrogen, or might even attempt a plunge into the ‘merely’ liquid hydrogen sea overlaying the metallic-state hydrogen wrapped around the Jovian’s rocky nugget of a core. But that would be a hazardous thing to attempt in a ship that had already sustained battle damage. Very probably the shipmaster would be hoping that the scoops would not be necessary; that it might instead manage to rendezvous with one of the whale-brained tankers circling endlessly through the atmosphere, singing sad, mournful songs of turbulence and hydrocarbon chemistry. The tanker would inject slugs of preprocessed metallic hydrogen into the ship, some to use as fuel and some to use as warheads.

Atmospheric insertion was a gamble, and a desperate one, but one that had paid off enough times to be slightly preferable to a suicidal scuttling operation.

Skade composed a thought and popped it into her companions’ heads. I admire the shipmaster’s determination. But it won’t help him.

Clavain’s response was immediate. [It’s a she, Skade. We picked up her signal when she tight-beamed the other ship; they were passing through the edge of a debris ring, so there was enough ambient dust to scatter a small fraction of the laser light in our direction.]

And the interloper?

Remontoire answered her. [We always suspected it was a freighter from the moment we had a clean lock on its exhaust signature. That turns out to be the case, and we know a little more now.]

Remontoire offered her a feed, which she accepted.

A fuzzy image of the freighter sharpened in her mind’s eye, accreting detail like a sketch being worked to completion. The freighter was half the size of Nightshade, a typical in-system hauler built one or two centuries ago; definitely pre-plague. The hull was vaguely rounded; the ship might once have been designed to land on Yellowstone or one of the other atmosphere-bound bodies in the system, but it had gained so many bulges and spines since then that it made Skade think of a fish afflicted with some rare recessive mutation. Cryptic machine-readable symbols flickered on its skin, some of which were interrupted by blank acres of repaired hull cladding.

Remontoire anticipated her question. [The ship’s Storm Bird, a freighter registered out of Carousel New Copenhagen in the Rust Belt. The ship’s commander and owner is Antoinette Bax, although she hasn’t been either for more than a month. The previous owner was a James Bax, presumably a relative. We don’t know what happened to him. Records show, however, that the Bax family has been running Storm Bird since long before the war, possibly even before the plague. Their activities seem to be the usual mixture of the legal and the marginally legal; a few infringements here and there, and one or two run-ins with the Ferrisville Convention, but nothing serious enough to warrant arrest, even under the emergency legislation.]

Skade felt her distant body acknowledge this with a nod. The girdle of habitats orbiting Yellowstone had long supported a spectrum of transportation ventures, ranging from prestigious high-burn operations to much slower - and commensurately cheaper, fewer-questions-asked - fusion and ion-drive haulers. Even after the plague, which had turned the once-glorious Glitter Band into the far less than glorious Rust Belt, there had still been commercial niches for those prepared to fill them. There were quarantines to be dodged, and a host of new clients rising from the smouldering rubble of Demarchist rule, not all of who were the kinds of clients one would wish to do business with twice.

Skade knew nothing about the Bax family, but she could imagine them thriving under these conditions, and perhaps thriving even more vigorously during wartime. Now there were blockades to be run and opportunities to aid and abet the deep-penetration agents of either faction in their espionage missions. No matter that the Ferrisville Convention, the caretaker administration that was running circum-Yellowstone affairs, was just about the most intolerant regime in history. Where there were harsh penalties, there would always be those who would pay handsomely for others to take risks on their behalf.

Skade’s mental picture of Antoinette Bax was almost complete. There was just one thing she did not understand: what was Antoinette Bax doing this far inside a war zone? And, now that she thought about it, why was she still alive?

The shipmaster spoke to her? Skade asked.

Clavain answered. [It was a warning, Skade, telling her to back off or face the consequences.]

And did she?

Remontoire fed her the freighter’s vector. It was headed straight into the atmosphere of the Jovian, just like the Demarchist ship ahead of it.

That doesn’t make any sense. The shipmaster should have destroyed her for violating a Contested Volume.

Clavain responded. [The shipmaster threatened to do just that, but Bax ignored her. She promised the shipmaster she wasn’t going to steal hydrogen, but made it pretty clear she wasn’t about to turn around either.]

Either very brave or very stupid.

[Or very lucky,] Clavain countered. [Clearly the shipmaster didn’t have the ammunition to back up her threat. She must have used up her last missile during some earlier engagement.]

Skade considered this, anticipating Clavain’s reasoning. If the shipmaster really had fired her last missile, she would be desperately keen to keep that information from Nightshade. An unarmed ship was ripe for boarding. Even this late in the war, there were still useful intelligence gains to be made from the capture of an enemy ship, quite apart from the prospect of recruiting her crew.

You think the shipmaster was hoping the freighter would do as she said. She detected Clavain’s assent before his answer formed in her head.

[Yes. Once Bax shone her radar on to the Demarchist ship, the shipmaster had no choice but to make some kind of response. Firing a missile would have been the usual course of action - she’d have been fully within her rights - but at the very least she had to warn the freighter to back off. That didn’t work - for whatever reason Bax wasn’t sufficiently intimidated. That immediately put the shipmaster in a compromised position. She’d barked, but she sure as hell couldn’t bite.]

Remontoire completed his line of thinking. [Clavain’s right. She has no missiles. And now we know.]

Skade knew what they had in mind. Even though it had already begun to dive into the atmosphere, the Demarchist ship was still within easy range of Nightshade’s missiles. A kill could not be guaranteed, but the odds were a lot better than even. Yet Remontoire and Clavain did not want to shoot the enemy down. They wanted to wait until it had emerged from the atmosphere, slow and heavy with fuel, but still no better armed than it had been before. They wanted to board it, suck data from its memory banks and turn its crew into recruits for the Mother Nest.

I can’t consent to a boarding operation. The risks to Nightshade outweigh any possible benefits.

She sensed Clavain trying to probe her mind. [Why, Skade? Is there something that makes this ship unusually precious? If so, isn’t it a little odd that no one told me?]

That’s a matter for the Closed Council, Clavain. You had your chance to join us.

[But even if he had, he wouldn’t know everything, would he?]

Her attention flicked angrily to Remontoire. You know that I’m here on Closed Council business, Remontoire. That is all that matters.

[But I’m Closed Council and even I don’t know exactly what you’re doing here. What is it, Skade - a secret operation for the Inner Sanctum?]

Skade seethed, thinking how much simpler things would be if she never had to deal with old Conjoiners. This ship is precious, yes. It’s a prototype, and prototypes are always valuable. But you knew that anyway. Of course we don’t want to lose it in a petty engagement.

[There’s clearly more to it than that, though.]

Perhaps, Clavain, but now isn’t the time to discuss it. Allocate a spread of missiles for the Demarchist ship, and spare another for the freighter.

[No. We’ll wait for both ships to come out the other side. Assuming either survives, then we’ll act.]

I can’t allow that. So be it, then. She had hoped it would not come to this, but Clavain was forcing her hand. Skade concentrated, issuing a complex series of neural commands. She felt the distant acknowledgement of the weapons systems recognising her authority and submitting to her will. Her control was imprecise, lacking the finesse and immediacy with which she addressed her own machines, but it would suffice; all she had to do was launch a few missiles.

[Skade ... ?]

It was Clavain; he must have sensed that she was overriding his control of the weapons. She felt his surprise at the fact that she could do it at all. Skade assigned the spread, the hunter-seeker missiles quivering in their launch racks.

Then another voice spoke quietly in her head. [No, Skade.]

It was the Night Council.

What?

[Release control of the weapons. Do as Clavain wishes. It will serve us better in the long run.]

No, I ...

The Night Council’s tone became more strident. [Release the weapons, Skade.]

Furious, feeling the sting of reprimand, Skade did as she was told.

Antoinette reached her father’s coffin. It was lashed to the cargo-bay storage lattice, precisely as it had been when she had shown it to the proxy.

She placed one gloved hand on the upper surface of the casket. Through the glass of the viewing window she could see his profile. The family resemblance was quite evident, though age and gravity had shaped his features into an exaggerated masculine caricature of her own. His eyes were closed and the expression on his face, what she could see of it, was almost one of bored calm. It would have been typical of her father to snooze through all the excitement, she thought. She remembered the sound of his snoring filling the flight deck. Once she had even caught him peering at her through nearly closed eyelids, just pretending to be asleep. Watching to see how she handled whatever crisis was in progress; knowing that one day she would have to do it all herself.

Antoinette checked the rigging that bound the coffin to the lattice. It was secure; nothing had come adrift during the recent manoeuvres.

‘Beast ...’ she said.

‘Little Miss?’

‘I’m down in the hold.’

‘One is uncomfortably aware of that, Little Miss.’

‘I’d like you to take us subsonic. Call me when we’re there, will you?’

She had steeled herself for a protest, but none came. She felt the ship pitch, her inner ear struggling to differentiate between deceleration and descent. Storm Bird was not really flying now. Its shape generated very little aerodynamic lift, so it had to support itself by vectoring thrust downwards. The vacuum-filled hold had provided some buoyant lift until now, but she had never planned on going deep with a depressurised hold.

Antoinette was acutely aware that she really should have been dead by now. The Demarchist shipmaster should have shot her out of the sky. And the pursuing spider ship should have attacked before she had time to dive into the atmosphere. Even the dive should have killed her. It had not been the gentle, controlled insertion she had always planned, but more of a furious scramble to get beneath the clouds, riding the vortex that the Demarchist ship had already carved. She had appraised the damage as soon as level flight had been restored, and the news was not good. If she made it back to the Rust Belt, and that was a big ‘if’ - the spiders were still out there, after all - then Xavier was going to be very, very busy for the next few months.

Well, at least it would keep him out of trouble.

‘Subsonic now, Little Miss,’ Beast reported.

‘Good.’ For the third time, Antoinette made sure that she was bound to the lattice as securely as the coffin, and then checked her suit settings again. ‘Open the number-one bay door, will you?’

‘Just a moment, Little Miss.’

A brilliant sliver of light cracked open at her end of the lattice. She squinted against it, then reached up and tugged down the bottle-green glare visor of her suit.

The crack of light enlarged, and then the force of the in-rushing air hit her, slamming her against the lattice’s strut. Air filled the chamber in a few seconds, roaring and swirling around her. The suit’s sensor analysed it immediately and sternly advised against opening her helmet. The air pressure had exceeded one atmosphere, but it was both lung-crackingly cold and utterly toxic.

An atmosphere of choking poisons and shocking temperature gradients was, Antoinette reflected, the price you paid for such exquisite coloration when seen from space.

‘Take us twenty klicks deeper,’ she said.

‘Are you certain, Little Miss?’

‘Fuck, yes.’

The floor pitched. She watched as the suit’s barometer ticked off the increments in atmospheric pressure. Two atmospheres; three. Four atmospheres and rising. Trusting that the rest of Storm Bird, which was now under negative pressure, would not fold open around her like a wet paper bag.

Whatever else happens, Antoinette thought, I’ve probably blown the warranty on the ship by now ...

When her confidence had risen, or rather when her pulse had dropped to something like a normal level, Antoinette began to inch along towards the open door, dragging the coffin with her. It was a laborious process, since now she had to fasten and unfasten the coffin’s moorings every couple of metres. But the last thing she felt was impatience.

Looking ahead, now that her eyes had adapted she saw that the light had an overcast silver-grey quality. Gradually it became duller, taking on an iron or dull bronze pall. Epsilon Eridani was not a bright star to begin with, and much of its light was now being filtered out by the layers of atmosphere above them. If they went deeper it would get darker and darker, until it was like being at the bottom of an ocean.

But this was what her father had wanted.

‘All right, Beast, hold her nice and steady. I’m about to do the deed.’

‘Take care now, Little Miss.’

There were cargo-bay entrance ports all over Storm Bird, but the one that had been opened was in the ship’s belly, facing backwards along the direction of flight. Antoinette had reached the lip now, the toes of her boots hanging an inch over the edge. It felt precarious, but she was still safely anchored. Her view above was obstructed by the dark underside of the hull, curving gently up towards the tail; but to either side, and down, nothing impeded her vision.

‘You were right, Dad,’ she breathed, quietly enough that she hoped Beast would not pick up her words. ‘It is a pretty amazing place. I think you made a good choice, all things told.’

‘Little Miss?’

‘Nothing, Beast.’

She began to undo the coffin’s fastenings. The ship lurched and swayed once or twice, making her stomach twist and the coffin knock against the lattice’s spars, but by and large Beast was doing an excellent job of holding altitude. The speed was now highly subsonic relative to the current airstream, so that Beast was doing little more than hover, but that was good. The wind’s ferocity had died down except for the odd squall, as she had hoped it would.

The coffin was almost loose now, almost ready to be tipped over the side. Her father looked like a man catching up on forty winks. The embalmers had done a superlative job, and the coffin’s faltering refrigeration mechanism had done the rest. It was impossible to believe that her father had been dead for a month.

‘Well, Dad,’ Antoinette said, ‘this is it, I guess. We’ve made it now. Not much more needs to be said, I think.’

The ship did her the courtesy of saying nothing.

‘I still don’t know whether I’m really doing the right thing,’ Antoinette continued. ‘I mean, I know this is what you once said you wanted, but ...’ Stop it, she told herself. Stop going over that again.

‘Little Miss?’

‘Yes?’

‘One would strongly advise against taking too much longer.’

Antoinette remembered the label of the beer bottle. She did not have it with her now, but there was no detail of it that she could not call immediately to mind. The brilliance of the silver and gold inks had faded a little since the day when she had lovingly peeled the label from the bottle, but in her mind’s eye they still shone with a fabulous rare lustre. It was a cheap, mass-produced item, but in her hands, and in her mind, the label had assumed the significance of a religious icon. She had been much younger when she had removed the label, only twelve or thirteen years old, and, flush from a lucrative haul, her father had taken her to one of the drinking dens that the traders sometimes frequented. Though her experience was limited, it had seemed to be a good night, with much laughter and telling of stories. Then, somewhere towards the end of the evening, the talk had turned to the various ways in which the remains of spacefarers were dealt with, whether by tradition or personal preference. Her father had kept quiet during most of the discussion, smiling to himself as the conversation veered from the serious to the jocular and back again, laughing at the jokes and insults. Then, much to Antoinette’s surprise, he had stated his own preference, which was to be buried inside the atmosphere of a gas-giant planet. At any other time she might have assumed him to be mocking his comrades’ proposals, but there was something about his tone that had told her that he was absolutely earnest, and that although he had never spoken of the matter before, it was not something he had just conjured out of thin air. And so she had made a small, private vow to herself. She had peeled the label from the bottle as a memento, swearing that if her father should ever die, and should she ever be in a position to do anything about it, she would not forget his wish.

And for all the years that had followed it had been easy to imagine that she would hold to her vow, so easy, in fact, that she had seldom thought of it at all. But now he was dead, and she had to face up to what she had promised herself, no matter that the vow now struck her as faintly ridiculous and childlike. What did matter was the utter conviction that she believed she had heard in his voice that night. Though she had been only twelve or thirteen, and might even have imagined it, or been fooled by his poker-face façade of seriousness, she had made the vow, and however embarrassing or inconvenient, she had to stick to it, even if it meant placing her own life in jeopardy.

She undid the final restraints, and then budged the coffin forwards until a third of its length projected over the edge. One good shove and her father would get the burial he had wanted.

It was madness. In all the years after that one drunken conversation in the spacer’s bar he had never again mentioned the idea of being buried in the Jovian. But did that necessarily mean it had not been a heartfelt wish? He had not known when he was going to die, after all. There had been no time to put his affairs in order before the accident; no reason for him to explain patiently to her what he wanted doing with his mortal remains.

Madness, yes . . . but heartfelt madness.

Antoinette pushed the coffin over the edge.

For a moment it seemed to hang in the air behind the ship, as if unwilling to begin the long fall into oblivion. Then, slowly, it did begin to fall. She watched it tumble, dropping behind the ship as the wind retarded it. Quickly it diminished: now a thing the size of her outstretched thumb; now a tiny, tumbling hyphen at the limit of vision; now a dot that only intermittently caught the weakly transmitted starlight, glinting and fading as it fell through billowing pastel cloud layers.

She saw it one more time, and then it was gone.

Antoinette leant back against the rig. She had not expected it, but now that the deed was done, now that she had buried her father, exhaustion came crushing down on her. She felt suddenly the entire leaden weight of all the air pressing down from above. There was no actual sadness, no tears; she had cried enough already. There would be more, in time. She was sure of that. But for now all she felt was utter exhaustion.

Antoinette closed her eyes. Several minutes passed.

Then she told Beast to close the bay door, and began the long journey back to the flight deck.

THREE

From his vantage point in an airlock, Nevil Clavain watched a circular part of Nightshade’s hull iris open. The armoured proxies that bustled out resembled albino lice, carapaced and segmented and sprouting many specialised limbs, sensors and weapons. They quickly crossed the open space to the enemy ship, sticking to her claw-shaped hull with adhesive-tipped legs. Then they scuttled across the damaged surface, hunting for entry locks and the known weak spots of that type of ship.

The proxies moved with the random questing motion of bugs. The scarabs could have swept through the ship very quickly, but only at the risk of killing any survivors who might have been sheltering in pressurised zones. So Clavain insisted that the machines use the airlocks, even if that meant a delay while each robot passed through.

He need hardly have worried. As soon as the first scarab made its way through, it became clear that he was going to encounter neither resistance nor armed survivors. The ship was dark, cold and silent. He could almost smell death aboard her. The proxy edged its way through the enemy craft, the faces of the dead coming into view as it passed their duty stations. Similar reports came back from the other machines as they scuttled through the rest of the ship.

He withdrew most of the scarabs and then sent a small detachment of Conjoiners into the ship via the same route the machines had used. Through the eyes of a scarab, he watched his squad emerge from the lock one at a time: bulbous white shapes like hard-edged ghosts.

The squad swept the ship, moving through the same cramped spaces that the proxies had explored, but with the additional watch-fulness of humans. Gun muzzles were poked into hideaways, equipment hatches opened and checked for cowering survivors. None were found. The dead were discreetly prodded, but none of them showed the slightest signs of faking it. Their bodies were beginning to cool, and the thermal patterns around their faces showed that death had already occurred, albeit recently. There was no sign of violent death or injury.

He composed a thought and passed it back to Skade and Remontoire, who were still on the bridge. I’m going inside. No ifs, no buts. I’ll be quick and I won’t take any unnecessary risks.

[No, Clavain.]

Sorry, Skade, but you can’t have it both ways. I’m not a member of your cosy little club, which means I can go where the hell I like. Like it or lump it, but that’s part of the deal.

[You’re still a valued asset, Clavain.]

I’ll be careful. I promise.

He felt Skade’s irritation bleeding into his own emotional state. Remontoire was not exactly thrilled either.

As Closed Council members, it would have been unthinkable for either of them to do anything as dangerous as board a captured enemy ship. They were taking enough of a risk by leaving the Mother Nest. Many of the other Conjoiners, Skade included, wanted him to join the Closed Council, where they could tap his wisdom more efficiently and keep him out of harm’s way. With her authority in the Council, Skade could make life awkward for him if he persisted in remaining outside, relegating him to token duties or even some kind of miserable forced retirement. There were other avenues of punishment and Clavain took none of them lightly. He had even begun to consider the possibility that perhaps he should join the Closed Council after all. At least he would learn some answers that way, and perhaps begin to exert influence over the aggressors.

But until he took a bite of that apple he was still a soldier. No restrictions applied to him, and he was damned if he was going to act as if they did.

He continued with the business of readying his suit. For a time, a good two or three centuries, that process had been much easier and quicker. You donned a mask and some communications gear and then stepped through a membrane of smart matter stretched over a door that was otherwise open to vacuum. As you went through it, a layer of the membrane slithered around you, forming an instant skintight suit. Upon your return, you stepped through the same membrane and your suit returned to it, oozing off like enchanted slime. It made the act of stepping outside a ship about as complex as slipping on a pair of sunglasses. Of course, such technologies had never made much sense in wartime - too vulnerable to attack - and they made even less sense in the post-plague era, when only the hardiest forms of nanotechnology could be deployed in sensitive applications.

Clavain supposed that he should have been irritated at the extra effort that was now needed. But in many ways he found the act of suiting-up - the martial donning of armour plating, the rigorous subsystem criticality checks, the buckling-on of weapons and sensors - to be strangely reassuring. Perhaps it was because the ritualistic nature of the exercise felt like a series of superstitious gestures against ill fortune. Or perhaps it was because it reminded him of what things had been like during his youth.

He left the airlock, kicking off towards the enemy ship. The claw-shaped craft was bright against one dark limb of the gas giant. It was damaged, certainly, but there had been no outgassing to suggest a loss of hull integrity. There had even been a chance of a survivor. Although the infra-red scans had been inconclusive, laser-ranging devices had detected slight back-and-forth movement of the entire ship. There could be any number of explanations for that movement, but the most obvious was the presence of at least one person still moving around inside, kicking off from the hull now and then. But the scarabs hadn’t found any survivors, and neither had his sweep team.

Something caught his eye: a writhing pale green filament of lightning in the dark crescent of the gas giant. He had barely given the freighter a second thought since the Demarchist vessel had emerged, but Antoinette Bax’s ship had never emerged from the atmosphere. In all likelihood she was dead, killed in one of the several thousand ways it was possible to die in an atmosphere. He had no idea what she had been doing, and doubted that it would have been anything he would have approved of. But she had been alone - hadn’t she? - and that was no way to die in space. Clavain remembered the way she had ignored the shipmaster’s warning and realised that he rather admired her for it. Whatever else she had been, he could not deny that she had been brave.

He thudded into contact with the enemy ship, absorbing the impact by bending his knees. Clavain stood up, his soles adhering to the hull. Holding a hand against his visor to cut down sun glare, he turned back to look at Nightshade, relishing the rare opportunity to see his ship from the outside. Nightshade was so dark that at first he had trouble making it out. Then his implants boxed it in with a pulsing green overlay, scale and distance annotated by red gradations and numerals. The ship was a lighthugger, with interstellar capability. Nightshade’s slender hull tapered to a needle-sharp prow, streamlined for maximum near-light cruise efficiency. Braced near the thickest point of the hull, just before it retapered to a blunt tail, was a pair of engines, thrown out from the hull on slender spars. They were what the other human factions called Conjoiner drives, for the simple reason that the Conjoiners had a monopoly on their construction and distribution. For centuries the Conjoiners had allowed the Demarchists, Ultras and other starfaring factions to use the technology, while never once hinting at the mysterious physical processes that allowed the tamperproof engines to function in the first place.

But all that had changed a century ago. Practically overnight, the Conjoiners had ceased production of their engines. No explanation had been given, nor any promise that production would ever be resumed.

From that moment on, the existing Conjoiner drives became astonishingly valuable. Terrible acts of piracy were waged over issues of ownership. The event had certainly been one of the contributing causes of the current war.

Clavain knew there were rumours that the Conjoiners had continued building the engines for their own uses. He also knew, as far as he could be certain of anything, that these rumours were false. The edict to cease production had been immediate and universal. More than that, there had been a sharp decline in the use of existing ships, even by his own faction. But what Clavain did not know was why the edict had been issued in the first place. He guessed that it had originated in the Closed Council, but beyond that he had no idea why it had been deemed necessary.

And yet now the Closed Council had made Nightshade. Clavain had been entrusted with the prototype on this proving mission, but the Closed Council had revealed few of its secrets. Remontoire and Skade evidently knew more than he did, and he was willing to bet that Skade knew even more than Remontoire. Skade had spent most of the trip hidden away somewhere, presumably tending some ultra-secret military hardware. Clavain’s efforts to find out what she was up to had all drawn a blank.

And he still had no idea why the Closed Council had sanctioned the building of a new starship. This late in the war, against an enemy that was already in retreat, what sense did it make? If he joined the Council he might not get all the answers he wanted - he would still not have penetrated the Inner Sanctum - but he would be a lot closer than he was now.

It almost sounded tempting.

Disgusted at the ease with which he had been manipulated by Skade and the others, Clavain turned from the view, the overlay vanishing as he made his cautious way to the entry point.

Soon he was inside the bowels of the Demarchist vessel, passing along ducts and tubes that would not normally have held air. Clavain requested an intelligence upload on the design of the ship and imagined a faint tickle as the knowledge appeared in his head. There was an instant eerie sense of familiarity, like a sustained episode of déjà vu. He arrived at an airlock, finding it a tight fit in his cumbersome armoured suit. Clavain sealed the hatch behind him, air roared in, and then the inner door allowed him to pass through into the pressurised part of the ship. His overwhelming impression was of darkness, but then his helmet clicked into high-sensitivity mode, dropping infra-red and sonar overlays across his normal visual field.

[Clavain.]

One of the sweep-team members was waiting for him. Clavain angled himself so that his face was aligned with the woman’s and then hitched himself against the interior wall.

What have you found?

[Not much. All dead.]

Every last one of them?

The woman’s thoughts arrived in his head like bullets, clipped and precise. [Recently. No sign of injury. Appears deliberate.]

No sign of a single survivor? We thought there might be one, at least.

[No survivors, Clavain.] She offered him a feed into her memories. He accepted it, steeling himself for what he was about to see.

It was every bit bad as he had feared. It was like uncovering the scene of an atrocious mass suicide. There were no signs of struggle or coercion; no signs even of hesitation. The crew had died at their respective duty stations, as if someone had been delegated to tour the ship with suicide pills. An even more horrific possibility was that the crew had convened at some central location, been handed the means of euthanasia and had then returned to their assigned niches. Perhaps they had continued to perform their tasks until the shipmaster ordered the mass suicide.

In zero gravity, heads did not loll lifelessly. Even mouths did not drop open. Dead bodies continued to assume more or less lifelike postures, whether restrained by webbing or allowed to drift untethered from wall to wall. It was one of the earliest and most chilling lessons of space warfare: in space, the dead were often difficult to tell from the living.

The crew were all thin and starved-looking, as if they had been living on emergency rations for many months. Some of them had skin sores or the bruised evidence of earlier wounds that had not healed properly. Perhaps some had even died before now, and had been dumped from the ship so that the mass of their bodies could be traded against fuel savings. Beneath their caps and headsets none of them had more than a greyish fuzz of scalp stubble. They were clothed uniformly, carrying only insignia of technical specialisation rather than rank. Under the bleak emergency lights their skin hues merged into some grey-green average.

Through his own eyes now Clavain saw a corpse drift into view. The man appeared to paw himself through the air, his mouth barely open, his eyes fixed on an indeterminate spot several metres ahead of him. The man thudded into one wall, and Clavain felt the faint reverberation where he was hitched.

Clavain projected a request into the woman’s head. Secure that corpse, will you?

The woman did as she was asked. Then Clavain ordered all the sweep-team members to tether themselves and hold still. There were no other corpses drifting around, so there should not have been any other objects to impart any motion to the ship itself. Clavain waited a moment for an update from Nightshade, which was still spotting the enemy with range-finding lasers.

At first he doubted what he was being shown.

It made no sense, but something was still moving around inside the enemy ship.

‘Little Miss?’

Antoinette knew that tone of voice very well, and the omens were not auspicious. Pressed back into her acceleration couch, she grunted a reply that would have been incomprehensible to anyone or anything other than Beast.

‘Something’s up, isn’t it?’

‘Regrettably so, Little Miss. One cannot be certain, but there appears to be a problem with the main fusion core.’

Beast threw a head-up-display schematic of the fusion system on to the bridge window, superimposed against the cloud layers Storm Bird was punching through as it climbed back to space. Elements of the fusion motor were blocked in ominous pulsing red.

‘Holy shit. Tokamak, is it?’

‘That would appear to be the case, Little Miss.’

‘Fuck. I knew we should have swapped it during the last heavy-general. ’

‘Language, Little Miss. And a polite reminder that what’s done is done.’

Antoinette cycled through some of the other diagnostic feeds, but the news did not get any better. ‘It’s Xavier’s fault,’ she said.

‘Xavier, Little Miss? In what way is Mr Liu culpable?’

‘Xave swore the tok was at least three trips away from life-expiry.’

‘Perhaps, Little Miss. But before you ascribe too much blame to Mr Liu, perhaps you should keep in mind the enforced main-engine cutoff that the police demanded of us as we were departing the Rust Belt. The hard shutdown did the tokamak no favours at all. Then there was the additional matter of the vibrational damage sustained during the atmospheric insertion.’

Antoinette scowled. Sometimes she wondered whose side Beast was really on. ‘All right,’ she said. ‘Xave’s off the hook. For now. But that doesn’t help me much, does it?’

‘A failure is predicted, Little Miss, but not guaranteed.’

Antoinette checked the read-outs. ‘We’ll need another ten klicks per second just to make orbit. Can you manage that, Beast?’

‘One is doing one’s utmost, Little Miss.’

She nodded, accepting that this was all that could be asked of her ship. Above, the clouds were beginning to thin out, the sky darkening to a deep midnight blue. Space looked close enough to touch.

But she still had a long way to go.

Clavain watched while the last layer of concealment was removed from the survivor’s hiding place. One of his soldiers shone a torch into the gloomy enclosure. The survivor was huddled in a corner, cocooned in a stained grey thermal blanket. Clavain felt relief; now that this minor detail was attended to, the enemy ship could be safely destroyed and Nightshade could return to the Mother Nest.

Finding the survivor had been much easier than Clavain had expected. It had only taken thirty minutes to pinpoint the location, narrowing down the search with acoustic and biosensor scanners. Thereafter, it had simply been a question of stripping away panels and equipment until they found the concealed niche, a volume about the size of two cupboards placed back to back. It was in a part of the ship that the human crew would have avoided visiting too often, bathed as it was in elevated radiation from the fusion engines.

The hideaway, Clavain quickly decided, looked like a hastily arranged brig; a place of confinement in a ship never designed to carry prisoners. The captive must have been placed in the hole and the panelling and equipment bolted and glued back into place around him, leaving only a conduit along which to pass air, water and food. The hole was filthy. Clavain had his suit sample the air and pass a little through to his nose: it reeked of human waste. He wondered if the prisoner had been neglected all the while, or only since the crew’s attention had been diverted by Nightshade’s arrival.

In other respects, the prisoner seemed to have been well looked after. The walls of the hole were padded, with a couple of restraining hoops that could have been used to avoid injury during combat manoeuvres. There was a microphone rigged through for communication, though as far as Clavain could tell it only worked one way, allowing the prisoner to be talked to. There were blankets and the remains of a meal. Clavain had seen worse places of confinement. He had even been a guest in some of them.

He pushed a thought into the head of the soldier with the torch. Get that blanket off him, will you? I want to see who we’ve found.

The soldier reached into the hole. Clavain wondered who the prisoner would turn out to be, his mind flashing through the possibilities. He was not aware of any Conjoiners having been taken prisoner lately, and doubted that the enemy would have gone to this much trouble to keep one alive. A prisoner from the enemy’s own ranks was the next most likely thing: a traitor or deserter, perhaps.

The soldier whipped the blanket away from the huddled figure.

The prisoner, crouched into a small foetal shape, squealed against the sudden intrusion of light, hiding its dark-adapted eyes.

Clavain stared. The prisoner was nothing that he had been expecting. At first glance it might have been taken for an adolescent human, for the proportions and size were roughly analogous. A naked human at that - unclothed pink human-looking flesh folded away into the hole. There was a horrid expanse of burned skin around its upper arm, all ridges and whorls of pink and deathly white.

Clavain was looking at a hyperpig: a genetic chimera of pig and human.

‘Hello,’ Clavain said aloud, his amplified voice booming out of his suit speaker.

The pig moved. The motion was sudden and springlike and none of them were expecting it. The pig lashed out with something long and metallic clutched in one fist. The object gleamed, its edge reverberating like a tuning fork. The pig daggered it hard into Clavain’s chest. The tip of the blade shivered across the armour, leaving only a narrow shining furrow, but found the point near Clavain’s shoulder where two plaques slid across each other. The blade slipped into the gap, Clavain’s suit registering the intrusion with a shrill pulsing alarm in his helmet. He jerked back before the blade was able to penetrate his inner suit layer and reach his skin, and then collided with a sharp crack against the wall behind him. The weapon tumbled from the pig’s grip, spinning away like a ship that had lost gyroscopic control. Clavain recognised it as a piezo-knife; he carried something similar on his own suit’s utility belt. The pig must have stolen it from one of the Demarchists.

Clavain got his breath back. ‘Let’s start again, shall we?’

The other Conjoiners had the pig pinned down. Clavain inspected his suit, calling up damage schematics. There was a mild loss of pressure integrity near the shoulder. He was in no danger of suffocating to death, but he was still mindful of the possibility of undiscovered contaminants aboard the enemy ship. Almost as a reflex action he unhitched a sealant spray from his belt, selected nozzle diameter and pasted the rapidly hardening epoxy around the general area of the knife wound, where it solidified in the form of a sinuous grey cyst.

Somewhere before the dawn of the Demarchist era, in the twenty-first or twenty-second century, not far from the time of Clavain’s own birth, a spectrum of human genes had been spliced into those of the domestic pig. The intention had been to optimise the ease with which organs could be transplanted between the two species, enabling pigs to grow body parts that could be harvested later for human utilisation. There were better ways to repair or replace damaged tissue now, had been for centuries, but the legacy of the pig experiments remained. The genetic intervention had gone too far, achieving not just cross-species compatibility but something entirely unexpected: intelligence.

But no one, not even the pigs, really knew what had happened. There might not have been deliberate tinkering to bring their cognitive faculties up to human level, but the pigs had certainly not gained language by accident. Not all of them had it - there were distinct subgroups of pigs with various mental and vocal capacities - but those that could speak had been engineered that way by someone who had known exactly what they were doing. It was not simply that their brains had the right grammatical machinery wired in. They had also had their throats, lungs and jaws adapted so that they could form human speech sounds.

Clavain eased forwards to speak to the prisoner. ‘Can you understand me?’ he asked, first in Norte and then in Canasian, the Demarchists’ main language. ‘My name is Nevil Clavain. You’re in the custody of Conjoiners.’

The pig answered, his remodelled jaw and throat anatomy enabling him to form perfect human sounds. ‘I don’t care who I’m in the custody of. You can fuck off and die.’

‘Neither happens to be on my agenda for the day.’

The pig warily uncovered one pink-red eye. ‘Who the fuck are you anyway? Where are the rest of them?’

‘The shipmaster’s crew? I’m afraid they’re all dead.’

The pig showed no detectable gratitude at this news. ‘You killed them?’

‘No. They were already dead when we got aboard.’

‘And you are?’

‘As I said, Conjoiners.’

‘Spiders ...’ The pig contorted its almost human mouth into a semblance of disgust. ‘You know what I do to spiders? I piss them off toilet seats.’

‘Very nice.’

Clavain could see this was going nowhere fast; subvocally he asked one of the nearby troops to get the prisoner sedated and ferried back to Nightshade. He had no idea who or what the pig represented, how it slotted into the spiralling endgame of the war, but he would know a great deal more once the pig had been trawled. And a dose of Conjoiner medichines would do wonders for the pig’s reticence.

Clavain remained on the enemy ship while the sweep teams completed the last of their checks, ensuring that the enemy had left behind no tactically useful information. But there was nothing; the ship’s data stores had been wiped clean. A parallel search revealed no technologies that were not already well understood by the Conjoiners, and no weapons systems that were worth appropriating. The standard procedure at this point was to destroy the searched vessel, to prevent it falling back into enemy possession.

Clavain was thinking about the best way to scuttle the ship - a missile or a demolition charge? - when he felt Remontoire’s presence invade his head.

[Clavain?]

What is it?

[We’re picking up a general distress message from the freighter.]

Antoinette Bax? I thought she was dead.

[She isn’t, but she might soon be. Her ship has engine problems - a tokamak failure, it seems. She hasn’t made escape velocity, and she hasn’t managed an orbital injection either.]

Clavain nodded, more for his benefit than Remontoire’s. He imagined the kind of parabolic trajectory Storm Bird had to be on. She might not have reached the apex of that parabola yet, but sooner or later Antoinette Bax was going to start sliding back towards the cloud deck. He imagined, too, the kind of desperation that would have led her to issue a general distress signal when the only ship within answering distance was a Conjoiner vessel. In Clavain’s experience, the majority of pilots would have chosen death rather than capture by the spiders.

[Clavain ... you realise we can’t possibly acknowledge her call.]

I realise.

[That would set a precedent. We’d be endorsing illegal activity. At the very least, we’d have no choice but to recruit her.]

Clavain nodded again, thinking of the times he had seen prisoners scream and thrash as they were led to the recruitment theatres, where their heads would be pumped full of Conjoiner neural machinery. They were wrong to fear it; he knew that better than anyone, since he had once resisted it himself. But he understood how they felt.

And he wondered if he wanted to inflict that terror upon Antoinette Bax.

A little while later Clavain saw the bright blue spark as the enemy ship hit the gas giant’s atmosphere. The timing had been accidental, but she had hit on the dark side, illuminating stacked cloud layers in purple strobe flashes as she plummeted deeper. It was impressive, beautiful, even, and Clavain momentarily wanted to show it to Galiana, for it was exactly the kind of visual spectacle that would have delighted her. She would have approved of his scuttling method, too: nothing as wasteful as a missile or a demolition charge. Instead, he had attached three tractor rockets from Nightshade, tiny drones which had glued themselves to the enemy’s hull like remora. The tractors had whisked the enemy ship towards the gas giant, only detaching when she was minutes from re-entry. The angle of attack had been steep, and the enemy craft had incinerated impressively.

The tractors were haring home now, accelerating at high burn to catch up with Nightshade, which had already turned back towards the Mother Nest. Once the tractors had returned the operation could be considered closed; there would only be the matter of the prisoner to attend to, but the pig’s fate was of no great urgency. Of Antoinette Bax ... well, irrespective of her motives, Clavain admired her bravery; not just because she had come so far into a war zone, but also because of the way she had so brazenly ignored the shipmaster’s warning and, when it became necessary, the way she had summoned the courage to ask the Conjoiners for help. She must have known that it was an unreasonable request; that by the illegality of her trespass into the war zone she had forfeited any right to assistance, and that a military ship was hardly likely to waste time or fuel helping her out. She must also have known that even if the Conjoiners did save her life, the penalty she would pay for that would be conscription into their ranks, a fate that the Demarchist propaganda machine had made to seem hellish in the extreme.

No. She could not have reasonably expected rescue. But it had been brave of her to ask.

Clavain sighed, teetering on the edge of self-disgust. He issued a neural command instructing Nightshade to tight-beam the stricken freighter. When the link was established, he spoke aloud. ‘Antoinette Bax ... this is Nevil Clavain. I am aboard the Conjoiner vessel. Can you hear me?’

There was some timelag now, and the return signal was poorly focused. Her voice sounded as if it was coming from somewhere beyond the furthest quasar.

‘Why are you answering me now, you bastard? I can see you’ve left me to die.’

‘I’m curious, that’s all.’ He held his breath, half-expecting that she would not reply.

‘About what?’

‘About what made you ask for our help. Aren’t you terrified of what we’ll do to you?’

‘Why should I be terrified?’

She sounded nonchalant but Clavain wasn’t fooled. ‘It’s generally our policy to assimilate captured prisoners, Bax. We’d bring you aboard and feed our machines into your brain. Doesn’t that concern you?’

‘Yes, but I’ll tell you what concerns me a fuck of a lot more right now, and that’s hitting this fucking planet.’

Clavain smiled. ‘That’s a very pragmatic attitude, Bax. I admire it.’

‘Good. Now will you fuck off and let me die in peace?’

‘Antoinette, listen to me carefully. There’s something I need you to do for me, with some urgency.’

She must have detected the change of tone in his voice, although she still sounded suspicious. ‘What?’

‘Have your ship transmit a blueprint of itself to me. I want a complete map of your hull’s structural integrity profile. Hardpoints, that kind of thing. If you can persuade your hull to colour itself to reveal maximum stress contours, all the better. I want to know where I can safely put a load without having your ship fold under the strain.’

‘There’s no way you can save me. You’re too far away. Even if you turned around now, it’d be too late.’

‘There’s a way, trust me. Now, that data, please, or I’ll have to trust my instincts, and that may not be for the best.’

She did not answer for a moment. He waited, scratching his beard, and only breathed again when he felt Nightshade’s acknowledgement that the data had been uploaded. He filtered the transmission for neuropathic viruses and then allowed it into his skull. Everything he needed to know about the freighter bloomed in his head, crammed into short-term memory.

‘Thank you very much, Antoinette. That will do nicely.’

Clavain sent an order to one of the returning tractor rockets. The tractor peeled away from its brethren at whiplash acceleration, executing a hairpin reversal that would have reduced an organic passenger to paste. Clavain authorised the tractor to ignore all its internal safety limits, removing the need for it to conserve enough fuel for a safe return to Nightshade.

‘What are you going to do?’ Bax asked.

‘I’m sending a drone back. It will latch on to your hull and drag you to clear space, out of the Jovian’s gravity well. I’ll have the tractor give you a modest nudge in the direction of Yellowstone, but I’m afraid you’ll be on your own from then. I hope you can fix your tokamak, or else you’ll be in for a very long fall home.’

It seemed to take an eternity for his words to sink in. ‘You’re not going to take me prisoner?’

‘Not today, Antoinette. But if you ever cross my path again, I promise one thing: I’ll kill you.’

He had not enjoyed delivering the threat, but hoped it might knock some sense into her. Clavain closed the link before she could answer.

FOUR

In a building in Cuvier, on the planet Resurgam, a woman stood at a window, facing away from the door with her hands clasped tightly behind her back.

‘Next,’ she said.

While she waited for the suspect to be dragged in, the woman remained at the window, admiring the tremendous and sobering view that it presented. The raked windows reached from floor to ceiling, leaning outwards at the top. Structures of utilitarian aspect marched away in all directions, cubes and rectangles piled atop one another. The ruthlessly rectilinear buildings inspired a sense of crushing conformity and subjugation; mental waveguides designed to exclude the slightest joyful or uplifting thought.

Her office, which was merely one slot in the much larger Inquisition House itself, was situated in the rebuilt portion of Cuvier. Historical records - the Inquisitor had not been there herself during the events - established that the building lay more or less directly above the ground-zero point where the True Path Inundationists had detonated the first of their terrorist devices. With a yield in the two-kilotonne range, the pinhead-sized antimatter bombs had not been the most impressive destructive devices in her experience. But, she supposed, it was not how big your weapon was that mattered, but what you did with it.

The terrorists could not have picked a softer target, and the results had been appropriately calamitous.

‘Next ...’ the Inquisitor repeated, a little louder this time.

The door creaked open a hand’s width. She heard the voice of the guard who stood outside. ‘That’s it for today, ma’am.’

Of course - Ibert’s file had been the last in the pile.

‘Thank you,’ the Inquisitor replied. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve heard any news on the Thorn inquiry?’

The guard answered with a trace of unease, as well he might given that he was passing information between two rival government departments. ‘They’ve released a man after questioning, I gather. He had a watertight alibi, though it took a little persuasion to get it out of him. Something about being with a woman other than his wife.’ He shrugged. ‘The usual story ...’

‘And the usual persuasion, I imagine - a few unfortunate trips down the stairs. So they’ve no additional leads on Thorn?’

‘They’re no closer to catching him than you are to catching the Triumvir. Sorry. You know what I mean, ma’am.’

‘Yes ...’ She prolonged the word tortuously.

‘Will that be all, ma’am?’

‘For now.’

The door creaked shut.

The woman whose official title was Inquisitor Vuilleumier returned her attention to the city. Delta Pavonis was low in the sky, beginning to shade the sides of the buildings in various faint permutations of rust and orange. She looked at the view until dusk fell, comparing it in her mind’s eye with her memories of Chasm City and, before that, Sky’s Edge. It was always at dusk that she decided whether she liked a place or not. She remembered once, not long after her arrival in Chasm City, asking a man named Mirabel whether there had ever come a point when he had decided he liked the city. Mirabel had, like her, been a native of Sky’s Edge. He had told her that he had found ways of getting used to it. She had doubted him, but in the end he had been proven right. But it was only when she was wrenched away from Chasm City that she had begun to look back on it with anything resembling fondness.

She had never reached that state on Resurgam.

The lights of government-issue electric cars stirred silver rivers between the buildings. She turned from the window and walked across the room to her private chamber. She closed the door behind her.

Security considerations dictated that the chamber was windowless. She eased herself into a padded seat behind a vast horseshoe-shaped desk. It was an old escritoire whose dead cybernetic innards had been reamed out and replaced by much cruder systems. A pot of stale, tepid coffee sat on a heated coil at one end of the desk. A buzzing electric fan gave off the tang of ozone.

Three walls, including most of the wall she had stepped through, were lined with shelves containing bound reports detailing fifteen years’ worth of effort. It would have been an absurdity for an entire department of government to be dedicated to the capture of a single individual: a woman who could not with certainty be said to be still alive, much less on Resurgam. Therefore the remit of the Inquisitor’s office extended to the gathering of intelligence on a range of external threats to the colony. But it was a fact that the Triumvir had become the most celebrated of the still-open cases, in the same way that the apprehension of Thorn, and the dismantling of the movement he fronted, dominated the work of the neighbouring department, Internal Threats. Though it was more than sixty years since she committed her crimes, high-ranking officials continued to bray for the Triumvir’s arrest and trial, using her as a focus for public sentiments that might otherwise have been directed at the government. It was one of the oldest tricks of mob-management: give them a hate figure. The Inquisitor had a great many other things she would rather be doing than pursuing the war criminal. But if her department failed to show the necessary enthusiasm for the task, another would surely take its place, and that could not be tolerated. There was the faintest of possibilities that a new department might succeed.

So the Inquisitor maintained the pretence. The Triumvir case remained legitimately open because the Triumvir was an Ultra, and could therefore be assumed to be still alive despite the time that had passed since her criminal activities. On her case alone there were lists of tens of thousands of potential suspects, transcriptions of thousands of interviews. There were hundreds of biographies and case summaries. Some individuals, around a dozen, each merited a good portion of a shelf. And this was just a fraction of the office’s archive; just the paperwork that had to be immediately on hand. Down in the basement, and at other sites around the city, were many more miles of documentation. A marvellous and largely secret network of pneumatic tubes enabled files to be whisked from office to office in seconds.

On her desk were a few opened files. Various names had been ringed, underscored or connected by spidery lines. Photographs were stapled to summary cards, blurry long-lens acquisitions of faces moving through crowds. She leafed through them, aware that she had to give a convincing impression of actually following up these apparent leads. She had to listen to her field agents and digest the snippets of information passed on by informers. She had to give every indication that she was actually interested in finding the Triumvir.

Something caught her eye. Something on the fourth wall.

The wall displayed a Mercator projection of Resurgam. The map had kept up with the terraforming program, showing small blotches of blue or green in addition to the unrelenting shades of grey, tan and white that would have been the case a century earlier. Cuvier was still the largest settlement, but there were now a dozen or so outposts that were large enough to be considered small cities in their own right. Slev lines connected most of them; others were linked by canals, roads or freight pipelines. There were a handful of landing strips, but there were not enough aircraft to permit routine journeys for anyone other than key government officials. Smaller settlements - weather stations and the few remaining archaeological digs - could be reached by airship or all-terrain crawler, but not usually in less than weeks of travel time.

Now a red light was winking up in the northeastern corner of the map, hundreds of kilometres away from anywhere most people had heard of. A field agent was calling in. Operatives were identified by their code numbers, winking next to the spot of light that denoted their position.

Operative Four.

The Inquisitor felt the short dark hairs on the back of her neck prickle. It had been a long, long time since she had heard from Operative Four.

She tapped a query into the desk, hunting and pecking for the stiff black keys. She asked the desk to verify that Operative Four was currently reachable. The desk’s readout confirmed that the red light had only come on in the last two hours. The operative was still on the air, awaiting the Inquisitor’s response.

The Inquisitor picked up the telephone handset from her desk, squeezing its sluglike black bulk against the side of her head.

‘Communications,’ she said.

‘Comms.’

‘Put me through to Field Operative Four. Repeat, Field Operative Four. Audio only. Protocol three.’

‘Hold the line, please. Establishing. Connected.’

‘Go secure.’

She heard the pitch of the line modulate slightly as the comms officer dropped out of the loop. She listened, hearing nothing but hiss.

‘Four ... ?’ she breathed.

There was an agonising delay before the reply came back. ‘Speaking. ’ The voice was faint, skirling in and out of static.

‘It’s been a long time, Four.’

‘I know.’ It was a woman’s voice, one the Inquisitor knew very well. ‘How are you keeping, Inquisitor Vuilleumier?’

‘Work has its ups and downs.’

‘I know the feeling. We need to meet, urgently and in person. Does your Office still have its little privileges?’

‘Within limits.’

‘Then I suggest you abuse them to the fullest extent. You know my current location. There is a small settlement seventy-five klicks to the southwest of me by the name of Solnhofen. I can be there within one day, at the following ...’ and then she gave the Inquisitor the details of a hostelry that she had already located.

The Inquisitor did her usual mental arithmetic. Via slev and road it would take in the region of two to three days to reach Solnhofen. Slev and airship would be quicker but more conspicuous: Solnhofen was not on any of the normal dirigible routes. An aircraft would be faster, of course, easily capable of reaching the meeting point within a day and a half, even if she had to take the long way around to avoid weather fronts. Normally, given an urgent request from a field agent, she would not have hesitated to fly. But this was Operative Four. She could not afford to draw undue attention to the meeting. But, she reflected, not flying would do precisely that.

It was not easy.

‘Is it really so urgent?’ the Inquisitor asked, knowing what the answer would be.

‘Of course.’ The woman made an odd henlike clucking sound. ‘I wouldn’t have called otherwise, would I?’

‘And it concerns her ... the Triumvir?’ Perhaps she imagined it, but she thought she could hear a smile in the field agent’s reply.

‘Who else?’

FIVE

The comet had no name. It might once have been classified and catalogued, but not in living memory, and certainly no information relating to it was to be found in any public database. No transponder had ever been anchored to its surface; no Skyjacks had ever grappled themselves in and extracted a core sample. To all intents and purposes it was completely unremarkable, simply one member of a much larger swarm of cold drifters. There were billions of them, each following a slow and stately orbit around Epsilon Eridani. For the most part they had been undisturbed since the system’s formation. Very occasionally, a resonant perturbation of the system’s larger worlds might unshackle a few members of the swarm and send them falling in on sun-grazing orbits, but for the vast majority of comets the future would consist only of more orbits around Eridani, until the sun itself swelled up. Until then they would remain dormant, insufferably cold and still.

The comet was large, as swarm members went, but not unusually so: there were at least a million that were larger. From edge to edge it was a twenty-kilometre frozen mudball of nearly black ice; a lightly compacted meringue of methane, carbon monoxide, nitrogen and oxygen, laced with silicates, sooty hydrocarbons and a few glistening veins of purple or emerald organic macromolecules. They had crystallised into beautiful refractive crystal seams several billion years earlier, when the galaxy was a younger and quieter place. Mostly, though, it was pitifully dark. Epsilon Eridani was merely a hard glint of light at this distance, thirteen light-hours away. It looked scarcely less remote than the brighter stars.

But humans had come, once.

They had arrived in a squadron of dark spacecraft, their holds bursting with transforming machines. They had covered the comet in a caul of transparent plastic, enveloping it like a froth of digestive spit. The plastic had given the comet structural rigidity it would otherwise have lacked, but from a distance it was all but undetectable. The backscatter from radar or spectroscopic scans was only slightly compromised, and remained well within the anticipated error of Demarchist measurements.

With the comet held stiff by its plastic shell, the humans had set about sapping its spin. Ion rockets, emplaced cunningly across its face, slowly bled it of angular momentum. Only when there was a small residual spin, enough to ward off suspicion, were the ion rockets quietened and the installations removed from the surface.

But by then the humans had already been busy inside. They had cored out the comet, tamping eighty per cent of its interior volume into a thin, hard shell that was used to line the outer shell. The resultant chamber was fifteen kilometres wide and perfectly spherical. Concealed shafts permitted entry into the chamber from outside space, wide enough to accept a moderately large spacecraft provided the ship moved nimbly. Berthing and repair yards festered across the inner surface of the chamber like the dense grid of a cityscape, interrupted here and there by the cryo-arithmetic engines, squat black domes which studded the grid like volcanic cinder plugs. The huge engines were quantum refrigerators, sucking heat out of the local universe by computational cooling.

Clavain had made the entrance transition enough times not to be alarmed by the sudden whiplash course adjustments necessary to avoid collisions with the comet’s rotating husk. At least, that was what he told himself. But the truth was he never drew breath until he was safely inside or out. It was too much like diving through the narrowing gap in a lowering portcullis. And with a ship as large as Nightshade, the adjustments were even more brutal.

He entrusted the operation to Nightshade’s computers. They knew exactly what needed to be done, and the insertion was precisely the kind of well-specified problem that computers handled better than people, even Conjoined people.

Then it was over, and he was in. Not for the first time, Clavain felt a dizzying sense of vertigo as the comet’s interior space came into view. The husk had not stayed hollow for long. Its cored-out volume was filled with moving machinery: a great nested clockwork of rushing circles, resembling nothing so much as a fantastically complex armillary sphere.

He was looking at the military stronghold of his people: the Mother Nest.

There were five layers to the Mother Nest. The outer four were all engineered to simulate gravity, in half-gee increments. Each layer consisted of three rings of nearly equal diameter, the plane of each ring tilted by sixty degrees from its neighbour. There were two nodes where the three rings passed close to each other, and at each of these nodes the rings vanished into a hexagonal structure. The nodal structures functioned both as an interchange between rings and a means of guiding them. Each ring slid through sleeves in the nodal structures, constrained by frictionless magnetic fields. The rings themselves were dark bands studded with myriad tiny windows and the occasional larger illuminated space.

The outermost triplet of rings was ten kilometres across and simulated gravity at two gees. One kilometre of empty space inwards, a smaller triplet of rings spun within the outermost shell, simulating gravity at one and a half gees. One kilometre in from that was the one-gee ring triplet, consisting of by far the thickest and most densely populated set of rings, where the majority of the Conjoiners spent the bulk of their time. Nestling within that was the half-gee triplet, which in turn encased a transparent central sphere that did not rotate. That was the null-gee core, a pressurised bubble three kilometres wide stuffed with greenery, sunlamps and various microhabitat niches. It was where children played and elderly Conjoiners came to die. It was also where Felka spent most of her time.

Nightshade decelerated and came to a stop relative to the outermost triplet. Already, servicing craft were emerging from the whirling rings. Clavain felt the jolts as the tugs latched on to Nightshade’s hull. When he had disembarked, his vessel would be hauled towards the shipyards quilting the chamber’s wall. There were many ships already berthed there: various elongated black shapes hooked into a labyrinth of support machines and repair systems. Most were smaller than Clavain’s ship, however, and there were no genuinely large vessels.

Clavain left the ship with his usual slight feeling of unease, of a job not properly finished. It had been many years before he realised quite what caused this: it was the way that his fellow Conjoiners said nothing to each other as they left the craft, despite the fact that they might have spent months together on a mission, and encountered many risks.

A robot tender collected him from one of the hull airlocks. The tender was an upright box with generous windows, squatting on a rectangular base studded with rockets and impeller fans. Clavain boarded it, watching a larger tender depart from the next airlock along. In the other tender he saw Remontoire with two other Conjoiners and the prisoner they had captured on the Demarchist ship. From a distance, the pig, slouched and docile, could easily have been mistaken for a human prisoner. For a moment Clavain thought that the pig was being pleasingly co-operative, until he recognised the glint of a pacification coronet wrapped around the prisoner’s scalp.

They had trawled the pig on the way back to the Mother Nest, but had learned nothing specific. The pig’s memories were highly blockaded; not in the Conjoiner fashion, but in the crude black-market style that was common amongst the Chasm City criminal underworld, and which was usually implemented to shield incriminating memories from the various branches of the Ferrisville constabulary: the sirens, scythes, skulltappers and eraserheads. With the kind of interrogation techniques that were possible in the Mother Nest, Clavain had no doubt that the blockades could be dismantled, but until then he could discover nothing other than that they had recovered a small-time pig criminal with violent tendencies, probably affiliated to one of the larger pig gangs operating in and around Yellowstone and the Rust Belt. Clearly the pig had been up to no good when he was captured by the Demarchists, but that was hardly unusual for pigs.

Clavain neither liked nor disliked hyperpigs. He had met enough to know that they were as morally complex as the humans they had been engineered to serve, and that every pig should be judged on its own terms. A pig from the Ganesh industrial moon had saved his life three times during the Shiva-Parvati cordon crisis of 2358. Twenty years later, on Irravel’s Moon, orbiting Fand, a group of pig brigands had taken eight of Clavain’s soldiers hostage and had then begun to eat them alive when they refused to divulge Conjoiner secrets. Only one Conjoiner had escaped, and Clavain had taken his pain-saturated memories as his own. He carried them now, locked away in the most secure kind of mental partition, so that they could not be unlocked accidentally. But even this had not made him hate pigs as a species.

He was not sure whether the same could be said for Remontoire. Deep in Remontoire’s past lay an even more horrific and protracted episode, when he had been taken prisoner by the pig pirate Run Seven. Run Seven had been one of the earliest hyperpigs, and his mind had been riddled with the psychotic scars of flawed neuro-genetic augmentation. He had captured Remontoire and isolated him from the mental communion of other Conjoiners. That had been enough of a torture, but Run Seven had not stinted on the other, older kind. And he had been very good at it.

Remontoire had escaped, finally, and the pig had died. But Clavain knew that his friend still carried profound mental wounds that now and then broke through to the surface. Clavain had watched very carefully when Remontoire made the preliminary trawls of the pig, fully aware of how easily that procedure could become a kind of torture in its own right. And while nothing that Remontoire had done had been improper - indeed, he had been almost too reticent in his enquiries - Clavain admitted to feeling a sense of misgiving. If only it had not been a pig, he thought, and if only Remontoire had not had to be associated with the prisoner’s questioning ...

Clavain watched the other tender fall away from Nightshade, convinced that he had not heard the last of the pig and that the repercussions of the capture would be with them for some time. Then he smiled and told himself he was being silly. It was only a pig, after all.

Clavain issued a neural command to the simple subpersona of the tender, and with a lurch they detached from the dark whale-like hull of Nightshade. The tender whisked him inwards, through the great rushing clockwork of the centrifugal wheels, towards the green heart of the null-gee core.

This stronghold, this particular Mother Nest, was only the latest to be built. Though there had always been a Mother Nest of sorts, in the war’s early stages it had only been the largest of many camouflaged encampments. Two-thirds of the Conjoined had been spread throughout the system in smaller bases. But separation brought its own problems. The individual groups had been light-hours apart, and the lines of communication between them had been vulnerable to interception. Strategies could not be evolved in real time, nor could the group-mind state be extended to encompass two or more nests. The Conjoiners had become fragmented and nervous. Reluctantly, the decision had been taken to absorb the smaller nests into one vast Mother Nest, hoping that the advantage gained through centralisation would outweigh the danger involved in placing all their eggs in one basket.

With hindsight, the decision had been massively successful.

The tender slowed as it neared the membrane of the null-gee core. Clavain felt utterly dwarfed by the green sphere. It glowed with its own soft radiance, like a verdant miniature planet. The tender squelched through the membrane, into air.

Clavain dropped a window, allowing the core’s atmosphere to mingle with the tender’s own. His nose prickled at the vegetative assault. The air was cool and fresh and moist, its smell that of a forest after an intense midmorning thunderstorm. Though he had visited the core on countless occasions, the scent nonetheless made Clavain think not of those previous visits but of his childhood. He could not say when or where, but he had certainly walked through a forest that had this quality. It had been somewhere on Earth - Scotland, perhaps.

There was no gravity in the core, but the vegetation that filled it was not a free-floating mass. Threading the sphere from side to side were spars of oak up to three kilometres long. The spars branched and merged randomly, forming a wooden cytoskeleton of pleasing complexity. Here and there the spars bulged sufficiently to accommodate enclosed spaces, hollows that glowed with pastel lantern-light. Elsewhere, a cobweb of smaller strands provided a structural mesh to which most of the greenery was anchored. The whole assemblage was festooned with irrigation pipes and nutrient feedlines, threading back into the support machinery lurking at the very heart of the core. Sun lamps studded the membrane at irregular intervals, and were distributed throughout the green masses themselves. Now they shone with the hard blue light of high noon, but as the day progressed - they were slaved to twenty-six-hour Yellowstone time - the lamps would slide down through the spectrum towards the bronze and russet reds of evening.

Eventually night would fall. The spherical forest would come alive with the chirrups and calls of a thousand weirdly evolved nocturnal animals. Squatting on a spar near its heart during nightfall, it would be easy to believe that the forest reached away in all directions for thousands of kilometres. The distant centrifugal wheels were only visible from the last hundred metres of greenery beneath the membrane, and they were, of course, utterly silent.

The tender dodged through the mass, knowing precisely where it had to take Clavain. Now and then he saw other Conjoiners, but they were mostly children or the elderly. The children were born and raised in the one-gee triplet, but when they were six months old they were brought here at regular intervals. Supervised by the elderly, they learned the muscle and orientation skills necessary for weightlessness. For most of them it was a game, but the very best would be earmarked for duty in the arena of space war. A few, a very few, showed such heightened spatial skills that they would be steered towards battle planning.

The elderly were too frail to spend much time in the high-gee rings. Once they had come to the core, they often never left. Clavain passed a couple now. They both wore support rigs, medical harnesses that doubled as propulsion packs. Their legs trailed behind them like afterthoughts. They were coaxing a quintet of children into kicking off from one side of a woody hollow into open space.

Seen without augmented vision, the scene had a tangibly sinister quality. The children were garbed in black suits and helmets that protected their skin against sharp branches. Their eyes were hidden behind black goggles, making it difficult to interpret their expressions. The elderly were equally drab, though they wore no helmets. But their fully visible faces betrayed nothing resembling enjoyment. To Clavain they looked like undertakers engaged in some solemn burial duty that would be ruined by the slightest hint of levity.

Clavain willed his implants to reveal the truth. There was a moment of florid growth as bright structures blossomed into existence out of thin air. The children wore filmy clothes now, marked with tribal swirls and zigzags of lurid colour. Their heads were bare, unencumbered by helmets. Two were boys; three were girls. He judged their ages to lie between five and seven. Their expressions were not entirely joyous, but neither were they miserable or neutral. Instead, they all looked slightly scared and slightly exhilarated. No doubt there was some rivalry going on, each child weighing the benefits and risks of being the first to take the aerial plunge.

The elderly couple still looked much the same, but now Clavain was attuned to the thoughts they were radiating. Bathed in an aura of encouragement, their faces now looked serene and patient rather than dour. They were quite prepared to wait hours for the children.

The environment itself had also changed. The air was full of jewel-bright butterflies and dragonflies, darting to and fro on busy trajectories. Neon caterpillars worked their way through the greenery. Hummingbirds hovered and translated from flower to flower, moving like precisely programmed clockwork toys. Monkeys, lemurs and flying squirrels jumped into free space with abandon, their eyes gleaming like marbles.

This was what the children perceived, and what Clavain was tuned into. They had known no other world but this storybook abstraction. Subtly, as they aged, the data reaching their brains would be manipulated. They would never notice the change from day to day, but the creatures haunting the forest’s spaces would gradually grow more realistic, their colours dimming to naturalistic greens and browns, blacks and whites. The creatures would become smaller and more elusive. Eventually, only the real animals would remain. Then - the children would be ten or eleven at this point - they would be gently educated about the machines that had doctored their view of the world so far. They would learn of their implants, and how they enabled a second layer to be draped over reality, one that could be shaped into any form imaginable.

For Clavain the educational process had been somewhat more brutal. It had been during his second visit to Galiana’s nest on Mars. She had shown him the nursery where the young Conjoiners were being instructed, but at that point he had not possessed any implants of his own. Then he had been injured, and Galiana had filled his head with medichines. He still remembered the heart-stopping moment when he had first experienced his subjective reality being manipulated. The feeling of his own skull being gate-crashed by numerous other minds had only been part of it, but perhaps the most shocking element had been his first glimpse of the realm the Conjoiners walked through. The psychologists had a term for it - cognitive breakthrough - but few of them could have experienced it for themselves.

Suddenly he drew the attention of the children.

[Clavain!] One of the boys had pushed a thought into his head.

Clavain made the tender come to a halt in the middle of the space the children were using for flying lessons. He orientated the tender so that he was more or less level with them.

Hello. Clavain gripped the handrail in front of him like a preacher at a pulpit.

A girl looked at him intently. [Where have you been, Clavain?]

Outside. He eyed the tutors carefully.

[Outside? Beyond the Mother Nest?] the girl persisted.

He was unsure how to answer. He did not remember how much knowledge the children possessed at this age. Certainly, they knew nothing of the war. But it was difficult to discuss one thing without it leading to another. Beyond the Mother Nest, yes.

[In a spaceship?]

Yes. In a very big spaceship.

[Can I see it?] the girl asked.

One day, I expect. Not today, though. He felt the tutors’ disquiet, though neither had placed a concrete thought in his head. You’ve got other things to take care of, I think.

[What did you do in the spaceship, Clavain?]

Clavain scratched his beard. He did not enjoy misleading children and had never quite got the hang of white lies. A mild distillation of the truth seemed the best approach. I helped someone.

[Whom did you help?]

A lady ... a woman.

[Why did she need your help?]

Her ship - her spaceship - had got into trouble. She needed some assistance and I just happened to be passing by.

[What was the lady called?]

Bax. Antoinette Bax. I gave her a nudge with a rocket, to stop her falling back into a gas giant.

[Why was she coming out of the gas giant?]

I don’t really know, to tell the truth.

[Why did she have two names, Clavain?]

Because ... This was going to get very messy, he realised. Look, um, I shouldn’t interrupt you, I really shouldn’t. He felt a palpable relaxation in the tutors’ emotional aura. So - um - who’s going to show me what a good flier they are, then?

It was all the spur that the children needed. A welter of voices crowded his skull, competing for his attention. [Me, Clavain, me!]

He watched them kick off into the void, barely able to contain themselves.

There was a moment when he was still peering into green infinity, and then the tender burst through a shimmer of leaves into a clearing. It had navigated the forest for another three or four minutes after leaving the children, knowing exactly where to find Felka.

The clearing was a spherical space enclosed on all sides by dense growth. One of the structural spars thrust its way clean through the volume, bulging with residential spaces. The tender whirred closer to the spar and then held station with its impellers while Clavain disembarked. Ladders and vines provided hand- and footholds, allowing him to work his way along the spar until he found the entrance to its hollow interior. There was some sense of vertigo, but it was slight. Part of his mind would probably always quail at the thought of clambering recklessly through what felt like a forest’s elevated canopy, but the years had diminished that nagging primate anxiety to the point where it was barely noticeable.

‘Felka ...’ he called ahead. ‘It’s Clavain.’

There was no immediate answer. He burrowed deeper, descending - or ascending? - headfirst. ‘Felka ...’

‘Hello, Clavain.’ Her voice boomed from the middle distance, echoed and amplified by the spar’s peculiar acoustics.

He followed the voice; he could not feel her thoughts. Felka did not participate routinely in the Conjoined mind-state, although that had not always been the case. But even if she had, Clavain would have maintained a certain distance. Long ago, by mutual consent, they had elected to exclude themselves from each other’s minds, except at the most trivial level. Anything else would have been an unwanted intimacy.

The shaft ended in a womblike interior space. This was where Felka spent most of her time these days, in her laboratory and atelier. The walls were a beguiling swirl of wooden growth patterns. To Clavain’s eye, the ellipses and knots resembled geodesic contours of highly stressed space-time. Lanterns glowed in sconces, throwing his shadow across the wood in threatening ogre-like shapes. He helped himself along by his fingertips, brushing past ornate wooden contraptions that floated untethered through the spar. Clavain recognised most of the objects well enough, but one or two looked new to him.

He snatched one from the air for closer examination. It rattled in his grasp. It was a human head fashioned from a single helix of wood; through the gaps in the spiral he could see another head inside, and another inside that one. Possibly there were more. He let the object go and seized another. This one was a sphere bristling with sticks, projecting out to various distances from the surface. Clavain adjusted one of the sticks and felt something click and move within the sphere, like the tumbler of a lock.

‘I see you’ve been busy, Felka,’ he said.

‘I gather I wasn’t the only one,’ she replied. ‘I heard reports. Some business about a prisoner?’

Clavain pawed past another barrage of wooden objects and rounded a corner in the spar. He squeezed through a connecting aperture into a small windowless chamber lit only by lanterns. Their light threw pinks and emeralds across the ochre and tan shades of the walls. One wall consisted entirely of numerous wooden faces, carved with mildly exaggerated features. Those on the periphery were barely half-formed, like acid-etched gargoyles. The air was pungent with the resin of worked woods.

‘I don’t think the prisoner will amount to much,’ Clavain said. ‘His identity isn’t apparent yet, but he seems to be some kind of pig criminal. We trawled him, retrieved clear and recent memory patterns that show him murdering people. I’ll spare you the details, but he’s creative, I’ll give him that. It’s not true what they say about pigs having no imagination.’

‘I never thought it was, Clavain. What about the other matter, the woman I hear you saved?’

‘Ah. Funny how word gets around.’ Then he recalled that it had been he who had told the children about Antoinette Bax.

‘Was she surprised?’

‘I don’t know. Should she have been?’

Felka snorted. She floated in the middle of the chamber, a bloated planet attended by many delicate wooden moons. She wore baggy brown work clothes. At least a dozen partially worked objects were guyed to her waist by nylon filaments. Other lines were hooked into woodworking tools, which ranged from broaches and files to lasers and tiny tethered burrowing robots.

‘I imagine she expected to die,’ Clavain said. ‘Or at the very least to be assimilated.’

‘You seem upset by the fact that we’re hated and feared.’

‘It does give one pause for thought.’

Felka sighed, as if they had been over this a dozen times already. ‘How long have we known each other, Clavain?’

‘Longer than most people, I suppose.’

‘Yes. And for most of that time you were a soldier. Not always fighting, I’ll grant you that. But you were always a soldier at heart.’ Still with one eye on him, she hauled in one of her creations and peered through its latticed wooden interstices. ‘It strikes me that it might be a little late in the day for moral qualms, don’t you agree?’

‘You’re probably right.’

Felka bit her lower lip and, using a thicker line, propelled herself towards one wall of the chamber. Her entourage of wooden creations and tools clattered against each other as she moved. She set about making tea for Clavain.

‘You didn’t need to touch my face when I came in,’ Clavain remarked. ‘Should I take that as a good sign?’

‘In what way?’

‘It occurred to me that you might be getting better at discriminating faces.’

‘I’m not. Didn’t you notice the wall of faces on your way in?’

‘You must have done that recently,’ Clavain said.

‘When someone comes in here that I’m not sure about, I touch their face, mapping its contours with my fingers. Then I compare what I’ve mapped with the faces I’ve carved in the wall until I find a match. Then I read off the name. Of course, I have to add new faces now and then, and some need less detail than others ...’

‘But me ... ?’

‘You have a beard, Clavain, and a great many lines. You have thin white hair. I could hardly fail to recognise you, could I? You’re not like any of the others.’

She passed him his bulb. He squeezed a stream of scalding tea into his throat. ‘I don’t suppose there’s much point denying it.’

He looked at her with as much detachment as he could muster, comparing the way she was now with his memory of her before he had left on Nightshade. It was only a matter of weeks, but in his estimation Felka had become more withdrawn, less a part of the world than at any time in recent memory. She spoke of visitors, but he had the strong suspicion that there had not been very many.

‘Clavain?’

‘Promise me something, Felka.’ He waited until she had turned to look at him. Her black hair, which she wore as long as Galiana had, was matted and greasy. Nodes of sleep dust nestled in the corners of her eyes. Her eyes were pale green, almost jade, the irises jarring against bloodshot pale pink. The skin beneath them was swollen and faintly blue, as if bruised. Like Clavain, Felka had a need for sleep that marked her as unusual amongst the Conjoined.

‘Promise you what, Clavain?’

‘If - when - it gets too bad, you’ll let me know, won’t you?’

‘What good would it do?’

‘You know I’d always try to do my best for you, don’t you? Especially now that Galiana isn’t here for us.’

Her raw-rubbed eyes studied him. ‘You always did your best, Clavain. But you can’t help what I am. You can’t work miracles.’

He nodded sadly. It was true, but knowing it hardly helped.

Felka was not like the other Conjoiners. He had met her for the first time during his second trip to Galiana’s nest on Mars. The product of an aborted experiment in foetal brain manipulation, she had been a tiny damaged child, not merely unable to recognise faces, but unable to interact with other people at all. Her entire world revolved around a single endlessly absorbing game. Galiana’s nest had been encircled by a giant structure known as the Great Wall of Mars. The Wall was a failed terraforming project that had been damaged in an earlier war. Yet it had never collapsed, for Felka’s game involved coaxing the Wall’s self-repair mechanisms into activity, an endless, intricate process of identifying flaws and allocating precious repair resources. The two-hundred-kilometre-high Wall was at least as complex as a human body, and it was as if Felka controlled every single aspect of its healing mechanisms, from the tiniest cell upwards. Felka turned out to be much better at holding the Wall together than a mere machine. Though her mind was damaged to the point where she could not relate to people at all, she had an astonishing ability for complex tasks.

When the Wall had collapsed in the final assault by Clavain’s old comrades, the Coalition for Neural Purity, Galiana, Felka and he had made a last-ditch escape from the nest. Galiana had tried to dissuade him from taking Felka, warning him that without the Wall she would experience a state of deprivation far crueller than death itself. But Clavain had taken her anyway, convinced that there had to be some hope for the girl; that there had to be something else her mind could latch on to as a surrogate for the Wall.

He had been right, but it had taken many years to prove the point.

Through the years that followed - four hundred of them, although neither of them had experienced more than a century of subjective time - Felka had been coaxed and guided towards her current fragile state of mind. Subtle and delicate neural manipulation gave her back some of the brain functions that had been destroyed in the foetal intervention: language, and a growing sense that other people were more than mere automata. There were setbacks and failures - she had never learned to distinguish faces, for instance - but the triumphs outweighed them. Felka found other things to snare her mind, and during the long interstellar expedition she was happier than she had ever been. Every new world offered the prospect of a shatteringly difficult puzzle.

Eventually, however, she had decided to return home. There had been no rancour between her and Galiana, merely a sense that it was time to begin collating the knowledge that she had helped gather so far, and that the best place to do so was the Mother Nest, with its vast analytic resources.

But she returned to find the Mother Nest embroiled in war. Clavain was soon off fighting the Demarchists, and Felka found that interpreting the data from the expedition was no longer viewed as a high-priority task.

Slowly, so slowly that it was barely evident from year to year, Clavain had watched her retreat back into her own private world. She had begun to play a less and less active role in Mother Nest affairs, isolating her mind from the other Conjoiners except on rare occasions. Things had only worsened when Galiana had come back, neither dead nor alive, but in some horrible intermediate state.

The wooden toys Felka surrounded herself with were symptoms of a desperate need to engage her mind with a problem worthy of her cognitive abilities. But for all that they held her interest, they were doomed to fail in the long run. Clavain had seen it happen already. He knew that what Felka needed was beyond his powers to give.

‘Perhaps when the war’s over ...’ he said lamely. ‘If starflight becomes routine once more, and we start exploring again ...’

‘Don’t make promises you can’t fulfil, Clavain.’

Felka took her own drinking bulb and cast off into the midst of her chamber. Absently, she began to chisel away at one of her solid compositions. The thing she was working on looked like a cube made from smaller cubes, with square gaps in some of the faces. She poked the chisel into one of these gaps and rasped back and forth, barely looking at the thing.

‘I’m not promising anything,’ he said. ‘I’m just saying I’ll do what I can.’

‘The Jugglers might not even be able to help me.’

‘Well, we won’t know until we try, will we?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Clavain said.

Something clunked inside the object she was working on. Felka hissed like a scalded cat and flung the ruined contraption at the nearest wall. It shattered into a hundred blocky pieces. Almost without hesitation she hauled in another piece and began working on that instead.

‘And if the Pattern Jugglers don’t help, we could try the Shrouders.’ Clavain smiled. ‘Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. If the Jugglers don’t work, then we can think about other possibilities. But we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. There’s the small matter of winning a war first.’

‘But they say it will soon be over.’

‘They do, don’t they?’

Felka slipped with the tool she was using and gouged a little flap of skin from the side of her finger. She pressed the finger against her mouth and sucked on it hard, like someone working the last drop of juice from a lemon. ‘What makes you think otherwise?’

He felt an absurd urge to lower his voice, even though it made no practical difference. ‘I don’t know. Perhaps I’m just being a silly old fool. But what are silly old fools for, if not to have the occasional doubt now and then?’

Felka smiled tolerantly. ‘Stop speaking in riddles, Clavain.’

‘It’s Skade and the Closed Council. Something’s going on and I don’t know what it is.’

‘Such as?’

Clavain chose his words carefully. As much as he trusted Felka, he knew that he was dealing with a member of the Closed Council. The fact that she had not participated in the Council for some time, and was presumably out of the loop on its latest secrets, did not count for much.

‘We stopped building ships a century ago. No one ever told me why, and I quickly realised it wasn’t much use asking. In the meantime I heard the odd rumour of mysterious goings-on: secret initiatives, secret technology-acquisition programmes, secret experiments. Then suddenly, just when the Demarchists are about to cave in and admit defeat, the Closed Council unveils a brand-new starship design. Nightshade is nothing if it isn’t a weapon, Felka, but who the hell are they planning to use it against if it isn’t the Demarchists?’

‘“They”, Clavain?’

‘I mean us.’

Felka nodded. ‘But you occasionally wonder if the Closed Council isn’t planning something behind the scenes.’

Clavain sipped at his tea. ‘I’m entitled to wonder, aren’t I?’ Felka was quiet for several long moments, the silence interrupted only by the rasp of her file against wood. ‘I could answer some of your questions here and now, Clavain. You know that. You also know that I won’t ever reveal what I learned in the Closed Council, just as you wouldn’t if you were in my position.’

He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t expect anything less.’

‘But even if I wanted to tell you, I don’t think I know everything. Not any more. There are layers within layers. I was never privy to Inner Sanctum secrets, and I haven’t been allowed near Closed Council data for years.’ Felka tapped the file against her temple.

‘Some of the Closed Council members even want me to have my memories permanently scrubbed, so that I’ll forget what I learned during my active Council years. The only thing that’s stopping them is my odd brain anatomy. They can’t swear they wouldn’t scrub the wrong memories.’

‘Every cloud has a silver lining.’

She nodded. ‘But there is a solution, Clavain. A pretty simple one, when you think about it.’

‘Which is?’

‘You could always join the Closed Council.’

Clavain sighed, grasping for an objection and knowing that even if he found one it would be unlikely to satisfy Felka. ‘I’ll have some more of that tea, if you don’t mind.’

Skade strode through the curving grey corridors of the Mother Nest, her crest flaming with the scarlet of intense concentration and anger. She was on her way to the privy chamber, where she had arranged to meet Remontoire and a quorum of corporeal Closed Council members.

Her mind was running near its maximum processing rate. She was contemplating how she would handle what was sure to be a delicate meeting, perhaps the most crucial in her campaign to recruit Clavain to her side. Most of the Closed Council were putty in her hands, but there were a few that worried her, a few that would need more than the usual amount of convincing.

Skade was also reviewing the digested final performance data from the secret systems inside Nightshade, which were feeding into her skull via the compad now resting across her abdomen like a piece of armour. The numbers were encouraging; there was nothing, other than the problem of keeping the breakthrough secret, to prevent a more extensive test of the machinery. She had already informed the Master of Works of the good news, so that the final technical refinements could be incorporated into the exodus fleet.

Although she had assigned a large fraction of herself to these issues, Skade was also replaying and processing a recording, a transmission that had recently arrived from the Ferrisville Convention.

It was not good.

The spokesperson hovered ahead of Skade, his back to the direction of her travel, his feet sliding ineffectually above the flooring. Skade was replaying the transmission at ten times normal speed, lending the man’s gestures a manic quality.

‘This is a formal request to any representative of the Conjoined faction,’ said the Convention spokesman. ‘It is known to the Ferrisville Convention that a Conjoiner vessel was involved in the interception and boarding of a Demarchist ship in the neighbourhood of the Contested Volume around gas-giant ...’

Skade fast-forwarded. She had already played the message eighteen times, searching for nuance or deception. She knew that what followed was a supremely tedious list of legal strictures and Convention statutes, all of which she had checked and found to be watertight.

‘... Unknown to the Conjoined faction, Maruska Chung, the shipmaster of the Demarchist vessel, had already made formal contact with officers of the Ferrisville Convention regarding the transfer into our custody of a prisoner. The prisoner in question had been detained aboard the Demarchist vessel after his arrest on a military asteroid under Demarchist jurisdiction, in accordance with ...’

More boiler-plate. Fast-forward again.

‘... prisoner in question, a hyperpig known to the Ferrisville Convention as “Scorpio”, is already sought for the following crimes in contravention of emergency powers general statute number ...’

She allowed the message to cycle over again, but detected nothing that had not already been clear. The bureaucratic gnome of the Convention seemed too obsessed with the minutiae of treaties and sub-clauses to be capable of real deception. He was almost certainly telling the truth about the pig.

Scorpio was a criminal known to the authorities, a vicious murderer with a predilection for killing humans. Chung had told the Convention that she was bringing him back into their care, presumably tight-beaming ahead before Nightshade had been close enough to snoop on her transmissions.

And Clavain, damn him again, had not done what he should have done, which was wipe the Demarchists out of existence the first chance he got. The Convention would have grumbled at that, but he would have been entirely within his rights. He could not have been expected to know about the shipmaster’s prisoner of war, and he was not obliged to ask questions before opening fire. Instead, he had rescued the pig.

‘... request the immediate return of the prisoner into our custody, unharmed and uncontaminated by Conjoiner neural-infiltration systems, within twenty-six standard days. Failure to comply with this request ...’ The Convention spokesman paused, wringing his hands in miserly anticipation. ‘... Failure to comply would be greatly to the detriment of relations between the Conjoined faction and the Convention, as I need hardly stress.’

Skade understood perfectly. It was not that the prisoner was of any tangible value to the Convention. But as a coup - as a trophy - the prisoner’s value was incalculable. Law and order were already in a state of extreme collapse in Convention airspace, and the pigs were a powerful, and not always lawful, group in their own right. It had been bad enough when Skade had gone to Chasm City herself on covert Council business and had almost ended up dead. Matters had certainly not improved since. The pig’s recapture and execution would send a powerful signal to other miscreants, especially the more criminally inclined pig factions. Had Skade been in the spokesman’s position, she would have made much the same demand.

But that didn’t make the pig any less of a problem. On the face of it, knowing what Skade knew, there was no need to comply. It would not be long now before the Convention was of no consequence at all. The Master of Works had assured her that the exodus fleet would be ready in seventy days, and she had no reason to doubt the accuracy of the Master’s estimate.

Seventy days.

In eighty or ninety it would be done. In barely three months nothing else would matter. But there was the problem. The fleet’s existence, and the reason for its existence, had to remain a matter of total secrecy. The impression had to be given that the Conjoiners were pressing ahead towards the military victory that every neutral observer expected. Anything else would invite suspicion both from within and without the Mother Nest. And if the Demarchists discovered the truth, there was a chance - a slim one, but not something she could dismiss - that they might rally, using the information to gain allies that had previously remained neutral. Right now they were a spent force, but if they combined with the Ultras, they might present a real obstacle to Skade’s ultimate objective.

No. The charade of coming victory demanded a degree of obeisance to the Convention. Skade would have to find a way of returning the pig, and it would have to happen before suspicion was roused.

Her fury reached a crescendo. She made the spokesman freeze ahead of her. His body blackened to a silhouette. She strode through him, scattering him like a flock of startled ravens.

SIX

The Inquisitor’s private aircraft could have made extremely short shrift of the journey to Solnhofen, but she decided to make the final leg of the trip by surface transport, having the plane drop her off at the nearest reasonably sized community to her destination.

The place was called Audubon, a sprawl of depots, shacks and domes pierced by slev rails, cargo pipelines and highways. From the perimeter, the fine-filigreed fingers of dirigible docking masts poked into the slate-grey northern sky. But there were no airships moored today and no sign that any had come in lately.

The plane had dropped her off on a patch of concreted ground between two depots. The concrete was scabbed and rutted. She walked across it swiftly, her booted feet scuffing the bristlelike tufts of Resurgam-tolerant grass that ripped through the concrete here and there. With some trepidation she watched the plane arc back towards Cuvier, ready to serve some other government official until she requested that it take her back home.

‘Get in, get out fast,’ she muttered under her breath.

She had been observed by workers going about their business, but this far from Cuvier the activities of the Inquisition were not the subject of intense speculation. Most people would correctly assume she was from the government, even though she wore plain clothes, but they would not immediately guess that she was on the trail of a war criminal. She could equally well be a police officer, or she might be an inspector from one of the government’s many bureaucratic arms, come to check that funds were not being misappropriated. Had she arrived with armed assistance - a servitor or a squad of guards - her appearance would definitely have attracted more comment. As it was most people did their best not to meet her eye, and she was able to make her way to the roadhouse without incident.

She wore dark, unostentatious clothes covered by a long coat of the kind people used to wear when the razorstorms were more common, with a fold-down pouch beneath the chin for a breather mask. Black gloves completed the outfit, and she carried a few personal items in a small knapsack. Her hair was a glossy black bowl-cut which she occasionally had to flick out of her eyes. It effectively concealed a radio transmitter with throat-mike and earpiece, which she would only use to retrieve the aircraft. She carried a small Ultra-manufactured boser-pistol, aided by a targeting contact lens covering one eye. But the gun was there for her sanity only. She did not anticipate using it.

The roadhouse was a two-storey structure slung across the main route to Solnhofen. Big balloon-wheeled freight transports rumbled up and down the road at irregular intervals, with ribbed cargo containers tucked beneath their elevated spines like overripe fruit. The drivers sat inside pressurised pods mounted near the fronts of the machines, each pod articulated on a double-hinged arm so that it could be lowered to ground level or raised higher for boarding from one of the roadhouse’s overhead access gates. Typically, three or four transports trundled in robot-mode behind a crewed rig. No one trusted the machines to make the journey totally unsupervised.

The roadhouse’s faded decor had a permanent greasy ambience that made the Inquisitor anxious to keep her gloves on. She approached a huddle of drivers sitting around a table, bitching about their working conditions. Snacks and coffee lay on the table in various states of consumption. A poorly printed newspaper contained the latest artist’s impression of the terrorist Thorn, alongside a catalogue of his most recent crimes against the people. A ring-shaped coffee stain surrounded Thorn’s head, like a halo.

She stood by the drivers for what felt like several minutes until one of them deigned to look at her and nod.

‘My name is Vuilleumier,’ she said. ‘I need a lift to Solnhofen.’

‘Vuilleumier?’ said one of the drivers. ‘As in ... ?’

‘Draw your own conclusions. It’s not that unusual a name on Resurgam.’

The driver coughed. ‘Solnhofen,’ he said dubiously, as if it was a place he had barely heard of.

‘Yes, Solnhofen. It’s a small settlement up that road. In fact it’s the first one you’re going to hit if you head in that direction for more than about five minutes. Who knows, you may even have passed through it once or twice.’

‘Solnhofen’s a bit off my route, love.’

‘Is it? That’s funny. I was under the impression that the route, as you put it, pretty much consisted of a straight line right through Solnhofen. Difficult to imagine how anything could be “off” it, unless we’ve abandoned the idea of being on a road at all.’ She fished out some money and was about to lay it on the food-strewn table when she thought better of it. Instead she just waved it in front of the drivers, the notes crisp in her leather-gloved hand. ‘Here’s the deal: half of this now to any driver who can promise me a trip to Solnhofen; a quarter more if we leave within the next thirty minutes; the remainder if we arrive in Solnhofen before sun-up.’

‘I could take you,’ one the drivers said. ‘But it’s difficult at this time of year. I think I’d ...’

‘The offer’s non-negotiable.’ She had made a decision not to try to ingratiate herself with them. She had known before she took a step into the roadhouse that none of them would like her. They could smell government a mile off and none of them, financial incentives aside, really wanted to share a cabin with her all the way to Solnhofen. Frankly, she could not blame them for that. Government officials of any stripe made the average person’s skin crawl.

If she had not been the Inquisitor she would have been terrified of herself.

The money worked wonders, however, and within twenty minutes she was sitting in the elevated cab of a cargo hauler, watching the lights of Audubon fall back into the dusk. The rig was only carrying one container, and the combination of light lading and the cushioning effect of the house-sized road wheels leant the motion a soporific yawing. The cabin was well heated and silent, and the driver preferred to play music rather than engage her in pointless conversation. For the first few minutes she had watched as he drove, observing the way the rig needed only occasional human intervention to stay locked on the road. Doubtless it could have managed with none at all, were it not for local union laws. Very rarely another rig or string of rigs whipped past in the night, but for the most part the journey felt like a trek into endless uninhabited darkness.

On her lap was the newspaper containing the story about Thorn, and she read the article several times as she grew more fatigued, her eyes stumbling over the same leaden paragraphs. The article portrayed Thorn’s movement as a gang of violent terrorists obsessed with bringing down the government for no other reason than to plunge the colony into anarchy. It made only passing mention of the fact that Thorn’s avowed aim was to find a way to evacuate Resurgam, using the Triumvir’s ship. But the Inquisitor had read enough of Thorn’s statements to know his position on the matter. Ever since the days of Sylveste, successive governments had downplayed any suggestions that the colony might be unsafe, liable to suffer the same extinction event that had wiped out the Amarantin nearly a million years earlier. Over time, and especially in the dark, desperate years that had followed the collapse of the Girardieau regime, the idea of the colony being destroyed in some sudden cataclysmic episode had been quietly erased from public debate. Even mentioning the Amarantin, let alone what had happened to them, was the sort of thing that got one branded a troublemaker. Yet Thorn was right. The threat might not be imminent, but it had certainly not gone away.

It was true that he struck against government targets, but usually the strikes were surgical and considered, with the minimum of civilian casualties. Sometimes they were intended to publicise his movement, but more often than not their function was the theft of government property or funds. Bringing the administration down was a necessary part of Thorn’s plan, but not the primary goal.

Thorn believed that the Triumvir’s ship was still in the system; he also believed that the government knew where it was and how to reach it. His movement claimed that the government had two functioning shuttles with the capability to make repeated flights between Resurgam and Nostalgia for Infinity.

Thorn’s plan, therefore, was simple enough. He would first locate the shuttles, something he claimed he was close to doing. Then he would bring down the government, or at least enough of it to enable the shuttles to be seized. Then it would be up to the people to make their way to the agreed exodus point, where the shuttles would make round trips between surface and orbit. The last part would presumably involve the complete overthrow of the existing regime, but Thorn repeatedly stated that he wished his goal to be achieved as bloodlessly as possible.

Very little of that desire came through in the government-sanctioned article. Thorn’s goal was glossed over, the idea of a threat to Resurgam made to seem faintly ludicrous. Thorn was portrayed as deranged and egotistical, while the numbers of civilian deaths associated with his activities were greatly exaggerated.

The Inquisitor studied the portrait. She had never met Thorn, though she knew a great deal about him. The picture bore only a very vague likeness to the real man, but Internal Threats had accepted its plausibility all the same. She was pleased with that.

‘I wouldn’t waste your time with that rubbish,’ the driver said, when she had just nodded off properly. ‘The sod’s dead.’

She blinked awake. ‘What?’

‘Thorn.’ He poked a thick finger into the paper spread across her lap. ‘The one in the picture.’

She wondered if the driver had deliberately kept silent until she was asleep, whether this was a little game he played with his passengers to amuse himself through the journey. ‘I don’t know that Thorn’s dead,’ she answered. ‘I mean, I haven’t read anything in the papers or heard anything on the news that says so ...’

‘The government shot him. He didn’t call himself Thorn for nothing, you know.’

‘How could they have shot him if they don’t even know where he is?’

‘They do, though. That’s the point. They just don’t want us to know that he’s dead yet.’

‘“They”?’

‘The government, love. Keep up.’

He was toying with her, she suspected. He might have guessed that she was from the government, but he might also have guessed that she had no time to report minor instances of wayward thought.

‘So if they’ve shot him,’ she said, ‘why don’t they announce the fact? Thousands of people think Thorn’s going to lead them into the Promised Land.’

‘Yes, but the only thing worse than a martyr is a dead martyr. There’d be a lot more trouble if word got around that he was really dead.’

She shrugged and folded the paper. ‘Well, I’m not really sure that he ever existed. Maybe it suited the government to create a fictitious hope figure, just so that they could clamp down on the population even more effectively. You don’t really believe all the stories, do you?’

‘About him finding a way to lead us off Resurgam? No. Nice if it happened, I suppose. Get rid of all the whiners, for a start.’

‘Is that really your attitude? That the only people who want to leave Resurgam are whiners?’

‘Sorry, love. I can tell which side of the fence you’d come down on. But some of us actually like it on this planet. No offence.’

‘None taken.’ Then she leant back in the seat and placed the folded paper across her eyes, so that it served as a mask. If that message failed to get through to the driver, she decided, there was really no hope for him.

Fortunately it did.

This time when she nodded off it was into deep sleep. She dreamed about the past, memories flashing back now that the voice of Operative Four had unlocked them. It was not that she had been able to stop thinking about Four completely, but in all that time she had managed to avoid thinking of Four as a person. It was too painful. To remember Four was to think about how she had arrived on Resurgam, and that in turn meant thinking about her other life, the one that, compared with the bleak reality of the present, seemed like a distant and improbable fiction.

But Four’s voice had been like a trapdoor into the past. There were now certain things that could not be ignored.

Why the hell had Four called her now?

She woke when the motion of the vehicle changed. The driver was backing them into an unloading bay.

‘Are we there yet?’

‘Solnhofen it is. Not exactly bright lights, big city, but this is where you wanted to go.’

Through a gap in the slats of the depot wall she could see a sky the colour of anaemic blood. Dawn, or near enough.

‘We’re a bit on the late side,’ she commented.

‘We arrived in Solnhofen a quarter of an hour ago, love. You were sleeping like a log. I didn’t want to wake you.’

‘Of course you didn’t.’ Grudgingly, she handed over the rest of the driver’s fee.

Remontoire watched the last few members of the Closed Council take their seats around the tiered inner surface of the privy chamber. A number of the very old were still able to make their own way to their seats, but the majority were aided by servitors, exoskeletons or black clouds of thumb-sized drones. A few were so near the end of physical life that they had nearly abandoned the flesh entirely. They came in as heads, hooked up to spiderlike mobility prostheses. One or two were massively swollen brains so full of machinery that they could no longer be housed in skulls. The brains rode inside transparent fluid-filled domes dense with throbbing support machinery. They were the most extreme Conjoined, and by this stage most of their conscious activity would have devolved into the distributed web of greater Conjoiner thought. Each retained their brain like a family unwilling to demolish a crumbling mansion even though they hardly ever lived in it.

Remontoire tasted the thoughts of each newcomer. There were people in this room he had long assumed dead, individuals who had never attended any of the Closed Council sessions in which he had participated.

It was the matter of Clavain. He brought everyone out of retirement.

Remontoire felt the sudden presence of Skade as she entered the privy chamber. She had emerged on a ring-shaped balcony halfway up the side of the spherical room. The chamber was opaque to all neural transmissions; those within it could communicate freely, but they were totally isolated from the other minds in the Mother Nest. It enabled the Closed Council to meet in session and communicate more freely than through the usual restricted neural channels.

Remontoire shaped a thought and assigned it high priority, so that it immediately cut across the general wash of gossip and gained everyone’s attention. Does Clavain know about this meeting?

Skade snapped around to address him. [Why should he know about it, Remontoire?]

Remontoire shrugged. Isn’t it him we’ve come to talk about, behind his back?

Skade smiled sweetly. [If Clavain consented to join us, there’d be no need to talk about him behind his back, would there? The problem’s his, not mine.]

Remontoire stood up, now that everyone was looking at him or directing some sort of sensory apparatus in his direction. Who said anything about a problem, Skade? What I’m objecting to is the hidden agenda behind this meeting.

[Hidden agenda? We only want what’s best for Clavain, Remontoire. As his friend I would have imagined that you’d have grasped that.]

Remontoire looked around. There was no sign of Felka, which did not surprise him in the slightest. She had every right to be present, but he doubted that she would have been on Skade’s list of invitees.

I am his friend, I admit that. He’s saved my life enough times, but even if he hadn’t ... well, Clavain and I have been through more than enough together. If that means I don’t have an objective view on the matter, so be it. But I’ll tell you something. Remontoire glanced around the room, nodding as he made eye or sensor contact. All of you - or those of you who need reminding - no matter what Skade would like to make you think, Clavain owes us nothing. Without him, none of us would be here. He’s been as important to us as Galiana, and I don’t say that lightly. I knew her before anyone in this room.

Skade nodded. [Remontoire is right, of course, but you’ll note his use of the past tense. Clavain’s great deeds all lie in the past - the distant past. I don’t deny that since his return from deep space he has continued to serve us well. But then so have we all. Clavain has done no more and no less than any senior Conjoiner. But don’t we expect more of him than that?]

More than what, Skade?

[His tired devotion to mere soldiery, constantly putting himself at risk.]

Remontoire realised that, like it or not, he had become Clavain’s advocate. He felt a mild contempt for the other Council members. He knew that many of them owed their lives to Clavain, and would have admitted it under other circumstances. But Skade had them cowed.

It was down to him to speak up for his friend. Someone has to patrol the border.

[Yes. But we have younger, faster and, let us be frank here, more expendable individuals who can do precisely that. We need Clavain’s expertise here, in the Mother Nest, where we can tap it. I don’t believe that he clings to the fringes out of any sense of duty to the Nest. He does it out of pure self-interest. He gets to play at being one of us, being on the winning side, without accepting the full implications of what it means to be Conjoined. It hints at complacency, self-interest - everything that is inimical to our way. It even begins to hint at disloyalty.]

Disloyalty? No one’s shown more loyalty to the Conjoined faction than Nevil Clavain. Maybe some of you need to brush up on your history.

One of the detached heads spidered on to a seat-back. [I agree with Remontoire. Clavain doesn’t owe us anything. He’s proven himself a thousand times over. If he wants to stay outside the Council, that’s his right.]

Across the auditorium a brain lit up, its lights pulsing in synchronisation with its voice patterns. [Yes; no one doubts that, but it is equally the case that Clavain has a moral obligation to join us. He cannot continue to waste his talents outside the Council.]

The brain paused while fluid pumps throbbed and gurgled. The knotted mass of neural tissue swelled and contracted for several lethargic cycles, like some horrible lump of dough. [I cannot endorse Skade’s inflammatory rhetoric. But there is no escaping the essential truth of what she says. Clavain’s continued refusal to join us is tantamount to disloyalty.]

Oh, shut up, Remontoire interjected. If you’re anything to go by, I’m not surprised Clavain has second thoughts ...

[The insult!] the brain spluttered.

But Remontoire detected a suppressed wave of amusement at his barb. The swollen brain was clearly not as universally respected as it liked to imagine. Sensing his moment, Remontoire leant forward, hands clasped tight around the railings of the balcony. What is this about, Skade? Why now, after all the years when the Closed Council has managed without him?

[What do you mean, why now?]

I mean, what exactly has precipitated this move? Something’s afoot, isn’t it?

Skade’s crest blushed maroon. Her jaw was clenched rigid. She stepped back and arched her spine like a cornered cat.

Remontoire pressed on. First we have a renewal of the starship-building programme, a century after we stopped building them for reasons so secret even the Closed Council isn’t allowed to know them. Then we have a prototype crammed with hidden machinery of unknown origin and function, the nature of which again can’t be revealed to the Closed Council. Then there’s a fleet of similar ships being put together in a comet not far from here - but again, that’s as much as we’re allowed to know. Of course, I’m sure the Inner Sanctum might have something to say on the matter . . .

[Be very careful, Remontoire.]

Why - because I might be in danger of harmless speculation?

Another Conjoiner, a man with a crest a little like Skade’s, stood up tentatively. Remontoire knew the man well, and was certain that he was not a member of the Inner Sanctum.

[Remontoire’s right. Something is happening, and Clavain’s just one part of it. The cessation of the shipbuilding programme, the strange circumstances surrounding Galiana’s return, the new fleet, the disturbing rumours I hear about the hell-class weapons - these things are all connected. The present war is just a distraction, and the Inner Sanctum knows it. Perhaps the true picture is simply too disturbing for we mere Closed Council members to grasp. In which case, like Remontoire, I will indulge in a little speculation and see where it takes me.]

The man looked intently at Skade before continuing. [There’s another rumour, Skade, concerning something called Exordium. I’m sure I don’t need to remind you that that was the codeword Galiana gave to her final series of experiments on Mars - the ones she swore she would never repeat.]

Remontoire might have been imagining it, but he thought he saw a visible change of colour sweep through Skade’s crest at the mere mention of the word. What about Exordium? he asked.

The man turned to Remontoire. [I don’t know, but I can guess. Galiana never wanted the experiments to be repeated; the results were useful, incredibly useful, but they were also too disturbing. But once Galiana was away from the Mother Nest, off on her interstellar expedition, what was to stop the Inner Sanctum from re-running Exordium? She need never have found out about it.]

The codeword meant something to Remontoire; he had definitely heard it before. But if it referred to experiments Galiana had performed on Mars, it was something that had happened more than four hundred years earlier. It would require delicate mnemonic archaeology to dig through the strata of overlying memories, especially if the subject itself was shrouded in secrecy.

It seemed simpler to ask. What was Exordium?

‘I’ll tell you what it was, Remontoire.’

The sound of a real human voice cutting through the chamber’s silence was as shocking as a scream.

Remontoire followed the sound until he saw the speaker, sitting on her own near one of the entry points. It was Felka; she must have arrived since the session had commenced.

Skade slammed a furious thought into his head. [Who invited her?]

‘I did,’ Remontoire said mildly, speaking aloud for Felka’s benefit, ‘on the assumption that you didn’t seem very likely to, and since the matter under discussion happened to be Clavain ... it seemed the right thing to do.’

‘It was,’ Felka said. Remontoire saw something move in her hand and realised that she had brought a mouse into the privy chamber. ‘Wasn’t it, Skade?’

Skade sneered. [There’s no need to talk aloud. It takes too long. She can hear our thoughts as well as any of us.]

‘But if you were to hear my thoughts, you’d probably all go mad,’ Felka said. The way she smiled was all the more chilling, Remontoire thought, because what she said was probably true. ‘So rather than risk that ...’ She looked down, the mouse chasing its tail around her hand.

[You have no right to be here.]

‘But I do, Skade. If I wasn’t recognised as a Closed Council member, the privy chamber wouldn’t have admitted me. And if I wasn’t a Closed Council member, I’d hardly be in a position to talk about Exordium, would I?’

The man who had first mentioned the codeword spoke aloud, his voice high and trembling. ‘So my guess was correct, was it, Skade?’

[Ignore anything she says. She knows nothing about the programme.]

‘Then I can say what I like, can’t I, and none of it will matter. Exordium was an experiment, Remontoire, an attempt to achieve unification between consciousness and quantum superposition. It happened on Mars; you can verify that much for yourself. But Galiana got far more than she bargained for. She curtailed the experiments, frightened at what she had invoked. And that should have been the end of it.’ Felka looked directly at Skade, tauntingly. ‘But it wasn’t, was it? The experiments were begun again, about a century ago. It was an Exordium message that made us stop making ships.’

‘A message?’ Remontoire said, perplexed.

‘From the future,’ Felka said, as if this should have been obvious from the start.

‘You’re not serious.’

‘I’m perfectly serious, Remontoire. I should know - I took part in one of the experiments.’

Skade’s thoughts scythed across the room. [We’re here to discuss Clavain, not this.]

Felka continued to speak calmly. She was, Remontoire thought, the only one in the room who was unfazed by Skade, including himself. Felka’s head already held worse horrors than Skade could imagine. ‘But we can’t discuss one without discussing the other, Skade. The experiments have continued, haven’t they? And they have something to do with what’s happening now. The Inner Sanctum’s learned something, and they’d rather the rest of us didn’t know anything about it.’

Skade clenched her jaw again. [The Inner Sanctum has identified a coming crisis.]

‘What kind of crisis?’ asked Felka.

[A bad one.]

Felka nodded sagely and pushed a strand of lank black hair from her eyes. ‘And Clavain’s role in all this - where does he come in?’

Skade’s pain was almost tangible. Her thoughts arrived in clipped packets, as if, between her utterances, she was waiting for a silent speaker to offer her guidance. [We need Clavain to help us. The crisis can be ... lessened ... with Clavain’s assistance.]

‘What kind of assistance did you have in mind, exactly?’ Felka persisted.

A tiny vein twitched in Skade’s brow. Jarring colour waves chased each other along her crest, like the patterns in a dragonfly’s wing. [A long time ago, we lost some objects of value. Now we know exactly where they are. We want Clavain to help us get them back.]

‘And these “objects”,’ Felka said. ‘They wouldn’t by any chance be weapons, would they?’

The Inquisitor said farewell to the driver who had brought her to Solnhofen. She had slept for five or six hours clean through on the drive, offering the driver ample opportunity to rifle her belongings or strand her in the middle of nowhere. But everything was intact, including her gun. The driver had even left her with the newspaper clipping, the one about Thorn.

Solnhofen itself was every bit as miserable and squalid as she had suspected it would be. She only had to wander around the centre for a few minutes before she found what passed for the settlement’s heart: an apron of ground surrounded by two slovenly-looking hostels, a couple of drab administrative structures and a motley assortment of drinking establishments. Looming beyond the centre were the hulking repair sheds that were Solnhofen’s reason for existence. Far to the north, vast terraforming machines worked to speed the conversion of Resurgam’s atmosphere into a fully human-breathable form. These atmospheric refineries had functioned perfectly for a few decades, but now they were becoming old and unreliable. Keeping them working was a major drain on the planet’s centrally managed economy. Communities like Solnhofen made a precarious living from servicing and crewing the terraforming rigs, but the work was hard and unforgiving, and required - demanded - a certain breed of worker.

The Inquisitor remembered that as she stepped into the hostel. She had expected it to be quiet at this time of day, but when she shoved open the door it was like stepping into a party that had only just passed its peak. There was music and shouting and laughter, hard, boisterous laughter that reminded her of barracks rooms on Sky’s Edge. A few drinkers had already passed out, huddled over their mugs like pupils guarding homework. The air was clotted with chemicals that made her eyes sting. She clenched her teeth against the noise and swore softly. Trust Four to pick a dump like this. She remembered the first time they had met. It had been in a bar in a carousel orbiting Yellowstone, probably the worst dive she had ever been in. Four had many talents, but selecting salubrious meeting places was not one of them.

Fortunately no one had noticed the Inquisitor’s arrival. She pushed past some semi-comatose bodies to what passed for the bar: a hole punched through one wall, ragged brickwork at the edges. A surly woman pushed drinks through like prison rations, snatching back money and spent glasses with almost indecent haste.

‘Give me a coffee,’ the Inquisitor said.

‘There isn’t any coffee.’

‘Then give me the nearest fucking equivalent.’

‘You shouldn’t speak like that.’

‘I’ll speak any fucking way I want to. Especially until I get a coffee.’ She leant on the plastic lip of the serving hatch. ‘You can get me one, can’t you? I mean, it’s not like I’m asking for the world.’

‘You government?’

‘No, just thirsty. And a tiny bit irritable. It’s morning, you see, and I really don’t do mornings.’

A hand landed on her shoulder. She twisted around sharply, her own hand instinctively reaching for the haft of the boser-pistol.

‘Causing trouble again, Ana?’ said the woman behind her.

The Inquisitor blinked. She had rehearsed this moment many times since she had left Cuvier, but still it felt unreal and melodramatic. Then Triumvir Ilia Volyova nodded at the woman behind the hatch.

‘This is my friend. She wants a coffee. I suggest you give her one.’

The serving woman squinted at her, then grunted something and vanished from view. She reappeared a few moments later with a cup of something that looked as if it had just been drained from the main axle bearing of an overland cargo hauler.

‘Take it, Ana,’ Volyova said. ‘It’s about as good as it gets.’

The Inquisitor took the coffee, her hand trembling faintly. ‘You shouldn’t call me that,’ she whispered.

Volyova steered her towards a table. ‘Call you what?’

‘Ana.’

‘But it’s your name.’

‘Not any more, it isn’t. Not here. Not now.’

The table that Volyova had found was tucked into a corner, half-hidden by several stacked beer crates. Volyova swept her sleeve across the surface, brushing detritus on to the floor. Then she sat, placing both elbows on the table’s edge and locking her fingers under her chin. ‘I don’t think we need worry about anyone recognising you, Ana. No one’s given me more than a second glance and, with the possible exception of Thorn, I’m the most wanted person on the planet.’

The Inquisitor, who had once called herself Ana Khouri, sipped experimentally at the treaclelike concoction that passed for coffee. ‘You’ve had the benefit of some expert misdirection, Ilia ...’ She paused and looked around, realising as she did so how suspicious and theatrical she must look. ‘Can I call you Ilia?’

‘That’s what I call myself. Best leave off the Volyova part for the time being, though. No sense in pushing our luck.’

‘None at all. I suppose I should say ...’ Again, she looked around. She could not help herself. ‘It’s good to see you again, Ilia. I’d be lying if I said otherwise.’

‘I’ve missed your company, too. Odd to think we once started out almost killing each other. All water under the bridge now, of course.’

‘I began to worry. You hadn’t been in touch for so long ...’

‘I had good reasons to keep a low profile, didn’t I?’

‘I suppose so.’

For several minutes neither of them said anything. Khouri, for that was how she was daring to think of herself again, found herself recalling the origin of the audacious game the two of them were playing. They had devised it themselves, amazing each other with their nerve and ingenuity. Together, they made a very resourceful pair indeed. But for maximum usefulness they found that they had to work alone.

Khouri broke the silence, unable to wait any longer. ‘What is it, Ilia? Good news or bad?’

‘Knowing my track record, what do you think?’

‘A wild stab in the dark? Bad news. Very bad news indeed.’

‘Got it in one.’

‘It’s the Inhibitors, isn’t it?’

‘Sorry to be so predictable, but there you are.’

‘They’re here?’

‘I think so.’ Volyova’s voice had dropped low now. ‘Something is happening, anyway. I’ve seen it myself.’

‘Tell me about it.’

Volyova’s voice, if anything, became quieter still. Khouri had to strain to hear it. ‘Machines, Ana, huge black machines. They’ve entered the system. I never saw them actually arrive. They were just ... here.’

Khouri had tasted the minds of those machines briefly, feeling the furious predatory chill of ancient recordings. They were like the minds of pack animals, ancient and patient and drawn to the dark. Their minds were mazes of instinct and hungry intelligence, utterly unencumbered by sympathy or emotion. They howled across the silent steppes of the galaxy to each other, summoning themselves in great numbers when the bloody stench of life again troubled their wintry sleep.

‘Dear God.’

‘We can’t say we weren’t expecting them, Ana. From the moment Sylveste started fiddling around with things he didn’t understand, it was only a matter of when and where.’

Khouri stared at her friend, wondering why the temperature in the room appeared to have dropped ten or fifteen degrees. The feared and hated Triumvir looked small and faintly grubby, like a bag lady. Volyova’s hair was a close-cropped greying thatch above a round, hard-eyed face which betrayed remote Mongol ancestry. She did not look like a very convincing herald of doom.

‘I’m scared, Ilia.’

‘I think you have excellent reason to be scared. But try not to show it, will you? We don’t want to terrify the locals just yet.’

‘What can we do?’

‘Against the Inhibitors?’ Volyova squinted through her glass, frowning slightly, as if this was the first time she had given the subject any serious consideration. ‘I don’t know. The Amarantin didn’t have a lot of success in that department.’

‘We’re not flightless birds.’

‘No, we’re humans - the scourge of the galaxy ... or something like that. I don’t know, Ana. I really don’t. If it was just you and I, and if we could persuade the ship, the Captain, to come out of his shell, we could at least consider running away. We could even contemplate using the weapons, if that would help matters.’

Khouri shuddered. ‘But even if it did, and even if we could make a getaway, it wouldn’t help Resurgam much, would it?’

‘No. And I don’t know about you, Ana, but my conscience isn’t exactly whiter-than-white as it is.’

‘How long do we have?’

‘That’s the odd thing. The Inhibitors could have destroyed Resurgam already, if that was all they intended to do - it’s within even our technology to do that much, so I very much doubt that it would trouble them particularly.’

‘So maybe they haven’t come to kill us after all.’

Volyova tipped back her drink. ‘Or maybe ... just maybe ... they have.’

In the swarming heart of the black machines, processors that were not themselves sentient determined that an overseer mind must be quickened to consciousness.

The decision was not taken lightly; most cleansings could be performed without raising the spectre of the very thing that the machines had been made to suppress. But this system was problematic. Records showed that an earlier cleansing had been performed here, a mere four and half thousandths of a Galactic Turn ago. The fact that the machines had been called back showed that additional measures were clearly necessary.

The overseer’s task was to deal with the specifics of this particular infestation. No two cleansings were ever quite the same, and it was a regrettable fact of life that the best way to annihilate intelligence was with a dose of intelligence itself. But once the cleansing was over, the immediate outbreak traced back to source and its daughter spores sanitised - which might take another two-thousandths of a Galactic Turn, half a million years - the overseer would be dumbed down, its self-awareness packed away until it needed it again.

Which might be never.

The overseer never questioned its work. It knew only that it was acting for the ultimate good of sentient life. It was not at all concerned that the crisis it was acting to avert, the crisis that would become an unmanageable cosmic disaster if intelligent life was permitted to spread, lay a total of thirteen Turns - three billion years - in the future.

It did not matter.

Time meant nothing to the Inhibitors.

SEVEN

[Skade? I’m afraid there’s been another accident.]

What kind of accident?

[A state-two excursion.]

How long did it last?

[Only a few milliseconds. It was enough, though.]

The two of them - Skade and her senior propulsion technician - were crouched in a black-walled space near Nightshade’s stern, while the prototype was berthed in the Mother Nest. They were squeezed into the space with their backs arched and their knees pressed against their chests. It was unpleasant, but after her first few visits Skade had blanked out the sensation of postural discomfort, replacing it with a cool Zenlike calm. She could endure days squashed into inhumanly small hideaways - and she had. Beyond the walls, secluded in numerous cramped openings, were the intricate and perplexing elements of the machinery. Direct control and fine-tuning of the device was only possible here, where there were only the most rudimentary links to the normal control network of the ship.

Is the body still here?

[Yes.]

I’d like to see it.

[There isn’t an awful lot left to see.]

But the man unplugged his compad and led the way, shuffling sideways in a crablike manner. Skade followed him. They moved from one hideaway to another, occasionally having to inch through constrictions caused by protruding elements of the machinery. It was all around them, exerting its subtle but undeniable effect on the very space-time in which they were embedded.

No one, not even Skade, really understood quite how the machinery worked. There were guesses, some of them very scholarly and plausible, but at heart there remained a gaping chasm of conceptual ignorance. Much of what Skade knew about the machinery consisted only of documented cause and effect, with little understanding of the physical mechanisms underpinning its behaviour. She knew that when the machinery was functioning it tended to settle into several discrete states, each of which was associated with a measurable change in the local metric ... but the states were not rigidly isolated, and it had been known for the device to oscillate wildly between them. Then there was the associated problem of the various field geometries, and the tortuously complex way they fed back into the state stability ...

State two, you said? Exactly what mode were you in before the accident?

[State one, as per instructions. We were exploring some of the nonlinear field geometries.]

What was it this time? Heart failure, like the last one?

[No, at least, I don’t think heart failure was the main cause of death. Like I said, there isn’t much left to go on.]

Skade and the technician pushed ahead, wriggling through a tight elbow between adjoining chunks of the machinery. The field was in state zero at the moment, for which there were no measurable physiological effects, but Skade could not entirely shake a feeling of wrongness, a nagging sense that the world had been skewed minutely away from normality. It was illusory; she would have needed highly sensitive quantum-vacuum probes to detect the device’s influence. But the feeling was there all the same.

[Here we are.]

Skade looked around. They had emerged into one of the larger open spaces in the bowels of the device. It was a scalloped black-walled chamber just large enough to stand up in. Numerous compad input sockets woodwormed the walls.

This is where it happened?

[Yes. The field shear was at its highest here.]

I’m not seeing a body.

[You’re just not looking closely enough.]

She followed his gaze. He was focusing on a particular part of the wall. Skade moved over and touched the wall with the gloved tips of her fingers. What had looked like the same gloss-black as the rest of the chamber revealed itself to be scarlet and cloying. There was perhaps a quarter of an inch of something glued to most of the wall on one side of the chamber.

Please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.

[I’m afraid it’s exactly what you think it is.]

Skade stirred her hand through the red substance. The covering had enough adhesion to form a single sticky mass, even in zero gravity. Now and then she felt something harder - a shard of bone machinery - but nothing larger than a thumbnail had remained one piece.

Tell me what happened.

[He was near the field focus. The excursion to state two was only momentary, but it was enough to make a difference. Any movement would have been fatal, even an involuntary twitch. Maybe he was already dead before he hit the wall.]

How fast was he moving?

[Kilometres per second, easily.]

It would have been painless, I suppose. Did you feel him hit?

[Throughout the ship. It was like a small bomb going off.]

Skade willed her gloves to clean themselves. The residue flowed back on to the wall. She thought of Clavain, wishing that she had some of his tolerance for sights like this. Clavain had seen horrid things during his time as a soldier, enough that he had developed the necessary mental armour to cope. With one or two exceptions, Skade had fought all her battles at a distance. [Skade ... ?]

Her crest must have reflected her discomposure. Don’t worry about me. Just try to find out what went wrong, and make sure it doesn’t happen ain.

[And the testing programme?]

The programme continues, of course. Now get this mess cleaned up.

Felka floated in another chamber of her quiet residential spar. Where tools had been tethered to her waist earlier many small metal cages now orbited her, clacking gently against each other when she moved. Each cage contained a clutch of white mice, scratching and sniffing at their constraints. Felka paid them no attention; they had not been caged for long, they were well fed and shortly they would all enjoy a sort of freedom.

She squinted into gloom. The only source of light was the faint radiance of the adjacent room, separated from this one by a twisting throat of highly polished wood the colour of burned caramel. She found the UV lamp attached to one wall and flicked it on.

One side of the chamber - Felka had never bothered deciding which way was up - was sheeted over with bottle-green glass. Behind the glass was something that at first glance resembled a convoluted wooden plumbing system, a palimpsest of pipes and channels, gaskets and valves and pumps. Diagonals and doglegs of wood spanned the maze, bridging different regions, their function initially unclear. The pipes and channels had only three wooden sides, with the glass forming the fourth wall so that whatever flowed or scurried along them would be visible.

Felka had already introduced about a dozen mice to the system via one-way doors near the edge of the glass. They had quickly taken divergent paths at the first few junctions and were now metres apart, nosing through their own regions of the labyrinth. The lack of gravity did not bother them at all; they could obtain enough traction against the wood to scamper freely in any direction. The more experienced mice, in fact, eventually learned the art of coasting down pipes, minimising the frictional area they exposed to the wood or glass. But they seldom learned that trick until they had been in the maze for several hours and through several reward cycles.

Felka reached for one of the cages attached to her waist, flipping open the catch so that the contents - three white mice - spilled into the maze. Away they went, momentarily gleeful to have escaped the metal prisons.

Felka waited. Sooner or later one of the mice would run into a trapdoor or flap that was connected to a delicate system of springloaded wooden levers. When the mouse pushed past the flap, the movement caused the levers to shift. The movement would often be transmitted across the maze, causing a shutter to open or close one or two metres away from the original trigger point. Another mouse, working its way through a remote stretch of the maze, might suddenly find its way blocked where previously it had been clear. Or the mouse might be forced to make a decision where previously none had been required, anxieties of possibility momentarily clouding its tiny rodent brain. It was quite probable that the choices of the second mouse would activate another trigger system, causing a distant reconfiguration of another part of the maze. Floating in the middle, Felka would watch it happen, the wood shifting through endless permutations, running a blind program whose agents were the mice themselves. It was fascinating enough to watch, after a fashion.

But Felka was easily bored. The maze, for her, was just the start of things. She would run the maze in semi-darkness, with the UV lamp burning. The mice had genes that expressed a set of proteins that caused them to fluoresce under ultraviolet illumination. She could see them clearly through the glass, moving smudges of bright purple. Felka watched them with ardent, but perceptibly waning, fascination.

The maze was entirely her invention. She had designed it and fashioned its wooden mechanisms herself. She had even tinkered with the mice to make them glow, though that had been the easy bit compared with all the fettling and filing that had been needed to get the traps and levers to work properly. For a while she even thought it had been worth it.

One of the few things that could still interest Felka was emergence. On Diadem, the first world they had visited after leaving Mars in the very first near-light ship, Clavain, Galiana and she had studied a vast crystalline organism which took years to express anything resembling a single ‘thought’. Its synaptic messengers were mindless black worms, burrowing through a shifting neural network of capillary ice channels threading an ageless glacier.

Clavain and Galiana had wrenched her away from the proper study of the Diadem glacier, and she had never quite forgiven them for it. Ever since, she had been drawn to similar systems, anything in which complexity emerged in an unpredictable fashion from simple elements. She had assembled countless simulations in software, but had never convinced herself that she was really capturing the essence of the problem. If complexity sprung from her systems - and it often had - she could never quite shake the sense that she had unwittingly built it in from the outset. The mice were a different approach. She had discarded the digital and embraced the analogue.

The first machine she had tried building had run on water. She had been inspired by details of a prototype that she had discovered in the Mother Nest’s cybernetics archive. Centuries earlier, long before the Transenlightenment, someone had made an analogue computer which was designed to model the flow of money within an economy. The machine was all glass retorts and valves and delicately balanced see-saws. Tinted fluids represented different market pressures and financial parameters: interest rates, inflation, trade deficits. The machine sloshed and gurgled, computing ferociously difficult integral equations by the power of applied fluid mechanics.

It had enchanted her. She had remade the prototype, adding a few sly refinements of her own. But though the machine had provided some amusement, she had seen only glimpses of emergent behaviour. The machine was too ruthlessly deterministic to throw up any genuine surprises.

Hence the mice. They were random agents, chaos on legs. She had concocted the new machine to exploit them, using their unpredictable scurrying to nudge it from state to state. The complex systems of levers and switches, trapdoors and junctions ensured that the maze was constantly mutating, squirming through phase-space - the mind-wrenching higher-dimensional mathematical space of all possible configurations that the maze could be in. There were attractors in that phase-space, like planets and stars dimpling a sheet of space-time. When the maze fell towards one of them it would often go into a kind of orbit, oscillating around one state until something, either a build-up of instability or an external kick, sent it careering elsewhere. Usually all that was needed was to tip a new mouse into the maze.

Occasionally, the maze would fall towards an attractor that caused the mice to be rewarded with more than the usual amount of food. She had been curious as to whether the mice - acting blindly, unable to knowingly co-operate with each other - would nonetheless find a way to steer the maze into the vicinity of one of those attractors. That, if it happened, would surely be a sign of emergence.

It had happened, once. But that batch of mice had never repeated the trick since. Felka had tipped more mice into the system, but they had only clogged up the maze, locking it near another attractor where nothing very interesting happened.

She had not completely given up on it. There were still subtleties of the maze that she did not fully understand, and until she did it would not begin to bore her. But at the back of her mind the fear was already there. She knew, beyond any doubt, that the maze could not fascinate her for very much longer.

The maze clicked and clunked, like a grandfather clock winding up to strike the hour. She heard the shutterlike clicking of doors opening and closing. The details of the maze were difficult to see behind the glass, but the flow of the mice betrayed its shifting geometry well enough.

‘Felka?’

A man forced his way through the connecting throat. He floated into the room, arresting his drift with a press of fingertips against polished wood. She could see his face faintly. His bald skull was not quite the right shape. It seemed even odder in the gloom, like an elongated grey egg. She stared at it, knowing that, by rights, she should always have been able to associate that face with Remontoire. But had six or seven men of about the same physiological age entered the room, possessing the same childlike or neotenous facial features, she would not have been able to pick Remontoire out from them. It was only the fact that he had visited her recently that made her so certain it was him.

‘Hello, Remontoire.’

‘Could we have some light, please? Or shall we talk in the other chamber?’

‘Here will do nicely. I’m in the middle of running an experiment.’

He glanced at the glass wall. ‘Will light spoil it?’

‘No, but then I wouldn’t be able to see the mice, would I?’

‘I suppose not,’ Remontoire said thoughtfully. ‘Clavain’s with me. He’ll be here in a moment.’

‘Oh.’ She fumbled one of the lanterns on. Turquoise light wavered uncertainly and then settled down.

She studied Remontoire’s expression, doing her best to read it. Even now that she knew his identity, it was not as if his face had become a model of clarity. Its text remained hazy, full of shifting ambiguities. Even reading the commonest of expressions required an intense effort of will, like picking out constellations in a sprinkling of faint stars. Now and then, admittedly, there were occasions when her odd neural machinery managed to grasp patterns that normal people missed entirely. But for the most part she could never trust her own judgement when it came to faces.

She bore this in mind when she looked at Remontoire’s face, deciding, provisionally, that he looked concerned. ‘Why isn’t he here now?’

‘He wanted to give us time to discuss Closed Council matters.’

‘Does he know anything about what happened in the chamber today?’

‘Nothing.’

Felka drifted to the top of the maze and popped another mouse into the entrance, hoping to unblock a stalemate in the lower-left quadrant. ‘That’s the way it will have to continue, unless Clavain assents to join. Even then he may be disappointed at what he doesn’t get to know.’

‘I understand why you wouldn’t want him to know about Exordium, ’ Remontoire said.

‘What exactly is that supposed to mean?’

‘You went against Galiana’s wishes, didn’t you? After what she discovered on Mars she discontinued Exordium. Yet when you returned from deep space - when she was still out there - you happily participated.’

‘You’ve become quite an expert all of a sudden, Remontoire.’

‘It’s all there in the Mother Nest’s archives, if you know where to look. The fact that the experiments took place isn’t much of a secret at all.’ Remontoire paused, watching the maze with mild interest. ‘Of course, what actually happened in Exordium - why Galiana called it off - that’s another matter entirely. There’s no mention in the archives of any messages from the future. What was so disturbing about those messages that their very existence couldn’t be acknowledged?’

‘You’re just as curious as I was.’

‘Of course. But was it just curiosity that made you go against her wishes, Felka? Or was there something more? An instinct to rebel against your own mother, perhaps?’

Felka held back her anger. ‘She wasn’t my mother, Remontoire. We shared some genetic material. That’s all we had in common. And no, it wasn’t rebellion either. I was looking for something else to engage my mind. Exordium was supposed to be about a new state of consciousness.’

‘So you didn’t know about the messages either?’

‘I had heard rumours, but I didn’t believe them. The easiest way to find out for myself seemed to be to participate. But I didn’t start Exordium again. The programme had already been resurrected before our return. Skade wanted me to join it - I think she thought the uniqueness of my mind might be of value to the programme. But I only played a small part in it, and I left almost as soon as I had begun.’

‘Why - because it didn’t work the way you’d hoped?’

‘No. As a matter of fact it worked very well. It was also the most terrifying thing I’ve ever experienced in my life.’

He smiled at her for a moment; then his smile slowly vanished.

‘Why, exactly?’

‘I didn’t believe in the existence of evil before, Remontoire. Now I’m not so certain.’

He spoke as if he had misheard her. ‘Evil?’

‘Yes,’ she said softly.

Now that the subject had been raised she found herself remembering the smell and texture of the Exordium chamber as if it had been only yesterday, even though she had done all she could to steer her thoughts away from that sterile white room, unwilling to accept what she had learned within it.

The experiments had been the logical conclusion to the work Galiana had initiated in her earliest days in the Martian labs. She had set out to enhance the human brain, believing that her work could only be for the greater good of humanity. As her model, Galiana used the development of the digital computer from its simple, slow infancy. Her first step had been to increase the computational power and speed of the human mind, just as the early computer engineers had traded clockwork for electromechanical switches; switches for valves; valves for transistors; transistors for microscopic solid-state devices; solid-state devices for quantum-level processing gates which hovered on the fuzzy edge of the Heisenberg uncertainty principle. She invaded the brains of her subjects, including herself, with tiny machines that laid down connections between brain cells which exactly paralleled those already in place, but which were capable of transmitting nerve signals much more rapidly. With the normal neurotransmitter and nerve-signal events inhibited by drugs or more machines, Galiana’s secondary loom took over neural processing. The subjective effect was normal consciousness, but at an accelerated rate. It was as if the brain had been supercharged, able to process thoughts at a rate ten or fifteen times faster than an unaugmented mind. There were problems, enough to ensure that accelerated consciousness could not usually be sustained for more than a few seconds, but in most respects the experiments had been successful. Someone in the accelerated state could watch an apple fall from a table and compose a commemorative haiku before it reached the ground. They could watch the depressor and elevator muscles flex and twist in a hummingbird’s wing, or marvel at the crownlike impact pattern caused by a splashing drop of milk. They also, needless to say, made excellent soldiers.

So Galiana had moved on to the next phase. The early computer engineers had discovered that certain classes of problem were best tackled by armies of computers locked together in parallel, sharing data between nodes. Galiana pursued this aim with her neurally enhanced subjects, establishing data-corridors between their minds. She allowed them to share memories, experiences, even the processing of certain mental tasks such as pattern recognition.

It was this experiment running amok - jumping uncontrolled from mind to mind, subverting neural machines which were already in place - that led to the event known as the Transenlightenment and, not inconsequentially, to the first war against the Conjoiners. The Coalition for Neural Purity had wiped out Galiana’s allies, forcing her back into the seclusion of a small fortified huddle of labs tucked inside the Great Wall of Mars.

It was there, in 2190, that she had met Clavain for the first time, when he had been her prisoner. It was there that Felka had been born, a few years later. And it was there that Galiana pushed on to the third phase of her experimentation. Still following the model of the early computer engineers, she now wished to explore what could be gained from a quantum-mechanical approach.

The computer engineers in the late twentieth and early twenty-first centuries - barely out of the clockwork era, as far as Galiana was concerned - had used quantum principles to crack problems that would otherwise have been insoluble, such as the task of finding the prime factors of very large numbers. A conventional computer, even an army of conventional computers sharing the task, stood no chance of being able to find the prime factors before the effective end of the universe. And yet with the right equipment - an ungainly lash-up of prisms, lenses, lasers and optical processors on a lab bench - it was possible to do it in a few milliseconds.

There had been fierce debate as to exactly what was happening, but not that the primes were being found. The simplest explanation, which Galiana had never seen any reason to doubt, was that the quantum computers were sharing the task between infinite copies of themselves, spread across parallel universes. It was conceptually staggering, but it was the only reasonable explanation. And it was not something they had plucked out of thin air to justify a perplexing result; the idea of parallel worlds had long been at least one conceptual underpinning of quantum theory.

And so Galiana had tried to do something similar with human minds. The Exordium chamber was a device for coupling one or more augmented brains to a coherent quantum system: a bar of magnetically suspended rubidium that was being continually pumped into cycles of quantum coherence and collapse. During each episode of coherence the bar was in a state of superposition with infinite counterparts of itself, and it was at this moment that a neural coupling was attempted. The act itself always forced the bar to collapse down to one macroscopic state, but the collapse was not instantaneous. There was a moment when some of the bar’s coherence bled back into the linked minds, putting them into weak superposition with their own parallel-world counterparts.

In that moment, Galiana hoped that there might be some perceptible change in the experienced consciousness state of the participant. Her theories, however, did not say what that change might be.

It was, in the end, nothing like she had expected.

Galiana had never spoken to Felka about her detailed impressions, but Felka had learned enough to know that her own experience must have been broadly similar. When the experiment began, with the subject or subjects lying on couches in the chamber, their heads swallowed in the gaping white maws of high-resolution neural interfacing trawls, there was a presentiment, like the aura that warned of an impending epileptic seizure.

Then there would come a sensation that Felka had never been adequately able to describe outside of the experiment. All she could say was that her thoughts suddenly became plural, as if behind every thought she detected the faint choral echo of others that almost perfectly shadowed it. She did not sense an infinity of such thoughts, but she did sense, faintly, that they receded into something, diverging at the same time. She was, in that moment, in touch with counterparts of herself.

Then something far stranger would begin to happen. Impressions would gather and solidify, like the phantoms that take shape after hours of sensory deprivation. She became aware of something stretching ahead of her, into a dimension she could not quite visualise but which nonetheless conveyed a tremendous sense of distance and remoteness.

Her mind would grasp at the vague sensory clues and throw some kind of familiar framework over them. She would see a long white corridor stretching towards infinity, washed out in bleak colourless light, and she would know, without being able to articulate quite how she knew, that what she was seeing was a corridor into the future. Numerous pale doors or apertures, each of which opened into some more remote future epoch, lined the corridor. Galiana had never intended to open a door into that corridor, but it seemed that she had made it possible.

Felka sensed that the corridor could not be traversed; one could only stand at its end and listen for messages that came down it.

And there would be messages.

Like the corridor itself they were filtered through her own perceptions. It was impossible to say from how far in the future they had come, or what exactly the future that had sent them looked like. Was it even possible for a particular future to communicate with the past without causing paradoxes? In trying to answer this, Felka had come across the nearly forgotten work of a physicist named Deutsch, a man who had published his thoughts two hundred years before Galiana’s experiments. Deutsch had argued that the way to view time was not as a flowing river but as a series of static snapshots stacked together to form space-times in which the flow of time was only a subjective illusion. Deutsch’s picture explicitly permitted past-directed time travel with the preservation of free will and yet without paradoxes. The catch was that a particular ‘future’ could only communicate with the ‘past’ of another universe. Wherever these messages were coming from, they were not from Galiana’s future. They might be from one that was very close to it, but it would never be one she could reach. No matter. The exact nature of the future was less important than the content of the messages themselves.

Felka had never learned the precise content of the messages Galiana had received, but she could guess. They had probably been along the same lines as the ones that came through during Felka’s brief period of participation.

They would be instructions for making things, clues or signposts that pointed them in the right direction rather than detailed blueprints. Or there would be edicts or warnings. But by the time those distant transmissions had reached the participants in the Exordium experiments, they had been reduced to half-heard echoes, corrupted like Chinese whispers, intermingled and threaded with dozens of intervening messages. It was as if there was only one open conduit between the present and the future, with a finite bandwidth. Every message sent reduced the potential capacity for future messages. But it was not the actual content of the messages that was alarming, rather the thing that Felka had glimpsed behind them.

She had sensed a mind.

‘We touched something,’ she told Remontoire. ‘Or rather something touched us. It reached down the corridor and grazed against our minds, coming through at the same time as we received the instructions.’

‘And that was the evil thing?’

‘I can’t think of any other way to describe it. Merely encountering it, merely sharing its thoughts for an instant, drove most of us insane, or left us dead.’ She looked at their reflections in the glass wall. ‘But I survived.’

‘You were lucky.’

‘No. It wasn’t luck. Not entirely. Just that I recognised the thing, so the shock of encountering it wasn’t so absolute. And because it recognised me, too. It withdrew as soon it touched my mind, and concentrated on the others.’

‘What was it?’ Remontoire asked. ‘If you recognised it ...’

‘I wish I hadn’t. I’ve had to live with that moment of recognition ever since, and it hasn’t been easy.’

‘So what was it?’ he persisted.

‘I think it was Galiana,’ Felka said. ‘I think it was her mind.’

‘In the future?’

‘In a future. Not ours, or at least not precisely.’

Remontoire smiled uneasily. ‘Galiana’s dead. We both know that. How could her mind have spoken to you from the future, even if it was a slightly different one from ours? It can’t have been that different.’

‘I don’t know. I wonder. And I keep wondering how she became like that.’

‘And that’s why you left?’

‘You’d have done the same thing.’ Felka watched the mouse take a wrong turning; not the one she had hoped it would take. ‘You’re angry with me, aren’t you? You feel that I betrayed her.’

‘Irrespective of what you’ve just told me, yes. I suppose I do.’ His tone had softened.

‘I don’t blame you. But I had to do it, Remontoire. I had to do it once. I don’t regret that at all, even though I wish I hadn’t learned what I did.’

Remontoire whispered, ‘And Clavain ... does he know any of this?’

‘Of course not. It would kill him.’

There was a rap of knuckle against wood. Clavain pushed his way into the space, glancing at the maze before speaking. ‘Talking about me behind my back again, are you?’

‘Actually, we weren’t really talking about you at all,’ Felka said.

‘That’s a disappointment.’

‘Have some tea, Clavain. It should still be drinkable.’

Clavain took the bulb she offered him. ‘Is there anything you want to share with me about what happened in the Closed Council meeting?’

‘We can’t discuss specifics,’ Remontoire said. ‘All I can say is that there is considerable pressure for you to join. Some of that pressure comes from Conjoiners who feel that your loyalty to the Mother Nest will always be questionable until you come in from the cold.’

‘They’ve got a bloody cheek.’

Remontoire and Felka exchanged glances. ‘Perhaps,’ Remontoire said. ‘There are also those - your allies, I suppose - who feel that you have more than demonstrated your loyalty over the years.’

‘That’s more like it.’

‘But they’d also like you in the Closed Council,’ Felka said. ‘The way they see it, once you’re in the Council, you won’t be able to go around putting yourself in dangerous situations. They view it as a way of safeguarding a valuable asset.’

Clavain scratched his beard. ‘So what you’re saying is I can’t win either way, is that it?’

‘There’s a minority that would be quite happy to see you remain out of the Closed Council,’ Remontoire said. ‘Some are your staunchest allies. Some, however, think that letting you continue to play soldier is the easiest way to get you killed.’

‘Nice to know I’m appreciated. And what do you two think?’

Remontoire spoke softly. ‘The Closed Council needs you, Clavain. Now more than ever.’

Something unspoken passed between them then, Felka sensed. It was not neural communication but something far older, something that could only be understood by friends who had known and trusted each other for a very long time.

Clavain nodded gravely and then looked at Felka.

‘You know my position,’ she said. ‘I’ve known you and Remontoire since my childhood on Mars. You were there for me, Clavain. You went back into Galiana’s nest and saved me when she said it was hopeless. You never gave up on me, through all the years that followed. You made me into something other than what I was. You made me into a person.’

‘And now?’

‘Galiana isn’t here,’ she said. ‘That’s one less link to my past, Clavain. I don’t think I could stand to lose another.’

In a repair berth on the rim of Carousel New Copenhagen, in the outer habitat lane of the circum-Yellowstone Rust Belt, Xavier Liu was having considerable difficulty with monkeys. The shop steward, who was not a monkey at all but an enhanced orang-utan, had pulled all of Xavier’s squirrel monkeys out of the workshop at short notice. It was not Xavier’s fault - his own labour relations had always been good - but the orang-utan had ordered the workers to down tools in sympathy with a party of striking colobus monkeys halfway around the rim. As far as Xavier could tell, the dispute had something to do with lemurs who were working at below-union rates and thereby taking work away from higher primates.

It was the sort of thing that might have been mildly interesting, even amusing, had it not impacted his latest job. But, Xavier reflected, it very much came with the territory. If he did not like working with monkeys, or apes, or prosimians, or even the occasional group of pygmy sloths, he should not have chosen to set up business in Carousel New Copenhagen.

The outer habitat lane was a bristling grey torus spinning within the Rust Belt, the ramshackle procession of habitats and the gutted remains of habitats that, despite all that had happened, still orbited Yellowstone. Habitats came in all shapes and sizes even before they began to suffer age, sabotage and collision. Some were enormous air-filled cylinders or spheres, adorned with mirrors and delicate gold sunshades. Others had been constructed on small asteroids or comet fragments, eased into orbit around Yellowstone by armies of Skyjacks. Sometimes the habitats wormed deep within these solid foundations, transforming their rocky hearts into a confusion of vertiginous plazas and air-filled public spaces. Others were built mainly on the surface, for ease of access to and from local space. These domed low-grav communities were clumped together like frogspawn, shot through with the iridescent green and blue of miniature biomes. Typically, the domes showed evidence of hasty repair work: scars and spider webs of emergency epoxy sealant or foam-diamond. Some had not been resealed, and what lay within was dark and lifeless, like the ashes of a fire.

Other habitats conformed to less pragmatic designs. There were wild spirals and helices, like blown glass or nautilus shells. There were enormous concatenations of spheres and tubes resembling organic molecules. There were habitats that reshaped themselves continually, slow symphonic movements of pure architecture. There were others that had clung to an outmoded design through stubborn centuries, resisting all innovation and frippery. A few others had cloaked themselves in fogs of pulverised matter, concealing their true design.

Then there were the derelicts. Some had been evacuated during the plague and had suffered no major catastrophes afterwards, but the majority had been struck by collision fragments from other habitats that had already crashed and burned. A few had been scuttled, blown apart by nuclear charges; not much remained of those. Some had been reclaimed and re-fitted during the years of reconstruction. A few were still held by aggressive squatters, despite the best efforts of the Ferrisville Convention to evict them.

Carousel New Copenhagen had weathered the plague years more successfully than some, but it had not come through totally unscathed. In the current era it was a single fat ring, rotating slowly. The rim of the ring was a kilometre wide. Seen from a distance, it was a festering blur of intricate structures, as if a strip of industrial cityscape had been wound on the outside of a wheel. Closer, it resolved into a coral-like mass of gantries and cranes and docking bays, service towers and recessed parking bays, spindly latticework exfoliating into vacuum, studded with a million stuttering lights of welding torches, advertising slogans and winking landing beacons. Arriving and departing ships, even in wartime, formed a haze of insect motion around the rim. Traffic management around Copenhagen was a headache.

At one time the wheel had rotated at twice its current rate: sufficient to generate a gee of centrifugal gravity at the rim. Ships had docked in the de-spun hub, still in free fall. Then, at the height of the plague, when the former Glitter Band was being downgraded to the Rust Belt, a rogue chunk of another habitat had taken out the entire central hub. The rim had been left spinning alone, spokeless.

There had been deaths, inevitably, many hundreds of them. Emergency ships had been parked where the hub had been, loading evacuees to ferry down to Chasm City. The precision of the impact had looked suspicious, but subsequent examination showed that it had been caused by exceptional bad luck.

Yet Copenhagen had survived. The carousel was an old one and not especially reliant on the microscopic technologies that the plague had subverted. For the millions who lived within it, life continued almost as it had before. With no easy location for new ships to dock, evacuation was painstaking at best. By the time the plague’s worst months were over, Copenhagen was still mostly inhabited. The citizenry had kept their carousel running where others had been abandoned to the care of faltering machines. They had steered it out of the way of further collisions and taken ruthless measures to stamp out plague outbreaks within their own habitats. Barring the odd subsequent accident - like the time Lyle Merrick had slammed a chemical-drive freighter into the rim, gouging the crater that the tourist ghouls still came to drool over - the carousel had survived major catastrophe pretty much intact.

In the years of the reconstruction, the carousel had tried time and again to raise the funds for rebuilding the central hub. They had never succeeded. The merchants and ship owners complained that they were losing commerce because it was so hard to land on the moving rim. But the citizenry refused to allow the wheel to be spun-down, since they had grown accustomed to gravity. Eventually they reached a compromise that pleased neither side. The spin rate was sapped by fifty per cent, dropping rim gravity by one-half. It was still tricky to berth a ship, but not quite as tricky as it had been before. Besides, the citizenry argued, departing ships were given a free kick by the carousel, flung away at a tangent; they shouldn’t complain. The pilots were not impressed. They pointed out that they had already burned the fuel that would have given them that kick during the approach itself.

But the unusual arrangement turned out to have strange benefits. During the occasionally lawless years that followed, their carousel was immune to most kinds of piracy. Squatters went elsewhere. And some pilots deliberately berthed their ships on Copenhagen’s rim because they preferred to make certain repairs under gravity, rather than in the usual free-fall docks that the other habitats offered. Things had even begun to perk up before the outbreak of war. Tentative scaffolding pointed inwards from the wheel, hinting at the spokes that would come later, followed by a new hub.

There were thousands of dry-docks on the rim. They came in many sizes and shapes, to accommodate all major classes of in-system ship. They were mostly recessed back into the rim, with the lower side open to space. Ships had to be eased up into a dock, usually aided by robot tug, before being anchored securely into place with heavy-duty docking clamps. Anything not anchored fell back out into space, usually for good. It made working on berthed ships interesting, and it was work that required a head for heights; but there were always takers.

The ship that Xavier Liu was working on, alone now that his monkeys had gone on strike, was not one he had serviced before, but he had worked on many of the same basic type. She was a Rust Belt runner; a small semi-automated cargo hauler designed to nip between habitats. Her hull was a skeletal frame on to which many storage pods could be hung like Christmas-tree ornaments. The hauler had been running between the Swift-Augustine cylinder and a carousel controlled by the House of Correction, a shadowy firm that specialised in the discreet reversal of cosmetic surgical procedures.

There were passengers aboard the hauler, each packed into a single customised storage pod. When the hauler had detected a technical fault in its navigation system it had located the nearest carousel capable of offering immediate repairs, and had made an offer of work. Xavier’s firm had returned a competitive bid, and the hauler had steered towards Copenhagen. Xavier had made sure there were robot tugs to assist the hauler towards its berth, and was now clambering around the frame of the ship, adhesive patches on his soles and palms gripping him to ticking cold metal. Tools of varying complexity hung from his spacesuit belt, and a compad of recent vintage gripped his left sleeve. Periodically he spooled out a line and plugged it into a data port in the hauler’s chassis, biting his tongue as he made sense of the numbers.

He knew that the fault in the nav system, whatever it was, would turn out to be relatively simple to fix. Once you found the fault, it was usually just a matter of ordering a replacement component from stores; a monkey would normally have brought it to him within a few minutes. The trouble was he had been climbing around this hauler for forty-five minutes, and the precise source of the error was still eluding him.

This was a problem, since the terms of the bid guaranteed that he would have the hauler back on its journey within six hours. He had used up most of the first hour already, including the time it had taken to park the ship. Five hours was normally plenty of time, but he was beginning to have the nasty feeling that this was going to be one of those jobs that ended with his firm paying out penalty money.

Xavier clambered past one of the storage pods. ‘Give me a fucking clue, you bastard ...’

The hauler’s subpersona was shrill in his earpiece. ‘Have you found the fault in me? I am most anxious to continue my mission.’

‘No. Shut up. I need to think.’

‘I repeat, I am most anxious ...’

‘Shut the fuck up.’

There was a clear patch near the front of the pod. He had so far avoided paying too much attention to any of the recipients, but this time he saw more than he intended to. There was a thing inside like a winged horse, except horses, even winged horses, did not have perfectly human female faces. Xavier looked away as the face’s eyes met his own.

He spooled his line into another plug, hoping that this time he would nail the problem. Maybe there was nothing actually wrong with the nav system, just with the fault-diagnostics web ... hadn’t that happened once before, with that hauler that came in on a slush-puppy run from Hotel Amnesia? He glanced at the time display in the bottom-right corner of his faceplate. Five hours, ten minutes left, including the time he would need to run health checks and slide the hauler back out into empty space. It was not looking good.

‘Have you found the fault in me? I am most ...’

But at least it kept his mind off the other thing, he supposed. Up against the clock, with a knotty technical problem to solve, he did not think about Antoinette with quite the usual frequency. It had not become any easier to deal with her absence. He had not agreed with her little errand, but had known that the last thing she needed was him trying to argue her out of it. Her own doubts must have been strong enough.

So he had done what he could. He had traded favours with another repair shop that had some spare capacity, and they had pulled Storm Bird into their service bay, the second largest in all of Copenhagen. Antoinette had looked on nervously, convinced that the docking clamps could not possibly hold the freighter in place against its hundred thousand tonnes of centripetal weight. But the ship had held, and Xavier’s monkeys had given it a thorough service.

Later, when the work was done, Xavier and Antoinette had made love for the last time before she went away. Antoinette had stepped back behind the airlock bulkhead and a few minutes after that, on the edge of tears, Xavier had watched Storm Bird depart, falling away until it looked impossibly small and fragile.

A little while after that, the shop had received a visit from a nastily inquisitive proxy of the Ferrisville Convention: a frightening sharp-edged contraption that crawled around for several hours, seemingly just to intimidate Xavier, before finding nothing and losing interest.

Nothing else had happened.

Antoinette had told him that she would maintain radio silence when she was in the war zone, so he was not surprised at first when he did not hear from her. Then the general news-nets had carried vague reports of some kind of military activity near Tangerine Dream, the gas giant where Antoinette was planning to bury her father. That was not supposed to have happened. Antoinette had planned her trip to coincide with a lull in military manoeuvres in that part of the system. The reports had not mentioned a civilian vessel being caught up in the struggle, but that meant nothing. Perhaps she had been hit by crossfire, her death unknown to anyone but Xavier. Or perhaps they knew she had died but did not want to advertise the fact that a civilian ship had strayed so far into a Contested Volume.

As the days turned into weeks and still there had been no report from her, he had forced himself to accept that she was dead. She had died nobly, doing something courageous, if pointless, in the middle of a war. She had not allowed herself to be sucked into cynical abnegation. He was proud to have known her, and quietly tormented that he would not see her again.

‘I must ask again. Have you found the fault ...’

Xavier tapped commands into his sleeve, disconnecting his comms from the subpersona. Let the bastard thing stew a bit, he thought.

He glanced at the clock. Four hours, fifty-five minutes, and he was still no closer to identifying the problem. In fact, one or two lines of enquiry that had looked quite promising a few minutes earlier had turned out to be resolute dead ends.

‘Fuck this bastard piece of ...’

Something pulsed green on his sleeve. Xavier studied it through a fog of irritation and mild panic. How ironic it would be, he thought, if the shop went out of business anyway, even though he had stayed behind . . .

His sleeve was telling him that he was receiving an urgent signal from outside Carousel New Copenhagen. It was coming in right at that moment, routed through to the shop via the carousel’s general comms net. The message was talk-only, and there was no option to respond in real time, since whoever was transmitting was too far downstream. Which meant that whoever was sending was well outside the Rust Belt. Xavier told his sleeve to route the message through to his helmet, spooling back to the start of the transmission.

‘Xavier ... I hope you get this. I hope that the shop is still in business, and that you haven’t called in too many favours recently. Because I’m going to have to ask you to call in a hell of a lot more.’

‘Antoinette,’ he said aloud despite himself, grinning like an idiot.

‘All you need to know is what I’m about to tell you. The rest we can go over later, in person. I’m on my way back now, but I’ve got way too much delta-vee to make the Rust Belt. You need to get a salvage tug up to my speed, and pretty damn quickly. Haven’t they got a couple of Taurus IVs over at the Lazlo dock? One of those can handle Storm Bird easily. I’m sure they owe us for that job down to Dax-Autrichiem last year.’

She gave him coordinates and a vector and told him to be alert for banshee activity in the sector she had specified. Antoinette was right: she was moving very quickly indeed. Xavier wondered what had happened, but figured that he would find out soon enough. The timing was tight, too. She had left it to the last minute to transmit the message, which only gave him a narrow window to sort out the deal with the Taurus IVs. No more than half a day, or the tugs would not be able to reach her. Then the problem would be ten times harder to solve, and would require the calling-in of favours far outside Xavier’s range.

Antoinette liked to live dangerously, he reflected.

He turned his attention back to the hauler. He was no closer to solving the problem with the nav system, but somehow it no longer weighed on his mind with quite the same sense of extreme urgency.

Xavier prodded his sleeve again, reconnecting with the subpersona. It buzzed immediately in his ear. It was as if it had been talking to him all along, even when he was no longer listening. ‘... fault yet? It is most strenuously urged that you remedy this error within the promised time period. Failure to comply with the terms of the repair bid will render you liable to penalty charges of not more than sixty thousand Ferris units, or not more than one hundred and twenty thousand if the failure to comply is ...’

He unplugged his sleeve again. Blissful silence descended.

Nimbly, Xavier climbed off the chassis of the hauler. He hopped the short distance back on to one of the bay’s repair ledges, landing amid tools and spooled cable. He turned off the grip in his palm and steadied himself, taking one last look at the hauler to make sure he had left no valuable tools lying around on it. He had not.

Xavier flipped open a panel in the oil-smeared wall of the bay. There were many controls behind the wall, huge toylike, grease-smeared buttons and levers. Some controlled electrical power and lighting; others governed pressurisation and temperature. He ignored all these, his palm coming to rest above a very prominent lever marked in scarlet: the control that undid the docking clamps.

Xavier looked back towards the hauler. It was silly, really, what he was going to do. A little more work, an hour or so, perhaps, and he might stand a very good chance of tracking down the fault. Then the hauler could go on its way, there would be no penalty fees and the repair shop’s slide into insolvency would have been arrested, if only for the next couple of weeks.

Set against that, however, was the possibility that he would continue working for the next five hours and still not find the problem. Then there would be penalty charges, not more than one hundred and twenty thousand Ferris, as the hauler had helpfully informed him, as if knowing the upper limit in some way lessened the sting, and the fact that he would be five hours late in arranging Antoinette’s rescue.

It was no contest, really.

Xavier tugged down the scarlet lever. He felt it lock into its new position with a satisfyingly old-fashioned mechanical clunk. Immediately, orange warning lights started flashing all around the bay. An alarm sounded in his helmet, telling him to keep well away from moving metal.

The clamps retracted in a rapid flurry, like telegraphic relays. For a moment the hauler hung suspended, magically. Then centrifugal gravity took over, and with something close to majesty the skeletal spacecraft descended out of the repair bay as smoothly and elegantly as a falling chandelier. Xavier was denied a view of the hauler dwindling into the distance - the carousel’s rotation snatched it out of his line of sight. He could wait until the next pass, but he had work to do.

The hauler was unharmed, he knew. Once it was clear of Copenhagen another repair specialist would undoubtedly pick it up. In a few hours it would probably be back on its way to the House of Correction with its load of unfashionably mutated passengers.

Of course, there would still be hell to pay from a number of quarters: the passengers themselves, if they ever got wind; Swift-Augustine, the habitat that had sent them; the cartel that owned the hauler; maybe even the House of Correction itself, for endangering its clients.

They could all go fuck themselves. He had heard from Antoinette, and that was all that mattered.

EIGHT

Clavain looked at the stars.

He was outside the Mother Nest, alone, perched head-up or head-down - he could not decide which - on the practically weightless surface of the hollowed-out comet. There was no other human being visible in any direction, no evidence, in fact, of any kind of human presence at all. A passing observer, spying Clavain, would have assumed that he had been cruelly marooned on the surface of the comet without ship, supplies or shelter. There was no evidence whatsoever of the vast clockwork which spun at the comet’s heart.

The comet spun slowly, periodically lifting the pale jewel of Epsilon Eridani above Clavain’s horizon. The star was brighter than all the others in the sky, but it still looked like a star rather than a sun. He felt the immense chill of the empty space between himself and the star. It was a mere 100 AU distant - not even a scratch compared with interstellar distances, but it still caused him to shiver. He had never lost that mingled combination of awe and terror that welled up in him when confronted by the routinely huge distances of space.

Light caught his eye. It was an impossibly faint flicker somewhere in the plane of the ecliptic, a hand’s width from Eridani. There it was again: a sharp, sudden spark at the limit of detectability. He was not imagining it. Another flash followed, a tiny distance away from the first two. Clavain ordered his helmet visor to screen out the light of the sun, so that his eyes did not have to deal with such a large dynamic range in brightness. The visor obliged, occluding the star with a precise black mask, exactly as if he had stared at the sun for too long.

He knew what he was looking at. It was a space battle dozens of light-hours away. The ships involved were probably spread through a volume of space several light-minutes from side to side, firing at each other with heavy relativistic weapons. Had he been in the Mother Nest he could have tapped into the general tactics database and retrieved information on the assets known to be patrolling that sector of the solar system. But it would have told him nothing he could not deduce for himself.

The flashes were mostly dying ships. Now and then one would be the triggering pulse of a Demarchist railgun - cumbersome, thousand-kilometre-long linear accelerator barrels. They had to be energised by detonating a string of cobalt-fusion bombs. The blast would rip the railgun to atoms, but not before it had accelerated a tank-sized slug of stabilised metallic hydrogen up to seventy per cent of light-speed, surfing just ahead of the annihilation wave.

The Conjoiners had weapons of similar effectiveness, but which drew their energising pulse from space-time itself. They could be fired more than once, and steered more quickly. They did not flash when they were fired.

Clavain knew that a spectroscopic analysis of the light in each of those flashes would have confirmed their origin. But he would not have been surprised to learn that most of them were caused by direct hits to Demarchist cruisers.

The enemy were dying out there. They were dying instantly, in explosions so bright and fast that there could be no pain, no realisation that death had come. But a painless death was only a small consolation. There would be many ships in that squadron; the survivors would be witnessing the destruction of their compatriots’ vessels and wondering who would be next. They would never know when a slug was on its way towards them, and they would never know when it arrived.

From where Clavain stood, it was like watching fireworks above a remote town. From the colours of Agincourt to the flames of Guernica, to the pure shining light of Nagasaki like a cleansing sword blade catching the sun, to the contrails etched above the skies of the Tharsis Bulge, to the distant flash of heavy relativistic weapons against a starscape of sable-black in the early years of the twenty-seventh century: Clavain did not need to be reminded that war was horrific, but from a distance it could also have a terrible searing beauty.

The battle sunk towards the horizon. Presently it would be gone, leaving a sky unsullied by human affairs.

He thought of what he had learned about the Closed Council. Remontoire, with, Clavain assumed, Skade’s tacit approval, had told him a little about the role Clavain would be expected to play. It was not merely that they wanted him within the Closed Council so that he could be kept out of harm’s way. No. Clavain was needed to assist in a delicate operation. It would be a military action and it would take place beyond the Epsilon Eridani system. It would concern the recovery of a number of items that had fallen into the wrong hands.

Remontoire would not say what those items were; only that their recovery - which implied that they had at some point been lost - would be vital to the future security of the Mother Nest. If he wanted to learn more, and he would have to learn more if he was to be of any use to the Mother Nest, he would have to join the Closed Council. It sounded breathtakingly simple. Now that he considered it, alone on the surface of the comet, he had to admit that it probably was. His qualms were out of all proportion to the facts.

And yet he could not bring himself to trust Skade fully. She knew more than he did, and that would continue to be the case even if he agreed to join the Closed Council. He would be one layer closer to the Inner Sanctum then, but he would still not be within it - and what was to say that there were not additional layers behind that?

The battle rose again, over the opposite horizon. Clavain watched it dutifully, noting that the flashes were far less frequent now. The engagement was drawing to a close. It was practically certain that the Demarchists would have sustained the heaviest losses. There might even have been zero casualties on his own side. The enemy’s survivors would soon be limping back to their respective bases, struggling to avoid further engagements on the way. Before very long the battle would figure in a propaganda transmission, the facts wrung to squeeze some tiny drop of optimism out of the overwhelming Demarchist defeat. He had seen it happen a thousand times; there would be more such battles, but not many. The enemy were losing. They had been on the losing side for years. So why was anyone worried about the future security of the Mother Nest?

There was, he knew, only one way to find out.

The tender found its slot on the rim, edging home with unerring machine precision. Clavain disembarked into standard gravity, puffing for the first few minutes until he adjusted to the effort.

He made his way through a circuitous route of corridors and ramps. There were other Conjoiners about, but they spared him no particular attention. When he felt the wash of their thoughts, sensing their impressions of him, he detected only quiet respect and admiration, with perhaps the tiniest tempering of pity. The general populace knew nothing of Skade’s efforts to bring him into the Closed Council.

The corridors grew darker and smaller. Spartan grey walls became festooned with conduits, panels and the occasional grilled duct through which warm air blasted. Machines thrummed beneath his feet and behind the walls. The lighting was intermittent and meagre. At no point had Clavain stepped through any kind of prohibited door, but the general impression now to anyone unfamiliar with this part of the wheel would have been that they had strayed into some slightly forbidding maintenance section. A few made it this far, but most would have turned back and kept walking until they found themselves in more welcoming territory.

Clavain continued. He had reached a part of the wheel that was unrecorded on any blueprints or maps. Most of the citizens of the Mother Nest knew nothing of its existence. He approached a bronze-green bulkhead. It was unguarded and unmarked. Next to it was a thick-rimmed metal wheel with three spokes. Clavain grasped the wheel by two of the spokes and tugged it. For a moment it was stiff - no one had been down here in some time - but then it oozed into mobility. Clavain yanked it round until it spun freely. The bulkhead door eased out like a stopper, dripping condensation and lubricant. As he turned the wheel further the stopper hinged aside, allowing entry. The stopper was like a huge squat piston, its sides polished to a brilliant hermetic gleam.

Beyond was an even darker space. Clavain stepped over the half-metre lip of the bulkhead, ducking to avoid grazing his scalp against the transom. The metal was cold against his fingers. He blew on them until they felt less numb.

Once he was inside, Clavain spun a second wheel until the bulkhead was again tightly sealed, tugging his sleeves down over his fingers as he worked. Then he took a few steps further into the gloom. Pale green lights came on in steps, stammering back into the darkness.

The chamber was immense, low and long like a gunpowder store. The curve of the wheel’s rim was just visible, the walls arcing upwards and the floor bending with them. Into the distance stretched row after row of reefersleep caskets.

Clavain knew precisely how many there were: one hundred and seventeen. One hundred and seventeen people had returned from deep space aboard Galiana’s ship, but all had been beyond any reasonable hope of revival. In many cases, the violence inflicted on her crew had been so extreme that the remains could only be segregated by genetic profiling. Nonetheless, however sparse the remains had been, each identified individual had been allocated a single reefersleep casket.

Clavain made his way down the aisles between the rows of caskets, the grilled flooring clattering beneath his feet. The caskets hummed quietly. They were all still operational, but that was only because it was considered wise to keep the remains frozen, not because there was any realistic hope of reviving most of them. There was no sign of any active wolf machinery embedded in any of the remains - except, of course, for one - but that did not mean that there were no dormant microscopic wolf parasites lurking just below the detection threshold. The bodies could have been cremated, but that would have removed the possibility of ever learning anything about the wolves. The Mother Nest was nothing if not prudent.

Clavain reached Galiana’s reefersleep casket. It stood apart from the others, raised fractionally on a sloping plinth. Exposed intricacies of corroded machinery suggested ornate stonework carving. It called to mind the coffin of a fairy queen, a much-loved and courageous monarch who had defended her people until the end and who now slept in death, surrounded by her most trusted knights, advisers and ladies-in-waiting. The upper portion of the casket was transparent, so that something of Galiana’s form was visible in silhouette long before one stood by the casket itself. She looked serenely accepting of her fate, with her arms folded across her chest, her head raised to the ceiling, accentuating the strong, noble line of her jaw. Her eyes were closed and her brow smooth. Long grey-streaked hair lay in dark pools on either side of her face. A billion ice particles glittered across her skin, twinkling in pastel flickers of blue and pink and pale green as Clavain’s angle of view changed. She looked exquisitely beautiful and delicate in death, as if she had been carved from sugar.

He wanted to weep.

Clavain touched the cold lid of the casket, skating his fingers across the surface, leaving four faint trails. He had imagined a thousand times the things he might say to her should she ever emerge from the Wolf’s clasp. She had never been thawed again after that one time shortly after her return, but that did not mean that it might not happen again, years or centuries from now. Time and again Clavain had wondered what he would say, were Galiana to shine through the mask even for the briefest of moments. He wondered if she would remember him and the things they had shared. Would she even remember Felka, who was as close to being her daughter as made no difference?

There was no point thinking about it. He knew he would never speak to her again.

‘I’ve made my mind up,’ he said, the fog of his breath visible before him. ‘I’m not sure you’d approve, since you would never have agreed to something like the Closed Council existing in the first place. They say the war made it inevitable, that the demands for operational secrecy forced us to compartmentalise our thinking. But the Council was already there before the war broke out, in a nascent form. We’ve always had secrets, even from ourselves.’

His fingers were very cold. ‘I’m doing it because I think something bad is going to happen. If it’s something that has to be stopped, I will do my best to make sure it is. If it can’t be helped, I will do my best to guide the Mother Nest through whatever crisis is awaiting it. But I can’t do either on the outside.

‘I’ve never felt so uneasy about a victory as I do about this one, Galiana. I’ve a sense you’d feel much the same way. You always used to be suspicious of anything that looked too simple, anything that looked like a ruse. I should know. I fell for one of your tricks once.’

He shivered. It was suddenly very cold and he had the prickly feeling that he was being watched. All around him the reefersleep caskets hummed, their banks of status lights and read-outs unchanging.

Clavain suddenly knew that he did not want to spend much longer in the vault. ‘Galiana,’ he said, too hastily for comfort, ‘I have to do it. I have to accede to Skade’s request, for good or ill. I just hope you understand.’

‘She will, Clavain.’

He turned around sharply, but even in the act of turning he realised that he knew the voice and it was nothing to be alarmed by. ‘Felka.’ His relief was total. ‘How did you find me?’

‘I assumed you’d be down here, Clavain. I knew Galiana would always be the one you spoke to last of all.’

She had entered the vault unheard. He could see now that the door at the end was ajar. What had made him shiver was the shift in air currents as the vault was opened.

‘I don’t know why I’m here,’ Clavain said. ‘I know she’s dead.’

‘She’s your conscience, Clavain.’

‘That’s why I loved her.’

‘We all did. That’s why she still seems to be alive, to be guiding us.’ Felka was by his side now. ‘It’s all right to come down here. It doesn’t make me think less of you, or respect you less.’

‘I think I know what I have to do.’

She nodded, as if he had merely told her the time of day. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here. It’s too cold for the living. Galiana won’t mind.’

Clavain followed her to the door leading out of the vault.

Once they were on the other side he worked the wheel, sealing the great piston-like stopper back into place, sealing memories and ghosts away where they belonged.

Clavain was ushered into the privy chamber. As he crossed the threshold he felt the million background thoughts of the Mother Nest drop from his mind like a single dying sigh. He imagined that the transition would have been traumatic for many of the Conjoined, but even if he had not just come from Galiana’s place of rest, where the same kind of exclusion applied, he would not have found it more than a little jarring. Clavain had spent too much time on the fringes of Conjoiner society to be troubled by the absence of other thoughts in his head.

He was not entirely alone, of course. He sensed the minds of those in the chamber, although the usual Closed Council restrictions still only allowed him to skim the surfaces of their thoughts. The chamber itself was unremarkable: a large sphere with many seats arranged in encircling balconies reaching almost to the chamber’s zenith. The floor was flat and gleaming-grey, with a single austere chair positioned in the chamber’s centre. The chair was solid, curving seamlessly into the floor as if it had been pushed through from beneath.

[Clavain.] It was Skade. She was standing on the tip of a protruding tongue jutting from one side of the chamber.

Yes?

[Sit in the seat, Clavain.]

He walked across the glittering floor, his soles clicking against the material. The atmosphere could not help but feel judicial; he might as well have been walking towards a place of execution.

Clavain eased himself into the seat, which was as comfortable as it had appeared. He crossed his legs and scratched his beard. Let’s get this over with, Skade.

[All in good time, Clavain. Do you appreciate that with the burden of knowledge comes the additional burden of holding that knowledge secure? That once you have learned Closed Council secrets, you cannot jeopardise them by risking enemy capture? That even communicating these secrets to other Conjoiners cannot be tolerated?]

I know what I’m letting myself in for, Skade.

[We just want to be certain, Clavain. You cannot begrudge us that.] Remontoire rose from his seat. [He’s said he’s ready, Skade. That’s enough.]

She regarded Remontoire with an absence of emotion that Clavain found far more chilling than mere anger. [Thank you, Remontoire.]

He’s right. I am ready. And willing.

Skade nodded. [Then prepare yourself. Your mind is about to be allowed access to previously excluded data.]

Clavain could not help gripping the armrests of his chair, knowing as he did so how ridiculous the instinct was. This was how he had felt four hundred years earlier, when Galiana had first introduced him to Transenlightenment. It had been in her nest on Mars, and she had infected his mind with droves of machines after he had been injured. She had given him a glimpse then, no more than that, but in the moments before it arrived he had felt like a man standing before the rushing wall of a tsunami, counting down the seconds until he was engulfed. He felt like that now, even though he was anticipating no actual change in consciousness. It was enough to know that he was about to be granted access to secrets so shattering that they merited layers of hierarchy within an otherwise omniscient hive mind.

He waited ... but nothing happened.

[It’s done.]

He relaxed his grip on the seat. I feel exactly the same.

[You’re not.]

Clavain looked around him at the ringed walls of the chamber. Nothing had altered; nothing felt different. He examined his memory and there seemed to be nothing lurking there that had not been present a minute earlier. I don’t ...

[Before you came here, before you made this decision, we permitted you to know that the reason for our seeking your assistance was a matter of recovering lost property. Isn’t that true, Clavain?]

You wouldn’t tell me what you were looking for. I still don’t know. [That’s because you haven’t asked yourself the right question.]

And what question would you like me to ask, Skade?

[Ask yourself what you know about the hell-class weapons, Clavain. I’m sure you’ll find the answer very interesting.]

I don’t know anything about any hell-class ...

But he faltered, fell silent. He knew exactly what the hell-class weapons were.

Now that the information was available to him, Clavain realised that he had heard rumours of the weapons on many occasions during his time amongst the Conjoined. Their bitterest enemies told cautionary tales of the Conjoiners’ hidden stockpile of ultimate weapons, doomsday devices so ferocious in their destructive capability that they had hardly been tested, and had certainly never been used in any actual engagements. The weapons were supposedly very old, manufactured during the very earliest phase of Conjoiner history. The rumours varied in detail, but all the stories agreed on one thing: there had been forty weapons, and none of them were precisely alike.

Clavain had never taken the rumours seriously, assuming that they must have originated with some forgotten piece of fear-mongering by one of the Mother Nest’s counter-intelligence units. It was unthinkable that the weapons could ever have been real. In all the time he had been amongst the Conjoined, no official hint of the existence of such weapons had ever come his way. Galiana had never spoken of them, and yet if the weapons were truly old - dating back to the Mars era - she could not possibly have been unaware of their existence.

But the weapons had existed.

Clavain sifted through his bright new memories with grim fascination. He had always known there were secrets within the Mother Nest, but he had never suspected that something so momentous could have been concealed for so long. He felt as if he had just discovered a vast, hidden room in a house he had lived in nearly all his life. The feeling of dislocation - and betrayal - was acute.

There were forty weapons, just like in the old tales. Each was a prototype, exploiting some uniquely subtle and nastily inventive principle of breakthrough physics. And Galiana did indeed know about them. She had authorised the construction of the weapons in the first place, at the height of the Conjoiner persecution. At the time, her enemies had been effective only by weight of numbers rather than technical superiority. With the forty new weapons she could have wiped the slate clean, but at the eleventh hour she had chosen not to: better to be erased from existence than have genocide on her hands.

But that had not been the end. There had been blunders by the enemy, lucky breaks and contingencies. Galiana’s people had been pushed to the brink, but they had never quite been excised from history.

Afterwards, Clavain learned that the weapons had been locked away for safekeeping, stockpiled inside an armoured asteroid in another system. Murky images flickered through his mind’s eye: barricaded vaults, fierce cybernetic watchdogs, perilous traps and deadfalls. Galiana had clearly feared the weapons as much as she feared her enemies, and though she was not willing to dismantle the weapons, she had done her best to put them beyond immediate use. The data that had allowed them to be made in the first place was erased, and apparently this had been sufficient to prevent any further attempts at duplication. Should the weapons ever be needed again - should another time of mass persecution arise - the weapons were still there to be used; but distance - years of flight-time - meant there was a generous cooling-off period built into the arrangement. Her forty hell-class weapons could only ever be used in cold blood, and that was the way it should be.

But the weapons had been stolen. The impregnable asteroid had been breached and by the time a Conjoiner investigative team arrived there was no trace of the thieves. Whoever had done it had been clever enough both to break through the defences and to avoid waking the weapons themselves. In their dormant condition the forty weapons could not be tracked, remotely destroyed or pacified.

There had been many attempts to locate the lost weapons, Clavain learned, but so far all had failed. Knowledge of the cache had been a closely guarded secret to begin with; the theft was kept even more hush-hush, with only a few very senior Conjoiners knowing what had happened. As the decades passed, they held their collective breaths: in the wrong hands, the weapons could shatter worlds like glass. Their only hope was that the thieves did not realise the potency of what they had stolen.

Decades became a century, then two centuries. There had been a great many disasters and crises in human space, but never any indication that the weapons had been awakened. The few Conjoiners in the know began to dare to believe that the matter could be quietly forgotten: perhaps the weapons had been abandoned in deep space, or tossed into the searing face of a star.

But the weapons had not been lost.

Completely unexpectedly, not long before Clavain’s return from deep space, activation signatures had been detected in the vicinity of Delta Pavonis, a sunlike star slightly more than fifteen light-years from the Mother Nest. The neutrino signals were weak; it was possible that earlier flickers of awakening had been missed entirely. But the most recent signals were quite unambiguous: a number of the weapons had been awakened from dormancy.

The Delta Pavonis system was not on the main trade routes. It did have a single colony world, Resurgam, a settlement established by an archaeological expedition from Yellowstone that had been led by Dan Sylveste, the son of the cyberneticist Calvin Sylveste and scion of one of the wealthiest families within Demarchist society. Sylveste’s archaeologists had been picking through the remains of a birdlike race that had lived on the planet barely a million years earlier. The colony had gradually severed formal ties with Yellowstone, and a series of regimes had seen the original scientific agenda replaced by a conflicting policy of terraforming and widescale settlement. There had been coups and violence, but it was nonetheless highly unlikely that the settlers were the ones who now possessed the weapons. Scrutiny of outbound traffic records from Yellowstone showed the departure of another ship en route to Resurgam: a lighthugger, Nostalgia for Infinity, that had arrived around the system at approximately the time that the activation signatures were detected. There was scant information on the ship’s crew and history, but Clavain learned from Rust Belt immigration records that a woman named Ilia Volyova had been scouting for new crewmembers immediately before the ship’s departure. The name might or might not have been genuine - in those confused post-plague days, ships could get away with whatever identities suited them - but Volyova had reappeared. Although very few transmissions made it back to Yellowstone, one of those, panicked and fragmentary, had mentioned Volyova’s ship terrorising the colony into surrendering its former leader. For some reason, Volyova’s Ultranaut crew wanted Dan Sylveste aboard their ship.

This did not mean that Volyova was definitely in charge of the weapons, but Clavain agreed with Skade’s assessment that she was the most likely suspect. She had a ship large enough to have held the weapons, she had used violence against the colony and she had arrived on the scene at the same time as the weapons had been revived from dormancy. It was impossible to guess what Volyova wanted with the weapons, but her association with them appeared beyond question.

She was the thief they had been looking for.

Skade’s crest pulsed with ripples of jade and bronze. New memories unpacked into his head: video clips and still-frame grabs of Volyova. Clavain was not quite sure what he had been expecting, but it was not the crop-haired, round-faced, shrewlike woman that Skade revealed to him. Had he walked into a room of suspects, Volyova would have been one of the last people he would have turned to.

Skade smiled at him. She had his full attention. [Now you understand why we need your help. The location and status of the thirty-nine remaining weapons ... ]

Thirty-nine, Skade? I thought there were forty.

[Didn’t I mention that one of the weapons has already been destroyed?]

You missed that part out, I think.

[We can’t be certain at this range. The weapons slip in and out of hibernation, like restless monsters. Certainly one weapon hasn’t been detected since 2565, local Resurgam time. We presume it lost, or damaged at the very least. And six of the remaining thirty-nine weapons have become detached from the main grouping. We still have intermittent signals from those weapons, but they are much closer to the neutron star on the system’s edge. The other thirty-three weapons are within an AU of Delta Pavonis, at the trailing Lagrange point of the Resurgam-Delta Pavonis system. In all likelihood they are within the hull of the Triumvir’s lighthugger.]

Clavain raised a hand. Wait. You detected some of these signals as long ago as 2565?

[Local Resurgam time, Clavain.]

Nonetheless, you’d still have detected the signals here around ... when, 2580? Thirty-three years ago, Skade. Why the hell didn’t you act sooner?

[This is wartime, Clavain. We’ve hardly been in a position to mount an extensive, logistically complex recovery operation.]

Until now, that is.

Skade conceded his point with the slightest of nods. [Now the tide is turning in our favour. Finally we can afford to divert some resources. Make no mistake, Clavain, recovering these weapons will not be easy. We will be attempting to repossess items that were stolen from a stronghold that we would even now have grave difficulty breaking into ourselves. Volyova has her own weapons, quite apart from those she has stolen from us. And the evidence of her crimes on Resurgam suggests that she has the nerve to use them. But we simply must have the weapons back, no matter the cost in assets and time.]

Assets? You mean lives?

[You have never flinched from accepting the costs of war, Clavain. That is why we want you to co-ordinate this recovery operation. Peruse these memories if you doubt your own suitability.]

She did not give him the dignity of a warning. Chunks of his past crashed into his immediate consciousness, jolting him back to past campaigns and past actions. War movies, Clavain thought, remembering the old two-dimensional, monochrome recordings he had watched during his earliest days in the Coalition for Neural Purity, sifting them - usually in vain - for any hint of a lesson that he might use against real enemies. But now the war movies that Skade showed him, slamming past in accelerated bursts, were ones in which he was the protagonist. And for the most part they were historically accurate, too: a parade of actions he had participated in. There was a hostage release in the warrens of Gilgamesh Isis, during which Clavain had lost a hand to a sulphur burn, an injury that took a year to heal. There was the time Clavain and a female Conjoiner had smuggled the brain of a Demarchist scientist out of the custody of a faction of renegade Mixmasters around Marco’s Eye. Clavain’s partner had been surgically modified so that she could keep the brain alive in her womb, following simple reverse Caesarean surgery that Clavain had administered. They had left the man’s body behind for his captors to discover. Afterwards, the Conjoiners had cloned the man a new body and packed the traumatised brain back into it.

Then there was Clavain’s recovery of a stolen Conjoiner drive from dissident Skyjacks camped in one of the outer nodes of the Bloater agrarian hive, and the liberation of an entire Pattern Juggler world from Ultra profiteers who wanted to charge for access to the mind-altering alien ocean. There were more, many more. Clavain always survived and nearly always triumphed. There were other universes, he knew, where he had died much earlier: he hadn’t been any less skilled in those histories, but his luck had just played out differently. He could not extrapolate from this run of successes and assume that he was bound to succeed at the next hurdle.

Even though he was not guaranteed to succeed, it was clear that Clavain stood a better chance than anyone else in the Closed Council.

He smiled ruefully. You seem to know me better than I know myself.

[I know that you will help us, Clavain, or I would not have brought you this far. I’m right, of course, aren’t I? You will help us, won’t you?]

Clavain looked around the room, taking in the gruesome menagerie of wraithlike seniors, wizened elders and obscene glass-bottled end-state Conjoiners. They were all hanging on his answer, even the visible brains seeming to hesitate in their wheezing pulsations. Skade was right, of course. There was no one Clavain would have trusted to do the job other than himself, even now, at this late hour in both his career and his life. It would take decades, nearly twenty years just to reach Resurgam, and another twenty to come back with the prize. But forty years was really not a very long time when set against four or five centuries. And for most of that time he would be frozen, anyway.

Forty years; maybe five years at this end to prepare for it, and perhaps as much as a year for the operation itself ... altogether, something close to half a century. He looked at Skade, observing the expectant way the ripples on her crest slowed to a halt. He knew that Skade had trouble reading his mind at the deepest level - it was his very opacity which made him both fascinating and infuriating to her - but he suspected that she could read his assent well enough.

I’ll do it. But there are conditions.

[Conditions, Clavain?]

I pick my team. And I say who travels with me. If I ask for Felka and Remontoire, and if they agree to come with me to Resurgam, then you’ll allow it.

Skade considered, then nodded with the precise delicacy of a shadow puppet. [Of course. Forty years is a long time to be away. Is that all?]

No, of course not. I won’t go against Volyova unless I have a crushing tactical superiority from the word go. That’s how I’ve always worked, Skade: full-spectrum dominance. That means more than one ship. Two at the very least, three ideally, and I’ll take more if the Mother Nest can manufacture them in time. I don’t care about the edict, either. We need lighthuggers, heavily armed with the nastiest weapons we’ve got. One prototype isn’t enough, and given the time it takes to build anything these days, we’d better start work immediately. You can’t just click your fingers at an asteroid and have a starship pop out of the end four days later.

Skade touched a finger to her lower lip. Her eyes closed for an instant longer than a blink. For that moment Clavain had the intense feeling that she was in heated dialogue with another. He thought that he saw her eyelids quiver, like a fever-racked dreamer.

[You’re right, Clavain. We will need ships; new ones, incorporating the refinements built into Nightshade. But you don’t have to worry. We’ve already started making them. As a matter of fact, they’re coming on nicely.]

Clavain narrowed his eyes. New ships? Where?

[A little way from here, Clavain.]

He nodded. Good. Then it won’t hurt to take me to see them, will it? I’d like to have a look over them before it’s too late to change anything.

[Clavain ... ]

That isn’t open to negotiation either, Skade. If I want to get the job done, I’ll need to see the tools of my trade.

NINE

The Inquisitor relaxed her seat restraints and sketched a window for herself in the opaque hull material of the Triumvir’s shuttle. The hull obligingly opened a transparent rectangle, offering the Inquisitor her first view of Resurgam from space in fifteen years.

Much had changed even in that relatively brief span of planetary time. Clouds which had previously been vapid streaks of high-altitude moisture now billowed in thick creamy masses, whipped into spiral patterns by the blind artistry of Coriolis force. Sunlight glared back at her from the enamelled surfaces of lakes and miniature seas. There were hard-edged expanses of green and gold stitched across the planet in geometric clusters, threaded by silver-blue irrigation channels deep enough to carry barges. There were the faint grey scratches of slev lines and highways. Cities and settlements were smears of crosshatched streets and buildings, barely resolved even when the Inquisitor asked the window to flex into magnification mode. Near the hubs of the oldest settlements, like Cuvier, were the remnants of the old habitat domes or their foundation rings. Now and then she saw the bright moving bead of a transport dirigible high in the stratosphere, or the much smaller speck of an aircraft on government duty. But on this scale most human activity was invisible. She might as well have been studying surface features on some hugely magnified virus.

The Inquisitor, who after years of suppressing that part of her personality was again beginning to think of herself as Ana Khouri, did not have any particularly strong feelings of attachment to Resurgam, even after all the years she had spent incognito on its surface. But what she saw from orbit was sobering. The planet was more than the temporary colony it had been when she had first arrived in the system. It was a home to many people, all they had known. In the course of her investigations she had met many of them and she knew that there were still good people on Resurgam. They could not all be blamed for the present government or the injustices of the past. They at least deserved the chance to live and die on the world they had come to call their home. And by dying she meant by natural causes. That, unfortunately, was the part that could no longer be guaranteed.

The shuttle was tiny and fast. The Triumvir, Ilia Volyova, was snoozing in the other seat, with the peak of a nondescript grey cap tugged down over her brow. It was the shuttle that had brought her down to Resurgam in the first place, before she contacted the Inquisitor. The shuttle’s avionics program knew how to dodge between the government radar sweeps, but it had always seemed prudent to keep such excursions to a minimum. If they were caught, if there was even a suspicion that a spacecraft was routinely entering and leaving Resurgam’s atmosphere, heads would roll at every level of government. Even if Inquisition House was not directly implicated, Khouri’s position would become extremely unsafe. The backgrounds of key government personnel would be subjected to a deep and probing scrutiny. Despite her precautions, her origins might be revealed.

The stealthy ascent had necessitated a shallow acceleration profile, but once it was clear of atmosphere and outside the effective range of the radar sweeps the shuttle’s engines revved up to three gees, pressing the two of them back into their seats. Khouri began to feel drowsy and realised, just as she slid into sleep, that the shuttle was pumping a perfumed narcotic into the air. She slept dreamlessly, and awoke with the same mild sense of objection.

They were somewhere else.

‘How long were we under?’ she asked Volyova, who was smoking.

‘Just under a day. I hope that alibi you cooked up was good, Ana; you’re going to need it when you get back to Cuvier.’

‘I said I had to go into the wilderness to interview a deep-cover agent. Don’t worry; I established the background for this a long time ago. I always knew I might have to be away for a while.’ Khouri undid her seat restraints - the shuttle was no longer accelerating - and attempted to scratch an itch somewhere near the small of her back. ‘Any chance of a shower, whenever we get where we’re going?’

‘That depends. Where exactly do you think we’re headed?’

‘Let’s just say I have a horrible feeling I’ve already been there.’

Volyova stubbed out her cigarette and made the front of the hull turn glassy. They were in deep interplanetary space, still in the ecliptic, but good light-minutes from any world, yet something was blocking the view of the starfield ahead of them.

‘There she is, Ana. The good ship Nostalgia for Infinity. Still very much as you left her.’

‘Thanks. Any other cheering sentiments, while you’re at it?’

‘The last time I checked the showers were out of order.’

‘The last time you checked?’

Volyova paused and made a clucking sound with her tongue. ‘Buckle up. I’m taking us in.’

They swooped in close to the dark misshapen mass of the lighthugger. Khouri remembered her first approach to this same ship, back when she had been tricked aboard it in the Epsilon Eridani system. It had looked just about normal then, about what one would expect of a large, moderately old trade lighthugger. There had been a distinct absence of odd excrescences and protuberances, a marked lack of daggerlike jutting appendages or elbowed turretlike growths. The hull had been more or less smooth - worn and weathered here and there, interrupted by machines, sensor-pods and entry bays in other places - but there had been nothing about it that would have invited particular comment or disquiet. There had been no acres of lizardskin texturing or dried-mudplain expanses of interlocked platelets; no suggestion that buried biological imperatives had finally erupted to the surface in an orgy of biomechanical transformation.

But now the ship did not look much like a ship at all. What it did resemble, if Khouri had to associate it with anything, was a fairytale palace gone sick, a once-glittering assemblage of towers and oubliettes and spires that had been perverted by the vilest of magics. The basic shape of the starship was still evident: she could pick out the main hull and its two jutting engine nacelles, each larger than a freight-dirigible hangar; but that functional core was almost lost under the baroque growth layers that had lately stormed the ship. Various organising principles had been at work, ensuring that the growths, which had been mediated by the ship’s repair and redesign subsystems, had a mad artistry about them, a foul flamboyance which both awed and revolted. There were spirals like the growth patterns in ammonites. There were whorls and knots like vastly magnified wood grain. There were spars and filaments and netlike meshes, bristling hairlike spines and blocky chancrous masses of interlocked crystals. There were places where some major structure had been echoed and re-echoed in a fractal diminuendo, vanishing down to the limit of vision. The crawling intricacies of the transformations operated on all scales. If one looked for too long, one started seeing faces or parts of faces in the juxtapositions of warped armour. Look longer and one started seeing one’s own horrified reflection. But under all that, Khouri thought, it was still a ship.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘I see it hasn’t got a fuck of a lot better since I was away.’

Volyova smiled beneath the brim of her cap. ‘I’m encouraged. That sounds a lot less like the Inquisitor and a lot more like the old Ana Khouri.’

‘Yeah? Pity it took a fucking nightmare like that to bring me back.’

‘Oh, this is nothing,’ Volyova said cheerfully. ‘Wait until we’re inside.’

The shuttle had to swerve through a wrinkled eyelike gap in the hull growth to reach the docking bay. But the interior of the bay was still more or less rectangular, and the major servicing systems, which had never much depended on nanotechnology, were still in place and recognisable. An assortment of other in-system craft was packed into the chamber, ranging from blunt-nosed vacuum tugs to major shuttles.

They docked. This part of the ship was not spun for gravity, so they disembarked under weightless conditions, pulling themselves along via grab rails. Khouri was more than willing to let Volyova go ahead of her. Both of them carried torches and emergency oxygen masks, and Khouri was very tempted to start using her supply. The air in the ship was horribly warm and humid, with a rotten taste to it. It was like breathing someone else’s stomach gas.

Khouri covered her mouth with her sleeve, fighting the urge to retch. ‘Ilia ...’

‘You’ll get used to it. It isn’t harmful.’ She extracted something from her pocket. ‘Cigarette?’

‘Have you ever known me to say yes to one of those damned things before?’

‘There’s always a first time.’

Khouri waited while Volyova lit the cigarette for her and then drew on it experimentally. It was bad, but still a marked improvement on unfiltered ship air.

‘Filthy habit, really,’ Volyova said, with a smile. ‘But then filthy times call for filthy habits. Feeling better now?’

Khouri nodded, but without any great conviction.

They moved through gulletlike tunnels whose walls glistened with damp secretions or beguilingly regular crystal patterns. Khouri brushed herself along with gloved hands. Now and then she recognised some old aspect of the ship - a conduit, bulkhead or inspection box - but typically it would be half-melted into its surroundings or surreally distorted. Hard surfaces had become fuzzily fractal, extending blurred grey boundaries into thin air. Varicoloured slimes and unguents threw back their torchlights in queasy diffraction patterns. Amoebalike blobs drifted through the air, following - or at times swimming against, it seemed - the prevailing shipboard air-currents.

Via grinding locks and wheels they transferred to the part of the ship that was still rotating. Khouri was grateful for the gravity, but with it came an unanticipated unpleasantness. Now there was somewhere for the fluids and secretions to run to. They dripped and dribbled from the walls in miniature cataracts, congealing on the floor before finding their way to a drainage aperture or hole. Certain secretions had formed stalagmites and stalactites, amber and snot-green prongs fingering between floor and ceiling. Khouri did her best not to brush against them, but it was not the easiest of tasks. She noticed that Volyova had no such inhibitions. Within minutes her jacket was smeared and swabbed with several varieties of shipboard effluent.

‘Relax,’ Volyova said, noticing her discomfort. ‘It’s perfectly safe. There’s nothing on the ship that can harm either of us. You - um - have had those gunnery implants taken out, haven’t you?’

‘You should remember. You did it.’

‘Just checking.’

‘Ha. You’re actually enjoying this, aren’t you?’

‘I’ve learned to take my pleasures where I can find them, Ana. Especially in times of deep existential crisis ...’ Ilya Volyova flicked a cigarette butt into the shadows and lit herself another.

They continued in silence. Eventually they reached one of the elevator shafts that threaded the ship lengthwise, like the main elevator shaft in a skyscraper. With the ship rotating rather than being under thrust it was much easier to move along its lateral axis. But it was still four kilometres from the tip of the ship to its tail, so it made sense to use the shafts wherever possible. To Khouri’s surprise, a car was waiting for them in the shaft. She followed Volyova into it with moderate trepidation, but the car looked normal inside and accelerated smoothly enough.

‘The elevators are still working?’ Khouri asked.

‘They’re a key shipboard system,’ Volyova said. ‘Remember, I’ve got tools for containing the plague. They don’t work perfectly, but I can at least steer the disease clear of anything I don’t want to become too corrupted. And the Captain himself is occasionally willing to assist. The transformations aren’t totally out of his control, it seems.’

Volyova had finally raised the matter of the Captain. Until that moment Khouri had been clinging to the hope that it might all turn out to be a bad dream she had confused with reality. But there it was. The Captain was very much alive.

‘What about the engines?’

‘Still functionally intact, as far as I can tell. But only the Captain has control of them.’

‘Have you been talking with him?’

‘I’m not sure talking is quite the word I’d use. Communicating, possibly ... but even that might be stretching things.’

The elevator veered, switching between shafts. The shaft tubes were mostly transparent, but the elevator spent much of its time whisking between densely packed decks or boring through furlongs of solid hull material. Now and then, through the window, Khouri saw dank chambers zoom by. Mostly they were too large for her to see the other side in the weakly reflected light of the elevator. There were five chambers which were the largest of all, huge enough to hold cathedrals. She thought of the one Volyova had shown her during her first tour of Infinity, the one that held the forty horrors. There were fewer than forty of them now, but that was surely still enough to make a difference. Even, perhaps, against an enemy like the Inhibitors. Provided that the Captain could be persuaded.

‘Have you and him patched up your differences?’ Khouri asked.

‘I think the fact that he didn’t kill us when he had the chance more or less answers that question.’

‘And he doesn’t blame you for what you did to him?’

For the first time there was a sign of annoyance from Volyova. ‘Did to him? Ana, what I “did to him” was an act of extreme mercy. I didn’t punish him at all. I merely ... stated the facts and then administered the cure.’

‘Which by some definitions was worse than the disease.’

Now Volyova shrugged. ‘He was going to die. I gave him a new lease on life.’

Khouri gasped as another chamber ghosted by, filled with fused metamorphic shapes. ‘If you call this living.’

‘Word of advice.’ Volyova leant closer, lowering her voice. ‘There’s a very good chance he can hear this conversation. Just keep that in mind, will you? There’s a good girl.’

If anyone else had spoken to her like that they would have been nursing at least one interesting dislocation about two seconds later. But Khouri had long since learned to make allowances for Volyova.

‘Where is he? Still on the same level as before?’

‘Depends what you mean by “him”. I suppose you could say his epicentre is still there, yes. But there’s really very little point in distinguishing between him and the ship nowadays.’

‘Then he’s everywhere? All around us?’

‘All-seeing. All-knowing.’

‘I don’t like this, Ilia.’

‘If it’s any consolation, I very much doubt that he does either.’

After many delays, reversals and diversions the elevator finally brought them to the bridge of Nostalgia for Infinity. To Khouri’s considerable relief a consultation with the Captain did not seem to be imminent.

The bridge was much as she remembered it. The chamber was damaged and careworn, but most of the vandalism had been inflicted before the Captain changed. Khouri had even done some of it herself. Seeing the impact craters where her weapons discharges had fallen gave her a faint and mischievous sense of pride. She remembered the tense power-struggle that had taken place aboard the lighthugger when it was in orbit around the neutron star Hades, on the very edge of the present system.

It had been touch and go at times, but because they had survived she had dared to believe that a greater victory had been won. But the arrival of the Inhibitor machines suggested otherwise. The battle, in all likelihood, had already been lost before the first shots were fired. But they had at least bought themselves a little time. Now they had to do something with it.

Khouri settled into one of the seats facing the bridge’s projection sphere. It had been repaired since the mutiny and now showed a real-time display of the Resurgam system. There were eleven major planets, but the display also showed their moons and the larger asteroids and comets - all were of potential importance. Their precise orbital positions were indicated, along with vectors showing the motion, prograde or retrograde, of the body in question. Pale cones radiating from the lighthugger showed the extent of the ship’s instantaneous deep-sensor coverage, corrected for light-travel time. Volyova had strewn a handful of monitor drones on other orbits so that they could peer into blind spots and increase the interferometric baseline, but she used them cautiously.

‘Ready for a recent-history lesson?’ Volyova asked.

‘You know I am, Ilia. I just hope this little jaunt turns out to be worth it, because I’m still going to have to answer some tricky questions when I get back to Cuvier.’

‘They may not seem so massively pressing when you’ve seen what I have to show you.’ She made the display zoom in, enlarging one of the moons spinning around the system’s second-largest gas giant.

‘This is where the Inhibitors have set up camp?’ Khouri asked.

‘Here and on two other worlds of comparable size. Their activities on each seem broadly the same.’

Now dark shapes fluttered into view around the moon. They swarmed and scattered like agitated crows, their numbers and shapes in constant flux. In an instant they settled on to the surface of the moon, linking together in purposeful formations. The playback was evidently accelerated - hours compressed into seconds, perhaps - for transformations blistered across the moon’s surface in a quick black inundation. Zoom-in showed a tendency for the structures to be formed of cubic subelements of widely differing sizes. Vast lasers pumped heat back into space as the transformations raged. Grotesque black machines the size of mountains clotted the landscape, ramping down the moon’s albedo until only infra-red could tease out significant patterns.

‘What are they doing?’ Khouri asked.

‘I couldn’t tell at first.’

One or two weeks had passed before what was taking place became clear. Dotted at regular intervals around the moon’s equator were volcanic apertures, squat gape-mouthed machines that extended a hundredth of the moon’s diameter into space. Without warning, they began to spew out rocky material in ballistic dust plumes. The matter was hot but not actually molten. It arced above the moon, falling into orbit. Another machine - Volyova had not noticed it until then - circled in the same orbit, processing the dust, shepherding, cooling and compactifying the plume. In its wake it left an organised ring system of processed and refined matter, gigatonnes of it in tidy lanes. Droves of smaller machines trailed behind like minnows, sucking in the pre-refined matter and subjecting it to even further purification.

‘What’s happening?’

‘The machines seem to be dismantling the moon,’ Volyova said.

‘That much I’ve figured out for myself. But it strikes me as a pretty cumbersome way of going about it. We’ve got crustbuster warheads that would do the same thing in a flash ...’

‘And in the process vaporise and disperse half of the moon’s matter.’ Volyova nodded sagely. ‘I don’t think that’s quite what they wanted to do. I think they want all that matter, processed and refined as efficiently as possible. More, in fact, since they’re ripping apart three moons. There’s a lot of volatile material they won’t be able to process into solids, not unless they’re going to be doing some heavy-duty alchemy, but my guess is they’ll still give themselves around a hundred billion billion tonnes of raw material.’

‘That’s a lot of rubble.’

‘Yes. And it rather begs the question: what, precisely, do they need it for?’

‘I suppose you’ve got a theory.’

Ilia Volyova smiled. ‘Not much more than guesswork at this stage. The lunar dismantling’s still in progress, but I think it’s reasonably clear that they want to build something. And do you know what? I strongly suspect that whatever it is may not have our absolute best interests at heart.’

‘You think it’s going to be a weapon, don’t you?’

‘Obviously I’m getting predictable in my old age. But yes, I rather fear a weapon is on the cards. What kind, I can’t begin to guess. Clearly they could have already destroyed Resurgam if that was their immediate intention - and they wouldn’t need to dismantle it neatly.’

‘Then they’ve got something else in mind.’

‘It would seem so.’

‘We’ve got to do something about it, Ilia. We’ve still got the cache. We could make some kind of difference, even now.’

Volyova turned off the display sphere. ‘At the moment they seem not to be aware of our presence - we appear to fall beneath their detection threshold unless we’re in the vicinity of Hades. Would you be willing to compromise that by using the cache weapons?’

‘If I felt it was our last best hope, I might. So would you.’

‘I’m just saying there won’t be any going back. We have to be completely clear about that.’ Volyova was silent for a moment. ‘There’s something else as well...’

‘Yes?’

She lowered her voice. ‘We can’t control the cache, not without his help. The Captain will need to be persuaded.’

Of course they did not call themselves the Inhibitors. They had never seen any reason to name themselves anything. They simply existed to perform a duty of astonishing importance, a duty vital to the future existence of intelligent life itself. They did not expect to be understood, or sympathised with, so any name - or any hint of justification - was entirely superfluous. Yet they were passingly aware that this was a name that they had been given, assigned to them after the glorious extinctions that had followed the Dawn War. Through a long, tenuous chain of recollection the name had been passed from species to species, even as those species were wiped from the face of the galaxy. The Inhibitors: those that Inhibit, those that suppress the emergence of intelligence.

The overseer recognised, ruefully, that the name was indeed an accurate description of its work.

It was difficult to say exactly where and when the work had begun. The Dawn War had been the first significant event in the history of the inhabited galaxy, a clashing of a million newly emergent cultures. These were the first starfaring species to arise, the players at the beginning of the game.

The Dawn War, ultimately, had been about a single precious resource.

It had been about metal.

She returned to Resurgam.

In Inquisition House there were questions to be answered. She fielded them with as much insouciance as she could muster. She had been in the wilderness, she said, handling a highly sensitive field report from an agent who had stumbled on an exceptionally good lead. The trail to the Triumvir, she told her doubters, was hotter than it had been in years. To prove this she reactivated certain closed files and had old suspects invited back to Inquisition House for follow-up interviews. Inwardly, she felt sick at what had to be done to maintain the illusion of probity. Innocents had to be detained and made, for the sake of realism, to feel as if their lives, or at least their liberties, were in extreme jeopardy. It was a detestable business. Once she had sweetened it by making sure that she only terrorised people who were known to have evaded punishment for other crimes, revealed by judicious snooping of the files of rival government departments. It had worked for a time, but then even that had begun to seem morally questionable.

But now it was worse. She had doubters in the administration, and to silence their qualms she had to make her investigations unusually efficient and ruthless. There had to be plausible rumours circulating Cuvier of the degrees to which Inquisition House was prepared to go. People had to suffer for the sake of her cover.

She reassured herself that it was all, ultimately, in their best interests, that what she was doing was for the greater good of Resurgam; that a few terrified souls here and there were a small price to pay when set against the protection of an entire world.

She stood at the window of her office in Inquisition House, looking down towards the street, watching another guest being bundled into a blunt grey electric car. The man stumbled as the guards walked him to it. His head was covered and his hands were tied behind his back. The car would speed through the city until it reached a residential zone - it would be dusk by then - and the man would be dumped into the gutter a few blocks from his home.

His bonds would have been loosened, but the man would likely lie still on the ground for several minutes, breathing hard, gasping at the realisation that he had been released. Perhaps a gang of friends would find him as they made their way to a bar or back from the repair factories. They would not recognise him at first, for the beating he had taken would have swollen his face and made it difficult for him to talk. But when they did they would help the man back to his house, glancing warily over their shoulders in case the government agents who had dumped him were still abroad.

Or perhaps the man would find his own feet and, peering through the slits of bloodied, bruised eyelids, might somehow contrive to find his own way home. His wife would be waiting, perhaps more scared now than anyone in Cuvier. When her husband came home she would experience something of the same mingled relief and terror that he had experienced upon regaining consciousness. They would hold each other despite the pain that the man was in. Then she would examine his wounds and clean what could be cleaned. There would be no broken bones, but it would take a proper medical examination to be sure of that. The man would assume that he had been lucky, that the agents who had beaten him had been weary after a hard day in the interrogation cells.

Later, perhaps, he would hobble to the bar to meet his friends. Drinks would be bought and in some quiet corner he would show them the worst of the bruises. And word would spread that he had acquired them in Inquisition House. His friends would ask him how he could ever have fallen under suspicion of being involved with the Triumvir, and he would laugh and say that there was no stopping Inquisition House; not now. That anyone even remotely suspected of impeding the House’s enquiries was fair game; that the pursuit of the criminal had been notched up to such an intensity that any misdemeanour against any government branch could be assumed to indicate tacit support for the Triumvir.

Khouri watched the car glide away and pick up speed. Now she could barely remember what the man had looked like. They all began to look the same after a while, the men and women blurring into one homogenous terrified whole. Tomorrow there would be more.

She looked above the buildings, into the bruise-coloured sky. She imagined the processes that she now knew were taking place beyond Resurgam’s atmosphere. No more than one or two light-hours away, vast and implacable alien machinery was engaged in reducing three worlds to fine metallic dust. The machines seemed unhurried, unconcerned with doing things on a recognisably human timescale. They went about their business with the quiet calm of undertakers.

Khouri recalled what she had already learned of the Inhibitors, information vouchsafed to her after she had infiltrated Volyova’s crew. There had been a war at the dawn of time, a war that had encompassed the entire galaxy and numerous cultures. In the desolate aftermath of that war, one species - or collective of species - had determined that intelligent life could no longer be tolerated. They had unleashed dark droves of machines whose only function was to watch and wait, vigilant for the signs of emergent starfaring cultures. They left traps dotted through space, glittery baubles designed to attract the unwise. The traps both alerted the Inhibitors to the presence of a new outbreak of intelligence and also served as psychological probing mechanisms, constructing a profile of the soon-to-be-culled fledglings.

The traps gauged the technological prowess of an emergent culture and suggested the manner in which they might attempt to counter the Inhibitor threat. For some reason that Khouri did not understand, and which had certainly never been explained to her, the response to the emergence of intelligence had to be proportionate; it was not enough simply to wipe out all life in the galaxy or even in a pocket of the galaxy. There was, she sensed, a deeper purpose to the Inhibitor culls that she did not yet grasp, and might not ever be capable of grasping.

And yet the machines were imperfect. They had begun to fail. It was nothing that could be detected over any timescale shorter than a few million years. Most species did not endure that long, so they saw only grim continuity. The only way that the decline could be observed was in the much longer term, evidenced not in the records of individual cultures but in the subtle differences between them. The ruthlessness quotient of the Inhibitors remained as high as ever, but their methods were becoming less efficient, their response times slower. Some profound and subtle flaw in the machines’ design had worked its way to the surface. Now and then a culture slipped through the net, managing to spread into interstellar space before the Inhibitors could contain and cull it. The cull then became more difficult; less like surgery and more like butchery.

The Amarantin, the birdlike creatures who had lived on Resurgam a million years earlier, had been one such species. The effort to cleanse them had been protracted, allowing many of them to slip into various hidden sanctuaries. The last act of the culling machines had been to annihilate Resurgam’s biosphere by triggering a catastrophic stellar flare. Delta Pavonis had since settled down to normal sunlike activity, but it was only now that Resurgam was beginning to support life again.

Their work done, the Inhibitors had vanished back into the stellar cold. Nine hundred and ninety thousand years passed.

Then humans came, drawn to the enigma of the vanished Amarantin culture. Their leader had been Sylveste, the ambitious scion of a wealthy Yellowstone family. By the time Khouri, Volyova and Nostalgia for Infinity arrived in the system, Sylveste had put in place his plans for exploring the neutron star on the system’s edge, convinced that Hades had something to do with the Amarantin extinction. Sylveste had coerced the crew of the starship into helping him, using its cache of weapons to break through shells of defensive machinery and finally penetrating to the heart of a moon-sized artefact - they called it Cerberus - which orbited the neutron star.

Sylveste had been right all along about the Amarantin. But in verifying his theory he had also sprung a primed Inhibitor trap. At the heart of the Cerberus object, Sylveste had died in a massive matter-antimatter explosion.

And at the same time he had not died at all. Khouri knew; she had met and spoken to Sylveste after his ‘death’. So far as she was capable of understanding it, Sylveste and his wife had been stored as simulations in the crust of the neutron star itself. Hades, it turned out, was one of the sanctuaries that the Amarantin had used when they were being harried by the Inhibitors. It was an element of something much older than either the Amarantin or the Inhibitors, a transcendent information storage and processing system, a vast archive. The Amarantin had found a way inside it, and so, much later, had Sylveste. That was as much as Khouri knew, and as much as she wanted to know.

She had met the stored Sylveste only once. In the more than sixty years that had passed since then - the time that Volyova had spent carefully infiltrating the very society that feared and loathed her - Khouri had allowed herself to forget that Sylveste was still out there, was still in some sense alive in the Hades computational matrix. On those rare occasions when she did think about him, she found herself wondering if he ever gave a moment’s thought to the consequences of his actions all those years ago; if memories of the Inhibitors ever stirred him from vain dreams of his own brilliance. She doubted it, for Sylveste had not struck her as someone overly troubled by the results of his own deeds. And in any case, by Sylveste’s accelerated reckoning, for time passed very rapidly in the Hades matrix, the events must have been centuries of subjective time in his past, as inconsequential as childhood misdeeds. Very little could touch him in there, so what was the point of worrying about him?

But that hardly helped those who were still outside the matrix. Khouri and Volyova had spent only twenty of those sixty-plus years out of reefersleep, for their infiltration scheme had been necessarily slow and episodic. But of those twenty years, Khouri doubted that a single day had passed when she had not thought of - and worried about - the prospect of the Inhibitors.

Now at least her worry had transmuted into certainty. They were here; the thing that she had dreaded had finally started.

And yet it was not to be a quick, brutal culling. Something titanic was being brought into existence, something that required the raw material of three entire worlds. For the time being the activities of the Inhibitors could not be detected from Resurgam, even with the tracking systems put in place to spot approaching lighthuggers. But Khouri doubted that this could continue to be the case. Sooner or later the activities of the alien machines would exceed some threshold and the citizenry would begin to glimpse strange apparitions in the sky.

Very likely, all hell would break loose.

But by then it might not even matter.

TEN

Xavier saw one ship detach itself from the bright flow of other vessels on the main approach corridor to Carousel New Copenhagen, tugged down his helmet’s binoculars and swept space until he locked on to the ship itself. The image enlarged and stabilised, the spined pufferfish profile of Storm Bird rotating as the ship executed a slow turn. The Taurus IV salvage tug was still nosing against its hull, like a parasite looking for one last nibble.

Xavier blinked hard, requesting a higher magnification zoom. The image swelled, wobbled and then sharpened.

‘Dear God,’ he whispered. ‘What the hell have you done to my ship?’

Something awful had happened to his beloved Storm Bird since the last time he had seen it. Whole parts were gone, ripped clean away. The hull looked as if it had seen its last service some time during the Belle Époque, not a couple of months ago. He wondered where Antoinette had taken it - straight into the heart of Lascaille’s Shroud, perhaps? Either that or she had had a serious run-in with well-armed banshees.

‘It’s not your ship, Xavier. I just pay you to look after it now and then. If I want to trash it, that’s entirely my business.’

‘Shit.’ He had forgotten that the suit-to-ship comm channel was still open. ‘I didn’t mean ...’

‘It’s not as bad as it looks, Xave. Trust me on that.’

The salvage tug detached at the last minute, executed a needlessly complex pirouette and then was gone, curving away to its home on the other side of Carousel New Copenhagen. Xavier had already calculated how much the salvage tug was going to cost in the end. It didn’t matter who ultimately picked up that tab. It was going to be one hell of a sting, whether it was him or Antoinette, since their businesses were so intertwined. They were well into the red at the favour bank, and it was going to take about a year of retroactive favours before they groped their way back into the black ...

But things could have been worse. Three days ago he had more or less given up hope of ever seeing Antoinette again. It was depressing how quickly the elation at finding her alive had degenerated into his usual nagging worries about insolvency. Dumping that hauler certainly hadn’t helped ...

Xavier grinned. But hell, it had been worth it.

When she had announced her approach Xavier had suited up, gone out on to the carousel’s skin and hired a skeletal thruster trike. He gunned the trike across the fifteen kilometres to Storm Bird, then orbited it around the ship, satisfying himself that the damage looked every bit as bad up close as he had first thought it was. None of it would cripple the ship for good; it was all technically fixable - but it would cost money to put right.

He swung around, bringing the trike forwards so that he was ahead of Storm Bird. Against the dark hull he saw the two bright parallel slits of the cabin windows. Antoinette was a tiny silhouetted figure in the uppermost cabin, the small bridge that she only used during delicate docking/undocking procedures. She was reaching up to work controls above her head, a clipboard tucked under one arm. She looked so small and vulnerable that all his anger drained out of him in an instant. Instead of worrying about the damage, he should have been rejoicing that the ship had kept her alive all this time.

‘You’re right; it’s superficial,’ he said. ‘We’ll get it fixed easily enough. Do you have enough thruster control to do a hard docking?’

‘Just point me to the bay, Xave.’

He nodded and flipped the trike over, arcing away from Storm Bird. ‘Follow me in, then.’

Carousel New Copenhagen loomed larger again. Xavier led Storm Bird around the rim, tapping the trike’s thrusters until he had matched rotation with the carousel, sustaining the pseudo-orbit with a steady rumble of power from the trike’s belly. They passed over a complex of smaller bays, repair wells lit up with golden or blue lights and the periodic flashes of welding tools. A rim train snaked past, overtaking them, and then he saw Storm Bird’s shadow blot out his own. He looked back and behind. The freighter was coming in nice and steadily, although it looked as large as an iceberg.

The huge shadow slid and dipped, flowing over the hemispherical gouge in the rim known locally as Lyle’s Crater, the impact point where the rogue trader’s chemical-drive scow had collided with the carousel while trying to evade the authorities. It was the only serious damage that the carousel had sustained during wartime, and while it could have been repaired easily enough, it now made far more money as a tourist attraction than it would ever have had it been reclaimed and returned to normal use. People came in shuttles from all around the Rust Belt to gape at the damage and hear stories of the deaths and heroics that had followed the incident. Even now, Xavier saw a party of ghouls being led out on to the skin by a tourist guide, all of them hanging by harnesses from a network of lines spidering across the underside of the rim. Since he knew several people who had died during the accident, Xavier felt only contempt for the ghouls.

His repair well was a little further around the rim. It was the second largest on the carousel and it still looked as if it would be an impossibly tight fit, even allowing for all the bits of Storm Bird that Antoinette had helpfully removed ...

The iceberg-sized ship came to a halt relative to the carousel and then tipped up, nose down to the rim. Through the gouts of vapour coming from the carousel’s industrial vents and the ship’s own popping micro-gee verniers, Xavier saw a loom of red lasers embrace Storm Bird, marking her position and velocity with ångström precision. Still applying a half-gee of thrust from its main motors, Storm Bird began to push itself into its allocated slot in the rim. Xavier held station, wanting to close his eyes, for this was the part that he dreaded.

The ship nosed in at a speed of no more than four or five centimetres per second. Xavier waited until the nose had vanished into the carousel, still leaving three-quarters of the ship out in space, and then guided his trike alongside, slipping ahead of Storm Bird. He parked the trike on a ledge, disembarked and authorised the trike to return to the place where he had hired it. He watched the skeletal thing buzz away, streaking back out into open space.

He did close his eyes now, hating the final docking procedure, and only opened them again after he had felt the rapid thunder of the docking latches, transmitted through the fabric of the repair bay to his feet. Below Storm Bird, pressure doors began to close. If she was going to be stuck here for a while, and it looked as if she would, they might even consider pumping the chamber so that Xavier’s repair monkeys could work without suits. But that was something to worry about later.

Xavier made sure that the pressurised connecting walkways were aligned with and clamped to Storm Bird’s main locks, guiding them manually. Then he made his way to an airlock, passing out of the repair bay. He was in a hurry, so did not bother removing more than his gloves and helmet. He could feel his heart in his chest, knocking like an air pump that needed a new armature.

Xavier walked down the connecting tube to the airlock closest to the flight deck. Lights were pulsing at the end of the tube, indicating that the lock was already being cycled.

Antoinette was coming through.

Xavier stooped and placed his helmet and gloves on the floor. He started running down the tube, slowly at first and then with increasing energy. The airlock door was irising open with glorious slowness, condensation heaving out of it in thick white clouds. The corridor dilated ahead of him, time crawling the way it did when two lovers were running towards each other in a bad holo-romance.

The door opened. Antoinette was standing there, suited-up but for her helmet, which she cradled beneath one arm. Her blunt-cut blonde hair was dishevelled and plastered across her forehead with grease and filth, her skin was sallow and there were dark bags under her eyes. Her eyes were tired, bloodshot slits. Even from where Xavier was standing, she smelt as if she hadn’t been near a shower in weeks.

He didn’t care. He thought she still looked pretty great. He pulled her towards him, the tabards of their suits clanging together. Somehow he managed to kiss her.

‘I’m glad you’re home,’ Xavier said.

‘Glad to be home,’ Antoinette replied.

‘Did you ... ?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I managed it.’

He said nothing for several moments, desperately wishing not to trivialise what she had done, fully aware of how important it had been to her and that nothing must spoil that triumph. She had been through enough pain already; the last thing he wanted to do was add to it.

‘I’m proud of you.’

‘Hey. I’m proud of me. You bloody well should be.’

‘Count on it. I take it there were a few difficulties, though?’

‘Let’s just say I had to get into Tangerine’s atmosphere a bit faster than I’d planned.’

‘Zombies?’

‘Zombies and spiders.’

‘Hey, two for the price of one. But I don’t imagine that’s quite how you saw it. And how the hell did you get back if there were spiders out there?’

She sighed. ‘It’s a long story, Xave. Some strange shit happened around that gas giant and I’m still not quite sure what to make of it.’

‘So tell me.’

‘I will. After we’ve eaten.’

‘Eaten?’

‘Yeah.’ Antoinette Bax grinned, revealing filthy teeth. ‘I’m hungry, Xave. And thirsty. Really thirsty. Have you ever had anyone drink you under a table?’

Xavier Liu considered her question. ‘I don’t think so, no.’

‘Well, now’s your big chance.’

They undressed, made love, lay together for an hour, showered, dressed - Antoinette wearing her best plum-coloured jacket - went out, ate well and then got royally drunk. Antoinette enjoyed nearly every minute of it. She enjoyed every instant of the lovemaking; that wasn’t the problem. It was good to be clean, too - really clean, rather than the kind of grudging clean that was the best she could manage on the ship - and it was good to be back in some kind of gravity, even if it was only half a gee and even if it was centrifugal. No, the problem was that wherever she looked, whatever was happening around her, she couldn’t help thinking that none of it was going to last.

The spiders were going to win the war. They would take over the entire system, the Rust Belt included. They might not turn everyone into hive-mind conscripts - they had more or less promised that that was the last thing they intended - but you could guarantee things were going to be different. Yellowstone had not exactly been a barrel of laughs under the last brief spider occupation. It was difficult to see where the daughter of a space pilot, with a single damaged, creaking ship to her name, was going to be able to fit in.

But hell, she thought, cajoling herself into a state of forced bonhomie , it wasn’t going to happen tonight, was it?

They travelled by rim train. She wanted to eat at the bar under Lyle’s Crater where the beer was great, but Xavier told her it would be heaving at this time of day and they were much better off going somewhere else. She shrugged, accepting his judgement, and was mildly puzzled when they arrived at Xavier’s choice - a bar halfway around the rim called Robotnik’s - and found the place nearly empty. When Antoinette synchronised her watch with Yellowstone Local Time she understood why: it was two hours past thirteen, in the middle of the afternoon. It was the graveyard shift on Carousel New Copenhagen, which saw most of its serious partying during the hours of Chasm City ‘night’.

‘We wouldn’t have had any trouble getting into Lyle’s,’ she told him.

‘I don’t really like that place.’

‘Ah.’

‘Too many damned animals. When you work with monkeys all day ... or not, as the case may be ... being served by machines begins to seem like a bloody good idea.’

She nodded at him over the top of her menu. ‘Fair enough.’

The gimmick at Robotnik’s was that the staff were all servitors. It was one of the few places in the carousel, barring the heavy-industrial repair shops, where you saw any kind of machines doing manual labour. Even then the machines were ancient and clapped-out, the kind of cheap, rugged servitors that had always been immune to the plague, and which could still be manufactured despite the system’s much reduced industrial capability in the wake of the plague and the war. There was a certain antique charm to them, Antoinette supposed, but by the time she had watched one limping machine drop their beers four times between the bar and their table, the charm had begun to wear a little thin.

‘You don’t actually like this place, do you?’ she asked later. ‘It’s just that you like Lyle’s even less.’

‘You ask me, there’s something a tiny bit sick about that place, turning a major civic catastrophe into a bloody tourist attraction.’

‘Dad would probably have agreed with you.’

Xavier grunted something unintelligible. ‘So what happened with the spiders, anyway?’

Antoinette began picking the label off her beer bottle, just the way she had all those years ago when her father had first mentioned his preferred mode of burial. ‘I don’t really know.’

Xavier wiped foam from his lip. ‘Have a wild stab in the dark.’

‘I got into trouble. It was all going nicely - I was making a slow, controlled approach to Tangerine Dream - and then wham.’ She picked up a beer mat and stabbed a finger at it by way of explanation.

‘I’ve got a zombie ship dead ahead of me, about to hit the atmosphere itself. I painted it with my radar by mistake and got a bunch of attitude from the zombie pilot.’

‘But she didn’t chuck a missile at you by way of thanks?’

‘No. She must have been all out, or she didn’t want to make things worse by revealing her position with a tube launch. See, the reason she was doing the big dive - the same as me - was that she had a spider ship chasing her.’

‘That wasn’t good,’ Xavier said.

‘No, not good at all. That’s why I had to get into the atmosphere so quickly. Fuck the safeguards, let’s get down there. Beast obliged, but there was a lot of damage on the way in.’

‘If it was that or get captured by the spiders, I’d say you did the right thing. I take it you waited down there until the spiders had passed on?’

‘Not exactly, no.’

‘Antoinette ...’ Xavier chided.

‘Hey, listen. Once I’d buried my father, that was the last place I wanted to hang around. And Beast wasn’t enjoying it one bit. The ship wanted out as much as I did. Problem is, we got tokamak failure on the up and out.’

‘You were dead meat.’

‘We should have been,’ Antoinette said, nodding. ‘Especially as the spiders were still nearby.’

Xavier leant back in his chair and swigged an inch of beer. Now that he had her safe, now that he knew how things had turned out, he was obviously enjoying hearing the story. ‘So what happened - did you get the tokamak to reboot?’

‘Later, yes, when we were back in empty space. It lasted long enough to get me back to Yellowstone, but I needed the tugs for the slow-down.’

‘So you managed to reach escape velocity, or were you still able to insert into orbit?’

‘Neither, Xave. We were falling back to the planet. So I did the only thing I could, which was ask for help.’ She finished her own beer, watching his reaction.

‘Help?’

‘From the spiders.’

‘No shit? You had the nerve - the balls - to do that?’

‘I’m not sure about the balls, Xave. But yes, I guess I had the nerve.’ She grinned. ‘Hell, what else was I going to do? Sit there and die? From my point of view, with a fuck of a lot of cloud coming up real fast, being conscripted into a hive mind suddenly didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.’

‘I still can’t believe ... even after that dream you’ve been replaying?’

‘I figured that had to be propaganda. The truth couldn’t be quite that bad.’

‘But maybe nearly as bad.’

‘When you’re about to die, Xave, you take what you can get.’

He pointed the open neck of the beer bottle at her. ‘But ...’

She read his mind. ‘I’m still here, yeah. I’m glad you noticed.’

‘What happened?’

‘They saved me.’ She said it again, almost having to reassure herself that it had really happened. ‘The spiders saved me. Sent down some kind of drone missile, or tug, or whatever it was. The thing clamped on to the hull and gave me a shove - a big shove - all the way out of Tangerine Dream’s gravity well. Next thing I knew I was falling back to Yellowstone. Had to get the tokamak up and running, but at least now I had more than a few minutes to do it in.’

‘And the spiders ... they left?’

She nodded vigorously. ‘Their main guy, this old geezer, he spoke to me just before they sent the drone. Gave me one hell of a warning, I admit. Said if we ever crossed paths again - like, ever - he’d kill me. I think he meant it, too.’

‘I suppose you have to count yourself lucky. I mean, not everyone gets let off with a warning where the spiders are concerned.’

‘I guess so, Xave.’

‘This old man - the spider - anyone we’d have heard of?’

She shook her head. ‘Said his name was Clavain, that’s all. Didn’t mean shit to me.’

‘Not the Clavain, obviously?’

She stopped fiddling with the beer mat and looked at him. ‘And who would the Clavain be, Xave?’

He looked at her as if she was faintly stupid, or at the very least worryingly forgetful. ‘History, Antoinette, that boring stuff about the past. You know - before the Melding Plague, all that jazz?’

‘I wasn’t born then, Xave. It’s not even of academic interest to me.’ She held her bottle up to the light. ‘I need another one. What are the chances of getting it in the next hour, do you think?’

Xavier clicked a finger at the nearest servitor. The machine spun around, stiffened itself, took a step in their direction and fell over.

But when she was back at their place, Antoinette began to wonder. In the evening, when she had blasted away the worst effects of the beer, leaving her head clear but ringingly delicate, she squirrelled herself into Xavier’s office, powered up the museum-piece terminal and set about querying the carousel’s data hub for information on Clavain. She had to admit that she was curious now, but even if she had been curious during the journey home from the gas giant she would have had to wait until now to access any extensive systemwide archives. It would have been too risky to send a query from Storm Bird, and the ship’s own memories were not the most compendious.

Antoinette had never known anything except a post-plague environment, so she had no expectations of actually finding any useful information, even if the data she was looking for might once have existed. The system’s data networks had been rebuilt almost from scratch during the post-plague years, and much that had been archived before then had been corrupted or erased during the crisis.

But to her surprise there was rather a lot out there about Clavain, or at least about a Clavain. The famous Clavain, the one that Xavier had known about, had been born on Earth way back in the twenty-second century, in one of the last perfect summers before the glaciers rolled in and the place became a pristine snowball. He had gone to Mars and fought against the Conjoiners in their earliest incarnation. Antoinette read that again and frowned: against the Conjoiners? But she read on.

Clavain had gained notoriety during his Martian days. They called him the Butcher of Tharsis, the man who had turned the course of the Battle of the Bulge. He had authorised the use of red-mercury, nuclear and foam-phase weapons against spider forces, gouging glassy kilometre-wide craters across the face of Mars. In some accounts his deeds made him an automatic war criminal. Yet according to some of the less partisan reports, Clavain’s actions could be interpreted as having saved many millions of lives, both spider and allied, that would otherwise have been lost in a protracted ground campaign. Equally, there were reports of his heroism: of Clavain saving the lives of trapped soldiers and civilians; of him sustaining many injuries, recovering and going straight back to the front line. He had been there when the spiders brought down the aerial docking tower at Chryse, and had been pinned in the rubble for eighteen days with no food or water except the supplies in his skinsuit. When they pulled him out they found him clutching a cat that had also been trapped in the ruins, its spine snapped by masonry and yet still alive, nourished by portions from Clavain’s own rations. The cat died a week later. It took Clavain three months to recover.

But that hadn’t been the end of his career. He had been captured by the spider queen, the woman called Galiana who had created the whole spider mess in the first place. For months Galiana had held him prisoner, finally releasing him when the cease-fire was negotiated. Thereafter, there had always been a weird bond between the two former adversaries. When the uneasy peace had begun to crumble, it had been Clavain who went down to try to iron things out with the spider queen. And it was on that mission that he was presumed to have ‘defected’, throwing in his lot with the Conjoiners, accepting their remodelling machines into his skull and becoming one of the hive-mind spiders.

And that was when Clavain more or less dropped out of history. Antoinette skimmed the remaining records and found numerous anecdotal reports of him popping up here and there over the next four-hundred-odd years. It was possible; she could not deny that. Clavain had been getting on a bit before he defected, but with freezing and the time dilation that naturally accompanied any amount of star travel, he might not have lived through more than a few decades of those four centuries. And that was not even allowing for the kind of rejuvenation therapies that had been possible before the plague. No, it could have been Clavain - but it could equally well have been someone else with the same name. What were the chances of Antoinette Bax’s life intersecting with that of a major historical figure? Things like that just didn’t happen to her.

Something disturbed her. There was a commotion outside the office, the sound of things toppling and scraping, Xavier’s voice raised in protest. Antoinette killed the terminal and went outside.

What she found made her gasp. Xavier was up against one wall, his feet an inch from the floor. He was pinned there - painfully, she judged - by one manipulator of a multi-armed gloss-black police proxy. The machine - again it made her think of a nightmarish collision of pairs of huge black scissors - had barged into the office, knocking over cabinets and potted plants.

She looked at the proxy. Although they all appeared to be more or less identical, she just knew this was the same one, being slaved by the same pilot, that had come to pay her a visit aboard Storm Bird.

‘Fuck,’ Antoinette said.

‘Miss Bax.’ The machine lowered Xavier to the ground, none too gently. Xavier coughed, winded, rubbing a raw spot beneath his throat. He tried to speak, but all that came out was a series of hoarse hacking vowels.

‘Mr Liu was impeding me in the course of my inquiries,’ the proxy said.

Xavier coughed again. ‘I ... just ... didn’t get out of the way fast enough.’

‘Are you all right, Xave?’ Antoinette asked

‘I’m all right,’ he said, regaining some of the colour he had lost a moment earlier. He turned to the machine, which was occupying most of the office, flicking things over and examining other things with its multitude of limbs. ‘What the fuck do you want?’

‘Answers, Mr Liu. Answers to exactly the questions that were troubling me upon my last visit.’

Antoinette glared at the machine. ‘This fucker paid you a visit while I was away?’

The machine answered her. ‘I most certainly did, Miss Bax - seeing as you were so unforthcoming, I felt it necessary.’

Xavier looked at Antoinette.

‘He boarded Storm Bird,’ she confirmed

‘And?’

The proxy overturned a filing cabinet, rummaging with bored intent through the spilled paperwork. ‘Miss Bax showed me that she was carrying a passenger in a reefersleep casket. Her story, which was verified by Hospice Idlewild, was that there had been some kind of administrative confusion, and that the body was in the process of being returned to the Hospice.’

Antoinette shrugged, knowing she was going to have to bluff this one out. ‘So?’

‘The body was already dead. And you never arrived at the Hospice. You steered for interplanetary space shortly after I departed.’

‘Why would I have done that?’

‘That, Miss Bax, is precisely what I would like to know.’ The proxy abandoned the paperwork, kicking the cabinet aside with a whining flick of one sharp-edged piston-driven limb. ‘I asked Mr Liu, and he was no help at all. Were you, Mr Liu?’

‘I told you what I knew.’

‘Perhaps I should take a special interest in you too, Mr Liu - what do you think? You have a very interesting past, judging by police records. You knew James Bax very well, didn’t you?’

Xavier shrugged. ‘Who didn’t?’

‘You worked for him. That implies a more than passing knowledge of the man, wouldn’t you say?’

‘We had a business arrangement. I fixed his ship. I fix a lot of ships. It didn’t mean we were married.’

‘But you were undoubtedly aware that James Bax was a figure of concern to us, Mr Liu. A man not overly bothered about matters of right and wrong. A man not greatly troubled by anything so inconsequential as the law.’

‘How was he to know?’ Xavier argued. ‘You fuckers make the law up as you go along.’

The proxy moved with blinding speed, becoming a whirling black blur. Antoinette felt the breeze as it moved. The next thing she knew it had Xavier pinned to the wall again, higher this time, and with what looked like a good deal more force. He was choking, clawing at the machine’s manipulators in a desperate effort to free himself.

‘Did you know, Mr Liu, that the Merrick case has never been satisfactorily closed?’

Xavier couldn’t answer.

‘The Merrick case?’ Antoinette asked.

‘Lyle Merrick,’ the proxy replied. ‘You know the fellow. A trader, like your father. On the wrong side of the law.’

‘Lyle Merrick died ...’

Xavier was beginning to turn blue.

‘But the case has never been closed, Miss Bax. There have always been a number of loose ends. What do you know of the Mandelstam Ruling?’

‘Another one of your fucking new laws, by any chance?’

The machine let Xavier fall to the floor. He was unconscious. She hoped he was unconscious.

‘Your father knew Lyle Merrick, Miss Bax. Xavier Liu knew your father. Mr Liu almost certainly knew Lyle Merrick. What with that and your propensity for ferrying dead bodies into the war zone for no logical reason that we can think of, it’s hardly any wonder that you two are of such interest to us, is it?’

‘If you touch Xavier one more time ...’

‘What, Miss Bax?’

‘I’ll ...’

‘You’ll do nothing. You’re powerless here. There aren’t even any security cameras or mites in this room. I know. I checked first.’

‘Fucker.’

The machine edged closer to her. ‘Of course, you could be carrying some form of concealed device, I suppose.’

Antoinette pressed herself back against one wall of the office. ‘What?’

The proxy extended a manipulator. She squeezed back even further, sucking in her breath, but it was no good. The proxy stroked its manipulator down the side of her face gently enough, but she was horribly aware of the damage it could do should the machine wish it. Then the manipulator caressed her neck and moved down, lingering over her breasts.

‘You ... fucker.’

‘I think you might be carrying a weapon, or drugs.’ There was a blur of metal, the same vile breeze. She flinched, but it was over in an instant. The proxy had torn her jacket off; her favourite plum jacket was ripped to shreds. Underneath she wore a tight black sleeveless vest with equipment pockets. She wriggled and swore, but the machine still held her tightly. It drew shapes on the vest, tugging it away from her skin.

‘I have to be sure, Miss Bax.’

She thought of the pilot, surgically inserted into a steel canister somewhere in the belly of the police cutter that had to be parked nearby, little more than a central nervous system and a few tedious add-ons.

‘You sick fuck.’

‘I am only being ... thorough, Miss Bax.’

There was a crash and a clatter behind the machine. The proxy froze. Antoinette held her breath, just as puzzled. She wondered if the pilot had notified more proxies of the fun that was to be had.

The machine edged back from her and spun around very slowly. It faced a wall of shocking orange-brown and rippling black. By Antoinette’s estimate there were at least a dozen of them, six or seven orang-utans and about the same number of enhanced silverback gorillas. They had all been augmented for full bipedality and they were all carrying makeshift - in some cases not so makeshift - weapons.

The main silverback had a comically huge wrench in its hands. When it spoke its voice was almost pure subsonics, something Antoinette felt more in her stomach than heard. ‘Let her go.’

The proxy weighed its chances. Very probably it could have taken out all of the hyperprimates. It had tasers and glue-guns and other nasties. But there would have been a great deal of mess and a great deal of explaining to be done, and no guarantee that the proxy would not sustain a certain amount of damage before it had all the primates either pacified or dead.

It was not worth the bother, especially not when there were such powerful unions and political lobbies behind most of the hyperprimate species. The Ferrisville Convention would find it a lot harder to explain the death of a gorilla or orang-utan than a human, especially in Carousel New Copenhagen.

The proxy retreated, tucking most of its limbs away. For a moment the wall of hyperprimates refused to allow it to leave and Antoinette feared that there was going to bloodshed. But her rescuers only wanted to make their point.

The wall parted; the proxy scuttled out.

Antoinette let out a sigh. She wanted to thank the hyperprimates, but her first and most immediate concern was for Xavier. She knelt down by him and touched the side of his neck. She felt hot animal breath on hers.

‘He all right?’

She looked into the magnificent face of the silverback; it was like something carved from coal. ‘I think so. How did you know?’

The superbly low voice rumbled, ‘Xavier push panic button. We come.’

‘Thank you.’

The silverback stood up, towering over her. ‘We like Xavier. Xavier treat us good.’

Later, she inspected the remains of her jacket. Her father had given it to her on her seventeenth birthday. It had always been a little small for her - when she wore it, it looked more like a matador’s jacket - but despite that it had always been her favourite, and she always felt she had made it look right. Now it was ruined beyond any hope of repair.

When the primates had gone, and when Xavier was back on his feet, shaken but basically unharmed, they did what they could to tidy up the mess. It took several hours, most of which were spent putting the paperwork back into order. Xavier had always been meticulous about his book-keeping; even as the company slid towards bankruptcy, he said, he was damned if he was going to give the money-grabbing creditor bastards any more ammunition than they already had.

By midnight the place looked respectable again. But Antoinette knew it was not over. The proxy was going to come back, and next time it would make sure there would be no primate rescue party. Even if the proxy never did get to the bottom of what she had been doing in the war zone, there would be a thousand ways that the authorities could put her out of business. The proxy could have impounded Storm Bird already. All the proxy was doing, and she had to keep reminding herself that there was a human pilot behind it, was playing with her, making her life a misery of worry while giving itself, or himself, something amusing to do when it wasn’t harassing someone else.

She thought of asking Xavier why it was taking such an interest in her father’s associates, most specifically the Lyle Merrick case, but then she decided to put the whole thing out of her mind, at least until the morning.

Xavier went out and bought a couple more beers, and they finished them off while they were putting the last few items of furniture back into place.

‘Things will work out, Antoinette,’ he said.

‘You’re certain of that?’

‘You deserve it,’ he said. ‘You’re a good person. All you ever wanted to do was honour your father’s wishes.’

‘So why do I feel like such an idiot?’

‘You shouldn’t,’ he said, and kissed her.

They made love again - it felt like days since the last time - and then Antoinette fell asleep, sinking through layers of increasingly vague anxiety until she reached unconsciousness. And then the Demarchist propaganda dream began to take over: the one where she was on a liner that was raided by spiders; the one where she was taken to their cometary base and surgically prepared for induction into their hive mind.

But there was a difference this time. When the Conjoiners came to open her skull and sink their machines into it, the one who leant over her pulled down a white surgical mask to reveal the face she now recognised from the history texts, from the most recent anecdotal sightings. It was the face of a white-haired, bearded old patriarch, lined and characterful, sad and jolly at the same time, a face that might, under any other circumstances, have seemed kind and wise and grandfatherly.

It was the face of Nevil Clavain.

‘I told you not to cross my path again,’ he said.

The Mother Nest was a light-minute behind him when Clavain instructed the corvette to flip over and commence its deceleration burn, following the navigational data that Skade had given him. The starscape wheeled like something geared by well-oiled clockwork, shadows and pale highlights oozing over Clavain and the recumbent forms of his two passengers. A corvette was the nimblest vessel in the Conjoiner in-system fleet, but cramming three occupants into the hull resembled a mathematical exercise in optimal packing. Clavain was webbed into the pilot’s position, with tactile controls and visual read-outs within easy reach. The ship could be flown without blinking an eyelid, but it was also designed to withstand the kind of cybernetic assault that might impair routine neural commands. Clavain flew it via tactile control in any case, though he had barely moved a finger in hours. Tactical summaries jostled his visual field, competing for attention, but there had been no hint of enemy activity within six light-hours.

Immediately to his rear, with their knees parallel to his shoulders, lay Remontoire and Skade. They were slotted into human-shaped spaces between the inner surfaces of weapons pods or fuel blisters and, like Clavain, they wore lightweight spacesuits. The black armoured surfaces of the suits reduced them to abstract extensions of the corvette’s interior. There was barely room for the suits, but there was even less room to put them on.

Skade?

[Yes, Clavain?]

I think it’s safe to tell me where we’re headed now, isn’t it?

[Just follow the flight plan and we’ll arrive there in good time. The Master of Works will be expecting us.]

Master of Works? Anyone I’ve met? He caught the sly curve of Skade’s smile, reflected in the corvette’s window.

[You’ll soon have the pleasure, Clavain.]

He didn’t need to be told that wherever they were going was still in the same part of the cometary halo that contained the Mother Nest. There was nothing out here but vacuum and comets, and even the comets were scarce. The Conjoiners had turned some comets into decoys to lure in the enemy, and had placed sensors, booby-traps and jamming systems on others, but he was not aware of any such activities taking place so close to home.

He tapped into systemwide newsfeeds as they flew. Only the most partisan enemy agencies pretended that there was any chance of a Demarchist victory now. Most of them were talking openly of defeat, though it was always worded in more ambiguous terms: cessation of hostilities; concession to some enemy demands; reopening of negotiations with the Conjoiners ... the litany went on and on, but it was not difficult to read between the lines.

Attacks against Conjoiner assets had grown less and less frequent, with a commensurately dwindling success rate. Now the enemy was concentrating on protecting its own bases and strongholds, and even there they were failing. Most of the bases needed to be resupplied with provisions and armaments from the main production centres, which meant convoys of robot craft strung out on long, lonely trajectories across the system. The Conjoiners picked them off with ease; it was not even worth capturing their cargoes. The Demarchists had launched crash programmes to recover some of the expertise in nano-fabrication they had enjoyed before the Melding Plague, but the rumours coming out of their war labs hinted at grisly failures; of whole research teams turned into grey slurry by runaway replicators. It was like the twenty-first century all over again.

And the more desperate they got, the worse the failures became.

Conjoiner occupation forces had successfully seized a number of outlying settlements and quickly established puppet regimes, enabling day-to-day life to continue much as it had before. They had not so far embarked on mass neural conversion programmes, but their critics said it would only be a matter of time before the populaces were subjugated by Conjoiner implants, enslaved into their crushingly uniform hive mind. Resistance groups had made several damaging strikes against Conjoiner power in those puppet states, with loose alliances of Skyjacks, pigs, banshees and other systemwide ne’er-do-wells banding together against the new authority. All they were doing, Clavain thought, was hastening the likelihood that some form of neural conscription would have to take place, if only for the public good.

But so far Yellowstone and its immediate environs - the Rust Belt, the high-orbit habitats and carousels and the starship parking swarms - had not been contested. The Ferrisville Convention, though it had its own problems, was still maintaining a façade of control. It had long suited both sides to have a neutral zone, a place where spies could exchange information and where covert agents from both sides could mingle with third parties and sweet-talk possible collaborators, sympathisers or defectors. Some said that even this was only a temporary state of affairs; that the Conjoiners would not stop at occupying most of the system; they had held Yellowstone for a few short decades and would not throw away a chance to claim her for good. Their earlier occupation had been a pragmatic intervention at the invitation of the Demarchists, but the second would be an exercise in totalitarian control like nothing history had seen for centuries.

So it was said. But what if even that was a hopelessly optimistic forecast?

Skade had told him that the signals from the lost weapons had been detected more than thirty years earlier. The memories he had been given and the data he now had access to confirmed her story. But there was no explanation for why the recovery of the weapons had suddenly become a matter of vital urgency to the Mother Nest. Skade had said that the war had made it difficult to stage an attempt any sooner than now, but that was surely only part of the truth. There had to be something else: a crisis, or the threat of a crisis, which made the recovery of the weapons vastly more important than it had been before. Something had scared the Inner Sanctum.

Clavain wondered if Skade - and by implication the Inner Sanctum - knew something about the wolves that he had yet to be told. Since Galiana’s return, the wolves had been classified as a disturbing but distant threat, something to worry about only when humankind began to push deeper into interstellar space. But what if some new intelligence had been received? What if the wolves were closer?

He wanted to dismiss the idea, but found himself unable to do so. For the remainder of the trip his thoughts circled like vultures, examining the idea from every angle, mentally stripping it to the bone. It was only when Skade again pushed her thoughts into his head that he forced himself to bury his internal enquiries beneath conscious thought.

[We’re nearly there, Clavain. You appreciate that none of what you see here can be shared with the rest of the Mother Nest?]

Of course. I hope you were discreet about whatever you were doing out here. If you’d drawn the enemy’s attention you could have compromised everything.

[But we didn’t, Clavain.]

That’s not the point. There weren’t supposed to be any operations within ten light-hours of—

[Listen, Clavain.] She leaned forwards from the tight confines of her seat, the restraint webbing taut against the black curves of her spacesuit. [There’s something you need to grasp: the war isn’t our main concern any more. We’re going to win it.]

Don’t underestimate the Demarchists.

[Oh, I won’t. But we must keep them in perspective. The only serious issue now is the recovery of the hell-class weapons.]

Does it have to be recovery? Or would you settle for destruction? Clavain watched her reaction carefully. Even after his admittance to the Closed Council Skade’s mind was closed to him.

[Destruction, Clavain? Why on Earth would we want to destroy them?]

You told me that your main objective was to stop them from falling into the wrong hands.

[That remains the case, yes.]

So you’d allow them to be destroyed? That would achieve the same end, wouldn’t it? And I imagine it’d be very much easier from a logistical point of view.

[Recovery is our preferred outcome.]

Preferred?

[Very much preferred, Clavain.]

Presently, the corvette’s motors burned harder. Barely visible, a dark cometary husk hoved out of the darkness. The ship’s forward floods glanced across its surface, hunting and questing. The comet spun slowly, more rapidly than the Mother Nest but still within reasonable limits. Clavain judged the size of the filthy snowball to be perhaps seven or eight kilometers across - an order of magnitude smaller than home. It could easily have been hidden within the Mother Nest’s hollowed-out core.

The corvette hovered close to the frothy black surface of the comet, arresting its drift with stuttering spikes of violet-flamed thrust before firing anchoring grapples. They slammed into the ground, piercing the nearly invisible epoxy skein that had been thrown around the comet for structural reinforcement.

You’ve been busy little beavers. How many people have you got here, Skade, doing whatever it is they do?

[No one. Only a handful of us have ever visited here, and no one ever stays permanently. All activities have been totally automated. Periodically a Closed Council operative arrives to check on things, but for the most part the servitors have worked unsupervised.]

Servitors aren’t that clever.

[Ours are.]

Clavain, Remontoire and Skade donned helmets and left the corvette via its surface lock, jumping across several metres of space until they collided with the reinforcement membrane. It caught them like flies on glue paper, springing back and forth until their impact energy was damped away. When the membrane had ceased its oscillations Clavain gently ripped his arm away from the adhesive surface and then levered himself into a standing position. The adhesive was sophisticated enough to yield to normal motions, but it would remain sticky against any action sufficiently violent to send someone away from the comet at escape velocity. Similarly, the membrane was rigid under normal forces, but would deform elastically if something impacted it at more than a few metres per second. Walking was possible provided it was done reasonably slowly, but anything more vigorous would result in the subject becoming embroiled and immobilised until they relaxed.

Skade, whose crested helmet made her difficult to mistake, led the way, following what must have been a suit homing trace. After five minutes of progress they arrived at a modest depression in the comet’s surface. Clavain discerned a black entrance hole at the depression’s lowest point, almost lost against the sooty blackness of the comet’s surface. There was a circular gap in the membrane, protected by a ring-shaped collar.

Skade knelt by the blackness, the adhesive gripping her knees via oozing capillary flow. She knocked the rim of the collar twice and then waited. After perhaps a minute a servitor bustled from the darkness, unfolding a plethora of jointed legs and appendages as it cleared the tight restriction of the collar. The machine resembled a belligerent iron grasshopper. Clavain recognised it as a general construction model - there were thousands like it back at the Mother Nest - but there was something unnervingly confident and cocky about the way it moved.

[Clavain, Remontoire ... let me introduce you to the Master of Works.]

The servitor?

[The Master’s more than just a servitor, I assure you.]

Skade shifted to spoken language. ‘Master ... we wish to see the interior. Please let us through.’

In reply Clavain heard the buzzing, wasplike voice of the Master. ‘I am not familiar with these two individuals.’

‘Clavain and Remontoire both have Closed Council clearance. Here, read my mind. You’ll see I am not being coerced.’

There was a pause while the machine stepped closer to Skade, easing the full mass of its body from the collar. It had many legs and limbs, some tipped with picklike feet, others ending in specialised grippers, tools or sensors. On either side of its wedge-shaped head were major sensor clusters, packed together like faceted compound eyes. Skade stood her ground while the servitor advanced, until it was towering over her. The machine lowered its head and swept it from side to side, and then jerked backwards.

‘I will want to read their minds as well.’

‘Be my guest.’

The servitor moved to Remontoire, angled its head and swept him. It took a little longer with him than it had spent on Skade. Then, seemingly satisified, it proceeded to Clavain. He felt it rummaging through his mind, its scrutiny fierce and systematic. As the machine trawled him, a torrent of remembered smells, sounds and visual images burst into his consciousness, and then each image vanished to be replaced by another. Now and then the machine would pause, back up and retrieve an earlier image, lingering over it suspiciously. Others it skipped over with desultory disinterest. The process was mercifully quick, but it still felt like he was being ransacked.

Then the scanning stopped, the torrent ceased and Clavain’s mind was his own again.

‘This one is conflicted. He appears to have had doubts. I have doubts about him. I cannot retrieve deep neural structures. Perhaps I should scan him at higher resolution. A modest surgical procedure would permit...’

Skade interrupted the servitor. ‘That’s not necessary, Master. He’s entitled to his doubts. Let us through, will you?’

‘This is not in order. This is most irregular. A limited surgical intervention ...’ The machine still had its clusters of sensors locked on to Clavain.

‘Master, this is a direct command. Let us pass.’

The servitor pulled away. ‘Very well. I comply under duress. I will insist that the visit be brief.’

‘We won’t detain you,’ Skade said.

‘No, you will not. You will also remove your weapons. I will not permit high-energy-density devices within my comet.’

Clavain glanced down at his suit’s utility belt, unclipping the low-yield boser pistol he had barely been aware he was carrying. He moved to place the pistol on the ice, but even as he did so there was a whiplike blur of motion from the Master of Works, flicking the pistol from his hand. He saw it spin off into the darkness above him, flung away at greater than escape velocity. Skade and Remontoire did likewise, and the Master disposed of their weapons with the same casual flick. Then the servitor spun round, its legs a dancing blur of metal, and thrust itself back into the hole.

[Come on. It doesn’t really like visitors, and it’ll start getting irritated if we stay too long.]

Remontoire pushed a thought into their heads. [You mean it’s not irritated yet?]

What the hell is it, Skade?

[A servitor, of course, only somewhat brighter than the norm . . . does that disturb you?]

Clavain followed her through the collar and into the tunnel, drifting more than walking, guiding himself between the throatlike walls of compactified ice. He had barely been aware of the pistol he carried until it had been confiscated, but now he felt quite vulnerable without it. He fingered his utility belt, but there was nothing else on it that would serve as a weapon against the servitor, should it chose to turn against them. There were a few clamps and miniature grapples, a couple of thumb-sized signalling beacons and a standard-issue sealant spray. The only thing approaching an actual weapon - while the spray looked like a gun, it had a range of only two or three centimetres - was a short-bladed piezo-knife, sufficient to pierce spacesuit fabric but not much use against an armoured machine or even a well-trained adversary.

You know damned well it does. I’ve never had my mind invaded by a machine ... not the way that one just did.

[It just needs to know it can trust us.]

While it trawled him he had tasted the sharp metallic tang of its intelligence. How clever is it, exactly? Turing-compliant?

[Higher. As smart as an alpha-level, at the very least. Oh, don’t give me that aura of self-righteous disgust, Clavain. You once accepted machines that were almost as intelligent as yourself.]

I’ve had time to revise my opinion on the subject.

[Is it that you feel threatened by it, I wonder?]

By a machine? No. What I feel, Skade, is pity. Pity that you let that machine become intelligent while forcing it to remain your slave. I didn’t think that was quite what we believed in.

He felt Remontoire’s quiet presence. [I agree with Clavain. We’ve managed to do without intelligent machines until now, Skade. Not because we fear them but because we know that any intelligent entity must choose its own destiny. Yet that servitor doesn’t have any free will, does it? Just intelligence. The one without the other is a travesty. We’ve gone to war over less.]

Somewhere ahead of them was a pale lilac glow that picked out the natural patterning of the tunnel walls. Clavain could see the servitor’s dark spindly bulk against the light source. It must have been listening in to this conversation, he thought, hearing them debate what it represented.

[I regret that we had to do it. But we didn’t have any choice. We needed clever servitors.]

[It’s slavery,] Remontoire insisted.

[Desperate times call for desperate measures, Remontoire.]

Clavain peered into the pale purple gloom. What’s so desperate? I thought all we were doing was recovering some lost property.

The Master of Works brought them to the interior of Skade’s comet, calling them to a halt inside a small, airless blister set into the interior wall of the hollowed-out body. They stationed themselves by hooking limbs into restraint straps attached to the blister’s stiff alloy frame. The blister was hermetically sealed from the comet’s main chamber. The vacuum that had been achieved within was so high-grade that even the vapour leakage from Clavain’s suit would have caused an unacceptable degradation.

Clavain stared into the chamber. Beyond the glass was a cavern of dizzying scale. It was bathed in rapturous blue light, filled with vast machines and an almost subliminal sense of scurrying activity. For a moment the scene was far too much to take in. Clavain felt as if he was staring into the depths of perspective in a fabulous detailed medieval painting, beguiled by the interlocking arches and towers of some radiant celestial city, glimpsing hosts of silver-leaf angels in the architecture, squadron upon squadron of them as far as the eye could see, receding into the cerulean blue of infinity. Then he grasped the scale of things and realised with a perceptual jolt that the angels were merely distant machines: droves of sterile construction servitors traversing the vacuum by the thousand as they went about their tasks. They communicated with each other using lasers, and it was the scatter and reflection of those beams that drenched the chamber in such shivering blue radiance. And it was indeed cold, Clavain knew. Dotted around the walls of the chamber he recognised the nubbed black cones of cryo-arithmetic engines, calculating overtime to suck away the heat of intense industrial activity that would otherwise have boiled the comet away.

Clavain’s attention flicked to the reason for all that activity. He was not surprised to see the ships - not even surprised to see that they were starships - but the degree to which they had been completed astonished him. He had been expecting half-finished hulks, but he could not believe that these ships were far from flight-readiness. There were twelve of them packed side by side in clouds of geodesic support scaffolding. They were identical shapes, smooth and black as torpedos or beached whales, barbed near the rear with the outflung spars and nacelles of Conjoiner drives. Though there were no obvious visual comparisons, he was certain that each of the ships was at least three or four kilometres long, much larger than Nightshade.

Skade smiled, obviously noting his reaction. [Impressed?]

Who wouldn’t be?

[Now you understand why the Master was so concerned about the risk of an unintentional weapons discharge, or even a powerplant overload. Of course, you’re wondering why we’ve started building them again.]

It’s a fair question. Would the wolves have anything to do with it, by any chance?

[Perhaps you should tell me why you think we ever stopped making them.]

I’m afraid no one ever had the decency to tell me.

[You’re an intelligent man. You must have formed a few theories of your own.]

For a moment Clavain thought of telling her that the matter had never really concerned him; that the decision to stop making starships had happened when he was in deep space, a fait accompli by the time he returned, and - given the immediate need to help his side win the war - not the most pressing issue at hand.

But that would have been a lie. It had always troubled him.

Generally it’s assumed that we stopped making them for selfish economic reasons, or because we were worried that the drives were falling into the wrong hands - Ultras and other undesirables. Or that we discovered a fatal flaw in the design that meant that the drives had a habit of exploding now and again.

[Yes, and there are at least half a dozen other theories in common currency, ranging from the faintly plausible to the ludicrously paranoid. What was your understanding of the reason?]

We’d only ever had a stable customer relationship with the Demarchists. The Ultras bought their drives off second- or third-hand sources, or stole them. But once our relationship with the Demarchists began to deteriorate, which happened when the Melding Plague crashed their economy, we lost our main client. They couldn’t afford our technology, and we weren’t willing to sell it to a faction that showed increasing signs of hostility.

[A very pragmatic answer, Clavain.]

I never saw any reason to look for any deeper explanation.

[There is, of course, quite a grain of truth in that. Economic and political factors did play a role. But there was something else. It can’t have escaped your attention that our own internal shipbuilding programme has been much reduced.]

We’ve had a war to fight. We have enough ships for our needs as it is.

[True, but even those ships have not been active. Routine interstellar traffic has been greatly reduced. Travel between Conjoiner settlements in other systems has been cut back to a minimum.]

Again, effects of a war—

[Had remarkably little to do with it, other than providing a convenient cover story.]

Despite himself, Clavain almost laughed. Cover story?

[Had the real reason ever come out, there would have been widespread panic across the whole of human-settled space. The socio-economic turmoil would have been incomparably greater than anything caused by the present war.]

And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why?

[You were right, in a sense. It was to do with the wolves, Clavain.]

He shook his head. It can’t have been.

[Why not?]

Because we didn’t learn about the wolves until Galiana returned. And Galiana didn’t encounter them until after we separated. There was no need to remind Skade that both of these events had happened long after the edict to stop shipbuilding.

Skade’s helmet nodded a fraction. [That’s true, in a sense. Certainly, it wasn’t until Galiana’s return that the Mother Nest obtained any detailed intelligence concerning the nature of the machines. But the fact that the wolves existed - the fact that they were out there - that was already known, many years before.]

It can’t have been. Galiana was the first to encounter them.

[No. She was merely the first to make it back alive - or at least the first to make it back in any sense at all. Before that, there had only been distant reports, mysterious instances of ships vanishing, the odd distress signal. Over the years the Closed Council collated these reports and came to the conclusion that the wolves, or something like the wolves, was stalking interstellar space. That was bad enough, yet there was an even more disturbing conclusion, one that led to the edict. The pattern of losses pointed to the fact that the machines, whatever they were, homed in on a specific signature from our engines. We concluded that the wolves were drawn to us by the tau-neutrino emissions that are a characteristic of our drives.]

And Galiana?

[When she returned we knew we’d been right. And she gave a name to our enemy, Clavain. We owe her that much, if nothing else.]

Then Skade reached into his head and planted an image. What she showed him was pitiless blackness studded by a smattering of faint, feeble stars. The stars did nothing to nullify the darkness, serving only to make it more absolute and cold. This was how Skade now perceived the cosmos, as ultimately inimical to life as an acid bath. But between the stars was something other than emptiness. The machines lurked in those spaces, preferring the darkness and the cold. Skade made him experience the cruel flavour of their intelligence. It made the thought processes of the Master of Works seem comforting and friendly. There was something bestial in the way the machines thought, a furious slavering hunger that would eclipse all other considerations.

A feral, ravenous bloodlust.

[They’ve always been out there, hiding in the darkness, watching and waiting. For four centuries we’ve been extremely lucky, stumbling through the night, making noise and light, broadcasting our presence into the galaxy. I think in some ways they must be blind, or that there are certain kinds of signal they filter from their perceptions. They never homed in on our radio or television transmissions, for instance, or else they would have scented us en masse centuries ago. That hasn’t happened yet. Perhaps they are designed only to respond to the unmistakable signs of a starfaring culture, rather than a merely technological one. Speculation, of course, but what else can we do but speculate?]

Clavain looked at the twelve brand-new starships. And now? Why start shipbuilding again?

[Because now we can. Nightshade was a prototype for these twelve much larger ships. They have quiet drives. With certain refinements in drive topology we were able to reduce the tau-neutrino flux by two orders of magnitude. Far from perfect, but it should allow us to resume interstellar travel without immediate fear of bringing down the wolves. The technology will, of course, have to remain strictly within Conjoiner control.]

Of course.

[I’m glad you see it that way.]

He looked at the ships again. The twelve black shapes were larger, fatter versions of Nightshade, their hulls swelling out to a width of perhaps two hundred and fifty metres at the widest point. They were as fat-bellied as the old ramliner colonisation ships, which had been designed to carry many tens of thousands of frozen sleepers.

But what about the rest of humanity? What about all the old ships that are still being used?

[We’ve done what we can. Closed Council agents have succeeded in regaining control of a number of outlaw vessels. These ships were destroyed, of course: we can’t use them either, and existing drives can’t be safely converted to the stealthed design.]

They can’t?

Into Clavain’s mind Skade tossed the image of a small planet, perhaps a moon, with a huge bowl-shaped chunk gouged out of one hemisphere, glowing cherry-red.

[No.]

And I don’t suppose that at any point you thought that it might help to disclose this information?

Behind the visor of her crested helmet she smiled tolerantly. [Clavain ... Clavain. Always so willing to believe in the greater good of humanity. I find your attitude heartening, I really do. But what good would disclosure serve? This information is already too sensitive to share even with the majority of the Conjoined. I daren’t imagine what effect it would have on the rest of humanity.]

He wanted to argue but he knew she was correct. It was decades since any utterance from the Conjoiners had been taken at face value. Even a warning as bluntly urgent as that would be assumed to have duplicitous intent.

Even if his side capitulated, their surrender would be taken as a ruse.

Maybe you’re right. Maybe. But I still don’t understand why you’ve suddenly begun shipbuilding again.

[As a purely precautionary measure, should we need them.]

Clavain studied the ships again. Even if each ship only had the capacity to carry fifty or sixty thousand sleepers - and they looked capable of carrying far more than that - Skade’s fleet would have sufficed to carry nearly half the population of the Mother Nest.

Purely precautionary - that’s all?

[Well, there is the small matter of the hell-class weapons. Two of the ships plus the prototype will constitute a taskforce for the recovery operation. They will be armed with the most advanced weapons in our arsenal, and will contain recently developed technologies of a tactically advantageous nature.]

Like, I suppose, the systems you were testing?

[Certain further tests must still be performed, but yes ...]

Skade unhitched herself. ’Master of Works - we’re done here for now. My guests have seen enough. What is your most recent estimate for when the ships will be flight ready?’

The servitor, which had folded and entwined its appendages into a tight bundle, swivelled its head to address her. ‘Sixty-one days, eight hours and thirteen minutes.’

‘Thank you. Be sure to do all you can to accelerate that schedule. Clavain won’t want to be detained a moment, will you?’

Clavain said nothing.

‘Please follow me,’ said the Master of Works, flicking a limb towards the exit. It was anxious to lead them back to the surface.

Clavain made sure he was the first behind it.

He did his best to keep his mind as blank and calm as possible, concentrating purely on the mechanics of the task in hand. The journey back towards the surface of the comet seemed to take much longer than the trip down had. The Master of Works bustled ahead of them, straddling the tunnel bore, picking its way along it with fastidious care. The servitor’s mood was impossible to read, but Clavain had the impression that it was very glad to be done with the three of them. It had been programmed to tend the operations here with zealous protectivity, and Clavain could not help but admire the grudging way it had entertained them. He had dealt with many robots and servitors in his lifetime, and they had been programmed with many superficially convincing personalities. But this was the first one that had seemed genuinely resentful of human company.

Halfway along the throat, Clavain halted suddenly. Wait a moment.

[What’s wrong?]

I don’t know. My suit’s registering a small pressure leak in my glove. Something in the wall may have ripped the fabric.

[That’s not possible, Clavain. The wall is mildly compacted cometary ice. It would be like cutting yourself on smoke.]

Clavain nodded. Then I cut myself on smoke. Or perhaps there was a sharp chip embedded in the wall.

Clavain turned around and held his hand up for inspection. A target-shaped patch on the back of his left gauntlet was flashing pink, indicating the general region of a slow pressure loss.

[He’s right, Skade,] Remontoire said.

[It’s not serious. He can fix it when we’re back on the corvette.]

My hand feels cold. I’ve lost this hand once already, Skade. I don’t intend to lose it again.

He heard her hiss, an unfiltered sound of pure human impatience. [Then fix it.]

Clavain nodded and fumbled the spray from his utility belt. He dialled the nozzle to its narrowest setting and pressed the tip against his glove. The sealant emerged like a thin grey worm, instantly hardening and bonding to the fabric. He worked the nozzle sinuously up and down and from side to side, until he had doodled the worm across the gauntlet.

His hand was cold, but it also hurt because he had pushed the blade of the piezo-knife clean through the gauntlet. He had done it without removing the knife from the belt, in one fluid gesture as he moved one hand across the belt and angled the knife with the other. Given the difficulties, he had done well not to escape a more severe injury.

Clavain returned the spray to his belt. There was a regular warning tone in his helmet and his glove continued to pulse pink - he could see the pink glow around the edges of the sealant - but the sense of cold was diminishing. There was a small residual leak, but nothing that would cause him any difficulties.

[Well?]

I think that’s taken care of it. I’ll take a better look at it when we’re in the corvette.

To Clavain’s relief the incident appeared closed. The servitor bustled on and the three of them followed it. Eventually the tunnel breached the comet’s surface. Clavain had the usual expected moment of vertigo as he stood outside again, for the comet’s weak gravity was barely detectable and it was very easy via a simple flip of the perceptions to imagine himself glued by the soles of his feet to a coal-black ceiling, head down over infinite nothingness. But then the moment passed and he was confident again. The Master of Works packed itself back into the collar and then vanished down the tunnel.

They made quick progress to the waiting corvette, a wedge of pure black tethered against the starscape.

[Clavain ... ?]

Yes, Skade?

[Do you mind if I ask you something? The Master of Works reported that you had doubts ... was that an honest observation, or was the machine confused by the extreme antiquity of your memories?]

You tell me.

[Do you appreciate the need to recover the weapons, now? I mean on a visceral level?]

Nothing’s ever been clearer to me. I understand perfectly that we need those weapons.

[I sense your honesty, Clavain. You do understand, don’t you?]

Yes, I think so. The things you showed me made it all a lot clearer.

He was ahead of Skade and Remontoire by ten or twelve metres, moving as quickly as he dared. Suddenly - when he had reached the corvette’s nearest grappling line - he stopped and spun around, grasping the line with one hand. The gesture was enough to make Skade and Remontoire stop in their tracks.

[Clavain ...]

He ripped the piezo-knife from his belt and plunged it into the plastic membrane that wrapped the comet. He had the knife set to maximum sharpness and worked it lengthways, gouging a gash in the membrane. Clavain edged along like a crab, slicing first a metre then a two-metre rift, the knife whistling through the membrane with the barest hint of resistance. He had to keep a firm hold of the grapple, so he was only able to open up a four-metre-wide gash.

Until he had made the cut, he had no way of judging whether it would be sufficiently long. But a sliding sensation in his gut told him that it was enough. The entire patch of membrane under the corvette was being tugged back by the elasticity of the rest of the fabric. The gash was ripping wider and longer without his encouragement: four metres, then six, then ten ... unzipping in either direction. Skade and Remontoire, caught on the far side, were tugged away by the same elastic pull.

The whole thing had taken one or two seconds. That, however, was more than enough time for Skade.

Almost as soon as he had plunged the knife in he had felt her claw at his mind, understanding that he was attempting to escape. In that moment he sensed brutal neural power that he had never suspected before. Skade was unleashing everything that she had against him, damning caution and secrecy. He felt search-and-destroy algorithms scuttle across the vacuum on radio waves, burrowing into his skull, working their way through the layered strata of his mind, questing and grasping for the basal routines that would allow her to paralyse him, or throw him into unconsciousness, or simply kill him. Had he been a normal Conjoiner she would have succeeded in microseconds, instructing his neural implants to self-destruct in an incendiary orgy of heat and pressure, and he would have been lost. Instead he felt a pain as if someone were driving an iron piton into his skull, one cruel tap at a time.

He still slipped into unconsciousness. The moment could only have lasted two or three seconds, but when he emerged he felt a yawing dislocation, unable to remember where he was or what he was doing. All that remained was a searing chemical imperative, written in the adrenalin that was still flooding his blood. He didn’t quite know what had caused it, but the feeling was inescapable: an ancient mammalian fear. He was running away from something and his life was in great danger. He was suspended by one hand from a taut metal line. He glanced along the line - up - and saw a ship, a corvette, hovering above him, and knew, or hoped, that this was where he needed to be.

He started to tug himself up the line towards the waiting ship, half-remembering something that he had initiated and that he needed to continue. Then the pain notched itself higher and he fell back into unconsciousness.

Clavain came around as he drifted to a halt - ‘fell’ was too strong a word for it - against the plastic membrane. Again he felt a basic urgency and struggled to make sense of the predicament he vaguely knew himself to be in. There above him was the ship - he remembered it from last time. He had been inching up the line, trying to reach it. Or had he been inching down it, trying to get away from something aboard it?

He looked laterally across the surface of wherever he was and saw two figures beckoning him.

[Clavain ...]

The voice - the female presence in his head - was forceful but not entirely lacking in compassion. There was regret there, but it was the kind of regret a teacher might entertain for a promising pupil that had let her down. Was the voice disappointed because he was about to fail, or disappointed because he had nearly succeeded?

He didn’t know. He sensed that if he could only think things through, if only he could have a quiet minute alone, he could put all the pieces back together. There had been something, hadn’t there? A huge room full of dark, menacing shapes.

All he needed was peace and quiet.

But there was also a ringing tone in his head: a pressure-loss alarm. He glanced at his suit exterior, searching for the telltale pulse of pink that would highlight the wound. There it was: a smudge of rose across the back of his hand, the one that now held a knife. He returned the knife to the vacant position on his belt and reached instinctively for the sealant spray. Then he realised that he had already used the spray; that the smudge of pink was leaking around the sides of an intricately curved and curled scab of hardened sealant. The solidified grey worm appeared to form a complex runic inscription.

He looked at the glove from a different angle and saw a message scrawled in the tangled track of the worm: SHIP.

It was his handwriting.

The two figures had reached the ends of the wound-shaped gash in the ice and were now converging on his position as quickly as they were able. He judged that they would arrive at the base of the grapple in under a minute. It would take him almost as long to work his way along the line. He wondered about jumping for it, hoping that he could judge it correctly and not sail past the corvette, but at the back of his mind he knew that the adhesive membrane would not allow him to kick off. He would have to shin up the line hand-over-hand, despite the pain in his head and the constant feeling that he was on the verge of teetering back into unconsciousness.

He blacked out again, but more briefly this time, and when he saw his glove and the figures converging below him he guessed that he was right to head for the ship. He reached the lock at the same time as the first of the figures - the one with the ridged helmet, he saw now - arrived at the barbed grapple.

His perceptions now told him that the surface of the comet was a vertical black wall, with the tether lines emerging horizontally. The two others were flies glued to that wall, crouched and foreshortened and about to traverse the same bridge he had just crossed. Clavain fell back into the lock and palmed the emergency repressurisation control. The outer door snicked silently shut; air began to flood in. Instantly he felt the pain in his head lessen, and gasped in the sheer relief of the moment.

The override permitted the inner door to open almost before the outer door had sealed. Clavain hurled himself into the corvette’s interior, kicked off from the far wall, knocked his skull against a bulkhead and then collided with the front of the flight deck. He did not bother getting into his seat or fastening restraints. He simply fired the corvette’s thrusters - full emergency burn - and heard a dozen klaxons scream at him that this was not an auspicious thing to do.

Advise immediate engine shutdown. Advise immediate engine shutdown.

‘Shut up!’ Clavain shouted.

For a moment the corvette pulled away from the comet’s surface. The ship made perhaps two and half meters before the grapple lines extended to their maximum tension and held taut. The jolt threw him against a wall; he felt something break like a dry twig somewhere between his heart and his waist. The comet had moved too, of course, but only imperceptibly; he might as well have been tethered to an immovable rock at the centre of the universe.

‘Clavain.’ The voice came over the corvette’s radio. It was extraordinarily calm. His memories had begun to reassemble, fitfully, and with some hesitation he felt able to apply a name to his tormentor.

‘Skade. Hello.’ He spoke through pain, certain that he had broken at least one rib and probably bruised one or two others.

‘Clavain . . . what exactly are you doing?’

‘I seem to be attempting to steal this ship.’

He pulled himself into the seat now, wincing at multiple flares of pain. He groaned as he stretched restraint webbing across his chest. The thrusters were threatening to go into autonomous shutdown mode. He threw desperate commands at the corvette. Grapple retraction wouldn’t help his situation: it would just reel in Skade and Remontoire - he remembered both of them now - and then the two of them would be on the outside of the hull, where they would have to stay. They would probably be safe if he abandoned them in space, drifting, but this was a Closed Council mission. Almost no one else would know they were out here.

‘Full thrust ...’ Clavain said aloud, to himself. He knew a burst of full thrust would get him away from the comet. Either it would sever the grapple lines or it would rip chunks of the comet’s surface away with him.

‘Clavain,’ said a man’s voice, ‘I think you need to think about this.’

Neither of them could reach him neurally. The corvette would not allow those kinds of signals through its hull.

‘Thanks, Rem ... but as a matter of fact, I’ve already given it a fair bit of thought. She wants those weapons too badly. It’s the wolves, isn’t it, Skade? You need the weapons for when the wolves come.’

‘I as good as spelled it out to you, Clavain. Yes, we need the weapons to defend ourselves against the wolves. Is that so reprehensible? Is ensuring our own survival such a damning thing to do? What would you prefer - that we capitulate, offer ourselves up to them?’

‘How do you know they’re coming?’

‘We don’t. We merely consider their arrival to be likely, based on the information available to us ...’

‘There’s more to it than that.’ His fingers skated over the main thrust controls. In a few seconds he would have to use full burn or stay behind.

‘We just know, Clavain. That’s all you have to know. Now let us back aboard the corvette. We’ll forget all about this, I assure you.’

‘Not good enough, I’m afraid.’

He fired the main engine, working the other thrusters to steer the blinding violet arc of the drive flame away from the comet’s surface. He did not want to hurt either of them. Clavain disliked Skade but wished her no harm. Remontoire was his friend, and he had only left him on the comet because he did not see the point of implicating him in what he was about to do.

The corvette stretched against its guys. He could feel the vibration of the engine working its way through the hull, into his bones. Overload indicators were flicking into the red.

‘Clavain, listen to me,’ Skade said. ‘You can’t take that ship. What are you going to do with it - defect to the Demarchists?’

‘It’s a thought.’

‘It’s also suicide. You’ll never make it to Yellowstone. If we don’t kill you, the Demarchists will.’

Something snapped. The shuttle yawed and then slammed against the restraints of the remaining grapple lines. Through the cockpit window Clavain saw the severed line whiplash into the surface of the comet, slicing through the caul of stabilising membrane. It gashed a meter-wide wound in the surface. Black soot erupted out like octopus ink.

‘Skade’s right. You won’t make it, Clavain - there’s nowhere for you to go. Please, as a friend - I beg you not to do this.’

‘Don’t you understand, Rem? She wants those weapons so she can take them with her. Those twelve ships? They’re not all for the taskforce. They’re part of something bigger. It’s an evacuation fleet.’

He felt the jolt as another line snapped, coiling into the comet with savage energy.

‘So what if they are, Clavain?’ Skade said.

‘What about the rest of humanity? What are those poor fools meant to do when the wolves arrive? Take their own chances?’

‘It’s a Darwinian universe.’

‘Wrong answer, Skade.’

The final line snapped at that moment. Suddenly he was accelerating away from the comet at full burn, squashed into his seat. He yelped at the pain from his damaged ribs. He watched the indicators normalise, the needles trembling back into green or white. The motor pitch died away to subsonic; the hull oscillations subsided. Skade’s comet grew smaller.

By eye, Clavain orientated himself toward the sharp point of light that was Epsilon Eridani.

ELEVEN

Deep within Nostalgia for Infinity, Ilia Volyova stood at the epicentre of the thing that had once been her Captain, the thing that in another life had called itself John Armstrong Brannigan. She was not shivering, and that still struck her as wrong. Visits to the Captain had always been accompanied by extreme physical discomfort, lending the whole exercise the faintly penitential air of a pilgrimage. On the occasions when they were not visiting the Captain to measure the extent of his growth - which could be slowed, but not stopped - they had generally been seeking his wisdom on some matter or other. It seemed only right and proper that some burden of suffering should be part of the bargain, even if the Captain’s advice had not always been absolutely sound, or even sane.

They had kept him cold to arrest the progress of the Melding Plague. For a time, the reefersleep casket in which he was kept could maintain the cold. But the Captain’s relentless growth had finally encroached on the casket itself, subverting and incorporating its systems into his own burgeoning template. The casket had continued functioning, after a fashion, but it had proved necessary to plunge the entire area around it into cryogenic cold. Trips to the Captain required the donning of many layers of thermal clothing. It was not easy to breathe the chill air that infested his realm: each inhalation threatened to shatter the lungs into a million glassy shards. Volyova had chain-smoked during those visits, though they were easier for her than for the others. She had no internal implants, nothing that the plague could reach and corrupt. The others - all dead now - had considered her squeamish and weak for not having them. But she saw the envy in their eyes when they were forced to spend time in the vicinity of the Captain. Then, if only for a few minutes, they wanted to be her. Desperately.

Sajaki, Hegazi, Sudjic ... she could barely remember their names, it seemed like such a long time ago.

Now the place was no cooler than any other part of the ship, and much warmer than some areas. The air was humid and still. Glistening films textured every surface. Condensation ran in rivulets down the walls, dribbling around knobbly accretions. Now and then, with a rude eructation, a mass of noxious shipboard effluent would burst from a cavity and ooze to the floor. The ship’s biochemical recycling processes had long ago escaped human control. Instead of crashing, they had evolved madly, adding weird feedback loops and flourishes. It was a constant and wearying battle to prevent the ship from drowning in its own effluent. Volyova had installed bilge pumps at thousands of locations, redirecting the slime back to major processing vats where crude chemical agents could degrade it. The drone of the bilge pumps provided a background to every thought, like a single sustained organ note. The sound was always there. She had simply stopped noticing it.

If one knew where to look, and if one had the particular visual knack for extracting patterns from chaos, one could just about tell where the reefersleep casket had been. When she had allowed him to warm - she had fired a flèchette round into the casket’s control system - he had begun to consume the surrounding ship at a vastly accelerated rate, ripping it apart atom by atom and merging it with himself. The heat had been like a furnace. She had not waited to see what the effects of the transformations would be, but it had seemed clear enough that the Captain would continue until he had assimilated much of the ship. As horrific as that prospect had been, it had been preferable to letting the ship remain in the control of another monster: Sun Stealer. She had hoped that the Captain would succeed in wresting some control from the parasitic intelligence that had invaded Nostalgia for Infinity.

She had, remarkably, been right. The Captain had eventually subsumed the whole ship, warping it to his own feverish whim. There was, Volyova knew, something unique about this particular case of plague infection. As far as anyone knew there was only one strain of Melding Plague, and the contamination that had reached the ship was the same kind that had done such damage in the Yellowstone system and elsewhere. Volyova had seen images of Chasm City after the plague, the twisted and grotesque architecture that the city had assumed, like a sick dream of itself. But while those transformations possessed at times what appeared to have been purpose, or even artistry, no real intelligence could be said to lie behind them. The shapes the buildings had taken on were in some sense pre-ordained by their underlying biodesign principles. But what had happened on Infinity was different. The plague had inhabited the Captain for long years before reshaping him. Was it possible that some symbiosis had been achieved, and that when the plague finally went wild, consuming and altering the ship, the transformations were in some sense expressions of the Captain’s subconscious?

She suspected so, and at the same time hoped not. For no matter which way one looked at it, the ship had become something monstrous. When Khouri had come up from Resurgam, Volyova had done her best to be blasé about the transformations, but that act had been as much for her benefit as Khouri’s. The ship unnerved her on many levels. Shortly before she had allowed him to warm, she had come to an understanding of the Captain’s crimes, gaining a fleeting glimpse into the cloister of guilt and hate that was his mind. Now it was as if that mind had been vastly expanded, to the point where she could walk around inside it. The Captain had become the ship. The ship had inherited his crimes and become a monument to its own villainy.

She studied the contours that marked where the casket had been. During the latter stages of the Captain’s illness, the reefersleep unit, pressed up against one wall, had begun to extend silvery fronds in all directions. They could be traced back through the casket’s fractured casing into the Captain himself, fused deeply with his central nervous system. Now those sensory feelers encompassed the entire ship, worming, bifurcating and reconnecting like immense squid axons. There were several dozen locations where the silver feelers converged into what Volyova had come to think of as major ganglial processing centres, fantastically intricate tangles. There was no physical trace of the Captain’s old body now, but his intelligence, distended, confused, spectral, undoubtedly still inhabited the ship. Volyova had not decided whether those nodes were distributed brains or simply small components of a much larger shipwide intellect. All that she was sure of was that John Brannigan was still present.

Once, when she had been shipwrecked around Hades and had assumed Khouri to be dead, she had been waiting for Infinity to execute her. She was expecting it. She had warmed the Captain by then, told him of the crimes she had uncovered, given him every reason to punish her.

But he had spared her and then rescued her. He had allowed her back aboard the ship, which was still in the process of being consumed and transformed. He had ignored all her attempts at communication, but had made it possible for her to survive. There had been pockets where his transformations were less severe, and she had found that she could live in them. She had discovered that they even moved around, if she decided to inhabit a different portion of the ship. So Brannigan, or whatever was running the ship, knew she was aboard, and knew what she needed to stay alive. Later, when she had found Khouri, the ship had allowed her to come aboard as well.

It had been like inhabiting a haunted house occupied by a lonely but protective spirit. Whatever they needed, within reason, the ship provided. But it would not relinquish absolute control. It would not move, except to make short in-system flights. It would not give them access to any of its weapons, let alone the cache.

Volyova had continued her attempts at communication, but they had all been fruitless. When she spoke to the ship, nothing happened. When she scrawled visual messages, there was no response. And yet she remained convinced that the ship was paying attention. It had become catatonic, withdrawn into its own private abyss of remorse and recrimination.

The ship despised itself.

But then Khouri had left, returning to Resurgam to infiltrate Inquisition House and lead the whole damned planet on a wild goose chase, just so she and Volyova could get into any place they needed without question.

Those first few months of solitude had been trying, even for Ilia Volyova. They had forced her to the conclusion that she quite liked human companionship after all. Having nothing for company except a sullen, silent, hateful mind had almost pushed her to the edge.

But then the ship, in its own small way, had begun to talk back. At first, she had almost not noticed its efforts. There had been a hundred things that needed doing each day, and no time to stop and be quiet and wait for the ship to make its fumbling gestures of conciliation. Rat infestations ... bilge pump failures ... the continual process of redirecting the plague away from critical areas, fighting it with nano-agents, fire, refrigerants and chemical sprays.

Then one day the servitors had started behaving oddly. Like the rats that had turned rogue, they had once been part of the ship’s repair and redesign infrastructure. The smartest of them had been consumed by the plague, but the oldest, stupidest machines had endured. They continued to toil away at their allotted tasks, only dimly aware that the ship had changed around them. For the most part they neither helped nor hindered Volyova, so she had let them be. Very occasionally they were useful, but it was such a rare occurrence that she had long since stopped counting on it.

But then the servitors began to help her. It started with a routine bilge pump failure. She had detected the pump breakdown and travelled downship to inspect the problem. When she arrived, to her astonishment she had found a servitor waiting there, carrying more or less exactly the right tools she needed to fix the unit.

Her first priority had been to get the pump chugging again. When the local flood had subsided she had sat down and taken stock. The ship still looked the way it had when she had woken up. The corridors still stretched away like mucus-coated windpipes. Vile substances continued to ooze and drip from every orifice in the ship’s fabric. The air remained cloying, and at the back of every thought was the constant Gregorian chant of the other bilge pumps.

But something had definitely changed.

She had put the tools back on the rack that the servitor carried. When she was done the machine had whipped smartly around on its tracks and whirred off into the distance, vanishing around the ribbed curve of the corridor.

‘You can hear me, I think,’ she had said aloud. ‘Hear me and see me. You also know that I’m not here to hurt you. You could have killed me already, John, especially if you control the servitors - and you do, don’t you?’

She had not been the least bit surprised when no answer was forthcoming. But she had persisted.

‘You remember who I am, of course. I’m the one who warmed you. The one who guessed what you’d done. Perhaps you think I was punishing you for your actions. You’d be wrong. It’s not my style; sadism bores me. If I wanted to punish you, I’d have killed you - and there were a thousand ways I could have done it. But it wasn’t what I had in mind. I just want you to know that my personal opinion on the matter is that you’ve suffered enough. You have suffered, haven’t you?’ She had paused, listening to the musical tone of the pump, satisfying herself that it was not going to immediately fail again.

‘Well, you deserved it,’ she said. ‘You deserved to spend time in hell for what you did. Perhaps you have. Only you will ever know what it was like to live like that, for so long. Only you will ever know if the state you’re in now is any kind of improvement.’

There had been a distant tremor at that point; she had felt it through the flooring. She wondered if it was just a scheduled pumping operation going on somewhere else in the ship or whether the Captain had been commenting on her remark.

‘It’s better now, isn’t it? It has to be better. You’ve escaped now, and become the spirit of the ship you once commanded. What more could any Captain desire?’

There had been no answer. She had waited several minutes, hoping for another seismic rumble or some equally cryptic signal. Nothing had come.

‘About the servitor,’ she had said. ‘I’m grateful, thank you. It was a help.’

But the ship had said nothing.

What she found from then on, however, was that the servitors were always there to help her when they could. If her intentions could be guessed, the machines would race ahead to bring the tools or equipment she needed. If it was a long job, a servitor would even bring her food and water, transported from one of the functioning dispensaries. If she asked the ship directly to bring her something, it never happened. But if she stated her needs aloud, as if talking to herself, then the ship seemed willing to oblige. It could not always help her, but she had the distinct impression that it was doing its best.

She wondered if she was wrong, whether perhaps it was not John Brannigan who was haunting her, but some markedly lower-level intelligence. Perhaps the reason that the ship was keen to serve her was that its mind was only as complex as a servitor’s, infected with the same obedient routines. Perhaps when she addressed her thoughts directly to Brannigan, talking to him as if he listened, she was imagining more intelligence present than was really the case.

Then the cigarettes had turned up.

She had not asked for them, nor even suspected that there was another hoard of them to be found anywhere on the ship now that she had exhausted the last of her personal supply. She had examined them with curiosity and suspicion. They looked as if they had been manufactured by one of the trading colonies that the ship had dealt with decades ago. They did not appear to have been made by the ship itself, from local raw materials. They smelt too good for that. When she lit one of them up and smoked it to a stub, it tasted too good as well. She had smoked another one, and that had also tasted fine.

‘Where did you find these?’ she asked. ‘Where in the name of ...’ She inhaled again, filling her lungs for the first time in weeks with something other than the taste of shipboard air. ‘Never mind. I don’t need to know. I’m grateful.’

From then on there had been no doubt in her mind: Brannigan was with her. Only another member of the crew could have known about her cigarette habit. No machine would have thought to bring her an offering like that, no matter how deeply ingrained its instinct for servility. So the ship must have wanted to make peace.

Progress had been slow since then. Now and then something had happened which had forced the ship back into its shell, the servitors shutting down and refusing to help her for days on end. It sometimes happened after she had been talking to the Captain too freely, trying to coax him out of his silence with cod-psychology. She was not good at psychology, she reflected ruefully. This whole horrible mess had begun when her experiments with Gunnery Officer Nagorny had driven him insane. If that hadn’t happened, there would have been no need to recruit Khouri, and everything might have been different ...

Afterwards, when shipboard life returned to a kind of normality and the servitors again did her bidding, she would be very careful what she did and said. Weeks would go by without her making any overt attempts at communication. But she would always try again, building up slowly to another catatonic episode. She persisted because she had the impression that she was making small but measurable progress between each crash.

The last crash had not happened until six weeks after Khouri’s visit. The catatonic state had persisted for an unprecedented eight weeks after that. Another ten weeks had passed since then, and only now was she ready to risk another crash.

‘Captain ... listen to me,’ she said. ‘I’ve tried to reach you many times, and I think once or twice I’ve succeeded and that you’ve been fully cognisant of what I’m saying. But you haven’t been ready to answer. I understand; I truly do. But now there’s something I have to explain to you. Something about the outside universe, something about what’s happening elsewhere in this system.’ She was standing in the great sphere of the bridge, talking aloud with her voice raised slightly louder than would have been strictly necessary for conversation. In all likelihood, she could have said her piece anywhere in the ship and he would have heard her. But here, in what had once been the ship’s focus of command, the soliloquy felt slightly less absurd. The acoustics of the place lent her voice a resonance that she found pleasing. She was also gesticulating theatrically with the stub of a cigarette.

‘Perhaps,’ she continued, ‘you already know of it. I know you have synaptic pathways to the hull sensors and cameras. What I don’t know is how well you can interpret those data streams. After all, you weren’t born to do it. It must be strange, even for you, to see the universe through the eyes and ears of a four-kilometre-long machine. But you always were an adaptable bastard. My guess is you’ll figure it out eventually.’

The Captain did not respond. But the ship had not immediately plunged into the catatonic state. According to the monitor bracelet on her wrist, shipwide servitor activity continued normally.

‘But I’ll assume you don’t know about the machines yet, aside from what you may have picked up during Khouri’s last visit. What kind of machines, you ask? Alien ones, that’s what. We don’t know where they’ve come from. All that we know is that they’re here, now, in the Delta Pavonis system. We think Sylveste - you remember him? - must have inadvertently summoned them here when he went into the Hades artefact.’ Of course he remembered Sylveste, if he was capable of remembering anything at all from his previous existence. It was Sylveste they had brought aboard to heal the Captain. But Sylveste had only been playing with their wishes, his eye on Hades all along.

‘Of course,’ she continued, ‘that’s guesswork, but it seems to fit the facts. Khouri knows a lot about these machines, more than me. But the way she learned about them means she can’t easily articulate everything she knows. We’re still in the dark in a lot of areas.’

She told the Captain about what had happened so far, replaying observations on the bridge’s display sphere. She explained how the swarms of Inhibitor machines had begun dismantling three smaller worlds, sucking out their cores and processing the eviscerated material into highly refined belts of orbital matter.

‘It’s impressive,’ she said. ‘But it’s not so far beyond our own capabilities that I’m quivering in my boots. Not just yet. But what worries me is what they have in mind next.’

The mining operations had come to an abrupt and precise halt two weeks earlier. The artificial volcanoes studding the equators of the three worlds had stopped belching matter, leaving a final curtailed arc of processed material climbing into orbit.

By then, by Volyova’s estimate, at least half the mass of each world had been elevated into orbital storage. Only hollowed-out husks remained below. It was fascinating to watch them subside once the mining was over, crumpling down into compact orange balls of radioactive slag. Some machines detached themselves from the surface, but many appeared to have served their purpose and were not recycled. The apparent wastefulness of that gesture chilled Volyova. It suggested to her that the machines did not care about the effort they had already expended in earlier replication cycles, that in some sense it made no difference compared with the importance of the task ahead.

Yet millions of smaller machines remained. The debris rings themselves had appreciable self-gravity and needed constant shepherding. Various breeds of processor swam through the ore lanes, ingesting and excreting. Volyova detected the occasional flare of exotic radiation from the vicinity of the works. Awesome alchemical mechanisms had been unleashed. The raw dirt of the worlds was being coaxed into specialised and rare new forms, types of matter that simply did not exist in nature.

But before the volcanoes had ceased spewing dirt, a new process had already started. A matter stream had peeled away from the space around each world, a filament of processed material that extended in a long tongue until it was light-seconds in length. The shepherding machines had obviously injected enough energy into each stream to kick them out of the gravitational wells of their progenitor worlds. The tongues of matter were now on an interplanetary trajectory, following a soft parabolic which hugged the ecliptic. They distended until they were light-hours from end to end. Volyova extrapolated the parabolas - there were three of them - and found that they would converge on the same point in space, at precisely the same time.

There was nothing there at the moment. But by the time they got there, something else would have arrived: the system’s largest gas giant. That conjunction, Volyova was inclined to think, was very unlikely to be coincidence. ‘Here’s my guess,’ she told the Captain. ‘What we’ve seen so far was just the gathering of raw material. Now it’s being assembled in the place where the real work is about to begin. They’ve got designs on Roc. What, I don’t know. But it’s undoubtedly part of their plan.’

What she knew of the gas giant sprung on to the projection sphere. A schematic showed Roc cored open like an apple, revealing layers

of annotated strata: a plunge into perplexing depths of weird chemistry and nightmarish pressure. Gases at more or less imaginable pressures and temperatures overlaid an ocean of pure liquid hydrogen that began only a scratch beneath the apparent outer layer of the planet. Beneath that, the very thought of its existence giving Volyova a faint migraine, was an ocean of hydrogen in its metallic state. Volyova did not like planets at the best of times, and gas giants struck her as an unreasonable affront to human scale and frailty. In that respect, they were almost as bad as stars.

But there was nothing about Roc that marked it as out of the ordinary. It had the usual family of moons, most of them icy and tidally locked to the larger world. Ions were boiling off the surfaces of the hotter moons, forming great toroidal plasma belts which encircled the giant, held in check by the giant’s own savage magnetosphere. There were no large rocky moons, which was presumably why the initial dismantling operations had taken place elsewhere. There was a ring system with some interesting resonant patterns - bicycle spokes and odd little knots - but again, it was nothing Volyova had not seen already.

What did the Inhibitors want? What would begin when their matter streams had arrived at Roc?

‘You understand my misgivings, Captain. I’m sure you do. Whatever those machines are up to, it isn’t going to be good for us. They’re engines of extinction. Wiping out sentient life is what they do. The question is, can we do anything about it?’

Volyova paused and took stock. She had not yet triggered a catatonic withdrawal, and that was good. The Captain was at least prepared to let her discuss the outside events. On the other hand, she had yet to raise any of the subjects that usually triggered a shutdown.

Well, it was now or never.

‘I think we can, Captain. Perhaps not stop the machines for good, but at least throw a fairly large spanner into their works.’ She eyed her bracelet, noting that nothing unusual was happening elsewhere in the ship. ‘Of course, I’m talking about a military strike. I don’t think reasoned argument is going to work against a force that dismantles three of your planets without even saying “please” first.’

There was something then, she thought. A tremor reaching her from somewhere else in the ship. It had happened before, and it seemed to mean something, but exactly what she was not prepared to say. It was certainly a kind of communication from whatever intelligence ruled the ship, but not necessarily of the sort she might have wished for. It was more a sign of irritation, like the low growl of a dog that did not like being disturbed.

‘Captain ... I understand this is difficult. I swear I do. But we have to do something, and soon. A deployment of the cache weapons would seem to me to be our only option. We have thirty-three of them left; thirty-nine if we can salvage and re-arm the six I deployed against Hades ... but I think even thirty-three will be sufficient if we can use them well and use them soon.’

The tremor intensified, subsided. She was really touching a nerve now, she thought. But the Captain was still listening. ‘The weapon we lost on the edge of the system may have been the most powerful we had,’ she went on, ‘but the six we discarded were, by my estimate at least, at the lower end of the destructive scale of the others. I think we can make do, Captain. Shall I tell you my plan? I propose that we target the three worlds where the matter streams are coming from. Ninety per cent of the extracted mass is still in orbit around each collapsed body, although more and more is being pumped towards Roc. Most of the Inhibitor machines are still around those moons. They might not survive a surprise attack, and even if they do, we can disperse and contaminate those matter reservoirs.’

She began to talk faster, intoxicated with the way the plan was unfolding in her mind. ‘The machines might be able to regroup, but they’ll need to find new worlds to dismantle. But we can beat them at that as well. We can use the other cache weapons to rip apart as many probable candidates as we can find. We can poison their wells; stop them from doing any more mining. That’ll make it harder - perhaps even impossible - for them to finish what they have in mind for the gas giant. We have a chance, but there’s a catch, Captain. You’ll have to help us do it.’

She looked at the bracelet again. Still nothing had happened, and she allowed herself to breathe a mental sigh of relief. She would not push him much more now. Merely discussing the need for his co-operation had gone further than she had imagined would be possible.

But it came, then: a distant, growing howl of angry air. She heard it shrieking towards her through kilometres of corridor.

‘Captain ... ’

But it was too late. The gale stormed the command sphere, knocking her to the floor with its ferocity. The cigarette butt flew from her hand and executed several orbits of the chamber, caught in a whirlwind of ship air. Rats and sundry other items of loose ship debris precessed with it.

She found it hard to talk. ‘Captain ... I didn’t mean . . . ’ But then even breathing became difficult. The wind sent her skidding across the floor, arms windmilling. The noise was excruciating, like an amplification of all the years, all the decades of pain that John Brannigan had known.

Then the gale died down, and the chamber was still again. Somewhere else in the ship all he had needed to do was open a pressure lock into one of the chambers that was normally under hard vacuum. Very likely no air had actually reached space during his show of strength, but the effect had been as unnerving as any hull rupture.

Ilia Volyova got to her feet. Nothing seemed to be broken. She dusted herself down and, shaking, lit herself another cigarette. She smoked it for at least two minutes, until her nerves were as steady as they were going to get.

Then she spoke again, calmly and quietly, like a parent talking to a baby that had just thrown a tantrum. ‘Very well, Captain. You’ve made your point very effectively. You don’t want to talk about the cache weapons. Fine. That’s your prerogative, and I can’t say I’m terribly surprised. But understand this: we’re not just talking about a small local matter here. Those Inhibitor machines haven’t just arrived around Delta Pavonis. They’ve arrived in human space. This is just the beginning. They won’t stop here, not even after they’ve wiped out all life on Resurgam for the second time in a million years. That’ll just be the warm-up exercise. It’ll be somewhere else after that. Maybe Sky’s Edge. Maybe Shiva-Parvati. Maybe Grand Teton, Spindrift, Zastruga - maybe even Yellowstone. Maybe even the First System. It probably doesn’t matter, because once one goes, the others won’t be far behind. It’ll be the end, Captain. It might take decades or it might take centuries. Doesn’t matter. It’ll still be the end of everything, the final repudiation of every human gesture - every human thought - since the dawn of time. We’ll have been erased from existence. I guarantee you something: it’ll be one hell of a shooting match, even if the outcome isn’t really in doubt. But you know what? We won’t be around to see one damned moment of it. And that pisses me off more than you can imagine.’

She took another drag on the cigarette. The rats had scampered back into the darkness and slime and the ship felt almost normal again. He appeared to have forgiven her that one indiscretion.

She continued, ‘The machines haven’t paid us much attention yet. But my guess is they’ll get around to it eventually. And do you want my theory as to why we haven’t been attacked so far? It might be that they just don’t see us yet; that their senses are attuned to signs of life on a much larger scale than just a single ship. It could also be that there’s no need to worry about us; that it would be a waste of effort to go to the trouble of wiping us out individually when what they’re working on will do the job just as effectively. I suspect that’s how they think, Captain. On a much larger, slower scale than we’re used to. Why go to the trouble of squashing a single fly when you’re about to exterminate the entire species? And if we’re going to do something about them, we have to start thinking a little bit like them. We need the cache, Captain.’

The room shuddered; the display illumination and the surrounding lights failed. Volyova looked at her bracelet, unsurprised to see that the ship was in the process of going catatonic again. Servitors were shutting down on all levels, abandoning whatever tasks they had been assigned. Even some of her bilge pumps were dying; she could hear the subtle change in the background note as units dropped out of the chorus. Warrens of shipboard corridor would be plunged into darkness. Elevators would not be guaranteed to arrive. Life was about to get harder again, and for a few days - perhaps a few weeks - merely surviving aboard the ship would require most of her energies.

‘Captain ...’ she said softly, doubtful that anything was now listening. ‘Captain, you have to understand: I’m not going to go away. And nor are they.’

Alone, standing in darkness, Volyova smoked what remained of her cigarette then, when she was done, she pulled out her torch, flicked it on and left the bridge.

The Triumvir was busy. She had much work to do.

Remontoire stood on the adhesive skin of Skade’s comet, waving at an approaching spacecraft.

It came in hesitantly, nosing towards the dark surface with evident suspicion. It was a small ship, only slightly larger than the corvette that had brought them here in the first place. Globular turrets bulged from its hull, swivelling this way and that. Remontoire blinked against the red glare of a targeting laser, then the beam passed, doodling patterns on the ground, surveying it for booby-traps.

‘You said there were two of you,’ said the commander of the ship, his voice buzzing in Remontoire’s helmet. ‘I see only one.’

‘Skade was injured. She’s inside the comet, being looked after by the Master of Works. Why are you speaking to me vocally?’

‘You could be a trap.’

‘I’m Remontoire. Don’t you recognise me?’

‘Wait. Turn a little to the left so I can see your face through your visor.’

A moment passed while the ship loitered, scrutinising him. Then it eased closer and fired its own set of grapples, ramming them hard into the ground where the three severed lines were still anchored. Remontoire felt the impacts drum through the membrane, the epoxy tightening its grip on his soles.

He tried to establish neural communication with the pilot. Do you accept that I’m Remontoire, now?

He watched an airlock open near the front of the ship. A Conjoiner emerged, clad in full battle armour. The figure glided to the comet’s surface and landed feet first only two metres from where he stood. The figure carried a gun that he pointed unwaveringly at Remontoire. Other guns on the ship were also trained on him. He could feel their wide-muzzled scrutiny, and had the sense that it would only take a slight wrong move for the weapons to open fire.

The Conjoiner connected neurally with Remontoire. [What are you doing here? Who is the Master of Works?]

Closed Council business, I’m afraid. All I can tell you is that Skade and I were here on a matter of Conjoiner security. This comet is one of ours, as you’ll have gathered.

[Your distress message said that three of you came here. Where is the ship that brought you?]

That’s where it gets a tiny bit complicated. Remontoire tried to push into the man’s head - it would make it so much easier if he could just dump his memories directly - but the other Conjoiner’s neural blockades were secure.

[Just tell me.]

Clavain came with us. He stole the corvette.

[Why would he do something like that?]

I can’t really tell you, not without revealing the nature of this comet. [Let me guess. Closed Council business again.]

You know what it’s like.

[Where was he headed with the corvette?]

Remontoire smiled; there was no point in playing further cat-and-mouse games. Probably towards the inner system. Where else? He won’t be going back to the Mother Nest.

[How long ago was this, exactly?]

More than thirty hours.

[He’ll need fewer than three hundred to reach Yellowstone. You didn’t think to alert us sooner?]

I did my best. We had something of a medical crisis to deal with. And the Master of Works needed a lot of persuasion before it would allow me to send a signal back to the Mother Nest.

[Medical crisis?]

Remontoire gestured back across the scabbed and gashed surface of the comet, towards the dimpled entry hole where the Master of Works had first appeared. As I said, Skade was hurt. I think we should get her back to the Mother Nest as quickly as possible.

Remontoire began walking, picking his way gingerly step by step. The ship-mounted guns continued to track him, ready to turn him into a miniature crater if he so much as flinched.

[Is she alive?]

Remontoire shook his head. Not at the moment, no.

TWELVE

Clavain woke from a period of forced sleep, rising through dreams of collapsed buildings and sandstorms. There was a moment of bleary readjustment while he synched with his surroundings and the memories of recent events tumbled into place. He recalled the session within the Closed Council and the trip out to Skade’s comet. He recalled meeting the Master of Works and learning about the buried fleet of what were obviously intended to be evacuation ships. He remembered how he had stolen the corvette and pointed it towards the inner system at maximum burn.

He was still inside the corvette, still in the forward pilot’s position. His fingers brushed against the tactile controls, calling up the display screens. They bustled into place around him, opening and brightening like sunflowers. He did not quite trust the corvette to communicate with him neurally, for Skade might have managed to plant an incapacitating routine in the ship’s control web. He thought it unlikely that she had - the ship had obeyed him unquestioningly so far - but there was no sense in taking unnecessary risks.

The flowerlike screens filled with status read-outs, schematics of the corvette’s manifold subsystems strobing by at frantic speed. Clavain upped his consciousness rate until the cascade of images slowed to something he could assimilate. There were some technical issues, reports of damage that the corvette had sustained during the escape, but nothing that would threaten the mission. The other readouts showed summaries of the tactical situation in increasingly large volumes of space, spreading out from the corvette in powers of ten. Clavain studied the icons and annotations, noting the proximity of both Conjoiner and Demarchist vessels, drones, rover-mines and larger assets. There was a major battle taking place three light-hours away, but there was nothing closer. Nor was there any sign of a response from the Mother Nest. It didn’t mean that there had been no response, since Clavain was relying on the tactical data that the corvette was intercepting using passive sensors and by tapping into systemwide communication nets rather than risking the use of its own active sensors, which would betray its position to anyone looking in the right direction. But at least there was - so far - no obvious response.

Clavain smiled and shrugged, and was immediately reminded of the broken rib he had sustained during the escape. The pain was duller than it had been before, since he had remembered to strap on a medical tabard before going to sleep. The tabard had directed magnetic fields into his chest, coaxing the bone into re-knitting. But the discomfort was still there, proving that none of it had been in his imagination. There was a patch on his hand, too, where the piezo-knife had cut to the bone. But the wound had been clean and there was very little pain from the self-inflicted injury.

So he had done it. There had been a moment during that state of hazy reacquaintance with reality when he had dared to imagine that the memories of recent events stemmed only from a series of troubling dreams: the kind that afflicted any soldier with anything resembling a conscience; anyone who had lived through enough wars - enough history - to know that what appeared to be the right action at the time might later turn out to be the direst of mistakes. But he had gone through with it, betraying his people. And it was a betrayal, no matter how pure the motive. They had trusted him with a shattering secret, and he had violated that trust.

There had not been time to evaluate the wisdom of defection in anything but the most cursory manner. From the moment he had seen the evacuation fleet and understood what it meant he knew that he had one opportunity to leave, and that it would mean stealing the corvette there and then. If he had waited any longer - until they got back to the Mother Nest, for instance - Skade would surely have seen his intentions. She had already had suspicions, but it would take her time to pick through the unfamiliar architecture of his mind, his antique implants and half-forgotten neural-interface protocols. He could not afford to give her that time.

So he had acted, knowing that he would probably not see Felka again, since he did not expect to remain a free man - or even a living one - after he had entered into the next and most difficult phase of his defection. It would have been far better if he had been able to see her one last time; there would have been no hope of persuading her to come with him, and no way of arranging her escape even if she had been willing, but he could have let her know his intentions, certain that his secret was safe with her. He also thought she would have understood - not necessarily agreed, but she would not have tried to argue him out of it. And if there had been a final farewell, he thought, then she might have answered the question he had never quite had the courage to ask her; the question that went back to the time of Galiana’s nest and the war-weary days on Mars when they had met for the first time. He would have asked her if she was his daughter, and she might have answered.

Now he would have to live without ever knowing, and though he might never have summoned the courage - in all the years before he had never managed it, after all - the permanence of his exile and the impossibility of ever knowing the truth felt as bleak and cold as stone.

Clavain decided he had better learn to live with it.

He had defected before, throwing away one life, and he had survived both emotionally and physically. He was older now, but not so old and weary that he could not do it again. The trick, for now, was to focus only on immediates: fact one was that he was still alive and that his injuries were minor. He thought it likely that missiles were on their way to him, but they could not have been launched until long after he had taken the corvette or they would have already shown up on the passive sensors. Someone, very probably Remontoire, had managed to delay matters sufficiently to give him this edge. It was not much of an edge, but it was a lot better than being already dead, surfing his own expanding cloud of ionised debris. That at least was worth another rueful smile. They might yet kill him, but it would not be close to home.

He scratched his beard, muscles labouring against the continual pull of acceleration. The corvette’s motors were still firing at maximum sustainable thrust: three gees that felt as rock-solid and smooth as the pull of a star. Each second, the ship was annihilating a bacterium-sized speck of anti-matter, but the anti-matter and metallic-hydrogen reaction-mass cores had barely been scratched. The corvette would take him anywhere he wanted in the system, and it would get him there in only tens of days. He could even accelerate harder if he wished, though it would stress the engines.

Fact two was that he had a plan.

The corvette’s antimatter thrusters were advanced - far more so than anything in the enemy’s fleet - but they did not employ the same technology as the Conjoiner starship drive. They could not have pushed a million-tonne starship to within a whisker of light-speed, but they did have one significant tactical advantage: they were silent across the entire neutrino-emission spectrum. Since Clavain had disabled all the usual transponders, he could be tracked only by his emission flame: the torch of relativistic particles slamming from the corvette’s exhaust apertures. But the corvette’s exhaust was already as tightly collimated as a rapier blade. There was negligible scattering away from the axis of thrust, so effectively he could only be seen by anything or anyone sitting in a very narrow cone immediately to his rear. The cone widened as it reached further behind him, but it also became steadily attenuated, like a torch beam growing weaker with distance. Only an observer near its centre would detect sufficient numbers of photons to obtain an accurate fix on his position, and if Clavain allowed the cone’s angle to tilt by no more than a handful of degrees, the beam would become too dim to betray him.

But a change in beam vector implied a change in course. The Mother Nest would not expect him to do that, only for him to maintain a minimum-time trajectory towards Epsilon Eridani, and then to Yellowstone, which huddled in a tight, warm orbit around the same star. He would get there in twelve days. Where else could he go? The corvette could not reach another system - it barely had the range to reach the cometary halo - and almost any other world apart from Yellowstone was still in nominal Demarchist control. Their hold might be faltering, but in their present paranoid state they would still attack Clavain, even if he claimed to be defecting with tactically valuable secrets. But Clavain knew all that. Even before he plunged the piezo-knife into the membrane around Skade’s comet, he had formulated a plan - maybe not the most detailed or elegant of his career, and it was far from the most likely to succeed, but he had only had minutes to assemble it and he did not think he had done too badly. Even after reconsideration, nothing better had presented itself.

And all it needed was a little trust.

I want to know what happened to me.

They looked at her, and then at each other. She could almost feel the intense buzz of their thoughts crackling through the air like the ionisation breakdown that presaged a thunderstorm.

The first of the surgeons projected calm and reassurance. [Skade . . .]

I said I want to know what happened to me.

[You are alive. You were injured, but you survived. You are still in need of ...] The surgeon’s gloss of calm faltered.

In need of what?

[You still need to be properly healed. But everything can be made good.]

For some reason she could not see into any of their heads. For most Conjoiners, waking to experience such isolation would have been a profoundly disturbing experience. But Skade was equipped for it. She endured it stoically, reminding herself that she had experienced degrees of isolation almost as extreme during her time in the Closed Council. Those had ended; this would end. It would only be a matter of time until ...

What is wrong with my implants?

[Nothing’s wrong with your implants.]

She knew that the surgeon was a man named Delmar. So why am I isolated?

But almost before she had phrased the question she knew what the answer would be. It was because they did not want her to be able to see what she looked like through their eyes. Because they did not want her to know the immediate truth of what had happened to her.

[Skade ...]

Never mind ... I know. Why did you bother waking me?

[There is someone to see you.]

She could not move her head, only her eyes. Through the blur of peripheral vision she saw Remontoire approach the bed, or table, or couch, where they had woken her. He wore an electric-white medical tunic against a background of pure white. His head was an oddly disconnected sphere bobbing towards her. Swan-necked medical servitors moved out of his way. The surgeon folded his arms across his chest and looked on with an expression of stern disapproval. His colleagues had made a discreet exit, leaving only the three of them in the room.

Skade peered ‘down’ towards the foot of the bed but could see only an out-of-focus whiteness that might have been illusory. There was a quiet mechanical humming, but nothing that she would not have expected in a medical room.

Remontoire knelt down beside her. [How much do you remember?]

You tell me what happened and I’ll tell you what I remember.

Remontoire glanced back at the surgeon. He allowed Skade to hear the thought he pushed into Delmar’s head. [I’m afraid you’ll have to leave us. Your machines as well, since I’m certain that they have recording devices.]

[We’ll leave you alone for exactly five minutes, Remontoire. Will that be sufficient?]

[It’ll have to do, won’t it?] Remontoire nodded and smiled as the man ushered his machines from the room, their swan-necks lowering elegantly to pass through the doorway. [Sorry...]

[Five minutes, Remontoire.]

Skade tried moving her head again, but still without success. Come closer, Remontoire. I can’t see you very easily. They won’t show me what happened.

[Do you remember the comet? Clavain was with us. You were showing him the buried ships.]

I remember.

[Clavain stole the corvette before you or I could get aboard. It was still tethered to the surface of the comet.]

She remembered taking Clavain to the comet but not the rest of it. And did he get away?

[Yes, but we’ll come to that. The problem is what happened during his escape. Clavain applied thrust until the tethers gave way under the strain. They whiplashed back towards the comet. I’m afraid one of them caught you.]

It was difficult to respond, though she had known from the moment of waking that something bad had happened to her. Caught me?

[You were injured, Skade. Badly. If you hadn’t been Conjoiner, hadn’t had the machines in your head to help your body cope with the shock, you would very probably not have survived, even with the assistance that your suit was able to give you.]

Show me, damn you.

[I would if there was a mirror in this room. But there isn’t, and I can’t bypass the neural blockades that Delmar has installed.]

Describe it, then. Describe it, Remontoire!

[This isn’t why I came, Skade ... Delmar will put you back into a recuperative coma very shortly, and when you next wake you’ll be healed again. I came to ask you about Clavain.]

For a moment she pushed aside her own morbid curiosity. I take it he’s dead?

[Actually, they haven’t managed to stop him yet.]

As angry as she was, she had to admit that the matter of Clavain was at least as fascinating to her as her own predicament. And the two things were not unconnected, were they? She did not yet fully understand what had happened to her, but it was enough to know that it had been Clavain’s doing. It did not matter that it might not have been intentional.

There were no accidents in treason.

Where is he?

[That’s the funny thing. No one seems to know. They had a fix on his exhaust. He was heading towards Eridani - towards what we assumed would be Yellowstone or the Rust Belt.]

The Demarchists would crucify him.

Remontoire nodded. [Clavain especially. But now it doesn’t look as if he was going there at all - not directly, anyway. He turned away from the sunward vector. We don’t know how far into his journey, since we lost his drive flame.]

We have optical monitors strewn through the halo. Surely he’ll have fallen into the line of sight of another one by now.

[The problem is that Clavain knows the positions of those monitors. He can make sure his beam doesn’t sweep across them. We have to keep reminding ourselves that he’s one of ours, Skade.]

Were missiles launched?

[Yes, but they never got close enough to establish their own fixes. They didn’t have enough fuel to make it back to the Nest, so we had to detonate them.]

She felt drool loosen itself and trail down her chin. We have to stop him, Remontoire. Grasp that.

[Even if we pick up Clavain’s signal again, he’d be out of effective missile range. And no other ships can catch a corvette.]

She bit down on her fury. We have the prototype.

[Even Nightshade isn’t that fast, not over solar-system-type distances.]

Skade said nothing for several seconds, calculating how much she could prudently reveal. This was Inner Sanctum business, after all, sensitive even by the clandestine standards of Closed Council. It is, Remontoire.

The door opened. One of the servitors ducked under and in, followed by Delmar. Remontoire stood and extended his hands, palms facing forwards.

[We just need another moment ...]

Delmar stood by the door, arms folded. [I’m staying here, I’m afraid.]

Skade hissed at Remontoire. He moved closer, bending down so that their heads were only centimetres apart, permitting mind-to-mind contact without amplification by the room’s systems. It can be done. The prototype has a higher acceleration ceiling than you have assumed.

[How much higher?]

A lot. You’ll see. But all you need to know is that the prototype can get close enough to Clavain’s approximate position to pick up his trail again, and then close within weapons range. I’ll need you on the crew, of course. You’re a soldier, Remontoire. You know the weapons better than I do.

[Shouldn’t we be thinking of ways to bring him back alive?]

It’s a little bit late for that, wouldn’t you say?

Remontoire said nothing, but she knew she had made her point. And he would come around to her viewpoint soon enough. He was a Conjoiner to the core, and would therefore accept any course of action, no matter how ruthless, that benefited the Mother Nest. That was the difference between Remontoire and Clavain.

[Skade ...]

Yes, Remontoire?

[If I should consent to your proposal ...]

You’d have a demand of your own?

[Not a demand. A request. That Felka be allowed to join us.]

Skade narrowed her eyes. She was about to refuse when she realised that her grounds for doing so - that the operation had to remain entirely within the purview of the Closed Council - made no difference where Felka was concerned.

What possible good would Felka’s presence serve?

[That depends. If you intend to make this an execution squad she will be of no use to us at all. But if you have any intention of bringing Clavain back alive - and I think you must - then Felka’s usefulness cannot be under-estimated.]

Skade knew he was right, though it pained her to admit it. Clavain would have been an immensely valuable asset to the operation to recover the hell-class weapons, and his loss would make the operation very much more difficult. On one level, she could see the attraction of bringing him back into the fold, so that he could be pinned down and his hard-won expertise sucked out like so much bone marrow. But a live capture would be inordinately more difficult than a long-range kill, and until she succeeded there would remain the possibility of him reaching the other side. The Demarchists would be fascinated to hear about the new shipbuilding programme, the rumours of evacuation plans and savage new weapons.

Skade could not be certain, but she thought that the news might be enough to reinvigorate the enemy, gaining them allies who had thus far remained neutral. If the Demarchists rallied and managed to launch some kind of last-ditch attack on the Mother Nest, with the support of the Ultras and any number of previously neutral factions, all could be lost.

No. She had to kill Clavain; that was simply not open to debate. Equally, she had to give every impression that she was ready to act reasonably, just as she would have done under any other state of war. Which meant that she had to accept Felka’s presence.

This is blackmail, isn’t it?

[Not blackmail, Skade. Just negotiation. If any one of us can talk Clavain out of this, it has to be Felka.]

He won’t listen to her, even if...

[Even if he thinks she’s his daughter? Is that what you were going to say?]

He’s an old man, Remontoire. An old man with delusions. They’re not my responsibility.

The servitors moved aside to allow him to leave. She watched the seemingly detached ovoid of his face bob out of the room like a balloon. There had been instants in their conversation when she had almost sensed cracks in the neural blockade, pathways that Delmar had - through understandable oversight - not completely disabled. The cracks had been like strobe flashes, opening up brief frozen windows into Remontoire’s skull. Very probably he had not even been aware of her intrusions. Perhaps she had even imagined them.

But if she had imagined them, she had also imagined the horror that went with them. And the horror came from what Remontoire was seeing.

Delmar ... I really would like to know the facts ...

[Later, Skade, after you’ve been healed. Then you can know. Until then, I’d rather put you back into coma.]

Show me now, you bastard.

He came closer to her side. The first of the swan-necked servitors towered over him, the chrome segments of its neck gleaming. The machine angled its head back and forth, digesting what lay below it.

[All right. But don’t say you weren’t warned.]

The blockades came down like heavy metal shutters: clunk, clunk, clunk through her skull. A barrage of neural data crashed in. She saw herself through Delmar’s eyes. The thing down on the medical couch was her, recognisably so - her head was bizarrely unharmed - but she was not remotely the right shape. She felt a twisting spasm of revulsion, as if she had just accessed a photograph from some bleak pre-industrial archive of medical nightmares. She wanted desperately to turn the page, to move on to the next pitiful atrocity.

She had been bisected.

The tether must have fallen across her from her left shoulder to her right hip, a precise diagonal severance. It had taken her legs and her left arm. Carapacial machinery hugged the wounds: gloss-white humming scabs of medical armour, like huge pus-filled blisters. Fluid lines erupted from the machinery and trailed into white modules squatting by her side. She looked as if she was bursting out of a white steel chrysalis. Or being consumed by it, transformed into something strange and phantasmagoric.

Delmar ...

[I’m sorry, Skade, but I did warn ...]

You don’t understand. This ... state ... doesn’t concern me at all. We’re Conjoiners, aren’t we? There isn’t anything we can’t repair, given time. I know you can fix me, eventually. She felt his relief.

[Eventually, yes . . .]

But eventually isn’t good enough. In a few days, three at the most, I need to be on a ship.

THIRTEEN

They had to drag Thorn to the Inquisitor’s office. The great doors creaked open and there she was, her back to him, standing by the window. He studied the woman through gummed-up eyes, never having seen her before. She looked smaller and younger than he had expected, almost like a girl wearing adult clothes. She wore highly polished boots and dark trousers under a side-buttoned leather tunic that appeared slightly too large for her, so that her gloved hands were almost lost in the sleeves. The tunic’s hem almost reached her knees. Her black hair was combed back from her forehead in tight, glistening rows that curved down to tiny curls like inverted question marks above the nape of her neck. Her face was in near-profile, her skin a tone darker than his, her thin nose hooked above a small, straight mouth.

She turned around and spoke to the guard waiting by the door. ‘You can leave us now.’

‘Ma’am ...’

‘I said you can leave us now.’

The guard left. Thorn stood by himself, only wavering slightly. The woman moved in and out of focus. For a long, long time she just looked at him. Then she spoke, with the same voice he had heard coming out of the speaker grille. ‘Are you going to be all right? I’m sorry that they hurt you.’

‘Not as sorry as I am.’

‘I only wanted to talk to you.’

‘Maybe you should keep an eye on what happens to your guests, in that case.’ He tasted blood in his mouth as he spoke.

‘Will you come with me, please?’ She gestured across the room to what looked like a private chamber. ‘There’s something that we need to discuss.’

‘I’m fine here, thank you.’

‘It wasn’t an invitation. I have no interest in whether you are fine or not, Thorn.’

He wondered if she had read his reaction - the minute dilation of his pupils that betrayed his guilt. Or perhaps she had a laser trained on the back of his neck, sampling his skin’s salinity. Either way, she might have a good idea of what he thought of her assertion. Perhaps she even had a trawl somewhere in this building. It was rumoured that Inquisition House had at least one, lovingly tended since the early days of the colony.

‘I don’t know who you think I am.’

‘Oh, but you do. So why play games? Come with me.’

He followed her into the smaller room. It was windowless. He glanced around, looking for signs of a trap or any indication that the room might double as an interrogation chamber, but it looked innocent enough. The walls were lined with bulging paperwork-stuffed shelves, except for one that was largely occupied by a map of Resurgam studded with many pins and lights. She offered him a chair on one side of the large desk that took up much of the floor space. Another woman was already seated opposite him, with her elbows propped on the edge of the desk, looking faintly bored. She was older than the Inquisitor, but possessed something of the same wiry build. She wore a cap and a heavy drab-coloured coat with a fleeced collar and cuffs. Both women struck him as faintly avian, thin yet quick and strong-boned. The one behind the desk was smoking.

He settled down into the seat that the Inquisitor had indicated.

‘Coffee?’

‘No thanks.’

The other woman pushed her pack of cigarettes towards him. ‘Have a smoke, then.’

‘I’ll pass on those as well.’ But he picked up the packet and turned it over, studying the odd markings and sigils. It hadn’t been manufactured in Cuvier. In fact, it didn’t look as if it had been manufactured anywhere on Resurgam. He pushed it back towards the older woman. ‘Can I go now?’

‘No. We haven’t even started yet.’ The Inquisitor eased into her own seat, next to the other woman, and fixed herself a mug of coffee. ‘Introductions, I think. You know who you are, and we know who you are, but you probably don’t know much about us. You have an idea about me, of course ... but probably not a very accurate one. My name is Vuilleumier. This is my colleague ...’

‘Irina,’ she said.

‘Irina ... yes. And you, of course, are Thorn; the man who has done so much harm of late.’

‘I’m not Thorn. The government doesn’t have a clue who Thorn is.’

‘How would you know?’

‘I read the papers, like everyone else.’

‘You’re right. Internal Threats doesn’t have much of an idea who Thorn is. But only because I have been doing my best to keep that particular department off your trail. Have you any idea how much effort that’s cost me? How much personal anguish?’

He shrugged, doing his best to look neither interested nor surprised. ‘That’s your problem, not mine.’

‘Hardly the gratitude I was expecting, Thorn. But we’ll let it pass. You don’t know the big picture yet, so it’s understandable.’

‘What big picture?’

‘We’ll come to that in good time. But let’s talk about you for a moment.’ She patted a fat government folder resting at the edge of the desk and then pushed it over to him. ‘Go on, open it. Have a gander.’

He looked at her for several seconds before moving. He opened the folder at random and then thumbed back and forth through the paperwork jammed within. It was like opening a box of snakes. His whole life was here, annotated and cross-referenced in excruciating detail. His real name - Renzo; his personal details. Every public move he had made in the last five years. Every significant antigovernment action he had played any significant part in - voice transcripts, photographs, forensic evidence, long-winded reports.

‘Makes interesting reading, doesn’t it?’ said the other woman.

He flicked through the rest of it in horror, a plummeting sensation in his gut. There was enough to have him executed many times over, after ten separate show trials.

‘I don’t understand,’ he said feebly. He did not want to give up now - not after so long - but anything else suddenly seemed futile.

‘What don’t you understand, Thorn?’ asked Vuilleumier.

‘This department ... it’s External Threats, not Internal Threats. You’re the person in charge of finding the Triumvir. I’m not the ... Thorn isn’t the one you’re interested in.’

‘You are now.’ She knocked back some coffee.

The other woman puffed on a cigarette. ‘The fact is, Thorn, my colleague and I have been engaged in a concerted effort to sabotage the activities of Internal Threats. We’ve been doing our best to make sure they don’t catch you. That’s why we’ve needed to know at least as much about you as they do, if not more.’

She had a funny accent, this one. He tried to place it and found that he couldn’t. Except ... had he heard it once before, when he was younger? He racked his memory but nothing came.

‘Why sabotage them?’ he asked.

‘Because we want you alive, not dead.’ She smiled, quick and fast like a monkey.

‘Well, that’s reassuring.’

‘You’ll want to know why next,’ said Vuilleumier, ‘so I’ll tell you. And this is where we start drifting into the arena of the big picture, if you get my drift, so please do pay attention.’

‘I’m all ears.’

‘This office, the department of Inquisition House called External Threats, is not at all that it appears to be. The whole business of tracking down the war criminal Volyova has always been a front for a much more sensitive operation. Matter of fact, Volyova died years ago.’

He had the impression she was lying, but still telling him something that was far closer to the truth than he had ever heard before. ‘So why keep up the pretence of searching for her?’

‘Because it’s not her we really want. It’s her ship, or a means of reaching it. But by focusing on Volyova we were able to follow much the same lines of inquiry without bringing the ship into the discussion.’

The other woman, the one he thought had called herself Irina, nodded. ‘Essentially this entire government department is engaged in recovering her ship, and nothing else. Everything else is a smokescreen. A hugely complex one, and one that has involved internecine warfare with half a dozen other departments, but a smokescreen all the same.’

‘Why does it have to be so secret?’

The two woman exchanged glances.

‘I’ll tell you,’ said Irina, just as the other one started to say something. ‘The operation to find the ship had to be kept maximally secret for the simple reason that there would have been intense civil disorder if it ever came to light.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘It’s a matter of panic,’ she said, waving her cigarette for emphasis. ‘The government’s official policy has always been pro-terraforming, right back to the old Inundationist days under Girardieau. That policy only deepened after the Sylveste crisis. Now they’re fully wedded to it in ideological terms. Anyone who criticises the programme is guilty of incorrect thought. You of all people shouldn’t need to be told this.’

‘So where the does the ship come in?’

‘As an escape route. One branch of government has determined a singularly disturbing fact.’ She puffed on her cigarette. ‘There’s an external threat to the colony, but not quite the kind they originally imagined. Studies of the threat have been ongoing for some time. The conclusion is inescapable: Resurgam must be evacuated, perhaps within no more than one or two years. Half a decade at the optimistic side - and that’s probably being very optimistic.’

She watched him, undoubtedly waiting to observe the effects her words would have. Perhaps she assumed that she would need to repeat herself, that he would be too slow to take it all in at first go.

He shook his head. ‘Sorry, but you’re going to have to try better than that.’

Irina, or whoever she was, looked pained. ‘You don’t believe my story?’

‘I wouldn’t be the only one, either.’

The Inquisitor said, ‘But you’ve always wanted to leave Resurgam. You’ve always said the colony was in danger.’

‘I wanted to leave. Who wouldn’t?’

‘Listen to me,’ Vuilleumier said sharply. ‘You’re a hero to thousands of people. Most of them wouldn’t trust the government to tie their shoelaces. A certain fraction of those people have long believed that you know the whereabouts of one or two shuttles, and that you are planning a mass exodus into space for your believers.’

He shrugged. ‘And?’

‘It’s not true, of course - the shuttles never existed - but it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that they might have, given everything that’s gone on. Now.’ She leant forwards again. ‘Consider the following hypothesis. A special covert branch of government determines that there is an imminent global threat to Resurgam. The same branch of government, after much work, determines the whereabouts of Volyova’s ship. An inspection of the ship indicates that it is damaged but flightworthy. More importantly, it has a passenger-carrying capacity. A vast passenger-carrying capacity. Enough to evacuate the entire planet, if some sacrifices are made.’

‘Like an ark?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she said, clearly pleased by his answer. ‘Exactly like an ark.’

Vuilleumier’s friend cradled her cigarette elegantly between two fingers. Her exceedingly thin hands reminded Thorn of the splayed-out bones in a bird’s wing. ‘But having a ship we can use as an ark is only half of the solution,’ she said. ‘The question is, might the government’s announcement of the existence of such a ship be viewed with a trace of scepticism? Of course it would.’ She stabbed the cigarette in his direction. ‘That’s where you come in. The people’ll trust you where they won’t trust us.’

Thorn leant back in his seat until it was balancing on only two legs. He laughed and shook his head, the two women watching him impassively. ‘Was that why I was beaten up downstairs? To soften me into accepting a piece of drivel like this?’

Vuilleumier’s friend held up the packet of cigarettes again. ‘These came from her ship.’

‘Did they? That’s nice. I thought you said you had no means of reaching orbit.’

‘We didn’t. But now we do. We hacked into the ship from the ground, got it to send down a shuttle.’

He pulled a face, but could not swear that such a thing was impossible. Difficult, yes - unlikely, very probably - but certainly not impossible.

‘And you’re going to evacuate an entire planet with one shuttle?’

‘Two, actually.’ Vuilleumier coughed and retrieved another folder. ‘The most recent census put the population of Resurgam at just under two hundred thousand. The largest shuttle can move five hundred people into orbit, where they can transfer to an in-system craft with a capacity about four times that. That means we’ll need to make four hundred surface-to-orbit flights. The in-system ship will need to make about one hundred round trips to Volyova’s ship. That’s the real bottleneck, though - each of those round trips will take at least thirty hours, and that’s assuming almost zero time for loading and unloading at either end. Better assume forty hours to be on the safe side. That means we’re looking at nearly six standard months. We can shave some time off that by pressing another surface-to-orbit ship into service, but we’ll be doing very well if we get it much below five months. And that, of course, is assuming that we can have two thousand people ready and waiting to be moved off Resurgam every forty hours ...’ Vuilleumier smiled. He could not help but like her smile, for all that he felt he should be associating it with pain and fear. ‘You begin to see why we need you, I think.’

‘Assuming I refuse to offer my assistance ... just how would the government go about this?’

‘Mass coercion would seem to be the only other option available to us,’ Irina said, as if this was a perfectly reasonable statement. ‘Martial law ... internment camps ... you get the idea. It wouldn’t be pretty. There’d be civil disobedience, riots. There’s a good chance a lot of people would end up dead.’

‘A lot of people will end up dead anyway,’ Vuilleumier said. ‘There’s no way anyone could organise a mass evacuation of a planet without some loss of life. But we’d like to keep a lid on it.’

‘With my help?’ he asked her.

‘Let me outline the plan.’ She stabbed her finger against the tabletop between sentences. ‘We release you forthwith. You’ll be free to go as you please, and you have my guarantee that we will continue to do our utmost to keep Internal Threats off your back. I’ll also make sure that those bastards who hurt you are punished ... you have my word on that. In return, you disseminate information to the effect that you have indeed located the shuttles. More than that, you have discovered a threat to Resurgam and the means to get everyone out of harm’s way. Your organisation begins spreading the word that the evacuation will start shortly, with hints as to where interested parties should congregate. The government, meanwhile, will issue counterstatements discrediting your movement’s position, but they won’t be completely convincing. The people will begin to suspect that you are on to something, something that the government would rather they didn’t know about. With me so far?’

He returned her smile. ‘So far.’

‘This is where it gets interesting. Once the idea has sunk into the public consciousness, and after some people have begun to take you seriously, you will be arrested. Or at least you’ll be seen to be arrested. After some procrastination the government will concede that there is a genuine threat, and that your movement has indeed obtained access to Volyova’s ship. At that point the evacuation operation falls under government control - but you’ll be seen to give it your reluctant blessing, and you’ll remain in charge as a figurehead, by public demand. The government will have egg on its face, but the public won’t be so certain they’re walking into a trap. You’ll be a hero.’ She made eye contact with him for a moment longer than she had before, and then glanced away. ‘Everyone’s a winner. The planet gets evacuated without too much panic. In the aftermath, you’ll be released and honoured - all charges dismissed. Sounds tempting, doesn’t it?’

‘It would,’ he admitted, ‘but there are just two small flaws in your argument.’

‘Which are?’

‘The threat, and the ship. You haven’t told me why we have to evacuate Resurgam. I’d need to know that, wouldn’t I? I’d also need to believe it, too. Can’t convince anyone else if I don’t believe it myself, can I?’

‘Fair point, I suppose. And concerning the ship?’

‘You told me you have the means to visit it. Fine.’ He looked at the two women in turn, the younger one and the older one, sensing without really knowing why that the two of them could be very dangerous individually and quite exquisitely lethal when working as a team.

‘Fine, what?’ said Vuilleumier.

‘Take me to see it.’

They were one light-second out from the Mother Nest when the peculiar thing happened.

Felka had watched the comet fall behind Nightshade. It dwindled so slowly at first that the whole departure had a curious dreamlike quality, like casting off from a lonely moonlit island. She thought of her atelier in the green heart of the comet, of her filigreed wooden puzzles, each as intricately worked as scrimshaw. Then she thought of her wall of faces and the glowing mice in her maze, and could not quite assure herself that she would ever see any of them again. Even if she returned, she thought, it would be to profoundly changed circumstances, with Clavain either dead or a prisoner. Denied his help, she knew that she would curl inwards, back into the comforting hollow of her past, when the only thing that had mattered in the world had been her beloved Wall. And the horrible thing was that the idea did not revolt her in the slightest, but rather left her with a nagging glow of anticipation. It would have been different when Galiana was alive; different even when she was gone but when Felka still had Clavain’s companionship to anchor her to the real world, with all its crushing simplicities.

The last thing she had done, after sealing her atelier and assigning a servitor to look after her mice, had been to go down to the vault and visit Galiana, to say goodbye to her frozen body one final time. But the door into the vault had refused to open for her. There had been no time to make enquiries; it was either go now or miss Nightshade’s departure. So she had left, never having made that final farewell, and she wondered now why it made her feel so guilty.

All they shared was some genetic material, after all.

Felka had retired to her quarters once the Mother Nest was too small and dim to see with the naked eye. An hour after departure the ship ramped the gravity to one gee, instantly defining ‘up’ as being towards the sharp prow of the long conic hull. After another two hours, during which the Mother Nest fell a light-second behind Nightshade, a message came across the ship’s intercom. It was politely aimed at Felka; she was the only Conjoiner on the ship who was not routinely tuned into the general grid of neural communications.

The message instructed her to move up the ship, ascending in the direction of flight towards the prow, which was now above her head. When she dallied, a Conjoiner, one of Skade’s technicians, politely ushered her through corridors and shafts until she was many levels above her starting point. She refused to allow a map of the ship to be burned into her short-term memory - such instant familiarity would have denied her the boredom-alleviating pleasure of working out Nightshade’s layout for herself - but it was easy enough to tell that she was closer to the prow. The curvature of the outer walls was sharper, and the individual rooms were smaller. It did not take her long to conclude that there could be no more than a dozen people on Nightshade, including Remontoire and herself. Her companions were all Closed Council, though she did not even attempt to unwrap their minds.

The rooms were spartan, usually windowless chambers that the ship had defined according to the current needs of the crew. The room where she found Remontoire was on the outer edge of the hull, with a blister-shaped observation cupola set into one wall. Remontoire was sitting on an extruded ledge, his expression calm and his fingers steepled neatly above one knee. He was deep in conversation with a white mechanical crab that was perched just below the rim of the cupola.

‘What’s happening?’ Felka asked. ‘Why did I have to leave my quarters?’

‘I’m not quite sure,’ Remontoire replied.

Then she heard a volley of muted clunks as dozens of armoured irised bulkheads snicked shut up and down the ship.

‘You’ll be able to return to your quarters shortly,’ the crab said. ‘This is just a precaution.’

She recognised the voice, even if the timbre was not entirely as she remembered it. ‘Skade? I thought you were ...’

‘They’ve allowed me to slave this proxy,’ the crab said, wiggling the tiny jointed manipulators between its foreclaws. It was stuck to the wall by circular pads on the ends of its legs. From under the crab’s glossy white shell protruded various barbs, muzzles and lacerating and stabbing devices. It was very clearly an old assassination device that Skade had commandeered.

‘It’s good of you to see us off,’ Felka said, relieved that Skade would not be accompanying them.

‘See you off?’

‘When the light-lag exceeds a few seconds, won’t it be impracticable to slave the proxy?’

‘What light-lag? I’m on the ship, Felka. My quarters are only a deck or two below your own.’

Felka remembered being told that Skade’s injuries were so severe that it required a roomful of Doctor Delmar’s equipment just to keep her alive. ‘I didn’t think . . .’

The crab waved a manipulator, dismissing her protestations. ‘It doesn’t matter. Come down later; we’ll have a little chat.’

‘I’d like that,’ Felka said. ‘There’s a great deal you and I need to talk about, Skade.’

‘Of course there is. Well, I must be going; urgent matters to attend to.’

A hole puckered open in one wall; the crab scuttled through it, vanishing into the ship’s hidden innards.

Felka looked at Remontoire. ‘Seeing as we’re all Closed Council, I suppose I can talk freely. Did she say anything more about the Exordium experiments when you were with Clavain?’

Remontoire kept his voice very low. It was no more than a gesture; they had to assume that Skade would be able to hear everything that went on in the ship, and would also be able to read their minds at source. But Felka understood precisely why he felt the need to whisper. ‘Nothing. She even lied about where the edict to cease shipbuilding came from.’

Felka glared at the wall, forcing it to provide her with somewhere to sit down. A ledge pushed out from the wall opposite Remontoire and she eased herself on to it. It was good to be off her feet; she had spent far too long of late in the weightless environment of her atelier, and the gee of shipboard thrust was wearying.

She stared out through the cupola and down, and saw the lobed shadow of one of Nightshade’s engines silhouetted against an aura of chill flame.

‘What did she tell him?’ Felka asked.

‘Some story about the Closed Council piecing together the evidence of the wolf attacks from a variety of ship losses.’

‘Implausible.’

‘I don’t think Clavain believed her. But she couldn’t mention Exordium; she obviously wanted him to know the bare minimum for the job, and yet she couldn’t avoid talking about the edict to some extent.’

‘Exordium’s at the heart of all this,’ Felka said. ‘Skade must have known that if she gave Clavain a thread to pull on he’d have unravelled the whole thing, right back to the Inner Sanctum.’

‘That’s as far as he’d have been able to take it.’

‘Knowing Clavain, I wouldn’t be so sure. She wanted him as an ally because he isn’t the kind to stop at a minor difficulty.’

‘But why couldn’t she have just told him the truth? The idea that the Closed Council picked up messages from the future isn’t so shocking, when you think about it. And from what I’ve gathered the content of those messages was sketchy at best, little more than vague premonitionary suggestions.’

‘Unless you were part of it, it’s difficult to describe what happened. But I only participated once. I don’t know what happened in the other experiments.’

‘Was Skade involved in the programme when you participated?’

‘Yes,’ she told him. ‘But that was after our return from deep space. The edict was issued much earlier, long before Skade was recruited to the Conjoined. The Closed Council must have already been running Exordium experiments before Skade joined us.’

Felka eyed the wall again. It was entirely reasonable to indulge in speculation about something like Exordium, Felka knew - Skade could hardly object to it, given the fact that it was so central to what was now happening - but she still felt as if they were on the brink of committing some unspeakably treasonous act.

But Remontoire continued speaking, his voice low yet assured. ‘So Skade joined us ... and before very long she was in the Closed Council and actively involved in the Exordium experiments. At least one of the experiments coincided with the edict, so we can assume there was a direct warning about the tau-neutrino effect. But what about the other experiments? What warnings came through during those? Were there even warnings?’ He looked at Felka intently.

She was about to answer, about to tell him something, when the seat beneath her forced itself upwards, the suddenness of it taking her breath away. She expected the pressure to abate, but it did not. By her own estimation her weight, which had been uncomfortable enough beforehand, had just doubled.

Remontoire looked out and downwards, as Felka had done a few minutes before.

‘What just happened? We seem to be accelerating harder,’ she observed.

‘We are,’ he said. ‘Definitely.’

Felka followed his gaze, hoping to see something different in the view. But as accurately as she could judge, nothing had changed. Even the blue glow behind the engines seemed no brighter.

Gradually, the acceleration became tolerable, if not something she would actually describe as pleasant. With forethought and economy she could manage most of what she had been doing before. The ship’s servitors did their best to assist, helping people get in and out of seats, always ready to spring into action. The other Conjoiners, all somewhat lighter and leaner than Felka, adapted with insulting ease. The interior surfaces of the ship hardened and softened themselves on cue, aiding movement and limiting injury.

But after an hour it increased again. Two and a half gees. Felka could stand it no longer. She asked to be allowed back to her quarters, but learned it was still not possible to go into that part of the ship. Nonetheless the ship partitioned a fresh room for her and extruded a couch she could lie on. Remontoire helped her on to it, making it perfectly clear that he had no better idea than she did of what was happening.

‘I don’t understand,’ Felka said, wheezing between words. ‘We’re just accelerating. It’s what we always knew we’d have to do if we stood a chance of reaching Clavain.’

Remontoire nodded. ‘But there’s more to it than that. Those engines were already operating near their peak efficiency when we boosted to one gee. Nightshade may be smaller and lighter than most lighthuggers, but the engines are smaller as well. They were designed to sustain a one-gee cruise up to light-speed, no more than that. Over short distances, yes, greater speed is possible, but that isn’t what’s happening.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Meaning we shouldn’t have been able to accelerate so much harder. And definitely not three times as hard. I didn’t see any auxiliary boosters attached to our hull, either. The only other way Skade could have done it would be by jettisoning two-thirds of the mass we had when we left the Mother Nest.’

With some effort Felka shrugged. She had a profound lack of interest in the mechanics of spaceflight - ships were a means to an end as far as she was concerned - but she could work her way through an argument easily enough. ‘So the engines must be capable of working harder than you assumed.’

‘Yes. That’s what I thought.’

‘And?’

‘They can’t be. We both looked out. You saw that blue glow? Scattered light from the exhaust beam. It would have had to get a lot brighter, Felka, bright enough that we’d have noticed. It didn’t.’ Remontoire paused. ‘If anything, it got fainter, as if the engines had been throttled back a little. As if they weren’t having to work as hard as before.’

‘That wouldn’t make any sense, would it?’

‘No,’ Remontoire said. ‘No sense at all. Unless Skade’s secret machinery had something to do with it.’

FOURTEEN

Triumvir Ilia Volyova gazed into the abyss of the cache chamber, wondering if she was about to make the kind of dreadful mistake she had always feared would end her days.

Khouri’s voice buzzed in her helmet. ‘Ilia, I really think we should give this just a tiny bit more thought.’

‘Thank you.’ She checked the seals on her spacesuit again, and then flicked through her weapon status indicators.

‘I mean it.’

‘I know you mean it. Unfortunately I’ve already given it more than enough thought. If I gave it any more thought I might decide not to do it. Which, given the wider circumstances, would be even more suicidally dangerous and stupid than doing it.’

‘I can’t fault your logic, but I’ve a feeling the ship ... I mean the Captain ... really isn’t going to like this.’

‘No?’ Volyova considered that a far from remote possibility herself. ‘Then perhaps he’ll decide to co-operate with us.’

‘Or kill us. Have you considered that?’

‘Khouri?’

‘Yes, Ilia?’

‘Please shut up.’

They were floating inside an airlock that allowed entry into the chamber. It was a large lock, but there was still only just enough room for the two of them. It was not simply that their suits had been augmented with the bulky frames of thruster-packs. They also carried equipment, supplemental armour and a number of semi-autonomous weapons, clamped to the frames at strategic points.

‘All right; let’s just get it over with,’ Khouri said. ‘I’ve never liked this place, not from the first time you showed it to me. Nothing that’s happened since has made me like it any more.’

They powered out into the chamber, propelling themselves with staccato puffs of micro-gee thrust.

It was one of five similarly sized spaces in Nostalgia for Infinity’s interior: huge inclusions large enough to stow a fleet of passenger shuttles or several megatonnes of cargo, ready to be dropped down to a needy colony world. So much time had passed since the days when the ship had carried colonists that only scant traces of its former function remained, overlaid by centuries of adaptation and corruption. For years the ship had rarely carried more than a dozen inhabitants, free to wander its echoing interior like looters in an evacuated city. But beneath the accretions of time much remained more or less intact, even allowing for the changes that had come about since the Captain’s transformations.

The smooth sheer walls of the chamber reached away in all directions, vanishing into darkness and only fitfully illuminated by the roving spotlights of their suits. Volyova had not been able to restore the chamber’s main lighting system: that was one of the circuits the Captain now controlled, and he clearly did not like them entering this territory.

Gradually the wall receded. They were immersed in darkness now, and it was only the head-up display in Volyova’s helmet that gave her any indication of where to aim for or how fast she was moving.

‘It feels as if we’re in space,’ Khouri said. ‘It’s hard to believe we’re still inside the ship. Any sign of the weapons?’

‘We should be coming up on weapon seventeen in about fifteen seconds.’

On cue, the cache weapon loomed out of the darkness. It did not float free in the chamber, but was embraced by an elaborate arrangement of clamps and scaffolds, which were in turn connected to a complicated three-dimensional monorail system which plunged through the darkness, anchored to the chamber walls by enormous splayed pylons.

This was one of thirty-three weapons that remained from the original forty. Volyova and Khouri had destroyed one of them on the system’s edge after it went rogue, possessed by a splinter of the same software parasite that Khouri herself had carried aboard the ship. The other six weapons had been abandoned in space after the Hades episode. They were probably recoverable, but there was no guarantee they would work again, and by Volyova’s estimate they were considerably less potent than those that remained.

They fired their suit thrusters and came to a halt near the first weapon.

‘Weapon seventeen,’ Volyova said. ‘Ugly son of a svinoi, don’t you think? But I’ve had some success with this one - reached all the way down to its machine-language syntax layer.’

‘Meaning you can talk to it?’

‘Yes. Isn’t that just what I said?’

None of the cache weapons looked exactly alike, though they were all clearly the products of the same mentality. This one looked like a cross between a jet engine and a Victorian tunnelling machine: an axially symmetric sixty-metre-long cylinder faced with what could have been cutting teeth or turbine blades, but which were probably neither. The thing was sheathed in a dull, battered alloy that seemed either green or bronze, depending on the way their lights played across it. Cooling flanges and fins leant it a rakish art deco look.

‘If you can talk to it,’ Khouri said, ‘can’t we just tell it to leave the ship and then use it against the Inhibitors?’

‘That would be nice, wouldn’t it?’ Volyova’s sarcasm could have etched holes in metal. ‘The problem is that the Captain can control the weapons as well, and at the moment his commands will veto any I send, since his come in at root level.’

‘Mm. And whose bright idea was that?’

‘Mine, now you come to mention it. Back when I wanted all the weapons to be controlled from the gunnery, it seemed quite a good idea.’

‘That’s the problem with good ideas. They can turn out to be a real fucking pain in the arse.’

‘So I’m learning. Now then.’ Volyova’s tone became hushed and businesslike. ‘I want you to follow me, and keep your eyes peeled. I’m going to check my control harness.’

‘Right behind you, Ilia.’

They orbited the weapon, steering their suits through the interstices of the monorail system.

The harness was a frame that Volyova had welded around the weapon, equipped with thrusters and control interfaces. She had achieved only very limited success in communicating with the weapons, and those that she had been most confident of controlling had been among those now lost. Once, she had attempted to interface all the weapons via a single controlling node: an implant-augmented human plugged into a gunnery seat. Though the concept had been sound, the gunnery had caused her no end of troubles. Indirectly, the whole mess they were in now could be traced back to those experiments.

‘Harness looks sound,’ Volyova said. ‘I think I’ll try to run through a low-level systems check.’

‘Wake the weapon up, you mean?’

‘No, no ... just whisper a few sweet nothings to it, that’s all.’ She tapped commands into the thick bracelet encircling her spacesuited forearm, watching the diagnostic traces as they scrolled over her faceplate. ‘I’m going to be preoccupied while I do this, so it’s down to you to keep an eye out for any trouble. Understood?’

‘Understood. Um, Ilia?’

‘What.’

‘We have to make a decision on Thorn.’

Volyova did not like to be distracted, most especially not during an operation as dangerous as this. ‘Thorn?’

‘You heard what the man said. He wants to come aboard.’

‘And I said he can’t. It’s out of the question.’

‘Then I don’t think we’ll be able to count on his help, Ilia.’

‘He’ll help us. We’ll make the bastard help us.’

She heard Khouri sigh. ‘Ilia, he isn’t some piece of machinery we can poke or prod until we get a certain response. He doesn’t have a root level. He’s a thinking human being, fully capable of entertaining doubts and fears. He cares desperately about his cause and he won’t risk jeopardising it if he thinks we’re holding anything back from him. Now, if we were telling the truth, there’d be no good reason for refusing him the visit he asked for. He knows we have a means to reach the ship, after all. It’s only reasonable that he’d want to see the Promised Land he’s leading his people into, and the reason why Resurgam has to be evacuated.’

Volyova was through the first layer of weapons protocols, burrowing through her own software shell into the machine’s native operating system. So far nothing she had done had incurred any hostile response from either the weapon or the ship. She bit her tongue. It all got trickier from hereon in.

‘I don’t think it’s in the least bit reasonable,’ Volyova replied.

‘Then you don’t understand human nature. Look, trust me on this. He has to see the ship or he won’t work with us.’

‘If he saw this ship, Khouri, he’d do what any sane person would do under the same circumstances: run a mile.’

‘But if we kept him away from the worst parts, the areas which have undergone the most severe transformations, I think he might still help us.’

Volyova sighed, while keeping her attention on the work at hand. She had the horrible, overfamiliar feeling that Khouri had already given this matter some consideration - enough to deflect her obvious objections.

‘He’d still suspect something,’ she countered.

‘Not if we played our cards right. We could disguise the transformations in a small area of the ship and then keep him to that. Just enough so that we can appear to give him a guided tour, without seeming to be holding anything back.’

‘And the Inhibitors?’

‘He has to know about them eventually - everyone will. So what’s the problem with Thorn finding out now rather than later?’

‘He’ll ask too many questions. Before long he’ll put two and two together and figure out who he’s working for.’

‘Ilia, you know we have to be more open with him ...’

‘Do we?’ She was angry now, and it was not merely because the weapon had refused to parse her most recent command. ‘Or do we just want to have him around because we like him? Think very carefully before you answer, Khouri. Our friendship might depend on it.’

‘Thorn means nothing to me. He’s just convenient.’

Volyova tried a new syntax combination, holding her breath until the weapon responded. Previous experience had taught her that she could only make so many mistakes when talking to a weapon. Too many and the weapon would either clam up or start acting defensively. But now she was through. In the side of the weapon, what had appeared to be seamless alloy slid open to reveal a deep machine-lined inspection well, glowing with insipid green light.

‘I’m going in. Watch my back.’

Volyova steered her suit along the weapon’s flanged length until she reached the hatch, braked and then inserted herself with a single cough of thrust. She arrested her movement with her feet, coming to a halt inside the well. It was large enough for her to rotate and translate without any part of her suit coming into contact with the machinery.

Not for the first time, she found herself wondering about the dark ancestry of these thirty-three horrors. The weapons were of human manufacture, certainly, but they were far in advance of the destructive potential of anything else that had ever been invented. Centuries ago, long before she had joined the ship, Nostalgia for Infinity had found the cache tucked away inside a fortified asteroid, a nameless lump of rock circling an equally nameless star. Perhaps a thorough forensic examination of the asteroid might have revealed some clue as to who had made the weapons, or who had owned them up to that point, but the crew had been in no position to linger. The weapons had been spirited aboard the ship, which had then left the scene of the crime with all haste before the asteroid’s stunned defences woke up again.

Volyova, of course, had theories. Perhaps the most likely was that the weapons were of Conjoiner manufacture. The spiders had been around long enough. But if these weapons belonged to them, why had they ever allowed them to slip out of their hands? And why had they never made an effort to reclaim what was rightfully theirs?

It was immaterial. The cache had been aboard the ship for centuries. No one was going to come and ask for it back now.

She looked around, inspecting the well. Naked machinery surrounded her: control panels, read-outs, circuits, relays and devices of less obvious function. Already there was an apprehensive feeling in the back of her mind. The weapon was focusing a magnetic field on part of her brain, instilling a sense of phobic dread.

She had been here before. She was used to it.

She unhooked various modules stationed around her suit’s thruster frame, attaching them to the interior of the well via epoxy-coated pads. From these modules, which were of her own design, she extended several dozen colour-coded cables that she connected or spliced into the exposed machinery.

‘Ilia ...’ Khouri said. ‘How are you doing?’

‘Fine. It doesn’t like me being in here very much, but it can’t kick me out - I’ve given it all the right authorisation codes.’

‘Has it started doing the fear thing?’

‘Yes, as a matter of fact it has.’ She experienced a moment of absolute screaming terror, as if someone was poking her brain with an electrode, stirring her most primal fears and anxieties into daylight. ‘Do you mind if we have this conversation later, Khouri? I’d like to get this ... over ... as soon as possible.’

‘We’re still going to have to decide about Thorn.’

‘Fine. Later, all right?’

‘He has to come here.’

‘Khouri, do me a favour: shut up about Thorn and keep your eye on the job, understand?’

Volyova paused and forced herself to focus. So far, despite the fear, it had gone as well as she had hoped it would. She had only once before gone this deep into the weapon’s control architecture, and that was when she had prioritised the commands coming in from the ship. Since she was at the same level now she could theoretically, by issuing the right command syntax, lock out the Captain for good. This was only one weapon; there were thirty-two others, and some of those were utterly unknown to her. But she would surely not need the whole cache to make a difference. If she could gain control of a dozen or so weapons, it would hopefully be enough to throw a spanner into the Inhibitor’s plans ...

And she would not succeed by prevarication.

‘Khouri, listen to me. Minor change of plan.’

‘Uh-oh.’

‘I’m going to go ahead and see if I can get this weapon to submit entirely to my control.’

‘You call that a minor change of plan?’

‘There’s absolutely nothing to worry about.’

Before she could stop herself, before the fear became overwhelming, she connected the remaining lines. Status lights winked and pulsed; displays rippled with alphanumeric hash. The fear sharpened. The weapon really did not want her to tamper with it on this level.

‘Tough luck,’ she said. ‘Now let’s see ...’ And with a few discreet taps on her bracelet she released webs of mind-numbingly complicated command syntax. The three-valued logic that the weapon’s operating system ran on was characteristic of Conjoiner programming, but it was also devilishly hard to debug.

She sat still and waited.

Deep inside the weapon, the legality of her command would be thrashed out and scrutinised by dozens of parsing modules. Only when it had satisfied all criteria would it be executed. If that happened, and the command did what she thought it would, the weapon would immediately delete the Captain from the list of authenticated users. There would then only be one valid way to work the weapon, which was through her control harness, a piece of hardware disconnected from the ship’s Captain-controlled infrastructure.

It was a very sound theory.

She had the first indication that the command syntax had been bad an instant before the hatch slid shut on her. Her bracelet flashed red; she started assembling a particularly poetic sequence of Russish swearwords and then the weapon had locked her in. Next, the lights went out, but the fear remained. The fear, in fact, had grown very much stronger - but perhaps that was partly her own response to the situation.

‘Damn ...’ Volyova said. ‘Khouri ... can you hear me?’

But there was no reply.

Without warning machinery shifted around her. The chamber had become larger, revealing dimly glowing vaults plunging deeper into the weapon. Enormous fluidly shaped mechanisms floated in blood-red light. Cold blue lights flickered on the shapes or traced the flow lines of writhing intestinal power lines. The entire interior of the weapon appeared to be reorganising itself.

And then she nearly died of fright. She sensed something else inside the weapon, a presence that was coming closer, creeping through the shifting components with phantom slowness.

Volyova hammered on the hatch above her. ‘Khouri ... !’

But the presence had reached her. She had not seen it arrive but she sensed its sudden proximity. It was shapeless, crouched behind her. She thought she could almost see it in her peripheral vision, but even as she wrenched her head around the presence flowed into her blind spot.

Suddenly her head hurt, the blinding pain making her squeal aloud.

Remontoire squeezed his lean frame into one of Nightshade’s viewing blisters, establishing by visual means that the engines had actually shut off. He had issued the correct sequence of neural commands, instantly feeling the shift to weightlessness as the ship ceased accelerating, but still he felt the need for additional confirmation that his order had been followed. Given what had happened already, he would not have been entirely surprised to see that the blue glow of scattered light was still present.

But he saw only darkness. The engines really had shut down; the ship was drifting at constant velocity, still falling towards Epsilon Eridani but far too slowly ever to catch Clavain.

‘What now?’ Felka asked quietly. She floated next to him, one hand hooked into a soft hoop that the ship had obligingly provided.

‘We wait,’ he said. ‘If I’m right, Skade won’t be long.’

‘She won’t be pleased.’

He nodded. ‘And I’ll reinstate thrust as soon as she tells me what’s going on. But before that I’d like some answers.’

The crab arrived a few moments later, easing through a fist-sized hole in the wall. ‘This is unacceptable. Why have you ...’

‘The engines are my responsibility,’ Remontoire said pleasantly, for he had rehearsed exactly what he would say. ‘They’re a highly delicate and dangerous technology, all the more so given the experimental nature of the new designs. Any deviation from the expected performance might indicate a serious, possibly catastrophic, problem.’

The crab waggled its manipulators. ‘You know perfectly well that there was nothing at all wrong with the engines. I demand that you restart them immediately. Every second we spend drifting is to Clavain’s advantage.’

‘Really?’ Felka said.

‘Only in the very loosest sense. If we’re delayed any further our only realistic option will be a remote kill, rather than a live capture.’

‘Not that that’s ever been under serious consideration, has it?’ Felka asked.

‘You’ll never know if Remontoire persists with this ... insubordination. ’

‘Insubordination?’ Felka hooted. ‘Now you almost sound like a Demarchist.’

‘Don’t play games, either of you.’ The crab pivoted around on its suckered feet. ‘Reinstate the engines, Remontoire, or I’ll find a way to do it without you.’

It sounded like a bluff, but Remontoire was prepared to believe that overriding his commands was within the capabilities of an Inner Sanctum member. It might not be easy, certainly less easy than having him do what she wanted, but he did not doubt that Skade was capable of it.

‘I will ... once you show me what your machinery does.’

‘My machinery?’

Remontoire reached over and prised the crab from the wall, each suckered foot detaching with a soft, faintly comical slurp. He held the crab at eye-level, looking into its tight assemblage of sensors and variegated weapons, daring Skade to hurt him. The little legs thrashed pathetically.

‘You know exactly what I mean,’ he said. ‘I want to know what it is, Skade. I want to know what you’ve learned to do.’

They followed the proxy through Nightshade, navigating twisting grey corridors and vertical interdeck shafts, moving steadily away from the prow of the ship - ‘down’ as far as Remontoire’s inner ear was concerned. The acceleration was now one and three-quarter gees, Remontoire having agreed to reinstate the engines at a low level of thrust. His mental map of the other occupants showed that they were all still crammed into the volume of the ship immediately aft of the prow, and that Felka and he were the only people this far downship. He had yet to discover where Skade’s actual body was; she still had not spoken to him through any other medium than the crab’s voice box, and his usual omniscient knowledge of the ship’s layout had been replaced by a mental map riddled with precisely edited gaps, like the blocked-out text in a classified document.

‘This machinery ... whatever it is ...’

Skade cut him off. ‘You’d have found out about it sooner or later. As would all of the Mother Nest.’

‘Was it something you learned from Exordium?’

‘Exordium showed us the direction to follow, that’s all. Nothing was handed to us on a plate.’ The crab skittered ahead of them and reached a sealed bulkhead, one of the mechanical doors that had closed before the increase in acceleration. ‘We have to go through here, into the part of the ship I sealed off. I should warn you that things will feel a little different on the other side. Not immediately, but this barricade more or less marks the point at which the effects of the machinery rise above the threshold of human sensitivity. You may find it disturbing. Are you certain that you wish to continue?’

Remontoire looked at Felka; Felka looked back at him and nodded.

‘Lead on, Skade,’ said Remontoire.

‘Very well.’

The barricade wheezed open, revealing an even darker and deader space beyond it. They stepped through and then descended several further levels via vertical shafts, riding piston-shaped discs.

Remontoire examined his feelings but nothing was out of the ordinary. He raised a quizzical eyebrow in Felka’s direction, to which she responded with a short shake of her head. She felt nothing unusual either, and she was a good deal more attuned to such matters than he was.

They continued on through normal corridors, pausing now and then until they regained the energy to continue. Eventually they arrived at a plain stretch of walling devoid of any indicators - real, holographic or entoptic - to mark it as out of the ordinary. Yet the crab halted at a certain spot and after a moment a hole opened in the wall at chest height, enlarging to form an aperture shaped like a cat’s pupil. Red light spilled through the inverted gash.

‘This is where I live,’ the crab told them. ‘Please come in.’

They followed the crab into a large warm space. Remontoire looked around, realising as he did so that nothing he saw matched his expectations. He was simply in an almost empty room. There were a few items of machinery in it, but only one thing, resembling a small, slightly macabre piece of sculpture, that he did not instantly recognise. The room was filled with the soft hum of equipment, but again the sound was not unfamiliar.

The largest item was the first thing he had noticed. It was a black egg-shaped pod resting on a heavy rust-red pedestal inset with quivering analogue dials. The pod had the antique look of much modern space technology, like a relic from the earliest days of near-Earth exploration. He recognised it as an escape pod of Demarchist design, simple and robust. Conjoiner ships never carried escape pods.

This unit was marked with warning instructions in all the common languages - Norte, Russish, Canasian - along with icons and diagrams in bright primary colours. There were bee-stripes and cruciform thrusters; the grey bulges of sensors and communication systems; collapsed solar-wings and parachutes. There were explosive bolts around a door and a tiny triangular window in the door itself.

There was something in the pod. Remontoire saw a curve of pale flesh through the window, indistinct because it was embedded in a matrix of amber cushioning gel or some cloying medical nutrient. The flesh moved, breathing slowly.

‘Skade ... ?’ he said, thinking of the injuries he had seen when he had visited her before their departure.

‘Go ahead,’ the crab said. ‘Have a look. I’m sure it will surprise you.’

Remontoire and Felka eased closer to the pod. There was a figure packed inside it, pink and foetal. Remontoire saw lines and catheters, and watched the figure move almost imperceptibly no more than once a minute. It was breathing.

It wasn’t Skade, or even what had remained of Skade. It definitely wasn’t human.

‘What is it?’ Felka asked, her voice barely a whisper.

‘Scorpio,’ Remontoire said. ‘The hyperpig, the one we found on the Demarchist ship.’

Felka touched the metal wall of the pod. Remontoire did likewise, feeling the rhythmic churning of life-support systems.

‘Why is he here?’ Felka asked.

‘He’s on his way back to justice,’ Skade said. ‘Once we’re near the inner system we’ll eject the pod and let the Ferrisville Convention recover him.’

‘And then?’

‘They’ll try him and find him guilty of the many crimes he is supposed to have committed,’ Skade said. ‘And then, under the present legislation, they’ll kill him. Irreversible neural death.’

‘You sound as if you approve.’

‘We have to co-operate with the Convention,’ Skade said. ‘They can make life difficult for us in our dealings around Yellowstone. The pig has to be handed back to them one way or another. It would have been very convenient for us if he had died in our custody, believe me. Unfortunately, this way he has a small chance of survival. ’

‘What kind of crimes are we talking about?’ Felka asked.

‘War crimes,’ Skade said breezily.

‘That doesn’t tell me anything. How can he be a war criminal if he isn’t affiliated to a recognised faction?’

‘It’s very simple,’ Skade said. ‘Under the terms of the Convention virtually any extralegal act committed in the war zone becomes a war crime, by definition. And there’s no shortage in Scorpio’s case. Murder. Assassination. Terrorism. Blackmail. Theft. Extortion. Ecosabotage. Trafficking in unlicensed alpha-level intelligences. Frankly, he’s been involved in every criminal activity you can think of from Chasm City to the Rust Belt. If it were peacetime, they’d be serious enough. But in a time of war, most of those crimes carry a mandatory penalty of irreversible death. He’d have earned it several times over even if the nature of the murders themselves wasn’t taken into consideration.’

The pig breathed in and out. Remontoire watched the protective gel tremble as he moved and wondered if he were dreaming, and if so what shape those dreams assumed. Did pigs dream? He was not sure. He did not remember if Run Seven had had anything to say on the matter. But then, Run Seven’s mind had not exactly been put together like other pigs’. He had been a very early and imperfectly formed specimen, and his mental state had been a long way from anything Remontoire would have termed sane. Which was not to say that he had been stupid, or lacking in ingenuity. The tortures and methods of coercion that the pirate had used on Remontoire had been adequate testimony to his intelligence and originality. Even now, somewhere at the back of his mind (there were days when he did not notice it) there was a scream that had never ended; a thread of agony that connected him with the past.

‘What exactly were these murders?’ Felka repeated.

‘He likes killing humans, Felka. He makes something of an art of it. I don’t pretend there aren’t others like him, criminal scum making the most of the present situation.’ Skade’s crab hopped through the air and landed deftly on the side of the pod. ‘But he’s different. He revels in it.’

Remontoire spoke softly. ‘Clavain and I trawled him. The memories we dug out of his head were enough to have him executed there and then.’

‘So why didn’t you?’ asked Felka.

‘Under more favourable circumstances, I think we might have.’

‘The pig needn’t detain us,’ Skade said. ‘It’s his good fortune that Clavain defected, forcing us to make this journey to the inner system, or we’d have had to return a corpse, packed into a high-burn missile warhead. That option was seriously considered. We’d have been perfectly within our rights.’

Remontoire stepped away from the pod. ‘I thought it might be you in there.’

‘And were you relieved to find it wasn’t me?’

The voice startled him, because it had not come from the crab. He looked around and for the first time paid proper attention to the unfamiliar object he had only glanced at before. It had reminded him of a sculpture: a cylindrical silver pedestal in the middle of the room, supporting a detached human head.

The head vanished into the pedestal somewhere near the middle of the neck, joined to it by a tight black seal. The pedestal was only slightly wider than the head, flaring towards a thick base inset with various gauges and sockets. Now and then it gurgled and clicked with inscrutable medical processes.

The head swivelled slightly to greet them and then spoke, pushing thoughts into his head. [Yes, it’s me. I’m glad you were able to follow my proxy. We’re inside the range of the device now. Do you feel any ill effects?]

Only a little queasiness, Remontoire replied.

Felka stepped closer to the pedestal. ‘Do you mind if I touch you?’

[Be my guest.]

Remontoire watched her press her fingers lightly across Skade’s face, tracing its contours with horrified care. It is you, isn’t it? he asked.

[You seem a little surprised. Why? Does my state disturb you? I’ve experienced far more unsettling conditions than this, I assure you. This is merely temporary.]

But behind her thoughts he sensed chasms of horror; self-disgust so extreme that it had become something close to awe. He wondered if Skade was letting him taste her feelings deliberately, or whether her control was simply not good enough to mask what she really felt.

Why did you let Delmar do this to you?

[It wasn’t his idea. It would have taken too long to heal my entire body, and Delmar’s equipment was too bulky to bring along. I suggested that he remove my head, which was perfectly intact.]

She glanced down, though she could not tilt her head. [This life-support apparatus is simple, reliable and compact enough for my needs. There are some problems with maintaining the precise blood chemistry that my brain would experience if it were connected to a fully functioning body - hormones, that sort of thing - but apart from some slight emotional lability, the effects are pretty minor.]

Felka stepped back. ‘What about your body?’

[Delmar will have a replacement ready, fully clone-cultured, when I get back to the Mother Nest. The reattachment procedure won’t cause him any difficulties, especially since the decortication happened under controlled circumstances.]

‘Well, that’s fine then. But unless I’m missing something, you’re still a prisoner.’

[No. I have a certain degree of mobility, even now.] The head spun around through a disconcerting two hundred and seventy degrees. From out of the room’s shadows stepped what Remontoire had until then taken to be a waiting general-utility servitor, the kind one might find in any well-appointed household. The bipedal androform machine had a dejected, slumped appearance. It was headless, with a circular aperture between its shoulders.

[Help me into it, please. The servitor can do it, but it always seems to take an eternity to do it properly.]

Help you into it? Remontoire queried.

[Grasp the support pillar immediately beneath my neck.]

Remontoire placed both hands around the silver pedestal and pulled. There was a soft click and the upper part, along with the head, came loose in his hands. He elevated it, finding it much heavier than he had imagined it would be. Hanging beneath the place where the pedestal had separated was a knot of slimy wriggling cables. They thrashed and groped like a fistful of eels.

[Now carry me - gently - to the servitor.]

Remontoire did as she asked. Perhaps the possibility of dropping the head flickered through his mind once or twice, though rationally he doubted that the fall would do Skade very much harm: the floor would most likely soften to absorb the impact. But he fought to keep such thoughts as well censored as he could.

[Now pop me down into the body of the servitor. The connections will establish themselves. Gently now ... gently does it.]

He slid the silver core into the machine until he encountered resistance. Is that it?

[Yes.] Skade’s eyes widened perceptibly, and her skin took on a blush it had lacked before. [Yes. Connection established. Now, let’s see ... motor control ...]

The servitor’s forearm jerked violently forwards, the fist clenching and unclenching spasmodically. Skade pulled it back and held the outspread hand before her eyes, studying the mechanical anatomy of gloss-black and chrome with rapt fascination. The servitor was of a quaint design that resembled medieval armour; it was both beautiful and brutal.

You seem to have the hang of it.

The servitor took a shuffling step forwards, both arms held slightly in front of it. [Yes ... This is my quickest adjustment yet. It almost makes me think I should instruct Delmar not to bother.]

‘Not to bother doing what?’ asked Felka.

[Healing my old body. I think I prefer this one. That’s a joke, incidentally.]

‘Of course,’ Felka said uneasily.

[But you should be grateful that this has happened to me. It makes me more likely to try to bring Clavain back into our possession alive.]

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because I would very much like him to see what he has done to me.’ Skade turned around with a creak of metal. ‘Now, there is something else you wanted to see, I think. Shall we continue?’

The suit of armour led them out of the room.

FIFTEEN

A word pressed itself into Volyova’s skull, as hard and searing as a cattle brand.

[Ilia.]

She could not speak, could only shape her own thoughts in response. Yes. How do you know my name?

[I’ve come to know you. You’ve shown such interest in me - in us - that it was difficult not to know you in return.]

Again she moved to hammer on the door that had sealed her inside the cache weapon, but when she tried to lift her arm nothing happened. She was paralysed, though still able to breathe. The presence, whatever it was, continued to feel as if it was directly behind her, looking over her shoulder.

Who ... She sensed a terrible mocking delight in her own ignorance.

[The controlling subpersona of this weapon, of course. You can call me Seventeen. Who else did you think I was?]

You speak Russish.

[I know your preferred natural language filters. Russish is easy enough. An old language. It hasn’t changed much since the time we were made.]

Why ... now?

[You have never reached this deeply into one of us before, Ilia.]

I ... have. Nearly.

[Perhaps. But never under quite these circumstances. Never with so much fear before you even began. You are quite desperate to use us, aren’t you? More than you’ve ever been before.]

She felt, despite still being paralysed, a tiny easing of her terror. So the presence was a computer program, no more than that. She had simply triggered a layer of the weapon’s control mechanism that she had never knowingly invoked before. The presence felt almost preternaturally evil, but that - and the paralysis - was obviously just a refinement of the usual fear-generation mechanism.

Volyova wondered how the weapon was talking to her. She had no implants, and yet the weapon’s voice was definitely speaking directly into her skull. It could only be that the chamber she was in was functioning as a kind of high-powered inverse trawl, stimulating brain function by the application of intense magnetic fields. If it could make her feel terror, Volyova supposed, and with such finesse, it would not have been a great deal more difficult for it to generate ghost signals along her auditory nerve or, more probably, in the hearing centre itself, and to pick up the anticipatory neural firing patterns that accompanied the intention to speak.

These are desperate times ...

[So it would seem.]

Who made you?

There was no immediate answer from Seventeen. For a moment the fear was gone, the neural thrall interrupted by a blank instant of calm, like the drawing of breath between agonised screams.

[We don’t know.]

No?

[No. They didn’t want us to know.]

Volyova marshalled her thoughts with the care of someone placing heavy ornaments on a rickety shelf. I think the Conjoiners made you. That’s my working hypothesis, and nothing you’ve told me has led me to think it might need reconsidering.

[It doesn’t matter who made us, does it? Not now.]

Probably not. I’d like to know for curiosity’s sake, but the most important thing is that you’re still capable of serving me.

The weapon tickled the part of her mind that registered amusement. [Serving you, Ilia? Whatever gave you that impression?]

You did what I asked of you, in the past. Not you specifically, Seventeen - I never asked anything of you - but whenever I asked anything of the other weapons, they always obeyed me.

[We didn’t obey you, Ilia.]

No?

[No. We humoured you. It amused us to do what you asked of us. Often that was indistinguishable from following your commands - but only from your point of view.]

You’re just saying that.

[No. You see, Ilia, whoever made us gave us a degree of free will. There must have been a reason for that. Perhaps we were expected to act autonomously, or to piece together a course of action from incomplete or corrupted orders. We must have been created to be doomsday weapons, you see, weapons of final resort. Instruments of End Times.]

You still are.

[And are these End Times, Ilia?]

I don’t know. I think they might be.

[You were frightened before you came here, I can tell. We all can. What exactly is it that you want of us, Ilia?]

There’s a problem you might have to attend to.

[A local problem?]

In this system, yes. I’d need you to deploy beyond the ship ... beyond this chamber ... and help me.

[But what if we decide not to help you?]

You will. I’ve looked after you for so long, taking care of you, keeping you safe from harm. I know you’ll help me.

The weapon held her suspended, stroking her mind playfully. Now she knew what a mouse felt like after the cat had caught it. She felt that she was only an instant away from having her spine broken in two.

But as abruptly as it had come, the paralysis eased. The weapon still imprisoned her, but she was regaining some voluntary muscle control.

[Perhaps, Ilia. But let’s not pretend that there aren’t complicating factors.]

Nothing we can’t work around ...

[It will be very difficult for us to do anything without the co-operation of the other one, Ilia. Even if we wanted to.]

The other one?

[The other ... entity ... that continues to exert a degree of control over us.]

Her mind dwelled on the possibilities before she realised what the weapon had to be talking about. You mean the Captain.

[Our autonomy is not so great that we can act without the other entity’s permission, Ilia. No matter how cleverly you attempt to persuade us.]

The Captain just needs persuading, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll come around, in the end.

[You have always been an optimist, haven’t you, Ilia?]

No ... not at all. But I have faith in the Captain.

[Then we hope your powers of persuasion are up to the task, Ilia.]

I do too.

She gasped suddenly, as if she had been stomach-punched. Her head was empty again and the horrid sense of something sitting immediately behind her had gone, as abruptly as a slamming door. There was not even a hint of the presence in her peripheral vision. She was floating alone, and although she was still imprisoned in the weapon, the feeling that it was haunted had vanished.

Volyova gathered her breath and her composure, marvelling at what had just happened. In all the years she had worked with the weapons she had never once suspected that any of them harboured a guardian subpersona, much less a machine intelligence of at least high gamma-level status - even possibly low-to-medium beta-level.

The weapon had scared the living daylights out of her. Which, she supposed, had undoubtedly been the intended affect.

There was a bustle of motion around her. The access panel - in a totally different part of the wall than she remembered - budged open an inch. Harsh blue light rammed through the gap. Through it, squinting, Volyova could just make out another spacesuited figure. ‘Khouri?’

‘Thank God. You’re still alive. What happened?’

‘Let’s just say my efforts to reprogram the weapon were not an unqualified success, shall we, and leave it at that?’ She hated discussing failure almost as much as she hated the thing itself.

‘What, you gave it the wrong command or something?’

‘No, I gave it the right command but for a different interpreter shell than I was actually accessing.’

‘But that would still make it the wrong command, wouldn’t it?’

Volyova turned herself around until her helmet was aligned with the slit of light. ‘It’s more technical than that. How did you get the panel open?’

‘Good old brute force. Or is that not technical enough?’

Khouri had wedged a crowbar from her suit utility kit into what must have been a hair-fine joint in the weapon’s skin, and then levered back on that until the panel slid open.

‘And how long did you take to do that?’

‘I’ve been trying to get it open since you went inside, but it only just gave way, right this minute.’

Volyova nodded, fairly certain that absolutely nothing would have happened until the weapon decided it was time to let her go. ‘Very good work, Khouri. And how long do you think it will take to get it open all the way?’

Khouri adjusted her position, re-attaching herself to the weapon so that she could apply more leverage to the bar. ‘I’ll have you out of there in a jiffy. But while I’ve got you there, so to speak, can we come to some agreement on the Thorn issue?’

‘Listen to me, Khouri. He only barely trusts us now. Show him this ship, give him even a hint of a reason to begin to guess who I am, and you won’t see him for daylight. We’ll have lost him, and with him the only possible means of evacuating that planet in anything resembling a humane manner.’

‘But he’s even less likely to trust us if we keep finding excuses for why he can’t come aboard ...’

‘He’ll just have to deal with them.’

Volyova waited for a response, and waited, and then noticed that there no longer appeared to be anyone on the other side of the gap. The hard blue light that had been coming from Khouri’s suit was gone, and no hand was on the tool.

‘Khouri ... ?’ she said, beginning to lose her calm again.

‘Ilia . . .’ Khouri’s voice came through weakly, as if she were fighting for breath. ‘I think I have a slight problem.’

‘Shit.’ Volyova reached for the end of the crowbar and tugged it through to her side of the hatch. She braced herself and then worked the gap wider, until it was just wide enough for her to push her helmet through. In intermittent flashes she saw Khouri falling into the darkness, her suit harness tumbling away from her. Crouched on the side of the weapon she also saw the belligerent lines of a heavy-construction servitor. The mantislike machine must have been under the Captain’s direct control.

‘You vicious bastard! It was me who broke into the weapon, not her ...’

Khouri was very distant now, perhaps halfway to the far wall. How fast was she moving? Three or four metres per second, perhaps. It was not fast, but her suit’s armour was not designed to protect her against impacts. If she hit badly ...

Volyova worked harder, forcing the hatch open inch by painful inch. Dully, she realised that she was not going to make it in time. It was taking too long. Khouri would reach the wall long before Volyova freed herself.

‘Captain ... you’ve really done it now.’

She pushed harder. The crowbar slipped from her fingers, whacked the side of her helmet and went spinning into the dark depths of the machine. Volyova hissed her anger, knowing that she did not have time to go searching for the lost tool. The hatch was wide enough to wriggle through now, but to do so she would have to abandon her harness and life-support pack. She could survive long enough to fend for herself, but there would be no way to save Khouri.

‘Shit,’ she said. ‘Shit ... shit ... shit.’

The hatch slid open.

Volyova climbed through the hole and kicked off from the side of the weapon, leaving the servitor behind. There was no time to reflect on what had just happened, except to acknowledge that only Seventeen or the Captain could have made the hatch open.

She had her helmet drop a radar overlay over her faceplate. Volyova rotated and then got an echo from Khouri. Her fall was taking her through the long axis of the chamber, through a gallery of menacing stacked weapons. Judging by her trajectory she must have already glanced against one of the monorail tracks that threaded the chamber.

‘Khouri ... are you still alive?’

‘I’m still here, Ilia ...’ But she sounded as if she had been hurt. ‘I can’t stop myself.’

‘You don’t have to. I’m on my way.’

Volyova jetted after her, zooming between weapons that were both familiar to her and yet still quietly mysterious. The radar echo assumed definition and shape, becoming a tumbling human figure. Behind it, looming closer and closer, was the far wall. Volyova checked her own speed relative to it: six metres per second. Khouri could not have been moving much slower than that.

Volyova squirted more thrust from her harness. Ten ... twenty metres per second. She saw Khouri now, grey and doll-like, with one arm flopping limply into space. The figure swelled. Volyova applied reverse thrust in incremental stabs, feeling the frame creak at the unusual load it was being expected to distribute. Fifty metres from Khouri ... forty. She looked in a bad way: a human arm was definitely not meant to articulate that way.

‘Ilia ... that wall’s coming up awfully fast.’

‘So am I. Hold on. There may be a slight ...’ They thumped together. ‘... impact.’

Mercifully, the collision had not thrown Khouri off on another trajectory. Volyova held on to her by her unharmed arm just long enough to unwind a line and fasten it to Khouri’s belt and then let her go. The wall was visible now, no more than fifty metres away.

Volyova braked, her thumb hard down on the thruster toggle, ignoring the protestations from the suit’s subpersona. The line tethering Khouri extended to maximum tautness, Khouri hanging between her and the wall. But they were slowing. The wall was not rushing towards them with quite the same sense of inevitability.

‘Are you all right?’ Volyova asked.

‘I think I may have broken something. How did you get out of the weapon? When the machine flicked me off, the hatch was still nearly shut.’

‘I managed to get it open a little wider. But I had some help, I think.’

‘The Captain?’

‘Possibly. But I don’t know if it means he’s fully on our side after all.’ She concentrated on flying for a moment, keeping the tether taut as she swung around. The pale green ghosts of the thirty-three cache weapons loomed on her radar; she plotted a course through them back to the airlock.

‘I still don’t know why he set the servitor on you,’ Volyova said. Maybe he wanted to warn us off rather than kill us. As you say, he could have killed us already. Just possibly he prefers to have us around.’

‘You’re reading a lot into one hatch.’

‘That’s why I don’t think we should count on the Captain’s assistance, Khouri.’

‘No?’

‘There’s someone else we could ask for help,’ Volyova said. ‘We could ask Sylveste.’

‘Oh no.’

‘You met him once before, inside Hades.’

‘Ilia, I had to die to get inside that fucking thing. It’s not something I’m going to do twice.’

‘Sylveste has access to the stored knowledge of the Amarantin. He might know of a suitable response to the Inhibitor threat, or at the very least have some idea of how long we have left to come up with one. His information could be vital, Ana, even if he can’t help us in a material sense.’

‘No way, Ilia.’

‘You don’t actually remember dying, do you? And you’re fine now. There were no ill effects.’

Khouri’s voice was very weak, like someone mumbling on the edge of sleep. ‘You fucking do it, if it’s that easy.’

Presently - and not a moment too soon - Volyova saw the pale rectangle which marked the airlock. She approached it slowly, winding Khouri in and depositing her first into the lock. By then the injured woman was unconscious.

Volyova pulled herself in, closed the door behind them and waited for the lock to pressurise. When the air pressure had reached nine-tenths of a bar she wrenched her own helmet off, her ears popping, and flicked sweat-drenched hair from her eyes. The biomedical displays on Khouri’s suit were all in the green: nothing to worry about. All she had to do now was drag her to somewhere where she could get medical attention.

The door into the rest of the ship irised open. She pushed herself towards it, hoping she had the strength to haul Khouri’s dead weight along behind her.

‘Wait.’

The voice was calm and familiar, yet it was not one she had heard in a long time. It reminded her of unspeakable cold, of a place where the other crewmembers had feared to tread. It was coming from the wall of the chamber, hollowly resonant.

‘Captain?’ she said.

‘Yes, Ilia. It’s me. I’m ready to talk now.’

Skade led Felka and Remontoire down into the bowels of Nightshade, deep into the realm of influence of her machinery. By turns, Remontoire started to feel light-headed and feverish. At first he thought it was his imagination, but then his pulse started racing and his heart thundered in his chest. The sensations worsened with every level that they descended, as if they were lowering themselves into an invisible fog of psychotropic gas.

Something’s happening.

The head snapped around to look at him, while the ebony servitor continued striding forwards. [Yes. We’re well into the field now. It wouldn’t be safe for us to descend much further, not without medical support. The physiological effects become quite upsetting. Another ten vertical metres, then we’ll call it a day.]

What’s going on?

[It’s a little difficult to say, Remontoire. We’re within the influence of the machinery now, and the bulk properties of matter here - all matter, even the matter in your body - have been changed. The field that the machinery generates is suppressing inertia. What do you think you know about inertia, Remontoire?]

He answered judiciously. As much as anyone, I suppose. It isn’t something I’ve ever needed to think about. It’s just something we live with.

[It doesn’t have to be. Not now.]

What have you done? Learned how to switch it off?

[Not quite - but we’ve certainly learned to take the sting out of it.] Skade’s head twisted around again. She smiled indulgently; waves of opal and cerise flickered back and forth along her crest, signifying, Remontoire imagined, the effort that was required to translate the concepts she took for granted into terms a mere genius could grasp. [Inertia is more mysterious than you might think, Remontoire.]

I don’t doubt it.

[It’s deceptively easy to define. We feel it every moment of our lives, from the moment we’re born. Push against a pebble and it moves. Push against a boulder and it doesn’t, or at least not very much. By the same token, if a boulder’s rushing towards you, you aren’t going to be able to stop it very easily. Matter is lazy, Remontoire. It resists change. It wants to keep on doing whatever it’s doing, whether that’s sitting still or moving. We call that laziness inertia, but that doesn’t mean we understand it. For a thousand years we’ve labelled it, quantified it, caged it in equations, but we’ve still only scratched the surface of what it really is.]

And now?

[We have an opening. More than a glimpse. Recently the Mother Nest has achieved reliable control of inertia on the microscopic scale.]

‘Exordium gave you all that?’ Felka asked, speaking aloud.

Skade answered without speaking, refusing to indulge in Felka’s preferred mode of communication. [I told you that the experiment gave us a signpost. It was almost enough to know that the technique was possible; that such a machine could exist. Even then it still took us years to build the prototype.]

Remontoire nodded; he had no reason to think she might be lying. From scratch?

[No ... not entirely. We had a head start.]

What kind of head start? He watched mauve and turquoise striations pulse along Skade’s crest.

[Another faction had explored something similar. The Mother Nest recovered key technologies relating to their work. From those beginnings - and the theoretical clues offered by the Exordium messages - we were able to progress to a functioning prototype.]

Remontoire recalled that Skade had once been involved in a high-security mission into Chasm City, an operation that had resulted in the deaths of many other operatives. The operation had clearly been sanctioned at Inner Sanctum level; even as a Closed Council member he knew little other than that it had happened.

You helped recover those technologies, Skade? I understand you were lucky to get out alive.

[The losses were extreme. We were fortunate that the mission was not a complete failure.]

And the prototype?

[For years we worked to make it into something useful. Microscopic control of inertia - no matter how conceptually profound - was never of any real value. But lately we’ve had one success after another. Now we can suppress inertia on classical scales, enough to make a difference to the performance of a ship.]

He looked at Felka, then back to Skade. Ambitious, I’ll give you that.

[Lack of ambition is for baseline humans.]

This other faction ... the one you recovered the items from - why didn’t they make the same breakthrough? He had the impression that Skade was framing her thoughts with extreme care.

[All previous attempts to understand inertia were doomed to failure because they approached the problem from the wrong standpoint. Inertia isn’t a property of matter as such, but a property of the quantum vacuum in which matter is embedded. Matter itself has no intrinsic inertia.]

The vacuum imposes inertia?

[It isn’t really a vacuum, not at the quantum level. It’s a seething foam of rich interactions: a broiling sea of fluctuations, with particles and messenger-particles in constant existential flux, like glints of sunlight on ocean waves. It’s the choppiness of that sea which creates inertial mass, not matter itself. The trick is to find a way to modify the properties of the quantum vacuum - to reduce or increase the energy density of the electromagnetic zero-point flux. To calm the sea, if only in a locally defined volume.]

Remontoire sat down. I’ll stop here, if you don’t mind.

‘I don’t feel well either,’ Felka said, squatting down next to him. ‘I feel sick and light-headed.’

The servitor turned around stiffly, animated like a haunted suit of armour. [You’re experiencing the physiological effects of the field. Our inertial mass has dropped to about half its normal value. Your inner ear will be confused by the drop in inertia of the fluid in your semi-circular canal. Your heart will beat faster: it evolved to pump a volume of blood with an inertial mass of five per cent of your body; now it has only half that amount to overcome, and its own cardiac muscle reacts more swiftly to the electrical impulses from your nerves. If we were to go much deeper, your heart would start fibrillating. You would die without mechanical intervention.]

Remontoire grinned at the armoured servitor. Fine for you, then.

[It wouldn’t be comfortable for me, either, I assure you.]

So what does the machine do? Does all the matter within the bubble have zero inertia?

[No, not in the present operating mode. The radial effectiveness of the damping depends on the mode in which we’re running the device. At the moment we’re in an inverse square field, which means that the inertial damping becomes four times more efficient every time we halve our distance to the machine; it becomes near infinite in the immediate proximity of the machine, but the inertial mass never drops to absolute zero. Not in this mode.]

But there are other modes?

[Yes: other states, we call them, but they’re all very much less stable than the present one.] She paused, eyeing Remontoire. [You look ill. Shall we return upship?]

I’ll be fine for now. Tell me more about your magic box.

Skade smiled, as stiffly as usual, but with what looked to Remontoire like pride. [Our first breakthrough was in the opposite direction - creating a region of enhanced quantum vacuum fluctuation, thereby increasing the energy-momentum flux. We call that state one. The effect was a zone of hyper-inertia: a bubble in which all motion ceased. It was unstable, and we never managed to magnify the field to macroscopic scales, but there were fruitful avenues for future research. If we could freeze motion by ramping inertia up by many orders of magnitude we’d have a stasis field, or perhaps an impenetrable defensive barrier. But cooling - state two - turned out to be technically simpler. The pieces almost fell into place.]

I’ll bet they did.

‘Is there a third state?’ Felka asked.

[State three is a singularity in our calculations that we don’t expect to be physically realisable. All inertial mass vanishes. All matter in a state-three bubble would become photonic: pure light. We don’t expect that to happen; at the very least it would imply a massive local violation of the law of conservation of quantum spin.]

‘And beyond that - on the other side of the singularity? Is there a state four?’

[Now we’re getting ahead of ourselves, I think. We’ve explored the properties of the device in a well-understood parameter space, but there’s no point in indulging in wild speculation.]

How much testing, exactly?

[Nightshade was chosen to be the prototype: the first ship to be equipped with inertia-suppression machinery. I ran some tests during the earlier flight, dropping the inertia by a measurable amount - enough to alter our fuel consumption and verify the effectiveness of the field, but not enough to draw attention.]

And now?

[The field is much stronger. The ship’s effective mass is now only twenty per cent of what it was when we left the Mother Nest - there’s a relatively small part of the ship projecting ahead of the field, but we can do better than that simply by increasing the field strength.] Skade clapped her hands together with a creak of armour. [Think of it, Remontoire - we could squeeze our mass down to one per cent, or less - accelerate at a hundred gees. If our bodies were inside the bubble of suppressed inertia we’d be able to withstand it, too. We’d reach near-light cruise speed in a couple of days. Subjective travel between the closest stars in under a week of shiptime. There’d be no need for us to be frozen. Can you imagine the possibilities? The galaxy would suddenly be a much smaller place.]

But that’s not why you developed it. Remontoire climbed to his feet. Still light-headed, he steadied himself against the wall. It was the closest he had come to intoxication in a great while. This excursion had been interesting enough, but he was now more than ready to return upship, where the blood in his body would behave as nature had intended.

[I’m not sure I understand, Remontoire.]

It was for when the wolves arrive - the same reason you’ve built that evacuation fleet.

[Sorry?]

Even if we can’t fight them, you’ve at least given us a means of running away very, very quickly.

Clavain opened his eyes from another bout of forced sleep. Cool dreams of walking through Scottish forests in the rain seduced him for a few dangerous moments. It was so tempting to return to unconsciousness, but then old soldierly instincts forced him to snap into grudging alertness. There had to be a problem. He had instructed the corvette not to wake him until it had something useful or ominous to report, and a quick appraisal of the situation revealed that this was most emphatically the latter.

Something was following him. Details were available on request.

Clavain yawned and scratched at the now generous growth of beard that he sported. He caught a glimpse of himself in the cabin window and registered mild alarm at what he saw. He looked wild-eyed and maniacal, as if he had just stumbled from the depths of a cave. He ordered the corvette to stop accelerating for a few minutes, then gathered some water into his hands from the faucet, cupping the amoeba-like droplets between his palms, and then endeavoured to splash them over his face and hair, slicking and taming hair and beard. He glanced at his reflection again. The result was not a great improvement, but at least he no longer looked feral.

Clavain unharnessed himself and set about preparing coffee and something to eat. It was his experience that crises in space fell into two categories: those that killed you immediately, usually without much warning, and those that gave you plenty of time to ruminate on the problem, even if no solution was very likely. This, on the basis of the evidence, looked like the kind which could be contemplated after first sating his appetite.

He filled the cabin with music: one of Quirrenbach’s unfinished symphonies. He sipped the coffee, leafing through the corvette’s status log entries while he did so. He was pleased but not surprised to see that the ship had operated flawlessly ever since his departure from Skade’s comet. There was still adequate fuel to carry him all the way to circum-Yellowstone space, including the appropriate orbital insertion procedures once he arrived. The corvette was not the problem.

Transmissions had been received from the Mother Nest as soon as his departure had become evident. They had been tight-beamed on to him, maximally encrypted. The corvette had unpacked the messages and stored them in time-sequence.

Clavain bit into a slice of toast. ‘Play ’em. Oldest first. Then erase immediately.’

He could have guessed what the first few messages would be like: frantic requests from the Mother Nest for him to turn around and come home. The first few gave him the benefit of the doubt, assuming - or pretending to assume - that he had some excellent justification for what looked like a defection attempt. But they had been half-hearted. Then the messages gave up on that tack and simply started threatening him.

Missiles had been launched from the Mother Nest. He had turned off his course and lost them. He had assumed that would be the end of it. A corvette was fast. There was nothing else that could catch him, unless he turned to interstellar space.

But the next set of messages did not emanate from the Mother Nest at all. They came from a tiny but measurable angle away from its position, a few arc-seconds, and they were steadily blue-shifted, as if originating from a moving source.

He calculated the rate of acceleration: one point five gees. He ran the numbers through his tactical simulator. It was as he’d expected: no ship with that rate of acceleration could catch him in local space. For a few minutes he allowed himself to feel relief while still pondering the point of the pursuer. Was it merely a psychological gesture? It seemed unlikely. Conjoiners were not greatly enamoured of gestures.

‘Open the messages,’ he said.

The format was audio-visual. Skade’s head popped into the cabin, surrounded by an oval of blurred background. The communication was verbal; she knew that he would never allow her to insert anything into his head again.

‘Hello, Clavain,’ she said. ‘Please listen and pay attention. As you may have gathered, we are pursuing you with Nightshade. You will assume that we cannot catch you, or come within missile or beam-weapon range. These assumptions are incorrect. We are accelerating and will continue to increase our acceleration at regular intervals. Study the Doppler shift of these transmissions carefully if you doubt me.’

The disembodied head froze; vanished.

He scanned the next message originating from the same source. Its header indicated that it had been transmitted ninety minutes after the first. The implied acceleration was now two point five gees.

‘Clavain. Surrender now and I guarantee you a fair hearing. You cannot win.’

The transmission quality was poor: the acoustics of her voice were strange and mechanical, and whatever compression algorithm she had used had made her head seem fixed and immobile, only her mouth and eyes moving.

Next message: three gees.

‘We have redetected your exhaust signature, Clavain. The temperature and blue shift of your flame indicates that you are accelerating at your operational limit. I want you to appreciate that we are nowhere near ours. This is not the ship you knew, Clavain, but something faster and more deadly. It is fully capable of intercepting you.’

The masklike face contorted into a stiff ghoulish smile. ‘But there is still time for negotiation. I’ll let you pick a place of rendezvous, Clavain. Just say the word and we’ll meet on your terms. A minor planet, a comet, open space - it doesn’t bother me in the slightest.’

He killed the message. He was certain that Skade was bluffing about having detected his flame. The last part of the message, the invitation to reply, was just her attempt to get him to betray his position by transmitting.

‘Sly, Skade,’ he said. ‘But unfortunately I’m a hell of a lot more sly.’

But it still worried him. She was accelerating too hard, and although the blue shift could have been faked, applied to the message before it was transmitted, he sensed that in that respect at least there had been no bluff.

She was coming after him with a much faster ship than he had assumed available, and she was gaining ground by the second.

Clavain bit into his toast and listened to the Quirrenbach a bit longer.

‘Play the rest,’ he said.

‘You have no more messages,’ the corvette told him.

Clavain was studying newsfeeds when the corvette announced receipt of a new batch of messages. He examined the accompanying information, noting that there was nothing from Skade this time.

‘Play them,’ he said cautiously.

The first message was from Remontoire. His head appeared, bald and cherubic. He was more animated than Skade, and there was a good deal more emotion in his voice. He leant towards the lens, his eyes beseeching.

‘Clavain. I’m hoping you’ll hear this and give it some thought. If you’ve listened to Skade then you’ll know that we can catch you up. This isn’t a trick. She’ll kill me for what I’m about to say, but if I know you at all you’ll have arranged for these messages to be wiped as soon as you play them, so there’s no real danger of this information reaching enemy hands. So here it is. There’s experimental machinery on Nightshade. You knew Skade was testing something, but not what. Well, I’ll tell you. It’s a machine for suppressing inertial mass. I don’t pretend to understand how it works, but I’ve seen the evidence that it does with my own eyes. Felt it, even. We’ve ramped up to four gees now, though you’ll be able to confirm that independently. Before very long you’ll have parallactic confirmation from the origin of these signals, if you weren’t already convinced. All I’m saying is it’s real, and according to Skade it can keep suppressing more and more of our mass.’ He looked hard into the camera, paused and then continued, ‘We can read your drive flame. We’re homing in on it. You can’t escape, Clavain, so stop running. As a friend, I beg you to stop running. I want to see you again, to talk and laugh with you.’

‘Skip to next message,’ he said, interrupting.

The corvette obliged; Felka’s image replaced Remontoire’s. Clavain experienced a jolt of surprise. The matter of who would pursue him had never been entirely settled in his mind, but he could have counted on Skade: she would make sure she was there when the killing missile was launched, and she would do all in her power to be the one to give the order. Remontoire would come along out of a sense of duty to the Mother Nest, emboldened by the conviction that he was executing a solemn task and that only he was truly qualified to hunt Clavain.

But Felka? He had not expected to see Felka at all.

‘Clavain,’ she said, her voice revealing the strain of talking under four gees. ‘Clavain ... please. They’re going to kill you. Skade won’t go to any great trouble to arrange a live capture, no matter what she says. She wants to confront you, to rub your nose in what you’ve done ...’

‘What I’ve done?’ he said to her recording.

‘... and while she’ll capture you if she can, I don’t think she’ll keep you alive for long. But if you turn around and surrender, and let the Mother Nest know what you’re doing, I think there might be a hope. Are you listening, Clavain?’ She reached out and traced shapes across the lens between them, exactly as if she were mapping his face, relearning its shape for the thousandth time. ‘I want you to come home safe and sound, that’s all. I don’t even disagree with what you’ve done. I have my doubts about a lot of things, Clavain, and I can’t say I wouldn’t have ...’

She lost whatever thread she was following, staring into infinity before refocusing. ‘Clavain ... there’s something I have to tell you, something that I think might make a difference. I’ve never spoken of this to you before, but now I think the time is right. Am I being cynical? Yes, avowedly. I’m doing this because I think it might persuade you to turn back; no other reason than that. I hope you can forgive me.’

Clavain clicked a finger at the corvette’s wall, making it drop the volume of the music. For a heartbreaking moment there was near silence, Felka’s face hovering before him. Then she spoke again.

‘It was on Mars, Clavain, when you were Galiana’s prisoner for the first time. She kept you there for months and then released you. You must remember what it was like back then.’

He nodded. Of course he remembered. What difference did four hundred years make?

‘Galiana’s nest was hemmed in from all sides. But she wouldn’t give up. She had plans for the future, big plans, the kind that involved expanding the numbers of her disciples. But the nest lacked genetic diversity. Whenever new DNA came her way, she seized it. You and Galiana never made love on Mars, Clavain, but it was easy enough for her to obtain a cell scraping without your knowledge.’

‘And?’ he whispered.

Felka’s message continued seamlessly. ‘After you’d gone back to your side, she combined your DNA with her own, splicing the two samples together. Then she created me from the same genetic information. I was born in an artificial womb, Clavain, but I am still Galiana’s daughter. And still your daughter, too.’

‘Skip to next message,’ he said, before she could say another word. It was too much; too intense. He could not process the information in one go, even though she was only telling him what he had always suspected - prayed - was the case.

But there were no other messages.

Fearfully, Clavain asked the corvette to spool back and replay Felka’s transmission. But he had been much too thorough: the ship had dutifully erased the message, and now all that remained was what he carried in his memory.

He sat in silence. He was far from home, far from his friends, embarked on something that even he was not sure he believed in. It was entirely likely that he would die soon, uncommemorated except as a traitor. Even the enemy would not do him the dignity of remembering him with any more affection than that. And now this: a message that had reached across space to claw at his feelings. When he had said goodbye to Felka he had managed a singular piece of self-deception, convincing himself that he no longer thought of her as his daughter. He had believed it, too, for the time it took to leave the Nest.

But now she was telling him that he had been right all along. And that if he did not turn around he would never see her again.

But he could not turn around.

Clavain wept. There was nothing else to do.

SIXTEEN

Thorn took his first tentative steps aboard Nostalgia for Infinity. He looked around with frantic, wide-eyed intent, desperate not to miss a single detail or nuance of detail that might betray deception or even the tiniest hint that things were not completely as claimed. He was afraid to blink. What if some vital slip that would have exposed the whole thing as a façade happened when he had his eyes closed? What if the two of them were waiting for him to blink, like conjurors playing with an audience’s attention?

Yet there appeared to be no deception here. Even if the trip in the shuttle had not convinced him of that fact - and it was difficult to imagine how that could have been faked - the supreme evidence was here.

He had travelled through space. He was no longer on Resurgam, but inside a colossal spacecraft: the Triumvir’s long-lost lighthugger. Even the gravity felt different.

‘You couldn’t have made this ...’ he said, as he walked alongside his two companions. ‘Not in a hundred years. Not unless you were Ultras to begin with. And then why would you need to fake it anyway?’

‘So you’re prepared to believe our story?’ the Inquisitor asked him.

‘You’ve got your hands on a starship. I can hardly deny that. But even a ship this size, and from what I’ve seen it’s at least as big as Lorean ever was, even a ship this size can’t accommodate two hundred thousand sleepers. Can it?’

‘It won’t need to,’ the other woman told him. ‘Remember, this is an evacuation operation, not a pleasure cruise. Our objective is only to get people away from Resurgam. We’ll put the most vulnerable into reefersleep. But the majority will have to stay awake and suffer rather cramped conditions. They won’t enjoy it, but it’s a hell of an improvement on being dead.’

There was no arguing with that. None of his own plans had ever guaranteed a luxurious ride off the planet.

‘How long do you think people will have to spend here, before they can return to Resurgam?’ he asked.

The women exchanged glances. ‘Returning to Resurgam may never be an option,’ the older one said.

Thorn shrugged. ‘It was a sterile rock when we arrived. We can start from scratch if we have to.’

‘Not if the planet doesn’t exist. It could be that bad, Thorn.’ She knuckled the wall of the ship as they walked on. ‘But we can keep people here as long as we need to - years, decades even.’

‘We could reach another star system, then,’ he countered. ‘This is a starship, after all.’

Neither of them said anything.

‘I still want to see what it is we’re so frightened of,’ he said. ‘Whatever it is that’s posing such a threat.’

The older one, Irina, said, ‘Do you sleep well at night, Thorn?’

‘As well as anyone.’

‘I’m afraid all that’s about to end. Follow me, will you?’

Antoinette was aboard Storm Bird, running systems checks, when the message came in. The freighter was still berthed in the rim repair bay in Carousel New Copenhagen, but most of the serious damage had been rectified or patched over. Xavier’s monkeys had worked around the clock, since neither he nor Antoinette could afford to occupy this bay for an hour longer than necessary. The monkeys had agreed to work even though most of the other hyperprimate workers in the carousel were on strike or sick with an extremely rare prosimian virus that had mysteriously crossed a dozen species barriers overnight. Xavier detected, so he claimed, a degree of sympathy from the workers. None of them were great fans of the Ferrisville Convention, and the fact that Antoinette and Xavier were being persecuted by the police only made the primates more willing to break the usual labour rules. Nothing came without costs, of course, and Xavier would end up owing the workers rather more than he might have wished, but there were certain trade-offs that one simply had to accept. That was a rule Antoinette’s father had quoted often enough, and she had grown up with the same resolutely pragmatic approach.

Antoinette was tapping through tokamak field configuration settings, a compad tucked under one arm and a pen between her teeth, when the console chimed. Her first thought was that something she had done had triggered an error somewhere else in the ship’s control web.

She spoke with the pen still in place, knowing that Beast would be able to make sense of her gruntings. ‘Beast ... fix that, will you?’

‘Little Miss, the signal in question is a notification of the arrival of a message.’

‘Xavier?’

‘Not Mr Liu, Little Miss. The message, in so far as one can deduce from the header information, originated well outside the carousel.’

‘Then it’s the cops. Funny. They don’t usually call; they just show up, like a turd on the doorstep.’

‘It doesn’t appear to be the authorities either, Little Miss. Might one suggest that the most prudent course of action would be to view the message in question?’

‘Clever clogs.’ She pulled the pen from her mouth and tucked it behind her ear. ‘Pipe it through to my ’pad, Beast.’

‘Very well, Little Miss.’

The screen of tokamak data shuffled aside. In its place a face resolved, speckled with coarse-resolution pixels. Whoever was sending was trying to get away with taking up as little bandwidth as possible. Nonetheless, she recognised the face very well.

‘Antoinette ... it’s me again. I hope you made it back safely.’ Nevil Clavain paused, scratching at his beard. ‘I’m bouncing this transmission through about fifteen relays. Some of them are pre-plague, some of them may even go back to the Amerikano era, so the quality may not be of the best. I’m afraid there’s no possibility of you being able to reply, and no possibility of my being able to send another message; this is emphatically my one and only shot. I need your help, Antoinette. I need your help very badly.’ He smiled awkwardly. ‘I know what you’re thinking: that I said I’d kill you if our paths ever crossed again. I meant it, too, but I said it because I hoped you’d take me seriously and stay out of trouble. I really hope you believe that, Antoinette, or else there isn’t much chance that you’re likely to agree to my next request.’

‘Your next request?’ she mouthed, staring in disbelief at the compad.

‘What I need, Antoinette, is for you to come and rescue me. I’m in rather a lot of trouble, you see.’

She listened to what he had to say, but there was not a great deal more to the message. Clavain’s request was simple enough, and it was, she admitted, within her capabilities to do what he wanted. Even the co-ordinates he had given her were precise enough that she would not have to do any real searching. There was a tight time window, very tight, actually, and there was a not inconsiderable degree of physical risk, quite aside from any associated with Clavain himself. But it was all very feasible. She could tell that Clavain had worked through the details himself before calling her, anticipating almost all the likely problems and objections she might have. In that respect, she could not help but admire his dedication.

But it still didn’t make a shred of difference. The message was from Clavain, the Butcher of Tharsis; the same Clavain who had lately started inhabiting her dreams, personifying what had previously been the merely faceless terror of the spider induction wards. It was Clavain who presided over the glistening machines as they lowered themselves into her brainpan.

It didn’t matter that he had once saved her life.

‘You have got to be fucking kidding,’ Antoinette said.

Clavain floated alone in space. Through his spacesuit visor he watched the corvette curve away on automatic pilot, dwindling slowly but surely until its sleek flintlike shape was difficult to distinguish from a faint star. Then the corvette’s main drive flicked on, a hard and bright violet-blue spike, carefully angled away from his best guess for the position of Nightshade. The acceleration would certainly have crushed him had he remained aboard. He watched until even that spike of light had become the slightest pale scratch against the stars, until the point where he blinked and lost it altogether.

He was alone, about as truly alone as it was possible to be.

As rapid as the corvette’s acceleration now was, it was nothing that the ship could not sustain. In a few hours the burn would take it to a point in space and give it a velocity consistent with its last recorded position as determined by Nightshade. The drive would ramp down then, back to a thrust level consistent with carrying a human passenger. Skade would redetect the corvette’s flame, but she would also see that the flame was flickering with some irregularity, indicating an unstable fusion burn. That, at least, was what Clavain hoped she would think.

For the last fifteen hours of his flight he had pushed the corvette’s motors as hard as he could, deliberately circumventing the safety overrides. With all the excess mass aboard the corvette - weapons, fuel, life-support mechanisms - the corvette’s effective acceleration ceiling had not been far above his own physiological tolerance limit. It had been prudent to accelerate as hard as he could stand, of course, but Clavain had also wanted Skade to think that he was pushing things just slightly too hard.

He had known that she must be watching his flame, studying it for any hint of a mistake on his part. So, by tapping into the engine-management system he had introduced evidence of an imminent failure mode. He had forced the engine to operate erratically, cycling its temperature, allowing unfused impurities to clot the exhaust, showing every sign that it was about to blow.

After fifteen hours he had simulated an abrupt stuttering drive failure. Skade would recognise the failure mode; it was almost textbook stuff. She would doubtless think that Clavain had been unlucky not to die in an instant painless blast. Now she would be able to catch up with him, and his death would be rather more protracted. If Skade recognised the type of failure mode he had hoped to simulate, she would conclude that it would require about ten hours for the ship’s own auto-repair mechanisms to fix the fault. Even then, for that particular failure mode only a partial repair would be possible. Clavain might be able to get the antimatter-catalysed fusion torch re-lit, but the drive would never function at full capacity. At the very best, Clavain might manage to squeeze six gees out of the corvette, and he would not be able to sustain that acceleration for long.

As soon as she saw the corvette’s flame, as soon as she recognised the telltale flicker, Skade would know that success was hers. She would never know that he had used the ten hours of grace not to repair a defective engine, but to deposit himself somewhere else entirely. At least, he hoped she would never guess that.

His last act had been to send a message to Antoinette Bax, making sure that the signal could not possibly be interdicted by Skade or any other hostile forces. He had told Antoinette where he would be floating, and he had told her exactly how long he could reasonably survive in a single low-endurance spacesuit with no sophisticated recycling systems. By his own estimation she could reach him in time and then ferry him out of the war zone before Skade had a chance to realise what was happening. All Antoinette would need to do was approach the rough volume of space he had defined and then sweep it with her radar; sooner or later she would pick out his figure.

But she only had one window of opportunity. He only had one chance to convince her, and she had to act immediately. If she decided to call his bluff or to wait a couple of days, agonising about what to do, he was dead.

He was in her hands. Totally.

Clavain did what he could to extend the suit’s durability. He brought up certain rarely used neural routines that allowed him to slow his own metabolism, so that he would use as little air and power as possible. There was no real point in staying conscious; it gained him nothing except the opportunity to endlessly reflect on whether he was going to live or die.

Drifting alone in space, Clavain prepared to sink into unconsciousness. He thought of Felka, who he did not believe he would ever see again, and wondered about her message. He did not know if he wanted it to be true or not. He hoped also that she would find a way to come to terms with his defection, that she would not hate him for it and that she would not resent the fact that he had continued with it despite her plea.

He had originally defected to the side of the Conjoiners because he had believed it was the right thing to do under the circumstances. There had been almost no time to plan his defection or evaluate the correctness of it. The moment had arisen when he had to make his choice, there and then. He had known that there was no going back.

It was the same now. The moment had presented itself ... and he had seized it, mindful of the consequences, knowing that he might turn out to be wrong, that his fears might turn out to be groundless or the paranoid delusions of an old, old man, but knowing that it must be done.

That, he suspected, was the way it would always be for him.

He remembered a time when he lay under fallen rubble, in a pocket of air beneath a collapsed structure on Mars. It had been about four standard months after the Tharsis Bulge campaign. He remembered the broken-spined cat that he had kept alive, how he had shared his rations with the injured animal even when the thirst had felt like acid etching away his mouth and throat; even when the hunger had been far, far worse than the pain of his own injuries. He remembered that the cat had died shortly after the two of them had been pulled from the rubble, and wondered whether the kindest thing would have been for it to have died earlier, rather than have its own painful existence prolonged for a few more days. And yet he knew that if the same thing were to happen again he would keep the cat alive, no matter how pointless the gesture. It was not just that keeping the cat alive had given him something to focus on other than his own discomfort and fear. There had been something more. What, he couldn’t easily say. But he had a feeling that it was the same impulse that was driving him towards Yellowstone, the same impulse that had made him seek Antoinette Bax’s help.

Alone and fearful, far from any world, Nevil Clavain fell into unconsciousness.

SEVENTEEN

The two women brought Thorn to a room within Nostalgia for Infinity. The centrepiece of the room was an enormous spherical display apparatus, poised in the middle of the chamber like a single grotesque eyeball. Thorn had an unshakeable feeling of intense scrutiny, as if not just the eye but also the entire fabric of the ship was studying him with great owl-like interest and not a little malice. Then he began to take in the particulars of what confronted him. There was evidence of damage everywhere. Even the display apparatus itself appeared to have been subjected to recent and crude repairs.

‘What happened here?’ Thorn asked. ‘It looks as if there was a gunfight or something.’

‘We’ll never know for sure,’ Inquisitor Vuilleumier said. ‘Clearly the crew wasn’t as united as we thought during the Sylveste crisis. It looks from the internal evidence as if there was some sort of factional dispute aboard the ship.’

‘We always suspected this was the case,’ the other woman, Irina, added. ‘Evidently there was trouble brewing just below the surface. Seems that whatever happened around Cerberus/Hades was enough to spark off a mutiny. The crew must have killed each other, leaving the ship to take care of itself.’

‘Handy for us,’ Thorn said.

The women exchanged glances. ‘Perhaps we should move on to the item of interest,’ Vuilleumier said.

They played a movie for him. It was holographic, running in the big eye. Thorn assumed that it was a computer synthesis assembled from data that the ship had gathered from a multitude of sensor bands and viewpoints. What it presented was a God’s-eye view, the view of a being able to apprehend entire planets and their orbits.

‘I must ask you to accept something,’ Irina said. ‘It is difficult to accept, but it must be done.’

‘Tell me,’ Thorn said.

‘The entire human species is poised on the brink of sudden and catastrophic extinction.’

‘That’s quite a claim. I hope you can justify it.’

‘I can, and I will. The important thing to grasp is that the extinction, if it is to happen, will begin here, now, around Delta Pavonis. But this is merely the start of something that will become greater and bloodier.’

Thorn could not help but smile. ‘Then Sylveste was right, is that it?’

‘Sylveste knew nothing about the details, or the risks he was taking. But he was correct in one assumption: he believed that the Amarantin had been wiped out by external intervention, and that it had something to do with their sudden emergence as a spacefaring culture.’

‘And the same thing’s going to happen to us?’

Irina nodded. ‘The mechanism will be different this time, it seems. But the agents are the same.’

‘And they are?’

‘Machines,’ Irina told him. ‘Starfaring machines of immense age. For millions of years they’ve hidden between the stars, waiting for another culture to disturb the great galactic silence. All they exist to do is detect the emergence of intelligence and then suppress it. We call them the Inhibitors.’

‘And now they’re here?’

‘The evidence would suggest so.’

They showed him what had happened so far, how a squadron of Inhibitor machines had arrived in the system and set about the dismantling of three worlds. Irina shared with Thorn her suspicion that Sylveste’s activities had probably drawn them, and that there might even be further waves converging on the Resurgam system from further out, alerted by the expanding wavefront of whatever signal had activated the first machines.

He watched the three worlds die. One was a metallic planet; the other two were rocky moons. The machines swarmed and multiplied on the surfaces of the moons, covering them in a plaque of specialised industrial forms. From the equators, plumes of mined matter belched into space. The moons were being cored out like apples. The matter plumes were directed into the maws of three colossal processing engines orbiting the dying bodies. Streams of refined matter, segregated into distinct ores and isotopes and granularities, were then flung into interplanetary space, arcing out along lazy parabolas.

‘That was just the start,’ Vuilleumier said.

They showed him how the mass streams from the three dismantled moons converged on a single point in space. It was a point in the orbit of the system’s largest gas giant, and the giant planet would arrive at that point at exactly the same time as the three mass streams.

‘That was when our attention switched to the giant,’ Irena said.

The Inhibitor machines were fearfully difficult to detect. It was only with the greatest of effort that she had managed to discern the presence of another smaller swarm of machines around the giant. For a long time they had done nothing but wait, poised for the arrival of the matter streams, the hundred billion billion tonnes of raw material.

‘I don’t understand,’ Thorn said. ‘There are plenty of moons around the gas giant itself. Why did they go to the trouble of dismantling moons elsewhere if they were going to be needed here?’

‘Those aren’t the right sort of moon,’ Irina said. ‘Most of the moons around the giant aren’t much more than ice balls, small rocky cores surrounded by frozen or liquid-state volatiles. They needed to rip apart metallic worlds, and that meant looking further afield.’

‘And now what are they going to do?’

‘Make something else, it seems,’ Irina said. ‘Something bigger still. Something that needs one hundred billion billion tonnes of raw material.’

Thorn returned his attention to the eye. ‘When did this start? When did the matter streams reach Roc?’

‘Three weeks ago. The thing - whatever it is - is beginning to take shape.’ Irena tapped at a bracelet around her wrist, causing the eye to zoom in on the giant’s immediate neighbourhood.

Most of the planet remained in shadow. Above the one limb that was illuminated - an off-white crescent shot through with pale bars of ochre and fawn - something was suspended: a filamentary arc that must have been many thousands of kilometres from end to end. Irina zoomed in further, towards the middle of the arc.

‘It’s a solid object, so far as we can tell,’ Vuilleumier said. ‘An arc of a circle one hundred thousand kilometres in radius. It’s in an equatorial orbit around the planet, and the ends are growing.’

Irina zoomed in again, focusing on the precise midpoint of the growing arc. There was a swelling, little more than a lozenge-shaped smudge at the current resolution. She tapped more controls on the bracelet and the smudge bloomed into clarity, expanding to fill the entire display volume.

‘It was a moon in its own right,’ Irina said, ‘a ball of ice a few hundred kilometres from side to side. They circularised its orbit above the equator in a few days, without the moon breaking apart under the dynamic stresses. Then the machines built structures inside it, what we must assume to be additional processing equipment. One of the matter streams falls into the moon here, via this maw-shaped structure. We can’t speculate about what goes on inside, I’m afraid. All we know is that two tubular structures are emerging from either end of the moon, fore and aft of its orbital motion. On this scale they appear to be whiskers, but the tubes are actually fully fifteen kilometres in thickness. They currently extend seventy thousand kilometres either side of the moon, and are growing in length by a rate of around two hundred and eighty kilometres every hour.’

Irina nodded, noting Thorn’s evident incredulity. ‘Yes, that’s quite correct. What you see here has been achieved in the last ten standard days. We are dealing with an industrial capacity beyond anything in our experience, Thorn. Our machines can turn a small metal-rich asteroid into a starship in a few days, but even that would seem astonishingly slow by comparison with the Inhibitor processes.’

‘Ten days to form that arc.’ The hairs on the back of Thorn’s neck were standing up, to his embarrassment. ‘Do you think they’ll keep growing it until the ends meet?’

‘It seems likely. If the ends are to form a ring, they’ll meet in a little under ninety days.’

‘Three months! You’re right. We couldn’t do that. We never could; not even during the Belle Époque. Why, though? Why throw a ring around the gas giant?’

‘We don’t know. Yet. There’s more, though.’ Irina nodded at the eye. ‘Shall we continue?’

‘Show me,’ Thorn said. ‘I want to see it all.’

‘You won’t like it.’

She showed him the rest, explaining how the three individual mass streams had followed near-ballistic trajectories from their points of origin, like chains of pebbles tossed in precise formation. But near the gas giant they were tightly orchestrated, steered and braked by machines too small to see. They were forced to curve sharply, aimed towards whichever constructional focus was their destination. One stream rained down into the maw of the moon that was extruding out the whiskers. The other two streams plunged into similar mawlike structures on two other moons, both of which had been lowered into orbits just above the cloud layer, well within the radius at which they should have been shattered by tidal forces.

‘What are the other two moons doing?’ Thorn asked.

‘Something else, it seems,’ Irina said. ‘Here, take a look. See if you can make more sense of it than we’ve been able to.’

It was difficult to surmise exactly what was going on. There was a whisker of material emerging from each of the two lower moons, ejected aft, against the direction of orbital motion. The whiskers appeared to be about the same size as the arc that was being built by the higher moon, but they each followed a sinuous snakelike curve that took them from a tangent to the orbital motion into the atmosphere itself, like great telegraph cables being reeled into the sea by a ship. Immediately behind the impact point of each tube was an eyelike wake of roiling and disturbed atmosphere many thousands of kilometres long.

‘They don’t come out again, as far as we can see,’ Vuilleumier said.

‘How fast are they being laid?’

‘We can’t tell. There aren’t any reference points on the tubes themselves, so we can’t calculate how fast they’re emerging from the moons. There’s no way we can get a Doppler measurement, not without revealing our interest. But we know that the flux of matter falling into each of the three moons is about the same, and the tubes are all about the same width.’

‘Then they’re probably being spooled into the atmosphere at the same speed as the arc is being formed, is that it? Two hundred and eighty kilometres per hour, or thereabouts.’ Thorn looked at the two women, searching their faces for clues. ‘Any ideas, then?’

‘We can’t begin to guess,’ Irina said.

‘But you don’t think this is good news, do you?’

‘No, Thorn, I don’t. My guess, frankly, is that whatever is taking place down there is part of something even larger.’

‘And that something means we have to evacuate Resurgam?’ She nodded. ‘We still have time, Thorn. The outer arc won’t be finished for eighty days, but it seems very unlikely that anything catastrophic will happen immediately after that. More likely, another process will start, something that might take as long again to complete as the building of the arcs. We may have many months beyond that.’

‘Months, though, not years.’

‘We only need six months to evacuate Resurgam.’

Thorn remembered the calculations they had explained to him, the dry arithmetic of shuttle flights and passenger capacities. It could be done in six months, yes, but only if human behaviour was factored out of the sums. People did not behave like bulk cargo. Especially not people who had been cowed and intimidated by an oppressive regime for the last five decades.

‘What you told me before - that we might have a few years to get this done?’

Vuilleumier smiled. ‘We told a few white lies, that’s all.’

Later, following what seemed to him to be an unnecessarily tortuous route through the ship, they took Thorn to view a cavernous hangar bay where many smaller spacecraft waited. They hung in their parking racks, transatmospheric and ship-to-ship shuttles like sleek-skinned sharks or bloated, spined angelfish. Most of the ships were too small to be of any use in the proposed evacuation plan, but he could not deny that the view was impressive.

They even helped him into a spacesuit with a thruster pack so that he could be taken on a tour through the chamber itself, inspecting the ships that would lift the people off Resurgam and ferry them across space to Nostalgia for Infinity itself. If he had harboured any suspicions that any of this was being faked, he discarded them now. The sheer vastness of the chamber and the overwhelming fact of the ships’ existence rammed aside any lingering misgivings, at least with respect to the reality of Infinity.

And yet ... and yet. He had seen the ship with his own eyes, had walked on it and felt the subtle difference of its spin-generated artificial gravity compared with the pull of Resurgam that he had known all his adult life. The ship could not be faked, and it would have taken extreme measures to fake the fact that the bay was full of smaller craft. But the threat itself? That was where it all broke down. They had shown him much, but not nearly enough. Everything concerning the threat to Resurgam had been shown to him second-hand. He had seen none of it with his own eyes.

Thorn was a man who needed to see things for himself. He could ask either of the two women to show him more evidence, but that would solve nothing. Even if they took him outside the ship and let him look through a telescope pointed at the gas giant, there would be no way for him to be sure that the view was not being doctored in some way. Even if they let him look with his own eyes towards the giant, and told him that the dot of light he was seeing was in some way different because of the machines’ activities, he would still be taking it on trust.

He was not a man to take things on trust.

‘Well, Thorn?’ Vuilleumier said, helping him out of the suit. ‘I take it you’ve seen enough now to know we aren’t lying? The sooner we get you back to Resurgam, the sooner we can move ahead with the exodus. Time’s precious, as we said.’

He nodded at the small dangerous-looking woman with the smoke-coloured eyes. ‘You’re right. You’ve shown me a lot, I admit. Enough for me to be sure you aren’t lying about all of it.’

‘Well, then.’

‘But that’s not good enough.’

‘No?’

‘You’re asking me to risk too much to take any of it on trust, Inquisitor.’

There was steel in her voice when she answered. ‘You saw your dossier, Thorn. There’s enough there to send you to the Amarantin.’

‘I don’t doubt it. I’ll give you more, if you want. It doesn’t change a thing. I’m not going to lead the people into anything that looks like a government trap.’

‘You still think this is a conspiracy?’ Irina asked, ending her remark with an odd clucking noise.

‘I can’t discount it, and that’s all that matters.’

‘But we showed you what the Inhibitors are doing.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘What you showed me was some data in a projection device. I still have no objective evidence that the machines are real.’

Vuilleumier looked at him imploringly. ‘Dear God, Thorn. How much more have we got to show you?’

‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Enough that I can believe it completely. How you do that is entirely your problem.’

‘There isn’t time for this, Thorn.’

He wondered, then. She said it with such urgency that it almost cut through his doubts. He could hear the fear in her voice.

Whatever else was going on, she was truly scared about something ...

Thorn looked back towards the hangar bay. ‘Could one of those ships get us closer to the giant?’

The Dawn War had been about metal.

Almost all the heavy elements in the observable universe had been brewed in the cores of stars. The Big Bang itself had made little except hydrogen, helium and lithium, but each successive generation of stars had enriched the palette of elements available to the cosmos. Massive suns assembled the elements lighter than iron in delicately balanced fusion reactions, block by block, cascading through increasingly desperate reactions as lighter elements were depleted. But once stars started burning silicon, the end was in sight. The end-stage of silicon fusion was a shell of iron imprisoning the star’s core, but iron itself could not be fused. Barely a day after the onset of silicon fusion, the star would become catastrophically and suddenly unstable, collapsing under its own gravity. Rebounding shockwaves from the collapse would lift the star’s carcass into space, outshining all other stars in the galaxy. The supernova itself would create new elements, pumping cobalt, nickel, iron and a stew of radioactive decay products back into the tenuous clouds of gas that lay between all stars. It was this interstellar medium that would provide the raw material for the next generation of stars and worlds. Nearby, a clump of gas that had until then been stable against collapse would ripple with the shockwave of the supernova, forming knots and whorls of enhanced density. The clump, which had already been metal-enriched by earlier supernovae, would begin to collapse under its own ghostly gravity. It would form hot, dense stellar nurseries, birthing places of eager young stars. Some were cool dwarves that would consume their star fuel so slowly that they would outlast the galaxy itself. But others were faster burners, supermassive suns that lived and died in a galactic eyeblink. In their death throes they strewed more metals into the vacuum and triggered yet more cycles of stellar birth.

The process continued, until the dawn of life itself. Hot blasts of dying stars peppered the galaxy, and with each blast the raw materials for world-building - and life itself - became more abundant. But the steady enrichment of metals did not happen uniformly across the disc of the galaxy. In the outlying regions of the galaxy, the cycles of stardeath and starbirth happened on a much slower timescale than in the frantic core zones.

So it was that the first stars to host rocky worlds formed closer to the core, where the metals reached the critical level first. It was from the core zones, within a thousand kiloparsecs of the galactic centre itself, that the first starfaring cultures emerged. They looked out into the galactic wilderness, flung envoys across thousands of light-years and imagined themselves alone and unique and somehow privileged. It was a time both of sadness and chilling cosmic potential. They imagined themselves to be lords of creation.

But nothing in the galaxy was that straightforward. Not only were there other cultures emerging at more or less the same galactic epoch, in the same band of habitable stars, but there were also pockets of higher metallicity out in the cold zone: statistical fluctuations which allowed machine-building life to emerge where it ought not to have been possible. There were to be no all-encompassing galactic dominions, for none of these nascent cultures managed to spread across the galaxy before encountering the expansion wave of another rival. It had all happened with blinding speed once the initial conditions were correct.

And yet the initial conditions were themselves changing. The great stellar furnaces had not fallen quiet. Several times a century, heavy stars died as supernovae, outshining all others. Usually they did so behind sooty veils of dust, and their deaths went unrecorded save for a chirp of neutrinos or a seismic tremor of gravitational waves. But the metals that they made still found their way into the interstellar medium. New suns and worlds were still coalescing out of the clouds that had been enriched by each previous stellar cycle. This ceaseless cosmic industry rumbled on, oblivious to the intelligence that it had allowed to flourish.

But near the core the metallicity was becoming higher than optimum. The new worlds that were forming around new suns were very heavy indeed, their cores laden with heavy elements. Their gravitational fields were stronger and their chemistries more volatile than those of existing worlds. Plate tectonics no longer functioned, since their mantles could no longer support the burden of rigid floating crusts. Without tectonics, topography - and hence changes in elevation - became less pronounced. Comets were tugged into collisions with these worlds, drenching them with water. Vast world-engulfing oceans slumbered beneath oppressive skies. Complex life rarely evolved on these worlds, since there were few suitable niches and little climatic variation. And those cultures that had already achieved starflight found these new core worlds lacking in usefulness or variety. When a pocket of the right metallicity threatened to condense down into a solar system with the prospect of being desirable, the elder cultures often squabbled over property rights. The ensuing catfights were the most awesome displays of energy that the galaxy had seen beyond its own blind processes of stellar evolution. But they were nothing compared with what was to come.

So, avoiding conflict where they could, the elder cultures turned outwards. But even then they were thwarted. In half a billion years the zone of optimum habitability had crept a little further from the galactic core. The lifewave was a single ripple, spreading out from the centre to the galaxy’s edge. Sites of stellar formation that had previously been too metal-poor to form viable solar systems were now sufficiently enriched. Again, squabbles broke out. Some of them lasted ten million years, leaving scars on the galaxy that took another fifty million to heal over.

And still these were nothing compared with the coming Dawn War.

For the galaxy, as much as it was a machine for making metals, and thereby complex chemistry, and thereby life, could also be seen as a machine for making wars. There were no stable niches in the galactic disc. On the kind of timescale that mattered to galactic supercultures, the environment was constantly changing. The wheel of galactic history forced them into eternal conflict with other cultures, new and old.

And so the war to end wars had come, the war that ended the first phase of galactic history, and the one that would yet come to be known as the Dawn War, because it had happened so far in the past.

The Inhibitors remembered little of the war itself. Their own history had been chaotic, muddled and almost certainly subject to crude retroactive tampering. They could not be sure what was documented fact and what was a fiction some earlier incarnation of themselves had manufactured for the purposes of cross-species propaganda. It was probable that they had once been organic, spined, warm-blooded land-dwellers with bicameral minds. The faint shadow of that possible past could be discerned in their cybernetic architectures.

For a long time they had clung to the organic. But at some point their machine selves had become dominant, sloughing their old forms. As machine intelligences, they roamed the galaxy. The memory of planetary dwelling became dim, and then was erased entirely, no more relevant than the memory of tree dwelling.

All that mattered was the great work.

In her quarters, after she had made certain that Remontoire and Felka were aware that the mission’s objective had been achieved, Skade had the armour return her head to the pedestal. She found that her thoughts took on a different texture when she was sessile. It was something to do with the slight differences between the blood recirculation systems, the subtle flavouring of neurochemicals. On the pedestal she felt calm and inwardly focused, open to the presence that she always carried with her.

[Skade?] The Night Council’s voice was tiny, almost childlike, but utterly unignorable. She had come to know it well.

Yes.

[You feel that you have been successful, Skade?]

Yes.

[Tell us, Skade.]

Clavain is dead. Our missiles reached him. The kill still has to be confirmed ... but I’m certain of it.

[Did he die well, in the Roman sense?]

He didn’t surrender. He kept running all the while, even though he must have known he’d never get far enough away with his engines damaged.

[We didn’t think he would ever surrender, Skade. Still, it was quick for him. You’ve done well, Skade. We are satisfied. More than satisfied.]

Skade wanted to nod, but the pedestal prevented it. Thank you.

The Night Council allowed her time to gather her thoughts. It was always mindful of her, always patient with her. On more than one occasion the voice had told Skade that it valued her as highly as it valued any of the elite few, perhaps more so. The relationship, in so far as Skade appreciated it, was like that between a teacher and a gifted, keenly inquisitive pupil.

Skade did not often ask herself where the voice came from or what precisely it represented. The Night Council had warned her not to dwell on such matters, for fear that her thoughts might be intercepted by others.

Skade found herself recalling the occasion on which the Night Council had first made itself known to her and revealed something of its nature.

[We are a select core of Conjoiners,] it had told her, [a Closed Council so secret, so hyper-secure, that our existence is not known, or even suspected, by the most senior orthodox Council members. We are deeper than the Inner Sanctum, though the Sanctum is at times our unwitting client, our puppet in wider Conjoiner affairs. But we do not lie within it. Our relationship to these other bodies can only be expressed in the mathematical language of intersecting sets. The details need not concern you, Skade.]

The voice had gone on to tell her that she had been singled out. She had performed excellently in the most dangerous of recent Conjoiner operations, a covert mission deep into Chasm City to recover key elements vital to the inertia-suppression technology programme. No one else had made it out alive except Skade.

[You did well. Our collective eye had been on you for some time, Skade, but that was your chance to shine. It did not escape our attention. That is why we have made ourselves known to you now: because you are the kind of Conjoiner capable of the difficult work that lies ahead. This is not flattery, Skade, but a cold statement of the facts.]

It was true that she had been the only survivor of the Chasm City operation. The precise details of that job had necessarily been scrubbed from her memory, but she knew that it had been an exquisitely dangerous high-risk venture that had not played out according to Closed Council plans.

There was a paradox in Conjoiner operations. Those troops who could be deployed along battle lines, within Contested Volumes, could never be allowed to hold sensitive information in their heads. But deep insertions, covert forays into enemy space, were a different matter. They were highly delicate operations that drew on expert Conjoiners. More than that, they required the use of agents who had been psychologically primed to tolerate isolation from their fellows. Those individuals who could work alone, far behind enemy lines, were rare indeed, and regarded with ambivalence by the others. Clavain was one.

Skade was another.

When she had returned to the Mother Nest, the voice had entered her skull for the first time. It had told her that she must speak of the matter to no one.

[We value our secrecy, Skade. We will protect it at all costs. Serve us, and you will be serving the greater good of the Mother Nest. But betray us, even involuntarily, and we will be forced to silence you. It will not amuse us, but it will be done.]

Am I the first?

[No, Skade. There are others like you. But you will never know who they are. That is our will.]

What do you want of me?

[Nothing, Skade. For now. But you will hear from us when we have need of you.]

And so it had been. Over the months, and then years, that followed she had come to assume that the voice had been illusory, no matter how real it had seemed at the time. But the Night Council had returned, in a quiet moment, and its guidance had begun. The voice did not ask much of her at first: action by omission, mostly. Skade’s promotion into the Closed Council appeared to have been won through her own efforts, not the intervention of the voice. Later, the same could be said of her admission into the Inner Sanctum.

She often wondered who exactly made up the Night Council. Amongst the faces she saw in Closed Council sessions, and in the wider Mother Nest, it was certain that some belonged to the officially nonexistent Council which the voice represented. But there was never a hint, not even a glance that appeared out of place. In the wash of their thoughts there was never a suspicious note; never a sense that the voice was speaking to her through other channels. And she did her best not to think about the voice when she was not in its presence. At other times she merely did its bidding, refusing to examine the source of her compulsion. It felt good to serve something higher than herself.

By turns, Skade’s influence reached further and further. The Exordium programme had already been re-opened by the time Skade became one of the Conjoined, but she was instructed to manoeuvre herself into a position where she could dominate the programme, make maximum use of its discoveries and determine its future direction. As she ascended through layers of secrecy, Skade became aware of just how vital had been the technological items she had harvested from Chasm City. The Inner Sanctum had already made faltering attempts to construct inertia-suppressing machinery, but with the items from Chasm City - and still Skade did not remember exactly what had happened during that mission - the pieces fell into place with beguiling ease. Perhaps it was the case that there were other individuals serving the voice, as the voice itself had suggested, or perhaps it was simply that Skade was herself a skilled and ruthless organiser. The Closed Council was her shadow theatre. Its players moved to her will with contemptible eagerness.

And still the voice had urged her on. It drew her attention to the signal from the Resurgam system, to the diagnostic pulse that indicated that the remaining hell-class weapons had been re-armed.

[The Mother Nest needs those weapons, Skade. You must expedite their recovery.]

Why?

The voice had crafted images in her skull: a swarm of implacable black machines, dark and heavy and busy like a flutter of ravens’ wings. [There are enemies between the stars, Skade, worse than anything we have imagined. They are coming closer. We must protect ourselves.]

How do you know?

[We know, Skade. Trust us.]

She had felt something in that childlike voice that she had not sensed until then. It was pain, or torment, or both.

[Trust us. We know what they can do. We know what it is like to be harried by them.]

And then the voice had fallen silent again, as if it had said too much.

Now the voice pushed a new, nagging thought into her head, pulling her out of her reverie. [When can we be certain that he is dead, Skade?]

Ten, eleven hours. We’ll sweep through the kill zone and sift the interplanetary medium for an enhancement in trace elements, the kind we’d expect to find in this situation. And even if the evidence is not conclusive, we can be confident ...

The response was brusque, petulant. [No, Skade. Clavain cannot be allowed to reach Chasm City.]

I’ve killed him, I swear.

[You are clever, Skade, and determined. But so is Clavain. He tricked you once. He can always trick you again.]

It doesn’t matter.

[No?]

If Clavain reaches Yellowstone, the information he has still won’t be of any ultimate benefit to the enemy or the Convention. They can attempt to recover the hell-class weapons for themselves, if they wish. But we have Exordium and the inertia-suppression machinery. They give us an edge. Clavain, and whatever bunch of allies he manages to surround himself with, won’t succeed.

The voice hovered in her head. For a moment she wondered if it had gone, leaving her alone.

She was wrong.

[So you think he might still be alive?]

She fumbled for an answer. I ...

[He had better not be, Skade. Or we will be bitterly disappointed with you.]

He was cradling an injured cat, its spine severed somewhere near the lower vertebrae so that its rear legs hung limply. He was trying to persuade it to sip water from the plastic teat of his skinsuit rations pack. His own legs were pinned under tonnes of collapsed masonry. The cat was blind, burned, incontinent and in obvious pain. But he would not give it the easy way out.

He mumbled a sentence, more for his own benefit than the cat’s. ‘You are going to live, my friend. Whether you want to or not.’

The words came out sounding like one sheet of sandpaper being scraped against another. He needed water badly. But there was only a tiny amount left in the rations pack, and it was the cat’s turn.

‘Drink, you little fucker. You’ve come this far ...’

‘Let me ... die,’ the cat told him.

‘Sorry, puss. Not the way it’s going to happen.’

He felt a breeze. It was the first time he had felt any stirring at all of the air bubble in which the cat and he lay trapped. From somewhere distant he heard the thunderous rumble of collapsing concrete and metal. He hoped to God that the sudden airflow was only caused by a shifting of the air bubble; that perhaps an obstruction had collapsed, linking one bubble to another. He hoped it was not part of the external wall giving way, or else the cat would shortly get its wish. The air bubble would depressurise and they would be left trying to breathe Martian atmosphere. He had heard that dying that way was not at all pleasant, despite what they tried to make you think in the Coalition’s morale-boosting holo-dramas.

‘Clavain ... save yourself.’

‘Why, puss?’

‘I die anyway.’

The first time the cat had spoken to him he had assumed that he had begun to hallucinate, imagining a loquacious companion where none actually existed. Then, belatedly, he had realised that the cat really was talking, that the animal was a rich tourist’s bioengineered affectation. A civilian dirigible had been parked on the top of the aerial docking tower when the spiders had hit it with their foam-phase artillery shells. The pet must have escaped from the dirigible gondola long before the attack itself, making its way down to the basement levels of the tower. Clavain thought that bioengineered talking animals were an affront against God, and he was reasonably certain that the cat was not a legally recognised sentient entity. The Coalition for Neural Purity would have had fits if it had known he had dared share his water rations with the forbidden creature. It hated genetic augmentation as much as it hated Galiana’s neural tinkering.

Clavain forced the teat into the cat’s mouth. Some reflex made it gulp down the last few drops of water.

‘We all get it one day, puss.’

‘Not so ... soon.’

‘Drink up and stop moaning.’

The cat lapped up the last few drops. ‘Thank ... you.’

That was when he felt the breeze again. It was stronger this time, and with it came a more insistent rumble of shifting masonry. In the dim illumination that was afforded by the biochemical thermal/light-stick he had cracked open an hour earlier, he saw dust and debris scud across the ground. The cat’s golden fur rippled like a field of barley. The injured animal tried to raise its head in the direction of the wind. Clavain touched the animal’s head with his hand, doing his best to comfort it. Its eyes were bloody sockets.

The end was coming. He knew it. This was no relocation of air within the ruin; it was a major collapse on the perimeter of the fallen structure. The cell of air was leaking out into the Martian cold.

When he laughed it was like scraping his own throat with razor wire.

‘Something ... funny?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘No. Not at all.’

Light speared through the darkness. A wave of pure cold air hit his face and rammed into his lungs.

He stroked the cat’s head again. If this was dying, then it was nowhere near as bad as he had feared.

‘Clavain.’

His name was being spoken calmly and insistently.

‘Clavain. Wake up.’

He opened his eyes, an effort that immediately sapped half the strength he felt he had left. He was somewhere so bright that he wanted to squint, resealing the eyelids that had nearly gummed shut. He wanted to retreat back into his own past, no matter how painful and claustrophobic the dream might be.

‘Clavain. I’m warning you ... if you don’t wake up I’m going to ...’

He forced his eyes as wide as he could, realising that just before him was a shape that had yet to shift into focus. It was leaning over him. It was the shape that was talking to him.

‘Fuck ...’ he heard the woman’s voice say. ‘I think he’s lost his mind or something.’

Another voice, sonorous, deferential, but just the tiniest bit patronising, said, ‘Begging your pardon, Little Miss, but it would be unwise to assume anything. Especially if the gentleman in question is a Conjoiner.’

‘Hey, as if I needed reminding.’

‘One merely means to point out that his medical condition may be both complex and deliberate.’

‘Space him now,’ said another male voice.

‘Shut up, Xave.’

Clavain’s vision sharpened. He was bent over double in a small white-walled chamber. There were pumps and gauges set into the walls, along with decals and printed warnings that had been worn nearly away. It was an airlock. He was still wearing his suit, the one he had been wearing, he remembered now, when he had sent the corvette away, and the figure leaning over him was wearing a suit as well. She - for it was the woman - had been the one who had opened his visor and glare shield, allowing light and air to reach him.

He groped in the ruins of his memory for a name. ‘Antoinette?’

‘Got it in one, Clavain.’ She had her visor up as well. All that he could see of her face was a blunt blonde fringe, wide eyes and a freckled nose. She was attached to the wall of the lock by a metal line, and she had one hand on a heavy red lever.

‘You’re younger than I thought,’ he said.

‘Are you all right, Clavain?’

‘I’ve felt better,’ he said. ‘But I’ll be all right in a few moments. I put myself into deep sleep, almost a coma, to conserve my suit’s resources. Just in case you were a little late.’

‘What if I hadn’t arrived at all?’

‘I assumed you would, Antoinette.’

‘You were wrong. I very nearly didn’t come. Isn’t that right, Xave?’

One of the other voices - the third - he had heard earlier answered, ‘You don’t realise how lucky you are, man.’

‘No,’ Clavain said. ‘I probably don’t.’

‘I still say we should space him,’ the third voice repeated.

Antoinette looked over her shoulder, through the window of the inner airlock door. ‘After we came all this way?’

‘It’s not too late. Teach him a lesson about taking things for granted.’

Clavain made to move. ‘I didn’t ...’

‘Whoah!’ Antoinette had extended a hand, clearly indicating that it would be very unwise of him to move another muscle. She nodded towards the lever she held in her other hand. ‘Check this out, Clavain. You do one thing that I don’t like - like so much as bat an eyelid - and I pull this lever. Then it’s back into space again, just like Xave said.’

He mulled over his predicament for several seconds. ‘If you weren’t prepared to trust me, at least slightly, you wouldn’t have come out to rescue me.’

‘Maybe I was curious.’

‘Maybe you were. But maybe you also felt I might have been sincere. I saved your life, didn’t I?’

With her free hand she worked the other airlock controls. The inner door slid aside, offering Clavain a brief glimpse into the rest of her ship. He saw another spacesuited figure waiting on the far side, but no sign of anyone else.

‘I’m going now,’ Antoinette said.

In one deft movement she unclipped her restraint line, slipped through the open doorway and then made the inner airlock door close again. Clavain stayed still, waiting until her face appeared in the window. She had removed her helmet and was running her fingers through the unruly mop of her hair.

‘Are you going to leave me here?’ he asked.

‘Yes. For now. It makes sense, doesn’t it? I can still space you if you do anything I don’t like.’

Clavain reached up and removed his own helmet, twisting it free. He let it drift away, tumbling across the lock like a small metal moon. ‘I’m not planning on doing anything that might annoy any of you.’

‘That’s good.’

‘But listen to me carefully. You’re in danger just being out here. We need to get out of the war zone as quickly as possible.’

‘Relax, guy,’ the man said. ‘We’ve got time to service some systems. There aren’t any zombies for light-minutes in any direction.’

‘It’s not the Demarchists you need to worry about. I was running from my own people, from the Conjoiners. They have a stealthed ship out here. Not nearby, I grant you, but it can move quickly, it has long-range missiles and I guarantee that it is looking for me.’

Antoinette said, ‘I thought you said you’d faked your death.’

He nodded. ‘I’m assuming Skade will have taken out my corvette with those same long-range missiles. She’ll have assumed I’m aboard it. But she won’t stop there. If she’s as thorough as I think she is, she’ll sweep the area with Nightshade just to make sure, searching for trace atoms.’

‘Trace atoms? You’re joking. By the time they get to where the blast happened ...’ Antoinette shook her head.

Clavain shook his in return. ‘There’ll still be a slightly enhanced density - one or two atoms per cubic metre - of the kind of elements you don’t normally find in interplanetary space. Hull isotopes, that kind of thing. Nightshade’s hull will sample and analyse the medium. The hull is covered with epoxy-coated patches that will snare anything larger than a molecule, and then there are mass spectrometers that will sniff the atomic constituency of the vacuum itself. Algorithms will process the forensic data, comparing the curves and histograms of abundance and isotope ratios against plausible scenarios for the destruction of a vessel of the corvette’s composition. The results won’t be unambiguous, for the statistical errors will be almost as large as the effects Skade’s attempting to measure. But I’ve seen it done before. The pull of the data will be in favour of there having been very little organic matter aboard the corvette.’ Clavain reached up and touched the side of his head, slowly enough that it could not be seen as threatening. ‘And then there are the isotopes in my implants. They’ll be harder to detect, a lot harder, but Skade will expect to find them if she looks hard enough. And when she doesn’t ...’

‘She’ll figure out what you did,’ Antoinette said.

Again Clavain nodded. ‘But I took all that into consideration. It will take time for Skade to make a thorough search. You can still make it back into neutral territory, but only if you start home immediately.’

‘You’re really that keen to get to the Rust Belt, Clavain?’ asked Antoinette. ‘They’ll eat you alive, whether it’s the Convention or the zombies.’

‘No one said defecting was a risk-free activity.’

‘You defected once already, right?’ Antoinette asked.

Clavain caught his drifting helmet and secured it to his belt by the helmet’s chin loop. ‘Once. It was a long time ago. Probably a bit before your time.’

‘Like four hundred years before my time?’

He scratched his beard. ‘Warm.’

‘Then it is you. You are him.’

‘Him?’

‘That Clavain. The historical one. The one everyone says has to be dead by now. The Butcher of Tharsis.’

Clavain smiled. ‘For my sins.’

EIGHTEEN

Thorn hovered above a world that was being prepared for death. They had made the trip from Nostalgia for Infinity in one of the smaller, nimbler ships that the two women had shown him in the hangar bay. The craft was a two-seat surface-to-orbit shuttle with the shape of a cobra’s head: a hoodlike wing curving smoothly into fuselage, with the cabin viewing windows positioned either side of the hull like snake eyes. The undercurve was scabbed and warted by sensors, latching pods and what he took to be various sorts of weapon. Two particle-beam muzzles jutted from the front like hinged venom fangs, and the ship’s entire skin was mosaiced with irregular scales of ceramic armour, shimmering green and black.

‘This will get us there and back?’ Thorn had asked.

‘It will,’ Vuilleumier had assured him. ‘It’s the fastest ship here, and probably the one with the smallest sensor footprint. Light armour, though, and the weapons are more for show than anything else. You want something better armoured, we’ll take it - just don’t complain if it’s slow and easily tracked.’

‘I’ll let you be the judge.’

‘This is very foolish, Thorn. There’s still time to chicken out.’

‘It isn’t a question of foolishness or otherwise, Inquisitor.’ He could not snap out of the habit of calling her that. ‘I simply won’t co-operate until I know that this threat is real. Until I can verify that for myself - with my own eyes, and not through a screen - I won’t be able to trust you.’

‘Why would we lie to you?’

‘I don’t know, but you are, I think.’ He had studied her carefully, their eyes meeting, he holding her gaze for a moment longer than was comfortable. ‘About something. I’m not sure what, but neither of you are being totally honest with me. Yet some of the time you are, and that’s the part I don’t fully understand.’

‘All we want to do is save the people of Resurgam.’

‘I know. I believe that part, I really do.’

They had taken the snake-headed ship, leaving Irina back aboard the larger vessel. The departure had been rapid, and though he had done his best, Thorn had not been able to sneak a look backwards. He had still not seen Nostalgia for Infinity from the outside, not even on the approach from Resurgam. Why, he wondered, would the two of them go to such lengths to hide the outside of their ship? Perhaps he was just imagining it, and he would get that view on the way back.

‘You can take the ship yourself,’ Irina had told him. ‘It doesn’t need flying. We can program a trajectory into it and let the autonomics handle any contingency. Just tell us how close you want to get to the Inhibitors.’

‘It doesn’t have to be close. A few tens of thousands of kilometres should be good enough. I’ll be able to see that arc, if it’s bright enough, and probably the tubes that are being dropped into the atmosphere. But I’m not going out there on my own. If you want me badly enough, one of you can come with me. That way I’ll know it really isn’t a trap, won’t I?’

‘I’ll go with him,’ Vuilleumier had offered.

Irina had shrugged. ‘It’s been nice knowing you.’

The trip out had been uneventful. As on the journey from Resurgam, they had spent the boring part of it asleep - not in reefersleep, but in a dreamless drug-induced coma.

Vuilleumier did not wake them until they were within half a light-second of the giant. Thorn awoke with a vague sense of irritation, a bad taste in his mouth and various aches and pains where there had been none before.

‘Well, the good news is that we’re still alive, Thorn. The Inhibitors either don’t know we’re here, or they just don’t care.’

‘Why wouldn’t they care?’

‘They must know from experience that we can’t offer them any real trouble. In a little while we’ll all be dead, so why worry about one or two of us now?’

He frowned. ‘Experience?’

‘It’s in their collective memory, Thorn. We’re not the first species they’ve done this to. The success rate must be pretty high, or else they’d revise the strategy.’

They were in free-fall. Thorn unhitched from his seat, tugging aside the acceleration webbing, and kicked over to one of the slitlike windows. He felt a little better now. He could see the gas giant very clearly, and it did not look like a well planet.

The first things that he noticed were the three great matter streams curving in from elsewhere in the system. They twinkled palely in the light from Delta Pavonis, thin ribbons of translucent grey like great ghostly brushstrokes daubed across the sky, flat to the ecliptic and sweeping away to infinity. The flow of matter along the streams was just tangible, as one boulder or another caught the sun for an instant; it was a fine-grained creep that reminded Thorn of the sluggish currents in a river on the point of freezing. The matter was travelling at hundreds of kilometres per second, but the sheer immensity of the scene rendered even that speed glacial. The streams themselves were many, many kilometres wide. They were, he supposed, like planetary rings that had been unwound.

His gaze followed the streams to their conclusions. Near the gas giant, the smooth mathematical curves - arcs describing orbital trajectories - were curtailed by abrupt hairpins or doglegs as the streams were routed to particular moons. It was as if the artist painting the elegant swathes had been jolted at the last instant. The orientation of the moons with respect to the arriving streams was changing by the hour, of course, so the stream geometries were themselves subject to constant revision. Now and then a stream would have to be dammed back, the flow stopped while another intersected it. Or perhaps it was done with astonishingly tight timing, so that the streams passed through each other without any of the constituent masses actually colliding.

‘We don’t know how they steer them like that,’ Vuilleumier told him, her voice low and confidential. ‘There’s a lot of momentum in those streams, mass fluxes of billions of tonnes a second. Yet they change direction easily. Maybe they’ve got tiny little black holes positioned up there, so they can slingshot the streams around them. That’s what Irina thinks, anyway. Scares the hell out of me, I can tell you. Although she thinks they might also be able to turn off inertia when they need to, so they can make the streams swerve like that.’

‘That doesn’t sound much more encouraging.’

‘No, it doesn’t. But even if they can do that to inertia, or make black holes to order, they obviously can’t do it on a huge scale or we’d be dead already. They have their limitations. We have to believe that.’

The moons, a few dozen kilometres wide, were visible as tight knots of light, barbs on the ends of the infalling streams. The matter plunged into each moon through a mouthlike aperture, perpendicular to the plane of orbital motion. By rights, the unbalanced mass flux should have been forcing each moon into a new orbit. Nothing like that was happening, which suggested that, again, the normal laws of momentum conservation were being suppressed, or ignored, or put on hold until some later reckoning.

The outermost moon was laying the arc that would eventually enclose the gas giant. When Thorn had seen it from Nostalgia for Infinity it had been possible to believe that it was never destined for closure. No such assurance was possible now. The ends had continued moving outwards from the moon, the tube being extruded at a rate of a thousand kilometres every four hours. It was emerging as quickly as an express train, an avalanche of super-organised matter.

It was not magic, just industry. Thorn reminded himself of that, difficult as it was to believe it. Within the moon, mechanisms hidden beneath its icy crust were processing the incoming matter stream at demonic speed, forging the unguessable components that formed the thirteen-kilometre-wide tube. The two women had not speculated in his presence about whether the tube was solid or hollow or crammed with twinkling alien clockwork.

But it was not magic. Physical laws as Thorn understood them might be melting like toffee in the vicinity of the Inhibitor engines, but that was only because they were not the ultimate laws they appeared to be, rather mere statutes or regulations to be adhered to most of the time but broken under duress. Yet even the Inhibitors were constrained to some degree. They could work wonders, but not the impossible. They needed matter, for instance. They could work it with astonishing speed, but they could not, on the evidence gleaned so far, conjure it from nothing. It had been necessary to shatter three worlds to fuel this inferno of creativity.

And whatever they were doing, vast though it was, was necessarily slow. The arc had to be grown around the planet at a mere two hundred and eighty metres a second; it could not be created instantly. The machines were mighty, but not Godlike.

That was, Thorn decided, about all the consolation they were going to get.

He turned his attention to the two lower moons. The Inhibitors had moved them into perfectly circular orbits just above the cloud layer. Their orbits intersected periodically, but the slow, diligent cable-laying continued unabated.

This part of the process was much clearer now. Thorn could see the elegant curves of the extruded tubes emerging whip-straight from the trailing face of each moon, before flexing down towards the cloud deck. Several thousand kilometres aft of each moon, the tubes plunged into the atmosphere like syringes. The tubes were moving with orbital speed when they touched air - many kilometres per second - and they gouged livid claw marks into the atmosphere. There was a thin band of agitated rust-red immediately beneath the track of each moon which reached two or three times around the planet, each pass offset from the previous one because of the gas giant’s rotation. The two moons were etching a complex geometric pattern into the shifting clouds, a pattern that resembled an extravagant calligraphic flourish. On some level Thorn appreciated that it was beautiful, but it was also quietly sickening. Something atrocious and final was surely going to happen to the planet. The calligraphic marks were elaborate funerary rites for a dying world.

‘I take it you believe us now,’ Vuilleumier said.

‘I’m inclined to,’ Thorn said. He rapped the window. ‘I suppose this might not be glass, as it appears, but some three-dimensional screen ... but I don’t think I’ll presume that much ingenuity on your behalf. Even if I went outside in a suit, to look at it for myself, I wouldn’t be certain that the faceplate was glass either.’

‘You’re a suspicious man.’

‘I’ve learned that it helps one get by.’ Thorn returned to his seat, having seen enough for the moment. ‘All right. Next question. What’s going on down there? What are they up to?’

‘It’s not necessary to know, Thorn. The fact that something bad is going to happen is information enough.’

‘Not for me.’

‘Those machines ...’ Vuilleumier gestured at the window. ‘We know what they do, but not how they do it. They wipe out cultures, slowly and painstakingly. Sylveste brought them here - unwittingly, perhaps, although I wouldn’t take anything as read where that bastard’s concerned - and now they’ve come to do the job. That’s all you or any of us need to know. We just have to get everyone away from here as quickly as possible.’

‘If these machines are as efficient as you say, that won’t do us a great deal of good, will it?’

‘It’ll buy us time,’ she said. ‘And there’s something else. The machines are efficient, but they’re not quite as efficient as they used to be.’

‘You told me they were self-replicating machines. Why would they become less efficient? If anything they should keep getting cleverer and faster as they learn more and more.’

‘Whoever made them didn’t want them to get too clever. The Inhibitors created the machines to wipe out emergent intelligence. It wouldn’t have made much sense if the machines filled the niche they were supposed to be keeping empty.’

‘I suppose not ...’ Thorn was not going to let it lie that easily. ‘There’s more you have to tell me, I think. But in the meantime I want to get closer.’

‘How much closer?’ she asked guardedly.

‘This ship’s streamlined. It can take atmosphere, I think.’

‘That wasn’t in the agreement.’

‘So sue me.’ He grinned. ‘I’m naturally inquisitive, just like you.’

Scorpio came to cold, clammy consciousness, shivering uncontrollably. He pawed at himself, peeling a glistening layer of fatty gel from his naked skin. It came away in revolting semitranslucent scabs, slurping as it detached from the underlying flesh. He was careful with the area around the burn scar on his right shoulder, fingering its perimeter with tentative fascination. There was no inch of the burn that he did not know intimately, but in touching it, tracing the wrinkled topology of its shoreline where smooth pig flesh changed to something with the leathery texture of cured meat, he was reminded of the duty that was his and his alone, the duty that he had set himself since escaping from Quail. He must never forget Quail, and nor must he forget that - as altered as the man had been - Quail was fully human in the genetic sense, and that it was humans who had to bear the brunt of Scorpio’s retribution.

There was no pain now, not even from the burn, but there was discomfort and disorientation. His ears roared continually, as if he had his head shoved up a ventilation duct. His vision was blurred, revealing little more than vague amorphic shapes. Scorpio reached up and peeled more of the transparent gel from his face. He blinked. Things were clearer now, but the roaring remained. He looked around, still shivering and cold, but alert enough to take note of where he was and what was happening to him.

He had awakened inside one half of what appeared to be a cracked metal egg, curled in an unnatural foetal position with his lower half still immersed in the revolting mucous gel. Plastic pipes and connectors lay around him. His throat and nasal passages were sore, as if the pipes had recently been shoved into him. They did not appear to have been removed with the utmost care. The other half of the metal egg lay just to one side, as if the two halves had only recently been disunited. Beyond it, and all around, was the instantly identifiable interior of a spacecraft: all polished blue metal and curved, perforated struts that reminded him of ribs. The roar in his ears was the sound of thrust. The ship was travelling somewhere, and the fact that he could hear the motors told him that the ship was probably a small one, not large enough for force-cradled engines. A shuttle, then, or something similar. Definitely in-system.

Scorpio flinched. A door had opened in the far end of the ribbed cabin revealing a little chamber with a ladder in it that led upwards. A man was just stepping off the last rung. He stooped through the opening and walked calmly towards Scorpio, evidently unsurprised to see Scorpio awake.

‘How do you feel?’ the man asked.

Scorpio forced his unwilling eyes to snap into focus. The man was known to him, though he had changed since their last meeting. His clothes were as neutral and dark as before, but now they were not of recognisably Conjoiner origin. His skull was covered with a very fine layer of black hair, where it had been shaven before. He looked a degree less cadaverous.

‘Remontoire,’ Scorpio said, spitting vile gobbets of gel from his mouth.

‘Yes, that’s me. Are you all right? The monitor told me you hadn’t suffered any ill effects.’

‘Where are we?’

‘In a ship, near the Rust Belt.’

‘Come to torture me again, have you?’

Remontoire did not look him quite in the eye. ‘It wasn’t torture, Scorpio ... just re-education.’

‘When do you hand me over to the Convention?’

‘That’s no longer on the agenda. At least, it doesn’t have to be.’

Scorpio judged that the ship was small, probably a shuttle. It was entirely possible that he and Remontoire were the only two occupants. Likely, even. He wondered how he would fare trying to fly a Conjoiner-designed ship. Not well, perhaps, but he was willing to give it a try. Even if he crashed and burned, it had to be a lot better than a death sentence.

He lunged for Remontoire, springing out of the bowl in an explosion of gel. Pipes and tubing went flying. In an instant his ill-made hands were seeking the pressure points that would drop anyone, even a Conjoiner, into unconsciousness and then death.

Scorpio came around. He was in another part of the ship, strapped into a seat. Remontoire was sitting opposite him, hands folded neatly in his lap. Behind him was the impressive curve of a control panel, its surface covered with numerous read-outs, command systems and hemispherical navigation displays. It was lit up like a casino. Scorpio knew a thing or two about ship design. A Conjoiner control interface would have been minimalist to the point of invisibility, like something designed by New Quakers.

‘I wouldn’t try that again,’ Remontoire said.

Scorpio glared at him. ‘Try what?’

‘You had a go at strangling me. It didn’t work, and I’m afraid it never will. We put an implant in your skull, Scorpio - a very small one, around your carotid artery. Its only function is to constrict the artery in response to a signal from another implant in my head. I can send that signal voluntarily if you threaten me, but I don’t have to. The implant will emit a distress code if I suffer sudden unconsciousness or death. You will die shortly afterwards.’

‘I’m not dead now.’

‘That’s because I was nice enough to let you off with a warning.’ Scorpio was clothed and dry. He felt better than when he had come around in the egg. ‘Why should I care, Remontoire? Haven’t you just given me the perfect means to kill myself, instead of letting the Convention do it for me?’

‘I’m not taking you to the Convention.’

‘A little private justice, is that it?’

‘Not that either.’ Remontoire swung his seat around so that he faced the lavish control panel. He played it like a pianist, hands outstretched, not needing to watch where his fingers were going. Above the panel and on either side of the cabin, windows puckered into what had been blue steel. The cabin illumination dropped softly. Scorpio heard the roar of the thrust change pitch and felt his stomach register a change in the axis of gravity. A vast ochre crescent hoved into view beyond. It was Yellowstone: most of the planet was in night. Remontoire’s ship was nearly in the same plane as the Rust Belt. The string of habitats was hardly visible against dayside - just a dark sprinkling, like a fine line of cinnamon - but beyond the terminator they formed a jewelled thread, spangling and twinkling as habitats precessed or trimmed their immense mirrors and floodlights. It was impressive, but Scorpio knew that it was only a shadow of what it had been. There had been ten thousand habitats before the plague; now only a few hundred were fully utilised. But against night the derelicts vanished, leaving only the fairy-dust trail of illuminated cities, and it was almost as if the wheel of history had never turned.

Beyond the Belt, Yellowstone looked hurtingly close. He could almost hear the urban hum of Chasm City droning up through the clouds like a seductive siren song. He thought of the warrens and strongholds that the pigs and their allies maintained in the deepest parts of the city’s Mulch, a festering outlaw empire composed of many interlocked criminal fiefdoms. After his escape from Quail, Scorpio had entered that empire at the very lowest level, a scarred immigrant with barely a single intact memory in his head, other than how to stay alive from hour to hour in a dangerous foreign environment, and - equally importantly - how to turn the apparatus of that environment to his advantage. That at least was something he owed Quail, if nothing else. But it did not mean that he was grateful.

Scorpio remembered very little of his life before meeting Quail. He was aware that much of what he did recall was second-hand memory, for although he had pieced together only the major details of his former existence - his life aboard the yacht - his subconscious had wasted no time in filling in the aching gaps that remained with all the enthusiasm of gas rushing into a vacuum. And as he remembered those memories, not quite real in themselves, he could not help but impress even more sensory details upon them. The memories might accord precisely with what had really happened, but Scorpio had no way of knowing for sure. And yet it made no difference as far as he was concerned. No one else was going to contradict him now. Those who might have been able to do so were dead, butchered at the hands of Quail and his friends.

Scorpio’s first clear memory of Quail was amongst the most frightening. He had come to consciousness after a long period of sleep, or something deeper than sleep, standing in a cold armoured room with eleven other pigs, disorientated and shivering, much as he had been upon waking aboard Remontoire’s ship. They wore crudely fashioned clothes, sewn together from stiff squares of dark, stained fabric. Quail had been there with them: a tall asymmetrically augmented human whom Scorpio identified as being either an Ultra or from one of the other occasionally chimeric factions, such as the Skyjacks or the Atmosphere Dredgers. There were other augmented humans, too, half a dozen of them crowding behind Quail. They all carried weapons, ranging from knives to wide-muzzled low-velocity slug-guns, and they all viewed the assembled pigs with undisguised anticipation. Quail, whose language Scorpio understood without effort, explained that the twelve pigs had been brought aboard his ship - for the room was inside a much larger vessel - to provide amusement for his crew after a run of unprofitable deals.

And in a sense, though perhaps not in quite the sense that Quail had intended, that was precisely what they had done. The crew had anticipated a hunt, and for a little while that was what they got. The rules were simple enough: the pigs were allowed free run of Quail’s ship, to hide anywhere they desired and to improvise tools and weapons from whatever was at hand. After five days an amnesty would be declared on any surviving pigs, or at least that was what Quail promised. It was up to the pigs to choose whether they hid en masse or split into smaller teams. They had six hours’ lead on the humans.

That turned out to make precious little difference. Half the pigs were dead by the end of the first day’s hunt. They had accepted the terms unquestioningly; even Scorpio had felt a strangely eager obligation to do whatever was asked of him, a sense that it was his duty to do whatever Quail - or any other human - required. Though he was afraid, and had an immediate desire to safeguard his own survival, it was to be nearly three days before he would think about striking back, and even then the thought only pushed its way into his head against great resistance, as if violating some sacrosanct personal paradigm.

At first Scorpio had sought shelter with two other pigs, one of them mute, the other only able to form broken sentences, but they had functioned well enough as a team, anticipating each other’s actions with uncanny ease. Scorpio knew, even then, that the twelve pigs had worked together before, though he could not yet assemble a single clear memory of his life before waking in Quail’s chamber. But even though the team had functioned well, Scorpio had chosen to go off on his own after the first eighteen hours. The other two wanted to remain hiding in the cubbyhole they had found, but Scorpio was sure that the only hope of survival lay in continuous ascent, moving ever upwards along the ship’s axis of thrust.

It was then that he had made the first of three discoveries. Crawling through a duct, he had ripped away part of his clothing, revealing the edge of a shining green shape that covered much of his right shoulder. He ripped away more of the clothing, but it was only when he found a reflective panel that he was able to examine the entire shape properly and see that it was a highly stylised green scorpion. As he touched the emerald tattoo, tracing the curved line of its tail, almost feeling the sting of its barb, he felt as if it was imbued with power, a personal force that he alone was able to channel and direct. He sensed that his identity was bound up with the scorpion; that everything that mattered about him was locked within the tattoo. The moment was a startling instant of self-revelation, for at last he realised that he had a name, or could at least give himself a name that had some significant connection with his past.

Perhaps half a day later he made the second discovery: glimpsed through a window was another ship, much smaller. On closer inspection, Scorpio recognised the lean, efficient lines of an in-system yacht. The hull gleamed with pale green alloy, a lusciously streamlined manta shape with cowled air-intakes like the mouths of basking sharks. As he looked at the yacht, Scorpio could almost see its blueprint glowing beneath the skin. He knew that he could crawl aboard that yacht and make it fly almost without thinking, and that he could repair or remedy any technical fault or imperfection; he felt an almost overwhelming urge to do just that, sensing perhaps that only in the belly of the yacht, surrounded by machines and tools, would he be truly happy.

Tentatively, he formed his hypothesis: the twelve pigs must have been the crew of that yacht when Quail had captured their ship. The yacht had been taken as bounty, the crew put into deep freeze until they were required to spice up the humdrum existence on board Quail’s ship. That accounted for the amnesia, at least. He felt delight in discovering a link with his own past. It was still with him when he made the third discovery.

He had found the two pigs he had left behind in the cubbyhole. They had been caught and killed, just as he had feared. Quail’s hunters had suspended them by chains from the perforated spars bridging a corridor. They had been eviscerated and skinned, and at some point in the process Scorpio was certain that they had still been alive. He was also certain that the clothes they had been wearing - the clothes he continued to wear - were themselves made from the skins of other pigs. The twelve were not the first victims, but merely the latest in a game that had been playing for much longer than he had at first suspected; he began to feel a fury beyond anything he had known before. Something snapped; suddenly he was able to consider, at least as a theoretical possibility, what had previously been the unthinkable: he could imagine how it would feel to hurt a human, and to hurt a human very badly indeed. And he could even think of ways that he might go about it.

Scorpio, who turned out to be both resourceful and technically minded, began to infiltrate the machinery of Quail’s ship. He turned bulkhead doors into vicious scissoring traps. He turned elevators and transit pods into deadfalls or crushing pistons. He sucked air from certain parts of the ship and replaced it with poisonous gases or vacuum, and then fooled the sensors that would have alerted Quail and his company to the ruse. One by one he executed the pigs’ hunters, often with considerable artistry, until only Quail remained alive, alone and fearful, finally grasping the terrible error of judgement he had made. But by then the other eleven pigs were also dead, so Scorpio’s victory was mingled with a sour sense of abject personal failure. He had felt an obligation to protect the other pigs, most of who had lacked the language skills he took for granted. It was not simply that some of them were unable to talk, lacking the vocal mechanisms necessary for producing speech sounds, but they did not even comprehend spoken language with the same fluency that he did. A few words and phrases, perhaps, but nothing more than that. Their minds were wired differently from his, lacking the brain functions that coded and decoded language. For him it was second nature. There was no escaping it, but he was a lot closer to human than they were. And he had let them down, even though none of them had elected him as their protector.

Scorpio kept Quail alive until they were near circum-Yellowstone space, at which point he arranged for his own passage into Chasm City. He had taken the yacht. By the time he reached the Mulch Quail was dead, or was at least experiencing the final death agonies of the execution device Scorpio had made for him, crafted with loving care from the robotic surgery systems he had removed from the yacht’s medical bay.

He was almost home and dry, but there was one final discovery that had to be made: the yacht had never belonged to himself, or to any of the other pigs. The craft - Zodiacal Light - had been run by humans, with the twelve pigs serving as indentured slaves, crammed belowdecks, each with their own area of specialisation. Replaying the yacht’s video log, Scorpio saw the human crew being murdered by Quail’s boarders. It was a quick, clean series of murders, almost humane compared with the slow hunting of the pigs. And, via the same logs, Scorpio saw that the twelve pigs had all been tattooed with a different zodiacal sign. The symbol on his shoulder was a mark of identity, just as he had suspected, but it was also a mark of ownership and obedience.

Scorpio found a welding laser, adjusted the yield to its minimum setting and scorched it deep into tissue, watching with horrified fascination as it burned away the flesh, effacing the green scorpion in crackling stutters of pulsed light. The pain was indescribable, yet he chose not to smother it with anaesthetic from the medical kit. Nor did he do anything to assist the healing of the damaged skin. As much as he needed the pain as a symbolic bridge to be crossed, he needed that mark to show what he had done. Through the pain he reclaimed himself, snatched back his own identity. Perhaps he had never truly had one before, but in the agony he forged one for himself. The scarring would serve to remind him of what he had done, and if ever his hatred of humans began to lapse - if ever he was tempted to forgive - it would be there to guide him. Yet, and this was the thing he could never quite understand, he elected to keep the name. In calling himself Scorpio he would become an engine of hate directed at humanity. The name would become a synonym for fear, something that human parents would tell their children about at night to keep them from misbehaving.

In Chasm City his work had begun, and it was in Chasm City that it would continue, if he could escape from Remontoire. Even then he knew that it would be difficult to move freely, but once he made contact with Lasher his difficulties would be greatly diminished. Lasher had been one of his first real allies: a moderately well-connected pig with influence reaching to Loreanville and the Rust Belt. He had remained loyal to Scorpio. And even if he did end up being held prisoner by someone, which seemed at least likely given the circumstances, his captors would have to keep a very close watch on him indeed. The army of pigs, the loose alliance of gangs and factions which Scorpio and Lasher had webbed into something resembling a cohesive force, had struck against the authorities several times before, and while they had suffered dreadful losses, they had never been fully defeated. True, the conflicts had not cost the powers greatly - mostly it had been a matter of retaining pig-held manors of the Mulch - but Lasher and his associates were not afraid of widening the terms of reference. The pigs had allies in the banshees, which meant they had the means to expand their criminal activities far beyond the Mulch. Having been out of circulation for so long, Scorpio was curious to learn how that alliance now fared.

He nodded towards the line of habitats. ‘It still looks as if we’re headed for the Belt.’

‘We are,’ Remontoire told him. ‘But we’re not headed towards the Convention. There’s been a slight change of plan, which is why we put that nasty little implant into your head.’

‘You were right to.’

‘Because you’d have killed me otherwise? Perhaps. But you wouldn’t have got very far.’ Remontoire caressed the control panel and smiled apologetically. ‘You can’t operate this ship, I’m afraid. Beneath the surface the systems are entirely Conjoiner. But we have to pass muster as a civilian vessel.’

‘Tell me what’s going on.’

Remontoire swung the seat around again. He parked his hands in his lap and leaned towards Scorpio; dangerously close, were it not for the implant. Scorpio was prepared to believe he would die if he tried anything again, so he let Remontoire speak, while imagining how good it would feel to murder him.

‘You met Clavain, I believe.’

Scorpio sniffed hard.

Remontoire continued, ‘He was one of us. A good friend of mine, in fact. Better than that: he was a good Conjoiner. He’d been one of us for four hundred years, and we wouldn’t be here now if it wasn’t for his deeds. He was the Butcher of Tharsis once, you know. But that’s ancient history now; I don’t imagine you’ve even heard of Tharsis. All that matters is that Clavain defected, or is in the process of defecting, and he must be stopped. Because he was - is - a friend, I would sooner that we stopped him alive rather than dead, but I accept that it might not be possible. We tried killing him once, when it was the only option we had. I’m almost glad that we failed. Clavain tricked us; he used his corvette to drop himself off in empty space. When we destroyed the corvette, he wasn’t aboard it.’

‘Clever guy. I like him better already.’

‘Good. I’m glad to hear it. Because you’re going to help me find him.’

He was good, Scorpio thought. The way Remontoire said it, it was almost as if he believed it might happen. ‘Help you?’

‘We think he was rescued by a freighter. We can’t be certain, but it looks as if it was the same one we encountered earlier, around the Contested Volume - just before we captured you, as a matter of fact. Clavain helped the pilot of the freighter then, and he must have hoped she’d pay back the favour. That ship just made an unscheduled, illegal detour into the war zone. It’s just possible that it rendezvoused with Clavain, picked him up from empty space.’

‘Then shoot the fucking thing down. I don’t see what your problem is.’

‘Too late, I’m afraid. By the time we pieced this together, the freighter had already returned to Ferrisville Convention airspace.’ Remontoire gestured over his shoulder to the line of habitats slashed across the darkening face of Yellowstone. ‘By now, Clavain will have gone to ground in the Rust Belt, which happens to be more your territory than mine. Judging by your record, you know it almost as intimately as you know Chasm City. And I’m sure you’ll be very eager to be my guide.’ Remontoire smiled and tapped a finger gently against his own temple. ‘Won’t you?’

‘I could still kill you. There are always ways.’

‘You’d die, though, and what good would that do? We have a bargaining position, you see. Assist us - assist the Conjoined - and we will ensure that you never reach Convention custody. We’ll supply the Convention with a body, an identical replica cloned from your own. We’ll tell them that you died in our care. That way you not only get your freedom, but you’ll also no longer have an army of Convention investigators after you. We can supply you with finances and credible false documentation. Scorpio will be dead, but there’s no reason why you can’t continue.’

‘Why haven’t you done that already? If you can fake my body, you could have given them a corpse by now.’

‘There’ll be repercussions, Scorpio, severe ones. It is not a path we would ordinarily choose. But at this point we need Clavain back rather more than we need the Convention’s good will.’

‘Clavain must mean a lot to you.’

Remontoire turned back to the control panel and played it again, his fingers arpeggiating like a maestro. ‘He does mean a lot to us, yes. But what he carries in his head means even more.’

Scorpio considered his position, his survival instincts clicking in with their usual ruthless efficiency, just as they always did in times of personal crisis. Once it was Quail, now it was a frail-looking Conjoiner with the power to kill him by thought alone. He had every reason to believe that Remontoire was sincere in his threat, and that he would be handed over to the Convention if he did not co-operate. With no opportunity to alert Lasher to his return, he was as good as dead if that happened. But if he assisted Remontoire he would at least be prolonging his arrest. Perhaps Remontoire was telling the truth when he said that he would be allowed to go free. But even if the Conjoiner was lying about that - and he did not think that he was - then there would be still more opportunities to contact Lasher and make his ultimate escape. It sounded like the sort of offer one would be very foolish to refuse. Even if it meant, for the time being at least, working with someone he still considered human. ‘You must be desperate,’ he said.

‘Perhaps I am,’ said Remontoire. ‘At the same time, I really don’t think it’s much of your business. So, are you going to do what I asked?’

‘If I say no ...’

Remontoire smiled. ‘Then there won’t be any need for that cloned corpse.’

About once every eight hours Antoinette opened the airlock door long enough to pass him food and water. Clavain took what she had to offer gratefully, remembering to thank her and to show not the least sign of resentment that he was still a prisoner. It was enough that she had rescued him and that she was taking him back to the authorities. He imagined that in her shoes he would have been even less trusting, especially since he knew what a Conjoiner was capable of doing. He was much less her prisoner than she believed.

His confinement continued for a day. He felt the floor pitch and shift under him as the ship changed its thrust pattern, and when Antoinette appeared at the door she confirmed, before passing another bulb of water and a nutrition bar through to him, that they were en route back to the Rust Belt.

‘Those thrust changes,’ he said, peeling back the foil covering the bar. ‘What were they for? Were we in danger of running into military activity?’

‘Not exactly, no.’

‘What, then?’

‘Banshees, Clavain.’ She must have seen his look of incomprehension. ‘They’re pirates, bandits, brigands, rogues, whatever you want to call them. Real badass sons of bitches.’

‘I haven’t heard of them.’

‘You wouldn’t have unless you were a trader trying to make an honest living.’

He chewed on the bar. ‘You almost said that with a straight face.’ ‘Hey, listen. I bend the rules now and then, that’s all. But what these fuckers do - it makes the most illegal thing I’ve ever done look like, I don’t know, a minor docking violation.’

‘And these banshees ... they used to be traders too, I take it?’

She nodded. ‘Until they figured out it was easier to steal cargo from the likes of me rather than haul it themselves.’

‘But you’ve never been directly involved with them before?’

‘A few run-ins. Everyone who hauls anything in or near the Rust Belt has been shadowed by banshees at least once. Normally they leave us alone. Storm Bird’s pretty fast, so it doesn’t make an easy target for a forced docking. And, well, we have a few other deterrents.’

Clavain nodded wisely, thinking that he knew exactly what she meant. ‘And now?’

‘We’ve been shadowed. A couple of banshees latched on to us for an hour, holding off at one-tenth of a light-second. Thirty-thou klicks. That’s pissing-distance out here. But we shook ’em off.’

Clavain took a sip from the drinking bulb. ‘Will they be back?’

‘Dunno. It’s not normal to meet them this far from the Rust Belt. I’d almost say ...’

Clavain raised an eyebrow. ‘What - that I might have something to do with it?’

‘It’s just a thought.’

‘Here’s another. You were doing something unusual and dangerous: traversing hostile space. From the banshees’ point of view it might have meant you had valuable cargo, something worthy of their interest.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘I swear I had nothing to do with it.’

‘I didn’t think you did, Clavain - I mean, not intentionally. But there’s a lot of weird shit going down these days.’

He took another sip from the bulb. ‘Tell me about it.’

They let him out of the airlock eight hours later. That was when Clavain had his first decent look at the man Antoinette had called Xavier. Xavier was a rangy individual with a pleasing, cheerful face and a bowl-shaped mop of shiny black hair that gleamed blue under Storm Bird’s interior lighting. In Clavain’s estimation he was perhaps ten or fifteen years older than Antoinette, but he was prepared to believe that his guess might be seriously wrong and that she might be the older one of the partnership. That said, he was certain that neither of them had been born more than a few decades ago.

When the lock opened he saw that Xavier and Antoinette were still wearing their suits, with their helmets hitched to their belts. Xavier stood between the posts of the lock’s doorframe and pointed at Clavain.

‘Take your suit off. Then you can come into the rest of the ship.’

Clavain nodded and did as he was told. Removing the suit was awkward in the confined space of the lock - it was awkward enough anywhere - but he managed it within five minutes, stripping down to the skintight thermal layer.

‘I take it I can stop now?’

‘Yes.’

Xavier stood aside and let him move into the main body of the ship. They were under thrust, so he was able to walk. His socked feet padded against the cleated metal flooring.

‘Thank you,’ Clavain said.

‘Don’t thank me. Thank her.’

Antoinette said, ‘Xavier thinks you should stay in the lock until we get to the Rust Belt.’

‘I don’t blame him for that.’

‘But if you try anything ...’ Xavier started.

‘I understand. You’ll depressurise the entire ship. I’ll die, since I’m not suited-up. That makes a lot of sense, Xavier. It’s exactly what I would have done in your situation. But can I show you something?’

They looked at each other.

‘Show us what?’ Antoinette asked.

‘Put me back in the airlock, then close the door.’

They did as he asked. Clavain waited until their faces appeared in the window, then sidled closer to the door itself, until his head was only a few inches from the locking mechanism and its associated control panel. He narrowed his eyes and concentrated, dredging up neural routines that he had not used in many years. His implants detected the electrical field generated by the lock circuitry, superimposing a neon maze of flowing pathways on to his view of the panel. He understood the lock’s logic and saw what needed to be done. His implants began to generate a stronger field of their own, suppressing certain current flows and enhancing others. He was talking to the lock, interfacing with its control system.

He was a little out of practice, but even so it was almost childishly simple to achieve what he wanted. The lock clicked. The door slid open, revealing Antoinette and Xavier. They stood there wearing horrified expressions.

‘Space him,’ Xavier said. ‘Space him now.’

‘Wait,’ Clavain said, holding up his hands. ‘I did that for one reason only: to show you how easy it would have been for me to do it before. I could have escaped at any time. But I didn’t. That means you can trust me.’

‘It means we should kill you now, before you try something worse,’ Xavier said.

‘If you kill me you’ll be making a terrible mistake, I assure you. This is about more than just me.’

‘And that’s the best defence you can offer?’ Xavier asked.

‘If you really feel you can’t trust me, weld me into a box,’ Clavain said reasonably. ‘Give me a means to breathe and some water and I’ll survive until we reach the Rust Belt. But please don’t kill me.’

‘He sounds like he means it, Xave,’ Antoinette said.

Xavier was breathing heavily. Clavain realised that the man was still desperately afraid of what he might do.

‘You can’t mess with our heads, you know. Neither of us has any implants.’

‘It’s not something I had in mind.’

‘Or the ship,’ Antoinette added. ‘You were lucky with that airlock, but a lot of the mission-critical systems are opto-electronic.’

‘You’re right,’ he said, offering his palms. ‘I can’t touch those.’

‘I think we have to trust him,’ Antoinette said.

‘Yes, but if he so much ...’ Xavier halted and looked at Antoinette. He had heard something.

Clavain had heard it too: a chime from somewhere else in the ship, harsh and repetitious.

‘Proximity alert,’ Antoinette breathed.

‘Banshees,’ Xavier said.

Clavain followed them through the clattering metal innards of the ship until they reached a flight deck. The two suited figures slipped ahead of him, buckling into massive antique-looking acceleration couches. While he searched for somewhere to anchor himself, Clavain appraised the flight deck, or bridge, or whatever Antoinette called it. Though it was about as far from a corvette or Nightshade as a space vessel could be in terms of capability, function and technological elegance, he had no difficulty orientating himself. It was easy when you had lived through so many centuries of ship design, seen so many cycles of technological boom-and-bust. It was simply a question of dusting off the right set of memories.

‘There,’ Antoinette said, jabbing a finger at a radar sphere. ‘Two of the fuckers, just like before.’ Her voice was low, evidently intended for Xavier’s ears alone.

‘Twenty-eight thousand klicks,’ he replied, in the same near-whisper, looking over her shoulder at the tumbling digits of the distance indicator. ‘Closing at ... fifteen klicks a second, on a near-perfect intercept trajectory. They’ll start slowing soon, ready for final approach and forced hard docking.’

‘So they’ll be here in ... what?’ Clavain ran some numbers through his head. ‘Thirty, forty minutes?’

Xavier stared back at him with a strange look on his face. ‘Who asked you?’

‘I thought you might value my thoughts on the matter.’

‘Have you dealt with banshees before, Clavain?’ Xavier asked.

‘Until a few hours ago I don’t think I’d ever heard of them.’

‘Then I don’t think you’re going to be a fuck of a lot of use, are you?’

Antoinette spoke softly again. ‘Xave ... how long do you think we’ve got before they’re on us?’

‘Assuming the usual approach pattern and deceleration tolerances ... thirty ... thirty-five minutes.’

‘So Clavain wasn’t far off.’

‘A lucky guess,’ Xavier said.

‘Actually, it wasn’t a lucky guess at all,’ Clavain said, folding down a flap from the wall and strapping himself to it. ‘I may not have dealt with banshees before, but I’ve certainly dealt with hostile approach-and-boarding scenarios.’ He decided they could stand not knowing that he had often been the one doing the hostile boarding.

‘Beast,’ Antoinette said, raising her voice, ‘you ready with those evasion patterns we ran through before?’

‘The relevant routines are uploaded and ready for immediate execution, Little Miss. There is, however, a not inconsiderable problem.’

Antoinette sighed. ‘Lay it on me, Beast.’

‘Our fuel-consumption margins are already slender, Little Miss. Evasive patterns eat heavily into our reserve supplies.’

‘Do we have enough left to throw another pattern and still make it back to the Belt before hell freezes over?’

‘Yes, Little Miss, but with very little ...’

‘Yeah, yeah.’ Antoinette’s gauntleted hands were already on the controls, ready to execute the ferocious manoeuvres that would convince the banshees not to bother with this particular freighter.

‘Don’t do it,’ Clavain said.

Xavier looked at him with an expression of pure contempt. ‘What?’ ‘I said don’t do it. You can assume these are the same banshees as before. They’ve already seen your evasive patterns, so they know exactly what you’re capable of doing. It may have given them pause for thought once, but you can be certain they’ve already decided that the risk is worth it.’

‘Don’t listen ...’ Xavier said.

‘All you’ll do is burn fuel you might need later. It won’t make a blind bit of difference. Trust me. I’ve been here a thousand times, in about as many wars.’

Antoinette looked at him questioningly. ‘So what the fuck do you want me to do, Clavain? Just sit here and lap it up?’

He shook his head. ‘You mentioned additional deterrents earlier on. I had a feeling I knew what you meant.’

‘Oh no.’

‘You must have weapons, Antoinette. In these times you’d be foolish not to.’

NINETEEN

Clavain did not know whether to laugh or cry when he saw the weapons and realised how antiquated and ineffective they were compared with the oldest, lowest-lethality weapons of a Conjoiner corvette or Demarchist raider. They had obviously been cobbled together from several centuries’ worth of black market jumble sales, more on the basis of how sleek and nasty they looked than on how much damage they could really do. Apart from the handful of firearms stored inside the ship to be used to repel boarders, the bulk of the weapons were stowed in concealed hull hatches or packed into dorsal or ventral pods that Clavain had earlier assumed held communications equipment or sensor arrays. Not all of the weapons were even functional. About a third of them had either never worked or had broken down, or had run out of whatever ammunition or fuel-source they needed to work.

To access the weapons, Antoinette had pulled back a hidden panel in the floor. A thick metal column had risen slowly from the well, unfolding control arms and display devices as it ascended. A schematic of Storm Bird rotated in one sphere, with the active weapons pulsing red. They were linked back into the main avionics web by snaking red data pathways. Other spheres and read-outs on the main panel showed the immediate volume of space around the ship at various magnifications. At the lowest magnification, the banshee ships were visible as indistinct radar-echo smudges creeping closer to the freighter.

‘Fifteen thousand klicks,’ Antoinette said.

‘I still say we should pull the evasive pattern,’ Xavier murmured.

‘Burn that fuel when you need it,’ Clavain said. ‘Not until then. Antoinette, are all those weapons deployed?’

‘Everything we’ve got.’

‘Good. Do you mind if I ask why you were unwilling to deploy them earlier?’

She tapped controls, finessing the weapons’ deployment, reallocating data flows through less congested parts of the web.

‘Two reasons, Clavain. One: it’s a hanging offence to even think of installing weps on a civilian ship. Two: all those juicy guns might just be the final incentive the banshees need to come in and rob us.’

‘It won’t come to that. Not if you trust me.’

‘Trust you, Clavain?’

‘Let me sit there and operate those weapons.’

She looked at Xavier. ‘Not a hope in hell.’

Clavain leaned back and folded his arms. ‘You know where I am if you need me, in that case.’

‘Pull the evasive ...’ Xavier began.

‘No.’ Antoinette tapped something.

Clavain felt the entire ship rumble. ‘What was that?’

‘A warning shot,’ she said.

‘Good. I’d have done the same.’

The warning shot had probably been a slug, a cylinder of foam-phase hydrogen accelerated up to a few dozen klicks per second in a stubby railgun barrel. Clavain knew all about foam-phase hydrogen; it was one of the main weapons left in the Demarchist arsenal now that they could no longer manipulate antimatter in militarily useful quantities.

The Demarchists mined hydrogen from the oceanic hearts of gas giants. Under conditions of shocking pressure, hydrogen underwent a transition to a metallic state a little like mercury but thousands of times denser. Usually that metallic state was unstable: release the confining pressure and it would revert to a low-density gas. The foam phase, by contrast, was only quasi-unstable; with the right manipulation it could remain in the metallic state even when the external pressure dropped by many orders of magnitude. Packed into shells and slugs, foam-phase munitions were engineered to retain their stability until the moment of impact. Then they would explode catastrophically. Foam-phase weapons were either used as destructive devices in their own right, or as initiators for fission/fusion bombs.

Antoinette was right, Clavain thought. The foam-phase slug cannon might have been an antique in military terms, but just thinking of owning such a weapon was enough to send one to an irreversible neural death.

He saw the firefly smudge of the slug crawl across the distance to the closing pirate ships, missing them by mere tens of kilometres.

‘They’re not stopping,’ Xavier said, several minutes later.

‘How many more slugs do you have?’ Clavain asked.

‘One,’ Antoinette said.

‘Save it. You’re too far out now. They can get a radar lock on the slug and dodge it before it reaches them.’

He unstrapped himself from the folding flap, clambering down the length of the bridge until he was immediately behind Antoinette and Xavier. Now that he had the chance he took a better look at the weapons plinth, mentally assaying its functionality.

‘What else have you got?’

‘Two gigawatt excimers,’ Antoinette said. ‘One Breitenbach three-millimetre boser with a proton-electron precursor. Couple of solid-state close-action slug guns, megahertz firing rate. A cascade-pulse single-use graser, not sure of the yield.’

‘Probably mid-gigawatt. What’s that?’ Clavain pointed at the only active weapon she had not described.

‘That? That’s a bad joke. Gatling gun.’

Clavain nodded. ‘No, that’s good. Don’t knock Gatling guns; they have their uses.’

Xavier spoke. ‘Picking up reverse thrust plumes. Doppler says they’re slowing.’

‘Did we scare them off?’ Clavain asked.

‘Sorry, no; this looks exactly like a standard banshee approach,’ Xavier replied.

‘Fuck,’ Antoinette said.

‘Don’t do anything until they’re closer,’ Clavain said. ‘Much closer. They won’t attack you; they won’t want to risk damaging your cargo.’

‘I’ll remind you of that when we’re having our throats slit,’ Antoinette said.

Clavain raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that what they do?’

‘Actually, that’s at the nice humane end of the spectrum.’

The next twelve minutes were amongst the most tense Clavain could remember. He understood how his hosts felt, sympathising with their instinct to shoot at the enemy. But it would have been suicidal. The beam weapons were too low-powered to guarantee a kill, and the projectile weapons were too slow to have any effectiveness except at very short range. At the very best they might succeed in taking out one banshee, but not two at once. At the same time Clavain wondered why the banshees had not taken the earlier warning. Antoinette had given them plenty of hints that stealing her imagined cargo would not be easy. Clavain would have thought that they would have decided to cut their losses and move on to a less nimble, less well-armed target. But according to Antoinette it was already unusual for banshees to foray this far into the zone.

When they were just under a hundred klicks out, the two ships slowed and split up, one of them arrowing around to the other hemisphere before resuming its approach. Clavain studied the magnified visual grab of the closest ship. The image was fuzzy - Storm Bird’s optics were not military quality - but it was enough to disperse any doubts they might have had about the ship’s identity. The view showed a wasp-waisted civilian vessel a little smaller than Storm Bird. But it was night-black and studded with grapples and welded-on weapons. Jagged neon markings on the hull suggested skulls and sharks’ teeth.

‘Where do they come from?’ Clavain asked.

‘No one knows,’ Xavier said. ‘Somewhere in the Rust Belt/Yellowstone environment, but beyond that . . . no one has a fucking clue.’

‘And the authorities just tolerate them?’

‘The authorities can’t do dick. Not the Demarchists, not the Ferrisville Convention. That’s why everyone’s so shit-scared of the banshees. ’ Xavier winked at Clavain. ‘I tell you, even if you guys do take over it isn’t going to be a picnic, not while the banshees are still around.’

‘Luckily it isn’t likely to be my problem,’ Clavain said.

The two ships crept closer, pinning Storm Bird from either side. The optical views sharpened, allowing Clavain to pick out points of weakness and strength, and to make a guess at the capability of the enemy ships’ weapons. Scenarios tumbled through his head by the dozen. At sixty kilometres he nodded and spoke quietly and calmly.

‘All right, listen carefully. At this range you have a chance of doing some damage, but only if you listen to me and do precisely what I say.’

‘I think we should ignore him,’ Xavier said.

Clavain licked his lips. ‘You can, but you’ll die. Antoinette: I want you to set up the following firing pattern in pre-programmed mode, without actually moving any of your weapons until I say. You can bet the banshees have us in their sights, and they’ll be watching to see what happens.’

She looked at him and nodded, her fingers poised over the controls of the weapons plinth. ‘Say it, Clavain.’

‘Hit the starboard ship with a two-second excimer pulse as close to amidships as you can get it. There’s a sensor cluster there; we want to take it out. At the same time use the rapid-fire slug gun to put a spread over the port ship, say a megahertz salvo with a hundred millisecond sustain. That won’t kill them, but it’ll sure as hell damage that rack launcher and probably buckle those grapple arms. In any case it’ll provoke a response, and that’s good.’

‘It is?’ She was already programming his firing pattern into the plinth.

‘Yes. See how she’s keeping her hull at that angle? At the moment she’s in a defensive posture. That’s because her main weapons are delicate; now that they’re deployed she won’t want to bring them into our field of fire until she can guarantee a kill. And she’ll think we’ve hit with our heaviest toys first.’

Antoinette brightened. ‘Which we won’t have.’

‘No. That’s when we hit them - both ships - with the Breitenbach.’

‘And the single-use graser?’

‘Hold it back. It’s our medium-range trump card, and we don’t want to play it until we’re in a lot more danger than this.’

‘And the Gatling gun?’

‘We’ll keep that back for dessert.’

‘I hope you’re not bullshitting us, Clavain,’ Antoinette warned.

He grinned. ‘I sincerely hope I’m not bullshitting you, too.’

The two ships continued their approach. Now they were visible through the cabin windows: black dots that occasionally pulsed out white or violet spikes of steering thrust. The dots enlarged, becoming slivers. The slivers took on hard mechanical form, until Clavain could quite clearly see the neon patterning of the pirate ships. The markings had only been turned on during their final approach; at that point, needing to trim speed with thruster bursts, there was no further prospect of remaining camouflaged against the darkness of space. The markings were there to inspire fear and panic, like the Jolly Roger of the old sailing ships.

‘Clavain ...’

‘In about forty-five seconds, Antoinette. But not a moment before. Got that?’

‘I’m worried, Clavain.’

‘It’s natural. It doesn’t mean you’re going to die.’

That was when he felt the ship shudder again. It was almost the same movement he had felt earlier, when the foam-phase slug had been fired as a warning shot. But this was more sustained.

‘What just happened?’ Clavain asked.

Antoinette frowned. ‘I didn’t ...’

‘Xavier?’ Clavain snapped.

‘Not me, guy. Must have been the . . .’

‘Beast!’ Antoinette shouted.

‘Begging your pardon, Little Miss, but one . . .’

Clavain realised that the ship had taken it upon itself to fire the megahertz slug gun. It had been directed towards the port banshee, as he had specified, but much too soon.

Storm Bird shook again. The flight deck console lit up with blocks of flashing red. A klaxon began to shriek. Clavain felt a tug of air, and then immediately heard the rapid sequential slamming of bulkheads.

‘We’ve just taken a hit,’ Antoinette said. ‘Amidships.’

‘You’re in deep trouble,’ Clavain said.

‘Thanks. I gathered that.’

‘Hit the starboard banshee with the ex—’

Storm Bird shuddered again, and this time half the lights on the console blacked out. Clavain guessed that one of the pirates had just hit them with a penetrating slug equipped with an EMP warhead. So much for Antoinette’s boast that all the critical systems were routed through opto-electronic pathways . . .

‘Clavain ...’ she looked back at him with wild, frightened eyes. ‘I can’t get the excimers to work . . .’

‘Try a different routing.’

Her fingers worked the plinth controls, and Clavain watched the spider’s web of data connections shift as she assigned data to scurry along different paths. The ship shook again. Clavain leaned over and looked through the port window. The banshee was looming large now, arresting its approach with a continuous blast of reverse thrust. He could see grapples and claws unfolding, articulating away from the hull like the barbed and hooked limbs of some complicated black insect just emerging from a cocoon.

‘Hurry up,’ Xavier said, looking at what Antoinette was doing.

‘Antoinette.’ Clavain spoke as calmly as he could. ‘Let me take over. Please.’

‘What fucking good . . .’

‘Just let me take over.’

She breathed in and out for five or six seconds, just looking at him, and then unbuckled herself and eased out of the seat. Clavain nodded and squeezed past her, settling by the weapons plinth.

He had already familiarised himself with it. By the time his hands touched the controls, his implants had begun to accelerate his subjective consciousness rate. Things around him moved glacially, whether it was the expressions on the faces of his hosts or the pulsing of the warning messages on the control panel. Even his hands moved as if through treacle, and the delay between sending a nerve signal and watching his hands respond was quite noticeable. He was used to that, though. He had done this before, too many times, and he naturally made allowances for the sluggish response of his own body.

As his consciousness rate reached fifteen times faster than normal, so that every actual second felt like fifteen seconds to him, Clavain willed himself on to a plateau of detached calm. A second was a long time in war. Fifteen seconds was even longer. There was a lot you could do, a lot you could think, in fifteen seconds.

Now then. He began to set the optimum control pathways for the remaining weapons. The spider’s web shifted and reconfigured. Clavain explored a number of possible solutions, forcing himself not to accept second best. It might take two actual seconds to find the perfect arrangement of data flows, but that would be time well spent. He glanced at the short-range radar sphere, amused to see that its update cycle now looked like the slow beating of some immense heart.

There. He had regained control of the excimer cannons. All he needed now was a revised strategy to deal with the changed situation. That would take a few seconds - a few actual seconds - for his mind to process.

It would be tight.

But he thought he would make it.

Clavain’s efforts destroyed one banshee and left the other crippled. The damaged ship scuttled back into darkness, its neon patterning flickering spastically like a short-circuiting firefly. After fifty seconds they saw the glint of its fusion torch and watched it fall ahead of them, back towards the Rust Belt.

‘How to win friends and influence people,’ Antoinette said as she watched the ruined one tumble away. Half its hull was gone, revealing a skeletal confusion of innards belching grey spirals of vapour. ‘Good work, Clavain.’

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, that’s two reasons for you to trust me. And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to have to faint.’

He fainted.

The rest of the journey passed without incident. Clavain was unconscious for eight or nine hours after the battle against the banshees, while his mind recovered from the ordeal of such a protracted spell of rapid consciousness. Unlike Skade, his brain was not built to support that kind of thing for more than one or two actual seconds, and he had suffered the equivalent of a massive and sudden heat-stroke.

But there had been no lasting ill effects and he had earned their trust. It was a price he was more than willing to pay. For the remainder of the trip he was free to move around the ship as he pleased, while the other two gradually divested themselves of their outer spacesuit layers. The banshees never came back, and Storm Bird never ran into any military activity. Clavain still felt the need to make himself useful, however, and with Antoinette’s consent he helped Xavier with a number of minor in-flight repairs or upgrades. The two of them spent hours tucked away in tight cable-infested crawlspaces, or rummaging through layers of archaic source code.

‘I can’t really blame you for not trusting me before,’ Clavain said, when he and Xavier were alone.

‘I care about her.’

‘It’s obvious. And she took a hell of a risk coming out here to rescue me. If I’d been in your shoes I’d have tried to talk her out of it as well.’

‘Don’t take it personally.’

Clavain dragged a stylus across the compad he had balanced on his knees, rerouting a number of logic pathways between the control web and the dorsal communications cluster. ‘I won’t.’

‘What about you, Clavain? What’s going to happen when we get to the Rust Belt?’

Clavain shrugged. ‘Up to you. You can drop me wherever it suits you. Carousel New Copenhagen’s as good as anywhere else.’

‘And then what?’

‘I’ll hand myself over to the authorities.’

‘The Demarchists?’

He nodded. ‘Although it’d be much too dangerous for me to approach them directly, out here in open space. I’ll need to go through a neutral party, such as the Convention.’

Xavier nodded. ‘I hope you get what you’re hoping for. You took a risk as well.’

‘Not the first, I assure you.’ Clavain paused and lowered his voice. It was unnecessary - they were many dozens of metres away from Antoinette - but he felt the need all the same. ‘Xavier . . . while we’re alone ... there’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.’

Xavier peered at him through scuffed grey data-visualisation goggles. ‘Go ahead.’

‘I gather you knew her father, and that you handled the repair of this ship when he was running it.’

‘True enough.’

‘Then I suppose you know all about it. Perhaps more than Antoinette? ’

‘She’s a damned good pilot, Clavain.’

Clavain smiled. ‘Which is a polite way of saying she’s not very interested in the technical aspects of this ship?’

‘Nor was her father,’ Xavier said, with a touch of defensiveness.

‘Running a commercial operation like this is enough trouble without worrying about every subroutine.’

‘I understand. I’m no expert myself. But I couldn’t help noticing back there, when the subpersona intervened . . .’ He left the remark hanging.

‘You thought that was odd.’

‘It nearly got us killed,’ Clavain said. ‘It fired too soon, against my direct orders.’

‘They weren’t orders, Clavain, they were recommendations.’

‘My mistake. But the point is, it shouldn’t have happened. Even if the subpersona had some control over the weapons - and in a civilian ship I’d regard that as unusual, to say the least - it still shouldn’t have acted without a direct command. And it definitely shouldn’t have panicked.’

Xavier’s laugh was hard and nervous. ‘Panicked?’

‘That’s what it felt like to me.’ Clavain couldn’t see Xavier’s eyes behind the data goggles.

‘Machines don’t panic, Clavain.’

‘I know. Especially not gamma-level subpersonae, which is what Beast would have to be.’

Xavier nodded. ‘Then it can’t have been panic, can it?’

‘I suppose not.’ Clavain frowned and returned to his compad, dragging the stylus through the bright ganglia of logic pathways like someone stirring a plate of spaghetti.

They docked in Carousel New Copenhagen. Clavain was prepared to go on his way there and then, but Antoinette and Xavier were having none of it. They insisted that he join them for a farewell meal elsewhere in the carousel. After giving the matter a few moments’ thought, Clavain happily assented; it would only take a couple of hours and it would give him a valuable chance to acclimatise before he commenced what he imagined would be a perilous solo journey. And he still felt he owed them thanks, especially after Xavier allowed him to take whatever he wanted from his wardrobe.

Clavain was taller and thinner than Xavier, so it took some creativity to both dress himself and not feel that he was taking anything particularly valuable. He retained the skintight spacesuit inner layer, slipping on a bulging high-collared vest that looked faintly like the kind of inflatable jacket pilots wore when they ditched in water. He found a pair of loose black trousers that came down to his shins, which looked terrible, even with the skintight, until he found a pair of rugged black boots that reached nearly to his knees. When he inspected himself in a mirror he concluded that he looked odd rather than bizarre, which he supposed was a step in the right direction. Finally he trimmed his beard and moustache and neatened his hair by combing it back from his brow in snowy waves.

Antoinette and Xavier were waiting for him, already freshened up. They took an intra-rim train from one part of Carousel New Copenhagen to another. Antoinette told him that the line had been put in after the spokes were destroyed; until then the quickest way to get about had been to go up to the hub and down again, and by the time the intra-rim line was installed it could not take the most direct route. It zigzagged its way along the rim, swerving and veering and occasionally taking detours out on to the skin of the habitat, just to avoid a piece of precious interior real estate. As the train’s direction of travel shifted relative to the carousel’s spin vector, Clavain felt his stomach knot and unknot in a variety of queasy ways. It reminded him of dropship insertions into the atmosphere of Mars.

He snapped back to the present as the train arrived in a vast interior plaza. They disembarked on to a glass-floored and glass-walled platform that was suspended many tens of metres above an astonishing sight.

Beneath their feet, thrusting through the inner wall of the carousel’s rim, was the front of an enormous spacecraft. It was a blunt-nosed, rounded design, scratched, gouged and scorched, with all its appendages - pods, spines and antennae - ripped clean away. The spacecraft’s cabin windows, which ran around the pole of the nose in a semicircle, were shattered black apertures, like eye-sockets. Around the collar of the ship where it met the fabric of the carousel was a congealed grey foam of solidified emergency sealant that had the porous texture of pumice.

‘What happened here?’ Clavain asked.

‘A fucking idiot called Lyle Merrick,’ Antoinette said.

Xavier took over the story. ‘That’s Merrick’s ship, or what’s left of it. Thing was a chemical-rocket scow, about the most primitive ship still making a living in the Rust Belt. Merrick stayed in business because he had the right clients - people the authorities would never, ever suspect of trusting their cargo to such a shit-heap. But Merrick got into trouble one day.’

‘It was about sixteen, seventeen years ago,’ Antoinette said. ‘The authorities were chasing him, trying to force him to let them board and inspect his cargo. Merrick was trying to get under cover - there was a repair well on the far side of the carousel that could just accommodate his ship. But he didn’t make it. Fluffed his approach, or lost control, or just bottled out. Stupid twat rammed straight into the rim.’

‘You’re only looking at a small part of his ship,’ Xavier said. ‘The rest of it, trailing behind, was mostly fuel tank. Even with foam-phase catalysis you need a lot of fuel for a chemical rocket. When the front hit, she went clean through the carousel’s rim, deforming it with the force of the impact. Lyle made it, but the fuel tanks blew up. There’s one hell of a crater out there, even now.’

‘Casualties?’ Clavain asked.

‘A few,’ Xavier said.

‘More than a few,’ said Antoinette. ‘A few hundred.’

They told him that suited hyperprimates had sealed the rim, with only a few deaths amongst the emergency team. The animals had done such a good job of sealing the gap between the shuttle and the rim wall that it had been decided that the safest thing to do was to leave the remains of the ship exactly where they were. Expensive designers had been called in to give the rest of the plaza a sympathetic face-lift.

‘They call it “echoing the ship’s brutalist intrusion”,’ Antoinette said.

‘Yeah,’ said Xavier. ‘Or else, “commenting on the accident in a series of ironic architectural gestures, while retaining the urgent spatial primacy of the transformative act itself”.’

‘Bunch of overpaid wankers is what I call them,’ Antoinette said.

‘It was your idea to come here in the first place,’ Xavier responded.

There was a bar built into the nose cone of the ruined ship. Clavain tactfully suggested that they situate themselves as unobtrusively as possible. They found a table in one corner, next to a cavernous tank of bubbling water. Squid floated in the water, their conic bodies flickering with commercials.

A gibbon brought beers. They attacked them with enthusiasm, even Clavain, who had no particular taste for alcohol. But the drink was cold and refreshing and he would have gladly drunk anything in the current spirit of celebration. He just hoped he would not spoil things by revealing how gloomy he really felt.

‘So, Clavain ...’ Antoinette said. ‘Are you going to tell us what this is all about, or are you just going to leave us wondering?’

‘You know who I am,’ he said.

‘Yes.’ She glanced at Xavier. ‘We think so. You didn’t deny it before.’

‘You know that I defected once already, in that case.’

‘A way back,’ Antoinette said.

Clavain noticed that she was peeling the label from her beer bottle with great care. ‘Sometimes it seems like only yesterday. But it was four hundred years ago, give or take the odd decade. For most of that time I have been more than willing to serve my people. Defecting certainly isn’t something I take lightly.’

‘So why the big change of heart?’ she asked.

‘Something very bad is going to happen. I can’t say what exactly - I don’t know the full story - but I know enough to say that there’s a threat, an external threat, which is going to pose a great danger to all of us. Not just Conjoiners, not just Demarchists, but all of us. Ultras. Skyjacks. Even you.’

Xavier glared into his beer. ‘And on that cheering note ...’

‘I didn’t mean to spoil things. That’s just the way it is. There’s a threat, and we’re all in trouble, and I wish it were otherwise.’

‘What kind of threat?’ Antoinette asked.

‘If what I learned was correct, then it’s alien. For some time now, we - the Conjoiners, rather - have known that there are hostile entities out there. I mean actively hostile, not just occasionally dangerous and unpredictable, like the Pattern Jugglers or Shrouders. And I mean extant, in the sense that they’ve posed a real threat to some of our expeditions. We call them the wolves. We think that they’re machines, and that somehow we’ve only now begun to trigger a response from them.’ Clavain paused, certain now that he had the attention of his young hosts. He was not overly concerned about revealing what were technically Conjoiner secrets; in a very short while he hoped to be saying exactly the same things to the Demarchist authorities. The quicker the news was spread, the better.

‘And these machines ... ?’ Antoinette said. ‘How long have you known about them?’

‘Long enough. For decades we were aware of the wolves, but it seemed they wouldn’t cause us any local difficulties provided that we took certain precautions. That’s why we stopped building starships. They were luring the wolves to us, like beacons. Only now we’ve found a way to make our ships quieter. There’s a faction in the Mother Nest, led - or influenced, at the very least - by Skade.’

‘You’ve mentioned that name already,’ Xavier said.

‘Skade’s chasing me down. She doesn’t want me to reach the authorities because she knows how dangerous the information I hold is.’

‘And this faction, what have they been doing?’

‘Building an exodus fleet,’ Clavain told Antoinette. ‘I’ve seen it. It’s easily large enough to carry all the Conjoiners in this system. They’re planning on evacuating, basically. They’ve determined that a full-scale wolf attack is imminent - that’s my guess, anyway - and they’ve decided that the best thing they can do is run away.’

‘What’s so abhorrent about that?’ Xavier asked. ‘We’d do the same thing if it meant saving our skins.’

‘Perhaps,’ Clavain said, feeling a weird admiration for the young man’s cynicism. ‘But there’s an added complication. Some time ago the Conjoiners manufactured a stockpile of doomsday weapons. And I mean doomsday weapons - nothing like them has ever been made again. They were lost, but now they’ve been found again. The Conjoiners are trying to get their hands on them, hoping that they’ll be an additional safeguard against the wolves.’

‘Where are they?’ Antoinette asked.

‘Near Resurgam, in the Delta Pavonis system. About twenty years’ flight time from here. Someone - whoever now owns the weapons - has re-armed them, causing them to emit diagnostic signals that we picked up. That’s worrying in itself. The Mother Nest was putting together a recovery squad which they, not unnaturally, wanted me to lead.’

‘Wait a sec,’ Xavier said. ‘You’d go all the way there just to pick up a bunch of lost weapons? Why not make new ones?’

‘The Conjoiners can’t,’ Clavain said. ‘It’s as simple as that. These weapons were made a long time ago according to principles which were deliberately forgotten after their construction.’

‘Sounds a bit fishy to me.’

‘I never said I had all the answers,’ Clavain replied.

‘All right. Assuming these weapons exist ... what next?’

Clavain leaned closer, cradling his beer. ‘My old side will still do their best to recover them, even without me. My purpose in defecting is to persuade the Demarchists or whoever will listen that they need to get there first.’

Xavier glanced at Antoinette. ‘So you need someone with a ship, and maybe some weapons. Why didn’t you just go straight to the Ultras?’

Clavain smiled wearily. ‘It’s Ultras we’ll be trying to take the weapons from, Xavier. I don’t want to make things more difficult than they already are.’

‘Good luck,’ Xavier said.

‘Yes?’

‘You’re going to need it.’

Clavain nodded and held his bottle aloft. ‘To me, in that case.’

Antoinette and Xavier raised their own bottles in toast. ‘To you, Clavain.’

Clavain said goodbye to them outside the bar, asking only that they give him directions as to which rim train to take. There had been no customs checks coming into Carousel New Copenhagen, but according to Antoinette he would have to pass through a security check if he wanted to travel elsewhere in the Rust Belt. That suited him very well; he could think of no better way to introduce himself to the authorities. He would be examined, trawled, his Conjoiner identity established. A few more tests would prove beyond reasonable doubt that he was indeed who he claimed to be, since his largely unmodified DNA would mark him as a man born on Earth in the twenty-second century. From that point he had no real idea what would happen. He hoped that the response would not be his immediate execution, but it was not something he could rule out. He just hoped he would be able to convey the gist of his message before it was too late.

Antoinette and Xavier showed him which rim train to take and made sure he had enough money to cover the fare. He waved goodbye as the train slid out of the station, the battered ruin of Lyle Merrick’s ship vanishing around the gentle curve of the carousel.

Clavain closed his eyes, willing his consciousness rate into a three-to-one ratio, snatching a few moments of calm before he arrived at his destination.

TWENTY

Thorn had been ready to argue with Vuilleumier, but she had agreed to his wishes with surprising ease. It was not that she viewed the prospect of diving into the heart of the Inhibitor activity around Roc with anything less than deep concern, she told him, but that she wanted him to believe that she was totally sincere about the threat. If the only way to convince him of that was to let him see things in close-up, then she would have to go along with his wishes.

‘But make no mistake, Thorn. This is dangerous. We’re in uncharted territory now.’

‘I’d say we were never exactly safe, Inquisitor. We could have been attacked at any moment. We’ve certainly been within range of human weapons for the last few hours, haven’t we?’

The snake-headed ship plunged towards the top of the gas giant’s atmosphere. The trajectory would take them close to the impact point of one of the extruded tubes, only a thousand kilometres from the roiling chaos of tortured air around the eyelike collision zone. Their sensors could not glimpse anything beneath that confusion, only the vaguest suggestion that the tube continued to plunge deeper into Roc, unharmed by the impact.

‘We’re dealing with alien machinery, Thorn. Alien machine psychology, if you want. It’s true that they haven’t attacked us yet, or shown the slightest interest in any of our activities. They haven’t even bothered wiping life off the surface of Resurgam. But that doesn’t mean there isn’t a threshold we might inadvertently cross if we’re not very careful.’

‘And you think this might constitute being not very careful?’

‘It worries me, but if this is what it takes ...’

‘It’s about more than just convincing me, Inquisitor.’

‘Do you have to keep calling me that?’

‘I’m sorry?’

She made an adjustment to the controls. Thorn heard an orchestrated creaking as the ship’s hull reshaped itself for optimum transatmospheric insertion. The gas giant Roc was about all they could see outside now. ‘You don’t have to call me that all the time.’

‘Vuilleumier, then?’

‘My first name is Ana. I’m a lot more comfortable with that, Thorn. Perhaps I shouldn’t call you Thorn, either.’

‘Thorn will do. It’s a name I’ve grown into. It seems to fit me rather well. And I wouldn’t want to help Inquisition House in its investigations too much, would I?’

‘We know exactly who you are. You’ve seen the dossier.’

‘Yes. But I have the distinct impression you’d be less than eager to use it against me, wouldn’t you?’

‘You’re useful to us.’

‘That’s not quite what I meant.’

They continued their descent into Roc without speaking for several minutes. Only the occasional chirp or spoken warning from the console interrupted the silence. The ship was not at all enthusiastic about what was being asked of it, and kept offering suggestions as to what it would rather be doing.

‘I think we’re like insects to them,’ Vuilleumier said eventually. ‘They’ve come here to wipe us out, like pest-control specialists. They’re not going to bother killing one or two of us - they know it won’t make enough of a difference to matter. Even if we sting them, I’m not sure we’d provoke the response we were expecting. They’ll just keep on doing their work, slowly and methodically, knowing that it will be more than sufficient in the long run.’

‘Then we’re safe now, is that it?’

‘It’s just a theory, Thorn - it isn’t something I particularly want to bet my life on. But it’s clear that we don’t understand all that they’re doing. There has to be a higher purpose to their activity. There has to be a reason for it; it can’t simply be the annihilation of life for its own sake. Even if it was, even if they were nothing more than mindless killing machines, there’d be more efficient ways of doing it.’

‘So what are you saying?’

‘Only that we shouldn’t count on our understanding of events to be correct, any more than an insect understands about pest-control programmes.’ With that, she clenched her jaw and palmed a control. ‘All right. Hold on. This is where it gets a little bumpy.’

A pair of armoured eyelids snicked down over the windows, blocking the view. Almost immediately Thorn felt the ship rumble, the way a car did when it left a smooth road and hit dirt. He had weight, too - it was the tiniest pressure squeezing him back into his seat, but it would keep growing and growing.

‘Who are you exactly, Ana?’

‘You know who I am. We’ve been over that.’

‘Not to my entire satisfaction, we haven’t. There’s something funny about that ship, isn’t there? I couldn’t put my finger on what it was exactly, but the whole time I was aboard it, I had the feeling you and the other woman, Irina, were holding your breath. It was as if you couldn’t wait to get me off it.’

‘You have urgent work to do on Resurgam. Irina didn’t agree with you coming aboard in the first place. She’d much rather you stayed on the planet, putting in the groundwork for the evacuation operation. ’

‘A few days won’t make much difference. No, that definitely wasn’t it. There was something else. You two were hiding something, or hoping I wouldn’t notice something. I just can’t work out exactly what it was.’

‘You have to trust us, Thorn.’

‘You make it difficult, Ana.’

‘What else could we do? We showed you the ship, didn’t we? You saw that it was real. It has enough capacity to evacuate the planet. We even showed you the shuttle hangar.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘But it’s everything that you didn’t show me that makes me wonder.’

The rumbling had increased. The ship felt as if it was tobogganning down an ice-slope, hitting the occasional buried rock. The hull creaked and reshaped itself again and again, struggling to smooth out the transition. Thorn found himself excited and terrified at the same time. He had entered a planet’s atmosphere only once before in his life, when his parents had brought him as a child to Resurgam. He had been frozen and unconscious at the time, and had no more recollection of it than he did of his birth in Chasm City.

‘We didn’t show you everything because we don’t know that the whole of the ship is safe,’ Vuilleumier said. ‘We don’t know what sorts of traps Volyova’s crew left behind.’

‘You didn’t even let me see it from outside, Ana.’

‘It wasn’t convenient. Our approach—’

‘Had nothing to do with it. There’s something about that ship that you can’t let me see, isn’t there?’

‘Why are you asking me this now, Thorn?’

He smiled. ‘I thought the gravity of the situation would focus your attention.’

She said nothing.

Presently, the ride became smoother. The airframe creaked and reshaped one last time. Vuilleumier waited another few minutes and then raised the armoured eyelids. Thorn blinked against the sudden intrusion of daylight. They were inside the atmosphere of Roc.

‘How do you feel?’ she asked. ‘Your weight has doubled since we were aboard the ship.’

‘I’ll manage.’ He was fine provided he did not have to move around. ‘How deep did you take us?’

‘Not far. Pressure’s about half an atmosphere. Wait . . .’ At that moment she frowned at something on one of her displays, tapping controls below it so that the image shifted through pastel-coloured bands. Thorn saw a simplified silhouette of the ship they were in, surrounded by pulsing, concentric circles. He suspected it was some form of radar, and saw a small smudge of light wink in and out of existence on the limit of the display. She tapped another control and the concentric circles tightened, bringing the smudge closer. Now it was there, now it was gone, now it was there again.

‘What’s that?’ Thorn asked.

‘I don’t know. Passive radar says there’s something following us, about thirty thousand klicks astern. I didn’t see anything on our approach. It’s small and it doesn’t seem to be getting any closer, but I don’t like it.’

‘Could it be a mistake, an error that the ship’s making?’

‘I’m not sure. I suppose the radar might be confused, picking up a false return from our wake vortex. I could switch to a focused active sweep, but I really don’t want to provoke anything I don’t have to. I suggest we get away from here while we still can. I’m a firm believer in listening to warnings.’

Thorn tapped the console. ‘And how do I know that you didn’t arrange for that bogey to appear?’

She laughed the sudden, nervous laugh of a person caught completely unawares. ‘I didn’t, believe me.’

Thorn nodded, sensing that she was telling the truth - or at least lying very well indeed. ‘Perhaps not. But I still want you to steer us towards the impact site, Ana. I’m not leaving until I see what’s happening here.’

‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’ She waited for him to answer, but Thorn said nothing, looking at her unflinchingly. ‘All right,’ Vuilleumier said finally. ‘We’ll get close enough that you can see things for yourself. But no closer than that. And if that other thing shows any signs of coming nearer, we’re out of here. Got that?’

‘Of course,’ he said mildly. ‘What do you think I am, suicidal?’

Vuilleumier plotted an approach. The impact point was moving at thirty kilometres per second relative to Roc’s atmosphere, its pace determined by the orbital motion of the moon that was extruding the tube. They came in from the rear, shadowing the impact point, increasing their speed. The hull contorted itself again, dealing with the increasing Mach numbers; all the while the smudge on the passive radar lingered behind them, shifting in and out of clarity, sometimes vanishing entirely, but never moving relative to their own position.

‘I feel lighter,’ Thorn said.

‘You will. We’re nearly orbiting again. If we went much faster I’d have to apply thrust to hold us down.’

In the wake of the impact the atmosphere was curdled and turbulent, rare chemistries staining cloud layers with sooty reds and vermilions. Lightning flickered from horizon to horizon, arcing across the sky in stuttering silver bridges as transient charge differentials were smoothed out. Furious eddies whirled like dervishes. The ship’s manifold passive sensors probed ahead, groping for a trajectory between the worst of the storms.

‘I don’t see the tube yet,’ Thorn said.

‘You won’t, not until we’re much closer. It’s only thirteen kilometres across, and I doubt that we could see more than a hundred kilometres in any direction even without the storm.’

‘Do you have any idea what they’re doing?’

‘I wish I did.’

‘Planetary engineering, obviously. They ripped apart three worlds for this, Ana. They must mean business.’

They continued their approach, the ride becoming rougher. Vuilleumier dipped them up and down by tens of kilometres, until she decided not to risk any further use of the Doppler radar. Thereafter she held a steady altitude, the ship bucking and shaking as it slammed through vortices and shear walls. Alarms went off every other minute, and now and again Vuilleumier would swear and tap a rapid sequence of commands into the control panel. The air around them was growing pitch-dark. Mighty black clouds billowed and surged, contorted into looming visceral shapes. Thunderheads larger than cities whipped past in an instant. Ahead, the air pulsed and blazed with constant electrical discharges: blinding forked white branches and twisting sheets of baby blue. They were flying into a small pocket of hell.

‘Doesn’t seem like quite such a good idea now, does it?’ Vuilleumier commented.

‘Never mind,’ Thorn said. ‘Just keep us on this heading. The bogey hasn’t come any closer, has it? Maybe it was just a reflection from our wake.’ As he spoke, something else snared Vuilleumier’s attention on the console. An alarm started whooping, a chorus of multilingual voices shouting incomprehensible warning messages.

‘Mass sensor says there’s something up ahead, seventy-odd kilometres distant,’ she said. ‘Elongated, I think - the field geometry’s cylindrical, with an inverse “r” attenuation. That’s got to be our baby.’

‘How long until we see it?’

‘We’ll be there in five minutes. I’m slowing our rate of approach. Hold on.’

Thorn pitched forwards in his seat restraints as Vuilleumier killed the speed. He counted out five minutes, then another five. The smudge on the passive radar display held its relative position, slowing as they did. Strangely, the ride became even smoother. The clouds began to thin out; the savage electrical activity became little more than a constant distant strobing on either side of them. There was a horrible sense of unreality about it.

‘Air pressure’s dropping,’ Vuilleumier said. ‘I think there must be a low-pressure wake behind the tube. It’s slicing through the atmosphere supersonically, so that the air can’t immediately rush around and close the gap. We’re inside the Mach cone of the tube, as if we were flying right behind a supersonic aircraft.’

‘You sound like you know what you’re talking about - for an Inquisitor, anyway.’

‘I’ve had to learn, Thorn. And I’ve had a good teacher.’

‘Irina?’ he asked, amusedly.

‘We make a pretty good team. But it wasn’t always the case.’ Then she looked ahead and pointed. ‘Look. I can see something, I think. Let’s try some magnification and then get the hell back out into space.’ On the main console display appeared an image of the tube. It plunged down into the atmosphere from above them, angled to the horizontal by forty or forty-five degrees. Against the slate background of the atmosphere it was a line of shining silver, like the funnel of a twister. They could see perhaps eighty kilometres of its length; above and below it vanished into haze or roiling clouds. There was no sense of motion along the tube, even though it was flowing into the depths at a rate of a kilometre every four seconds. It appeared to be suspended, even unmoving.

‘No sign of anything else,’ Thorn said. ‘I don’t know quite what I was expecting, but I thought there’d be something else. Deeper, maybe. Can you take us forwards?’

‘We’ll have to pass through the transonic boundary. It’ll be a lot rougher than anything we’ve gone through so far.’

‘Can we handle it?’

‘We can try.’ Vuilleumier grimaced and worked the controls again. The air in front of the tube was perfectly steady and calm, utterly unaware of the shock wave that was racing towards it. Even the last passage of the tube on the previous swing-round of the moon had been thousands of kilometres to one side of its present trajectory. Air immediately in front of the tube was compressed into a fluid layer only centimetres thick, forming a v-shaped shock wave at each point along the tube’s length. There was no way to get ahead of the tube without passing through that wing of savagely compressed and heated air; not unless Vuilleumier accepted a detour of many thousands of kilometres.

They passed to one side of the tube. It shone cherry-red along the leading edge, evidence of the frictional energies dissipated in its passage. But there was no sign of any harm being done to the alien machinery.

‘It’s being fed downwards,’ Thorn said. ‘But there isn’t anything down there. Just a lot of gas.’

‘Not all the way down,’ said Vuilleumier. ‘The gas turns into liquid hydrogen a few hundred kilometres down. Below that, there’s pure metallic hydrogen. And somewhere below that there’s a rocky core.’

‘Ana, if they wanted to take apart a planet like this to get at that rocky matter, have you any idea how they might go about it?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe we’re about to find out.’

They hit the transonic boundary. For a moment Thorn thought the ship would break up; that they had finally asked too much of it. The hull had creaked before; now - for an instant - he heard it actively scream. The console flared red and flickered out. For a horrible moment all was silent. Then they were through, ghosting in still air. The console stuttered back into life and a chorus of warning voices began to shriek out of the walls.

‘We’re through,’ Vuilleumier said. ‘In one piece, I think. But let’s not push our luck, Thorn ...’

‘I agree. But now that we’ve come all this way . . . well, it would be silly not to look a little deeper, wouldn’t it?’

‘No.’

‘If you want me to help you, I want to know what I’m getting myself into.’

‘The ship can’t take it.’

Thorn smiled. ‘It just took more crap than you said it would ever be able to take. Stop being such a pessimist.’

The Demarchist representative entered the white holding room and looked at him. Behind her stood three Ferrisville police, the ones he had surrendered to in the departure terminal, and four Demarchist soldiers. The latter had surrendered their firearms but still managed to look foreboding in their fiery red power-armour. Clavain felt old and fragile, knowing that he was completely at the mercy of his new hosts.

‘I am Sandra Voi,’ the woman said. ‘You must be Nevil Clavain. Why did you have me come here, Clavain?’

‘I’m in the process of defecting.’

‘That’s not what I mean. I mean why me in particular? According to the Convention officials you specifically asked for me.’

‘I thought you’d give me a fair hearing, Sandra. I used to know one of your relatives, you see. Who would she have been, your greatgrandmother? I can never get the hang of generations these days.’

The woman pulled up the other white chair and stationed herself in it, opposite Clavain. Demarchists pretended that their political system made rank an outmoded concept. Instead of captains they had shipmasters; instead of generals they had strategic planning specialists. Naturally, such specialisations required visual signifiers, but Voi would have frowned at any suggestion that the many bars and bands of colour across the breast of her tunic indicated anything as outmoded as military status.

‘There hasn’t been another Sandra Voi for four hundred years,’ she said.

‘I know. The last one died on Mars, during an attempt to negotiate peace with the Conjoiners.’

‘You’re talking ancient history now.’

‘Which doesn’t mean it isn’t true. Voi and I were part of the same peacekeeping mission. I defected to the Conjoiners shortly after she died, and I’ve been on their side ever since.’

The eyes of the younger Sandra Voi momentarily glazed over. Clavain’s implants sensed the scurry of data traffic in and out of her skull. He was impressed. Since the plague few Demarchists carried very much in the way of neural augmentation.

‘Our records don’t agree.’

Clavain raised an eyebrow. ‘They don’t?’

‘No. Our intelligence indicates that Clavain did not live for more than a century and a half after his defection. You can’t possibly be him.’

‘I left human space on an interstellar expedition and only returned recently. That’s why there hasn’t been much record of me lately. Does it matter, though? The Convention’s already verified that I’m a Conjoiner.’

‘You could be a trap. Why would you wish to defect?’

Again, she had surprised him. ‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Maybe you’ve been reading too many of our newspapers. If you have, I’ve got some real news for you: your side is about to win this war. A single spider defection won’t make any difference now.’

‘I never thought it would,’ Clavain said.

‘And?’

‘That’s not why I’d like to defect.’

Down, down they went, always remaining ahead of the transonic shock wave of the Inhibitor machinery. The smudge on the passive radar display - the thing that shadowed them at a distance of thirty thousand kilometres - remained present, fading in and out of clarity but never leaving them completely. The daylight grew steadily darker, until the sky overhead was only fractionally lighter than the unmoving black depths below. Ana Khouri turned off the spacecraft’s cabin illumination, hoping that it would make the exterior brighter, but the improvement was marginal. The only real source of light was the cherry-red slash of the tube’s leading edge, and even that was duller than it had been before. The tube moved at only twenty-five kilometres per second now, relative to the atmosphere: it had steepened its descent, too, plunging nearly vertically towards the transition zones where the atmosphere thickened to liquid hydrogen.

She winced as another pressure warning sounded. ‘We can’t go much deeper. I’m serious now. We’ll crush. It’s already fifty atmospheres outside, and that thing is still sitting on our tail.’

‘Just a little closer, Ana. Can we reach the transition zone?’

‘No,’ she said emphatically. ‘Not in this ship. She’s an airbreather. She’ll stall in liquid hydrogen, and then we’ll fall and be crushed by hull implosion. It’s not a nice way to go, Thorn.’

‘The tube doesn’t seem bothered by the pressure, does it? I think it probably goes a lot deeper. How much do you think they’ve laid already? One kilometre every four seconds, isn’t it? That’s not far off a thousand kilometres in an hour. By now there must be enough to loop around the planet quite a few times.’

‘We don’t know that that’s what’s happening.’

‘No, but we can make an educated guess. Do you know what I keep thinking of, Ana?’

‘I’m sure you’re going to tell me.’

‘Windings. Like in an electric motor. I could be wrong, of course.’ Thorn smiled at her.

He moved suddenly. She was not expecting it and for a moment - for all her soldier training - she was frozen in surprise. He was out of his seat, pushing himself towards her across the cabin. He had some weight, since they were moving at much less than orbital speed, but he still swung across with ease, his movements fluid and pre-planned. Gently, he pulled her out of the pilot’s position. She fought back, but Thorn was much stronger and knew enough to parry her defensive moves. It was not that she had forgotten her soldiering, but there was only so much advantage that technique could give, especially against an equally skilled opponent.

‘Easy, Ana, easy. I’m not going to hurt you.’

Before she knew what was happening, Thorn had her in the passenger seat. He forced her to sit on her hands, then tugged the crash webbing tight across her chest. He asked her if she could breathe, then tugged it tighter. She wriggled, but the webbing contracted snugly, holding her in place.

‘Thorn ...’ she said.

Thorn eased himself into the pilot’s seat. ‘Now. How shall we play this? Are you going to tell me everything I want to know, or do I have to supply some additional persuasion?’

He worked the controls. The ship lurched; alarms sounded.

‘Thorn . . .’

‘Sorry. It looked easy enough when I watched you do it. Maybe there’s a bit more to it than meets the eye, eh?’

‘You can’t fly this thing.’

‘I’m having a damned good go, aren’t I? Now ... what does this do? Let’s see ...’ There was another violent reaction from the ship. More alarms sounded. But, sluggishly, the ship had begun to answer his commands. Khouri saw the artificial horizon indicator tilt. They were banking. Thorn was executing a hard turn to starboard.

‘Eighty degrees ...’ he read off. ‘Ninety ... one hundred . . .’

‘Thorn, no. You’re taking us straight back towards the shock wave.’

‘That’s pretty much the idea. Do you think the hull will cope? You seemed to think it was already a little on the stressed side. Well, I suppose we’re about to find out, aren’t we?’

‘Thorn, whatever you’re planning—’

‘I’m not planning anything, Ana. I’m just trying to put us in a position of real and imminent danger. Isn’t that abundantly clear?’

She had another go at wriggling free, but it was futile. Thorn had been very clever. No wonder the bastard had eluded the government for so long. She had to admire him for that, even if her admiration was grudging. ‘We won’t make it,’ she said.

‘No, perhaps we won’t. And my flying won’t help matters, I think. Which makes it all the easier, then. Answers, that’s what I want.’

‘I’ve told you everything . . .’

‘You’ve told me precisely nothing. I want to know who you are. Do you know when I started having suspicions?’

‘No,’ she said, realising that he would do nothing until she answered.

‘It was Irina’s voice. I was certain I’d heard it before, you know. Well, finally I remembered. It was Ilia Volyova’s address to Resurgam, shortly before she started blasting colonies off the surface. It was a long time ago, but old wounds take a long time to heal. More than a family resemblance there, I’d say.’

‘You’ve got it all wrong, Thorn.’

‘Have I? Then are you going to enlighten me?’

More alarms sounded. Thorn had pulled their speed down, but they were still moving at several kilometres per second towards the shock wave. She hoped it was her imagination, but she thought she could see that slash of cherry-red coming at them through the blackness.

‘Ana . . . ?’ he asked again, his voice all sweetness and light.

‘Damn you, Thorn.’

‘Ah. Sounds like progress to me.’

‘Pull up. Turn us around.’

‘In a moment. Just as soon as I hear the magic words from you. A confession, that’s all I’m looking for.’

She breathed in deeply. Here it was, then. The ruination of all their slow and measured plans. They had bet on Thorn and Thorn had been cleverer than them. They should have seen it coming, really they should. And Volyova, damn her too, had been right. It had been a mistake ever allowing him anywhere near Nostalgia for Infinity. They should have found another way to convince him. Volyova should have ignored Khouri’s protests ...

‘Say the words, Ana.’

‘All right. All right, God damn it. She is the Triumvir. We told you a pack of fucking lies from word one. Happy now?’

Thorn did not answer immediately. To her gratitude, he took the time to swing the ship around. Acceleration pressed her even further into the couch as he applied thrust to outrun the shock wave. And from the blackness it came hurtling towards them, a livid line of red, like the bloody edge of an executioner’s sword. She watched it swell until the rear view was a wall of scarlet as bright as molten metal. The collision alarms whooped and the multilingual warning voices merged into a single agitated chorus. Then a background of sky started to close in on either side of the red line, like two iron-grey curtains. The thread began to diminish in width, falling behind them.

‘I think we made it,’ Thorn said.

‘Actually, I think we didn’t.’

‘What?’

She nodded at the radar display. There was now no sign of the smudge that had been behind them ever since they had entered Roc’s atmosphere, but a host of radar signatures were crowding in on all sides. There were at least a dozen new objects, and they lacked the transient quality of the earlier echo. They were closing at kilometres per second, clearly converging on Khouri’s ship.

‘I think we just provoked a response,’ she said, her own voice sounding much calmer than she had expected. ‘Looks like there is a threshold after all, and we just crossed it.’

‘I’ll get us up and out as quickly as possible.’

‘You think it’ll make any damned difference? They’re going to be here in about ten seconds. Guess you got the proof you wanted, Thorn. Either that or you’re about to get it. Enjoy the moment, because it might not last very long.’

He looked at her with what she thought was quiet admiration. ‘You’ve been here before, haven’t you?’

‘Here, Thorn?’

‘On the point of death. It doesn’t mean much to you.’

‘I’d rather be somewhere else, don’t get me wrong.’

The converging forms had transgressed the final concentric circle on the display. They were now within a few kilometres of the ship, slowing as they neared it. Khouri knew there was no longer any harm in directing the active sensors at the approaching things. Their position was already betrayed, and they would lose nothing by taking a closer look at the converging objects. They were approaching from all sides, and although there were still large gaps between them, it would have been utterly futile to attempt to run away. A minute ago the things had not been there at all; clearly, they were able to slip through the atmosphere as if it hardly existed. Thorn had put them into a steep climb, and while she would have done exactly the same thing, she knew it was not going to make any difference. They had come too close to the heart of things, and now they were going to pay for their curiosity, just as Sylveste had all those years ago.

The active radar returns were confused by the shifting forms of the approaching machines. Mass sensors registered phantom signals at the edge of their sensitivity, barely separable from the background of Roc’s own field. But the visual evidence was unequivocal. Discrete dark shapes were swimming towards the ship through the atmosphere. Swimming was the right word, Khouri realised, because that was exactly how it appeared: a squirming, flowing, undulating complexity of motion, the way an octopus moved through water. The machines were as large as her ship and formed of many millions of smaller elements, a slithering, restless dance of black cubes on many scales. Almost no detail was visible beyond the absolute shifting black of the silhouettes, but every now and then blue or mauve light flickered within the blocky masses, throwing this or that appendage into relief. Clouds of smaller black shapes attended each major assemblage, and as the assemblages neared each other they threw out extensions between each other, umbilical lines of flowing black daughter machines. Waves of mass pulsed between the main cores, and now and then one of the primaries fissioned or merged with its neighbour. The purple lightning continued to flicker between the inky shapes, occasionally forming a geometric shell around Khouri’s ship, before collapsing back to something which appeared much more random. Despite herself, despite the certain feeling that she was going to die, the approach was fascinating. It was also sickening: simply looking at the Inhibitor machines inspired a feeling of dreadful nausea, for she was apprehending something that had clearly never been shaped by human intelligence. It was breathtakingly strange, the way the machines moved, and in her heart she knew that Volyova and she had - if such a thing were possible - terribly underestimated their enemy. They had seen nothing yet.

The machines were now only a hundred metres from her ship. They formed a closing black shell, oozing tighter around their prey. The sky was being locked out, visible only between the tentacular filaments of the exchanging machines. Limned in violet arcs and sprays of lightning - quivering sheets and dancing baubles of contained plasma energy - Khouri saw thick trunks of shifting machinery probing inwards, obscenely and hungrily. The ship’s exhaust was still thrusting behind them, but the machines were quite oblivious to it, and it seemed to pass right through the shell.

‘Thorn?’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, with what sounded like genuine regret. ‘It’s just that I had to know. I’ve always been one to push things.’

‘I don’t really blame you. I might have done the same thing, if the tables were turned.’

‘That means we’d have both been stupid, Ana. It isn’t any excuse.’

The hull clanged, then clanged again. The whooping alarm changed its tone: no longer reporting imminent pressure collapse or a stall warning, but indicating that the hull was being damaged, prodded from outside. There was a vile metallic scraping sound, like nails dragged down tin, and the wide, grasping end of a trunk of Inhibitor machinery splayed itself across the cockpit windows. The circular end of the trunk squirmed with a moving mosaic of tiny thumb-sized black cubes, the swirling motion possessing a weird hypnotic quality. Khouri tried to reach the controls that would shutter the windows, imagining it might make one or two seconds’ difference.

The hull creaked. More black tentacles attached themselves. One by one the sensor displays began to blank out or haze with static.

‘They could have killed us by now ...’ Thorn said.

‘They could, but I think they want to know what we’re like.’

There was another sound, one she had been dreading. It was the squeal of metal being torn aside. Her ears popped as pressure fell within the ship, and she assumed that she would be dead a second or two later. To die by depressurisation was not the most desirable of deaths, but she imagined that it was preferable to being smothered by Inhibitor machinery. What would the grasping black shapes do when they reached her - dismantle her the same way they were pulling the ship apart? But just as she had formulated that consolatory thought, the sensation of pressure drop ceased and she realised that if there had been a hull rupture it had been brief.

‘Ana,’ Thorn said. ‘Look.’

The bulkhead door that led into the flight deck was a wall of rippling ink, like a suspended tidal wave of pure darkness. Khouri felt the breeze of that constant bustling motion, as if a thousand silent fans were being flicked back and forth. Only now and then did a pulse of pink or purple light strobe within the blackness, hinting at dreadful machine-filled depths. She sensed hesitation. The machines had reached this far into her ship, and they must have been aware that they had arrived at its delicate organic core.

Something began to emerge from the wall. It began as a domelike blister as wide across as Khouri’s thigh, and then it extended, taking on the form of a tree trunk as it probed further into the cabin. Its tip was a blunt nub like one extremity of a slime mould, but it waggled to and fro as if sniffing the air. A blurred haze of tiny black machines made the edge difficult to focus on. The process took place in silence, save for the occasional distant snap or crackle. The nub grew out from the wall until it was a metre long, and as many metres again from Khouri and Thorn. For a moment it ceased extending and swung to one side and then the other. Khouri saw a black thing the size of a bluebottle flit past her brow and then settle back into the main mass of the trunk. Then, with dire inevitability, the trunk bifurcated and resumed its extrusion. The split ends forked, one aiming for Khouri, the other for Thorn. It grew via oozing waves of cubes pulsing along the length of it, the cubes swelling or contracting before locking into their final positions.

‘Thorn,’ Khouri said. ‘Listen to me. We can destroy the ship.’

He nodded once. ‘What do I do?’

‘Free me and I’ll do it. It won’t accept the destruct order from you.’

He made to move, but had shifted barely an inch before the black tentacle had whipped out another appendage to pin him down. It was done with care - the machinery was clearly still unwilling to harm them inadvertently - but Thorn was now immobilised.

‘Nice try,’ Khouri said. The tips were only an inch from her. They had bifurcated and re-bifurcated on their final approach, so that now a many-fingered black hand was poised before her face, fingers - or appendages - ready to be plunged into eyes, mouth, nose, ears, even through skin and bone. The fingers were themselves split into tinier and tinier black spikes, vanishing into a grey-black bronchial haze.

The trunk pulled back an inch. Khouri closed her eyes, thinking the machinery was preparing itself to strike. Then she felt a sharp prick of coldness beneath her eyelids, a sting so quick and localised that it was hardly pain at all. A moment later she felt the same thing somewhere within her auditory canal, and an instant after that - though she had no real idea of how rapidly time was actually passing now - the Inhibitor machinery reached her brain. There was a torrent of sensation, confused feelings and images cascading by in rapid, random succession, followed by a sense that she was being unravelled and inspected like a long magnetic tape. She wanted to scream or make some recognisable human response, but she was pinned hard. Even her thoughts had become gelid, impeded by the invasive presence of the black machines. The tarlike mass had crept into every part of her, until there was almost no space left for the entity that had once thought of itself as Khouri. And yet enough remained to sense that even as the machine pushed itself into her there was a two-way flow of data. As it established communicational feeds into her skull, she became dimly cognisant of its smothering black vastness, extending beyond her head, back along the trunk, back through the ship and into the clump of machines that had surrounded the ship.

She even sensed Thorn, linked into the same information-gathering network. His own thoughts, such as they were, echoed hers precisely. He was paralysed and compressed, unable to scream or even imagine the release that would come from screaming. She tried to reach out to him, to at least let him know that she was still present and that somone else in the universe was aware of what he was going through. And at the same time she felt Thorn do likewise, so that they linked fingers through neural space, like two lovers drowning in ink. The process of being analysed continued, the blackness seeping into the oldest parts of her mind. It was the worst thing she had ever experienced, worse than any torture or simulation of torture that she had ever known on Sky’s Edge. It was worse than anything the Mademoiselle had done to her, and the only respite lay in the fact that she was only dwindlingly aware of her own identity. When that was gone she would be free.

And then something changed. At the limit of what she was feeling through the data-gathering channels, there was a disturbance on the periphery of the cloud that had englobed her ship. Thorn sensed it as well: she felt a pathetic flicker of hope reach her through the bifurcation. But there was nothing to be hopeful about. They were just feeling the machines regroup, ready for the next phase of the smothering process.

She was wrong.

She felt a third mind enter her thoughts, quite separate from Thorn’s. This mind was bell-clear and calm, and its thoughts remained unclotted by the oppressive black choke of the machinery. She sensed curiosity and not a little hesitation, and while she also sensed fear, she did not detect the outright terror that Thorn was radiating. The fear was only an extreme kind of caution. And at the same time she gained back a little of herself, as if the black crush had relented.

The third mind skirted closer to her own, and she realised, with as much shock as she was capable of registering, that it was a mind she knew. She had never encountered it on this level before, but the force of its personality was so pervasive that it was like a trumpet blast sounding a familiar refrain. It was the mind of a man and it was the mind of a man who had never had much time for doubt, or humility, or much in the way of compassion for the affairs of others. At the same time she detected the tiniest gleam of remorse and something that might even have been concern. But even as she came to that conclusion the mind snapped back, shrouding itself again, and she felt the powerful wake of its withdrawal.

She screamed, properly, for she was able to move her body again. In the same moment the trunk shattered, breaking apart with a high-pitched tinkle. When she opened her eyes she was surrounded by a cloud of jostling black cubes, tumbling in disarray. The black wall across the bulkhead was breaking up. She watched the cubes attempt to merge with each other, occasionally forming larger black aggregates that lasted only a second or so before they too broke apart. Thorn was no longer pinned to his seat. He moved, shoving aside black cubes, until he was able to release Khouri from the webbing.

‘Have you any idea what the hell just happened?’ he asked, slurring his words as he spoke.

‘I do,’ she said. ‘But I’m not sure if I believe it.’

‘Talk to me, Ana.’

‘Look, Thorn. Look outside.’

He followed her gaze. Beyond the ship, the surrounding black mass was experiencing the same inability to cohere as the cubes within the ship. Windows were opening back into empty sky, closing and then re-opening elsewhere. And there was, she realised, something else out there as well. It was within the rough black shell that encompassed the ship but not of it, and as it moved - for it appeared to be orbiting the ship, looping around it in lazy open curves - the coagulated black masses moved nimbly out of its way. The shape of the object was difficult to focus on, but the impression Khouri retained later was of a whirling iron-grey gyroscope, a roughly spherical thing made out of many spinning layers. At its core, or buried somewhere within it, was a flickering source of dark red light, like a carnelian. The object - it also made her think of a spinning marble - was perhaps a metre across, but because its periphery swelled and retracted as it spun, it was difficult to be certain. All Khouri knew, all she could be sure of, was that the object had not been there before, and that the Inhibitor machinery appeared strangely apprehensive of it.

‘It’s opening a window for us,’ Thorn said, wonderingly. ‘Look. It’s given us a way to escape.’

Khouri eased him from the pilot’s position. ‘Then let’s use it,’ she said. They nosed out of the swarm of Inhibitor machines and arced towards space. On the radar Khouri watched the shell fall behind, fearful that it would smother the flickering red marble and come after them again. But they were allowed to leave. It was only later that something came up hard and fast from behind, with the same tentative radar signature that they had seen before. But the object only zipped past them at frightening acceleration, heading out into interplanetary space. Khouri watched it fall out of range, heading in the general direction of Hades, the neutron star on the system’s edge.

But she had expected that.

Where did the great work come from? What had instigated it? The Inhibitors did not have access to that data. All that was clear was that the work was theirs to perform and theirs alone, and that the work was the single most important activity that had ever been instigated by an intelligent agency in the history of the galaxy, perhaps even in the history of the universe itself.

The nature of the work was simplicity itself. Intelligent life could not be allowed to spread across the galaxy. It could be tolerated, even encouraged, when it confined itself to solitary worlds or even solitary solar systems.

But it must not infect the galaxy.

Yet it was not acceptable to simply extinguish life wholesale. That would have been technologically feasible for any mature galactic culture, especially one that had the galaxy largely to itself. Artificial hypernovae could be kindled in stellar nurseries, sterilising blasts a million times more effective than supernovae. Stars could be steered and tossed into the event horizon of the sleeping supermassive black hole at the galaxy’s core, so that their disruption would fuel a cleansing burst of gamma rays. Binary neutron stars could be encouraged to collide by delicate manipulation of the local gravitational constant. Droves of self-replicating machines could be unleashed to rip worlds to rubble, in every single planetary system in the galaxy. In a million years, every old rocky world in the galaxy could have been pulverised. Prophylactic intervention in the protoplanetary discs out of which worlds coalesced could have prevented any more viable planets from forming. The galaxy would have choked in the dust of its own dead souls, glowing red across the megaparsecs.

All this could have been done.

But the point was not to extinguish life, rather to hold it in check. Life itself, despite its apparent profligacy, was held sacrosanct by the Inhibitors. Its ultimate preservation, most especially that of thinking life, was what they existed for.

But it could not be allowed to spread.

Their methodology, honed over millions of years, was simple. There were too many viable suns to watch all the time; too many worlds where simple life might suddenly bootstrap itself towards intelligence. So they established networks of triggers, puzzling artefacts dotted across the face of the galaxy. Their placement was such that an emergent culture was likely to stumble on one sooner rather than later. Equally, they were not intended to lure cultures into space inadvertently. They had to be tantalising, but not too tantalising.

The Inhibitors waited between the stars, listening for the signs that one of their glittering contraptions had attracted a new species.

And then, quickly and mindlessly, they converged on the site of the new outbreak.

The military shuttle Voi had arrived in was docked outside, clamped to the underside of Carousel New Copenhagen via magnetic grapples. Clavain was marched aboard and told where to sit. A black helmet was lowered over his head, with only a tiny glass viewing window in the front. It was intended to block neural signals, preventing him from interfering with ambient machinery. Their caution did not surprise him in the slightest. He was potentially valuable to them - in spite of Voi’s earlier comments to the contrary, any kind of defector might make some difference, even this late in the war - but as a spider he could also cause them considerable harm.

The military ship undocked and fell away from Carousel New Copenhagen. The windows in the armoured hull were quaintly fixed. Through the scratched and scuffed fifteen-centimetre-thick glass Clavain saw a trio of slim police craft shadowing them like pilot fish.

He nodded at the ships. ‘They’re taking this seriously.’

‘They’ll escort us out of Convention airspace,’ Voi said. ‘It’s normal procedure. We have very good relations with the Convention, Clavain. ’

‘Where are you taking me? Straight to Demarchist HQ?’

‘Don’t be silly. We’ll take you somewhere nice and secure and remote to begin with. There’s a small Demarchist camp on the far side of Marco’s Eye ... of course, you know all about our operations.’

Clavain nodded. ‘But not your precise debriefing procedures. Have you had to do many of these?’

The other person in the room was a male Demarchist, also of high status, whom Voi had introduced as Giles Perotet. He had a habit of constantly stretching the fingers of his gloves, one after the other, from hand to hand.

‘Two or three a decade,’ he said. ‘Certainly you are the first in a while. Do not expect the red-carpet treatment, Clavain. Our expectations may have been coloured by the fact that eight of the eleven previous defectors turned out to be spider agents. We killed them all, but not before valuable secrets had been lost to them.’

‘I’m not here to do that. There wouldn’t be much point, would there? The war is ours anyway.’

‘So you came to gloat, is that it?’ Voi asked.

‘No. I came to tell you something that will put the war into an entirely different perspective.’

Amusement ghosted across her face. ‘That’d be some trick.’

‘Does the Demarchy still own a lighthugger?’

Perotet and Voi exchanged puzzled glances before the man replied, ‘What do you think, Clavain?’

Clavain didn’t answer him for several minutes. Through the window he saw Carousel New Copenhagen diminishing, the vast grey arc of the rim revealing itself to be merely one part of a spokeless wheel. The wheel itself grew smaller until it was nearly lost against the background of the other habitats and carousels that formed the Rust Belt.

‘Our intelligence says you don’t,’ Clavain said, ‘but our intelligence could be wrong, or incomplete. If the Demarchy had to get its hands on a lighthugger at very short notice, do you think it could?’

‘What is this about, Clavain?’ Voi asked.

‘Just answer my question.’

Her face flared red at his insolence, but she held her temper well. Her voice remained calm, almost businesslike. ‘You know there are always ways and means. It just depends on the degree of desperation.’

‘I think you should start making plans. You will need a starship, more than one, if you can manage it. And troops and weapons.’

‘We’re not exactly in a position to spare resources, Clavain,’ Perotet said, removing one glove completely. His hands were milky white and very fine-boned.

‘Why? Because you will lose the war? You’re going to lose it anyway. It’ll just have to happen a little sooner than you were expecting.’

Perotet replaced the glove. ‘Why, Clavain?’

‘Winning this war is no longer the Mother Nest’s primary concern. Something else has taken precedent. They’re going through the motions of winning now because they don’t want you or anyone else to suspect the truth.’

Voi asked, ‘Which is?’

‘I don’t know all the details. I had to make a choice between staying to learn more and defecting while I had a chance to do so. It wasn’t an easy decision, and I didn’t have a lot of time for second thoughts.’

‘Just tell us what you do know,’ Perotet said. ‘We’ll decide if the information merits further investigation. We’ll find out what you know eventually, you realise. We have trawls, just like your own side. Maybe not as fast, maybe not as safe ... but they work for us. You’ll lose nothing by telling us something now.’

‘I’ll tell you all that I know. But it’s valueless unless you act on it.’ Clavain felt the military ship adjust its course. They were headed for Yellowstone’s only large moon, Marco’s Eye, which orbited just beyond the Ferrisville Convention’s jurisdictional limit.

‘Go ahead,’ Perotet said.

‘The Mother Nest has identified an external threat, one that concerns all of us. There are aliens out there, machinelike entities that suppress the emergence of technological intelligences. It’s why the galaxy is such an empty place. They’ve wiped it clean. I’m afraid we’re next on the list.’

‘Sounds like supposition to me,’ Voi said.

‘It isn’t. Some of our own deep-space missions have already encountered them. They are as real as you or I, and you have my word that they’re coming closer.’

‘We’ve managed fine until now,’ Perotet said.

‘Something we’ve done has alerted them. We may never know precisely what it was. All that matters is that the threat is real and the Conjoiners are fully aware of it. They do not think they can defeat it.’ He went on to tell them much the same story that he had already told Xavier and Antoinette about the Mother Nest’s evacuation fleet and the quest to recover the lost weapons.

‘These imaginary weapons,’ Voi asked. ‘Are we supposed to think that they’d make any practical difference against hostile aliens?’

‘I suppose if they were not considered to be of value, my people would not be so eager to recover them.’

‘And where do we come in?’

‘I’d like you to recover the weapons first. That’s why you’ll need a starship. You could leave a few weapons behind for Skade’s exodus fleet, but beyond that . . .’ Clavain shrugged. ‘I think they’d be better off in the control of orthodox humanity.’

‘You’re quite a turncoat,’ Voi said admiringly.

‘I’ve tried not to make a career out of it.’

The ship lurched. There had been no warning until that moment, but Clavain had flown in enough ships to know the difference between a scheduled and unscheduled manoeuvre.

Something was wrong. He could see it instantly in Voi and Perotet: all composure dropped from their faces. Voi’s expression became a mask, her throat trembling as she went into subvocal communication with the shuttle’s shipmaster. Perotet moved to one window, making sure he had at least one limb attached to a grappling point.

The vessel lurched again. A hard blue flash lit the cabin. Perotet looked away, his eyes squinting against the glare.

‘What’s happening?’ Clavain asked.

‘We’re being attacked.’ He sounded fascinated and appalled at the same time. ‘Someone just took out one of the Ferrisville escort craft.’

‘This shuttle looks lightly armoured,’ Clavain said. ‘If someone was attacking us, wouldn’t we be dead by now?’

Another flash. The shuttle lurched and yawed, the hull vibrating as the engine load intensified. The shipmaster was applying an evasive pattern.

‘That’s two down,’ Voi said from the other side of the cabin.

‘Would you mind releasing me from this chair?’ Clavain asked.

‘I see something approaching us,’ Perotet called. ‘Looks like another ship - maybe two. Unmarked. Looks civilian, but can’t be. Unless . . .’

‘Banshees?’ suggested Clavain.

They appeared not to hear him.

‘There’s something on this side too,’ Voi said. ‘Shipmaster doesn’t know what’s happening either.’ Her attention flicked to Clavain. ‘Could your side have got this close to Yellowstone?’

‘They want me back pretty badly,’ Clavain said. ‘I suppose anything’s possible. But this is against every rule of war.’

‘Those could still be spiders,’ Voi said. ‘If Clavain’s right, then the rules of war don’t apply any more.’

‘Can you retaliate?’ Clavain asked.

‘Not here. Our weapons are electronically pacified inside Convention airspace.’ Perotet unhooked from one restraint and scudded to another on the far wall. ‘The other escort’s damaged - she must have taken a partial hit. She’s outgassing and losing navigational control. She’s falling behind us. Voi, how long until we’re back in the war zone?’

Her eyes glazed again. It was as if she had been stunned momentarily. ‘Four minutes to the frontier, then weps will depacify.’

‘You haven’t got four minutes,’ Clavain said. ‘Is there a spacesuit aboard this thing, by any chance?’

Voi looked at him oddly. ‘Of course. Why?’

‘Because it’s pretty obvious that it’s me they want. No sense in us all dying, is there?’

They showed him to the spacesuit locker. The suits were of Demarchist design, all ribbed silvery-red metal, and while they were neither more nor less technologically advanced than Conjoiner suits, everything worked differently on them. Clavain could not have put the suit on without the assistance of Voi and Perotet. Once the helmet had latched shut, the faceplate border lit up with a dozen unfamiliar status read-outs, worming traces and shifting histograms labelled with acronyms that meant nothing to Clavain. Periodically a small, polite feminine voice would whisper something in his ear. Most of the traces were green rather than red, which he took to be a good sign.

‘I keep thinking this must be a trap,’ Voi said. ‘Something you’d always planned. That you meant to come aboard our ship and then be rescued. Perhaps you’ve done something to us, or planted something ...’

‘Everything I told you was true,’ Clavain said. ‘I don’t know who those people outside are, and I don’t know what they want with me. They could be Conjoiners, but if they are, their arrival’s nothing I’ve planned.’

‘I wish I could believe you.’

‘I admired Sandra Voi. I hoped that my knowing her might help my cause with you. I was perfectly sincere about that.’

‘If they are Conjoiners . . . will they kill you?’

‘I don’t know. I think they might have done that already, if that was what they wanted. I don’t think Skade would have spared you, but perhaps I’m misjudging her. If indeed it is Skade ...’ Clavain shuffled into the airlock. ‘I’d best be going. I hope they leave you alone once they see I’m outside.’

‘You’re scared, aren’t you?’

Clavain smiled. ‘Is it that obvious?’

‘It makes me think you might not be lying. The information you gave us ...’

‘You really should act on it.’

He stepped into the lock. Voi did the rest. The traces on the faceplate registered the shift to vacuum. Clavain heard his suit creak and click in unfamiliar ways as it adjusted to space. The outer door heaved open on heavy pistons. He could see nothing but a rectangle of darkness. No stars; no worlds; no Rust Belt. Not even the marauding ships.

It always took courage to step out of any spacecraft, most especially in the absence of any means of returning. Clavain judged that single footstep and push-off to be amongst the two or three hardest things he had ever done in his life.

But it had to be done.

He was outside. He turned slowly, the claw-shaped Demarchist shuttle coming into view and then passing by him. It was unharmed, save for one or two scorch marks on the hull where it had been struck by scalding fragments from the escort ships. On the sixth or seventh turn the engines pulsed and the shuttle began to put increasing distance between itself and him. Good. There was no sense sacrificing himself if Voi did not take advantage of it.

He waited. Perhaps four minutes passed before he became aware of the other ships. Evidently they had moved away after the attack. There were three of them, as Perotet and Voi had thought.

Their hulls were black, stencilled with neon skulls, eyes and sharks’ teeth. Now and then a thruster aperture would bark a pulse of steering gas, and the flash would pick out more details, limning the sleek curves of transatmospheric surfaces and the cowled muzzles of retractable weapons or hinged grappling gear. The weapons could be packed away and the ships would look innocent enough: sleek rich kids’ toys, but nothing you would bet on against armed Convention escorts.

One of the three banshees broke from the pack and loomed large. A yellow-lit airlock irised open in the belly of her hull. Two figures bustled out, black as space themselves. They jetted towards Clavain and braked expertly when they were on the point of colliding with him. Their spacesuits were like their ships: civilian in origin but augmented with armour and weapons. They made no effort to speak to him on the suit channel; all he heard as he was snared and taken aboard the black ship was the repetitious soft voice of the suit subpersona.

There was just room for the three of them in the belly airlock. Clavain looked for markings on the suits of the other two, but even up close they were perfectly black. The faceplate visors were heavily tinted, so that all he caught was the occasional flash of an eye.

His status indicators shifted again, registering the return of air pressure. The inner door irised open and he was pushed forwards into the main body of the black ship. The spacesuited pair followed him. Once they were inside, their helmets detached themselves automatically and flew away to storage points. Two men had brought him aboard the ship. They could easily have been twins, even down to the nearly identical broken nose on each face. One of the men had a gold ring through one eyebrow, the other through the lobe of one ear. Both were bald except for an exceptionally narrow line of dyed-green hair that bisected their skulls from temple to nape. They wore wraparound tortoiseshell goggles and neither man had any trace of a mouth.

The one with the ring through his eyebrow motioned to Clavain that he should remove his own helmet. Clavain shook his head, unwilling to do that until he was certain that he was in breathable air. The man shrugged and reached for something racked on the wall. It was a bright-yellow axe.

Clavain raised a hand and began to fiddle with the connecting latch of the Demarchist suit. He could not find the release mechanism. After a moment the man with the pierced ear shook his head and brushed Clavain’s hand aside. He worked the latch and the soft voice in Clavain’s ear became shriller, more insistent. The status displays flicked mostly into red.

The helmet came off with a gasp of air. Clavain’s ears popped. The pressure on the black ship was not quite Demarchist standard. He breathed cold air, his lungs working hard.

‘Who ... who are you?’ he asked, when he had the energy for words.

The man with the pierced eyebrow replaced the yellow axe on the wall. He drew a finger across his own throat.

Then another voice, one that Clavain did not recognise, said, ‘Hello.’

Clavain looked around. The third person also wore a spacesuit, though it was much less cumbersome than the suits worn by her fellows. Despite its bulk she still managed to appear thin and spare. She hovered within the frame of a bulkhead door, resting calmly with her head cocked slightly to one side. Perhaps it was the play of light on her face, but Clavain thought he saw ghostly blades of faded black against the perfect white of her skin.

‘I hope the Talkative Twins treated you well, Mr Clavain.’

‘Who are you?’ Clavain said again.

‘I am Zebra. That’s not my real name, of course. You won’t ever need to know my real name.’

‘Who are you, Zebra? Why have you done this?’

‘Because I was told to. What did you expect?’

‘I didn’t expect anything. I was trying ...’ He paused and waited until his breath had returned. ‘I was trying to defect.’

‘We know.’

‘We?’

‘You’ll find out soon enough. Come with me, Mr Clavain. Twins, secure and prepare for high-burn. The Convention will be swarming like flies by the time we get back to Yellowstone. It’s going to be an interesting trip home.’

‘I’m not worth killing innocent people for.’

‘No one died, Mr Clavain. The two Convention escorts we destroyed were remotes, slaved to the third. We wounded the third, but its pilot won’t have been harmed. And we conspicuously avoided harming the zombies’ shuttle. Did they make you step outside, I wonder?’

He followed her forwards, through the bulkhead into a flight deck area. There was only one other person aboard as far as Clavain could tell: a wizened-looking man strapped into the pilot’s position. He was not wearing a suit. His ancient age-spotted hands gripped the controls like prehensile twigs.

‘What do you think?’ Clavain asked.

‘It’s possible they might have, but I think it more likely that you chose to leave.’

‘It doesn’t matter now, does it? You’ve got me.’

The ancient man glanced at Clavain with only a flicker of interest. ‘Normal insertion, Zebra, or do we take the long way home?’

‘Follow the normal corridor, Manoukhian, but be ready to deviate. I don’t want to engage the Convention again.’

Manoukhian, if that was indeed his name, nodded and applied pressure to the ivory-handled control sticks. ‘Get the guest strapped down, Zebra. You too.’

The striped woman nodded. ‘Twins? Help me secure Mr Clavain.’

The two men shifted Clavain’s suited form into a contoured acceleration couch. He let them do whatever they wanted; he was too weak to offer more than token resistance. His mind probed the immediate cybernetic environment of the spacecraft, and while his implants sensed something of the data traffic through the control networks, there was nothing he could influence. The people were also beyond his reach. He did not even think any of them had implants.

‘Are you the banshees?’ Clavain asked.

‘Sort of, but not exactly. The banshees are a bunch of thuggish pirates. We do things with a little more finesse. But their existence gives us the cover we need for our own activities. And you?’ The stripes on her face bunched as she smiled. ‘Are you really Nevil Clavain, the Butcher of Tharsis?’

‘You didn’t hear that from me.’

‘That’s what you told the Demarchists. And those kids in Copenhagen. We have spies everywhere, you see. There’s not a lot that escapes us.’

‘I can’t prove I’m Clavain. But then why should I bother?’

‘I think you are,’ Zebra said. ‘I hope you are, anyway. It would be such a letdown if you turned out to be an impostor. My boss wouldn’t be at all happy.’

‘Your boss?’

‘The man we’re on our way to meet,’ Zebra said.

TWENTY-ONE

When they were safely clear of the atmosphere and the carnelian-red marble had vanished from the extreme range of her ship’s radar, Khouri found the courage to take hold of one of the black cubes that had been left behind when the main mass of Inhibitor machinery had fragmented. The cube was shockingly cold to the touch, and when she let go of it she left behind two thin films of detached flesh on opposite faces of the cube, like pink fingerprints. Her fingertips were now red-raw and smooth. For a moment she thought the removed skin would stay adhered to the smooth black sides, but after a few seconds the two sheets of flesh peeled away of their own accord, forming delicate translucent flakes like insects’ discarded wings. The cube’s cold black sides were as pitilessly dark and unmarred as before. But she noticed that the cube was shrinking, the contraction so odd and unexpected that her mind interpreted it as the cube receding into an impossible distance. All around her, the other cubes were echoing the contraction, their size diminishing by a half with every second that passed.

Within a minute there was nothing left in the cabin but films of grey-black ash. She even felt ash accumulate at the corners of her eyes, like a sudden attack of sleepy dust, and was reminded that the cubes had reached into her head before the marble had arrived.

‘Well, you got your demonstration,’ she said to Thorn. ‘Was it worth it, just to make a point?’

‘I had to know. But I couldn’t know what was going to happen.’

Khouri rubbed circulation back into her hands where they had grown numb. It was good to be out of the restraint webbing that Thorn had put her in. He apologised for that, without very much in the way of conviction. She had to admit that she would never have confessed to the truth without such extreme coercion.

‘What did happen, by the way?’ Thorn added.

‘I don’t know. Not all of it anyway. We provoked a response, and I’m pretty sure we were about to die, or at least to be swallowed up by that machinery.’

‘I know. I had that feeling as well.’

They looked at each other, conscious that the period of union in the Inhibitor data-gathering network had permitted them a level of intimacy neither had expected. They had shared very little other than fear, but Thorn at least had been shown that her fear was every bit as intense as his own, and that the Inhibitor attack had not been something she had arranged for his benefit. But there had been something more than fear, hadn’t there? There had been concern for each other’s welfare. And when the third mind had arrived, there had also been something very close to remorse.

‘Thorn . . . did you feel the other mind?’ Khouri asked.

‘I felt something. Something other than you, and something other than the machinery.’

‘I know who it was,’ she said, knowing that it was far too late for lies and evasion now, and that Thorn needed to be told as much of the truth as she understood. ‘At least, I think I recognised him. The mind was Sylveste’s.’

‘Dan Sylveste?’ he asked cautiously.

‘I knew him, Thorn. Not well, and not for long, but enough to recognise him again. And I know what happened to him.’

‘Start at the beginning, Ana.’

She rubbed the grit from the edge of her eye, hoping that the machinery was truly inert and not simply sleeping. Thorn was right. Her admission had been the first crack in an otherwise perfect façade. But the crack could not be unmade. It would spread, extending fracturing fingers. All she could offer now was damage limitation.

‘Everything you think you know about the Triumvir is wrong. She isn’t the maniacal tyrant that the populace thinks. The government built up her image. It needed a demon, a hate figure. If the people hadn’t had the Triumvir to hate, they would have directed their anger, their sense of frustration, at the government itself. That couldn’t be allowed to happen.’

‘She murdered a whole settlement.’

‘No ...’ She was suddenly weary. ‘No. It didn’t happen like that. She just made it seem that way, don’t you understand? Nobody actually died.’

‘And you can be sure of that, can you?’

‘I was there.’

The hull creaked and reconfigured itself again. Shortly they would be outside the electromagnetic influence of the gas giant. The Inhibitor processes continued unabated: the slow laying of the sub-atmospheric tubes, the building of the great orbital arc. What had just happened within Roc had made no difference to that grander scheme.

‘Tell me about it, Ana. Is that really your name, or is it another layer of untruth that I need to peel back?’

‘It is my name,’ she said. ‘But Vuilleumier isn’t. That was a cover. It was a colonist name. We created a history for me, the necessary past that enabled me to infiltrate the government. My true name is Khouri. And yes, I was part of the Triumvir’s crew. I came here aboard Nostalgia for Infinity. We came to find Sylveste.’

Thorn folded his arms. ‘Well, now we’re finally getting somewhere. ’

‘The crew wanted Sylveste, that’s all. They had no grudge against the colony. They used misinformation to make you think that they were more willing to use force than was really the case. But Sylveste double-crossed us. He needed a way to explore the neutron star and the thing in orbit around it, the Cerberus/Hades pair. He persuaded the Ultras to help him with their ship.’

‘And afterwards? What happened then? Why did the two of you come back to Resurgam if you had a starship to yourselves?’

‘There was trouble on the ship, as you guessed. Serious fucking trouble.’

‘A mutiny?’

Khouri bit her lip and nodded. ‘Three of us, I suppose, turned against the rest. Ilia and myself, and Sylveste’s wife, Pascale. We didn’t want Sylveste to explore the Hades pair.’

‘Pascale? As in Pascale Girardieau, you mean?’

Khouri remembered that Sylveste’s wife had been the daughter of one of the most powerful colonial politicians; the man whose regime had taken power after Sylveste was deposed for his beliefs.

‘I didn’t know her that well. She’s dead now. Well, sort of.’

‘Sort of?’

‘This isn’t going to be easy, Thorn. You’ll just have to accept what I say, understand? No matter how insane or unlikely it sounds. Although given what’s just happened, I have a feeling you’ll be more receptive than before.’

He touched a finger to his lip. ‘Try me.’

‘Sylveste and his wife entered Hades.’

‘You mean the other object, surely? Cerberus?’

‘No,’ she said emphatically. ‘I mean Hades. They entered the neutron star, although it turned out that it’s a lot more than just a neutron star. It’s not really a neutron star at all, actually; more a kind of giant computer, left behind by aliens.’

He shrugged. ‘Like you say, it’s not as if I haven’t seen some strange things today. And? What happened next?’

‘Sylveste and his wife are inside the computer, running like programs. Like alpha-levels, I guess.’ She raised a finger, anticipating his point. ‘I know this, Thorn, because I took a stroll inside it myself. I encountered Sylveste, after he’d been mapped into Hades. Pascale too. As a matter of fact, there’s probably a copy of me in there as well. But I - this me - didn’t stay. I came back out here into the real universe, and I haven’t been back since. Matter of fact, I’m not planning on ever going back. There’s no easy way into Hades, not unless you count dying by being ripped apart by gravitational tidal stresses.’

‘But you think the mind we met was Sylveste’s?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said, sighing. ‘Sylveste’s been inside Hades for subjective centuries, Thorn - subjective aeons, probably. What happened to us all sixty years ago must just be a dim, distant memory from the dawn of time for him. He’s had time to evolve beyond anything our imaginations can deal with. And he’s immortal, since nothing within Hades has to die. I can’t guess how he’d act now, whether we’d even recognise his mind. But it sure as hell felt like Sylveste to me. Maybe he was able to recreate himself the way he used to be, just so I’d know what it was that saved us.’

‘He’d take an interest in us?’

‘He’s never shown any sign of it before. But then again, nothing very much has happened in the outside world since he was mapped into Hades. But now, all of a sudden, the Inhibitors have arrived and they’ve started ripping the place up. Information must still be reaching him inside Hades, even if it’s only on an emergency basis. But think about it, Thorn. There is some serious shit going down here. It might even affect Sylveste. We can’t know that, but we can’t say for sure it isn’t true either.’

‘So what was that thing?’

‘An envoy, I suppose. A chunk of Hades, sent out to gather information. And Sylveste sent a copy of himself along with it. The envoy learned what it could, buzzed around the machinery, shadowed us, and then headed back to Hades. Presumably when it gets there it’ll merge back into the matrix. Maybe it was never totally disconnected - there could have been a filament of nuclear matter a single quark wide stretching all the way from the marble back to the edge of the system, and we’d never have known it.’

‘Go back a bit. What happened after you left Hades? Did Ilia come with you?’

‘No. She was never mapped into the matrix. But she survived and we met up again in orbit around Hades, inside Nostalgia for Infinity. The logical thing to have done would have been to get away from this system, a long way away, but it wasn’t happening. The ship was, well, not exactly damaged, but changed. It had suffered a kind of psychotic episode. It didn’t want to have any further dealings with the external universe. It was all we could do to get it back to the inner system, within an AU of Resurgam.’

‘Hm.’ Thorn had his chin propped on his knuckle. ‘This gets better, it really does. The odd thing is, I actually think you might be telling the truth. If you were going to lie, you’d at least come up with something that made sense.’

‘It does make sense, you’ll see.’

She told him the rest of it, Thorn listening quietly and patiently, nodding occasionally and asking her to clarify certain aspects of her story. She told him that everything they had already told him about the Inhibitors was the truth in so far as they knew it, and that the threat was as real as they had claimed.

‘That much I think you’ve convinced me of,’ Thorn said.

‘Sylveste brought them down, unless they were already on their way here. That’s why he might still feel some obligation to protect us, or at least take a passing interest in the external universe. The thing around Hades was a kind of trigger, we think. Sylveste knew there was risk in what he did, but he didn’t care.’ Khouri scowled, feeling a surge of anger. ‘Fucking arrogant scientist. I was supposed to kill him, you know. That’s why I was on that ship in the first place.’

‘Another delicious complication.’ He nodded approvingly. ‘Who sent you?’

‘A woman from Chasm City. Called herself the Mademoiselle. She and Sylveste went years back. She knew what he was up to, and that he had to be stopped. That was my job. Trouble was, I fucked up.’

‘You don’t look like the sort to commit cold-blooded murder.’

‘You don’t know me, Thorn. Not at all.’

‘Not yet, perhaps.’ He looked at her long and hard until, with some reluctance, she turned away from his gaze. He was a man she felt attracted to and she knew that he was a man who believed in something. He was strong and brave - she had seen that for herself, in Inquisition House. And it was true, even if she did not necessarily want to admit it, that she had engineered this situation with some inkling of how it might play out, from the moment she had insisted that they bring Thorn aboard. But there was no escaping the single painful truth that continued to define her life, even after so much had happened. She was a married woman.

Thorn added, ‘But there’s always time, as they say.’

‘Thorn . . .’

‘Keep talking, Ana. Keep talking.’ Thorn’s voice was very soft. ‘I want to hear it all.’

Later, when they had put a light-minute between themselves and the gas giant, the console signalled an incoming tight-beam transmission relayed from Nostalgia for Infinity. Ilia must have tracked Khouri’s ship with deep-look sensors, waiting until there was sufficient angular separation between it and the Inhibitor machines. Even with the relay drones she was deeply anxious not to compromise her position.

‘I see you are on your way home,’ she said, intense displeasure etched into every word. ‘I see also that you went much closer to the heart of their activity than we agreed. That is not good. Not good at all.’

‘She doesn’t sound happy,’ Thorn whispered.

‘What you did was exceptionally dangerous. I just hope you learned something for your efforts. I demand that you make all haste back to the starship. We mustn’t detain Thorn from his urgent work on Resurgam ... nor the Inquisitor from her duties in Cuvier. I will have more to say on this matter when you return.’ She paused before adding, ‘Irina out.’

‘She still doesn’t know that I know,’ Thorn said.

‘I’d better tell her.’

‘That doesn’t sound terribly wise to me, Ana.’

She looked at him. ‘No?’

‘Not just yet. We don’t know how she’d take it. Probably better that we act as if I still think . . . et cetera.’ He made a spiralling gesture with his forefinger. ‘Don’t you agree?’

‘I kept something from Ilia once before. It was a serious mistake.’

‘This time you’ll have me on your side. We can break it to her gently once we’re safe and sound aboard the ship.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

Thorn narrowed his eyes playfully. ‘It will work out in the end, I promise you that. All you have to do is trust me. That isn’t so hard, is it? After all, it’s no more than you asked of me.’

‘The trouble was we were lying.’

He touched her arm, a contact that might have seemed accidental had he not prolonged it for several artful seconds. ‘We’ll just have to put that behind us, won’t we?’

She reached over and delicately removed his hand, which closed gently around her own, and for a moment they were frozen like that. Khouri was conscious of her own breathing. She looked at Thorn, knowing full well what she wanted and knowing that he wanted it too.

‘I can’t do this, Thorn.’

‘Why not?’ He spoke as if there were no valid objection she could possibly raise.

‘Because ...’ She slipped her hand from his. ‘Because of what I still am. Because of a promise I made to someone.’

‘Who?’ Thorn asked.

‘My husband.’

‘I’m sorry. I never thought for a moment that you might be married.’ He sat back in his seat, putting a sudden distance between them. ‘I don’t mean that in an insulting way. It’s just one minute you’re the Inquisitor, the next you’re an Ultra. Neither exactly fitted my preconceptions of a married woman.’

She raised a hand. ‘It’s all right.’

‘Who is he, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘It isn’t that simple, Thorn. I honestly wish it was.’

‘Tell me. Please. I do want to know.’ He paused, perhaps reading something in her expression. ‘Is your husband dead, Ana?’

‘It isn’t that simple, either. My husband was a soldier. I used to be one as well. We were both soldiers on Sky’s Edge, in the Peninsula wars. I’m sure you’ve heard of our quaint little civil dispute.’ She did not wait for his answer. ‘We were fighting together. We were wounded and shipped into orbit unconscious. But something went wrong. I was misidentified, mis-tagged, put on the wrong hospital ship. I still don’t know all the details. I ended up being loaded aboard a bigger ship heading out-system. A lighthugger. By the time the error was discovered I was around Epsilon Eridani, Yellowstone.’

‘And your husband?’

‘I still don’t know. At the time I was led to think that he’d been left behind around Sky’s Edge. Thirty, forty years, Thorn - that’s how long he’d have had to wait, even if I’d managed to get on a ship making the immediate return trip.’

‘What kind of longevity therapies did you have on Sky’s Edge?’

‘None at all.’

‘So there would have been a good chance of your husband being dead by the time you got back?’

‘He was a soldier. Life expectancy in a freeze/thaw battalion was already pretty damned short. And anyway, there wasn’t any ship headed straight back.’ She rubbed her eyes and sighed. ‘That was what I was told had happened to him. But I still don’t know for sure. He might have come with me on the same ship; everything else might have been a lie.’

Thorn nodded. ‘So your husband might still be alive, but in the Yellowstone system?’

‘Yes - supposing he ever got there, and supposing he didn’t ship back on the next outbound ship. But even then he’d be old. I spent a long time frozen in Chasm City before I came here. And I’ve spent even more time frozen since then, while Ilia and I waited for the wolves.’

Thorn was silent for a minute. ‘So you’re married to a man you still love, but who you probably won’t ever see again?’

‘Now you understand why it isn’t easy for me,’ she said.

‘I do,’ Thorn said quietly, with something close to reverence in his voice. ‘I do, and I’m sorry.’ Then he touched her hand again. ‘But maybe it’s still time to let go of the past, Ana. We all have to one day.’

It took much less time to reach Yellowstone than Clavain had expected. He wondered if Zebra had drugged him, or whether the thin cold air in the cabin had caused him to slip into unconsciousness ... but there appeared to be no gap in the sequence of his thoughts. The time had simply passed very rapidly. Three or four times Manoukhian and Zebra had spoken quietly and urgently between themselves, and shortly thereafter Clavain had felt the ship change its vector, presumably to avoid another tangle with the Convention. But there had never been any tangible sense of panic.

He had the impression that Zebra and Manoukhian regarded another conflict as something to be avoided out of a sense of decorum or neatness, rather than a pragmatic matter of survival. Whatever else they were, they were professionals.

The ship looped above the Rust Belt, avoiding it by many thousands of kilometres, and then made a spiralling approach towards Yellowstone’s cloud layers. The planet swelled, filling every window within Clavain’s field of view. A skin of neon-pink ionisation gases surrounded the ship as she cleaved into atmosphere. Clavain felt his gravity return after hours of weightlessness. It was, he reminded himself, the first actual gravity that he had felt in years.

‘Have you visited Chasm City before, Mr Clavain?’ Zebra asked him, when the black ship had completed its atmospheric insertion.

‘Once or twice,’ he said. ‘Not lately. I take it that’s where we’re going?’

‘Yes, but I can’t say where exactly. You’ll have to find out for yourself. Manoukhian, can you hold her steady for the next minute or so?’

‘Take your time, Zeb.’

She unbuckled from her acceleration couch and stood over Clavain. It appeared that the stripes were zones of distinct pigmentation rather than tattoos or skin paint. Zebra flipped open a locker and slid out a metallic-blue box the size of a medical kit. She opened it and dithered her finger over the contents, like someone puzzling over a box of chocolates. She pulled out a hypodermic device.

‘I’m going to put you under, Mr Clavain. While you’re unconscious I’ll run some neurological tests, just to verify that you really are a Conjoiner. I won’t wake you until we’ve arrived at our destination.’

‘There’s no need to do that.’

‘Ah, but there is. My boss is very protective of his secrets. He’ll want to decide for himself what you get to know.’ Zebra leaned over him. ‘I can get this into your neck, I think, without getting you out of that suit.’

Clavain saw that there was no point in arguing. He closed his eyes and felt the cold tip of the hypodermic prick his skin. Zebra was good, no doubt about that. He felt a second flush of cold as the drug hit his bloodstream.

‘What does your boss want with me?’ he asked.

‘I don’t think he really knows yet,’ Zebra said. ‘He’s just curious. You can’t blame him for that, can you?’

Clavain had already willed his implants to neutralise whatever agent Zebra had injected into him. There might be a slight loss of clarity as the medichines filtered his blood - he might even lapse into brief unconsciousness - but it would not last. Conjoiner medichines were good against any . . .

He was sitting upright in an elegant chair fashioned from scrolls of rough black iron. The chair was anchored to something tremendously solid and ancient. He was on planetary ground, no longer in Zebra’s ship. The blue-grey marble beneath the chair was fabulously veined, streaked and whorled like the gas flows in some impossibly gaudy interstellar nebula.

‘Good afternoon, Mr Clavain. How are you feeling now?’

It was not Zebra’s voice this time. Footsteps padded across the marble without haste. Clavain looked up, taking in more of his surroundings.

He had been brought to what appeared to be an immense conservatory or greenhouse. Between pillars of veined black marble were finely mullioned windows that reached tens of metres high before curving over to intersect above him. Trellised sheets climbed nearly to the apex of the structure, tangled with vivid green vines. Between the trellises were many large pots or banks of earth that held too many kinds of plant for Clavain to identify, beyond a few orange trees and what he thought was some kind of eucalyptus. Something like a willow loomed over his seat, its dangling vegetation forming a fine green curtain that effectively blocked his vision in a number of directions. Ladders and spiral staircases provided access to aerial walkways spanning and encircling the conservatory. Somewhere, out of Clavain’s field of view, water trickled constantly, as if from a miniature fountain. The air was cool and fresh rather than cold and thin.

The man who had spoken stepped softly before him. He was Clavain’s height and dressed in similarly dark clothes - Clavain had been divested of his spacesuit - though there the resemblance ended. The man’s apparent physiological age was two or three decades younger than Clavain’s, his slick backcombed black hair merely feathered by grey. He was muscular, but not to the point where it looked ridiculous. He wore narrow black trousers and a knee-length black gown cinched above his waist. His feet and chest were bare, and he stood before Clavain with his arms folded, looking down on him with an expression somewhere between amusement and mild disappointment.

‘I asked ...’ the man began again.

‘You have obviously examined me,’ Clavain said. ‘What more can I tell you that you don’t already know?’

‘You seem displeased.’ The man spoke Canasian, but with a trace of stiffness.

‘I don’t know who you are or what you want, but you have no idea of the damage you have done.’

‘Damage?’ the man asked.

‘I was in the process of defecting to the Demarchists. But of course you know all that, don’t you?’

‘I’m not sure how much Zebra told you,’ the man said. ‘It’s true we know something about you, but not as much as we’d like to know. That’s why you’re here now, as our guest.’

‘Guest?’ Clavain snorted.

‘Well, that may be stretching the usual definition of the term, I admit. But I do not want you to consider yourself our prisoner. You are not. Nor are you our hostage. It is entirely possible that we will decide to release you very shortly. What harm will have been done then?’

‘Tell me who you are,’ Clavain said.

‘I will in a moment. But first, why don’t you come with me? I think you will find the view most rewarding. Zebra told me this wasn’t your first visit to Chasm City, but I am not sure you’ll have ever seen it from quite this perspective.’ The man leaned down and offered Clavain his hand. ‘Come, please. I assure you I will answer all of your questions.’

‘All of them?’

‘Most of them.’

Clavain pushed himself from the iron seat with the man’s assistance. He realised that he was still a little weak, now that he had to stand on his own, but he was able to walk without difficulty, his own bare feet cold against the marble. He remembered that he had removed his shoes before getting into the Demarchist spacesuit.

The man led him to one of the spiral staircases. ‘Can you manage this, Mr Clavain? It’s worth it. The windows are a little dusty below.’

Clavain followed the man up the rickety spiral staircase until they reached one of the aerial walkways. It wound its way through panes of trelliswork until Clavain lost all sense of direction. From the vantage point of his seat he had been aware only of indistinct shapes beyond the windows and a pale ochre light that suffused everything with its own melancholic glow, but now he saw the view more clearly. The man ushered him to a balustrade.

‘Behold, Mr Clavain: Chasm City. A place I have to come to know and, while not actually love, perhaps not to detest with quite the same missionary zeal as when I first arrived.’

‘You’re not from here?’ Clavain asked.

‘No. Like you I have travelled far and wide.’

The city crawled away in all directions, festering into a distant urban haze. There were not more than two dozen buildings taller than the one they were in, although some of those were very much taller, plunging into overlying cloud so that their tops were invisible. Clavain saw the dark, distant line of the encircling rim wall looming over the haze many tens of kilometres away. Chasm City was built inside a caldera which itself contained a gaping hole in Yellowstone’s crust. The city surrounded the great belching chasm, teetering on the edge, thrusting clawlike taplines down into the depths. Structures leaned shoulder to shoulder, intertwined and fused into deliriously strange shapes. The air was infested with aerial traffic, a constant shifting mass that made the eye struggle to stay in focus. It seemed quite impossible that there could be that many journeys to be made at any one time, that many vital errands and deputations. But Chasm City was vast. The aerial traffic represented a microscopic portion of the real human activity taking place beneath the spires and towers, even in wartime.

It had been different, once. The city had seen three approximate phases. The longest had been the Belle Époque, when the Demarchists and their presiding families had held absolute power. Back then the city had sweltered under the eighteen merged domes of the Mosquito Net. All the power and chemistry that the city needed had been drawn from the chasm itself. Within the domes, the Demarchists had pushed their mastery of matter and information to its logical conclusion. Their longevity experiments had given them biological immortality, while the regular downloading of neural patterns into computers had made even violent death no more than a nuisance. Their expertise with what some of them still quaintly termed ‘nanotechnology’ had enabled them to reshape their environments and bodies almost at will. They had become protean, a people for whom stasis of any kind was abhorrent.

The city’s second phase had come only a century ago, with the emergence of the Melding Plague. The plague had been very democratic, attacking people as eagerly as it attacked buildings. Belatedly, the Demarchists had realised that their Eden had always held a particularly vicious serpent. Until then the changes had been harnessed, but the plague ripped them from human control. Within a few months the city had been utterly transformed. Only a few hermetic enclaves existed where people could still walk around with machines in their bodies. The buildings contorted into mocking shapes, reminding the Demarchists of what they had lost. Technology had crashed back to an almost pre-industrial state. Predatory factions stalked the city’s lawless depths.

Chasm City’s dark age lasted nearly forty years.

It was a matter of debate whether the city’s third state had already ended or was still continuing under different stewardship. In the immediate aftermath of the plague, the Demarchists had lost most of their former sources of wealth. Ultras took their trade elsewhere. A few high families struggled on, and there were always pockets of financial stability in the Rust Belt, but Chasm City itself was ripe for economic takeover. The Conjoiners, confined until then to a few remote niches throughout the system, had seen their moment.

It was not an invasion in the usual sense. They were too few in number, too militarily weak, and they had no wish to convert the populace to their mode of thinking. Instead they had bought out the city a chunk at a time, rebuilding it into something glittering and new. They tore down the eighteen merged domes. In the chasm they installed a vast item of bioengineered machinery called the Lilly, which vastly increased the efficiency of chemical conversion of the chasm’s native gases. Now the city lived in a pocket of warm breathable air, sustained by the Lilly’s slow exhalations. The Conjoiners had torn down many of the warped structures, replacing them with elegant bladelike towers that reached far above the breathable pocket, turning like yacht’s sails to minimise their wind profile. More resilient forms of nanotechnology were cautiously introduced back into the environment. Conjoiner medicines allowed longevity therapies to be pursued again. Sniffing prosperity, Ultras again made Yellowstone a key stopover on their trade intineraries. Around Yellowstone, resettlement of the Rust Belt proceeded apace.

It should have been a new Golden Age.

But the Demarchists, the city’s former masters, never adjusted to the role of historical has-beens. They chafed at their reduced status. For centuries they had been the Conjoiners’ only allies, but all that was about to end. They would go to war to win back what they had lost.

‘Can you see the chasm, Mr Clavain?’ His host pointed towards a dark elliptical smear almost lost beyond a profusion of spires and towers. ‘They say the Lilly is dying now. The Conjoiners aren’t here to keep it alive, since they were evicted. The air quality is not what it was. There is even speculation that the city will have to be re-domed. But perhaps the Conjoiners will soon be able to reoccupy what was once theirs, eh?’

‘It would be difficult to draw another conclusion,’ Clavain said.

‘I do not care who wins, I must admit. I was able to make a living before the Conjoiners came, and I have continued to do so in their absence. I did not know the city under the Demarchists, but I don’t doubt that I would have found a way to survive.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Where are we might be a better question. Look down, Mr Clavain.’

Clavain looked down. The building he was in was high, that much was obvious from the elevated view, but he had not quite grasped how very high it really was. It was as if he stood near the summit of an immensely tall and steep mountain, looking down at subsidiary peaks and shoulders many thousands of metres below, secondary summits which themselves towered over the majority of the surrounding buildings. The highest air-traffic corridor was far below; indeed, he saw that some of the traffic flowed through the building itself, diving through immense arches and portals. Below lay other traffic layers, then a gridlike haze of elevated roadways, and below that yet more space, and then a blurred suggestion of tiered parks and lakes, so far below that they resembled faded two-dimensional markings on a map.

The building was black and monumental in its architecture. He could not guess its true shape, but he had the impression that had he viewed it from some other part of Chasm City it would have resembled something black and dead and faintly foreboding, like a solitary tree that had been struck by lightning.

‘All right,’ Clavain said. ‘It’s a very nice view. Where are we?’

‘Château des Corbeaux, Mr Clavain. The House of Ravens. I trust you remember the name?’

Clavain nodded. ‘Skade came here.’

The man nodded. ‘So I gather.’

‘Then you had something to do with what happened to her, is that it?’

‘No, Mr Clavain, I did not. But my predecessor, the person who last inhabited this building, most certainly did.’ The man turned around and offered Clavain his right hand. ‘My name is H, Mr Clavain. At least, that is the name under which I currently choose to do business. Shall we do business?’

Before Clavain could respond, H had taken his hand and squeezed it. Clavain withdrew his hand, taken aback. He noticed that there was a tiny spot of red on his palm, like blood.

H took Clavain downstairs, back to the marbled floor. They walked past the fountain Clavain had heard earlier - it consisted of an eyeless golden snake belching a constant stream of water - and then took another long flight of marbled steps down to the floor immediately below.

‘What do you know about Skade?’ Clavain asked. He did not trust H, but saw no harm in asking a few questions.

‘Not as much as I would like,’ H said. ‘But I will tell you what I have learned, within certain limits. Skade was sent to Chasm City on an espionage operation for the Conjoiners, one that concerned this building. That’s correct, isn’t it?’

‘You tell me.’

‘Come now, Mr Clavain. As you will discover, we have very much more in common than you might imagine. There’s no need to be defensive.’

Clavain wanted to laugh. ‘I doubt that you and I have much in common at all, H.’

‘No?’

‘I am a four-hundred-year-old man who has probably seen more wars than you’ve seen sunsets.’

H’s eyes wrinkled in amusement. ‘Really?’

‘My perspective on things is bound to be just a tiny bit different from yours.’

‘I don’t doubt it. Would you follow me, Mr Clavain? I’d like to show you the former tenant.’

H led him along high-ceilinged black corridors lit only by the narrowest of windows. Clavain observed that H walked with the tiniest of limps, caused by a slight imbalance in length between one leg and the other that he managed to overcome most of the time. He seemed to have the whole immense building to himself, or at least this mansion-sized district of it, but perhaps that was an illusion fostered by the building’s sheer immensity. Clavain had already sensed that H controlled an organisation of some influence.

‘Start at the beginning,’ Clavain said. ‘How did you get mixed up in Skade’s business?’

‘Through a mutual interest, I suppose you’d say. I’ve been here on Yellowstone for a century, Mr Clavain. In that time I have cultivated certain interests - obsessions, you might almost call them.’

‘Such as?’

‘Redemption is one of them. I have what you might charitably refer to as a chequered past. I have done some very bad things in my time. But then again, who hasn’t?’ They halted at an arched doorway set into black marble. H made the door open and ushered Clavain into a windowless room that had the still, spectral atmosphere of a crypt.

‘Why would you be interested in redemption?’

‘To absolve myself, of course. To make some recompense. In the current era, even allowing for the present difficulties, one can live an inordinately long life. In past times a heinous crime marked one for life, or at least for the biblical three score years and ten. But we may live for centuries now. Should such a long life be sullied by a single unmeritorious act?’

‘You said you’d done more than one bad thing.’

‘As indeed I have. I have signed my name to many nefarious deeds.’ H walked over to a roughly welded upright metal box in the middle of the room. ‘But the point is this: I do not see why my present self should be locked into patterns of behaviour merely because of something my much younger self did. I doubt that there is a single atom of my body shared by both of us, after all, and very few memories.’

‘A criminal past doesn’t give you a unique moral perspective.’

‘No, it doesn’t. But there is such a thing as free will. There is no need for us to be puppets of our past.’ H paused and touched the box. It had, Clavain realised, the general dimensions and proportions of a palanquin, the kind of travelling machine that the hermetics still used.

H drew in a deep breath before speaking again. ‘A century ago I came to terms with what I had done, Mr Clavain. But there was a price to be paid for that reconciliation. I vowed to put right certain wrongs, many of which directly concerned Chasm City. They were difficult vows, and I am not one to take such things lightly. Unfortunately, I failed in the most important one of all.’

‘Which was?’

‘In a moment, Mr Clavain. First I want you to see what has become of her.’

‘Her?’

‘The Mademoiselle. She was the woman who lived here before I did, the woman who occupied this building at the time of Skade’s mission.’ H slid aside a black panel at head-height, revealing a tiny dark window set into the side of the box.

‘What was her real name?’ Clavain asked.

‘I don’t actually know,’ H told him. ‘Manoukhian may know a little more about her, I think - he used to be in her service, before he swapped allegiances. But I’ve never extracted the truth from him, and he’s much too useful, not to say fragile, to risk under a trawl.’

‘What do you know about her, then?’

‘Only that she was a very powerful influence in Chasm City for many years, without anyone realising it. She was the perfect dictator. Her control was so pervasive that no one noticed they were in her thrall. Her wealth, as estimated by the usual indices, was practically zero. She did not “own” anything in the usual sense. Yet she had webs of coercion that enabled her to achieve whatever she wanted silently, invisibly. When people acted out of what they imagined was pure self-interest, they were often following the Mademoiselle’s hidden script.’

‘You make her sound like a witch.’

‘Oh, I don’t think there was anything supernatural about her influence. It was just that she saw information flows with a clarity most people lack. She could see the precise point where pressure needed to be applied, the point where the butterfly had to flap its wings to cause a storm half a world away. That was her genius, Mr Clavain. An instinctive grasp of chaotic systems as applied to human psychosocial dynamics. Here, take a look.’

Clavain stepped up to the tiny window set into the box.

There was a woman inside. She appeared to have been embalmed, and was sitting in an upright position within the box. Her hands were folded neatly in her lap, holding an outspread paper fan of translucent delicacy. She wore a high-necked brocaded gown that Clavain judged to be a century out of date. Her forehead was high and smooth, dark hair raked back from it in severe furrows. From Clavain’s vantage point it was impossible to tell whether her eyes were truly closed or whether she was just looking down at the fan. She rippled, as if she were a mirage.

‘What happened to her?’ Clavain asked.

‘She is dead, in so far as I understand the term. She has been dead for more than thirty years. But she has not changed at all since the moment of her death. There has been no decay, no evidence of the usual morbid processes. And yet there cannot be a vacuum in there, or she could not have breathed.’

‘I don’t understand. Did she die in this thing?’

‘It was her palanquin, Mr Clavain. She was in it when I killed her.’

‘You killed her?’

H slid the little plate closed, obscuring the window. ‘I used a type of weapon designed by Canopy assassins for the specific purpose of murdering hermetics. They call it a crabber. It attaches a device to the side of the palanquin that bores through the armour while at the same time maintaining perfect hermetic integrity. There can be unpleasant things inside palanquins, you see, especially when the occupants suspect they may be the targets of assassination attempts. Subject-specific nerve gas, that sort of thing.’

‘Go on,’ Clavain said .

‘When the crabber reaches the interior it injects a slug which detonates with sufficient force to kill any organism inside, but not enough to shatter the window or any other weak point. We employed something similar against tank crews on Sky’s Edge, so I had some familiarity with the principles involved.’

‘If the crabber worked,’ he said, ‘there shouldn’t be a body inside.’

‘Quite right, Mr Clavain, there shouldn’t. Believe me, I know - I’ve seen what it looks like when these things do work.’

‘But you did kill her.’

‘I did something to her; what, I’m not quite sure. I could not examine the palanquin until several hours after the crabber had done its work, since we had the Mademoiselle’s allies to deal with as well. When I did look through the window I expected to see nothing except the usual dripping red smear on the other side of the glass. But her body was nearly intact. There were wounds, quite evident wounds which would normally have been fatal in their own right, but over the next few hours I watched them heal. The clothes as well - the damage undid itself. She has been like this ever since. More than thirty years, Mr Clavain.’

‘It isn’t possible.’

‘Did you notice the way you seemed to be viewing her body as if through a layer of shifting water? The way she shimmered and warped? It was no optical illusion. There is something in there with her. I wonder how much of what we can see was ever human.’

‘You’re talking as if she was some kind of alien.’

‘I think there was something alien about her. Beyond that, I would not care to speculate.’

H led him out of the room. Clavain risked one rearward glance at the palanquin, a glance that chilled him. H obviously kept it here because there was nothing else to be done with it. The corpse could not be destroyed, might even be dangerous in other hands. So she remained entombed here, in the building she had once inhabited.

‘I have to ask ...’ Clavain began.

‘Yes?’

‘Why did you kill her?’

His host closed the door behind them. There was a palpable feeling of relief. Clavain had the distinct impression that even H did not greatly relish visits to the Mademoiselle.

‘I killed her, Mr Clavain, for the very simple and obvious reason that she had something I wanted.’

‘Which was?’

‘I’m not entirely sure. But I think it was the same thing Skade was after.’

TWENTY-TWO

Xavier was working on Storm Bird’s hull when the two peculiar visitors arrived at the repair shop. He checked on the monkeys, satisfying himself that they could be trusted to get on with things by themselves for a few minutes. He wondered who Antoinette had pissed off now. Like her father, she was pretty good at not pissing off the right people. That was how Jim Bax had stayed in business.

‘Mr Gregor Consodine?’ asked a man, standing up from a seat in the waiting area.

‘I’m not Gregor Consodine.’

‘I’m sorry. I thought this was . . .’

‘It is. I’m just minding things while he’s off in Vancouver for a couple of days. Xavier Liu.’ He beamed helpfully. ‘How may I be of assistance?’

‘We are looking for Antoinette Bax,’ the man said.

‘Are you?’

‘It’s a matter of some urgency. I gather that’s her ship parked in your service well.’

The back of Xavier’s neck bristled. ‘And you’d be . . . ?’

‘I am called Mr Clock.’

Mr Clock’s face was an exercise in anatomy. Xavier could see the bones beneath the skin. Mr Clock looked like a man very close to death, and yet he moved with the light step of a ballet dancer or mime artiste.

But it was the other one that really bothered him. Xavier’s first careless glance at the visitors had revealed two men, one tall and thin like a storybook undertaker, the other short and wide, built like a professional wrestler. The more squat man had his head down and was thumbing through a brochure on the coffee table. Between his feet was a featureless black box the size of a toolkit.

Xavier looked at his own hands.

‘My colleague is Mr Pink.’

Mr Pink looked up. Xavier did his best to conceal a moment of surprise. The other man was a pig, not a baseline human at all. He had a smooth rounded brow beneath which little dark eyes studied Xavier. His nose was small and upturned. Xavier had seen humans with stranger faces, but that was not the point. Mr Pink never had been human.

‘Hello,’ the pig said, and then turned his attention back to his reading matter.

‘You haven’t answered my question,’ Clock said.

‘Your question?’

‘Concerning the ship. It does belong to Antoinette Bax, doesn’t it?’

‘I was just told to do some hull work on it. That’s all I know.’ Clock smiled and nodded. He stepped back to the office door and closed it. Mr Pink turned over a page and chuckled at something in the brochure. ‘That’s not quite the truth, is it, Mr Liu?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Have a seat, Mr Liu.’ Clock gestured at one of the chairs. ‘Please, take the weight off your feet. We need to have a little talk, you and me.’

‘I really need to get back to my monkeys.’

‘I’m sure they won’t get up to any mischief in your absence. Now.’ Clock gestured again and the pig looked up and fixed his gaze on Xavier. Xavier sunk down into the seat, weighing his options. ‘Concerning Miss Bax. Traffic records, freely available traffic records, indicate that her vessel is the one currently parked in the service bay, the one you are working on. You are aware of this, aren’t you?’

‘I might be.’

‘Please, Mr Liu, there’s really no point in being evasive. The data we have amassed points to a very close working relationship between yourself and Miss Bax. You are perfectly aware that Storm Bird belongs to her. As a matter of fact, you know Storm Bird very well indeed, isn’t that true?’

‘What is this about?’

‘We’d like to have a little word with Miss Bax herself, if that isn’t too much trouble.’

‘I can’t help you there.’

Clock raised one fine, barely present eyebrow. ‘No?’

‘If you want to speak to her, you’ll have to find her yourselves.’

‘Very well. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but...’ Clock looked at the pig. The pig put down the brochure and stood up. He had the bulky presence of a gorilla. When he walked it seemed as if he was engaged in a balancing act that was always on the point of collapsing. The pig pushed past him, carrying the black box.

‘Where’s he going?’ Xavier asked.

‘To her ship. He’s very good mechanically, Mr Liu. Very good at fixing things, but also, it must be said, very good at breaking things as well.’

H took him down another flight of steps, his broad-backed form descending one or two paces ahead of Clavain. Clavain looked down on the brilliant blue-black grooves of his greased hair. H appeared quite unconcerned that Clavain might attack him or attempt to make his escape from the monstrous black Château. And Clavain felt a strange willingness to co-operate with his new host. It was, he supposed, mostly curiosity. H knew things about Skade that Clavain did not, even if H himself did not pretend to know all the facts. Clavain, in turn, was clearly of interest to H. The two of them could indeed learn much from each other.

But this situation could not continue, Clavain knew. As urbane and interesting as his host might have been, Clavain had still been kidnapped. And he had business that needed to be attended to.

‘Tell me more about Skade,’ Clavain said. ‘What did she want from the Mademoiselle?’

‘It gets a little complicated. I shall do my best, but you must forgive me if I seem not to understand all the details. The truth of the matter is that I doubt that I ever will.’

‘Start at the beginning.’

They arrived at a hallway. H strolled along it, passing many irregular sculptures resembling the sloughed scabs and scales of some immense metallic dragon, each of which rested on a single annotated plinth.

‘Skade was interested in technology, Mr Clavain.’

‘What kind?’

‘An advanced technology concerning the manipulation of the quantum vacuum. I am not a scientist, Mr Clavain, so I cannot pretend to have more than the shakiest grasp of the relevant principles. But it is my understanding that certain bulk properties of matter - inertia, for instance - stem directly from the properties of the vacuum in which they are embedded. Pure speculation, of course, but wouldn’t a means to control inertia be of use to the Conjoiners?’

Clavain thought of the way Nightshade had been able to pursue him across the solar system at such great speed. A technique for suppressing inertia would have allowed that, and might also explain what Skade had been doing aboard the ship during the previous mission. She must have been fine-tuning her technology, testing it in the field. So the technology probably existed, albeit in prototype form. But H would have to learn that for himself.

‘I’ve no knowledge of a programme to develop that kind of ability,’ Clavain told him, choosing his words so as to avoid an outright lie.

‘Doubtless it would be secret, even amongst the Conjoiners. Very experimental and no doubt dangerous.’

‘Where did the technology come from in the first place?’

‘That’s the interesting part. Skade - and by extension the Conjoiners - seem to have had a well-developed idea of what they were looking for before they came here, as if what they sought here was merely the final part of a puzzle. As you know, Skade’s operation was viewed as a failure. She was the only survivor and she did not escape back to your Mother Nest with more than a handful of stolen items. Whether they were sufficient or not, I couldn’t guess ...’ H glanced back over his shoulder with a knowing smile.

They reached the end of the corridor. They had arrived on a low-walled ledge that circumnavigated an enormous slope-floored room many storeys deep. Clavain peered over the edge, noting what appeared to be pipes and drainage vents set into the sheer black walls.

‘I’ll ask again,’ Clavain said. ‘Where did the technology come from in the first place?’

‘A donor,’ H answered. ‘Around a century ago I learned an astonishing truth. I gained knowledge of the whereabouts of an individual, an alien individual, who had been waiting undisturbed on this planet for many millions of years, shipwrecked and yet essentially unharmed.’ He paused, evidently watching Clavain’s reaction.

‘Continue,’ Clavain said, determined not to be fazed.

‘Unfortunately, I was not the first to learn of this hapless creature. Other people had discovered that he could give them something of considerable value provided that they held him prisoner and administered regular jolts of pain. This would have been abhorrent under any circumstances, but the creature in question was a highly social animal. Intelligent, too - his was a starfaring culture of great extent and antiquity. In fact, the wreck of his ship still contained functioning technologies. Do you see where this is heading?’

They had walked along one length of the vaultlike chamber. Clavain had still not deduced its function.

‘Those technologies,’ Clavain asked, ‘did they include the inertia-modifying process?’

‘So it would appear. I must confess that I had something of a head start in this matter. Some considerable amount of time ago I met another of these creatures, so I already knew a little of what to expect from this one.’

‘A less open-minded man than myself might find all this a tiny bit difficult to accept,’ Clavain said.

H paused at the corner, placing both hands on the top of the low marble walling. ‘Then I will tell you more, and perhaps you will begin to believe me. It cannot have escaped your attention that the universe is a hazardous place. I’m certain that the Conjoiners have learned this for themselves. What is the current toll - thirteen known extinct intelligent cultures, or is it fourteen now? And one or two possibly extant alien intelligences that unfortunately are so alien that they don’t do anything that might enable us to say for certain how intelligent they really are. The point being that the universe seems to have a way of stamping out intelligence before it gets too big for its boots.’

‘That’s one theory.’ Clavain did not reveal how well it chimed with what he already knew; how it was perfectly consistent with Galiana’s message about a cosmos stalked by wolves that slavered and howled at the scent of sapience.

‘More than a theory. The grubs - that’s the race-name of the species of which the unfortunate individual was a member - had been harried to the point of extinction themselves. They lived only between the stars, shying away from warmth and light. Even there they were nervous. They knew how little it would take to bring the killers down upon them again. In the end they evolved a rather desperate protective strategy. They were not naturally hostile, but they learned that other noisier species sometimes had to be silenced to protect themselves.’ H resumed his stroll, brushing one hand along the wall. It was his right hand, Clavain noticed, and it left behind a thin red smear.

‘How did you learn about the alien?’

‘It’s a long story, Mr Clavain, and one I don’t intend to detain you with. Suffice it only to say the following. I vowed to save the creature from his tormentors - part of my plan for personal atonement, you might say. But I could not do it immediately. It took planning, a vast amount of forethought. I amassed a team of trusted helpers and made elaborate preparations. Years passed but the moment was never right. Then a decade went by. Two decades. Every night I dreamed of that thing suffering, and every night I renewed my vow to help him.’

‘And?’

‘It’s possible that someone betrayed me. Or else her intelligence was better than my own. The Mademoiselle reached the creature before I did. She brought him here, to this room. How, I don’t know; that alone must have taken enormous planning.’

Clavain looked down again, struggling to comprehend what kind of animal had needed a room this large as a prison. ‘She kept the creature here, in the Château?’

H nodded. ‘For many years. It was no simple matter to keep him alive, but the people who had imprisoned him before her had worked out exactly what needed to be done. The Mademoiselle had no particular interest in torturing him, I think; she was not cruel in that sense. But every instant of the creature’s continued existence was a kind of torture, even when his nervous system was not being poked and prodded with high-voltage electrodes. But she refused to let him die. Not until she had learned all that she could from him.’

H went on to tell Clavain that the Mademoiselle had found a way to communicate with the creature. As clever as the Mademoiselle had been, it was the creature that had expended the greater effort.

‘I gather there was an accident,’ H said. ‘A man fell into the creature’s pen, from all the way up here. He died instantly, but before they could get him out the creature, which was unrestrained, ate what remained of him. They had been feeding him morsels, you see, and until that moment he did not have very much idea of what his captors actually looked like.’

H’s voice grew quietly enthusiastic. ‘Anyway, a strange thing happened. A day later a wound appeared in the creature’s skin. The wound enlarged, forming a hole. There was no bleeding, and the wound looked very symmetrical and well formed. Structures lurked behind it, moving muscles. The wound was becoming a mouth. Later, it began to make humanlike vowel sounds. Another day or so passed and the creature was attempting recognisable words. Another day, and he was stringing those words together into simple sentences. The chilling part, from what I have gathered, was that the creature had inherited more than just the means to make language from the man he had eaten. He had absorbed his memories and personality, fusing them with his own.’

‘Horrible,’ Clavain said.

‘Perhaps.’ H appeared unconvinced. ‘Certainly, it might be a useful strategy for an interstellar trading species that expected to encounter many other cultures. Instead of puzzling over translation algorithms, why not simply decode language at the level of biochemical representation? Eat your trading partner and become more like him. It would require some co-operation from the other party, but perhaps this was an accepted form of business millions of years ago.’

‘How did you learn all this?’

‘Ways and means, Mr Clavain. Even before the Mademoiselle beat me to the alien, I had become dimly aware of her existence. I had my own webs of influence in Chasm City, and she had hers. For the most part we were discrete, but now and then our activities would brush against each other. I was curious, so I tried to learn more. But she resisted my attempts to infiltrate the Château for many years. It was only when she had the creature that I think she became distracted by him, consumed by his alien puzzle. Then I was able to get agents into the building. You’ve met Zebra? She was one of them. Zebra learned what she could and put in place the conditions I needed for the takeover. But that was long after Skade had come here.’

Clavain thought things through. ‘So Skade must have known something about the alien?’

‘Evidently. You’re the Conjoiner, Mr Clavain - shouldn’t you know?’

‘I’ve learned too much already. That’s why I chose to defect.’

They walked on, exiting the prison. Clavain was as relieved to be out of it as when he had left the room holding the palanquin. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he felt as if some of the creature’s isolated torment had imprinted itself on the room’s atmosphere. There was a feeling of intense dread and confinement that only abated once he had left the room.

‘Where are you taking me now?’

‘To the basement first, because I think there is something there that will interest you, and then I will take you to some people I would very much like you to meet.’

Clavain said, ‘Do these people have something to do with Skade?’

‘I think everything’s to do with Skade, don’t you? I think something may have happened to her when she visited the Château.’

H showed him to an elevator. The car was a skeletal affair fashioned from iron spirals and filigrees. The floor was a cold iron grillework with many gaps in it. H slid shut a creaking door formed from scissoring iron chevrons, latching it just as the elevator began its descent. At first the progress was ponderous, Clavain guessing that it would take the better part of an hour to reach the building’s lower levels. But the elevator, in its creaking fashion, accelerated faster and faster, until a substantial wind was ramming through the perforated flooring.

‘Skade’s mission was deemed a failure,’ Clavain said over the rumble and screech of the elevator’s descent.

‘Yes, but not necessarily from the Mademoiselle’s point of view. Consider: she had extended her web of influence into every facet of Chasm City life. Within limits, she could make anything happen that she wished. Her reach included the Rust Belt, all the major foci of Demarchist power. She even had, I think, some hold over the Ultras, or at least the means to make them work for her. But she had nothing on the Conjoiners.’

‘And Skade may have been her point of entry?’

‘I think it must be considered likely, Mr Clavain. It may not be accidental that Skade was allowed to survive when the rest of her team were killed.’

‘But Skade is one of us,’ Clavain said feebly. ‘She would never betray the Mother Nest.’

‘What happened to Skade afterwards, Mr Clavain? Did she by any chance widen her influence within the Conjoined?’

Clavain recalled that Skade had joined the Closed Council in the aftermath of the mission. ‘To some extent.’

‘Then I think the case is closed. That would always have been the Mademoiselle’s strategy, you see. Infiltrate and orchestrate. Skade might not even think she is betraying your people; the Mademoiselle was always clever enough to play on loyalty. And although Skade’s mission was judged a failure, she did recover some of the items of interest, did she not? Enough to benefit the Mother Nest?’

‘I’ve already told you that I don’t know about any secret project concerning the quantum vacuum.’

‘Mm. And I didn’t find your denial wholly convincing the first time, either.’

Clock, the one with the bald egg-shaped skull, told Xavier to call Antoinette.

‘I’ll call her,’ Xavier said. ‘But I can’t make her come here, even if Mr Pink starts damaging the ship.’

‘Find a way,’ Clock said, stroking the waxy olive leaf of one of the repair shop’s potted plants. ‘Tell her you found something you can’t fix, something that needs her expertise. I’m sure you can improvise, Mr Liu.’

‘We’ll be listening in,’ Mr Pink added. To Xavier’s relief, the pig had returned from inside Storm Bird without inflicting any obvious damage to the ship, although he had the impression that Mr Pink had merely been scoping out possibilities for inflicting harm later on.

He called Antoinette. She was halfway around Carousel New Copenhagen, engaged in a frantic round of business meetings. Ever since Clavain had left things had gone from bad to worse.

‘Just get here as quickly as you can,’ Xavier told her, one eye on his two visitors.

‘Why the big rush, Xave?’

‘You know how much it’s costing us to keep Storm Bird parked here, Antoinette. Every hour makes a difference. Just this phone call is killing us.’

‘Holy shit, Xave. Cheer me up, why don’t you?’

‘Just get here.’ He hung up on her. ‘Thanks for making me do that, you bastards.’

Clock said, ‘Your understanding is appreciated, Mr Liu. I assure you no harm will come to either of you, most especially not to Antoinette.’

‘You’d better not hurt her.’ He looked at both of them, unsure which one he trusted the least. ‘All right. She’ll be here in about twenty minutes. You can speak to her here, and then she can be on her way.’

‘We’ll talk to her in the ship, Mr Liu. That way there’s no chance of either of you running away, is there?’

‘Whatever,’ Xavier said, shrugging. ‘Just give me a minute to sort out the monkeys.’

The elevator slowed and came to a halt, shaking and creaking even though it was stationary. Far above Clavain, metallic echoes chased each other up and down the lift-shaft like hysterical laughter.

‘Where are we?’ he asked.

‘The deep basement of the building. We’re well below the old Mulch now, Mr Clavain, into Yellowstone bedrock.’ H ushered Clavain onwards. ‘This is where it happened, you see.’

‘Where what happened?’

‘The disturbing event.’

H led him along corridors - tunnels, more accurately - that had been bored through solid rock and then only lightly faced. Blue lanterns threw the ridges and bulges of the underlying geology into deep relief. The air was damp and cold, the hard stone floor uncomfortable beneath Clavain’s feet. They passed a room containing many upright silver canisters arrayed across the floor like milk churns, and then descended via a ramp that took them even deeper.

H said, ‘The Mademoiselle protected her secrets well. When we stormed the Château she destroyed many of the items she had recovered from the grub’s spacecraft. Others, Skade had taken with her. But enough remained for us to make a start. Recently, progress has been gratifyingly swift. Did you notice how easily my ships outran the Convention, how easily they slipped unnoticed through tightly policed airspace?’

Clavain nodded, remembering how quick the journey to Yellowstone had appeared. ‘You’ve learned how to do it too.’

‘In a very modest fashion, I admit. But yes, we’ve installed inertia-suppressing technology on some of our ships. Simply reducing the mass of a ship by four-fifths is enough to give us an edge over a Convention cutter. I imagine the Conjoiners have done rather better than that.’

Grudgingly, Clavain admitted, ‘Perhaps.’

‘Then they’ll know that the technology is extraordinarily dangerous. The quantum vacuum is normally in a very stable minimum, Mr Clavain, a nice deep valley in the landscape of possible states. But as soon as you start tampering with the vacuum - cooling it, to damp the fluctuations that give rise to inertia - you change the entire topology of that landscape. What were stable minima become precarious peaks and ridges. There are adjacent valleys that are associated with very different properties of immersed matter. Small fluctuations can lead to violent state transitions. Shall I tell you a horror story?’

‘I think you’re going to.’

‘I recruited the very best, Mr Clavain, the top theorists from the Rust Belt. Anyone who had shown the slightest interest in the nature of the quantum vacuum was brought here and made to understand that their wider interests would be best served by helping me.’

‘Blackmail?’ Clavain asked.

‘Good grief, no. Merely gentle coercion.’ H glanced back at Clavain and grinned, revealing sharply pointed incisors. ‘For the most part it wasn’t even necessary. I had resources that the Demarchists lacked. Their own intelligence network was crumbling, so they knew nothing of the grub. The Conjoiners had their own programme, but to join them would have meant becoming Conjoined as well - no small price for scientific curiosity. The workers I approached were usually more than willing to come to the Château, given the alternatives. ’ H paused, and his voice took on an elegiac tone it had lacked before. ‘One amongst their number was a brilliant defector from the Demarchists, a woman named Pauline Sukhoi.’

‘Is she dead?’ Clavain asked. ‘Or something worse than dead?’

‘No, not at all. But she has left my employment. After what happened - the disturbing event - she couldn’t bring herself to continue. I understood perfectly and made sure that Sukhoi found alternative employment back in the Rust Belt.’

‘Whatever happened, it must have been truly disturbing,’ Clavain said.

‘Oh, it was. For all of us, but especially for Sukhoi. Many experiments were in progress,’ said H. ‘Down here, in the basement levels of the Château, there were a dozen little teams working on different aspects of the grub technology. Sukhoi had been on the project for a year, and had shown herself to an excellent if fearless researcher. It was Sukhoi who explored some of the less stable state transitions.’

H led him past several doors that opened into large dark chambers, until they arrived at one in particular. He did not enter the room. ‘Something terrible happened here. No one associated with the work would ever go into this room afterwards. They say damp records the past. Do you feel it also, Mr Clavain? A sense of foreboding, an animal instinct that you should not enter?’

‘Now that you’ve planted the suggestion that there’s something odd about the room, I can’t honestly say what I feel.’

‘Step inside,’ H said.

Clavain entered the room, stepping down to the smooth flat floor. The room was cold, but then again, the entire basement level had been cold. He waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom, picking out the generous dimensions of the chamber. Here and there the floor and walls and ceiling were interrupted by metal struts or sockets, but no apparatus or analysis equipment remained. The room was completely empty and very clean.

He walked around the perimeter. He could not say that he enjoyed being in the room, but everything he felt - a mild sense of panic, a mild sense of presence - could have been psychosomatic. ‘What happened?’ he asked.

H spoke from the door. ‘There was an accident in this room, involving only Sukhoi’s project. Sukhoi was injured, but not critically, and she soon made a good recovery.’

‘And none of the other people in Sukhoi’s team were injured?’

‘That was the odd thing. There were no other people - Sukhoi had always worked alone. We had no other victims to worry about. The technology was slightly damaged, but soon showed itself to be capable of limited self-repair. Sukhoi was conscious and coherent, so we assumed that when she was on her feet again she would go back down to the basement.’

‘And?’

‘She asked a strange question. One that, if you will pardon the expression, made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.’

Clavain rejoined H near the door. ‘Which was?’

‘She asked what had happened to the other experimenter.’

‘Then there was some neurological damage. False memories.’ Clavain shrugged. ‘Hardly surprising, is it?’

‘She was quite specific about the other worker, Mr Clavain. Even down to his name and history. She said that the man had been called Yves, Yves Mercier, and that he had been recruited from the Rust Belt at the same time that she had.’

‘But there was no Yves Mercier?’

‘No one of that name, or any name like it, had ever worked in the Château. As I said, Sukhoi had always tended to work alone.’

‘Perhaps she felt the need to attach the blame for the accident to another person. Her subconscious manufactured a scapegoat.’

H nodded. ‘Yes, we thought that something like that might have happened. But why transfer blame for a minor incident? No one had been killed, and no equipment had been badly damaged. As a matter of fact, we had learned much more from the accident that we had with weeks of painstaking progress. Sukhoi was blameless, and she knew it.’

‘So she made up the name for another reason. The subconscious is an odd thing. There doesn’t have to be a perfectly obvious rationale for anything she said.’

‘That’s precisely what we thought, but Sukhoi was adamant. As she recovered, her memories of working with Mercier only sharpened. She recalled the minutest details about him - what he had looked like, what he had liked to eat and drink, his sense of humour, even his background; what he had done before he came to the Château. The more we tried to convince her that Mercier had not been real, the more hysterical she became.’

‘She was deranged, then.’

‘Every other test said she wasn’t, Mr Clavain. If she had a delusional system, it was focused solely on the prior existence of Mercier. And so I began to wonder.’

Clavain looked at H and nodded for him to continue.

‘I did some research,’ H added. ‘It was easy enough to dig into Rust Belt records - those that had survived the plague, anyway. And I found that certain aspects of Sukhoi’s story checked out with alarming accuracy.’

‘Such as?’

‘There had been someone named Yves Mercier, born in the same carousel that Sukhoi claimed.’

‘It can’t be that unusual a name amongst Demarchists.’

‘No, probably not. But in fact there was only one. And his date of birth accorded precisely with Sukhoi’s recollections. The only difference was that this Mercier - the real one - had died many years earlier. He had been killed shortly after the Melding Plague destroyed the Glitter Band.’

Clavain forced a shrug, but with less conviction that he would have wished. ‘A coincidence, then.’

‘Perhaps. But you see, this particular Yves Mercier was already a student at the time. He was well advanced on studies into exactly the same quantum-vacuum phenomena that would, according to Sukhoi, eventually bring him into my orbit.’

Clavain no longer wanted to be in the room. He stepped up, back into the blue-lanterned corridor. ‘You’re saying her Mercier really existed?’

‘Yes, I am. At which point I found myself faced with two possibilities. Either Sukhoi was somehow aware of the dead Mercier’s life story, and for one reason or another chose to believe that he had not in fact died, or that she was actually telling the truth.’

‘But that isn’t possible.’

‘I rather think it may be, Mr Clavain. I think everything Pauline Sukhoi told me may have been the literal truth; that in some way we can’t quite comprehend, Yves Mercier never died for her. That she worked with him, here in the room you have just left, and that Mercier was present when the accident happened.’

‘But Mercier did die. You’ve seen the records for yourself.’

‘But suppose he didn’t. Suppose that he survived the Melding Plague, went on to work on general quantum-vacuum theory, and eventually attracted my attention. Suppose also that he ended up working with Sukhoi, together on the same experiment, exploring the less stable state transitions. And suppose then that there was an accident, one that involved a shift to a very dangerous state indeed. According to Sukhoi, Mercier was much closer to the field generator than she was when it happened.’

‘It killed him.’

‘More than that, Mr Clavain. It made him cease to have existed.’ H watched Clavain and nodded with tutorly patience. ‘It was as if his entire life story, his entire world-line, had been unstitched from our reality, right back to the point when he was killed during the Melding Plague. That, I suppose, was the most logical point at which he could have died in our mutual world-line, the one you and I share.’

‘But not for Sukhoi,’ Clavain said.

‘No, not for her. She remembered how things had been before. I suppose she was close enough to the focus that her memories were entangled, knotted-up with the prior version of events. When Mercier was erased, she nonetheless retained her memories of him. So she was not mad at all, not remotely delusional. She was merely the witness to an event so horrific that it transcends all understanding. Does it chill you, Mr Clavain, to think that an experiment could have this outcome?’

‘You already told me it was dangerous.’

‘More than we ever realised at the time. I wonder how many world-lines were wrenched out of existence before there was ever a witness close enough to feel the change?’

Clavain said, ‘What exactly was it that these experiments were related to, if you don’t mind my asking?’

‘That’s the interesting part. State transitions, as I have said - exploring the more exotic quantum-vacuum manifolds. We can suck some of the inertia out of matter, and depending on the field state we can keep sucking it out until the matter’s inertial mass becomes asymptotic with zero. According to Einstein, matter with no mass has no choice but to travel at the speed of light. It will have become photonic, light-like.’

‘Is that what happened to Mercier?’

‘No - not quite. In so far as I understood Sukhoi’s work, it appeared that the zero-mass state would be very difficult to realise physically. As it neared the zero-mass state, the vacuum would be inclined to flip to the other side. Sukhoi called it a tunnelling phenomenon.’

Clavain raised an eyebrow. ‘The other side?’

‘The quantum-vacuum state in which matter has imaginary inertial mass. By imaginary I mean in the purely mathematical sense, in the sense that the square root of minus one is an imaginary number. Of course, you immediately see what that would imply.’

‘You’re talking about tachyonic matter,’ Clavain said. ‘Matter travelling faster than light.’

‘Yes.’ Clavain’s host seemed pleased. ‘It appears that Mercier and Sukhoi’s final experiment concerned the transition between tardyonic - the matter we are familiar with - and tachyonic matter states. They were exploring the vacuum states that would allow the construction of a faster-than-light propulsion system.’

‘That’s simply not possible,’ Clavain said.

H put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Actually, I don’t think that is quite the right way to think about it. The grubs knew, of course. This technology had been theirs, and yet they chose to crawl between the stars. That should have told us all we needed to know. It is not that it is impossible, merely that it is very, very inadvisable.’

For a long time they stood in silence, on the threshold of the bleak room where Mercier had been unthreaded from existence.

‘Has anyone attempted those experiments again?’ Clavain asked.

‘No, not after what happened to Mercier. Quite frankly, no one was very keen to do any further work on the grub machinery. We’d learned enough as it was. The basement was evacuated. Almost no one ever comes down here these days. Those who do sometimes say they see ghosts; perhaps they’re the residual shadows of all those who suffered the same fate as Mercier. I’ve never seen the ghosts myself, I have to say, and people’s minds do play tricks on them.’ He forced false cheer into his voice, an effort that had the opposite effect to that intended. ‘One mustn’t credit such things. You don’t believe in ghosts, do you, Mr Clavain?’

‘I never used to,’ he said, wishing devoutly to be somewhere other than in the basement of the Château.

‘These are strange times,’ H said, with no little sympathy. ‘I sense that we live at the end of history, that great scores are soon to be settled. Difficult choices must soon be made. Now, shall we go and see the people I mentioned earlier on?’

Clavain nodded. ‘I can’t wait.’

Antoinette left the rim train at the station closest to the rented repair shop. Something about Xavier’s attitude had struck her as unusual, but it was nothing she could quite put her finger on. With some trepidation she checked out the repair shop’s waiting area and business desk. Nothing doing there, just a ‘closed for business’ sign on the door. She double-checked that the repair bay was pressurised and then pushed through to the interior of the bay itself. She took the nearest connecting catwalk, never looking down. The air in the bay was heady with aerosols. She was sneezing by the time she reached the ship’s own airlock, and her eyes were itching.

‘Xavier . . .’ she called.

But if he was deep inside Storm Bird he would never hear her. She would either have to find him or wait until he came out. She had told him she would arrive in twenty minutes.

She went through into the main flight deck. Everything looked normal. Xavier had called up some of the less commonly used diagnostic read-outs, some of which were sufficiently obscure that even Antoinette viewed them with mild incomprehension. But that was exactly what she would have expected when Xavier had half the ship’s guts out on the table.

‘I’m really, really sorry.’

She looked around, seeing Xavier standing behind her with an expression on his face that meant he was begging forgiveness for something. Behind him were two people she did not recognise. The taller of the two strangers indicated that she should follow them back into the lounge area aft of the main bridge.

‘Please do as I tell you, Antoinette,’ the man said. ‘This shouldn’t take long.’

Xavier said, ‘I think you’d better do it. I’m sorry I made you come here, but they said they’d start trashing the ship if I didn’t.’

Antoinette nodded, stooping back along the connecting corridor. ‘You did right, Xave. Don’t eat yourself up over it. Well, who are these clowns? Have they introduced themselves?’

‘The tall one’s Mr Clock. The other one, the pig, he’s Mr Pink.’

The two of them nodded in turn as Xavier spoke their names.

‘But who are they?’

‘They haven’t said, but here’s a wild stab in the dark. They’re interested in Clavain. I think they might possibly be spiders, or working for the spiders.’

‘Are you?’ Antoinette asked.

‘Hardly,’ Remontoire said. ‘And as for my friend here . . .’

Mr Pink shook his gargoylelike head. ‘Not me.’

‘I’d let you examine us if the circumstances were more amenable,’ Remontoire continued. ‘I assure you there are no Conjoiner implants in either of us.’

‘Which doesn’t mean you aren’t spider stooges,’ Antoinette said. ‘Now, what do I need to do in order for you to get the fuck off my ship?’

‘As Mr Liu correctly judged, we’re interested in Nevil Clavain. Have a seat . . .’ The one called Clock said it with steely emphasis this time. ‘Please, let’s be civil.’

Antoinette folded out a chair from the wall and parked herself in it. ‘I’ve never heard of anyone called Clavain,’ she said.

‘But your partner has.’

‘Yeah. Nice one, Xave.’ She gave him a look. Why couldn’t he have just pleaded ignorance?

‘It’s no good, Antoinette,’ Clock said. ‘We know that you brought him here. We are not in any way angry with you for doing that - it was the human thing to do, after all.’

She folded her arms. ‘And?’

‘All you have to do is tell us what happened next. Where Clavain went once you brought him to Carousel New Copenhagen.’

‘I don’t know.’

‘So he just magically disappeared, is that it? Without a word of thanks, or any indication of what he was going to do next?’

‘Clavain told me the less I knew the better.’

Clock looked at the pig for a moment. Antoinette decided that she had scored a point. Clavain had wanted her to know as little as possible. It was only through her own efforts that she had found out a little more, but Clock did not have to know that.

She added, ‘Of course, I kept asking him. I was curious about what he was doing here. I knew he was a spider, too. But he wouldn’t tell me. Said it was for my own good. I argued, but he stuck to his guns. I’m glad he did now. There’s nothing you can force me to tell you because I simply don’t know.’

‘So just tell us exactly what happened,’ Clock said soothingly. ‘That’s all you have to do. We’ll work out what Clavain had in mind, and then we’ll be on our way. You’ll never hear from us again.’

‘I told you, he just left. No word of where he was going, nothing. Goodbye and thanks. That was all he said.’

‘He wouldn’t have had documentation or money,’ Clock said, as if to himself, ‘so he couldn’t have got far without a little help from you. If he didn’t ask for money, he’s probably still on Carousel New Copenhagen.’ The thin, deathly pale man leaned toward her. ‘So tell me. Did he ask for anything?’

‘No,’ she said, with just the tiniest hesitation.

‘She’s lying,’ the pig said.

Clock nodded gravely. ‘I think you’re right, Mr Pink. I hoped it wouldn’t come to this, but there you have it. Needs must, as they say. Do you have the item, Mr Pink?’

‘The item, Mr Clock? You mean ...’

Between the pig’s feet was a perfectly black box, like an oblong of shadow. He pushed it forwards, leaned down and touched some hidden mechanism. The box shuffled open to reveal many more compartments than appeared feasible from its size. Each held a piece of polished silver machinery nesting in precisely shaped cushioning foam. Mr Pink took out one of the pieces and held it up for scrutiny. Then he took out another piece and connected the two together. Despite the clumsiness of his hands he worked with great care, his eyes focused sharply on the work in progress.

‘He’ll have it ready in a jiffy,’ Clock said. ‘It’s a field trawl, Antoinette. Of spider manufacture, I’m obliged to add. Do you know a great deal about trawls?’

‘Fuck off.’

‘Well, I’ll tell you anyway. It’s perfectly safe, isn’t it, Mr Pink?’

‘Perfectly safe, Mr Clock.’

‘Or at least, there’s no reason why it shouldn’t be. But field trawls are a different matter, aren’t they? They’re not nearly as proven as the larger models. They have a much higher probability of leaving the subject with neural damage. Even death isn’t entirely unheard of, is it, Mr Pink?’

The pig looked up from his activities. ‘One hears things, Mr Clock. One hears things.’

‘Well, I’m sure the detrimental effects are exaggerated . . . but nonetheless, it’s not at all advisable to use a field trawl when there are alternative procedures available.’ Clock made eye contact with Antoinette again. His eyes were sunk deep inside their sockets and his appearance made her want to look away. ‘Are you quite sure Clavain didn’t say where he was going?’

‘I told you, he didn’t . . .’

‘Continue, Mr Pink.’

‘Wait,’ Xavier said.

They all looked at him, even the pig. Xavier started to say something else. And then the ship began to shake, quite without warning, yawing and twisting against its docking constraints. Its chemical thrusters were firing, loosing pulses of gas in opposing directions, the din of it like a cannonade.

The airlock behind Antoinette closed. She grabbed at a railing for support, and then tugged a belt across her waist.

Something was happening. She had no idea what, but it was definitely something. Through the nearest window she saw the repair bay choking in dense orange propellant fumes. Something broke free with a screech of severed metal. The ship lurched even more violently.

‘Xavier . . .’ she mouthed.

But Xavier had already got himself into a seat.

And they were falling.

She watched the pig and Clock scramble for support. They folded down their own seats and webbed themselves in. Antoinette seriously doubted that they had much more of an idea than she did about what was going on. Equally, they were smart enough not to want to be untethered aboard a ship that gave every indication that it was about to do something violent.

They hit something. The collision compressed every bone in her spine. The repair bay door, she thought - Xavier had pressurised the well so he and his monkeys could work without suits. The ship had just rammed into the door.

The ship rose again. She felt the lightness in her belly.

And then it dropped.

This time there was only a muffled bump as they hit the door. Through the window Antoinette saw the orange smoke vanish in an instant. The repair bay had just lost all its air. The walls slid past as the ship pushed its way into space.

‘Make this stop,’ Clock said.

‘It’s out of my hands, buddy,’ Xavier told him.

‘This is a trick,’ the spider said. ‘You wanted us aboard the ship all along.’

‘So sue me,’ Xavier said.

‘Xavier ...’ Antoinette did not have to shout. It was perfectly silent aboard Storm Bird, even as she scraped through what remained of the bay door. ‘Xavier . . . please tell me what’s happening.’

‘I rigged an emergency program,’ Xavier said. ‘Figured it’d come in handy one day, if we ever got into just this situation.’

‘Just this situation?’

‘I guess it was worth it,’ he said.

‘Is that why there were no monkeys working?’

‘Hey.’ He feigned insult. ‘Credit me with some foresight, will you?’

They were weightless. Storm Bird fell away from Carousel New Copenhagen, surrounded by a small constellation of debris. Fascinated despite herself, Antoinette inspected the damage they had left behind. They had punched a ship-shaped hole through the door.

‘Holy shit, Xave. Have you any idea what that’ll cost us?’

‘So we’ll be a little bit longer in the red. I figured it was an acceptable trade-off.’

‘It won’t help you,’ Clock said. ‘We’re still here, and there’s nothing you can do to us that won’t hurt yourselves at the same time. So forget about depressurisation, or executing high-gee-load thrust patterns. They won’t work. The problem you had to deal with five minutes ago hasn’t gone away.’

‘The only difference,’ Mr Pink said, ‘ is that you just burned a lot of goodwill.’

‘You were about to rip her head open to get at her memories,’ Xavier said. ‘If that’s your idea of goodwill, you can stick it where the sun doesn’t shine.’

Mr Pink’s half-assembled trawl was floating through the cabin. He had let go of it during the escape.

‘You wouldn’t have learned anything anyway,’ Antoinette said, ‘because I don’t know what Clavain was going to do. Maybe I’m not putting that in sufficiently simple terms for you.’

‘Get the trawl, Mr Pink,’ Remontoire said. The pig glared at him until Clock added, with distinct overemphasis, ‘Please, Mr Pink.’

‘Yes, Mr Clock,’ the pig said, with the same snide undertone.

The pig fumbled at his webbing. He was almost out of it when the ship surged forward. The trawl was the only thing not tied down. It smashed against one of Storm Bird’s unyielding walls, breaking into half a dozen glittering pieces.

Xavier couldn’t have programmed that in, could he? Antoinette wondered.

‘Clever,’ Clock said. ‘But not clever enough. Now we’ll have to get it out of you via some other means, won’t we?’

The ship was under constant steady thrust now. Still Antoinette heard nothing, and that started her worrying. Chemical rockets were noisy: they transmitted their sound right through the framework of the hull even though the ship was in vacuum. Ion thrust was silent, but it couldn’t sustain this kind of acceleration. But the tokamak fusion motor was totally silent, suspended in a loom of magnetic fields.

They were on fusion thrust.

Holy shit ...

There was a mandatory death sentence for using fusion motors within the Rust Belt. Even using nuclear rockets this close to a carousel would have brought heinous penalties; almost certainly she would never have flown in space again. But fusion thrust was an instrument of potential lethality. A misdirected fusion flame could sever a carousel in seconds ...

‘Xavier, if you can do anything about this, get us back on to chems immediately.’

‘Sorry, Antoinette, but I figured this was for the best.’

‘You did, did you?’

‘Yes, and I’ll take the rap for it if it comes to that. But listen, we’re being held hostage here. That changes the rules. Right now we want the police to pay us a visit. All I’m doing is waving a flag.’

‘That sounds great in theory, Xave, but ...’

‘No buts. It’ll work. They’ll see that I deliberately kept the flame away from habitations. Matter of fact, there’s even an SOS modulation buried in the pulse pattern, though it’s much too rapid for us to feel.’

‘You think the cops’ll notice that?’

‘No, but they’ll sure as hell be able to verify it afterwards, which is all that matters. They’ll see that this was a clear attempt at signalling for help.’

‘I admire your optimism,’ Clock said. ‘But it won’t come to a court of law. They’ll simply shoot you out of the sky for violating protocol. You’ll never have a chance to explain yourself.’

‘He’s right,’ Mr Pink said. ‘You want to live, you’d better turn this ship around and scuttle back to Carousel New Copenhagen.’

‘Back to square one? You’ve got to be joking.’

‘It’s that or die, Mr Liu.’

Xavier undid his seat restraints. ‘You two,’ he said, pointing at the two visitors, ‘had better stay put. It’s for your own good.’

‘What about me?’ Antoinette said.

‘Stay where you are - it’s safer. I’ll be back in a minute.’

She had no choice but to trust him. Only Xavier knew the details of the program he had loaded into Beast, and if she started moving around as well she might come to harm if the ship made another violent thrust change. There would be arguments later, she knew - she was not happy that he had installed this set of tricks without even telling her - but for now she had to admit that Xavier had the upper hand. Even if all it might gain them was a few minutes of breathing time.

Xavier was gone, off towards the flight deck.

She glared at Clock. ‘I liked Clavain a lot better than you, you know.’

Xavier entered Storm Bird’s flight deck, making sure the door was sealed behind him, and settled into the pilot’s seat. The console displays were still in deep-diagnostic mode, not at all what one would expect of a ship in mid-flight. Xavier spent his first thirty seconds restoring the normal avionics readouts, bringing the ship into something resembling routine flight status. Immediately a synthetic voice started screeching at him that he needed to shut down fusion thrust, because according to at least eight local transponder beacons he was still within the Rust Belt, and thereby obliged to use nothing more energetic than chemical rockets . . .

‘Beast?’ Xavier whispered. ‘Better do it. They’ll have seen us by now, I’m pretty sure.’

Beast said nothing.

‘It’s safe,’ Xavier said, still whispering. ‘Antoinette’s staying downship with the two creeps. She’s not going anywhere soon.’

When the ship spoke to him, its voice was much lower and softer than it ever was when it addressed Antoinette. ‘I hope we did the right thing, Xavier.’

The ship rumbled as fusion thrust was smoothly supplanted by nuclear rockets. Xavier was pretty sure they were still within fifty kilometres of Carousel New Copenhagen, which meant even using nuclear rockets was in contravention of a list of rules as long as his arm, but he still wanted to attract some attention.

‘I do too, Beast. Guess we’ll know soon enough.’

‘I can depressurise, I think. Can you get Antoinette into a suit without the other two causing any trouble?’

‘Not going to be easy. I’m already worried about leaving them alone down there. I don’t know how long it will be before they decide to risk moving around. I suppose if I could get them into one compartment, and her into another . . .’

‘I might be able to selectively depressurise, yes. Never tried it before, though, so I don’t know if it’ll work first time.’

‘Maybe it won’t come to that, if the Convention’s goons get to us first.’

‘Whatever happens, there’s going to be trouble.’

Xavier read Beast’s tone of voice well enough. ‘Antoinette, you mean?’

‘She might have some difficult questions for you to answer, Xavier.’

Xavier nodded grimly. It was the last thing he needed to be reminded about now, but the point was inarguable. ‘Clavain had his doubts about you, but had the good sense not to ask Antoinette what was going on.’

‘Sooner or later she’s going to have to know. Jim never meant for this to be a secret her whole life.’

‘But not today,’ Xavier said. ‘Not here, not now. We’ve got enough to deal with for the moment.’

That was when something on the console caught his eye. It was on the three-dimensional radar plot: three icons daggering in from the direction of the carousel. They were moving quickly, on vectors that would bring them around Storm Bird in a pincer movement.

‘Well, you wanted a response, Xavier,’ Beast said. ‘Looks like you’ve got one.’

These days, the Convention’s cutters were never very far from Carousel New Copenhagen. If they were not harassing Antoinette - and usually they were - then it was someone else. Very likely the authorites had been alerted that something unusual was happening as soon as Storm Bird had left the repair bay. Xavier just hoped it was not the particular Convention officer who had taken such an interest in Antoinette’s affairs.

‘Do you think it’s true, that they’d kill us without even asking why we were on fusion thrust?’

‘I don’t know, Xavier. At the time I wasn’t exactly spoilt for other options.’

‘No ... you did fine. It’s what I would have done. What Antoinette would have done, probably. And definitely what Jim Bax would have done.’

‘The ships will be within boarding range in three minutes.’

‘Make it easy for them. I’ll go back and see how the others are doing.’

‘Good luck, Xavier.’

He worked his way back to where Antoinette was waiting. To his relief, Clock and the pig were still in their seats. He felt his weight diminishing as Beast cut power to the nuclear rockets.

‘Well?’ Antoinette asked.

‘We’re OK,’ Xavier said, with more confidence than he felt. ‘The police will be here any moment.’

He was in his seat by the time they were weightless. A few seconds later he felt a series of bumps as the police craft grappled on to the hull. So far, so good, he thought: they were at least going to get a boarding, which was better than being shot out of the sky. He would be able to argue his case, and even if the bastards insisted that someone still had to die, he thought he could keep Antoinette out of too much trouble.

He felt a breeze. His ears popped. It felt like decompression, but it was over before he had started to feel real fear. The air was still again. Distantly, he heard clunks and squeals of buckling and shearing metal.

‘What just happened?’ asked Mr Pink.

‘Police must have cut their way through our airlock,’ Xavier said. ‘Slight pressure differential between their air and ours. There was nothing to stop them coming in normally, but I guess they weren’t prepared to wait for the lock to cycle.’

Now he heard approaching mechanical sounds.

‘They’ve sent a proxy,’ Antoinette said. ‘I hate proxies.’

It arrived less than a minute later. Antoinette flinched as the machine unfolded itself into the room, enlarging like a vile black origami puzzle. It swept rapier-edged limbs through the room in lethal arcs. Xavier flinched as one bladed arm passed inches from his eyes, parting air with a tiny whipcrack. Even the pig looked as if there were places he would rather be.

‘This wasn’t clever,’ Mr Pink said.

‘We weren’t going to hurt you,’ Clock added. ‘We just wanted information. Now you’re in a great deal more trouble.’

‘You had a trawl,’ Xavier said.

‘It wasn’t a trawl,’ Mr Pink said. ‘It was just an eidetic playback device. It wouldn’t have harmed you.’

The proxy said, ‘The registered owner of this vessel is Antoinette Bax.’ The machine moved to crouch over her, close enough that she could hear the constant low humming that it gave out and smell the tingle of ozone from the sparking taser. ‘You have contravened Ferrisville Convention regulations relating to the use of fusion propulsion within the Rust Belt, formerly known as the Glitter Band. This is a category-three civil offence that carries the penalty of irreversible neural death. Please submit for genetic identification.’

‘What?’ said Antoinette.

‘Open your mouth, Miss Bax. Do not move.’

‘It’s you, isn’t it?’

‘Me, Miss Bax?’ The machine whipped out a pair of rubber-tipped manipulators and braced her head. It hurt, and continued to hurt, as if her skull were being slowly compressed in a vice. Another manipulator whisked out of a previously concealed part of the machine. It ended in a tiny curved blade, like a scythe.

‘Open your mouth.’

‘No . . .’ She felt tears coming.

‘Open your mouth.’

The evil little blade - which was still large enough to nip off a finger - hovered an inch from her nose. She felt the pressure increase. The machine’s humming intensified, becoming a low orgasmic throb.

‘Open your mouth. This is your last warning.’

She opened her mouth, but it was as much to groan in pain as to give the proxy what it wanted. Metal blurred, much to quick for her to see. There was a moment of coldness in her mouth, and the feeling of metal brushing her tongue for an instant.

Then the machine withdrew the blade. The limb articulated, tucking the blade into a separate aperture in the proxy’s compact central chassis. Something hummed and clicked within: a rapid sequencer, no doubt, tallying her DNA against the Convention’s records. She heard the rising whine of a centrifuge. The proxy still had her head in a vicelike grip.

‘Let her go,’ Xavier said. ‘You’ve got what you want. Now let her go.’

The proxy released Antoinette. She gasped for breath, wiping tears from her face. Then the machine turned towards Xavier.

‘Interfering in the activities of an official or officially designated mechanism of the Ferrisville Convention is a category-one ...’

It did not bother to complete the sentence. Contemptuously, it flicked the taser arm across Xavier so that the sparking electrodes skimmed his chest. Xavier made a barking noise and convulsed. Then he was very still, his eyes open and his mouth agape.

‘Xavier . . .’ Antoinette gasped.

‘It’s killed him,’ Clock said. He started unfastening his restraint webbing. ‘We must do something.’

Antoinette snapped, ‘What the fuck do you care? You brought this about.’

‘Difficult as it may be to believe, I do care.’ Then he was up from his seat, grappling for the nearest anchorage point. The machine gyred to face him. Clock stood his ground, the only one of them who had not flinched when the proxy had arrived. ‘Let me through. I want to examine him.’

The machine lurched towards Clock. Perhaps it expected him to feint out of the way at the last moment, or huddle protectively. But Clock did not move at all. He did not even blink. The proxy halted, humming and clicking furiously. Evidently it did not know quite what to make of him.

‘Get back,’ it ordered.

‘Let me through, or you will have committed murder. I know there is a human brain driving you, and that you understand the concept of execution as well as I do.’

The machine brought the taser up again.

‘It won’t do any good,’ Clock said.

It pressed the taser against him, just below his collarbone. The sparking bar of current dancing between the poles like a trapped eel ate into the fabric of his clothes. But Clock remained unparalysed. There was no trace of pain on his face.

‘It won’t work on me,’ he said. ‘I am a Conjoiner. My nervous system is not fully human.’

The taser was beginning to chew into his skin. Antoinette smelt what she knew without ever having smelt it before to be burning flesh.

Clock was trembling, his skin even more pale and waxy than it had been before. ‘It won’t ...’ His voice sounded strained. The machine pulled back the taser, revealing a scorched-black trench half an inch deep. Clock was still trying to complete the sentence he had started.

The machine knocked him sideways with the blunt circular muzzle of its Gatling gun. Bone cracked; Clock crashed against the wall and was immediately still. He looked dead, but then again there had never been a time when he had looked particularly alive. The stink of his burned skin still filled the cabin. It was not something Antoinette was going to forget in a hurry.

She looked at Xavier again. Clock had been on his way to do something for him. He had been ‘dead’ for perhaps half a minute already. Unlike Clock, unlike any spider, Xavier did not have an ensemble of fancy machines in his head to arrest the processes of brain damage that accompanied loss of circulation. He did not have much more than another minute ...

‘Mr Pink . . .’ she pleaded.

The pig said, ‘Sorry, but it isn’t my problem. I’m dead anyway.’

Her head still hurt. The bones were bruised, she was sure of it. The proxy had nearly shattered her skull. Well, they were dead anyway. Mr Pink was right. So what did it matter if she got hurt some more? She couldn’t let Xavier stay like that, without doing something.

She was out of her seat.

‘Stop,’ the proxy said. ‘You are interfering with a crime scene. Interference with a designated crime scene is a category ...’

She carried on moving anyway, springing from handhold to handhold until she was next to Xavier. The machine advanced on her - she heard the crackle of the taser intensify. Xavier had been dead for a minute. He was not breathing. She felt his wrist, trying to locate a pulse. Was that the right way to do it, she wondered frantically? Or was it the side of the neck ...

The proxy heaved her aside as easily as if she were a bundle of sticks. She went at it again, angrier than she had ever been in her life, angry and terrified at the same time. Xavier was going to die - was, in fact, already dead. She, it seemed, would soon be following him. Holy shit . . . half an hour ago all she had been worried about had been bankruptcy.

‘Beast!’ she cried out. ‘Beast, if you can do something ... now might not be a bad time.’

‘Begging your pardon, Little Miss, but one is unable to do anything that would not inconvenience you more than it would inconvenience the proxy.’ Beast paused and added, ‘I am really, really sorry.’

Antoinette glanced at the walls, and a moment of perfect stillness enclosed her, an eye in the storm. Beast had never sounded like that before. It was as if the subpersona had spontaneously clicked into a different identity program. When had it ever called itself ‘I’ before?

‘Beast ...’ she said calmly. ‘Beast . . . ?’

But then the proxy was on her, the diamond-hard, scimitar-sharp alloy of its limbs scissoring around her, Antoinette thrashing and screaming as the machine pried her away from Xavier. She could not help cutting herself against the proxy’s limbs. Her blood welled out from each wound in long beadlike processions, tracing ruby-red arcs through the air. She began to feel faint, consciousness lapping away.

The pig moved. Mr Pink was on the machine. The pig was small but immensely strong for his size and the proxy’s servitors whined and hummed in protest as the pig fought the bladed limbs. The whips and whorls of his own shed blood mingled with Antoinette’s. The air hazed scarlet as the beads broke down into smaller and smaller droplets. She watched the machine inflict savage gashes in Mr Pink. He bled curtains of blood, rippling out of him like aurorae. Mr Pink roared in pain and anger, and yet he kept fighting. The taser arced a stuttering blue curve through the air. The muzzle of the Gatling gun began to rotate even more rapidly, as if the proxy were preparing to spray the cabin.

Antoinette crawled her way back to Xavier. Her palms were crisscrossed with cuts. She touched Xavier’s forehead. She could have saved him a few minutes ago, she thought, but it was pointless trying now. Mr Pink was fighting a brave battle, but he was, inexorably, losing. The machine would win, and it would pick her off Xavier again; and then, perhaps, it would kill her too.

It was over. And all she should have done, she thought, was follow her father’s advice. He had told her never to get involved with spiders, and although he could not have guessed the circumstances that would entangle her with them, time had proved him right.

Sorry, Dad, Antoinette thought. You were right, and I thought I knew better. Next time I promise I’ll be a good girl . . .

The proxy stopped moving, its servo motors falling instantly silent. The Gatling gun spun down to a low rumble and then stopped. The taser buzzed, sparked and then died. The centrifuge wound down until Antoinette could no longer hear it. Even the humming had ended. The machine was simply frozen there, immobile, a vile blood-lathered black spider spanning the cabin from wall to wall.

She found some strength. ‘Mr Pink . . . what did you do?’

‘I didn’t do anything,’ Mr Pink said. And then the pig nodded at Xavier. ‘I’d concentrate on him, if I were you.’

‘Help me. Please. I’m not strong enough to do this myself.’

‘Help yourself.’

Mr Pink, she saw, was quite seriously injured himself. But though he was losing blood, he appeared not to have suffered anything beyond cuts and gashes; he did not seem to have lost any digits or received any broken bones.

‘I’m begging you. Help me massage his chest.’

‘I said I’d never help a human, Antoinette.’

She began to work Xavier’s chest anyway, but each depression sapped more strength from her, strength that she did not have to spare.

‘Please, Mr Pink ...’

‘I’m sorry, Antoinette. It’s nothing personal, but . . .’

She stopped what she was doing. Her own anger was supreme now. ‘But what?’

‘I’m afraid humans just aren’t my favourite species.’

‘Well, Mr Pink, here’s a message from the human species. Fuck you and your attitude.’

She went back to Xavier, mustering the strength for one last attempt.

TWENTY-THREE

Clavain and H rode the rattling iron elevator back up from the Château’s basement levels. On the way up, Clavain ruminated on what his host had shown and told him. Under any other circumstances, the story about Sukhoi and Mercier would have strained his credulity. But H’s apparent sincerity and the dread atmosphere of the empty room had made the whole thing difficult to dismiss. It was much more comforting to think that H had simply told him the story to play with his mind, and for that reason Clavain chose, provisionally, to opt for the less comforting possibility, just as H had done when he had investigated Sukhoi’s claims.

In Clavain’s experience, it was the less comforting possibility that generally turned out to be the case. It was the way the universe worked.

Little was said on the ascent. Clavain was still convinced that he had to escape from H and continue his defection. Equally, however, what H had revealed to him so far had forced him to accept that his own understanding of the whole affair was far from complete.

Skade was not just working for her own ends, or even for the ends of a cabal of faceless Conjoiners. She was in all likelihood working for the Mademoiselle, who had always desired influence within the Mother Nest. And the Mademoiselle herself was an unknown, a figure entirely outside Clavain’s experience. And yet, like H, she had evidently had some profound interest in the alien grub and his technology, enough that she had brought the creature to the Château and learned how to communicate with him. She was dead, it was true, but perhaps Skade had become such a willing agent of hers that one might as well think of Skade and the Mademoiselle as inseparable now.

Whatever Clavain had imagined he was dealing with, it was bigger - and it went back further - than he had ever imagined.

But it changes nothing, he thought. The crucial matter was still the acquisition of the hell-class weapons. Whoever was running Skade wanted those weapons more than anything.

And so I have to get them instead.

The elevator rattled to a halt. H opened the trelliswork door and led Clavain through another series of marbled corridors until they reached what appeared to be an absurdly spacious hotel room. A low, ornately plaster-moulded ceiling receded into middle distance, and various items of furniture and ornamentation were stationed here and there, much like items in a sculptural installation: the tilted black wedge of a grand piano; a grandfather clock in the middle of the room, as if caught in the act of gliding from wall to wall; a number of black pillars supporting obscure alabaster busts; a pair of lion-footed settees in dark scarlet velvet; and three golden armchairs as large as thrones.

Two of the three armchairs were occupied. In one sat a pig dressed like H in a simple black gown and trousers. Clavain frowned, realising - though he could not be absolutely certain - that the pig was Scorpio, the prisoner he had last seen in the Mother Nest. In the other sat Xavier, the young mechanic Clavain had met in Carousel New Copenhagen. The odd juxtaposition made Clavain’s head ache as he tried to construct some plausible scenario for how the two came to be together, here.

‘Are introductions necessary?’ H asked. ‘I don’t think so, but just to be on the safe side - Mr Clavain, meet Scorpio and Xavier Liu.’ He nodded first at Xavier. ‘How are you feeling now?’

‘I’m all right,’ Xavier said.

‘Mr Liu suffered heart failure. He was attacked with a taser weapon aboard Antoinette Bax’s spacecraft Storm Bird. The voltage setting would have dropped a hamadryad, let alone a human.’

‘Attacked?’ Clavain said, feeling it was polite to say something.

‘By an agent of the Ferrisville Convention. Oh, don’t worry, the individual involved won’t be doing that again. Or much else, as it happens.’

‘Have you killed him?’ Xavier asked.

‘Not as such, no.’ H turned to Clavain. ‘Xavier’s lucky to be alive, but he’ll be fine.’

‘And Antoinette?’ Clavain asked.

‘She’ll be fine, too. A few cuts and bruises, nothing too serious. She’ll be along shortly.’

Clavain sat down in the vacant yellow chair, opposite Scorpio. ‘I don’t pretend to understand why Xavier and Antoinette are here. But you . . .’

‘It’s a long story,’ Scorpio said.

‘I’m not going anywhere. Why not start at the beginning? Shouldn’t you be in custody?’

H said, ‘Matters have become complicated, Mr Clavain. I gather the Conjoiners brought Scorpio to the inner system with the intention of handing him over to the authorities.’

Xavier looked at the pig, doing a double take. ‘I thought H was joking when he called you Scorpio before. But he wasn’t, was he? Holy fuck. You are him, the one they’ve been trying to catch all this time. Holy fuck!’

‘Your reputation precedes you,’ H said to the pig.

‘What the fuck were you doing in Carousel New Copenhagen?’ Xavier asked, easing back into his seat. He appeared disturbed to be in the same building as Scorpio, let alone the same room.

‘I was coming after him,’ Scorpio said, nodding at Clavain.

Now it was Clavain’s turn to blink. ‘Me?’

‘They gave me a deal, the spiders. Said they’d let me go, wouldn’t turn me over, if I helped them track you down after you gave them the slip. I wasn’t going to say no, was I?’

H said, ‘They provided Scorpio with credible documentation, enough that he would not be arrested on sight. I believe they were sincere in their promise that he would be allowed to go free if he assisted in bringing you back into the fold.’

‘But I still don’t ...’

‘Scorpio and his associate - another Conjoiner - followed your trail, Mr Clavain. Naturally it took them to Antoinette Bax. That was how Xavier became involved in the whole unfortunate business. There was a struggle, and some damage was done to the carousel. The Convention already had an eye on Antoinette, so it did not take them long to reach her ship. The injuries that were sustained, including Scorpio’s, all took place when the Convention proxy entered Storm Bird.’

Clavain frowned. ‘But that doesn’t explain how they come to be . . . oh, wait. You were shadowing them, weren’t you?’

H nodded with what Clavain thought was a trace of pride. ‘I expected the Conjoiners to send someone after you. For my own curiosity I was determined to bring them here, too, so that I might determine what part they played in this whole curious affair. My ships were waiting around Copenhagen, looking for anything untoward - and especially anything untoward concerning Antoinette Bax. I am only sorry that we did not intervene sooner, or a little less blood might have been shed.’

Clavain turned around at the sound of metronomic ticking, coming nearer. It was a woman wearing stiletto heels. An enormous black cloak fanned behind her, as if she walked in her own private gale. He recognised her.

‘Ah, Zebra,’ H said, smiling.

Zebra strode up to him and then wrapped her arms around him. They kissed, more like lovers than friends.

‘Are you certain that you don’t need some rest?’ H asked. ‘Two busy jobs in one day ...’

‘I’m fine, and so are the Talkative Twins.’

‘Did you - um - make arrangements concerning the Convention employee?’

‘We dealt with him, yes. Do you want to see him?’

‘I imagine it might amuse my guests. Why not?’ H shrugged, as if all that was being debated was whether to have afternoon tea now rather than later.

‘I’ll fetch him,’ Zebra said. She turned around and clicked into the distance.

Another pair of footsteps approached. Clavain corrected himself. It was really two pairs of footsteps, but which fell in near-perfect synchrony. It was the two huge mouthless men wheeling a chair between the settees. Antoinette was sitting in the chair, looking tired but alive. She had many bandages on her hands and forearms.

‘Clavain ...’ she started to say.

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘And pleased to hear that you’re well. I’m sorry to learn that there was trouble on my account. I sincerely hoped that when I left, that would be the last of it for you.’

‘Life’s just never that simple, is it?’ Antoinette said.

‘I suppose not. But I’m sorry all the same. If I can make amends, I will.’

Antoinette looked at Xavier. ‘You’re OK? She said you were, but I didn’t know if I should believe her.’

‘I’m fine,’ Xavier told her. ‘Right as rain.’

But neither of them had the energy to get out of their chairs, it seemed.

‘I didn’t think I’d manage it,’ Antoinette said. ‘I was trying to get your heart started, but I didn’t have the strength. I could feel myself slipping into unconsciousness, so I gave it one last try. I guess it worked.’

‘Actually, it didn’t,’ H said. ‘You passed out. You’d done your best, but you’d lost a lot of blood yourself.’

‘Then who ... ?’

H nodded at Scorpio. ‘Our friend the pig saved Xavier. Didn’t you?’

The pig grunted. ‘It wasn’t anything.’

Antoinette said, ‘Maybe not to you, Mr Pink. But it made a hell of a difference to Xavier. I suppose I should say thank you.’

‘Don’t cut yourself up over it. I’ll live without your gratitude.’

‘I’ll still say it. Thanks.’

Scorpio looked at her and then grunted something unintelligible before looking away.

‘What about the ship?’ Clavain said, breaking the awkward silence that followed. ‘Is the ship OK?’

Antoinette looked at H. ‘I guess it isn’t, right?’

‘Actually, she’s fine. As soon as Xavier was conscious, Zebra asked him to instruct Storm Bird to fly on automatic pilot to some coordinates we provided. We have secure holding facilities in the Rust Belt, vital for some of our other operations. The ship is intact and out of harm’s way. You have my word on that, Antoinette.’

‘When can I see it again?’

‘Soon,’ H said. ‘But exactly how soon I am not willing to say.’

‘Am I a prisoner, then?’ Antoinette asked.

‘Not exactly. You are all my guests. I would just rather you did not leave until we have all had a chance to talk. Mr Clavain may have his own opinion on the matter, perhaps justifiably, but I think it is fair to say that some of you owe me for saving your lives.’ He held up a hand, cutting off any objections before anyone had a chance to speak. ‘I do not mean that I hold any of you in debt to me. I merely ask that you indulge me with a little of your time. Like it or not,’ and he glanced at all of them in turn, ‘we are all players in something larger than any of us can readily grasp. Unwilling players, perhaps, but then it has always been thus. By defecting, Mr Clavain has precipitated something momentous. I believe we have no option but to follow events to their outcome. To play, if you like, our predetermined roles. That includes all of us - even Scorpio.’

There was a squeaking sound, accompanied by more of the metronomic clicking. Zebra had returned. Ahead of her she propelled an upright metal cylinder the size of a large tea urn. It was burnished to a high gleam and sprouted all manner of pipes and accoutrements. It sat propped on the cushion of a wheelchair, the same kind that Antoinette had arrived in.

The cylinder was, Clavain noticed, rocking slightly from side to side, as if something inside was struggling to escape.

‘Bring it here,’ H said, gesturing Zebra forwards.

She wheeled the cylinder between them. It was still wobbling. H leaned over and rapped it softly with his knuckles. ‘Hello there,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘Nice that you could make it. Do you know where you are, I wonder, or what has happened to you?’

The cylinder wobbled with increasing agitation.

‘Let me explain,’ H said to his guests. ‘What we have here is the life-support system of a Convention cutter. The pilot of a cutter never leaves his spacecraft for his entire term of service, which can be many years. To reduce mass, most of his body is surgically detached and held in cold storage back at Convention headquarters. He doesn’t need limbs when he can drive a proxy via a neural interface. He doesn’t need a lot of other things, either. They are all removed, labelled and stored.’

The cylinder lurched back and forth.

Zebra reached down and held it steady. ‘Whoah,’ she said.

‘Inside this cylinder,’ H said, ‘is the pilot of the cutter responsible for the recent unpleasantness aboard Miss Bax’s spacecraft. Nasty little fellow, aren’t you? What fun it must be, terrifying innocent crews who have done nothing worse than violate a few silly old laws. What larks.’

‘It isn’t the first time we’ve done business,’ Antoinette said.

‘Well, I’m afraid our guest has gone just a little bit too far this time,’ H said. ‘Haven’t you, old fellow? It was a simple matter to detach your life-support core from the rest of the ship. I hope it didn’t cause you too much discomfort, although I imagine there must have been no little pain as you were disconnected from your ship’s nervous system. I’ll apologise for that now, because torture really isn’t my business.’

The cylinder was suddenly very still, as if listening.

‘But I can’t very well let you go unpunished, can I? I am a very moral man, you see. My own crimes have sharpened my sense of ethics to a quite unprecedented degree.’ He leaned close to the cylinder, until his lips were almost kissing the metal. ‘Listen carefully, because I don’t want there to be any doubt in your mind as to what is to happen to you.’

The cylinder rocked softly.

‘I know what I need to do to keep you alive. Power here, nutrients there - it’s not rocket science. I imagine that you can exist in this can for decades, provided I keep you fed and watered. And that is precisely what I am going to do, until the moment you die.’ He glanced at Zebra and nodded. ‘I think that’ll be all, don’t you?’

‘Shall I put him in the same room as the others, H?’

‘I think that will do very nicely.’ He beamed at his guests and then watched with obvious fondness as Zebra wheeled the prisoner away.

When she was out of earshot Clavain said, ‘You’re a cruel man, H.’

‘I am not cruel,’ he said. ‘Not in the sense you mean. But cruelty is a useful tool if one can only recognise the precise moment when it must be used.’

‘That fucker had it coming,’ Antoinette said. ‘Sorry, Clavain, but I’m not going to lose any sleep over that bastard. He’d have killed us all if it wasn’t for H.’

Clavain still felt cold, as if one of the ghosts they had recently discussed had just walked through him. ‘What about the other victim?’ he asked with sudden urgency. ‘The other Conjoiner. Was it Skade?’

‘No, it wasn’t Skade. A man this time. He was injured, but there’s no reason why he won’t make a full recovery.’

‘Might I see him?’

‘Shortly, Mr Clavain. I am not done with him yet. I wish to make absolutely certain that he can’t do me any harm before I bring him to consciousness.’

‘He lied, then,’ Antoinette said. ‘Bastard told us he didn’t have any implants left in his head.’

Clavain turned to her. ‘He’ll have kept them while they were still useful, only flushing them out of his body when he was about to pass through some kind of security check. It doesn’t take long for the implants to dismantle themselves - a few minutes, and then all you’re left with are trace elements in the blood and urine.’

Scorpio said, ‘Be careful. Be very fucking careful.’

‘Any particular reason why I should be?’ H asked.

The pig pushed himself forwards in his seat. ‘Yeah. The spiders put something in my head, tuned to his implants. Like a little valve or something, around one vein or artery. He dies, I die - it’s simple.’

‘Mm.’ H had one finger on his lip. ‘And you’re totally certain of this?’

‘I already passed out once, when I tried strangling him.’

‘Friendly relationship you two had, was it?’

‘Marriage of convenience, pal. And he knew it. That was why he had to have a hold on me.’

‘Well, there may have been something there once,’ H said. ‘But we examined all of you. You have no implants, Scorpio. If there was anything in your head, he flushed it out before you reached us.’

Scorpio’s mouth dropped open in a perfectly human expression of astonishment and intense self-disgust. ‘No ... the fucker couldn’t have . . .’

‘Very probably, Scorpio, you could have walked away at any time and there wouldn’t have been a thing in the world he could have done to stop you.’

‘It’s like my father told me,’ Antoinette said. ‘You can’t trust the spiders, Scorpio. Ever.’

‘Like I need to be told that?’

‘You were the one they tricked, Scorpio, not me.’

He sneered at her, but remained silent. Perhaps, Clavain thought, he knew there was nothing he could say that would not make his position worse.

‘Scorpio,’ H said, with renewed seriousness, ‘I meant it when I said you were not my prisoner. I have no particular admiration for the things you did. But I have done terrible things myself, and I know that there are sometimes reasons that others don’t see. You saved Antoinette, and for that you have my gratitude - and, I suspect, the gratitude of my other guests.’

‘Get to the point,’ Scorpio grunted.

‘I will honour the agreement that the Conjoiners made with you. I will let you leave, freely, so that you can rejoin your associates in the city. You have my word on that.’

Scorpio pushed himself from the seat, with noticeable effort. ‘Then I’m out of here.’

‘Wait.’ H had not raised his voice, but something in his tone immobilised the pig. It was as if all that had come before was mere pleasantry, and that H had finally revealed his true nature: that he was not a man to be trifled with when he moved on to matters of gravity.

Scorpio eased back into his seat. Softly he asked, ‘What?’

‘Listen to me and listen well.’ He looked around, his expression judicial in its solemnity. ‘All of you. I won’t say this more than once.’

There was silence. Even the Talkative Twins seemed to have fallen into a deeper state of speechlessness.

H moved to the grand piano and played six bleak notes before slamming the cover down. ‘I said that we live in momentous times. End times, perhaps. Certainly a great chapter in human affairs appears to be drawing to a close. Our own petty squabbles - our delicate worlds, our childlike factions, our comical little wars - are about to be eclipsed. We are children stumbling into a galaxy of adults, adults of vast age and vaster power. The woman who lived in this building was, I believe, a conduit for one or other of those alien forces. I do not know how or why. But I believe that through her these forces have extended their reach into the Conjoiners. I can only surmise that this has happened because a desperate time draws near.’

Clavain wanted to object. He wanted to argue. But everything he had discovered for himself, and everything that H had shown him, made that denial harder. H was correct in his assumption, and all Clavain could do was nod quietly and wish that it were otherwise.

H was still speaking. ‘And yet - and this is what terrifies me - even the Conjoiners seem frightened. Mr Clavain is an honourable man.’ H nodded, as if his statement needed affirmation. ‘Yes. I know all about you, Mr Clavain. I have studied your career and sometimes wished that I could have walked the line you have chosen for yourself. It has been no easy path, has it? It has taken you between ideologies, between worlds, almost between species. All along, you have never followed anything as fickle as your heart, anything as meaningless as a flag. Merely your cold assessment of what, at any given moment, it is right to do.’

‘I’ve been a traitor and a spy,’ Clavain said. ‘I’ve killed innocents for military ends. I’ve made orphans. If that’s honour, you can keep it.’

‘There have been worse tyrants than you, Mr Clavain, trust me on that. But the point I make is merely this. These times have driven you to do the unthinkable. You have turned against the Conjoiners after four hundred years. Not because you believe the Demarchists are right, but because you sensed how your own side had become poisoned. And you realised, without perhaps seeing it clearly yourself, that what lies at stake is bigger than any faction, bigger than any ideology. It is the continued existence of the human species.’

‘How would you know?’ Clavain asked.

‘Because of what you have already told your friends, Mr Clavain. You were voluble enough in Carousel New Copenhagen, when you imagined no one else could be listening. But I have ears everywhere. And I can trawl memories, like your own people. You have all passed through my infirmary. Do you imagine I wouldn’t stoop to a little neural eavesdropping when so much is at stake? Of course I would.’

He turned to Scorpio again, the force of his attention making the pig edge even further back into his seat. ‘Here is what is going to happen. I am going to do what I can to help Mr Clavain complete his assignment.’

‘To defect?’ Scorpio asked.

‘No,’ H said, shaking his head. ‘What would be the good of that? The Demarchists don’t even have a single remaining starship, not in this system. Mr Clavain’s gesture would be wasted. Worse than that, once he’s back in Demarchist hands I doubt even my influence would be able to free him again. No. We need to think beyond that to the issue itself, to why Mr Clavain was defecting in the first place.’ He nodded at Clavain, like a prompter. ‘Go on, tell us. It’ll be good to hear it from your lips, after all that I’ve said.’

‘You know, don’t you?’

‘About the weapons? Yes.’

Clavain nodded. He did not know whether to feel defeated or victorious. There was nothing to do but talk. ‘I wanted to persuade the Demarchists to put together an operation to recover the hell-class weapons before Skade can get her hands on them. But H is right: they don’t even have a starship. It was a folly, a futile gesture to make me feel that I was doing something.’ He felt long-postponed weariness slide over him, casting a dark shadow of dejection. ‘That’s all it ever was. One old man’s stupid final gesture.’ He looked around at the other guests, feeling as if he owed them some kind of apology. ‘I’m sorry. I’ve dragged you all into this, and it was for nothing.’

H moved behind the chair and placed two hands on Clavain’s shoulders. ‘Don’t be so sorry, Mr Clavain.’

‘It’s true, isn’t it? There’s nothing we can do.’

‘You spoke to the Demarchists,’ H said. ‘What did they say when you broached the topic of a ship?’

Clavain recalled his conversation with Perotet and Voi. ‘They told me they didn’t have one.’

‘And?’

Clavain laughed humourlessly. ‘That they could get their hands on one if they really needed to.’

‘And they probably could,’ H said. ‘But what would it gain you? They’re weak and exhausted, corrupt and battle-weary. Let them find a ship - I won’t stop them. After all, it doesn’t matter who recovers those weapons, so long as it isn’t the Conjoiners. I just think someone else might stand a slightly better chance of actually succeeding. Especially someone who has access to some of the same technology that your side now possesses.’

‘And who would that be?’ Antoinette asked, but she must have already had an inkling.

Clavain looked at his host. ‘But you don’t have a ship either.’

‘No,’ H said, ‘I don’t. But like the Demarchists I might know where to find one. There are enough Ultra ships in this system that it would not be impossible to steal one, if we had the necessary will. As a matter of fact, I have already drawn up contingency plans for the taking of a lighthugger, should the need ever arise.’

‘You’d need a small army to take one of their ships,’ Clavain said.

‘Yes,’ H said, as if this was the first time it had occurred to him. ‘Yes, I probably would.’ Then he turned to the pig. ‘Wouldn’t I, Scorpio?’

Scorpio listened carefully to what H had to say concerning the delicate matter of stealing a lighthugger. The audacity of the act he was proposing was astounding, but, as H pointed out, the army of pigs had performed audacious crimes before, if not on quite so great a scale. They had taken control of entire zones of the Mulch, usurping power from what was still laughingly called the authorities. They had made a mockery of the Ferrisville Convention’s attempts to extend martial law into the darkest niches of the city, and by way of reply the pigs and their allies had established lawless enclaves throughout the Rust Belt. These bubbles of controlled criminality had simply been edited off the map, treated as if they had never been reclaimed after the Melding Plague. But that did not make them any less real or negate the fact that they were often more harmonious environments than the habitats under full and legal Ferrisvillle administration.

H mentioned also the activities that the pigs and the banshees had extended across the system, using them to illustrate his thesis that the pigs already had all the necessary expertise and resources to steal a lighthugger. What remained was simply a question of organisation and timing. A ship would have to be selected some considerable period in advance, and it would have to be the ideal target. There could be no prospect of failure, even a failure that cost the pigs little in terms of lives or resources. The instant the Ultras suspected that there was an attempt being made to possess one of their precious ships, they would tighten their security by an order of magnitude, or leave the system en masse. No: the attack would have to take place quickly and it would have to succeed first time.

H told Scorpio that he had already run a number of simulations of theft strategies, and he had concluded that the best time was when a lighthugger was already in its departure phase. His studies had shown that this was when the Ultras were at their most vulnerable, and when they were most likely to neglect their usual security measures. It would be even better to select a ship that had not done well in the usual trade exchanges, as these were the ships that were likely to have sold some of their defence systems or armour as collateral. That was the kind of deal that the Ultras kept to themselves, but H had already placed spies in the parking swarm network routers that intercepted and filtered Ultra trade dialogues. He showed Scorpio the latest transcripts, skimming through reams of commercial argot, highlighting the lucrative deals. In the process he drew Scorpio’s attention to one ship already in Yellowstone space that was doing badly in the latest rounds.

‘Nothing wrong with the ship itself,’ H said, lowering his voice confidentially. ‘Technically sound, or at least nothing that couldn’t be fixed on the way to Delta Pavonis. I think she might be our one, Scorpio.’ He paused. ‘I’ve even had a quiet word with Lasher . . . your deputy? He’s aware of my intentions, and I’ve asked him to put together an assault squad for the operation - a few hundred of the best. They don’t have to be pigs, although I suspect many of them will be.’

‘Wait. Wait.’ Scorpio raised his clumsy stub of a hand. ‘You said Lasher. How the fuck do you know Lasher?’

H was amused rather than irritated. ‘This is my city, Scorpio. I know everyone and everything in it.’

‘But Lasher ...’

‘Remains fiercely loyal to you, yes. I’m aware of that, and I made no attempt to turn his loyalty. He used to be a fan of yours before he became your deputy, didn’t he?’

‘You know shit about Lasher.’

‘I know enough that he would kill himself if you gave the word. And as I said, I made no effort to turn him. I ... anticipated your consent, Scorpio. That’s all. Anticipated that you would accept my request and do what I ask. I told Lasher that you had already ordered him to assemble the army, and that I was merely relaying the order. So I took a liberty, I admit. As I intimated earlier, these are not times for hesitant men. We aren’t hesitant men, are we?’

‘No . . .’

‘That’s the spirit.’ He slapped him on the shoulder in a gesture of boisterous camaraderie. ‘The ship’s Eldritch Child, out of Macro Hektor Industria’s trade halo. Do you think you and Lasher can take her, Scorpio? Or have I come to the wrong pigs?’

‘Fuck you, H.’

The man beamed. ‘I’ll take that as “yes”.’

‘I’m not done. I pick my team. Not just Lasher, but whoever else I say. No matter where they are in the Mulch, no matter the shit they’re in or the shit they’ve done, you get them to me. Understand?’

‘I will do what I can. I have my limits.’

‘Fine. And when I’m done, when I’ve set Clavain up with a ship ...’

‘You will ride that same ship. There isn’t any other way, you see. Did you seriously imagine you could melt back into Stoner society? You can walk out of here now, with my blessing, but I won’t give you my protection. And as loyal as Lasher may be, the Convention has scented blood. There is no reason for you to stay behind, any more than there’s a reason for Antoinette and Xavier to stay here. Like them, you’ll go with Clavain if you’re wise.’

‘You’re talking about leaving Chasm City.’

‘We all have to make choices in life, Scorpio. They aren’t always easy. Not the ones that count, anyway.’ H waved his hand dismissively. ‘It doesn’t have to be for ever. You weren’t born here, any more than I was. The city will still be around in a hundred or two hundred years. It may not look the way it does now, but what does that matter? It may be better or worse. It would be up to you to find your place in it. Of course, you may not wish to return by then.’

Scorpio looked back to the scrolling lines of trade argot. ‘And that ship . . . the one you’ve fingered ... ?’

‘Yes?’

‘If I took her - gave her to Clavain - and then chose to stay aboard her ... there’s something I’d insist on.’

H shrugged. ‘One or two demands on your side would not be unreasonable. What is it you want?’

‘To name it. She becomes Zodiacal Light. And that isn’t open to negotiation.’

H looked at him with a cool, distant interest. ‘I’m sure Clavain would have no objections. But why that name? Does it mean something to you?’

Scorpio left the question unanswered.

Later, much later, when he knew that the ship was on its way - successfully captured, its crew ousted, and now ramming out of the system towards the star Delta Pavonis, around which orbited a world he had barely heard of called Resurgam - H walked out on to one of the middle-level balconies of the Château des Corbeaux. A warm breeze flicked the hem of his gown against his trousers. He took a deep breath of that air, savouring its scents of unguents and spices. Here the building was still inside the bubble of breathable atmosphere being belched out of the chasm by the ailing Lilly, that vast item of bioengineering that the Conjoiners had installed during their brief halcyon tenancy. It was night, and by some rare alignment of personal mood and exterior optical conditions he found that Chasm City looked extraordinarily beautiful, as all human cities are obliged to at some point in their lives. He had seen it through so many changes. But they were nothing compared with the changes he had lived through himself.

It’s done, he thought.

Now that the ship was on its way, now that he had assisted Clavain in his mission, he had finally done the one incontrovertibly good act of his life. It was not, he supposed, adequate atonement for all that he had done in the past, all the cruelties he had inflicted, all the kindnesses he had omitted. It was not even enough to expiate his failure to rescue the tormented grub before the Mademoiselle had beaten him to it. But it was better than nothing.

Anything was better than nothing.

The balcony extended from one black side of the building, bordered by only the lowest of walls. He walked to the very edge, the warm breeze - it was not unlike a constant animal exhalation - gaining in strength until it was not really a breeze at all. Down below, dizzying kilometres below, the city splayed out in tangled jetstreams of light, like the sky over his home town after one of the dogfights he remembered from his youth.

He had sworn that when he finally achieved atonement, when he finally found an act that could offset some of his sins, he would end his life. Better to end with the score not fully settled than risk committing some even worse deed in the future. The power to do bad was still in him, he knew; it lay buried deep, and it had not surfaced for many years, but it was still there, tight and coiled and waiting, like a hamadryad. The risk was too great.

He looked down, imagining how it would feel. In a moment it would be over save for the slow, elegant playing out of gravity and mass. He would have become no more than an exercise in ballistics. No more capacity for pain; no more hunger for redemption.

A woman’s voice cut across the night. ‘No, H!’

He did not look around, but remained poised on the edge. The mesmeric city still pulled him towards itself.

She crossed the balcony, her heels clicking. He felt her arm slip around his waist. Gently, lovingly, she pulled him back from the edge.

‘No,’ she whispered. ‘This is not how it ends. Not here, not now.’

TWENTY-FOUR

‘There’s the getaway car,’ said the swarthy little man, nodding at the solitary vehicle parked on the street.

Thorn observed the slumped shadow behind the car’s window. ‘The driver looks asleep.’

‘He’s not.’ But to be on the safe side, Thorn’s driver pulled up next to the other car. The two vehicles were identical in shape, conforming to the standard government-sponsored design. But the getaway car was older and drabber, the rain matt against irregular patches of repaired bodywork. His driver got out and trudged through puddles to the other car, rapping smartly on the window. The other driver wound down his window and the two of them spoke for a minute or so, Thorn’s driver reinforcing his points with many hand gestures and facial expressions. Then he came back and got in with Thorn, muttering under his breath. He released the handbrake and their own car eased away with a hiss of tyres.

‘There aren’t any other vehicles parked on this street,’ Thorn said. ‘It looks conspicuous, waiting there like that.’

‘Would you rather there was no car, on a piss-poor night like this?’

‘No. But just make sure the lazy sod has a good story in case Vuilleumier’s goons decide to have a nice little chat with him.’

‘He’s got an explanation, don’t worry about that. Thinks his missis is cheating on him. See that residential apartment over there? He’s watching it in case she shows up when she’s supposed to be working nights.’

‘Maybe he should wake up a bit, then.’

‘I told him to look lively.’ They sped around a corner. ‘Relax, Thorn. You’ve done this a hundred times, and we’ve run a dozen local area meetings in this part of Cuvier. The reason you have me work for you is so you don’t have to worry about details.’

‘You’re right,’ Thorn said. ‘I suppose it’s just the usual nerves.’

The man laughed at this. ‘You, nervous?’

‘There’s a lot at stake. I don’t want to let them down. Not after we’ve come so far.’

‘You won’t let them down, Thorn. They won’t let you. Don’t you realise it yet? They love you.’ The man flicked a switch on the dashboard, making the windscreen wipers pump with renewed vigour. ‘Fucking terraformers, eh? Like we haven’t had enough rain lately. Still, it’s good for the planet, or so they say. Do you think the government is lying, by the way?’

‘About what?’ Thorn said.

‘That weird thing in the sky.’

Thorn followed the organiser into the designated building. He was led through a brief series of unlit corridors until he reached a large windowless room. It was full of people, all of whom were seated facing a makeshift stage and podium. Thorn walked amongst them, stepping nimbly on to the stage. There was quiet applause, respectful without being ecstatic. He looked down at the people and established that there were about forty of them, as he had been promised.

‘Good evening,’ Thorn said. He planted both hands on the podium and leaned forward. ‘Thank you for coming here tonight. I appreciate the risks that you have all taken. I promise you that it will be worth it.’

His followers were from all walks of Resurgam life except the very core of government. It was not that government workers did not sometimes attempt to join the movement, nor that they weren’t occasionally sincere. But it was too much of a security risk to allow them in. They were screened out long before they ever got near Thorn. Instead there were technicians, cooks and truck drivers, farmers, plumbers and teachers. Some of them were very old, and had adult memories of life in Chasm City before the Lorean had brought them to Resurgam. Others had been born since the Girardieau regime, and to them that period - barely less squalid than the present - was the ‘good old days’, as difficult as that was to believe. There were few like Thorn who had only childhood memories of the old world.

‘Is it true, then?’ a woman asked from the front row. ‘Tell us, Thorn, now. We’ve all heard the rumours. Put us out of our misery.’

He smiled, patient despite the woman’s lack of respect for his script. ‘What rumour would that be, exactly?’

She stood up, looking around before speaking. ‘That you’ve found them - the ships. The ones that are going to get us off this planet. And that you’ve found the starship too, and it’s going to take us back to Yellowstone.’

Thorn didn’t answer her directly. He looked over the heads of the audience and spoke to someone at the back. ‘Could I have the first picture, please?’ Thorn stepped aside so that he did not block the projection thrown on to the chipped and stained rear wall of the room.

‘This is a photograph taken exactly twenty days ago,’ he said. ‘I won’t say where it was taken from just yet. But you can see for yourselves that this is Resurgam and that the picture must be quite recent - see how blue the sky is, how much vegetation there is in the foreground? You can tell that it’s low ground, where the terraforming programme’s been the most successful.’

The flat-format picture showed a view down into a narrow canyon or defile. Two sleek metallic objects were parked in the shadows between the rock walls, nose to nose.

‘They’re shuttles,’ Thorn said. ‘Large surface-to-orbit types, each with a capacity of around five hundred passengers. You can’t judge size very well from this view, but that small dark aperture there is a door. Next, please.’

The picture changed. Now Thorn himself stood beneath the hull of one of the shuttles, peering up at the formerly tiny-looking door.

‘I climbed down the slope. I didn’t believe they were real myself until I got close. But there they are. So far as we can tell they are perfectly functional, as good as the day they came down.’

‘Where are they from?’ another man asked.

‘The Lorean,’ Thorn said.

‘They’ve been down here all that time? I don’t believe it.’

Thorn shrugged. ‘They’re built to keep themselves in working order. Old tech, self-regenerating. Not like the new stuff we’ve all grown used to. These shuttles are relics from a time when things didn’t break down or wear out or become obsolescent. We have to remember that.’

‘Have you been inside? The rumours say you’ve been inside, even got the shuttles to come alive.’

‘Next.’

The picture showed Thorn, another man and a woman on the flight deck of the shuttle, all of them smiling into the camera, the instrumentation lit up behind them.

‘It took a long time - many days - but we finally got the shuttle to talk to us. It wasn’t that it didn’t want to deal with us, simply that we’d forgotten all the protocols that its builders had assumed we’d know. But as you can see, the ship is at least nominally functional.’

‘Can they fly?’

Thorn looked serious. ‘We don’t know for sure. We have no reason to assume that they can’t, but so far we’ve only scratched the surface of those diagnostic layers. We have people there now who are learning more by the day, but all we can say at the moment is that the shuttles should fly, given everything that we know about Belle Époque machinery.’

‘How did you find them?’ asked another woman.

Thorn lowered his eyes, marshalling his thoughts. ‘I have been looking for a way off this planet my entire life,’ he said.

‘That isn’t what I asked. What if those shuttles are a government trap? What if they planted the clues that led you to them? What if they’re designed to kill you and your followers, once and for all?’

‘The government knows nothing about any way to leave this planet,’ Thorn told her. ‘Trust me on that.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Next.’

Thorn now showed them a picture of the thing in the sky, waiting while the projector lurched in and out of focus. He studied the reaction of his audience. Some of them had seen this image before; some had seen pictures that showed the same thing but with much less resolution; some had seen it with their own eyes, as a faint ochre smudge in the sky chasing the setting sun like a malformed comet. He told them that the picture was the latest and best image available to the government, according to his sources.

‘But it isn’t a comet,’ Thorn said. ‘That’s the government line, but it isn’t true. It isn’t a supernova either, or any of the other rumours they’ve put about. They’ve been able to get away with those lies because not many people down here know enough about astronomy to realise what that thing is. And those that do have been too intimidated to speak out, since they know that the government is lying for a reason.’

‘So what is it?’ someone asked.

‘While it doesn’t have anything like the right morphology to be a comet, it isn’t something outside our solar system either. It moves against the stars, a little each night, and it’s sitting in the ecliptic along with the other planets. There’s an explanation for that, quite an obvious one, really.’ He looked them all up and down, certain that he had their attention. ‘It is a planet, or rather what used to be one. The smudge is where there used to be a gas giant, the one we call Roc. What we’re seeing is Roc’s disembowelled corpse. The planet is being pulled apart, literally dismantled.’ Thorn smiled. ‘That’s what the government doesn’t want you to know, because there’s nothing they can do about it.’

He nodded towards the back. ‘Next.’

He showed them how it had begun, over a year earlier.

‘Three medium-sized rocky worlds were dismantled first, ripped apart by self-replicating machines. Their rubble was collected, processed and boosted across the system to the gas giant. Other machines were already waiting there. They turned three of Roc’s moons into colossal factories, eating megatonnes of rubble by the second and spewing out highly organised mechanical components. They spun an arc of matter around the gas giant, a vast metallic ring, unbelievably dense and strong. You can see it here, very faintly, but you’ll have to take my word that it’s more than a dozen kilometres thick. At the same time they were threading tubes of similar material down into the atmosphere itself.’

‘Who?’ another man asked. ‘Who is doing this, Thorn?’

‘Not who,’ he said. ‘What. The machines aren’t of human origin. The government’s pretty certain about that. They have a theory, too. It was something Sylveste did. He set off some kind of trigger that brought them here.’

‘Just like the Amarantin must have done?’

‘Perhaps,’ Thorn said. ‘There’s certainly speculation along those lines. But there’s no sign that any major planets have ever been dismantled in this system before, no resonance gaps in orbits where a Jovian would have belonged. But then again, it was a million years ago. Maybe the Inhibitors tidied up after they’d done their dirty work.’

‘Inhibitors?’ asked a bearded man whom Thorn recognised as an unemployed palaeobotanist.

‘That’s what the government calls the alien machines. I don’t know why, but it seems as good a name as any.’

‘What will they do to us?’ asked a woman who had exceptionally bad teeth.

‘I don’t know.’ Thorn tightened his fingers around the edge of the podium. He had felt the mood of the room change within the last minute. It always happened this way, when they saw what was happening. Those who knew of the thing in the sky had viewed it with alarm from the moment the rumours began. For most of the year it had not been visible at all from Cuvier’s latitude, where most of the citizenry still lived. But no one had been of the opinion that it was likely to be a good omen. Now it had hoved into the evening sky, unignorable.

The government’s experts had their own ideas about what was going on around the giant. They had correctly deduced that the activities could only be the result of intelligent forces, rather than some outlandish astronomical cataclysm, although that had, for a while, been considered. A minority considered it likely that the agency behind the destruction was human: the Conjoiners, perhaps, or a new and belligerent group of Ultras. A smaller and less credible minority thought that the Triumvir herself, Ilia Volyova, had to have something to do with it. But the majority had correctly deduced that alien intervention was the most likely explanation, and that it was in some way a response to Sylveste’s investigations.

But the government’s experts had access only to the sketchiest of data. They had not glimpsed the alien machinery in close-up, as Thorn had.

Volyova and Khouri had their own theories.

As soon as the arc was finished, as soon as the giant had been girdled, there had been a dramatic change in the properties of the planet’s magnetosphere. An intense quadrupole field had been set up, orders of magnitude more intense than the planet’s natural field. Loops of magnetic flux curled between lines of latitude from equator to pole, ramming far out of the atmosphere. The field was clearly artificial, and it could only have been produced by current flow along conductors laid along those lines of latitude, great metallic loops wound around the planet like motor windings.

That was the process Thorn and Khouri had observed with their own eyes. They had watched the loops being laid, spooled deep into the atmosphere. But they had no idea how deep they had gone. The windings must have sunk far into the metallic hydrogen ocean, deep enough to achieve some kind of torque coupling with the planet’s shrivelled yet immensely metal-rich rocky kernel. An exterior acceleration force transmitted to the windings would be transferred to the planet itself.

Meanwhile, around the planet, the orbital arc generated a pole-to-pole current flow, passing through the giant and returning to the arc via the magnetospheric plasma. The charge elements in the ring reacted against the field in which they were embedded, forcing a tiny change in angular momentum in the motor windings.

Imperceptibly at first, the gas giant began to rotate faster.

The process had continued for most of a year. The effect had been catastrophic: as the planet had spun faster and faster, so it had been pushed closer and closer towards the critical break-up velocity when its own gravity could no longer stop it from flying apart. Within six months, half the mass of the planet’s atmosphere had been flung into space, ejected into the half-beautiful, half-repulsive new circum-planetary nebula that was visible from Resurgam as a thumb-sized smudge in the evening sky. Now most of the atmosphere was gone. Relieved of the compressive weight of the overlying layers, the liquid-hydrogen ocean had returned to the gaseous state, liberating squalls of energy that had been pumped smoothly back into the spin-up machinery. The metallic-hydrogen ocean had undergone a similar but even more convulsive state change. That too had been part of the plan, for the great process of dismantling had not faltered once.

Now all that remained was a husk of tectonically unstable core matter spinning close to its own fragmentation speed. The machines were surrounding it even as Thorn spoke, processing and refining. In the nebula, revealed as shadowy knots of coherent shape and density, other structures were taking shape, larger than worlds in their own right.

Thorn said again, ‘I don’t know what’s happening. I don’t think anyone does. But I do have an idea. What they’ve done so far has been very hierarchical. The machines are awesome, but they have limitations. Matter has to come from somewhere, and they couldn’t immediately start smashing apart the gas giant. They had to make the tools to do that, and that meant smashing three smaller worlds first. They need raw material, you see. Energy doesn’t seem to be a problem - maybe they can draw it directly from the vacuum - but they obviously can’t condense it back down into matter with any precision or efficiency. So they have to work in stages, one step at a time. Now they’ve ripped apart a gas giant, liberating perhaps one-tenth of one per cent of the entire useful mass in this system. Based on what we’ve seen so far, that liberated mass will be used to make something else. What, I don’t know. But I’m willing to hazard a guess. There’s only one place to go now, only one hierarchy above a gas giant. It has to be the sun. I think they’re going to take it apart.’

‘You’re not serious,’ someone said.

‘I wish I wasn’t. But there has to be a reason why they haven’t smashed Resurgam yet. I think it’s obvious: they don’t have to. In a while, perhaps much sooner than we’d like, there won’t be any need for them to worry about it. It’ll be gone. They’ll have ripped this solar system apart.’

‘No ...’ someone exclaimed.

Thorn started to answer, ready to work on their understandable doubts. He had been through this before, and he knew the truth took a while to sink in. That was why he told them about the shuttles first, so that there would be something they could pin their hopes on. It was the end of the world, he would say, but that didn’t mean they all had to die. There was an escape route. All anyone needed was the courage to trust him, the courage to follow him.

But then Thorn realised that the person had said ‘no’ for an entirely different reason. It had nothing to do with his presentation.

It was the police. They were coming through the door.

Act as you would if you thought your life was in danger, Khouri had told him. It has to look totally credible. If this is going to work - and it has to work, for all our sakes - they have to believe that you’ve been arrested without any foreknowledge of what was going on. You had better struggle, Thorn, and be prepared to get hurt.

He jumped from the podium. The police were masked, unrecognisable. They came in with sprays and pacifiers at the ready, moving through the stunned and frightened audience with quick jerky movements and no audible communication. Thorn hit the ground and dashed towards the escape route, the one that would lead to the getaway car two blocks away. Make it look real. Make it look bloody real. He heard chairs scraping as people stood or tried to stand. The crack of fear-gas grenades and the buzz-snap of stun guns filled the room. He heard someone cry out, followed by the sound of armour on bone. There had been a moment of near calm; now it was over. The room erupted into a panicked frenzy as everyone tried to get out.

His exit was blocked. The police were coming in that way as well. Thorn spun around. Same story the other way. He started coughing, feeling panic rise in him unexpectedly, like a sudden urge to sneeze. The effect of the fear-gas was so absolute that it made him want to crawl into a corner and cower rather than stand his ground. But Thorn fought through it. He grabbed one of the chairs and raised it aloft as a shield as the police stormed towards him.

The next thing he knew he was on his knees, and then his hands, and the police were hitting him with sticks, expertly aimed so that he would have bruises but no major broken bones or internal injuries.

Out of the corner of his eye, Thorn saw another group of police laying into the woman with the bad teeth. She disappeared under them, like something mobbed by rooks.

While it waited for the singer to finish building itself, the overseer dug playfully through the stratalike memories of its earlier incarnations.

The overseer did not exist in any single Inhibitor machine. That would have been too vulnerable a concentration of expertise. But when a swarm was drawn to the site where a local cleansing would be required - typically a volume of space no more than a few light-hours wide - a distributed intelligence would be generated from many less than sentient subminds. Light-speed communications bound together the dumb elements, weaving slow, secure thoughts. More rapid processing was assigned to individual units. The overseer’s larger thought processes were necessarily sluggish, but this was a limitation that had never handicapped the Inhibitors. Nor had they ever attempted to weave together an overseer’s subelements with superluminal communication channels. There were too many warnings in the archive concerning the hazards of such experiments, entire species that had been edited out of galactic history because of a single foolish episode of causality violation.

The overseer was not only slow and distributed. It was also temporary, permitted to achieve only fleeting consciousness. Even as its sense of self had come into being it had known with grim fatality that it would die once its duties were accomplished. But it felt no sense of bitterness at the inevitability of this fate, even after it had sifted through archived memories of its previous apparitions, memories laid down during other cleansings. It was simply the way things had to be. Intelligence, even machine intelligence, was something that could not be allowed to infect the galaxy until the coming crisis had been averted. Intelligence was, quite literally, its own worst enemy.

It found itself remembering some of the earlier cleansings. Of course, it had not really been the same overseer that had masterminded those extinction episodes. When Inhibitor swarms met, which was rarely, they traded knowledge of recent kills and outbreaks, methods and anecdotes. Lately, those meetings had become more rare, which was why there had been only one significant addition to the library of starcide techniques in the last five hundred million years. Swarms, isolated from each other for so long, reacted cautiously when they met. There were even rumours of different Inhibitor factions clashing over extinction rights.

Something had certainly gone wrong since the old days, when the kills had happened cleanly and methodically, and no major outbreaks slipped through the net. The overseer could not avoid drawing conclusions. The great galaxy-encompassing machine for holding back intelligence - the machine of which the overseer was one dutiful part - was failing. Intelligence was starting to slip through the cracks, threatening infestation. The situation had certainly worsened in the last few million years, and yet this was nothing compared with the thirteen Galactic Turns - the three billion years - that lay ahead, before the time of crisis arrived. The overseer had grave doubts that intelligence could be held in check until then. It was almost enough to make it give up now, and let this particular species go uncleansed. They were quadrupedal vertebrate oxygen-breathers, after all. Mammals. It felt a distant echo of kinship, something that had never troubled it when it was extinguishing ammonia-breathing gasbags or spiny insectoids.

The overseer forced itself out of this mood. Very probably it was just this sort of thinking that was decreasing the success rate of cleansings.

No, the mammals would die. That was the way, and that was how it would be.

The overseer looked on the extent of its works around Delta Pavonis. It knew of the previous cleansing, the wiping out of the avians who had last inhabited this local sector of space. The mammals had probably not even evolved locally, meaning that this would only be phase one of a more protracted cleansing. The last lot had really botched things up, it thought. Of course, there was always a desire to perform a cleansing with the minimum amount of environmental damage. Worlds and suns were not to be converted into weapons unless a class-three breakout was imminent, and even then it was to be avoided wherever possible. The overseer did not like inflicting unnecessary devastation. It had a keen sense of the irony of ripping apart stars now, when the whole point of its work was to avoid greater destruction three billion years down the line. But what was done was done. A certain amount of additional damage had now to be tolerated.

Messy. But that, as the overseer reflected, was ‘life’.

The Inquisitor looked out across rain-soaked Cuvier. Her own reflection hovered beyond the window, a spectral figure stalking the city.

‘Will you be all right with this one, ma’am?’ the guard who had brought him asked.

‘I’ll cope,’ she said, not yet turning around. ‘If I can’t, you’re only a room away. Undo his cuffs and then leave us alone.’

‘Are you certain, ma’am?’

‘Undo his cuffs.’

The guard wrenched the plastic restraints apart. Thorn stretched his arms and touched his face nervously, like an artist checking paint that might not have dried.

‘You can go now,’ the Inquisitor said.

‘Ma’am,’ the guard replied, closing the door after him.

There was a seat waiting for Thorn. He collapsed into it. Khouri continued to look out of the window, her hands clasped behind her back. The rain drooled in great curtains from the overhang above the window. The night sky was a featureless haze somewhere between red and black. There were no stars tonight, no troubling omens in the sky.

‘Did they hurt you?’ she asked.

He remembered to keep in character. ‘What do you think, Vuilleumier? That I did this to myself because I like the sight of blood?’

‘I know who you are.’

‘So do I - I’m Renzo. Congratulations.’

‘You’re Thorn. The one they’ve been looking for.’ Her voice was raised a little bit louder than normal. ‘You’re very lucky, you know.’

‘I am?’

‘If Counter-Terrorism had found you, you’d be in a morgue by now. Maybe several morgues. Luckily the police who arrested you had no idea who they were dealing with. I doubt they’d have believed me if I’d told them, quite frankly. Thorn’s like the Triumvir to them, a figure of myth and revulsion. I think they were expecting a giant among men, someone who could pull them apart with his bare hands. But you’re just a normal-looking man who could walk unnoticed down any street in Cuvier.’

Thorn rummaged around in his mouth with the tip of one finger. ‘I’d apologise for being such a disappointment if I was Thorn.’

She turned around and walked towards him. Her bearing, her expression, even the aura she radiated, was not of Khouri. Thorn experienced a dreadful moment of doubt, the thought flashing through his mind that perhaps everything that had happened since his last meeting here had been a fantasy, that there was no Khouri at all.

But Ana Khouri was real. She had told him her secrets, not just concerning her identity and the identity of the Triumvir, but the hurting secrets that went deeper, those that concerned her husband and the way they had been cruelly separated. He never doubted for one instant that she was still terribly in love with the man. At the same time he desperately wanted to break her away from her own past, to make her see that she had to accept what had happened and move on. He felt bad about it because he knew that there was a streak of self-justification in what he wanted to do, that it was not all about - or even mainly about - helping Khouri. He also wanted to make love to her. He despised himself for it, but the urge was still there.

‘Can you stand?’ she asked.

‘I walked in here.’

‘Come with me, then. Do not attempt anything, Thorn. It will be very bad for you if you do.’

‘What do you want with me?’

‘There’s a matter we need to discuss in private.’

‘Here’s fine by me,’ he said.

‘Would you like me to turn you over to Counter-Terrorism, Thorn? It’s very easily arranged. I’m sure they’d be delighted to see you.’

She took him into the room he remembered from his first visit, with the walls covered in shelves loaded with bulging paperwork. Khouri shut the door behind her - it sealed tightly and hermetically - and then removed a slim silver cylinder the size of a cigar from a desk drawer. She held it aloft and slowly turned around in the centre of the room, while tiny lights buried in the cigar flicked from red to green.

‘We’re safe,’ she said, after the lights had remained green for three or four minutes. ‘I’ve had to take extra precautions lately. They got a bug in here when I was up on the starship.’

Thorn said, ‘Did they learn much?’

‘No. It was a crude device and by the time I got back it was already faulty. But they’ve made another attempt since, a bit more sophisticated. I can’t take any chances, Thorn.’

‘Who is it? Another branch of government?’

‘Perhaps. Could be this one, even. I promised them the Triumvir’s head on a plate and I haven’t delivered. Someone’s getting suspicious. ’

‘You’ve got me.’

‘Yes, so I suppose there are some consolations. Oh, shit.’ It was as if she had only noticed him properly then. ‘Look at what they did to you, Thorn. I’m so sorry you had to go through this.’ From another drawer she produced a small medical kit. Khouri tipped disinfectant into a wad of cotton wool and jammed it against Thorn’s split eyebrow.

‘That hurts,’ Thorn said.

Her face was very close to his. He could see every pore, and because she was so close he could look into her eyes without feeling that he was staring.

‘It will. Did they really rough you up badly?’

‘Nothing your friends downstairs haven’t done to me before. I’ll live, I think.’ He winced. ‘They were pretty ruthless.’

‘They weren’t given any special orders, only the usual tip-off. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it had to be. If there’s a single detail about your arrest that looks stage-managed we’re finished.’

‘Do you mind if I sit down?’

She helped him to a seat. ‘I’m sorry other people had to get hurt, too.’

Thorn remembered the police piling into the woman with bad teeth. ‘Can you make sure they all get out all right?’

‘No one will be detained. That’s part of the plan.’

‘I mean it. Those people don’t deserve to suffer just because there had to be witnesses, Ana.’

She applied more disinfectant. ‘They’ll suffer a hell of a lot more if this doesn’t work, Thorn. No one will set foot on those shuttles unless they trust you to lead them. A little pain now is worth it if it means not dying later.’ As if to emphasise her point she pressed the wad against his brow, Thorn groaning at the needlelike discomfort.

‘That’s a cold way of looking at things,’ he said. ‘Makes me think you spent more time with those Ultras than you told me.’

‘I’m not an Ultra, Thorn. I used them. They used me. That doesn’t make us the same.’ She closed up the medical kit and slammed it back into the desk. ‘Try to keep that in mind, will you?’

‘I’m sorry. It’s just that this whole business is so Goddamned brutal. We’re treating the people of this planet like sheep, herding them to where we know is best for them. Not trusting them to make their own minds up.’

‘They haven’t got time to make their minds up, that’s the problem. I’d love to do this democratically, I really would. I’d like nothing better than a clean conscience. But it ain’t going to happen that way. If the people know what’s going to happen to them - that what they’ve got in store, other than remaining on this doomed fuckhole of a planet, is a trip to a starship which just happens to have been consumed and transformed by the plague-infected body of its former captain, who incidentally happens to be a totally deranged murderer - do you think there’s going to be a stampede for those shuttles? Throw in the fact that rolling out the red carpet when they get there will be Triumvir Ilia Volyova, Resurgam’s number-one hate figure, and I think a lot of people will say “thanks, but no thanks”, don’t you?’

Thorn said, ‘At least they’d have made their own minds up.’

‘Yeah. A lot of consolation that’ll be when we watch them getting incinerated. Sorry, Thorn, but I’ll take the bitch option now and worry about ethics later, when we’ve saved a few lives.’

‘You won’t save everyone even if your plan works.’

‘I know. We could, but we won’t. It’s inevitable. There are two hundred thousand people out there. If we started now, we could get all of them off this planet in six months, although a year is more likely given all the variables. But even that might not be enough time. I think I’ll have to consider this operation a success if we save only half of them. Maybe fewer than that. I don’t know.’ She rubbed her face, suddenly looking very much older and wearier than she had before. ‘I’m trying not to think how badly this might all go.’

The black telephone on her desk rang. Khouri let it ring for a few seconds, one eye on the silver cylinder. The lights stayed green. She motioned to Thorn to stay quiet and then picked up the heavy black handset, holding it against the side of her head.

‘Vuilleumier. I hope this is important. I’m interviewing a suspect in the Thorn inquiry.’

The voice on the other end of the phone spoke back to her. Khouri let out a sigh and then closed her eyes. The voice continued talking. Thorn could hear none of the actual words, but enough of the voice’s tone reached him for a certain rising desperation to become apparent. Someone sounded as if they were trying to explain something that had gone awfully wrong. The voice reached a crescendo and then fell silent.

‘I want the names of those involved,’ Khouri said, and then placed the handset back on to its cradle.

She looked at Thorn. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘What for?’

‘They killed someone, when the police broke up the meeting. She died a few minutes ago. A woman . . .’

He stopped her. ‘I know which one you mean.’

Khouri said nothing. The silence filled the room, amplified and trapped by the masses of paperwork surrounding them; lives annotated and documented in numbing precision, all for the purposes of suppression.

‘Did you know her name?’ Khouri asked.

‘No. She was just a follower. Just someone who wanted a way to leave Resurgam.’

‘I’m sorry.’ Khouri reached across the desk and took his hand. ‘I’m sorry. I mean it, Thorn. I didn’t want it to begin this way.’

Despite himself he laughed hollowly. ‘Well, she got it, didn’t she? What she wanted. A way off this planet. She was the first.’

TWENTY-FIVE

Armoured in black, Skade strode through the ship that was now fully hers. For the time being they were safe, having slipped undetected through the last shell of Demarchist perimeter defences. Now there was nothing between Nightshade and its destination except empty light-years.

Skade brushed her steel fingers against the corridor plating, loving the sleek conjunction of artificial things. For a time the ship had carried Clavain’s stench of ownership, and even after he had defected there had been Remontoire to contend with, Clavain’s sympathiser and ally, but now they were both gone, and she could rightfully consider Nightshade her own. She could, if she were minded, change the name to one of her own choosing, or perhaps discard the very idea of naming the ship at all, so resolutely against the grain of Conjoiner thinking. But Skade decided that there was a perverse pleasure to be had in keeping the old name. There would be enjoyment in turning Clavain’s prized weapon against himself, and that enjoyment would be all the sweeter if the weapon still carried the name he had bestowed upon it. It would be a final humiliation, rich reward for all that he had done to her.

Yet, for all that she despised what he had done, she could not deny that she was adjusting to her new state of body in a way that might have alarmed her weeks earlier. Her armour was becoming her. She admired her form in the gleam of bulkheads and portals. The initial clumsiness was gone now, and in the privacy of her quarters she spent long hours amusing herself with astonishing tricks of strength, dexterity and prestidigitation. The armour was learning to anticipate her movements, freeing itself from any need to wait for signals to crawl up and down her spine. Skade played lightning-fast one-handed fugues on a holoclavier, her gauntleted fingers becoming a blur of metal as quick and lethal as threshing machinery. Toccata in D, by someone called Bach, collapsed under her mastery. It became a rapid blast of sound like Gatling-gun fire, requiring neural post-processing to separate it into anything resembling ‘music’.

It was all a distraction, of course. Skade might have slipped through the Demarchists’ final line of defences, but in the last three days she had become aware that her difficulties were not entirely at an end. There was something following her, coming out of the Yellowstone system on a very similar trajectory.

It was time, Skade decided, to share this news with Felka.

Nightshade was silent. Skade’s footsteps were all she heard as she made her way down to the sleep bay. They rang hard and regular as hammers in a foundry. The ship was accelerating at two gees, the inertia-suppressing machinery running smooth and quiet, but walking for Skade was effortless.

Skade had frozen Felka shortly after news reached Skade of her most recent failure. At that point it had become clear, following scrutiny of news items around Yellowstone, that Clavain had eluded her again; that Remontoire and the pig had not succeeded in capturing him but had themselves fallen victim to local bandits. It would have been attractive at that point to assume that Clavain himself was dead, but she had made that mistake before and was not about to fall into the same error again. That was precisely why she had kept Felka back, as leverage to be used in any future negotiations with Clavain. She knew what he thought about Felka.

It wasn’t true, but that didn’t matter.

Skade had intended to return to the Mother Nest on completion of the mission, but the failure to kill Clavain forced her to reconsider. Nightshade was capable of continuing into interstellar space, and any minor technical issues could be dealt with on the way to Delta Pavonis. The Master of Works did not need her direct supervision to finish building the evacuation fleet either. Once the fleet was flight-ready and equipped with inertia-suppressing machinery, part of it would follow Skade towards the Resurgam system, while the rest would set off in a different direction, loaded with sleeping evacuees. A single crustbuster warhead would finish off the Mother Nest.

Skade would attempt to recover the weapons. If she failed on her first attempt, she would have only to wait for her backup fleet to arrive. Those were much larger starships and they could carry larger armaments than Nightshade, up to heavy relativistic railguns. Once she had obtained possession of the lost weapons, she would rendezvous with the rest of the evac fleet in a different system, in the opposite half of the sky from Delta Pavonis, as far away from the Inhibitor encroachment as they could get.

Then they would set off into even deeper space, many dozens, perhaps even hundreds of light-years into the galactic plane. It was time to say goodbye to local solar space. None of them were very likely to see it again.

The constellations will shift, Skade thought; not just by a few small degrees, but enough to wrench them out of shape. For the first time in history they would live under truly alien skies, uncomforted by the mythic shapes of their childhood, those chance alignments of stars which human consciousness had imprinted with meaning. And at the same time they would know those skies to be cruel, as infested with monsters as any enchanted forest.

She felt her weight shift, as if she had been on a sea vessel in a sudden squall. Skade steadied herself against the wall and established a link to Jastrusiak and Molenka, her two inertia-suppression systems experts.

Something up?

Molenka, the female of the two, responded to Skade’s query. [Nothing, Skade. Just a small bubble instability. Nothing unexpected.]

I want to know if anything untoward happens, Molenka. We may need much more out of this equipment, and I want to have absolute confidence in it.

Now it was Jastrusiak’s turn. [We have everything under control, Skade. The machinery is in a perfectly stable state-two condition. Small instabilities are damped back to the mean.]

Good. But try to keep those instabilities in check, will you?

Skade was about to add that they terrified her, but thought better of it. She must not reveal her fears to the others, not when so much depended on them accepting her leadership. It was difficult enough to make members of a hive mind submit to her will, and the one thing that would have undermined her control would have been the faintest hint of doubt in her own abilities.

There were no more irregularities in the field. Satisfied, Skade continued her journey to the sleeper bay.

Only two of the reefersleep caskets were occupied. Skade had instigated Felka’s wake-up cycle six hours earlier. Now the nearer of the two caskets was easing open, exposing Felka’s unconscious form. Skade softened her approach to the casket, crouching down on her metal haunches until she was level with Felka. The casket’s diagnostic aura told her that Felka was merely sleeping now, in a mild REM state. Skade observed the tremble of her eyelids and placed a steel hand on to Felka’s forearm. She squeezed gently, and Felka moaned and shifted.

Felka. Felka. Wake up now.

Felka came around slowly. Skade waited patiently, doting on Felka with something close to affection.

Felka. Understand me. You are coming out of reefersleep. You have been frozen for six weeks. You will feel discomfort and disorientation, but it will fade. You have nothing to fear.

Felka opened her eyes to a pained squint, affronted even by the dim blue lighting of the sleep bay. She moaned again and tried to get out of the casket, but the effort was too much for her, especially under two gees.

Easy.

Felka mumbled and slurred a series of sounds, over and over, until they formed recognisable words. ‘Where am I?’

Aboard Nightshade. You remember, don’t you? We went after Clavain, into the inner system.

‘Clavain ...’ She said nothing more for ten or fifteen seconds, before adding, ‘Dead?’

I don’t think so, no.

Felka succeeded in opening her eyes a little wider. ‘Tell me ... what happened.’

Clavain fooled us with the corvette. He made it to the Rust Belt. You remember that much, I think. Remontoire and Scorpio went in after him. No one else could go - they were the only ones who stood a chance of moving covertly through Yellowstone space. I wouldn’t let you go, for obvious reasons. Clavain cares about you, Felka, and that makes you valuable to me.

‘Hostage?’

No, of course not. Merely one of us. Clavain is the lamb that has left the fold, not you. Clavain is the one we want back, Felka. Clavain is the prodigal son.

They went to Nightshade’s flight deck. Felka sipped a chocolate-flavoured broth laced with restorative medichines.

‘Where are we?’ she asked.

Skade showed Felka a display of the rear starfield, with one dim yellow-red star outlined in green. That was Epsilon Eridani, two hundred times fainter than it had been even from the remote vantage point of the Mother Nest. It was now ten million times fainter than the sun that burned in Yellowstone’s sky. They were truly in interstellar space now, for the first time in Skade’s life.

Six weeks out from Yellowstone, over thirteen hundred AU. We’ve been maintaining two gees for most of that time, which means that we’ve already reached one-quarter light-speed. A conventional ship would be struggling to reach an eighth of the speed of light by now, Felka. But we can do better than this if we have to.

Which was true, Skade knew, but there would be little practical advantage in accelerating harder. Relativity ensured that. Arbitrarily high acceleration would compress the subjective duration of their journey to Resurgam, but it would make almost no difference to the objective time that the journey consumed. And it was that objective time which was the only relevant factor in the wider picture: it would still take the same amount of time to reach Resurgam as measured by external observers, and more decades still to rendezvous with the other elements of the exodus fleet.

Still, there were other reasons to consider an increase in acceleration. And at the back of Skade’s mind was a dangerous and alluring possibility that would change the rules entirely.

‘And the other ship?’ Felka asked. ‘Where is that?’

Skade had already told her about the vessel behind them. Now a second circle bisected by two cross hairs appeared on the display almost exactly centred above the one that demarked Epsilon Eridani.

That’s it. It’s very faint, but there’s a clear tau-neutrino source there, and it’s moving on the same course as us.

‘But a long way behind,’ Felka said.

Yes. Three or four weeks behind us, easily.

‘It could be a commercial ship, Ultras or something, on a similar heading.’

Skade nodded. I’ve considered that possibility, but I don’t find it likely. Resurgam isn’t a very popular destination for Ultras, and if that ship were headed for another colony in the same part of the sky, we’d have seen lateral motion by now. We haven’t - she’s dead on our tail, Felka.

‘A stern chase.’

Yes, deliberately following us. They have a modest tactical advantage, you see. Our flame points towards them; theirs points away from us. I can track them because we have military-grade neutrino detectors, but it is still difficult. But they need no finesse to spot us. I have separated our thrust beams into four components and given them a small angular offset, but they need only detect a tiny amount of leaked radiation to fix our position. We are neutrino-quiet, however, and that will give us a definitive advantage after turnover, when we have to point our flame towards Resurgam. But it won’t come to that. That ship can’t ever catch us, no matter how hard it tries.

‘The ship should be falling behind already,’ Felka said. ‘Is it?’

No. So far she has maintained two gees all the way out from the Rust Belt.

‘I didn’t think normal ships could accelerate that hard.’

They can’t, not usually. But there are methods, Felka. Do you know the story of Irravel Veda?

‘Of course,’ Felka said.

When she was pursuing Run Seven she modified her own ship to manage two gees. But she did it the crude way - not by improving the efficacy of her Conjoiner drives, but by stripping her ship down to a skeleton. She left all her passengers behind on a comet to save mass.

‘And you think that other ship must be doing something similar?’

There’s no other explanation. But it won’t help them. Even at two gees they cannot close the gap between us, and the gap will widen if we increase our inertia-suppression effect. They cannot match three gees, Felka; there is only so much mass you can strip out of a ship before you haven’t got a ship at all. They must be very near the limit already.

‘It must be Clavain,’ she said.

You seem very certain.

‘I never thought he’d give up, Skade. It just isn’t his style. He wants those weapons very badly, and he isn’t going to let you get your cold steel hands on them without a fight.’

Skade wanted to shrug, but her armour would not allow it. Then it confirms what I have always suspected, Felka. Clavain is not a rationalist. He is a man fond of gestures, no matter how futile or stupid they might be. This is merely his grandest and most hopeless gesture to date.

Clavain ran into the first of Skade’s traps eight hundred AU from Yellowstone, one hundred light-hours into the crossing. Clavain had been expecting her to try something; he would, in fact, have been disappointed and a little alarmed had she not. But Skade had not let him down.

Nightshade had sown mines behind it. Over a period of weeks, Skade had dropped them from her ship’s stern: small, automated, highly autonomous drones stealthed for maximum invisibility against Clavain’s forward-looking sensors. The drones were small enough that Skade could afford to manufacture and deploy them by the hundreds, littering Clavain’s forward path with hidden obstacles.

The drones did not have to be very clever or have great range. Skade could be quite certain of the trajectory that Clavain would be obliged to follow, just as he could be quite certain of hers. Even a small deviation away from the direct line between Epsilon Eridani and Delta Pavonis would cost Clavain precious weeks, further delaying his arrival. He was already lagging behind, and would not wish to incur any further hold-ups if he could help it. So Skade would have known that Clavain would remain on the same heading except for short-term deviations.

That still meant she had a lot of space to cover. Explosions were not an efficient means of inflicting harm on space vessels at anything other than extreme close range, since vacuum did not propagate shock waves. Skade would know that the odds of one of her mines coming within a thousand kilometres of Clavain’s ship were so small as to be negligible, so there would be no point putting crustbuster-class warheads in them. Clavain expected, instead, that the mines would be designed to identify and fire at his ship across a typical range of light-seconds. They would be single-use launchers, particle beams, very probably. It was exactly what he would have done if he were being chased by a similar ship.

But Skade had used crustbusters. She had inserted them, so far as Clavain could judge, into every twentieth mine, with a statistical bias towards the edge of her swarm. The warheads were primed to detonate as soon as he came within one light-hour of them, as near as he could tell. There would be a distant prick of hard blue light, shading into violet, red-shifted from Clavain’s rest frame by a few hundred kilometres per second. And then, hours or tens of hours later, another would detonate, sometimes two or three in close succession, stammering out of the night like a cascade of fireworks. Some were closer than others, but they were all much too distant to do any harm to Clavain’s ship. Clavain ran a regression analysis on the spread pattern and concluded that Skade’s bombs had only a one in one thousand chance of damaging his ship. The chances of a destructive strike were a factor of one hundred less favourable. Clearly, they were not meant for that purpose.

Skade, he realised, was using the crustbusters purely to increase the targeting accuracy of her other weapons, flooding Clavain’s ship with strobelike flashes which nailed its instantaneous position and velocity. Her other mines would be sniffing space for the backscatter of reflected photons from his own hull. It was a way of compensating for the fact that Skade’s mines were too small to carry neutrino detectors, and were therefore reliant on outdated positional estimates transmitted back from Nightshade, many light-hours further into interstellar space. The crustbusters smoked Clavain’s ship out of darkness, allowing Skade’s directed-energy weapons to latch on to it. Clavain did not see the beams of those weapons, only the flash of their triggering explosions. The yields were about one hundredth of a crustbuster burst, which was sufficient to power a particle beam or graser with a five-light-second extreme kill range. If the beam missed him, he never saw it at all. In interstellar space there were so few ambient dust grains that even a beam passing within kilometres of Clavain’s ship would suffer insufficient scattering to reveal itself. Clavain was a blind and deaf man stumbling across no man’s land, oblivious to the bullets zipping past him, not even feeling the wind of their passage.

The irony was, he probably wouldn’t even know it if a beam hit.

Clavain evolved a strategy that he hoped might work. If Skade’s weapons were firing across typical distances of five light-seconds, they were dependent on positional estimates that were at least ten seconds out of date, and probably more like thirty seconds. The targeting algorithms would be extrapolating his course, bracketing his likely future position with a spread of less likely estimates. But thirty seconds gave Clavain enough of an edge to make that strategy enormously inefficient for Skade. In thirty seconds, under a steady two gees of thrust, a ship changed its relative position by nine kilometres, more than twice its hull length. Yet if Clavain stuttered the thrust randomly, Skade would not know for sure where in that nine-kilometre box to direct her weapons. She would have to assign more resources to obtain the same probability of a kill. It was a numbers game, not a guaranteed method of avoiding being killed, but Clavain had been a soldier long enough to know that this was, ultimately, what most combat situations boiled down to.

It appeared to work. A week passed, and then another, and then the smaller bursts of the particle beams ceased. There remained only the occasional, much more distant flash of a crustbuster. She was keeping her eye on him, but for now she had abandoned the idea of taking him out with anything as simple as a particle beam.

Clavain remained watchful and nervous. He knew Skade.

She wouldn’t give up that easily.

He was right. Two months later a fifth of the army were dead, with many more injured and likely to die in the weeks ahead. The first hint of trouble had been innocuous indeed: a tiny change in the pattern of light that they were detecting from Nightshade. It seemed impossible that such a trifling change could have any impact on their own ship, but Clavain knew that Skade would do nothing without excellent reason. So once the change had been verified and shown to be deliberate, he assembled his senior crew on the bridge of the stolen lighthugger.

The ship - Scorpio had named her Zodiacal Light, for obscure reasons of his own - was a typical trade lighthugger, manufactured more than two hundred years earlier. The ship had been through several cycles of repair and redesign in the intervening time, but the core of the vessel remained mostly unchanged. At four kilometres long the lighthugger was much larger than Nightshade, her hull voided by cavernous cargo bays large enough to swallow a flotilla of medium-sized spacecraft. The hull itself was approximately conic, tapering to a needle-sharp prow in the direction of flight, with a blunter tail to stern. Two interstellar drives were attached to the hull via flanged spars flung out from the cone’s widest point. The drives were barnacled with two centuries’ worth of later accretions, but the basic shape of Conjoiner technology was evident beneath the growth layers. The rest of the hull had the dark smoothness of wet marble, except for the prow, which was cased in a matrix of ablative ice sewn through with hyperdiamond filaments. As H had said, the ship itself was essentially sound; it was the former crew’s business methods that had made them insolvent. The army of pigs, trained not to harm anything irreplaceable, had succeeded in minimising damage during the capture itself.

The bridge was a third of the way back from the prow, one point three five kilometres of vertical distance when the ship was accelerating. Most of the technology in it - indeed, most of the technology aboard the ship - was ancient, both in feel and function. Nothing about that surprised Clavain: Ultras were notoriously conservative, and it was precisely because they hadn’t adopted nano-technologies to any great degree that they continued to play a role in these post-plague days. There were general-purpose manufactories in the belly of the ship, now running full-time on weapons production, with no capacity to be spared to upgrade the fabric and infrastructure of Zodiacal Light. It had not taken Clavain very long to settle into the museumlike ambience of the huge old ship; he knew such robustness would serve them well in any battle against Triumvir Volyova.

The bridge itself was a spherical chamber within a gimballed arrangement that permitted it to swivel according to whether the ship was under thrust or rotating. The walls were quilted with projection systems, showing exterior views of the ship captured by drones, tactical representations of the immediate volume of space and simulations of various approach strategies for the arrival in the Resurgam system. Other parts of the walls were filled with scrolling text in old-fashioned Norte script, a steady litany of shipboard faults and the automatic systems that were triggered to fix them.

A railinged, circular dais made of grilled red metal held seats, display and control systems. The dais could accommodate about twenty people before it became uncomfortable; Clavain judged that it was somewhere near its maximum capacity right now. Scorpio was there, of course, with Lasher, Shadow, Blood and Cruz: three of his pig deputies and a one-eyed human woman from the same criminal underworld. Antoinette Bax and Xavier Liu, filthy from hastily abandoned repairwork, sat near the back, and the rest of the dais was taken up by a broad mixture of pigs and baseline humans, many of who had come directly from the Château’s employment. They were experts in the technology H had pieced together and, like Scorpio and his associates, had been convinced that they were better off joining Clavain’s expedition than staying behind in Chasm City or the Rust Belt. Even Pauline Sukhoi was there, ready to return to the work that had wrenched askew her personal reality. To Clavain she looked like a woman who had just stumbled out of a haunted house.

‘There’s been a development,’ Clavain said when he had their attention. ‘I don’t quite know what to make of it.’

A cylindrical display tank, an antique imaging system, sat in the middle of the dais. The interior of the tank contained a single transparent blade of helical profile that could be rotated at great speed. Coloured lasers buried in the base of the tank pulsed beams of light upwards, where they were intercepted by the moving surface of the blade.

A perfectly flat square of light appeared in the tank, rotating slowly to bring itself into view of all those on the bridge. ‘This is a two-dimensional image of the sky ahead of us,’ Clavain said. ‘Already there are strong relativistic effects: the stars shifted out of their usual positions, and their spectra shifted into the blue. Hot stars appear dimmer, since they were already emitting most of their flux in the UV. Dwarf stars pop out of nowhere, since we’re suddenly seeing IR flux that used to be invisible. But it isn’t the stars I’m interested in today.’ He pointed to the middle of the square, to one dim, starlike object. ‘This thing here, which looks like a star as well, is the exhaust signature from Skade’s lighthugger. She’s done her best to make her drive invisible, but we’re still seeing enough stray photons from Nightshade to maintain a fix.’

‘Can you estimate her thrust output?’ Sukhoi asked.

Clavain nodded. ‘Yes. The temperature of her flame says she’s running her drive at nominal thrust - that would give her a gee of acceleration, for a typical million-tonne ship. Nightshade’s engines are smaller, but she’s also a small ship by lighthugger standards. It shouldn’t make that much difference, yet she’s managing two gees, and she’s occasionally pushed it to three. Like us, she has inertia-suppressing machinery. But I know she can push it much harder than this.’

‘We can’t,’ Sukhoi said, turning paler than ever. ‘Quantum reality is a nest of snakes, Clavain, and we are already poking it with a very sharp stick.’

Clavain smiled patiently. ‘Point taken, Pauline. But whatever Skade manages, we must find a way to do as well. That isn’t what’s troubling me, though. It’s this.’ The wheeling images changed almost imperceptibly. Skade’s signature became slightly brighter.

‘She’s thrusting harder, or she’s changed her beam geometry,’ Antoinette said.

‘No, that’s what I thought, but the additional light is different. It’s coherent, peaked sharply in the optical in Skade’s rest frame.’

‘Laser light?’ Lasher asked.

Clavain looked at the pig, Scorpio’s most trusted ally. ‘So it would seem. High-power optical lasers, probably a battery of them, shining back along her line of flight. We’re probably not seeing all the flux, either, just a fraction of it.’

‘What good will that do her?’ Lasher said. He had a black scar on his face, slashed like a pencil line from brow to cheek. ‘She’s much too far ahead of us for that to make any sense as a weapon.’

‘I know,’ Clavain said. ‘And that’s what worries me. Because Skade won’t do anything unless there’s a good reason for it.’

‘This is an attempt to kill us?’ the pig asked.

‘We just have to figure out how she hopes to succeed,’ Clavain replied. ‘And then hope to hell that we can do something about it.’

Nobody said anything. They stared at the slowly wheeling square of light, with the malign little star of Nightshade burning at its heart.

The government spokesman was a small, neat man with fastidiously well-maintained fingernails. He despised dirt or contamination of any sort, and when the prepared statement was handed to him - a folded piece of synthetic grey government vellum - he took it between his thumb and forefinger only, achieving the minimum possible contact between skin and paper. Only when he was seated at his desk in Broadcasting House, one of the squat buildings adjoining Inquisition House, did he contemplate opening the statement, and then only when he had satisfied himself that there were no crumbs or grease spots on the table itself. He placed the paper on the desk, geometrically aligned with the table’s edges, and then levered it open along its fold, slowly and evenly, in the manner of someone opening a box that might possibly contain a bomb. He employed his sleeve to encourage the paper to lie flat on the surface, stroking it across the text diagonally. Only when this process was complete did he lower his eyes and begin scanning the text for meaning, and then only so that he would be certain of making no mistakes when delivering it.

On the other side of the desk, the operator aimed the camera at him. The camera was a cantilevered boom with an old float-cam attached to the end of it. The float-cam’s optical system still worked perfectly, but its levitation motors were long expired. Like many things in Cuvier, it was a taunting reminder of how much better things had been in the past. But the spokesman put such thoughts from his mind. It was not his duty to reflect on the present standard of living, and - if truth be told - he lived a comfortable enough existence by comparison with the majority. He had a surplus of food rations and he and his wife lived in a larger than average domicile in one of the better quarters of Cuvier.

‘Ready, sir?’ asked the camera operator.

He did not answer immediately, but scanned once more through the prepared text, his lips moving softly as he familiarised himself with the wording. He had no idea where the piece had originated, who had drafted and refined it or puzzled over the precise language. It was not his business to worry about such matters. He knew only that the machinery of government had functioned, as it always did, and that great, solid, well-oiled apparatus had delivered the text into his hands, for him to deliver to the people. He read the piece once more, and then looked up at the operator.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I believe we are ready now.’

‘We can run through it again if you’re not happy with the first reading. This isn’t going out live.’

‘I believe one take should suffice.’

‘Right you are, then . . .’

The spokesman cleared his throat, feeling a spasm of inner revulsion at the thought of the phlegm being dislodged and resettled by that particular bodily action. He began to read.

‘The Democratic Government of Cuvier wishes to make the following statement. One week ago the fugitive known as Thorn was successfully apprehended following a combined operation involving Inquisition House and the Bureau of Counter-Terrorism. Thorn is now in custody and no longer poses a threat to the law-abiding citizens of Cuvier or its satellite communities. Once again, the Democratic Government of Cuvier refutes in the strongest possible terms those irresponsible rumours that have been circulated by misguided sympathisers of the fugitive Thorn. There is no evidence that the colony itself is in imminent danger of destruction. There is no evidence for the existence of a pair of intact shuttles with surface-to-orbit capability. There is no evidence that covert evacuation camps have already been established, nor is there evidence that there have already been mass migrations from any of the major population centres towards these fictitious camps. There is, furthermore, absolutely no evidence that the Triumvir’s starship has been located, and no evidence that it is capable of evacuating the entire populace of Resurgam.’

The spokesman paused, re-establishing eye contact with the camera. ‘Only twenty-six hours ago, Thorn himself publicly criticised his own complicity in the spreading of these rumours. He has denounced those who have assisted in the spreading of these malicious untruths, and has sought the government’s forgiveness for any inconvenience that may have been caused by his participation in these acts.’

The spokesman’s face betrayed not a hint of inner dissonance as he read these words. It was true that on his first scan through the text he had racked his own memory at that part and failed to come up with any recollection of Thorn making any kind of public statement, let alone a public criticism of his own activities. But such things were not unknown, and it was entirely possible that he had missed the appearance in question.

He soldiered on, changing his tone. ‘On a related matter . . . recent studies released by the Mantell Scientific Institute have led to a reassessment of the likely nature of the object visible in the evening sky. It is now thought less likely that the object in question is cometary in nature. A more probable explanation is that the object is related to the system’s largest gas giant. The Democratic Government of Cuvier, however, strongly refutes any suggestion that the planet itself has been, or is in the process of being, destroyed. Any rumours to this effect are malicious in origin and are to be condemned in the strongest possible terms.’

He paused again and allowed the tiniest trace of a smile to ghost his lips. ‘And that concludes this statement from the Democratic Government of Cuvier.’

Aboard Nostalgia for Infinity, with no great enjoyment, Ilia Volyova smoked to a stub one of the cigarettes the ship had furnished her with. She was thinking, and thinking furiously, her mind humming like an overworked turbine room. Her booted feet squelched through secreted ship slime that had the precise consistency of mucus. She had a mild headache, which was not in any way alleviated by the constant drone of the bilge pumps. And yet she was in one sense elated, for she could finally see a clear course of action before her.

‘It’s so good that you’ve decided to talk to me, Captain,’ she said. ‘You can’t believe what it means after all this time.’

His voice emerged from all around her, simultaneously near and distant, immense and ageless as a god’s. ‘I’m sorry it took so long.’

She felt the entire fabric of the ship tremble with each syllable. ‘Do you mind if I ask why it took quite as long as it did, Captain?’

His answers, when they came, were seldom immediate. Volyova had the impression that the marshalling of his thoughts took time; that with immense size had come immense slowness, so that his dealings with her did not really represent the true rate of his thought processes.

‘There were things I had to come to terms with, Ilia.’

‘What things, Captain?’

Another almighty pause. This was not the first conversation they had enjoyed since the Captain had resumed communications. During the first few hesitant exchanges, Volyova had feared that the silences signalled the Captain’s withdrawal into another protracted state of catatonia. The withdrawals had appeared less severe than before - normal shipboard functions had continued - but she had still feared the tremendous setback that those silences could mean. Months, perhaps, before he could be coaxed back into communication. But it had never been that bad. The silences merely indicated periods of reflection, the time it took for signals to rattle back and forth through the enormous synaptic fabric of the transformed ship and then assembled into thoughts. The Captain appeared infinitely more willing to discuss those subjects that had previously been out of bounds.

‘The things I did, Ilia. The crimes I committed.’

‘We’ve all committed crimes, Captain.’

‘Mine were exceptional.’

Yes, she thought: there was no denying that. With the unwitting collusion of alien co-conspirators, the Pattern Jugglers, the Captain had committed a grievous act against another member of his crew. He had employed the Jugglers to imprint his own consciousness into another man’s head, invading his skull: a personality transfer infinitely more effective than anything that could be achieved by technological means. And so for many years of shiptime he had existed as two men, one of whom was slowly succumbing to the infection of the Melding Plague.

Because his crime was so vile he had been forced to hide it from the other members of the crew. It had only come to light during the climactic events around the neutron star, the very events that had led to the Captain being allowed to engulf and transform his own ship. Volyova had forced that fate upon him as a kind of punishment, though it would have been equally easy for her to kill him. She had also done it because she hoped it might increase her own chances of survival. The ship had already been under the control of one hostile agent - the plague - and having the Captain take over instead had struck her as the marginally lesser of two evils. It was not, she would readily admit, a decision she had subjected to a great deal of analysis at the time.

‘I know what you did,’ she said. ‘And you know that I abhor it. But you have suffered for it, Captain; no one would deny that. It’s time to put it behind us and move on, I think.’

‘I feel tremendous guilt for what I did.’

‘And I feel tremendous guilt for what I did to the gunnery officer. I’m as much to blame for any of this as you, Captain. If I hadn’t driven him mad, I doubt that any of this would have happened.’

‘I’d still have my crime to live with.’

‘It was a long time ago. You were frightened. What you did was terrible, but it was not the work of a rational man. That doesn’t make it excusable, but it does make it a little easier to understand. Were I in your situation, Captain - barely human, and perhaps infected with something I knew was going to kill me, or worse - I can’t say for sure that I wouldn’t consider something just as extreme.’

‘You would never murder, Ilia. You are better than that.’

‘They think of me as a war criminal on Resurgam, Captain. Sometimes I wonder if they are right, you know. What if we did destroy Phoenix after all?’

‘You didn’t.’

‘I hope not.’

There was another long pause. She walked on through the slime, noting how the texture and colour of the secreted matter was never quite the same from district to district of the ship. Left to its own devices, the ship would be engulfed by the slime in a few short months. She wondered if that would help or hinder the Captain, and hoped that it was an experiment she would never see performed.

‘What exactly do you want, Ilia?’

‘The weapons, Captain. Ultimately, you control them. I’ve attempted to work them myself, but it wasn’t a roaring success. They’re too thoroughly integrated into the old gunnery weapons network.’

‘I don’t like the weapons, Ilia.’

‘I don’t either, but now I think we need them. You have sensors, Captain. You’ve seen what we’ve seen. I showed you when the rocky worlds were dismantled. That was only the start.’

After another worrying silence, he said, ‘I’ve seen what they’ve done to the gas giant.’

‘Then you’ll also have seen that something new is taking shape, assembling in the cloud of liberated matter from the giant. It’s sketchy at the moment, no more fully formed than a foetus. But it is clearly deliberate. It is something vast, Captain, vaster than anything in our experience. Thousands of kilometres across, even now, and it may become larger still as it grows.’

‘I have seen it.’

‘I don’t know what it is, or what it will do. But I can guess. The Inhibitors are going to do something to the sun, to Delta Pavonis. Something terminal. We’re not just talking about triggering a major flare now. This is going to be much bigger than any mass ejection we’ve ever heard of.’

‘What kind of weapon can kill a sun?’

‘I don’t know, Captain. I don’t know.’ She drew hard on the butt of the cigarette, but it was well and truly dead. ‘That isn’t, however, my primary concern at the moment. I’m more interested in another question. What kind of weapon can kill a weapon like that?’

‘You think the cache may suffice?’

‘One of those thirty-three horrors ought to do the trick, don’t you think?’

‘You want my assistance,’ the Captain said.

Volyova nodded. She had reached the critical point in the conversation now. If she got through this bit without triggering a catatonic shutdown, she would have made significant progress in her dealings with Captain John Brannigan.

‘Something like that,’ she said. ‘You control the cache, after all. I’ve done my best, but I can’t make it do much without your co-operation. ’

‘It would be very dangerous, Ilia. We’re safe now. We haven’t done anything to provoke the Inhibitors. Using the cache ... even a single weapon from the cache ...’ The Captain trailed off. There was absolutely no need to labour the point.

‘It’s a bit on the risky side, I know.’

‘A bit on the risky side?’ The Captain’s chuckle of amusement was like a small earthquake. ‘You were always one for understatement, Ilia.’

‘Well. Are you going to help me or not, Captain?’

After a glacial intermission he said, ‘I’ll give it quite some thought, Ilia. I’ll give it quite some thought.’

That, she supposed, had to count as progress.

TWENTY-SIX

There was almost no warning of Skade’s strike. For weeks Clavain had expected something, but there had been no guessing the exact nature of the attack. His own knowledge of Nightshade was useless: with the manufactories aboard a military lighthugger, Skade could weave new weapons almost as quickly as she could imagine them, tailoring each to the flexing demands of battle. Like a crazed toy-maker, she could spin the darkest of fabulations into existence in mere hours, and then unleash them against her enemy.

Zodiacal Light had reached half the speed of light. Relativistic effects were now impossible to ignore. For every hundred minutes that passed on Yellowstone, eighty-six passed aboard Clavain’s ship. That time-dilation effect would become steadily more acute as they nosed closer and closer to light-speed. It would compress the fifteen actual years of the journey into only four years of shiptime; still fewer if a higher rate of acceleration was used.

Yet half the speed of light was still not radically relativistic, especially when they were dealing with an enemy moving in almost the same accelerated frame. At their fastest, the mines that Skade had dropped behind her had slammed past Zodiacal Light with relative velocities of only a few thousand kilometres per second. It was fast only by the standards of solar war. Although the mines were difficult to detect until Zodiacal Light was within their ‘volume of denial’, there was no danger of actually colliding with them. A direct collision would be a very effective way of taking out a starship, but Clavain’s simulations argued that it was beyond Skade’s capability to mount such an attack. His analyses showed that for any conceivable spread of obstacles that Skade dropped in her wake - even if she dismantled most of Nightshade to convert into mines - he could always detect the obstacles sufficiently far ahead to steer a path through them.

And yet there was a terrible flaw in Clavain’s thinking, and in the thinking of all his advisors.

The obstacle, when Zodiacal Light’s forward sensors detected it, was moving much faster towards him than Clavain had expected. Relativity distorted classical expectations in a way that Clavain still did not find entirely intuitive. Slam two objects towards each other, each with individual velocities just below light-speed, and the classical result for their closing velocity would be the sum of their individual speeds: just under twice the speed of light. Yet the true result, confirmed with numbing precision, was that the objects saw each other approach with a combined speed that was still just below the speed of light. Similarly, the relativistic closing velocity for two objects moving towards each other with individual speeds of one-half of light-speed was not light-speed itself, but eight-tenths of it. It was the way the universe was put together, and yet it was not something the human mind had evolved to accept.

The Doppler echo from the approaching obstacle indicated a closing speed of just above 0.8 c, which meant that Skade’s obstacle was itself moving back towards Yellowstone at half the speed of light. And it was also astonishingly large: a circular structure one thousand kilometres from side to side. The mass sensor could not see it at all.

Had the object been on a direct collision course, nothing could have been done to avoid it. But the projected impact point was only a dozen kilometres from one edge of the oncoming obstacle. Zodiacal Light’s systems instigated an emergency collision-avoidance procedure.

That was what killed them, not the obstacle itself.

Zodiacal Light was forced to execute a five-gee swerve, with only seconds of warning. Those who were near seats were able to get into them and allow cushioning webs to engulf their bodies. Those who were near servitors were offered some protection by them. In certain parts of the ship, its structural fabric was able to deform to minimise injuries as bodies slammed into walls. But not all were that lucky. Those who were training in the larger bays were killed by the impact. Machinery that had not been adequately secured killed others, including Shadow and two of his senior platoon leaders. Most of the pigs who had been working outside on the hull, preparing attachment points for future armaments, were swept into interstellar space; none were recovered.

The damage to the ship was equally grave. It had never been designed for such a violent course correction, and the hull suffered many fractures and fatigue points, particularly along the attachment spars that held the Conjoiner motors. By Clavain’s estimate there was at least a year’s worth of repairs to be done merely to get back to where they had been before the attack. Interior damage had been just as bad. Even Storm Bird had been harmed as it strained against its scaffolding, all of Xavier’s work undone in a moment.

But, Clavain reminded himself, it could have been so much worse. They had not actually hit Skade’s obstacle. If they had, the dissipation of relativistically boosted kinetic energy would almost certainly have ripped his ship apart in an eyeblink.

They had almost hit a light-sail, possibly one of many hundreds that Skade had dropped behind her. The sails were probably close to being monolayers: films of matter stretched to a thickness of one atom, but with artificially boosted inter-atomic rigidity. The sails must have been unfurled when they were some distance behind Nightshade, so that its exhaust would not incinerate them. Probably they had been spun up for additional rigidity.

Then she had trained her lasers on them. That was why they had seen coherent light emanating from Nightshade. The photon pressure from the lasers had rammed against the sails, pushing them back, decelerating them at hundreds of gees until they were moving only slowly in the local stellar rest frame. But the tightly focused lasers had kept pushing, accelerating and kicking the sails back towards Clavain. Skade’s positional fix was sufficiently good that the sails could be aimed directly at Zodiacal Light.

It was, as ever, a numbers game. God only knew how many sails they had nearly collided with, until one appeared directly in front of them. Perhaps Skade’s gambit had never had a high probability of success, but knowing her the odds would not have been too bad.

There were, Clavain was certain, many other sails out there.

Even when the worst of the damage was being repaired, Clavain and his cohort of experts were devising a counter-strategy. Simulations showed that it should be possible to blast their way through an incoming sail, opening an aperture large enough to fly through, but only if the sails were detected further out than was currently possible. They would also need something to blast with, but the program to install hull weapons had been one of those hampered by Skade’s attack. The short-term solution was for a shuttle to fly one hundred thousand kilometres ahead of Zodiacal Light, serving as a buffer against any further sail strikes. The shuttle was uncrewed, stripped down to little more than an unpressurised shell. Periodically it had to be refuelled with antimatter from the other craft parked in the lighthugger’s spacecraft hold, which necessitated an energy-costly round-trip with another ship, including a hazardous fuel transfer operation. Zodiacal Light needed no antimatter herself, but it was essential to conserve some for operations around Delta Pavonis. Clavain was only prepared to use half of his reserve supplying the buffer shuttle, which gave them one hundred days to find a longer-term solution.

In the end the answer was obvious: a single sail could kill a starship, but it would only take another sail to kill a sail. Zodiacal Light’s own manufactories could be programed to make light-sails - the process did not require complex nanotechnology - and they did not need to be anywhere near as large as Skade’s, nor manufactured in any great number. The ship’s anti-collision lasers, never sufficiently effective as weapons, could be easily tuned to provide the necessary photon pressure. Skade’s sails had to be pushed at hundreds of gees; Clavain’s only had to be pushed at two.

They called it the shield sail. It was ready in ninety-five days, with a reserve of sails ready to be pushed out and deployed should the first be destroyed. In any case, the sails had a fixed lifetime due to the steady ablation caused by interstellar dust grains. This only became worse as Zodiacal Light climbed closer and closer to light-speed. But they could keep replacing the sails all the way to Resurgam and they would only have expended one per cent of the ship’s total mass.

When the shield sail was in place, Clavain allowed himself to breathe again. He had the feeling that Skade and he were making up the rules of interstellar combat as they went on. Skade had won one round by killing a fifth of his crew, but he had responded with a counter-strategy that rendered her current strategy obsolete. She was undoubtedly watching him, puzzling over a smudge of photons far to her stern. Very probably Skade would figure out what he had done from that sparse data alone, even if she had not sewn high-resolution imaging drones along her flight path, designed to capture images of his ship. And then, Clavain knew, Skade would try something else, something different and currently unguessable.

He would just have to be ready for her, and hope that he still had some luck on his side.

Skade, Molenka and Jastrusiak, the two inertia-suppression systems experts, were deep in Nightshade’s bowels, well into the bubble of suppressed inertia. Skade’s armour coped well with the physiological changes, but even she had to admit that she did not feel entirely normal. Her thoughts shifted and coalesced with frightening speed, like clouds in a speeded-up film. She flickered between moods she had never known before, terror and elation revealed as opposed facets of the same hidden emotion. It was not just the effect of the armour’s blood chemistry, although that was considerable, but the field itself, playing subtle games with the normal ebb and flow of neurochemicals and synaptic signals.

Molenka’s concern was obvious. [Three gees? Are you certain?]

I wouldn’t have ordered it otherwise.

The curved black walls of the machinery folded around them, as if they were crouched inside a cavern carved into smooth and surreal shapes by patient aeons of subterranean water. She sensed the tech’s disquiet. The machinery was in a stable regime now, and she saw no reason to tamper with it.

[Why?] Molenka persisted. [Clavain can’t reach you. He might have squeezed two gees out of his own ship, but that must have been at enormous expense, shedding every gram of non-essential mass. He’s far behind, Skade. He can’t catch you up.]

Then increase to three gees. I want to observe his reaction to see if he attempts to match our new rate of acceleration.

[He won’t be able to.]

Skade reached up with one steel hand and caressed Molenka under the chin with her forefinger. She could crush her now, shattering bone into fine grey dust, if she dared.

Just do it. Then I’ll know for certain, won’t I?

Molenka and Jastrusiak were not happy, of course, but she had expected nothing less. Their protestations were a form of ritual that had to be endured. Later, Skade felt the acceleration load increase to three gees and knew that they had acquiesced. Her eyeballs sagged in their sockets, her jaw feeling like solid iron. It was no more of an effort to walk since the armour took care of that, but she was aware now of how unnatural it was.

She walked to Felka’s quarters, heels pounding the floor with jackhammer precision. Skade did not hate Felka, nor even blame her for hating her back. Felka could hardly be expected to endure Skade’s attempts to kill Clavain. Equally, however, Felka had to see the necessity of Skade’s actions. No other faction could be allowed to obtain the lost weapons. It was a matter of Conjoiner survival, a matter of loyalty to the Mother Nest. Skade could not tell Felka about the governing voices that told her what to do, but even without that information she must see that the mission was vital.

The door to Felka’s quarters was shut, but Skade had the authority to enter any part of the ship. She knocked politely nonetheless, and waited five or six seconds before entering.

Felka. What are you doing?

Felka was on the floor, sitting down cross-legged. She appeared calm, nothing in her composure betraying the increased effort of performing virtually any activity under three gees. She wore thin black pyjamas that made her look very pale and childlike to Skade.

She had surrounded herself with small white rectangles, many dozens of them, each of which was marked with a particular set of symbols. Skade saw reds and blacks and yellows. The rectangles were something she had encountered before, but she could not remember where. They were arrayed in excessively neat arcs and spokes, radiating out from Felka. Felka was moving them from place to place, as if exploring the permutations of some immense abstract structure.

Skade bent down, picking up one of the rectangles. It was a piece of glossy white card or plastic, printed on one side only. The other side was perfectly blank.

I recognise these. It’s a game they play in Chasm City. There are fifty-two cards in a set, thirteen cards for each symbol, just as there are thirteen hours on a Yellowstone clock face.

Skade put the card back where she had found it. Felka continued rearranging the cards for some minutes. Skade waited, listening to the slick sound that the cards made as they passed across each other.

‘Its origins are a bit older than that,’ Felka said.

But I’m right, aren’t I? They do play this there.

‘There are many games, Skade. This is just one of them.’

Where did you find the cards?

‘I had the ship make them. I remembered the numbers.’

And the patterns? Skade selected another card, this one marked with a bearded figure. This man looks like Clavain.

‘It’s just a King,’ Felka said dismissively. ‘I remembered the patterns as well.’

Skade examined another: a long-necked, regal-looking woman dressed in something that resembled ceremonial armour. She could almost be me.

‘She’s the Queen.’

Why, Felka? What precisely is the point of this? Skade stood again and gestured at the configuration of cards. The number of permutations must be finite. Your only opponent is blind chance. I don’t see the attraction.

‘You probably wouldn’t.’

Again Skade heard the slick rasp of card on card. What is the objective, Felka?

‘To maintain order.’

Skade barked out a short laugh. Then there is no end-state?

‘This isn’t a problem in computation, Skade. The means is the end.

The game has no halting state other than failure.’ Felka bit her tongue, like a child working on some particularly tortuous piece of colouring-in. In a flurry of movement she moved six cards, dramatically altering the larger pattern in a way Skade would have sworn was not possible a moment earlier.

Skade nodded, understanding. This is the Great Wall of Mars, isn’t it?

Felka looked up, but said nothing before resuming her work.

Skade knew that she was right: that the game she saw Felka playing here, if indeed it could be called a game, was only a surrogate for the Wall itself. The Wall had been destroyed four hundred years earlier, and yet it had played such a vital part in Felka’s childhood that she regressed towards her memories of it at the slightest sign of external stress.

Skade felt anger. She knelt down again and destroyed the pattern of cards. Felka froze, her hand hovering above the space where a card had been. She looked at Skade, incomprehension on her face.

As was sometimes the case with Felka, she framed her question as a flat, uninflected statement. ‘Why.’

Listen to me, Felka. You must not do this. You are one of us now. You cannot retreat back into your childhood just because Clavain isn’t here any more.

Pathetically, Felka tried to regather the cards. But Skade reached out and grabbed her hand.

No. Stop this, Felka. You cannot regress. I won’t allow it. Skade tilted Felka’s head towards her own. This is about more than just Clavain, Felka. I know that he means something to you. But the Mother Nest means more. Clavain was always an outsider. But you are one of us, to the marrow. We need you, Felka. As you are now, not as you were.

But when she released her hold, Felka only looked down. Skade stood up and backed away from the cross-legged figure. She had committed a cruel act, she knew. But it was no less than Clavain would have done, had he caught Felka retreating back into her childhood. The Wall was a mindless God to worship, and it sucked her soul into itself, even in memory.

Felka began to lay the cards back down again.

She pushed Galiana’s casket through the empty warrens of Nightshade . Her armour moved in measured, funereal steps, one cautious pace at a time. With each clangorous footfall, Skade heard the whining of gyroscopes struggling to maintain balance under the new acceleration. The weight of her own skull was a cruel compressive force squeezing down on the upper vertebrae of her truncated spine. Her tongue was an unresponsive mass of sluggish muscle. Her face looked different, the skin tugged down from her cheekbones as if by invisible guylines. Slight distortion of the visual field revealed the effect of the gravity on her eyeballs.

Only one-quarter of the ship’s mass remained now. The rest was being suppressed by the field, the bubble of which had now swallowed up half the ship’s length from the stern towards the midpoint.

They were sustaining four gees.

Skade seldom went into the bubble itself now: the physiological effects, even though buffered by the mechanisms of her armour, were simply too uncomfortable. The bubble lacked a sharply defined edge, but the effects of the field fell off so sharply that they were almost immeasurably small beyond the nominal boundary. The field geometry was not spherically symmetrical, either: there were occlusions and hairpins within it, ventricles and fissures where the effect dropped or rose in interplay with other variables. The strange topology of the machinery itself imposed its own structure on the field, too. When the machinery moved, as it was obliged to, the field changed as well. At other times it seemed to be the field that was making the machinery move. Her technicians only pretended that they understood all that was happening. What they had was a set of rules that told them what would happen under certain conditions. But those rules were valid only in a narrow range of states. They had been happy suppressing half of the ship’s mass, but were much less so now. Occasionally, the delicate quantum-field instrumentation that the techs had positioned elsewhere in the ship registered excursions of the bubble as it momentarily swelled and contracted, engulfing the entire ship. Skade convinced herself that she felt those instants, even though they lasted much less than a microsecond. At two gees of suppression, the excursions had been rare. Now they happened three or four times a day.

Skade wheeled the casket into an elevator and rode downship, towards the bubble boundary. She could see the undercurve of Galiana’s jaw through the casket’s viewing window. Her expression was one of infinite calm and composure. Skade was very glad that she had had the presence of mind to bring Galiana with her, even when the mission’s sole scope had been stopping Clavain. At the back of her mind even then she must have suspected that they might have to turn into interstellar space, and that at some point it would be necessary to seek Galiana’s dangerous advice. It had cost her nothing to bring the woman’s frozen corpse aboard; now all she needed was the nerve to consult it.

She propelled the casket into a clean white room. Behind her, the door sealed invisibly. The room was full of eggshell-pale machinery that was only truly visible when it moved. The machinery was ancient, lovingly and fearfully tended since the days of Galiana’s earliest experiments on Mars. It had also cost Skade nothing to bring it with her aboard Nightshade.

Skade opened Galiana’s casket. She elevated the corpse’s core temperature by fifty millikelvin and then ushered the pale machinery into position. It swung and fluttered around Galiana, never quite touching her skin. Skade stepped back with a stiff whirr of servos. The pale machinery made her uneasy; it always had. There was something deeply unsettling about it, so much so that it had almost never been used. Even on those rare occasions when it had been used, it had done dreadful things to those who dared to open their minds to it.

Skade was not about to use the machinery to its fullest capability. Not yet. For now she wished merely to speak to the Wolf, and that required only a subset of the machinery’s functionality, exploiting its extreme isolation and sensitivity, its ability to pluck and amplify the faintest of signals from a churning sea of neural chaos. She would not be attempting coherence coupling unless she had very good reason, and so there was no rational reason for the sense of disquiet Skade felt.

But Skade knew what the machinery could do, and that was enough.

Skade readied herself. The external indicators showed that Galiana had been warmed enough to wake the Wolf. The machinery was already picking up the familiar constellations of electrical and chemical activity that showed she was beginning to think again.

Skade closed her eyes. There was a moment of transition, a perceptual jolt followed by a disorientating sense of rotation. And then she was standing on a flat hard rock just large enough to accommodate her feet. The rock was one of many; they reached into mist all around her, positioned like stepping stones in shallow grey water, linked by sharp, barnacled ridges. It was impossible to see more than fifteen or twenty metres in any direction. The air was cold and damp, scented with brine and the stench of something like rotting seaweed. Skade shivered and pulled her black gown tighter. Beneath it she was naked, her bare toes curling over the edge of the rock. Wet dark hair flicked against her eyes. She reached up and pushed it back from her brow. There was no crest on her scalp, and the absence of it made her inhale in sharp surprise. She was fully human again; the Wolf had restored her body. She heard, distantly, the crowdlike roar of ocean waves. The sky above her was a pale grey-green inseparable from the mist that reached to the ground. It made her feel nauseous.

The first fumbling attempts at communication between Skade and the Wolf had been through Galiana’s mouth, which proved to be hopelessly one-dimensional and slow compared with mind-to-mind linkage. Since then, Skade had agreed to meet the Wolf in a rendered environment, a three-dimensional simulation in which she was fully immersed and fully participatory.

The Wolf chose it, not her. It wove a space that Skade was obliged to enter under the Wolf’s strict terms. Skade could have overlaid this reality with something of her own choosing, but she feared that there might have been some nuance or detail that she was missing.

It was better to play the game according to the Wolf’s rules, even if she felt in less than complete control of the situation. It was, Skade knew, a dangerously double-edged sword. She would have trusted nothing that the Wolf told her, but Galiana was in there as well, somewhere. And Galiana had learned much that might still be useful to the Mother Nest. The trick was to distinguish the Wolf from its host, which was why Skade had to be so attuned to the nuances of the environment. She never knew when Galiana might break through, if only for an instant.

I’m here. Where are you?

The tidal roar increased. The wind dragged a curtain of hair across her face. She felt precarious, surrounded by so many sharp-edged ridges. But without warning the mist opened up a little before her, and a mist-grey figure hovered into existence at the edge of vision. The figure was really no more than a suggestion of the human form; there were no details at all, and the mist continually thickened and thinned around it. It could just as easily have been a stump of weatherworn wood. But Skade felt its presence, and the presence was familiar. There was a frightening cold intelligence beaming out from the figure like a narrow searchlight. It was intelligence without consciousness; thought without emotion or any sense of self. Skade sensed only analysis and inference.

The distant roar of the tide shaped words. ‘What is it that you want of me now, Skade?’

The same thing . . .

‘Use your voice.’

She obeyed without question. ‘The same thing that I always want: advice.’

The tide said, ‘Where are we, Skade?’

‘I thought you decided that.’

‘That isn’t what I meant. I mean, where exactly is her body?’

‘Aboard a ship,’ Skade said. ‘In interstellar space, midway between Epsilon Eridani and Delta Pavonis.’ She wondered how the Wolf had been able to tell that they were no longer in the Mother Nest. Perhaps it had been a lucky guess, she told herself, with no real sense of conviction.

‘Why?’

‘You know why. The weapons are around Resurgam. We must recover them before the machines arrive.’

The figure became momentarily clearer. For an instant there was a hint of snout, dark canine eyes and a lupine glint from steely incisors.

‘You must appreciate that I have mixed feelings about such a mission.’

Skade tugged her gown even tighter. ‘Why?’

‘You already know why. Because that of which I am a part would be inconvenienced by the use of those weapons.’

‘I don’t want a debate,’ Skade said, ‘just assistance. You have two choices, Wolf. Let the weapons fall into someone else’s hands - someone you have no influence over - or help me to recover them. You see the logic, don’t you? If any human faction has to obtain them, surely it had better be one you know, one you have already infiltrated.’

Above, the sky became less opaque. A silver sun scoured through the pale green canopy. Light sparkled on the ridges linking the rockpools and stones, tracing a pattern that reminded Skade of the synaptic pathways revealed by a slice through brain tissue. Then the mist closed in again and she was colder than before, colder and more vulnerable.

‘So what is the problem?’

‘There’s a ship behind me. It’s been on my tail ever since we left Yellowstone space. We have inertia-suppression machinery, Wolf. Our inertial mass is twenty-five per cent at the moment. Yet the other ship is still playing catch-up, as if it has the same technology aboard it.’

‘Who is operating this other ship?’

‘Clavain,’ she said, watching the Wolf’s reaction with great interest. ‘At least, I’m reasonably certain it must be him. I was trying to bring him back to the Mother Nest after he defected. He gave me the slip around Yellowstone. He got his hands on another ship, stealing it from the Ultras. But I don’t know where he got the technology from.’

The Wolf appeared troubled. It shifted in and out of the mist, its form contorting with each moment of clarity. ‘Have you tried killing him?’

‘Yes, but I haven’t managed it - he’s very tenacious, Wolf. And he hasn’t been deterred, which was my next hope.’

‘That’s Clavain for you.’ Skade wondered whether that was the Wolf or Galiana speaking, or some incomprehensible fusion of the two. ‘Well, what did your precious Night Council suggest, Skade?’

‘That I push the machinery harder.’

The Wolf faded, returned. ‘And if Clavain continues to match you step for step . . . ? Have you considered what you might do then?’

‘Don’t be absurd.’

‘Fears must be faced, Skade. The unthinkable must be contemplated. There is a way to slip ahead of him, if only you have the nerve to do it.’

‘I won’t do it. I don’t know how to do it.’ Skade felt dizzy, on the point of toppling from the smooth platform of rock. The ridges looked sharp enough to cut her skin. ‘We know nothing about how the machinery operates in that regime.’

‘You can learn,’ the Wolf told her teasingly. ‘Exordium would show you what you needed to do, wouldn’t it?’

‘The more exotic the technology, the more difficult it is to interpret the messages describing it, Wolf.’

‘But I could help you.’

Skade narrowed her eyes. ‘Help me?’

‘In Exordium. Our minds are linked now, Skade. There’s no reason why we couldn’t continue to the next phase of the experiment. My mind could filter and process the Exordium information. With the clues we will receive, I could show you exactly what you need to do to make the state-four transition.’

‘It’s that easy? You’d help me, just to make sure I get the weapons?’

‘Of course.’ For a moment the Wolf’s voice was playful. There was that flash of incisor again. ‘But of course, it wouldn’t just be you and me.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Bring Felka.’

‘No, Wolf ...’

‘Bring Felka, or I won’t help you.’

She started to argue, knowing how futile it would be; knowing that ultimately she had no choice but to do what the Wolf wished. The mist had closed in again. The analytic scrutiny of the Wolf’s mind suddenly ceased, like a torch beam being switched off. Skade was quite alone. She shivered against the cold, hearing the long slow groan of the distant tide. ‘No ...’

The mist closed in further. The rockpool swallowed the stone beneath her feet, and then with the same perceptual twist she was back in the metal prison of her armour aboard Nightshade. The gravity was an oppressive crush. She traced a steel finger down the alloy curve of her thigh, remembering how flesh had felt, remembering the sense of cold and the porous texture of the rock beneath her feet. Skade felt the stirrings of unwanted emotions: loss, regret, horror, the aching memory of wholeness. But there were things that needed to be done that transcended such concerns. She crushed the emotions out of existence, preserving only the thinnest residue of anger.

That would help her, in the days that lay ahead.

TWENTY-SEVEN

On the rare occasions when he made any kind of ship-board journey at all, Clavain moved around Zodiacal Light in an exoskeletal support, constantly bruised and chafed by the pressure points of the framework. They were at five gees now, accelerating in close lock-step with Nightshade, which was now only three light-days ahead. Each time Skade had ramped up her acceleration, Clavain had persuaded Sukhoi to increase theirs to an even higher rate, and this, with no little reluctance, she had done. Little more than a week of shiptime later, Skade would be seen to respond with an increase of her own. The pattern was obvious: even Skade was unwilling to push the machinery any harder than was absolutely necessary.

Pauline Sukhoi did not use an exoskeletal rig herself. When she met with Clavain she did so in a form-fitting travelling couch in which she lay almost horizontally, on her back, labouring for breath between each utterance. Like much else on the ship the couch had a crudely welded makeshift look. The manufactories were running around the clock to make weapons, combat equipment, reefersleep caskets and spare parts; anything else had to be knocked together in less sophisticated workshops.

‘Well?’ Sukhoi asked, the force of the acceleration heightening her haunted appearance by pulling her skin deep into her eye sockets.

‘I need seven gees,’ Clavain said. ‘Six and a half at the very least. Can you give it to me?’

‘I’ve given you everything I can, Clavain.’

‘That’s not quite the answer I wanted.’

She threw a schematic against one wall, hard red lines against corroded brown metalwork. It was a cross section of the ship with a circle superimposed over the thickened midship and stern where the hull was widest and where the motors were attached.

‘See this, Clavain?’ Sukhoi made the circle flare brighter. ‘The bubble of suppressed inertia swallows most of our length now, which is enough to drop our effective mass to a fifth of what it should be. But we still feel the full force of that five gees here, in the front of the ship.’ She indicated the small cone of the hull, jutting forwards of the bubble’s edge.

Clavain nodded. ‘The field’s so weak here that you need fancy detectors to measure it at all.’

‘Correct. Our bodies, and the fabric of the ship around us, still have nearly their full quota of inertial mass. The floor of the ship pushes against us at five gees, so we feel five gees of force. But that’s only because we’re outside the bubble.’

‘What are you getting at?’

‘This.’ Sukhoi altered the picture, making the circle expand until it enclosed the entire volume of the starship. ‘The field geometry is complex, Clavain, and it depends complicatedly on the degree of inertial suppression. At five gees, we can exclude the entire inhabited portion of the ship from the major effects of the machinery. But at six ... it doesn’t work. We fall within the bubble.’

‘But we’re already effectively inside it,’ Clavain said.

‘Yes, but not so much that we feel anything. At six gees, however, the field effects would rise above the threshold of physiological detectability. Sharply, too: it isn’t a linear effect. We’d go from experiencing five gees to experiencing only one.’

Clavain adjusted his position, trying to find a posture that would relieve one or more pressure points. ‘That doesn’t sound too bad.’

‘But we’d also feel our inertial mass to be a fifth of what it should be. Every part of your body, every muscle, every organ, every bone, every fluid, has evolved under normal conditions of inertia. Everything changes, Clavain, even the viscosity of blood.’ Sukhoi steered her couch around him, collecting her breath. ‘I have seen what happens to people who fall into fields of extreme inertial suppression. Very often they die. Their hearts stop beating properly. There are other things that can happen to them, too, especially if the field isn’t stable . . .’ With effort, she looked him in the eye. ‘Which it won’t be, I assure you.’

Clavain said, ‘I still want it. Will routine machinery still work normally? Reefersleep caskets, that kind of thing?’

‘I won’t make any promises, but...’

He smiled. ‘Then this is what we do. We freeze Scorpio’s army, or as many of them as we can manage, in the new caskets. Anybody who we can’t freeze, or who we might need to consult, we can rigup to a life-support system, enough to keep them breathing and pumping blood at the right rate. That will work, won’t it?’

‘Again, no promises.’

‘Six gees, Sukhoi. That’s all I’m asking of you. You can do it, can’t you?’

‘I can. And I will, if you insist upon it. But understand this: the quantum vacuum is a nest of snakes . . .’

‘And we’re poking it with a very sharp stick, yes.’

Sukhoi waited until he was done. ‘No. That was before. At six gees we are down in the pit with the snakes, Clavain.’

He let her have her moment, then patted the iron husk of the travel couch. ‘Just do it, Pauline. I’ll worry about the analogies.’

She spun the couch around and wheeled off towards the elevator that would ferry her downship. Clavain watched her go, then winced as another pressure sore announced itself.

The transmission came in a little while later. Clavain scrubbed it for buried informational attack, but it was clean.

It was from Skade, in person. He took it in his quarters, enjoying a brief respite from the high acceleration. Sukhoi’s experts had to crawl over their inertial machinery and they did not like doing that while the systems were functional. Clavain sipped on tea while the recording played itself out.

Skade’s head and shoulders appeared in an oval projection volume, blurred at the edges. Clavain remembered the last time he had seen her like this, when she had transmitted a message to him when he was still on his way to Yellowstone. He had assumed at the time that Skade’s stiff posture was a function of the message format, but now that he saw it again he began to have doubts. Her head was immobile while she spoke, as if clamped in the kind of frame surgeons used when making precise operations on the brain. Her neck vanished into absurd gloss-black armour, like something from the Middle Ages. And there was something else strange about Skade, although he could not quite put his finger on it ...

‘Clavain,’ she said. ‘Please do me the courtesy of viewing this transmission in its entirety and giving careful consideration to what I am about to propose. I do not make this offer lightly, and I will not make it twice.’

He waited for her to continue.

‘You have proven difficult to kill,’ Skade said. ‘All my attempts have failed so far, and there is no assurance that anything I try in the future will work either. That doesn’t mean I expect you to live, however. Have you looked behind you recently? Rhetorical question: I’m sure that you have. You must be aware, even with your limited detection capabilities, that there are more ships out there. Remember the task force you were supposed to lead, Clavain? The Master of Works has finished those ships. Three of them are approaching you from behind. They are better armed than Nightshade: heavy relativistic railguns, ship-to-ship boser and graser batteries, not to mention long-range stingers. And they have a bright target to aim at.’

Clavain knew about the other ships, even though they only showed up at the extreme limit of his detectors. He had started turning Skade’s light-sails to his own side, training his own optical lasers on to them as they passed in the night and steering them into the paths of the chasing ships. The chances of a collision remained small, and the pursuers could always deploy similar anti-sail defences of the sort Clavain had invented, but it had been enough to force Skade to abandon sail production.

‘I know,’ he whispered.

Skade continued, ‘But I’m willing to make a deal, Clavain. You don’t want to die, and I don’t really want to kill you. Frankly, there are other problems I would sooner expend energy on.’

‘Charming.’ He sipped at his tea.

‘So I will let you live, Clavain. And, more importantly, I will let you have Felka back.’

Clavain put his cup aside.

‘She is very ill, Clavain, retreating back into dreams of the Wall. All she does now is make circular structures around herself, intricate games that demand her total attention every hour of the day. They are surrogates for the Wall. She has abandoned sleep, like a true Conjoiner. I’m worried for her, I really am. You and Galiana worked so hard to make her more fully human ... and yet I can see that work crumbling away by the day, just as the Great Wall crumbled away on Mars.’ Skade’s face formed a stiff sad smile. ‘She doesn’t recognise people at all, now. She shows no interest in anything outside her increasingly narrow set of obsessions. She doesn’t even ask about you, Clavain.’

‘If you hurt her . . .’ he found himself saying.

But Skade was still talking. ‘But there may still be time to make a difference, to repair some of the harm, if not all of it. It’s up to you, Clavain. Our velocity differential is small enough now that a transfer operation is possible. If you turn away from my course and show no sign of returning to it, I will send Felka to you aboard a corvette - fired into deep space, of course.’

‘Skade . . .’

‘I will expect your response immediately. A personal transmission would be nice, but, failing that, I will expect to see a change in your thrust vector.’ She sighed, and it was in that moment that Clavain realised what had been troubling him about Skade since the start of the transmission. It was the way she never drew breath, never once stopped to take in air.

‘One final thing. I’ll give you a generous margin of error before I decide that you have rejected my offer. But when that margin has ended, I will still put Felka aboard a corvette. The difference is, I won’t make it easy for you to find her. Think of that, Clavain, will you? Felka, all alone between the stars, so far from companionship. She might not understand. Then again, she very well might.’ Skade hesitated, then added, ‘You’d know, I suppose, better than anyone. She’s your daughter, after all. The question is, how much does she really mean to you?’

Skade’s transmission ended.

Remontoire was conscious. He smiled with quiet amusement as Clavain entered the room that served as both his quarters and his prison. He could not be said to look sparklingly well - that would never be the case - but neither did he look like a man who had only recently been frozen, and before that, technically, deceased.

‘I wondered when you’d pay me a visit,’ he said, with what struck Clavain as disarming cheerfulness. He lay on his back, his head on a pillow, his hands steepled across his chest, but in every sense appearing relaxed and calm.

Clavain’s exoskeleton eased him into a sitting position, shifting pressure from one set of sores to another.

‘I’m afraid things have been a tiny bit difficult,’ Clavain said. ‘But I’m glad to see that you’re in one piece. It wasn’t propitious to have you thawed until now.’

‘I understand,’ Remontoire said, with a dismissive wave of one hand. ‘It can’t ...’

‘Wait.’ Clavain looked at his old friend, taking in the slight changes in his facial appearance that had been necessary for Remontoire to function as an agent in Yellowstone society. Clavain had become used to him being totally hairless, like an unfinished mannequin.

‘Wait what, Clavain?’

‘There are some ground rules you need to be aware of, Rem. You can’t leave this room, so please don’t embarrass me by making an attempt to do so.’

Remontoire shrugged, as if this was no great matter. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it. What else?’

‘You can’t communicate with any system beyond this room, not while you’re in here. So, again, please don’t try.’

‘How would you know if I did try?’

‘I would.’

‘Fair enough. Anything else?’

‘I don’t know if I can trust you yet. Hence the precautions, and my general reluctance to wake you before now.’

‘Perfectly understandable.’

‘I’m not finished. I dearly want to trust you, Rem, but I’m not certain that I can. And I can’t afford to risk the success of this mission.’ Remontoire started to speak, but Clavain raised a finger and continued talking. ‘That’s why I won’t be taking any chances. None at all. If you do anything, no matter how apparently trivial, that I think might be in any way to the detriment of the mission, I’ll kill you. No ifs, no buts. Absolutely no trial. We’re a long way from the Ferrisville Convention now, a long way from the Mother Nest.’

‘I gathered we were on a ship,’ Remontoire said. ‘And we’re accelerating very, very hard. I wanted to find something I could drop to the floor, so that I might have an idea of exactly how hard. But you’ve done a very good job of leaving me with nothing. Still, I can guess. What is it now - four and a half gees?’

‘Five,’ Clavain said. ‘And we’ll soon be pushing to six and higher.’

‘This room doesn’t remind me of any part of Nightshade. Have you captured another lighthugger, Clavain? That can’t have been easy.’

‘I had some help.’

‘And the high rate of acceleration? How did you manage that without Skade’s magic box of tricks?’

‘Skade didn’t create that technology from scratch. She stole it, or enough pieces to figure out the rest. She wasn’t the only one with access to it, however. I met a man who had tapped the same mother-lode. ’

‘And this man is aboard the ship?’

‘No, he left us to our own devices. It’s my ship, Rem.’ Clavain whipped out an arm encased in the support rig and patted the rough metal wall of Remontoire’s cell. ‘She’s called Zodiacal Light. She’s carrying a small army. Skade’s ahead of us, but I’m not going to let her get her hands on those weapons without a struggle.’

‘Ah. Skade.’ Remontoire nodded, smiling.

‘Something amusing you?’

‘Has she been in touch?’

‘In a manner of speaking, yes. That’s why I woke you. What are you getting at?’

‘Did she make it clear what had ...’ Remontoire trailed off, leaving Clavain aware that he was being observed closely. ‘Evidently not.’

‘What?’

‘She nearly died, Clavain. When you escaped from the comet, the one where we met the Master of Works.’

‘Clearly she got better.’

‘Well, that very much depends . . .’ Again, Remontoire trailed off. ‘This isn’t about Skade, is it? I can see that concerned paternal look in your eye.’ In one easy movement he swung himself off the bed, sitting quite normally on the edge, as if the five gees of acceleration did not apply to him at all. Only a tiny twitching vein in the side of his head betrayed the tension he was under. ‘Let me guess. She still has Felka, doesn’t she.’

Clavain said nothing, waiting for Remontoire to continue.

‘I tried to have Felka come with me and the pig,’ he said, ‘but Skade wasn’t having it. Said Felka was more useful to her as a bargaining chip. I couldn’t talk her out of it. If I’d have argued too strenuously, she wouldn’t have let me come after you at all.’

‘You came to kill me.’

‘I came to stop you. My intention was to persuade you to come back with me to the Mother Nest. Of course, I’d have killed you if it came to it, but then you’d have done precisely the same to me if it was something you believed in sufficiently.’ Remontoire paused. ‘I believed I could talk you out of it. No one else would have given you a chance.’

‘We’ll talk about that later. It’s Felka who matters now.’

There was a long silence between the two men. Clavain adjusted his position, determined that Remontoire should not see how uncomfortable he was.

‘What’s happened?’ Remontoire asked.

‘Skade’s offered to turn Felka over provided I abandon the chase. She’ll drop her behind Nightshade, in a shuttle. At maximum burn it can shift to a rest frame we can reach with one of our shuttles.’

Remontoire nodded. Clavain sensed his friend thinking deeply, chewing over permutations and possibilities.

‘And if you refuse?’

‘She’ll still ditch Felka, but she won’t make it easy for us to catch her. At best, I’ll have to forfeit the chase to ensure a safe recovery. At worst, I’ll never find her. We’re in interstellar space, Rem. There’s a hell of a lot of nothing out there. With Skade’s flame ahead of us and ours behind, there are huge deadspots in our sensor coverage.’

There was another long silence while Remontoire thought again. He eased back on to the bed, assisting the flow of blood to his brain.

‘You can’t trust Skade, Clavain. She has absolutely no need to convince you of her sincerity, since she doesn’t think you’ll ever have anything she needs or anything that can hurt her. This is not a two-prisoner game, like they taught you back on Deimos.’

‘I must have scared her,’ Clavain said. ‘She wasn’t expecting us to catch up so easily.’

‘Even so ...’ Remontoire hovered on the edge of saying something for several minutes.

‘You realise why I woke you now.’

‘Yes, I think I do. Run Seven was in a similar position to Skade when he had Irravel Veda on his tail, trying to get back her passengers.’

‘Seven made you serve him. You were forced to give him advice, tactics he could use against Irravel.’

‘It’s an entirely different situation, Clavain.’

‘There are enough similarities for me.’ Clavain made his frame elevate him to a standing position. ‘Here’s the picture, Rem. Skade will expect a response from me in a matter of days. You’re going to help me choose that response. Ideally, I want Felka back without losing sight of the objective.’

‘You thawed me out in desperation, then? Better the devil you know, as they say?’

‘You’re my oldest and closest friend, Rem. I just don’t know if I can trust you any more.’

‘And should the advice I give you be good ... ?’

‘That might put me in a more trusting frame of mind, I suppose.’ Clavain forced a smile. ‘Of course, I’d also have Felka’s advice on that as well.’

‘And if we fail?’

Clavain said nothing. He just turned and left.

Four small shuttles arced away from Zodiacal Light, each falling into its own half-hemisphere of the relativistically distorted starscape. The exhaust streams of the ships glittered in the backwash from Zodiacal Light’s main flames. The trajectories were achingly beautiful, flung out from the mother ship like the curved arms of a chandelier.

If only this wasn’t an action in a war, Clavain thought, then it might almost be something to be proud of ...

He watched their departure from an observation cupola near the prow of his ship, feeling an obligation to wait until he could no longer make them out. Each shuttle carried a valued crewmember, plus a quota of fuel that he would rather not have had to spend before reaching Resurgam. If all went well, Clavain would get back the four shuttles and their crew. But he would never see most of the fuel again. There was only a tiny margin of error, enough that one ship could bring back a human-mass payload in addition to its pilot.

He hoped he was playing this one correctly.

It was said that the taking of hard decisions was something that became easier with repetition, like any difficult activity. There was, perhaps, some truth in that assertion. But if so, Clavain found that it most certainly did not apply in his own case. He had taken several extraordinarily difficult decisions lately, and each had been, in its own unique way, harder than the last. So it was with the matter of Felka.

It was not that he did not want Felka back, if there was a way that could be achieved. But Skade knew how much he wanted the weapons as well. She also knew that it was not a selfish issue with Clavain. He could not be bargained with in the usual sense, since he did not want the weapons for his own personal gain. But with Felka she had the perfect instrument of negotiation. She knew that the two of them had a special bond, one that went back to Mars. Was Felka really his daughter? He didn’t know, even now. He had convinced himself that she might be, and she had told him she was . . . but that had been under possible duress, when she had been trying to persuade him not to defect. If anything, that admission had only served to slowly undermine his own certainties. He would not know for sure until he was again in her presence, and he could ask her properly.

And should it really matter? Her value as a human being had nothing to do with any hypothetical genetic connection with himself. Even if she was his daughter, he hadn’t known that, or even suspected it, until long after he had rescued her from Mars. And yet something had made him go back into Galiana’s nest, at great risk to himself, because he had felt a need to save her. Galiana had told him it was pointless, that she wasn’t a thinking human being in any sense that he recognised it, just a mindless information-processing vegetable.

And he had proven her wrong. It was probably the only time in his life when he had ever done that to Galiana.

And yet still it didn’t matter. This was all about humanity, Clavain thought, not about blood ties or loyalty. If he forgot that, then he might as well let Skade take the weapons with her. And he might as well defect back to the spiders and leave the rest of the human race to its fate. And yet if he failed to recover the weapons, what use was a single human gesture, no matter how well intentioned?

The four ships were gone. Clavain hoped and prayed that he had made the right decision.

A beetle-backed government car hissed through the streets of Cuvier. It had been raining again, but recently the clouds had cleared. The dismantled planet was now clearly visible during many hours of each evening. The cloud of liberated matter was a lacy many-armed thing. It gleamed red and ochre and pale green and occasionally flickered with slow electrical storms, pulsing like the courtship display of some uncatalogued deep-sea animal. Hard shadows and bright symmetric foci marked the sites within the cloud where Inhibitor machinery was coming into existence, aggregating and solidifying. There had been a time when it was possible to think that what had happened to the planet was some rare but natural event. Now no such comfort existed.

Thorn had seen the way people in Cuvier dealt with the phenomenon. For the most part they ignored it. When the thing was in the sky they walked down the streets without looking up. Even when the fact of its existence could not be ignored, they seldom looked at the thing directly, or even referred to it in anything but the most oblique terms. It was as if a massive act of collective denial might make it go away, an omen that the people had decided to reject.

Thorn sat in one of the car’s two rear seats, behind the driver’s partition. There was a small flickering television screen sunk into the back of the driver’s seat. Blue light played across Thorn’s face as he watched footage taken from far outside the city. The clip was fuzzy and hand-held shaky, but it showed all that it needed to. The first of the two shuttles was still on the ground - the camera panned over it, lingering on the surreal juxtaposition of sleek machine and jumbled rockscape - but the second was in the air, coming back down from orbit. The shuttle had already made several trips to just above Resurgam’s atmosphere where the much larger in-system craft was in orbit. Now the camera view jogged upwards, catching the descending ship as it lowered itself towards the landing site, settling down on a tripod of flames.

‘It could be faked,’ Thorn said quietly. ‘I know it isn’t, but that’s what people will think.’

Khouri was sitting next to him, dressed as Vuilleumier. She said, ‘You can fake anything if you try hard enough. But it isn’t as easy as it used to be, not now that everything’s stored using analogue media. I’m not sure even a whole government department could produce something convincing enough.’

‘The people will still be suspicious.’

The camera panned across the sparse, nervous-looking crowd that was still on the ground. There was a small encampment three hundred metres from the parked shuttle, the dusty tents difficult to distinguish from fallen boulders. The people looked like refugees from any world, any century. They had come thousands of kilometres, converging on this point from a variety of settlements. It had cost them greatly: roughly a tenth of their number had not completed the journey. They had brought enough possessions to make the overland crossing, while knowing - if the underground intelligence network was efficient in its dissemination of information - that they would be allowed to bring nothing aboard the ship but the clothes they stood in. Near the encampment was a small hole in the ground where belongings were tossed before each party boarded the shuttle. These were possessions that had been treasured until the last possible moment, even though the logical thing would have been to leave them behind at home, before making the difficult journey across Resurgam. There were photographs and children’s toys, and all of them would be buried, human relics to add to the million-year-old store of Amarantin artefacts that the planet still held.

‘We’ve taken care of that,’ Khouri said. ‘Some of the witnesses who made it this far have returned to the major population centres. They needed persuading, of course, to turn around when they’d got that far, but . . .’

‘How did you manage it?’

The car negotiated a bend with a swish of tyres. The cubiform buildings of the Inquisition House district loomed into view, grey and slab-sided as granite cliffs. Thorn eyed them apprehensively.

‘They were told they’d be allowed to take a small quota of personal effects on to the ship with them when they came back.’

‘Bribery, in other words.’ Thorn shook his head, wondering if any great good deed could be entirely untainted by corruption, no matter how useful a purpose that corruption served. ‘But I suppose you had to get the word back somehow. How many, now?’

Khouri had the numbers ready. ‘Fifteen hundred in orbit, at the last count. A few hundred still on the ground. When we’ve got five hundred we’ll make the next trip up from the surface, and then the transfer ship will be full, ready to shuttle them to Nostalgia.’

‘They’re brave,’ Thorn said. ‘Or very, very foolish. I’m not sure which.’

‘Brave, Thorn, there’s no doubt about that. And scared, too. But you can’t blame them for that.’

They were brave, it was true. They had made the journey to the shuttles based only on the scantiest of evidence that the machines even existed. After Thorn’s arrest, rumours had run rife amongst the exodus movement. The government had continued to issue carefully engineered denials, each of which was designed to nurture in the populace’s mind the idea that Thorn’s shuttles might in fact be real. Those people who had made it to the shuttles so far had done so expressly against government advice, risking imprisonment and death as they trespassed into prohibited territory.

Thorn admired them. He doubted that he would have had the courage to follow those rumours to their logical conclusion had he not been the man who had initiated the whole movement. But he could take no pride in their achievement. They were still being deceived about their ultimate fate, a deception in which he was entirely complicit.

The car arrived at the rear of Inquisition House. Thorn and Khouri walked into the building, past the usual security checks. Thorn’s identity was still a closely guarded secret, and he had been issued with a full set of papers allowing free movement in and around Cuvier. The guards assumed he was merely another official from the House, on government business.

‘Do you still think this will work?’ he asked, hurrying to keep up with Khouri as she strode up the stairs ahead of him.

‘If it doesn’t, we’re fucked,’ she replied, in the same hushed voice.

The Triumvir was waiting in the Inquisitor’s larger room, sitting in the seat usually reserved for Thorn. She was smoking, flicking ash on to the highly polished floor. Thorn felt a spasm of irritation at this act of studied carelessness. But doubtless the Triumvir’s argument would have been that the whole planet was going to be ash before very long, so what difference did a little more make?

‘Irina,’ he said, remembering to use the name she had adopted for her Cuvier persona.

‘Thorn.’ She stood up, grinding out her cigarette on the chair’s arm. ‘You look well. Government custody obviously isn’t as bad as they say.’

‘If that’s a joke, it isn’t in very good taste.’

‘Of course.’ She shrugged, as if an apology would be superfluous. ‘Have you seen what they’ve done lately?’

‘They?’

Triumvir Ilia Volyova was looking through the window, towards the sky. ‘Have a guess.’

‘Of course. You can’t miss it now. Do you know what’s taking shape in that cloud?’

‘A mechanism, Thorn. Something to destroy our sun, I’d say.’

‘Let’s talk in the office,’ Khouri said.

‘Oh, let’s not,’ said Volyova. ‘There are no windows, Ana, and the view does so focus the mind, don’t you think? In a matter of minutes the fact of Thorn’s collusion will be public knowledge.’ She looked at him sharply. ‘Won’t it?’

‘If you want to call it collusion.’

Thorn had already taped his ‘statement’ - the one where he spoke for the government, revealing that the shuttles were real, that the planet was indeed in imminent danger and that the government had, reluctantly, asked him to become the figurehead of the official exodus operation. It would be transmitted on all Resurgam television channels within the hour, to be repeated at intervals throughout the next day.

‘It won’t be viewed as collusion,’ Khouri said, eyeing the other woman coldly. ‘Thorn will be seen to be acting out of concern for the people, not his own self-interest. It will be convincing because it happens to be the truth.’ Her attention flicked to him. ‘Doesn’t it?’

‘I’m only voicing what will be common doubts,’ said Volyova. ‘Never mind, anyway. We’ll know soon enough what the reaction is. Is it true there have already been acts of civil disturbance in some of the outlying settlements, Ana?’

‘They were crushed pretty efficiently.’

‘There’ll be worse, for certain. Don’t be surprised if there’s an attempt to overthrow this regime.’

‘That won’t happen,’ Khouri said. ‘Not when the people realise what’s at stake. They’ll see that the apparatus of government has to remain in place so that the exodus can be organised smoothly.’

The Triumvir smirked in Thorn’s direction. ‘See how hopelessly optimistic she still is, Thorn?’

‘Irina’s right, unfortunately,’ Thorn said. ‘We can expect a lot worse. But you never imagined you’d get everyone off this planet in one piece.’

‘But we have the capacity ...’ Khouri said.

‘People aren’t payloads. They can’t be shipped around like neat little units. Even if the majority buy into the idea that the government is somehow sincere about the evacuation - and that will be a small miracle in its own right - it’ll only take a minority of dissenters to cause major trouble.’

‘You made a career out of being one of them,’ Khouri said.

‘I did, yes.’ Thorn smiled sadly. ‘Unfortunately, I’m not the only one out there. Still, Irina’s right. We’ll know soon enough what the general reaction will be. How are the internal complications, anyway? Aren’t the other branches of government getting a little suspicious about all these machinations?’

‘Let’s just say that one or two discreet assassinations may still have to be performed,’ Khouri said. ‘But that should take care of our worst enemies. The rest we only have to hold off until the exodus is finished.’

Thorn turned to the Triumvir. ‘You’ve studied that thing in the sky more closely than any of us, Irina. Do you know how long we’ve got?’

‘No,’ she said curtly. ‘Of course I can’t say how long we’ve got, not without knowing what it is that they’re building up there. All I can do is make an extremely educated guess.’

‘So indulge us.’

She sniffed and then walked stiffly along the entire length of the window. Thorn eyed Khouri, wondering what she made of this performance. He had noticed a tension between the two women that he did not recall from his previous meetings with them. Perhaps it had always been there and he had simply missed it before, but he rather doubted it.

‘I’ll say this,’ the Triumvir stated, her heels squeaking as she turned to face the two of them. ‘Whatever it is, it’s big. Much bigger than any structure we could imagine building, even if we had the raw materials and the time. Even the smallest structures that we can single out in the cloud ought to have collapsed under their own self-gravity by now, becoming molten spheres of metal. But they haven’t. That tells me something.’

‘Go on,’ Thorn said.

‘Either they can persuade matter to become many orders of magnitude more rigid than ought to be possible, or they have some local control of gravity. Perhaps some combination of the two, even. Accelerated streams of matter can serve the same structural functions as rigid spars if they can be controlled with sufficient finesse ...’ She was evidently thinking aloud, and for a moment she trailed off, before remembering her audience. ‘I suspect that they can manipulate inertia when it becomes necessary. We saw how they redirected those matter flows, bending them through right angles. That implies a profound knowledge of metric engineering, tampering with the basic substrate of space-time. If they have that ability, they can probably control gravity as well. We haven’t seen that before, I think, so it might be something they can only do on a large scale: a broad brush, so to speak. Everything we’ve seen so far - the disassembly of the rocky worlds, the Dyson motor around the gas giant - all that was watchmaker stuff. Now we’re seeing the first hints of Inhibitor heavy engineering.’

‘Now you’re scaring me,’ Thorn said.

‘Entirely my intention.’ She smiled quickly. It was the first time he had seen her smile that evening.

‘So what is it going to be?’ Khouri asked. ‘A machine to make the sun go supernova?’

‘No,’ the Triumvir replied. ‘We can rule that out, I think. They may have a technology that can do it, but it would only work on heavy stars, the kind that are already predestined to blow up. That would be a formidable weapon, I admit. You could sterilise a volume of space dozens of light-years wide if you could trigger a premature supernova. I don’t know how you would do it - maybe by tuning the nuclear cross sections to prohibit fusion for elements lighter than iron, thereby shifting the peak in the curve of binding energy. The star would suddenly have nothing to fuse, no means to support its outer envelope against collapse. They may have done it once, you know. Earth’s sun is in the middle of a bubble in the interstellar medium, blown open by a recent supernova. It intersects other structures right out to the Aquila Rift. They may have been natural events, or we might be seeing the scars left behind by Inhibitor sterilisation events millions of years before the Amarantin xenocide. Or the bubbles might have been blown open by the weapons of fleeing species. We’ll probably never know, no matter how hard we look. But that won’t happen here. There are no supergiant stars in this part of the galaxy now, nothing capable of undergoing a supernova. They must have evolved different weapons for dealing with lower-mass stars like Delta Pavonis. Less spectacular - no use for sterilising more than a solar system - but perfectly effective on that level.’

‘How would you kill a star like Pavonis?’ Thorn asked.

‘There are several ways one might go about it,’ the Triumvir said thoughtfully. ‘It would depend on the resources available, and the time. The Inhibitors could assemble a ring around the star, just like they did with the gas giant. Something larger this time, of course, and perhaps functioning differently. There’s no solid surface to a star, not even a solid core. But they might encircle the star with a ring of particle accelerators, perhaps. If they established a particle-beam flux through the ring, they could create a vast magnetic force by tightening and loosening the ring in waves. The field from the ring would strangle the star like a constricting snake, pumping chromospheric material away from the star’s equator towards the poles. That’s the only place it could go, and the only place it could escape. Hot plasma would ram away from the star’s north and south poles. You might even be able to use those plasma jets as weapons in their own right, turning the whole star into a flame-thrower - all you’d need is more machinery above and below the poles to direct and focus the jets where you wanted them. You could incinerate every world in a solar system with a weapon like that, stripping atmosphere and ocean. You wouldn’t even need to dismantle the entire star. Once you’d removed enough of its outer envelope, its core would adjust its fusion rate and the whole star would become cooler and much longer-lived. That might suit their longer-term plans, I suppose. ’

‘That sounds as if it would take a long time,’ Khouri said. ‘And if all you’re going to do is incinerate the worlds, why waste half a star doing it?’

‘They could dismantle the whole thing, if they wished. I’m merely pointing out the possibilities. There’s another method they might consider, too. They dismantled the gas giant by spinning it until it flew apart. They could do that to a sun, too: wrap accelerators around it again, this time in pole-to-pole loops, and start rotating them. They’d couple with the star’s magnetosphere and start dragging the whole thing along with them, until it was spinning faster than its own centrifugal break-up speed. Matter would lift off the star’s surface. It would come apart like an onion.’

‘Sounds slow, too.’

Volyova nodded. ‘Perhaps. And there’s another thing we need to consider. The machinery that’s being assembled out there isn’t ringlike, and there’s no sign of any preparatory activity around the sun itself. The Inhibitors are going to use a different method again, I think.’

‘How else do you destroy a star, if pumping or spinning it won’t work?’ Khouri asked.

‘I don’t know. Let’s assume they can manipulate gravity to some extent. If that’s the case, they might be able to make a planet-mass black hole from the matter they’ve already accumulated. Say ten Earth masses, perhaps.’ She held her hands slightly apart, as if weaving an invisible cat’s cradle. ‘This big, that’s all. At most, they might have the resources to make a black hole ten or twenty times larger - a few hundred Earth masses.’

‘And if they dropped it into the star?’

‘It would begin eating its way through it, yes. They would need to take great care to place it where it would do the maximum harm, though. It would be very difficult to insert it exactly in the star’s nuclear-burning heart. The black hole would be inclined to oscillate, following an orbital trajectory through the star. It would have an effect, I am sure - the mass density near the black hole’s Schwarzschild radius would reach the nuclear-burning threshold, I think, so the star would suddenly have two sites of nucleation, one orbiting the other. But it would only eat the star slowly, since its surface area is so small. Even when it had swallowed half the star, it would still only be three kilometres wide.’ She shrugged. ‘But it might work. It would depend acutely on the way in which matter fell into the hole. If it became too hot, its own radiation pressure would blast back the next layer of infalling material, slowing the whole process. I’ll have to do some sums, I think.’

‘What else?’ Thorn asked. ‘Assuming it isn’t a black hole?’

‘We could speculate endlessly. The nuclear-burning processes in the heart of any star are a delicate balance between pressure and gravity. Anything that tipped that balance might have a catastrophic effect on the overall properties of the star. But stars are resilient. They will always try to find a new balance point, even if that means switching to the fusion of heavier elements.’ The Triumvir turned to look out of the window again, tapping her fingers against the glass.

‘The exact mechanism that the Inhibitors will use may not even be comprehensible to us. It doesn’t matter, because they will never get that far.’

Khouri said, ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I do not intend to wait this out, Ana. For the first time the Inhibitors have concentrated their activity at one focus point. I believe they are now at their most vulnerable. And for the first time, the Captain is willing to do business.’

Khouri flashed a glance in Thorn’s direction. ‘The cache?’

‘He’s given me his assurance that he will allow its use.’ She continued tapping the glass, still not turning to face them. ‘Of course, there’s a risk. We don’t know exactly what the cache is capable of. But damage is damage. I am certain we can put back their plans.’

‘No,’ Thorn said. ‘This isn’t right. Not now.’

The Triumvir turned from the window. ‘Why ever not?’

‘Because the exodus operation is working. We’ve begun to lift people from the surface of Resurgam.’

Volyova scoffed. ‘A few thousand. Hardly a dent, is it?’

‘Things will change when the exodus operation becomes official. That’s what we always counted on.’

‘Things could get very much worse, too. Are you willing to take that chance?’

‘We had a plan,’ Khouri said. ‘The weapons were always there, to be used when we needed them. But it’s senseless to provoke a reaction from the Inhibitors now, after all that we’ve achieved.’

‘She’s right,’ Thorn said. ‘You have to wait, Irina. At least until we’ve evacuated a hundred thousand. Then use your precious weapons if you have to.’

‘By then it will be too late,’ she said, turning back to the window.

‘We don’t know that,’ Thorn said.

‘Look.’ Volyova spoke quietly. ‘Can you see it?’

‘See what?’

‘In the distance, between those two buildings. There, beyond Broadcasting House. You can’t miss it now.’

Thorn walked to the window, Khouri next to him. ‘I don’t see anything.’

‘Has your statement been broadcast yet?’ Volyova asked.

Thorn checked the time. ‘Yes . . . yes. It should just have gone out, at least in Cuvier.’

‘There’s your first reaction, then: a fire. Not much of one yet, but I don’t doubt that we’ll see more before the evening’s out. The people are terrified. They’ve been terrified for months, with that thing in the sky. And now they know the government has been systematically lying to them. Under the circumstances I’d be a little angry. Wouldn’t you?’

‘It won’t last,’ Thorn said. ‘Trust me, I know the people. When they understand that there’s an escape route, that all they have to do is act rationally and do what I say, they’ll calm down.’

Volyova smiled. ‘Either you are a man of unusual ability, Thorn, or a man with a rather inadequate grasp of human nature. I just hope it’s the former.’

‘You deal with your machines, Irina, and I’ll deal with the people.’

‘Let’s go upstairs,’ Khouri said. ‘On to the balcony. We’ll be able to see things more clearly.’

There were vehicles moving around now, more than normal for a rainy night. Below, police vans were assembling outside the building. Thorn watched riot officers troop into the vans, jostling each other with their armour, shields and electrically tipped prods. One by one the vans whisked away, dispersing the police to trouble spots. Other vans were being driven into a cordon around the building, the spaces between them spanned by metal barricades that had been perforated with narrow slits.

On the balcony it was much clearer. City sounds reached them through the rain. There were bangs and crashes, sirens and shouting. It almost sounded like a carnival, except there was no music. Thorn realised that it had been a long time since he had heard music of any kind.

Presently, despite the best efforts of the police, there was a crowd massing outside Inquisition House. There were simply too many people to hold back, and all the police could do was prevent them from entering the building itself. A number of people were already lying on the ground at the front of the crowd, stunned by grenades or prods. Their friends were doing their best to get them to safety. One man was thrashing in an epileptic frenzy. Another man looked dead, or at least deeply unconscious. The police could have murdered most of the people in the crowd in a few seconds, Thorn knew, but they were holding back. He studied the faces of the police as well as he was able. They appeared just as frightened and confused as the crowd they were supposed to be pacifying. Special orders had obviously decreed that their response should be measured rather than brutal.

The balcony was surrounded by a low fretted wall. Thorn walked to the edge and looked over, peering down towards street level. Khouri followed him, Triumvir Volyova remaining out of sight.

‘It’s time,’ Thorn said. ‘I need to speak to the people in person. That way they’ll know the statement wasn’t faked up.’

He knew that all he needed to do was shout and someone would hear him, even if it were only one person in the crowd. Before very long everyone would be looking upwards, and they would know, even before he spoke, who he was.

‘Make it good,’ Volyova said, barely raising her voice above a whisper. ‘Make it very good, Thorn. A lot will depend on this little performance.’

He looked back at her. ‘Then you’ll reconsider?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Irina . . .’ Khouri said. ‘Please think about this. At least give us a chance here, before you use the weapons.’

‘You’ll have a chance,’ Volyova said. ‘Before I use the weapons, I’ll move them across the system. That way, even if there is a response from the Inhibitors, Infinity won’t be the obvious target.’

‘That will take some time, won’t it?’ Khouri asked.

‘You have a month, no more than that. Of course, I’m not expecting you to have the entire planet evacuated by then. But if you’ve kept to the agreed schedule - and perhaps improved on it a little - I may consider delaying the use of the weapons a while longer. That’s reasonable, isn’t it? I can be flexible, you see.’

‘You’re asking too much of us,’ Khouri said. ‘No matter how efficient our operation on the surface is, we can’t move more than two thousand people at a time between low orbit and the starship. That’s an unavoidable bottleneck, Ilia.’ She seemed unaware that she had spoken the Triumvir’s real name.

‘Bottlenecks can always be worked around, if it matters enough,’ she said. ‘And I’ve given you every incentive, haven’t I?’

‘It’s Thorn, isn’t it?’ Khouri said.

Thorn glanced back at her. ‘What about me?’

‘She doesn’t like the way you’ve come between us,’ Khouri told him.

The Triumvir made the same derisive snort he had heard before.

‘No. It’s true,’ Khouri said. ‘Isn’t it, Ilia? You and I had a perfect working relationship until I brought Thorn into the arrangement. You’ll never forgive either me or him for destroying that beautiful little partnership.’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ Volyova said.

‘I’m not being absurd, I’m just...’

But the Triumvir whipped past her.

‘Where are you going?’ Khouri asked.

She stopped long enough to answer her. ‘Where do you think, Ana? Back to my ship. I have work to do.’

‘Your ship, suddenly? I thought it was our ship.’

But Volyova had said all she was going to say. Thorn heard her footsteps recede back into the building.

‘Is that true?’ he asked Khouri. ‘Do you really think she’s resentful of me?’

But she said nothing either. Thorn, after a long moment, turned back to the city. He leaned out into the night, formulating the crucial speech he was about to deliver. Volyova was right: a lot depended on it.

Khouri’s hand closed around his own.

The air reeked of fear-gas. Thorn felt it worming into his brain, brewing anxiety.

TWENTY-EIGHT

Skade stalked around her ship. Nothing felt right aboard Nightshade now. The pressure on her spine had eased and her eyeballs had returned to more or less the right shape, but those were the only real compensations. Every living thing inside the ship was now within the field’s detectable sphere of influence, embedded in a bubble of artificially modified quantum vacuum. Nine-tenths of the inertial mass of every particle in the field no longer existed.

The ship was hurling itself towards Resurgam at ten gees.

Even though Skade had her armour, and was therefore insulated from the more physiologically upsetting effects of the field, she still moved around as little as possible. Walking was not in itself difficult since the acceleration that the armour felt was only a gee, a tenth of the actual value. The armour no longer laboured under the extra load, and Skade had lost the feeling that a fall would automatically dash her brains out. But everything else was worse. When she willed the armour to move a limb, it accommodated her wishes too quickly. When she moved what should have been a heavy piece of equipment, it shifted too easily. It was as if the apparently substantial furniture of the ship had been replaced by a series of superficially convincing paper-thin façades. Even changing the direction of her gaze took care. Her eyeballs, no longer distorted by gravity, were now too responsive and tended to overshoot and then overcompensate for the overshooting. She knew this was because the muscles that steered them, which were anchored to her skull, had evolved to move a sphere of tissue with a certain inertial mass; now they were confused. But knowing all this did not make dealing with it any easier. She had turned off her Area Postrema permanently, since her inner ear was profoundly disturbed by the modified inertial field.

Skade reached Felka’s quarters. She entered and found Felka where she had left her last time, sitting cross-legged on a part of the floor that she had instructed to become soft. Her clothes had a stale, crumpled look. Her flesh was pasty and her hair was a nestlike tangle of greasy knots. Here and there Skade saw patches of raw pink scalp, where Felka had tugged out locks of her own hair. She sat perfectly still, one hand on either knee. Her chin was raised slightly and her eyes were closed. There was a faint glistening trail of mucus leading from one nostril to the top of her lip.

Skade audited the neural connections between Felka and the rest of the ship. To her surprise, she detected no significant traffic. Skade had assumed that Felka must have been roaming through a cybernetic environment, as had been the case on her last two visits. Skade had explored them for herself and found vast puzzlelike edifices of Felka’s own making. They were clearly surrogates for the Wall. But this was not the case on this occasion. After abandoning the real, Felka had taken the next logical step, back to the place where it had all begun.

She had gone back into her skull.

Skade lowered herself to Felka’s level, then reached out and touched her brow. She expected Felka to flinch against the cold metal contact, but she might as well have been touching a wax dummy.

Felka . . . can you hear me? I know you’re in there somewhere. This is Skade. There is something you need to know.

She waited for a response; none came. Felka. It concerns Clavain. I’ve done what I can to make him turn away, but he hasn’t responded to any of my attempts at persuasion. My last effort was the one I thought most likely to persuade him. Shall I tell you what it was?

Felka breathed in and out, slowly and regularly.

I used you. I promised Clavain that if he turned back, I’d give you back to him. Alive, of course. I thought that was fair. But he wasn’t interested. He made no response to my overture. Do you see, Felka? You can’t mean as much to him as his beloved mission.

She stood up and then strolled around the seated meditative figure. I hoped you would, you know. It would have been the best solution for both of us. But it was Clavain’s call, and he showed where his priorities lay. They weren’t with you, Felka. After all those years, all those centuries, you didn’t mean as much to him as forty mindless machines. I’ll admit, I was surprised.

Still Felka said nothing. Skade felt an urge to dive into her skull and find the warm and comforting place into which she had retreated. Had Felka been a normal Conjoiner, it would have been within Skade’s capabilities to invade her most private mental spaces. But Felka’s mind was put together differently. Skade could skim its surface, occasionally glimpse its depths, but no more than that.

Skade sighed. She had not really wanted to torment Felka, but she had hoped to prise her out of her withdrawal by turning her against Clavain.

It had not worked.

Skade stood behind Felka. She closed her eyes and issued a stream of commands to the spinal medical device she had attached to Felka. The effect was immediate and gratifying. Felka collapsed, sagging in on herself. Her mouth lolled open, oozing saliva.

Delicately, Skade picked her up and carried her out of the room.

The silver sun burned overhead, a blank coin shining through a caul of grey sea fog. Skade settled into a flesh-and-blood body, as she had before. She was standing on a flat-topped rock; the air was cold to the bone and prickled with ozone and the briny stench of rotting seaweed. In the distance, a billion pebbles sighed orgasmically under the assault of another sea wave.

It was the same place again. She wondered if the Wolf was becoming just the tiniest bit predictable.

Skade peered into the fog around her. There, no more than a dozen paces from her, was another human figure. But it was neither Galiana nor the Wolf this time. It was a small child, crouched on a rock about the same size as the one Skade stood on. Cautiously, Skade hopped and skipped her way from rock to rock, dancing across the pools and the razor-edged ridges that linked them. Being fully human again was both disturbing and exhilarating. She felt more fragile than she had ever done before Clavain had hurt her, conscious that beneath her skin was only soft muscle and brittle bone. It was good to be invincible. But at the same time it was good to feel the universe chemically invading her through every pore of her skin, to feel the wind stroking every hair on the back of her hand, to feel every ridge and crack of the seaworn rock beneath her feet.

She reached the child. It was Felka - no surprise there - but as she must have been on Mars, when Clavain rescued her.

Felka sat cross-legged, much as she had been in the cabin. She wore a damp, filthy, seaweed-stained torn dress that left her legs and arms bare. Her hair, like Skade’s, was long and dark, falling in lank strands across her face. The sea fog lent the scene a bleached, monochrome aspect.

Felka glanced up at her, made eye contact for a second and then returned to the activity she had been engaged in before. Around her, forming a ragged ring, were many tiny parts of hard-shelled sea-creatures: legs and pincers, claws and tail pieces, whiplike antennae, broken scabs of carapacial shell, aligned and orientated with maniacal precision. The conjunctions of the many pale parts resembled a kind of anatomical algebra. Felka stared at the arrangement silently, occasionally pivoting around on her haunches to examine a different part of it. Only now and then would she pick up one of the pieces - a hinged, barbed limb, perhaps - and reposition it elsewhere. Her expression was blank, not at all like a child at play. It was more as if she was engaged in some task that demanded her solemn and total attention, an activity too intense to be pleasurable.

Felka . . .

She looked up again, questioningly, only to return to her game.

The distant waves crashed again. Beyond Felka the grey wall of mist lost some of its opacity for a moment. Skade could still not make out the sea, but she could see much further than had been possible before. The pattern of rockpools stretched into the distance, a mind-wrenching tessellation. But there was something else out there, at the limit of vision. It was only slightly darker than the grey itself, and it shifted in and out of existence, but she was certain that there was something there. It was a grey spire, a vast towerlike thing ramming into the greyness of the sky. It appeared to lie a great distance away, perhaps beyond the sea itself, or thrusting out of the sea some distance from land.

Felka noticed it too. She looked at the object, her expression unchanging, and only when she had seen enough of it did she return to her animal parts. Skade was just wondering what it could be when the fog closed in again and she became aware of a third presence.

The Wolf had arrived. It - or she - stood only a few paces beyond Felka. The form remained indistinct, but whenever the fog abated or the form became more solid, Skade thought she saw a woman rather than an animal.

The roar of the waves, which had always been there, shifted into language again. ‘You brought Felka, Skade. I’m pleased.’

‘This representation of her,’ Skade asked, remembering to speak aloud as the Wolf had demanded of her before. She nodded towards the girl. ‘Is that how she sees herself now - as a child again - or how you wish me to see her?’

‘A little of both, perhaps,’ said the Wolf.

‘I asked for your help,’ Skade said. ‘You said that you would be more co-operative if I brought Felka with me. Well, I have. And Clavain is still behind me. He hasn’t shown any sign of giving up.’

‘What have you tried?’

‘Using her as a bargaining chip. But Clavain didn’t bite.’

‘Did you imagine he ever would?’

‘I thought he cared about Felka enough to have second thoughts.’

‘You misunderstand Clavain,’ the Wolf said. ‘He won’t have given up on her.’

‘Only Galiana would know that, wouldn’t she?’

The Wolf did not answer Skade directly. ‘What was your response, when Clavain failed to retreat?’

‘I did what I said I would. Launched a shuttle, which he will now have great difficulty in intercepting.’

‘But an interception is still possible?’

Skade nodded. ‘That was the idea. He won’t be able to reach it with one of his own shuttles, but his main ship will still be able to achieve a rendezvous.’

There was amusement in the Wolf’s voice. ‘Are you certain that one of his shuttles can’t reach yours?’

‘It isn’t energetically feasible. He would have had to launch long before I made my move, and guess the direction I was going to send my shuttle in.’

‘Or cover every possibility,’ the Wolf said.

‘He couldn’t do that,’ Skade said, with a great deal less certainty than she thought she should feel. ‘He’d need to launch a flotilla of shuttles, wasting all that fuel on the off-chance that one ...’ She trailed off.

‘If Clavain deemed the effort worth it, he would do exactly that, even if it cost him precious fuel. What did he expect to find in the shuttle, incidentally?’

‘I told him I’d return Felka.’

The Wolf shifted. Now its form lingered near Felka, though it was no more distinct that it had been an instant earlier. ‘She’s still here.’

‘I put a weapon in the shuttle. A crustbuster warhead, set for a teratonne detonation.’

She saw the Wolf nod appreciatively. ‘You hoped he would have to steer his ship to the rendezvous point. Doubtless you arranged some form of proximity fuse. Very clever, Skade. I’m actually quite impressed by your ruthlessness.’

‘But you don’t think he’ll fall for it.’

‘You’ll know soon enough, won’t you?’

Skade nodded, certain now that she had failed. Distantly, the sea mist parted again, and she was afforded another glimpse of the pale tower. In all likelihood it was actually very dark when seen up close. It rose high and sheer, like a sea-stack. But it looked less like a natural formation than a giant taper-sided building.

‘What is that?’ Skade asked.

‘What is what?’

‘That . . .’ But when Skade looked back towards the tower, it was no longer visible. Either the mist had closed in to conceal it, or it had ceased to exist.

‘There’s nothing there,’ the Wolf said.

Skade chose her words carefully. ‘Wolf, listen to me. If Clavain survives this, I am prepared to do what we discussed before.’

‘The unthinkable, Skade? A state-four transition?’

Even Felka halted her game, looking up at the two adults. The moment was pregnant, stretching eternally.

‘I understand the dangers. But we need to do it to finally slip ahead of him. We need to make a jump through the zero-mass boundary into state four. Into the tachyonic-mass phase.’

Again that horrible lupine glint of a smile. ‘Very few organisms have ever travelled faster than light, Skade.’

‘I’m prepared to become one of them. What do I need to do?’

‘You know full well. The machinery you have made is almost capable of it, but it will require a few modifications. Nothing that your manufactories can’t handle. But to make the changes you will need to take advice from Exordium.’

Skade nodded. ‘That’s why I’m here. That’s why I brought Felka.’ ‘Then let us begin.’

Felka went back to her game, ignoring the two of them. Skade issued the coded sequence of neural commands that would make the Exordium machinery initiate coherence coupling.

‘It’s starting, Wolf.’

‘I know. I can feel it, too.’

Felka looked up from her game.

Skade sensed herself become plural. From out of the sea fog, from a direction she could neither describe nor point to, came a feeling of something receding into vast, chill distance, like a white corridor reaching to the bleak edge of eternity. The hairs on the back of Skade’s neck prickled. She knew that there was something profoundly wrong about what she was doing. The premonitionary sense of evil was quite tangible. But she had to stand her ground and do what had to be done.

Like the Wolf said, fears had to be faced.

Skade listened intently. She thought she heard voices whispering down the corridor.

‘Beast?’

‘Yes, Little Miss?’

‘Have you been completely honest with me?’

‘Why would one have been anything other than honest, Little Miss?’

‘That’s exactly what I’m wondering, Beast.’

Antoinette was alone on the lower flight deck of Storm Bird. Her freighter was locked in a loom of heavy repair scaffolding in one of Zodiacal Light’s shuttle bays, braced to withstand even the increased acceleration rate of the lighthugger. The freighter had been here ever since they had taken the lighthugger, the damage it had sustained painstakingly being put right under Xavier’s expert direction. Xavier had relied on hyperpigs and shipboard servitors to help him do the work, and at first the repairs had gone more slowly than they would have with a fully trained monkey workforce. But although they had some dexterity problems, the pigs were ultimately cleverer than hyperprimates, and once the initial difficulties had been overcome and the servitors programmed properly, the work had gone very well. Xavier hadn’t just repaired the hull; he had completely re-armoured it. The engines, from docking thrusters right up to the main tokamak fusion powerplant, had been overhauled and tweaked for improved performance. The deterrents, the many weapons buried in camouflaged hideaways around the ship, had been upgraded and linked into an integrated weapons command net. There was no point pussyfooting now, Xavier had said. They had no reason to pretend that Storm Bird was just a freighter any more. Where they were headed, there would be no nosey authorities to hide anything from.

But once the acceleration rate had increased and they all had to either stay still or submit to the use of awkward, bulky exoskeletons, Antoinette had made fewer visits to her ship. It was not just that the work was nearly done, and there was nothing for her to supervise; there was something else that kept her away.

She supposed that on some level she had always had her suspicions. There had been times when she felt that she was not alone on Storm Bird; that Beast’s vigilance extended to more than just the mindless watchful scrutiny of a gamma-level persona. That there had been something more to him.

But that would have meant that Xavier - and her father - had lied to her. And that was something she was not prepared to deal with.

Until now.

During a brief lull when the acceleration was throttled back for technical checks, Antoinette had boarded Storm Bird. Out of sheer curiosity, expecting the information to have been erased from the ship’s archives, she had looked for herself to see whether they had anything to say on the matter of the Mandelstam Ruling.

They had, too.

But even if they hadn’t, she thought she would have guessed.

The doubts had begun to surface properly after the whole business with Clavain had started. There had been the time when Beast jumped the gun during the banshee attack, exactly as if her ship had ‘panicked’, except that for a gamma-level intelligence that was simply not possible.

Then there had been the time when the police proxy, the one that was now counting out the rest of its life in a dank cellar in the Château, had quizzed her on her father’s relationship with Lyle Merrick. The proxy had mentioned the Mandelstam Ruling.

It had meant nothing to her at the time.

But now she knew.

Then there had been the time when Beast had inadvertently referred to itself as ‘I’, as if a scrupulously maintained façade had just, for the tiniest of moments, slipped aside. As if she had glimpsed the true face of something.

‘Little Miss ... ?’

‘I know.’

‘Know what, Little Miss?’

‘What you are. Who you are.’

‘Begging your pardon, Little Miss, but ...’

‘Shut the fuck up.’

‘Little Miss ... if one might...’

‘I said shut the fuck up.’ Antoinette hit the panel of the flight deck console with the heel of her hand. It was the closest thing she could find to hitting Beast, and for a moment she felt a warm glow of retribution. ‘I know all about what happened. I found out about the Mandelstam Ruling.’

‘The Mandelstam Ruling, Little Miss?’

‘Don’t sound so fucking innocent. I know you know all about it. It’s the law they passed just before you died. The one about irreversible neural death sentences.’

‘Irreversible neural death, Little ...’

‘The one that says that the authorities - the Ferrisville Convention - have the right to impound and erase any beta- or alpha-level copies of someone sentenced to permanent death. It says that no matter how many backups of yourself you make, no matter whether they’re simulacra or genuine neural scans, the authorities get to round them up and wipe them out.’

‘That sounds rather extreme, Little Miss.’

‘It does, doesn’t it? And they take it seriously, too. Anyone caught harbouring a copy of a sentenced felon is in just as much trouble themselves. Of course, there are loopholes - a simulation can be hidden almost anywhere, or beamed to somewhere beyond Ferrisville jurisdiction. But there are still risks. I checked, Beast. The authorities have caught people who sheltered copies, against the Mandelstam Ruling. They all got the death sentence, too.’

‘It would seem a rather cavalier thing to do.’

She smiled. ‘Wouldn’t it just? But what if you didn’t even know you were sheltering one? How would that change the equation?’

‘One hesitates to speculate.’

‘I doubt it would change the equation one fucking inch. Not where the cops are concerned. Which would make it all the more irresponsible, don’t you think, for someone to trick someone else into harbouring an illegal simulation?’

‘Trick, Little Miss?’

She nodded. She was there now. No more pussyfooting here either. ‘The police proxy knew, didn’t it? Just couldn’t get the evidence together, I guess - or maybe it was just letting me stew, waiting to see how much I knew.’

The mask slipped again. ‘I’m not entire—’

‘I guess Xavier had to be in on it. He knows this ship like the back of his hand, every subsystem, every goddamned wire. He certainly would have known how to hide Lyle Merrick aboard it.’

‘Lyle Merrick, Little Miss?’

‘You know. You remember. Not the Lyle Merrick, of course, just a copy of him. Beta- or alpha-level, I don’t know. Don’t very much care either. Wouldn’t have made a fuck of a lot of difference in a court of law, would it?’

‘Now . . .’

‘It’s you, Beast. You’re him. Lyle Merrick died when the authorities executed him for the collision. But that wasn’t the end, was it? You kept on going. Xavier hid a copy of Lyle aboard my father’s fucking ship. You’re it.’

Beast said nothing for several seconds. Antoinette watched the slow, hypnotic play of colours and numerics on the console. She felt as if a part of her had been violated, as if everything in the universe she had ever felt she could trust had just been wadded up and thrown away.

When Beast answered, the tone of his voice was mockingly unchanged. ‘Little Miss . . . I mean Antoinette ... You’re wrong.’

‘Of course I’m not wrong. You’ve as good as admitted it.’

‘No. You don’t understand.’

‘What part don’t I understand?’

‘It wasn’t Xavier who did this to me. Xavier helped - Xavier knew all about it - but it wasn’t his idea.’

‘No?’

‘It was your father, Antoinette. He helped me.’

She hit the console again, harder this time. And then walked out of her ship, intending never to set foot in it again.

Lasher the pig slept for most of the trip out from Zodiacal Light. There was nothing for him to do, Scorpio had said, except at the very end of the operation, and even then there was only a one-in-four chance that he would be required to do anything other than turn his ship around. But at the back of his mind he had always known it would be him who had to do the dirty work. He registered no surprise at all when the tight-beam message from Zodiacal Light told him that his shuttle was the one in the right quadrant of the sky to intercept the vessel Skade had dropped behind her larger ship.

‘Lucky old Lasher,’ he said to himself. ‘You always wanted the glory. Now’s your big chance.’

He did not take the duty lightly, nor underestimate the risks to himself. The recovery operation was fraught with danger. The amount of fuel his shuttle carried was precisely rationed, just enough so that he could get back home again with a human-mass payload. But there was no room for error. Clavain had made it clear that there were to be no pointless heroics. If the trajectory of Skade’s shuttle took it even a kilometre outside the safe volume in which a rendezvous was possible, Lasher - or whoever the lucky one was - was to turn back, ignoring it. The only concession to be made was that each of Clavain’s shuttles carried a single modified missile, the warhead stripped out and replaced with a transponder. If they got within range of Skade’s shuttle they could attach the beacon to its hull. The beacon would keep emitting its signal for a century of subjective time, five hundred years of worldtime. It would not be easy, but there would remain a faint chance of homing in on it again, before it fell beyond the well-mapped sphere of human space. It was enough to know that they would not have abandoned Felka entirely.

Lasher saw it now. His shuttle had homed in on Skade’s, following updated coordinates from Zodiacal Light. Skade’s shuttle was now in free-fall, having burned its last microgram of antimatter. It was visible in his forward window: a gunmetal barb illuminated by his forward floods.

He opened the channel back to the lighthugger. ‘This is Lasher. I see it now. It’s definitely a shuttle. Can’t tell you what type, but it doesn’t look like one of ours.’

He slowed his approach. It would have been nice to wait for Scorpio’s response, but that was a luxury he did not have. There was already a twenty-minute timelag back to Zodiacal Light, and the distance was stretching continually as the larger ship maintained its ten-gee acceleration. He was permitted exactly thirty minutes here, and then he had to begin his return journey. If he stayed a minute longer he would never catch up with the lighthugger.

It would be just enough time to establish airlock connections between two unfamiliar ships, just enough time for him to get aboard and find Clavain’s daughter, or whoever she was.

He didn’t care who he was rescuing, only that Scorpio had told him to do it. So what if Scorpio was only doing what Clavain had told him to do? It didn’t matter, did not reduce in any way the burning soldierly admiration Lasher felt for his leader. He had followed Scorpio’s career almost from the moment Scorpio had arrived in Chasm City.

It was impossible to underestimate the effect of Scorpio’s coming. Before, the pigs had been a squabbling rabble, content to snuffle around in the shittiest layers of the fallen city. Scorpio had galvanised them. He had become a criminal messiah, a figure so mythic that many pigs doubted that he even existed. Lasher had collected Scorpio’s crimes, committing them to memory with the avidity of a religious acolyte. He had studied them, marvelling at their brutal ingenuity, their haiku-like simplicity. How must it feel, he had wondered, to have been the author of such jewel-like atrocities? Later, he had moved into Scorpio’s realm of influence, and then ascended through the shadowy hierarchies of the criminal underworld. He remembered his first meeting with Scorpio, the sense of mild disappointment when he turned out to be just another pig like himself. Gradually, however, that realisation had only sharpened his admiration. Scorpio was flesh and blood, and that made his achievements all the more remarkable. Lasher, nervously at first, became one of Scorpio’s main operatives, and then one of his deputies.

And then Scorpio had vanished. It was said that he had gone into space, off to engage in sensitive negotiations with some other criminal group elsewhere in the system - the Skyjacks, perhaps.

It was unsafe for Scorpio to move at any time, but most especially during war. Lasher had forced himself to deal with the likely but unpalatable truth: Scorpio was probably dead.

Months had passed. Then Lasher had heard the news: Scorpio was in custody, or a kind of custody. The spiders had captured him, it turned out, maybe after the zombies had already picked him up. And now the spiders were being pressured into turning Scorpio over to the Ferrisville Convention.

That was it, then. Scorpio’s bright, inglorious reign had come to an end. The Convention could make any charge stick, and in wartime there was almost no crime that didn’t carry the death penalty. They had Scorpio, the prize they had sought for so long. There would be a show trial and then an execution, and Scorpio’s passage into legend would be complete.

But it hadn’t happened that way. There had been the usual contradictory rumours, but some of them had spoken of the same thing - that Scorpio was alive and well, and no longer in anyone’s custody; that Scorpio had made it back to Chasm City and was now holed up in the darkly threatening structure some of the pigs knew as the Château des Corbeaux, the one they said had the haunted cellar. And that he was the guest of the Château’s mysterious tenant, and was now putting together the fabled thing that had often been spoken of but which had never quite come into existence before.

The army of pigs.

Lasher had rejoined his old master and learned that the rumours were true. Scorpio was working for, or in some strange collaboration with, the old man they called Clavain. And the two of them were plotting the theft of a ship belonging to the Ultras, something that the orthodox criminal rulebook said could not even be contemplated, let alone attempted. Lasher had been intrigued and terrified, even more so when he learned that the theft was just the prelude to something even more audacious.

How could he resist?

And so here, light-years from Chasm City, light-years from anything he could call familiar, he was. He had served Scorpio and served him well, not just treading in his footsteps but anticipating them; even, sometimes, dancing ahead of his master, earning Scorpio’s quiet praise.

He was near the shuttle now. It had the smooth worn-pebble look of Conjoiner machinery. It was completely dark. He tracked the floods across it, searching for the point where Clavain had told him he would find an airlock: an almost invisibly fine seam in the hull that would only reveal itself when he was close by. Distance to the hull was now fifteen metres, with a closing speed of one metre per second. The shuttle was small enough that he would have no difficulty finding the hostage aboard it, provided Skade had kept her word.

It happened when he was ten metres from the hull. It grew from the heart of the Conjoiner spacecraft: a mote of light, like the first spark of the rising sun.

Lasher did not have time to blink.

Skade saw the fairy-light glint of the crustbuster proximity device. It was not difficult to recognise. There were no stars aft of Nightshade now, only an inky spreading pool of total blackness. Relativity was squeezing the visible universe into a belt that encircled the ship. But Clavain’s ship was in nearly the same velocity frame as Nightshade, so it still appeared to lie directly behind her. The pinprick flare of the weapon studded that darkness like a single misplaced star.

Skade examined the light, corrected it for modest differential red shift and determined that the multiple-teratonne blast yield was consistent only with the device itself detonating, plus a small residual mass of antimatter. A shuttle-sized spacecraft had been destroyed by her weapon, but not a starship. The explosion of a lighthugger, a machine which had already sunk claws deep into the infinite energy well of the quantum vacuum, would have outshone the crustbuster by three orders of magnitude.

So Clavain had been cleverer than her again. No, she corrected herself: not cleverer, but precisely as clever. Skade had made no mistakes yet, and though Clavain had parried all her attacks, he had yet to strike at her. The advantage was still hers, and she was certain that she had inconvenienced him with at least one of her attacks. At the very least she had forced him to burn fuel he would sooner have conserved. More probably she had made him divert his efforts into countering her attacks rather than preparing for the battle that lay ahead around Resurgam. In every military sense she had lost nothing except the ability ever to bluff convincingly again.

But she had never been counting on that anyway.

It was time to do what had to be done.

‘You lying fuck.’

Xavier looked up as Antoinette stormed into their quarters. He was lying on his back on the bunk, a compad balanced between his knees. Antoinette had a momentary glimpse of lines of source code scrolling down the ’pad, the symbols and sinuous indentations of the programming language resembling the intricately formalised stanzas of some alien poetry. Xavier had a stylus gripped between his teeth. It dropped from his mouth as he opened it in shock. The compad tumbled to the floor.

‘Antoinette?’

‘I know.’

‘You know what?’

‘About the Mandelstam Ruling. About Lyle Merrick. About Storm Bird. About Beast. About you.’

Xavier slid around on the bunk, his feet touching the floor. He pushed a few fingers through the black mop of his hair, bashfully.

‘About what?’

‘Don’t lie to me, you fuck!’

Then she was on him in a blind, pummelling rage. There was no real violence behind her punches; under any other circumstances they would have been playful. But Xavier hid his face, absorbing her anger against his forearms. He was trying to say something to her. She was blanking him out in her fury, refusing to listen to his snivelling little justifications.

Finally the rage turned to tears. Xavier stopped her from hitting him, taking her wrists gently.

‘Antoinette,’ he said.

She hit him one last time, then started weeping in earnest. She hated him and loved him at the same time.

‘It’s not my fault,’ Xavier said. ‘I swear it’s not my fault.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

He looked at her, she returning his gaze through the blur of her tears. ‘Why didn’t I tell you?’

‘That’s what I asked.’

‘Because your father made me promise not to.’

When Antoinette had calmed down, when she was ready to listen, Xavier told her something of what had happened.

Jim Bax had been a friend of Lyle Merrick’s for many years. The two of them had been freighter pilots, both working within and around the Rust Belt. Normally two pilots operating in the same trading sphere would have found it difficult to sustain a genuine friendship through the ups and downs of a systemwide economy; there would have been too many occasions where their interests overlapped. But because Jim and Lyle operated in radically different niches with very different client lists, rivalry had never threatened their relationship. Jim Bax hauled heavy loads on rapid high-burn trajectories, usually at short notice and usually, though not always, more or less within the bounds of legality. Certainly Jim did not court criminal clients, although it was not exactly true to say that he turned them away, either. Lyle, by contrast, worked almost exclusively with criminals. They recognised that his slow, frail, unreliable chemical-drive scow was about the least likely ship to attract the attention of the Convention’s customs and excise cutters. Lyle could not guarantee that his loads would arrive at their destinations quickly, or sometimes at all, but he could almost always guarantee that they would arrive uninspected, and that there would be no inconvenient lines of questioning extending back to his clients. So, in a more than modest fashion, Lyle Merrick prospered. He went to a great deal of trouble to hide his earnings from the authorities, maintaining a fastidious illusion of being constantly on the edge of insolvency. But behind the scenes, and by the standards of the day, he was a moderately wealthy man, far wealthier, in fact, than Jim Bax would ever be. Wealthy enough, indeed, to afford to have himself backed-up once a year at one of the alpha-level scanning facilities in Chasm City’s high canopy.

And for many years his act worked. Until the day a bored police cutter decided to pick on Lyle for no other reason than that he had never troubled them before, and so therefore had to be up to something. The cutter had no difficulty matching trajectories with Lyle’s scow. It requested that he initiate main-engine cut-off and prepare for boarding. But Lyle knew he could not possibly comply with the enforced main-engine cutoff. His entire reputation hinged on the fact that his hauls were never inspected. Had he allowed the proxy aboard, he would have been signing his own bankruptcy notice.

He had no choice but to run.

Fortunately - or not, as the case proved - he was already on final approach for Carousel New Copenhagen. He knew that there was a repair well on the rim just large enough to hold his ship. It would be tight, but if he could get inside the bay, he would at least be able to destroy the cargo before the proxies forced their way aboard. He would still be in a lot of trouble, but at least he would not have broken client confidentiality, and that, for Lyle, mattered a lot more than his own wellbeing.

Lyle, of course, never made it. He screwed up his last approach burn, harried by the cutters - there were now four of them swooping in to escort him, and they had already fired retarder grapples on to his hull - and collided with the outer face of the rim itself. Surprisingly, and no one was more surprised than Lyle, he survived the impact. The blunt life-support and habitat module of his freighter had pushed itself through the skin of the carousel like a baby bird’s beak ripping through eggshell. His velocity at impact had only been a few tens of metres per second, and although he had been bruised and battered, he suffered no serious injuries. His luck continued even when the main propulsion section - the swollen lungs of the chemical fuel tanks - went up. The blast rammed the nose module further into the carousel, but again Lyle survived.

But even as he realised his good fortune, he knew that he was in grave trouble. The impact had not occurred in the most densely inhabited portion of the carousel’s ring, but there were still many casualties. A vault of the rim interior had decompressed as his ship plunged through the rim, the air gushing through the wound in the carousel’s fabric. The chamber had been a recreational zone, a miniature glade and forest lit by suspended lamps.

On any other night, there might have been no more than a few dozen people and animals enjoying the synthetic scenery by moonlight. But on the night Lyle crashed there had been a midnight recital of one of Quirrenbach’s more populist efforts, and several hundred people had been there. Thankfully most had survived, though many had been seriously injured. But there had still been fatalities: forty-three dead at the final count, excluding Lyle himself. It was certainly possible that more had been killed.

Lyle made no attempt to escape. He knew that his fate was sealed. He would have been lucky to avoid the death penalty just for refusing to comply with the boarding order, but even if he had wriggled out of that - and there were ways and means - there was nothing that could be done for him now. Since the Melding Plague, when the once glorious Glitter Band had been reduced to the Rust Belt, acts of vandalism against habitats were considered the most heinous of crimes. The forty-three dead were almost a detail.

Lyle Merrick was arrested, tried and sentenced. He was found guilty on all counts relating to the collision. His sentence was irreversible neural death. Since he was known to have been scanned, the Mandelstam Ruling was to apply.

Designated Ferrisville officials, nicknamed eraserheads, were assigned to track down and nullify all extant alpha- or beta-level simulations of Lyle Merrick. The eraserheads had the full legal machinery of the Convention behind them, together with an arsenal of plague-tolerant hunter-seeker software tools. They could comb any known database or archive and ferret out the buried patterns of an illegal simulation. They could erase any public database even suspected of holding a forbidden copy. They were very good at their work.

But Jim Bax wasn’t going to let down his friend. Before the net closed, and with the help of Lyle’s other friends, some of who were extremely frightening individuals, the most recent alpha-level backup was spirited out of the hands of the law. Deft alteration of the records at the scanning clinic made it appear as if Lyle had missed his last appointment. The eraserheads lingered over the evidence, puzzling over the anomalies for many days. But in the end they decided that the missing alpha had never existed. They had done their work in any case, rounding up all other known simulations.

So, in a sense, Lyle Merrick escaped justice.

But there was a catch, and it was one that Jim Bax insisted upon. He would shelter Lyle’s alpha-level persona, he said, and he would shelter it in a place the authorities were very unlikely ever to think of looking. Lyle would replace the subpersona of his ship, the alpha-level scan of a real human mind supplanting the collection of algorithms and subroutines that was a gamma-level persona. A real mind, albeit a simulation of the neural patterns of a real mind, would replace a purely fictitious persona.

A real ghost would haunt the machine.

‘Why?’ Antoinette asked. ‘Why did Dad want it to happen this way?’

‘Why do you think? Because he cared about his friend and his daughter. It was his way of protecting both of you.’

‘I don’t understand, Xave.’

‘Lyle Merrick was dead meat if he didn’t agree. Your father wasn’t going to risk his neck by sheltering the simulation any other way. At least this way Jim got something out of deal, other than the satisfaction of saving part of his friend.’

‘Which was?’

‘He got Lyle to promise to look after you when Jim wasn’t around.’

‘No,’ Antoinette said flatly.

‘You were going to be told. That was always the plan. But the years slipped by, and when Jim died . . .’ Xavier shook his head. ‘This isn’t easy for me, you know. How do you think I’ve felt, knowing this secret all these years? Sixteen Goddamned years, Antoinette. I was about as young and green as they come when your father first took me under his employment, helping him with Storm Bird. Of course I had to know about Lyle.’

‘I don’t follow. What do you mean, look after me?’

‘Jim knew he wasn’t going to be around for ever, and he loved you more than, well ...’ Xavier trailed off.

‘I know he loved me,’ Antoinette said. ‘It’s not like we had one of those dysfunctional father-daughter relationships like they always have on the holo-shows, you know. All that “you never told me you loved me” crap. We actually got along pretty damned well.’

‘I know. That was the point. Jim cared about what’d happen to you afterwards, when he was gone. He knew you’d want to inherit the ship. Wasn’t anything he could do about that, or even wanted to do about it. Hell, he was proud. Really proud. He thought you’d make a better pilot than he ever did, and he was damned sure you had more business sense.’

Antoinette suppressed half a smile. She had heard that sort of thing from her father often enough, but it was still pleasing to hear it from someone else; evidence - if she needed it - that Jim Bax had really meant it.

‘And?’

Xavier shrugged. ‘Guy still wanted to look out for his daughter. Not such a crime, is it?’

‘I don’t know. What was the arrangement?’

‘Lyle got to inhabit Storm Bird. Jim told him he had to play along with being the old gamma-level; that you were never to suspect that you had a, well, guardian angel looking over you. Lyle was supposed to look after you, make sure you never got into too much trouble. It made sense, you know. Lyle had a strong instinct for self-preservation. ’

She remembered the times that Beast had tried to talk her out of doing something. There had been many, and she had always put them down to an over-protective quirk of the subpersona. Well, she had been right. Dead right. Just not in quite the way she had assumed.

‘And Lyle just went along with it?’ she asked.

Xavier nodded. ‘You’ve got to understand: Lyle was on a serious guilt and recrimination trip. He really felt bad for all the people he had killed. For a while he wouldn’t even run himself - kept going into hibernation, or trying to persuade his friends to destroy him. The guy wanted to die.’

‘But he didn’t.’

‘Because Jim gave him a reason to live. A way to make a difference, looking after you.’

‘And all that “Little Miss” shit?’

‘Part of the act. Got to hand it to the dude, he kept it up pretty good, didn’t he? Until the shit came down. But then you can’t blame him for panicking.’

Antoinette stood up. ‘I suppose not.’

Xavier looked at her expectantly. ‘Then . . . you’re OK about it?’

She turned around and looked him hard in the eyes. ‘No, Xave, I’m not OK about it. I understand it. I even understand why you lied to me all those years. But that doesn’t make it OK.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, looking down into his lap. ‘But all I ever did was make a promise to your father, Antoinette.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ she said.

Later, they made love. It was as good as any time she could remember with him; all the more so, perhaps, given the emotional fireworks that were still going off in her belly. And it was true what she had said to Xavier. Now that she had heard his side of the story, she understood that he could never have told her the truth, or at least not until she had figured out most of it for herself. She did not even particularly blame her father for what he had done. He had always looked after his friends, and he had always thought the world of his daughter. Jim Bax had done nothing out of character.

But that did not make the truth of it any easier to take. When she thought of all the time she had spent alone on Storm Bird now knowing that Lyle Merrick had been there, haunting her - perhaps even watching her - she felt a wrenching sense of betrayal and stupidity.

She did not think it was something she was capable of getting over.

A day later, Antoinette walked out to visit her ship, thinking that by entering it again she might find some forgiveness for the lie that had been visited on her by the one person in the universe she had thought she could trust. It hardly mattered that the lie had been a kind one, intended to protect her.

But when she reached the base of the scaffolding that embraced Storm Bird, she could go no further. She gazed up at the vessel, but the ship looked threatening and unfamiliar. It no longer looked like her ship, or anything that she wanted to be part of.

Crying because something had been stolen from her that could never be returned, Antoinette turned around and walked away.

Things moved with startling swiftness once the decision had been made. Skade throttled her ship down to one gee and then had the techs make the bubble contract to sub-bacterial size, maintained by only a trickle of power. This allowed much of the machinery to be disconnected. Then she gave the command that would cause a drastic reshaping of the ship, in accordance with the information that she had gleaned from Exordium.

Buried in the rear of Nightshade were many plague-hardened nanomachine repositories, dark tubers crammed with clades of low-level replicators. Upon Skade’s command the machines were released, programmed to multiply and diversify until they had formed a scalding slime of microscopic matter-transforming engines. The slime swarmed and infiltrated every niche of the rear part of the ship, dissolving and regurgitating the very fabric of the lighthugger. Much of the machinery of the device succumbed to the same transforming blight. In their wake, the replicators left glistening obsidian structures, filamental arcs and helices threading back into space behind the ship like so many trailing tentacles and stingers. They were studded with the nodes of subsidiary devices, bulging like black suckers and venom sacs. In operation, the machinery would move with respect to itself, executing a hypnotic thresherlike motion, whisking and slicing the vacuum. In the midst of that scything motion, a quark-sized pocket of state-four quantum vacuum would be conjured into existence. It would be a pocket of vacuum in which inertial mass was, in the strict mathematical sense, imaginary.

The quark-sized bubble would quiver, fluctuate and then - in much less than an instant of Planck time - it would engulf the entire spacecraft, undergoing an inflationary type phase transition to macroscopic dimensions. The machinery that would continue to hold it in check was engineered to astonishingly fine tolerances, down to the very threshold of Heisenberg fuzziness. How much of this was necessary, no one could guess. Skade was not prepared to second-guess what the whispering voices of Exordium had told her. All she could do was hope that any deviations would not affect the functioning of the machine, or at least affect it so profoundly that it did not work at all. The thought of it working, but working wrongly, was entirely too terrifying to contemplate.

But nothing happened the first time. The machinery had powered up and the quantum-vacuum sensors had picked up strange, subtle fluctuations ... but equally precise measurements established that Nightshade had not moved an ångström further than it would have under ordinary inertia-suppressing propulsion. Angry as much with herself as anyone else, Skade made her way through the interstices of the curved black machinery. Soon, she found the person she was looking for: Molenka, the Exordium systems technician. Molenka looked drained of blood.

What went wrong?

Molenka fumbled out an explanation, dumping reams of technical data into the public part of Skade’s mind. Skade absorbed the data critically, skimming it for the essentials. The configuration of the field-containment systems had not been perfect; the bubble of state-two vacuum had evaporated back into state zero before it could be pushed over the potential barrier into the magical tachyonic state four. Skade appraised the machinery. It appeared undamaged.

Then you’ve learned what went wrong, I take it? You can make the appropriate corrective changes and attempt the transition again?

[Skade ...]

What?

[Something did happen. I can’t find Jastrusiak anywhere. He was much closer to the equipment than I was when we attempted the experiment. But he isn’t there now. I can’t find him anywhere, or even any evidence of him.]

Skade listened to this without registering any expression beyond tolerant interest. Only when the woman had finished speaking and there had been several seconds of silence did she reply. Jastrusiak?

[Yes . . . Jastrusiak.]

The woman seemed relieved. [My partner in this. The other Exordium expert.]

There was never anyone called Jastrusiak on this ship, Molenka.

Molenka turned - so it appeared to Skade - a shade paler. Her reply was little more than an exhalation. [No ...]

I assure you, there was no one called Jastrusiak. This is a small crew, and I know everyone on it.

[That isn’t possible. I was with him not twenty minutes ago. We were in the machinery, readying it for the transition. Jastrusiak stayed there to make last-minute adjustments. I swear this!]

Perhaps you do. Skade was tempted, very tempted, to reach into Molenka’s head and install a mnemonic blockade, wiping out Molenka’s memory of what had just happened. But that would not bury the evident conflict between what she thought to be true and what was objective reality.

Molenka, I know this will be difficult for you, but you have to continue working with the equipment. I’m sorry about Jastrusiak - I forgot his name for a moment. We’ll find him, I promise you. There are many places where he could have ended up.

[I don’t...]

Skade cut her off, one of her fingers suddenly appearing beneath Molenka’s chin. No. No words, Molenka. No words, no thoughts. Just go back into the machinery and make the necessary adjustments. Do that for me, will you? Do it for me, and for the Mother Nest?

Molenka trembled. She was, Skade judged, quite exquisitely terrified. It was the resigned, hopeless terror of a small mammal caught in something’s claws. [Yes, Skade.]

The name Jastrusiak stuck in Skade’s mind, tantalisingly familiar. She could not dislodge it. When the opportunity presented itself, she tapped into the Conjoiner collective memory and retrieved all references connected to the name, or anything close to it. She was determined to understand what had made Molenka’s subconscious malfunction in such a singularly creative fashion, weaving a nonexistent individual out of nothing in a moment of terror.

To her moderate surprise, Skade learned that Jastrusiak was a name known to the Mother Nest. There had been a Jastrusiak amongst the Conjoined. He had been recruited during the Chasm City occupation. He had quickly gained Inner Sanctum clearance, where he worked on advanced concepts such as breakthrough propulsion theory. He had been one of a team of Conjoiner theorists who had established their own research base on an asteroid. They had been working on methods to convert existing Conjoiner drives to the stealthed design.

It was tricky work, it turned out. Jastrusiak’s team had been amongst the first to learn exactly how tricky. Their entire base, along with a sizeable chunk of that hemisphere of the asteroid, had been wiped out in an accident.

So Jastrusiak was dead - had, in fact, been dead for many years.

But had he lived, Skade thought, he would have been exactly the kind of expert she would have recruited for her own team aboard Nightshade. Very probably he would have been of similar calibre to Molenka, and would have ended up working alongside her.

What did it mean? It was, she supposed, no more than uncomfortable coincidence.

Molenka called her back. [We’re ready, Skade. We can try the experiment again.]

Skade hesitated, almost about to tell her that she had discovered the truth about Jastrusiak. But then she thought better of it. Make it so, Skade told her.

She watched the machinery move, the curved black arms whisking back and forth and, it appeared, through each other, knitting and threshing time and space like some infernal weaving machine, coaxing and cradling the bacterium-sized speck of altered metric into the tachyonic phase. Within seconds the machinery had become a knitting blur behind Nightshade. The gravity wave and exotic particle sensors registered squalls of deep spatial stress as the quantum vacuum on the boundary of the bubble was curdled and sheared on microscopic scales. The pattern of those squalls, filtered and processed by computers, told Molenka how the bubble’s geometry was behaving. She transmitted this data to Skade, permitting her to visualise the bubble as a glowing globule of light, pulsing and quivering like a drop of mercury suspended in a magnetic cradle. Colours, not all of them within the normal human spectrum, shifted in prismatic waves across the skin of the bubble, signifying arcane nuances of quantum-vacuum interaction. None of that concerned Skade; all that mattered to her were the accompanying indices that told her that the bubble was behaving normally, or as normally as could be expected of something that had no real right to exist in this universe. There was a soft blue glow from the bubble as particles of Hawking radiation were snatched into the tachyonic state and whisked away from Nightshade at superluminal speed.

Molenka signalled that they were ready to expand the bubble, so that Nightshade itself would be trapped inside its own sphere of tachyonic-phase space-time. The process would happen in a flash, and the field, according to Molenka, would collapse back to its microscopic scale in subjective picoseconds, but that instant of stability would be sufficient to translate Skade’s ship across a light-nanosecond of space, about one-third of a metre. Disposable probes had already been deployed beyond the expected radius of the bubble, ready to capture the instant when the ship made its tachyonic shift. One-third of a metre was not enough to make a difference against Clavain, of course, but in principle the jump procedure could be extended in duration and repeated almost immediately. By far the hardest thing would be to do it once; thereafter it was only a question of refinements.

Skade gave Molenka permission to expand the bubble. At the same time Skade willed her implants into their maximum state of accelerated consciousness. The normal activity of the ship became a barely changing background; even the whisking black arms slowed so that she was able to appreciate their hypnotic dance more clearly. Skade examined her state of mind and found nervous anticipation, mingled with the visceral fear that she was about to commit a grave mistake. She recalled that the Wolf had told her that very few organic entities had ever moved faster than light. Under other circumstances, she might have chosen to heed the Wolf’s unspoken warning, but at the same time the Wolf had been goading her on, urging her to this point. Its technical assistance had been vital in decoding the Exordium instructions, and she assumed that it had some interest in preserving its own existence. But perhaps it simply enjoyed seeing her conflicted, caring nothing for its own survival.

Never mind. It was done now. The whisking arms were already altering the field conditions around the bubble, stroking the boundary with delicate quantum caresses, encouraging it to expand. The wobbling bubble enlarged, swelling in a series of lopsided expansions. The scale changed in a series of logarithmic jumps, but not nearly fast enough. Skade knew immediately that something was wrong. The expansion should have happened too rapidly to be sensed, even in accelerated consciousness. The bubble should have engulfed the ship by now, but instead it had only inflated to the size of a swollen grapefruit. It hovered within the grasp of the whisking arms, horribly, tauntingly wrong. Skade prayed for the bubble to shrink back down to bacterium size, but she knew from what Molenka had said that it was much more likely to expand in an uncontrolled fashion. Horrified and enraptured, she watched as the grapefruit-sized bubble flexed and undulated, becoming peanut-shaped one instant and then squirming into a torus, a topological transformation that Molenka had sworn was impossible. Then it was a bubble again, and then, as random bulges and dents pulsed in an out of the membrane’s surface, Skade swore she saw a gargoyle face leer at her. She knew that it was the fault of her subconscious, imprinting a pattern where none existed, but the impression of inchoate evil was inescapable.

Then the bubble expanded again, swelling up to the size of a small spacecraft. Some of the whisking arms did not swing out of the way in time, and their sharp extremities punched through the undulating membrane. The sensors flipped into overload, unable to process the howling torrent of gravitational and particle flux. Inexorably, matters were shifting out of control. Vital control systems in the rear of Nightshade were shutting down. The arms began to move spasmodically, lashing against each other like the limbs of ill-orchestrated dancers. Nodules and flanges sheered off. Scarves of glowing plasma ripped between the boundary and its encasing machinery. The boundary bloated again; its membrane swallowed cubic hectares of support machinery. The failing machinery could no longer hold it stable. Dim explosions pulsed within the bubble. A major control arm severed itself and swung back into the side of Nightshade’s hull. Skade sensed a chain of explosions surging along the side of her ship, pink blossoms cascading towards the bridge. Her beautiful machinery was ripping itself to pieces. The bubble squirmed larger, oozing through the failing constraints of the sheered and buckled arms. Emergency alarms sounded, internal barricades clanging down throughout the ship. Whiteness glared from the heart of the bubble as matter within it underwent a partial transition to the pure photonic state. A catastrophic reversion to the state-three quantum vacuum, in which all matter was massless ...

The photo-leptonic flash surged through the membrane. The few arms that were still functioning were snapped backwards like broken fingers. There was a brief, furious sizzle of plasma discharge and then the bubble swept larger, engulfing Nightshade and dissipating at the same time. Skade felt it slam through her, like a sudden cold front on a warm day. At the same time a shock wave shook the ship, throwing Skade against a wall. Ordinarily the wall would have deformed to absorb the energy of the collision, but this time the impact was hard and metallic.

Yet the ship remained around her. She was able to think. She could still hear klaxons and emergency messages, and the barricades were still closing. But the excursion event had passed. The bubble had shattered, but while it had damaged her ship - perhaps profoundly, perhaps beyond the point of repair - it had not destroyed it.

Skade willed her consciousness rate back down to her normal processing speed. Her crest throbbed with the excess blood heat it had to dissipate - she felt light-headed - but that would soon pass. She appeared to have suffered no injuries, even in the violent crash against the wall. Her armour moved at her will, undamaged by the impact. She took hold of a wall restraint and tugged herself into the middle of the corridor. She had no weight, for Nightshade was drifting and had never been equipped for spin-generated gravity.

Molenka?

There was no response. The entire shipboard network was down, preventing neural communication unless the subjects were extremely close to each other. But she knew where Molenka had been before the bubble had swelled out of control. She called aloud, but there was still no answer, and then set off in the direction of the machinery. The critical volume was still pressurised, though she had to persuade the internal doors to let her through.

The glossy, curved surfaces of the alien machinery, like black glass, had shifted since she was last within this part of the ship. She wondered how much of the change had happened during the failed attempt to expand the bubble. The air prickled with ozone and a dozen less familiar smells, and against the continuous background of klaxons and spoken alarms she heard sparking and shearing sounds.

‘Molenka?’ she called again.

[Skade.] The neural response was incredibly weak, but it was recognisably Molenka. She was close now, certainly.

Skade pushed forwards, hand over hand, the movements of her armour stiff. The machinery surrounded her on all sides, smooth black ledges and protrusions, like the water-carved rock in some ancient underground cavern. It widened out, admitting her to an occlusion five or six metres from side to side. The scalloped walls were studded with data-input sockets. A window set into the far side of the chamber offered a view of the smashed and buckled containment machinery jutting from the rear of her ship. Even now some of the arms were still moving, ticking lazily back and forth like the last twitching limbs of a dying creature. Seen with her eyes, the damage appeared much worse than she had been led to believe. Her ship had been gutted, its viscera ripped out for inspection.

But that was not what drew Skade’s attention. In the approximate centre of the occlusion floated an undulating sac, its skin a milky translucence behind which something shifted in and out of visibility. The sac was five-pointed, throwing out blunt pseudopodia that corresponded in proportion and arrangement to the head and limbs of a human. Indeed, Skade saw, the thing within it was human, a shape she glimpsed in shattered parts rather than any unified whole. There was a ripple of dark clothing and a ripple of paler flesh.

Molenka?

Though she was only metres away, the reply felt astonishingly distant.

[Yes. It’s me. I’m trapped, Skade. Trapped inside part of the bubble.]

Skade shivered, impressed by the woman’s calm. She was clearly going to die, and yet her reporting of her predicament had an admirable detachment. It was the attitude of a true Conjoiner, convinced that her essence would live on in the wider consciousness of the Mother Nest, and that physical death amounted only to the removal of an inessential peripheral element from a much more significant whole. But, Skade reminded herself, they were a long way from the Mother Nest now. The bubble, Molenka?

[It fragmented as it passed through the ship. It glued itself to me, almost deliberately. Almost as if it was looking for someone to surround, someone to embed within itself.] The five-pointed thing wobbled revoltingly, hinting at some awful instability that was on the point of collapsing.

What state are you in, Molenka?

[It must be state one, Skade ... I don’t feel any different. Just trapped . . . and distant. I feel very, very distant.] The bubble fragment began to contract, exactly as Molenka had said it was likely to do. The body-shaped membrane shrunk down until its surface conformed closely with Molenka’s body. For a dreadful moment she looked quite normal, except that she was covered in a shifting glaze of pearly light. Skade dared to hope that the bubble would choose that instant to collapse, freeing Molenka. But at the same time she knew it was not about to happen.

The bubble quivered again, hiccoughed and twitched. Molenka’s expression - it was quite visible - became obviously frightened. Even through the faint neural channel that connected them, Skade felt the woman’s fear and apprehension. It was as if the glaze was tightening around her.

[Help me, Skade. I can’t breathe.]

I can’t. I don’t know what to do.

Molenka’s skin was tight against the membrane. She was starting to suffocate. Normal speech would have been impossible by now, but the automatic routines in her head would have already started shutting down non-essential parts of her brain, conserving vital resources to squeeze three or four extra minutes of consciousness from her last breath. [Help me. Please . . .]

The membrane tightened further. Skade watched, unable to turn away, as it squeezed Molenka. Her pain gushed across the neural link. It was all that Skade recognised: there was no further room for rational thought. She reached out, desperate to do something even if the gesture was hopeless. Her fingers skimmed the surface of the membrane. It shrank further, hastened by the contact. The neural link began to break up. The collapsing membrane was crushing Molenka alive, the pressure destroying the delicate loom of Conjoiner implants that floated in her skull.

The membrane halted, quivered, and then shrank down with shocking speed. When Molenka was three-quarters of her normal size, the figure within the membrane turned abruptly scarlet. Skade felt the screaming howl of abrupt neural severance before her own implants curtailed the link. Molenka was dead. But the human-shaped form lingered even as it collapsed further. Now it was a mannequin, now a horrid marionette, now a doll, now a thumb-sized figurine, losing shape and definition as the material within liquefied. Then the contraction stopped, the milky envelope stabilising.

Skade reached out and grasped the marble-sized thing that had been Molenka, knowing that she must dispose of it into vacuum before the field contracted even further. The matter within the membrane - that matter that had once been Molenka - was already under savage compression, and she did not want to think about what would happen should it spontaneously expand.

She tugged at the marble, but the thing barely moved, as if it were locked rigid at that precise point in space and time. She increased her suit’s strength and finally the marble began to shift. It had all of Molenka’s inertial mass within it, perhaps more, and it would be just as difficult to stop or steer.

Skade began to make her laborious way to the nearest dorsal airlock.

The projection helix spun up to speed. Clavain stood with his hands on the railing that surrounded it, peering at the indistinct shape that appeared within the cylinder. It resembled a squashed bug, a fan of soft ropelike entrails spilling from one end of a hard, dark carapace.

‘She isn’t going anywhere in a hurry,’ Scorpio said.

‘Dead in the water,’ Antoinette Bax concurred. She whistled. ‘She’s drifting, just falling through space. Holy shit. What do you think happened to her?’

‘Something bad, but not something catastrophic,’ Clavain said quietly, ‘or else we wouldn’t see her at all. Scorp, can you zoom in and enhance the rear section? It looks like something happened there.’

Scorpio was controlling the hull cameras, slaved to pan over the drifting starship as they slammed past it with a velocity differential of more than a thousand kilometres per second. They would be within effective weapons range for only an hour. Zodiacal Light was not even accelerating at the moment; the inertia-suppressing systems were switched off and the engines were quiet. Great flywheels had spun the lighthugger’s habitation core up to one gee of centrifugal gravity. Clavain enjoyed not having to struggle around under higher gravity or wear an exoskeletal rig. It was even more pleasant not having to suffer the disturbing physiological effects of the inertia-suppression field.

‘There,’ Scorpio said when he had finished adjusting the settings. ‘That’s as clear as it’s going to get, Clavain.’

‘Thanks.’

Remontoire, the only one amongst them still wearing an exoskeletal rig, stepped closer to the cylinder, brushing past Pauline Sukhoi with a whirr of servos.

‘I don’t recognise those structures, Clavain, but they look intentional. ’

Clavain nodded. That was his opinion as well. The basic shape of the lighthugger was still as it should have been, but from her rear erupted a complicated splay of twisted filaments and arcs, like the mainsprings and ratchets of some clockwork mechanism caught in the act of exploding.

‘Would you care to speculate?’ Clavain asked Remontoire.

‘She was desperate to escape us, desperate to pull ahead. She might have considered something extreme.’

‘Extreme?’ Xavier asked. He had one hand around Antoinette’s waist. The two of them were filthy with machine oil.

‘She already had inertia suppression,’ Remontoire said. ‘But I think this was something else - a modification of the same equipment to push it into a different state.’

‘Such as?’ Xavier asked.

Clavain looked at Remontoire, too.

Remontoire said, ‘The technology will suppress inertial mass - that’s what Skade called a state-two field - but it doesn’t remove it entirely. In a state-three field, however, all inertial mass drops to zero. Matter becomes photonic, unable to travel at anything other than the speed of light. Time dilation becomes infinite, so the ship would remain frozen in the photonic state until the end of time.’

Clavain nodded at his friend. Remtontoire appeared perfectly willing to wear the exoskeleton even though it was functioning as a form of restraint, capable of immobilising him should Clavain decide that he could not be trusted.

‘What about state four?’ Clavain asked.

‘That might be more useful,’ Remontoire said. ‘If she could tunnel through state three, skipping it entirely, she might be able to achieve a smooth transition to a state-four field. Inside that field, the ship would flip into a tachyonic mass state, unable to do anything but travel faster than light.’

‘Skade tried that?’ Xavier asked reverently.

‘It’s as good an explanation as any I can think of,’ Remontoire said.

‘What do you think happened?’ Antoinette asked.

‘Some sort of field instability,’ Pauline Sukhoi said, the pale reflection of her haunted face hanging in the display tank. She spoke slowly and solemnly. ‘Managing a bubble of altered space-time makes fusion containment look like the kind of game children play on their birthdays. My suspicion is that Skade first created a microscopic bubble, probably sub-atomic, certainly no larger than a bacterium. At that scale, it’s deceptively easy to manipulate. See those sickles and arms?’ She nodded at the image, which had rotated slightly since it had first appeared. ‘Those would have been her field generators and containment systems. They would have been supposed to allow the field to expand in a stable fashion until it encased the ship. A bubble expanding at light-speed would take less than half a millisecond to swallow a ship the size of Nightshade, but altered vacuum expands superluminally, like inflationary space-time. A state-four bubble has a characteristic doubling time in the order of ten to the minus forty-three seconds. That doesn’t give much time to react if things start going wrong.’

‘And if the bubble kept growing ... ?’ Antoinette asked.

‘It won’t,’ Sukhoi said. ‘At least, you wouldn’t ever know about it if it does. No one would.’

‘Skade’s lucky she has a ship left,’ Xavier said.

Sukhoi nodded. ‘It must have been a small accident, probably during the transition between states. She may have hit state three, converting a small chunk of her ship to pure white light. A small photo-leptonic explosion.’

‘It looks survivable,’ Scorpio said.

‘Are there life-signs?’ Antoinette asked.

Clavain shook his head. ‘None. But there wouldn’t be, not with Nightshade. The prototype’s designed for maximum stealth. Our usual scanning methods won’t work.’

Scorpio adjusted some settings, causing the colours of the image to shift to spectral greens and blues. ‘Thermal,’ he said. ‘She still has power, Clavain. If there’d been a major systems blow-out, her hull would be five degrees cooler by now.’

‘I don’t doubt that there are survivors,’ Clavain said.

Scorpio nodded. ‘Some, maybe. They’ll lie low until we’re ahead of them, out of sensor range. Then they’ll kick into repair mode. Before you know it they’ll be on our tail, just as much a problem as they ever were.’

‘I’ve thought about that, Scorp,’ said Clavain.

The pig nodded. ‘And?’

‘I’m not going to attack them.’

Scorpio’s wild dark eyes flared. ‘Clavain ...’

‘Felka is still alive.’

There was an awkward silence. Clavain felt it press around him. They were all looking at him, even Sukhoi, each of them thanking their stars that they did not have to take this decision.

‘You don’t know that,’ Scorpio said. Clavain saw the lines of tension etched into his jaw. ‘Skade lied before and killed Lasher. She hasn’t given us any evidence that she really has Felka. That’s because she doesn’t have her, or because Felka is dead now.’

Calmly, Clavain said, ‘What evidence could she give? There isn’t anything she couldn’t fake.’

‘She could have learned something from Felka, something only she would know.’

‘You never met Felka, Scorp. She’s strong - much stronger than Skade assumes. She wouldn’t give Skade anything Skade could use to control me.’

‘Then perhaps she does have her, Clavain. But that doesn’t mean she’s awake. She’s probably in reefersleep, so she doesn’t cause any trouble.’

‘What difference would that make?’ Clavain asked.

‘She wouldn’t feel anything,’ Scorpio said. ‘We have enough weapons now, Clavain. Nightshade is a sitting duck. We can take her out instantly, painlessly. Felka won’t know a thing.’

Clavain reached for his anger, forcing it to lie low. ‘Would you say that if she hadn’t murdered Lasher?’

The pig thumped the railing. ‘She did, Clavain. That’s all that matters.’

‘No . . .’ Antoinette said. ‘It isn’t all that matters. Clavain’s right. We can’t start acting like a single human life doesn’t matter. We become as bad as the wolves if we do that.’

Xavier, next to her, beamed proudly. ‘I agree,’ he said. ‘Sorry, Scorpio. I know she killed Lasher, and I know how much that pissed you off.’

‘You have no idea,’ Scorpio said. He did not sound angry so much as regretful. ‘And don’t tell me a single human life suddenly matters. It’s just because you know her. Skade is human, too. What about her, and her allies aboard that ship?’

Cruz, who had been silent until then, spoke softly. ‘Listen to Clavain. He’s right. We’ll get another chance to kill Skade. This just doesn’t feel right.’

‘Might I make a suggestion?’ Remontoire said.

Clavain looked at Remontoire uneasily. ‘What, Rem?’

‘We are just - just - within shuttle range. It would cost us more antimatter, a fifth of our remaining stocks, but we may never get another chance like this.’

‘Another chance to do what?’ Clavain asked.

Remontoire blinked, surprised, as if this was entirely too obvious to state. ‘To rescue Felka, of course.’

TWENTY-NINE

Remontoire’s calculation had been unerringly accurate; so much so that Clavain suspected he had already costed the energy expenditure of the shuttle flight before the rescue operation had been more than a glint in Clavain’s eye.

Three of them went out: Scorpio, Remontoire and Clavain.

There was mercifully little time to make the shuttle ready. Merciful because had Clavain been granted hours or days, he would have spent the entire time convulsed in doubt, endlessly balancing one additional weapon or piece of armour against the fuel that would be saved by leaving it behind. As it was they had to make do with one of the stripped-down shuttles that had been used to resupply the defence shuttle before they had brought the laser-powered shield sail into use. The shuttle was just a skeleton, a wispy geodesic sketch of black spars, struts and naked silvery subsystems. It looked, to Clavain’s eyes, faintly obscene. He was used to machines that kept their innards decently covered. But it would do the job well enough, he supposed. If Skade mounted any serious defence, armour wouldn’t help them anyway.

The flight deck was the only part of the ship that was shielded from space, and even then it was not pressurised. They would have to wear suits for the entire operation and take an additional suit with them for Felka to wear on the return leg. There was also room to stow a reefersleep casket if it turned out she was frozen. But in that case, Felka’s return mass would have to be offset by leaving behind weapons and fuel tanks at the halfway point.

Clavain took the middle seat, with the flight controls plugged into his suit. Scorpio sat on his left, Remontoire on his right; both could assume control of the avionics should Clavain need a rest.

‘Are you sure you trust me enough to have me along for the operation?’ Remontoire had asked with a playful smile when they were deciding who would go on the mission.

‘I guess I’ll find out, won’t I?’ Clavain had said.

‘I won’t be much use to you in an exoskeleton. You can’t put a standard suit over one, and we don’t have powered armour ready.’

Clavain had nodded at Blood, Scorpio’s deputy. ‘Get him out of the exoskeleton. If he tries anything, you know what to do.’

‘I won’t, Clavain,’ Remontoire had assured him.

‘I almost believe you. But I’m not sure I’d take the risk if there was someone else who knew Nightshade as well as you do. Or Skade, for that matter.’

‘I’m coming too,’ Scorpio had insisted.

‘We’re going to get Felka,’ Clavain had said. ‘Not to avenge Lasher.’

‘Perhaps.’ In so far as Clavain could read his expression, Scorpio had not looked fully convinced. ‘But let’s be honest. Once you’ve got Felka, you’re not going to walk out of there without doing some damage, are you?’

‘I’ll accept Skade’s surrender gratefully,’ Clavain had said.

‘We’ll take pinhead munitions,’ Scorpio had said. ‘You won’t miss a little hot dust, Clavain, and it’ll sure put a hole in Nightshade.’

‘I’m grateful for your help, Scorpio. And I understand your feelings towards Skade after what she did. But we need you here, to supervise the weapons programme.’

‘And we don’t need you?’

‘This is about me and Felka,’ Clavain had said.

Scorpio had put a hand on his arm. ‘So take help when it’s offered. I’m not in the habit of co-operating with people, Clavain, so make the most of this rare display of magnanimity and shut the fuck up.’

Clavain had shrugged. He had not felt optimistic about the mission, but Scorpio’s enthusiasm for a fight was oddly infectious.

He had turned to Remontoire. ‘Looks as if he’s along for the ride, Rem. Certain you want to be on the team now?’

Remontoire had looked at the pig, then back at Clavain. ‘We’ll manage,’ he had said.

Now that the mission had begun the two of them were silent, letting Clavain concentrate on the business of flying. He gunned the shuttle away from Zodiacal Light, homing in on the drifting Nightshade, trying not to think of how fast they were actually moving. The two major ships were falling through space at only two per cent below the speed of light, but there was still no strong visual cue that they were moving so rapidly. The stars had been shifted in both position and colour by relativistic effects, but they still appeared perfectly fixed and stationary, even at this high tau factor. Had their trajectory taken them close to a luminous body like a star, they might have seen it swing by in the night, squashed away from sphericity by Lorentz-Fitzgerald contraction. But even then it would not have slammed past unless they were nearly skimming its atmosphere. The exhaust flare of another ship, heading back to Yellowstone, would have been visible, but they had the corridor to themselves. And though the hulls of both ships glowed in the near infra-red, heated by the slow, constant abrasion of interstellar hydrogen and microscopic dust grains, this was nothing Clavain’s mind could process into any visceral sense of speed. He was aware that the same collisions were a problem for the shuttle, too, though its much smaller cross section made them less likely. But cosmic rays, relativistically boosted by their motion, were eating into him every second. That was why there was armour around the flight deck.

The trip to Nightshade passed quickly, perhaps because Clavain was fearful of what he would find upon his arrival. The trio spent most of the journey unconscious, conserving suit power, knowing that there was realistically nothing they could do should Skade launch an attack.

Clavain and his companions came around when they were in visual range of the crippled lighthugger.

She was dark, of course - they were in true interstellar space here - but Clavain could see her because Zodiacal Light was shining one of its optical lasers on to her hull. He could not make out all the details he wanted to, but he could see enough to feel decidedly ill at ease. The effect was that of moonlight on a foreboding gothic edifice. The shuttle threw a tracery of moving shadows across the larger ship, making it appear to squirm and move.

The weird augmentations looked even stranger up close. Their complexity had not really been apparent before, nor the extent to which they had been twisted and sheared by the accident. But Skade had been remarkably fortunate, since the damage was largely confined to the tapering rear part of her ship. The two Conjoiner drives, thrust out from either side of the thoraxlike hull, had suffered only superficial harm. Clavain steered the shuttle closer, convincing himself that any attack would already have happened. Delicately, he nosed the skeletal craft between the stingerlike curves and arcs of the ruined faster-than-light drive.

‘She was desperate,’ he said to his companions. ‘She must have known there was no way we were going to get to Resurgam ahead of her, but that wasn’t good enough for Skade. She wanted to get there years ahead of us.’

Scorpio said, ‘She had the means, Clavain. Why are you surprised that she used them?’

‘He’s right to be surprised,’ Remontoire cut in before Clavain could answer. ‘Skade was perfectly aware of the risks of toying with the state-four transition. She denied any interest in it when I asked her about it, but I had the impression she was lying. Her own experiments must already have revealed the risks.’

‘Once thing’s for sure,’ Scorpio said. ‘She wanted those guns badly, Clavain. They must mean a fuck of a lot to her.’

Clavain nodded. ‘But we’re not really dealing with Skade, I think. We’re dealing with whatever it was that got to her in the Château. The Mademoiselle wanted the weapons, and she just planted the idea in Skade’s mind.’

‘This Mademoiselle interests me greatly,’ Remontoire said. He had been told some of what had happened in Chasm City. ‘I’d have liked to have met her.’

‘Too late,’ Scorpio said. ‘H had her corpse in a box - didn’t Clavain tell you?’

‘He had something in a box,’ Remontoire said testily. ‘But evidently not the part of her that mattered. That part reached Skade. Is Skade now, for all we know.’

Clavain slid the shuttle through the last pair of scissorlike blades and back into open space. This side of Nightshade was pitch black, save where the shuttle’s own floods picked out details. Clavain crept along the hull, observing that the antiship weapons were all stowed behind their invisibly seamed hatches. It meant very little: it would only require an eyeblink to deploy them, but it was undeniably reassuring that they were not already pointed at the shuttle.

‘You two know your way around this thing?’ Scorpio said.

‘Of course,’ Remontoire said. ‘It used to be our ship. You should recognise it as well. It’s the same one that pulled you out of Maruska Chung’s cruiser.’

‘The only thing I remember about that is you trying to put the fear of the devil into me, Remontoire.’

With some relief, Clavain realised that they had reached the airlock he had been looking for. There was still no sign of a reaction from the crippled ship: no lights or indications of proximity sensors coming alive. Clavain guyed them to the hull with epoxy-tipped grapples, holding his breath as the suckerlike grapple feet adhered to the ablative hull armour. But nothing happened.

‘This is the difficult part,’ Clavain said. ‘Rem, I want you to remain here on the shuttle. Scorpio’s coming inside with me.’

‘Might I ask why?’

‘Yes, although I was hoping you wouldn’t. Scorp has more experience of hand-to-hand combat than you do, almost more than me. But the main reason is I don’t trust you enough to have you inside.’

‘You trusted me to come this far.’

‘And I’m prepared to trust you to sit tight on the shuttle until we get out.’ Clavain checked the time. ‘In thirty-five minutes we’re out of return range. Wait half an hour and then leave. Not a minute more, even if Scorp and I are already coming back out of the airlock.’

‘You’re serious, aren’t you?’

‘We’ve budgeted enough fuel to return the three of us plus Felka. If you return alone you’ll have fuel to spare - fuel that we’ll badly need later. That’s what I trust you with, Rem: that responsibility.’

‘But not to come aboard,’ Remontoire said.

‘No. Not with Skade on that ship. I can’t run the risk of you defecting back to her side.’

‘You’re wrong, Clavain.’

‘Am I?’

‘I didn’t defect. Neither did you. It was Skade and the rest of them that changed sides, not us.’

‘C’mon,’ Scorpio said, tugging at Clavain’s arm. ‘We’ve got twenty-nine minutes now.’

The two of them crossed over to Nightshade. Clavain fumbled around the rim of the airlock until he found the nearly invisible recess that concealed the external controls. It was just wide enough to take his gloved hand. He felt the familiar trinity of manual switches - standard Conjoiner design - and tugged them to the open position. Even if there had been a general shipwide power failure, cells within the lock would have retained power to open the door for about a century. Even if that failed, there was a manual mechanism on the other side of the rim.

The door slid aside. Blood-red lighting glared back from the interior chamber. His eyes had become highly dark-adapted. He waited for them to adjust to the brightness and then ushered Scorpio into the generously proportioned space. He followed the pig, their bulky suits knocking together, and then sealed and pressurised the chamber. It took an eternity.

The inner door opened. The interior of the ship was bathed in the same blood-red emergency lighting. But at least there was power. That meant there might be survivors, too.

Clavain studied the ambient data read-out in his faceplate field of view, then turned off his suit air and slid up the faceplate. These clumsy old suits, the best that Zodiacal Light had been able to provide, had limited air and power, and he saw no sense in wasting resources. He motioned for Scorpio to do likewise.

The pig whispered, ‘Where are we?’

‘Amidships,’ Clavain told him in a normal speaking voice. ‘But everything looks different in this light, and without gravity. The ship doesn’t feel as familiar as I had expected. I wish I knew how many crew we could expect to find.’

‘Skade never gave any indication?’ he hissed back.

‘No. You could run a ship like this with a few experts, and no more. There’s no need to whisper either, Scorp. If there’s anyone around to know we’re here, they know we’re here.’

‘Remind me why we didn’t come with guns?’

‘No point, Scorp. They’d have heavier and better armaments here. Either we take Felka painlessly or we negotiate our way out.’ Clavain tapped his utility belt. ‘Of course, we do have a negotiating aid.’

They had brought pinheads aboard Skade’s ship. The microscopic fragments of antimatter suspended in a pin-sized containment system, which was in turn shielded within a thumb-sized armoured grenade, would blow Nightshade cleanly out of the sky.

They moved down the red-lit corridor hand over hand. Every now and then, randomly, one of them would unclip a pinhead device, smear it with epoxy and push it into place in a corner or shadow. Clavain was confident that a well-organised search would be able to locate all the pinheads in a few tens of minutes. But a well-organised search looked like exactly the kind of thing the ship was not going to be capable of mounting for quite some time.

They had been working their way along for eight minutes when Scorpio broke the silence. They had reached a trifurcation in the corridor. ‘Recognise anything yet?’

‘Yes. We’re near the bridge.’ Clavain pointed one way. ‘But the reefersleep chamber is down here. If she has Felka frozen, that’s where she might be. We’ll check it first.’

‘We’ve got twenty minutes, then we have to be out.’

Clavain knew that the time limit was, in a sense, artificially imposed. Zodiacal Light could backtrack and recover the shuttle even if they delayed their departure, but only at a wasteful expenditure of time, one that would instil a lethal seed of complacency into the rest of the crew. He had considered the risks and concluded that it would be better for all three of them to die - or at least be marooned here - rather than let that happen. Their deputies and sub-deputies could continue the operation even if Remontoire did not make it back alive, and they had to believe that every second really counted. As indeed it did. It was tough. But that was war, and it was a long way from the toughest decision Clavain had ever had to make.

They worked their way down to the reefersleep chamber.

‘Something ahead,’ Scorpio said, after they had crawled and clambered wordlessly for several minutes.

Clavain slowed his progress, peering into the same red gloom, envious of Scorpio’s augmented eyesight. ‘Looks like a body,’ he said.

They approached it carefully, pulling themselves along from one padded wall-staple to another. Clavain was mindful of every minute that elapsed; every half-minute of each minute; every cruel second.

They reached the body.

‘Do you recognise it?’ Scorpio asked, fascinated.

‘I’m not sure whether anyone would be able to recognise it for certain,’ Clavain said, ‘but it isn’t Felka. I don’t think it could have been Skade, either.’

Something dreadful had happened to the body. It had been sliced down the middle, exactly and neatly, in the fastidious fashion of an anatomical model. The interior organs were packed into tightly coiled or serpentine formations, glistening like glazed sweetmeats. Scorpio reached out a gloved trotter and pushed the half-figure; it drifted slackly away from the slick walling where it had come to rest.

‘Where do you think the rest of it is?’ he asked.

‘Somewhere else,’ Clavain replied. ‘This half must have drifted here.’

‘What did that to it? I’ve seen what beam-weapons can do and it isn’t nice, but there isn’t any sign of scorching on this body.’

‘It was a causal gradient,’ said a third voice.

‘Skade . . .’ Clavain breathed.

She was behind them. She had approached with inhuman silence, not even breathing. Her armoured bulk filled the corridor, black as night save for the pale oval of her face.

‘Hello, Clavain. And hello, Scorpio, too, I suppose.’ She looked at him with mild interest. ‘So you didn’t die then, pig?’

‘Actually, Clavain was just pointing out how lucky I am to have met the Conjoiners.’

‘Sensible Clavain.’

Clavain looked at her, horrified and awestruck at the same time. Remontoire had forewarned him about Skade’s accident, but that warning had been insufficient to prepare him for this meeting. Her mechanical armour was androform, even - in an exaggerated, faintly medieval way - feminine, swelling at the hips and with the suggestion of breasts moulded into the chest plate. But Clavain knew now that it was not armour at all but a life-support prosthesis; that the only organic part of her was her head. Skade’s crested skull was plugged stiffly into the neckpiece of the armour. The brutal conjunction of flesh and machinery screamed wrongness, a wrongness that became even more acute when Skade smiled.

‘You did this to me,’ she said, obviously speaking aloud for Scorpio’s benefit. ‘Aren’t you proud?’

‘I didn’t do it to you, Skade. I know exactly what happened. I hurt you, and I’m sorry it happened that way. But it wasn’t intentional and you know it.’

‘So your defection was involuntary? If only it were that easy.’

‘I didn’t cut your head off, Skade,’ Clavain said. ‘By now Delmar could have healed the injuries I gave you. You’d be whole again. But that didn’t fit with your plans.’

‘You dictated my plans, Clavain. You and my loyalty to the Mother Nest.’

‘I don’t question your loyalty, Skade. I just wonder exactly what it is you’re loyal to.’

Scorpio whispered, ‘Thirteen minutes, Clavain. Then we have to be out of here.’

Skade’s attention snapped on to the pig. ‘In a hurry, are you?’ ‘Aren’t we all?’ Scorpio said.

‘You’ve come for something. I don’t doubt that your weapons could already have destroyed Nightshade were that your intention.’

‘Give me Felka,’ Clavain said. ‘Give me Felka, then we’ll leave you alone.’

‘Does she mean that much to you, Clavain, that you’d have held back from destroying me when you had the chance?’

‘She means a great deal to me, yes.’

Skade’s crest rippled with turquoise and orange. ‘I’ll give you Felka, if it makes you leave. But first I want to show you something.’

She reached up with the gauntleted arms of her suit, placing one hand on either side of her neck as if about to strangle herself. But her metal hands were evidently capable of great gentleness. Clavain heard a click somewhere within Skade’s chest, and then the metal pillar of her neck began to rise from between her shoulders. She was removing her own head. Clavain watched, entranced and repelled, as the lower part of the pillar emerged. It ended in thrashing, segmented appendages. They dribbled pink baubles of coloured fluid - blood, perhaps, or something entirely artificial.

‘Skade ...’ he said. ‘This isn’t necessary.’

‘Oh, it is very necessary, Clavain. I want you to apprehend fully what it is you’ve done to me. I want you to feel the horror of it.’

‘I think he’s getting the picture,’ Scorpio said.

‘Just give me Felka, then I’ll leave you.’

She hefted her own head, cradling it in one hand. It continued to speak. ‘Do you hate me, Clavain?’

‘None of this is personal, Skade. I just think you’re misguided.’

‘Misguided because I care about the survival of our people?’

‘Something got to you, Skade,’ Clavain said. ‘You were a good Conjoiner once, one of the best. You truly served the Mother Nest, just as I did. But then you were sent on the Château operation.’

He had pricked her interest. He saw the involuntary widening of her eyes. ‘The Château des Corbeaux? What does that have to do with anything?’

‘A lot more than you’d like to think,’ Clavain said. ‘You were the only survivor, Skade, but you didn’t come back alone. You probably don’t remember very much of what actually happened down there, but that doesn’t matter. Something got to you, I’m certain of that. It’s responsible for everything that’s happened lately.’ He tried to smile. ‘That’s why I don’t hate you, or even much blame you. You’re either not the Skade I knew, or you think you’re serving something higher than yourself.’

‘Ridiculous.’

‘But possibly true. I should know, Skade, I went there myself. How do you think we stayed on your tail all this time? The Château was the source for the technology you and I both used. Alien technology, for manipulating inertia. Except you used it for much more than that, didn’t you?’

‘I used it to serve an end, that’s all.’

‘You tried to move faster than light, just the way Galiana did.’ He saw another flicker of interest at the mention of Galiana’s name.

‘Why, Skade? What was so important that you had to do this? They’re just weapons.’

‘You want them badly, too.’

Clavain nodded. ‘But only because I’ve seen how badly you want them. You showed me that fleet, too, and that made me think you were planning on getting away from this part of space. What is it, Skade? What have you seen in your crystal ball?’

‘Shall I show you, Clavain?’

‘Show me?’ he asked.

‘Allow me access to your mind and I’ll implant exactly what I was shown. Then you will know. And perhaps see things my way.’

‘Don’t . . .’ Scorpio said.

Clavain lowered his mental defences. Skade’s presence was sudden and intrusive, so much so that he flinched. But she did not attempt to do more than paint images in his mind, as she had promised.

Clavain saw the end of everything. He saw chains of human habitats spangling with bright pinpricks of annihilating fire. Nuclear garlands dappled the surfaces of worlds too unimportant to dismantle. He saw comets and asteroids being steered into colonies, wave upon wave of them, far too many to be neutralised by the existing defences. Flares were lifted from the surfaces of stars, focused and daubed across the faces of worlds, sterilising all in their path. He saw rocky worlds being pulverised, smashed into hot clouds of interplanetary rubble. He saw gas giants being spun apart, ruined like the toys of petulant children. He saw stars themselves dying, poisoned so that they shone too hot or too cold, or ripped apart in a dozen different ways. He saw ships detonating in interstellar space, when they imagined they were safe from harm. He heard a panicked chorus of human radio and laser transmissions that was at first a multitude, but which thinned out to a handful of desperate lone voices, which were themselves silenced one by one. Then he heard only the mindless warbling of machine transmissions, and even those began to fall silent as humanity’s last defences crumbled.

The cleansing was spread across a volume many dozens of light-years wide. It took many decades to complete, but it was over in a flash compared with the slow grind of galactic history.

And all around, orchestrating this cleansing, he sensed dim, ruthless sentience. It was an ensemble of machine minds, most of which hovered just beneath the threshold of consciousness. They were old, older than the youngest stars, and they were expert only in the art of extinction. Nothing else concerned them.

‘How far in the future is this?’ he asked Skade.

‘It’s already begun. We just don’t know it yet. But within half a century the wolves reach the core colonies, those closest to the First System. Within a century, the human race consists of a few huddling groups too afraid to travel or attempt any communication with each other.’

‘And the Conjoiners?’

‘We’re amongst them but just as vulnerable, just as predated. No Mother Nest remains. Conjoiner nests in some systems have been wiped out completely. That’s when they send the message back in time.’

He absorbed what she had said and nodded guardedly, prepared to accept it for the time being. ‘How did they do it?’

‘Galiana’s Exordium experiments,’ Skade’s decorporated head answered. ‘She explored the linkage of human minds with coherent quantum states. But matter in a state of quantum superposition is entangled, in a ghostly sense, with every particle that has ever existed, or ever will exist. Her experiments were only intended to explore new modes of parallel consciousness, but she opened a window to the future, too. The conduit was imperfect, so that only faint echoes reached back to Mars. And every message sent through the channel increased the background noise. The conduit had a finite information capacity, you see. Exordium was a precious resource that could only be used at times of extreme crisis.’

Clavain felt a dizzying sense of vertigo. ‘Our history’s already been changed, hasn’t it?’

‘Galiana learned enough to make the first starship drive. It was a question of energy, Clavain, and the manipulation of quantum wormholes. At the heart of a Conjoiner drive is one end of a microscopic wormhole. The other end is anchored fifteen billion years in the past, sucking energy out of the quark-gluon plasma of the primordial fireball. Of course, the same technology can be applied to the manufacturing of doomsday weapons.’

‘The hell-class weapons,’ he said.

‘In our original history we had neither of these advantages. We did not achieve starflight until a century later than the Sandra Voi’s first flight. Our ships were slow, heavy, fragile, incapable of reaching more than a fifth of light-speed. The human expansion was necessarily retarded. In four hundred years only a handful of systems were successfully settled. Yet still we attracted the wolves, even in that timeline. The cleansing was brutally efficient. This version of history - the one you have known - was an attempt at an improvement. The pace of human expansion was quickened and we were given better weapons to deal with the threat once it arose.’

‘I see now,’ Clavain said, ‘why the hell-class weapons couldn’t be made again. Once Galiana had been shown how to make them, she destroyed the knowledge.’

‘They were a gift from the future,’ she said pridefully. ‘A gift from our future selves.’

‘And now?’

‘Even in this timeline decimation happened. Again the wolves were alerted to our emergence. And it turned out that the drives were easy for them to track, across light-years of space.’

‘So our future selves tried another tweak.’

‘Yes. This time they reached back only into the recent past, intervening much later in Conjoiner history. The first message was an edict warning us to stop using Conjoiner drives. That was why we stopped shipbuilding a century ago. Later, we were given clues that enabled us to build stealthed drives of the kind Nightshade carries. The Demarchists thought we had built her to gain a tactical advantage over them in the war. In fact, she was designed to be our first weapon against the wolves. Later, we were given information regarding the construction of inertia-suppressing machinery. Although I didn’t know it at the time, I was sent to the Château to obtain the fragments of alien technology which would enable us to assemble the prototype inertia-suppressing machine.’

‘And now?’

She answered him with a smile. ‘We’ve been given another chance. This time, flight is the only viable solution. The Conjoiners must leave this volume of space before the wolves arrive en masse.’

‘Run away, you mean?’

‘Not really your style, is it, Clavain? But sometimes it’s the only response that makes any sense. Later, we can consider a return - even a confrontation with the wolves. Other species have failed, but we are different, I think. We have already had the nerve to alter our past.’

‘What makes you think the other poor suckers didn’t try it as well?’

‘Clavain ...’ It was Scorpio. ‘We really need to be out of here, now.’

‘Skade ... you’ve shown me enough,’ Clavain said. ‘I accept that you believe you are acting justly.’

‘And yet you still think I am the puppet of some mysterious agency?’

‘I don’t know, Skade. I certainly haven’t ruled it out.’

‘I serve only the Mother Nest.’

‘Fine.’ He nodded, sensing that no matter what the truth was Skade believed that she was acting correctly. ‘Now give me Felka and I’ll leave.’

‘Will you destroy me once you have left?’

He doubted that she knew of the pinhead charges he and Scorpio had deployed. He said, ‘What will happen to you, Skade, if I leave you here, drifting? Can you repair your ship?’

‘I don’t need to. The other craft are not far behind me. They are your real enemy, Clavain. Vastly better armed than Nightshade, and yet just as nimble and difficult to detect.’

‘That still doesn’t mean I’d be better off not killing you.’

Skade turned around and raised her voice. ‘Bring Felka here.’

Half a minute later, two other Conjoiners appeared behind Skade, burdened with a spacesuited figure. Skade allowed them to pass it forwards. The visor was open so that Clavain could tell that the figure was Felka. She appeared unconscious, but he was certain that she was still alive.

‘Here. Take her.’

‘What’s wrong with her?’

‘Nothing fundamental,’ Skade said. ‘I told you she was becoming withdrawn, didn’t I? She misses her Wall very much. Perhaps she will improve in your care. But there is something you need to know, Clavain.’

He looked at her. ‘What?’

‘She isn’t your daughter. She never was. Everything she told you was a lie, to make you more likely to return. A plausible lie, and perhaps one she almost wanted to believe was true, but a lie nonetheless. Do you still want her now?’

He knew she was telling the truth. Skade would lie to hurt him, but only if it served her wider ambitions. She was not doing that now, although he dearly wished that she were.

His voice caught in his throat. ‘Why should I want her less?’

‘Be honest, Clavain. It might have made a difference.’

‘I came here to save someone I care for, that’s all.’ He fought to keep his voice from breaking. ‘Whether she’s my blood or not ... it doesn’t matter.’

‘No?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Good. Then I believe our business here is done. Felka has served us both well, Clavain. She protected me from you, and she was able to bring out the co-operative side of the Wolf, something I could never have done on my own.’

‘The Wolf?’

‘Oh, sorry, didn’t I mention the Wolf?’

‘Let’s leave,’ Scorpio said.

‘No. Not just yet. I want to know what she meant.’

‘I meant exactly what I said, Clavain.’ With loving care, Skade replaced her own head, blinking at the moment when it clicked home. ‘I brought the Wolf with me because I imagined it might prove valuable. Well, I was right.’

‘You mean you brought Galiana’s body?’

‘I brought Galiana,’ Skade corrected. ‘She isn’t dead, Clavain. Not in the way you always thought she was. I reached her shortly after she returned from deep space. Her personality and memories were still there, perfectly intact. We had conversations, she and I. She asked about you - and of Felka - and I told her a small white lie; it was better for all of us that she think you dead. She was already losing the battle, you see. The Wolf was trying to take her over, and in the end she wasn’t strong enough to fight it. But it didn’t kill her, even then. It kept her mind intact because it found her memories useful. It also knew that Galiana was precious to us, and so we would do nothing against it that would harm her.’

Clavain looked at her, hoping against hope that she was lying to him as she had lied before, but knowing that this was now the truth. And although he knew the answer she would give, he had to ask the question all the same.

‘Will you give her to me?’

‘No.’ Skade raised a black metal finger. ‘You leave with Felka only, or you leave with nothing. It’s your choice. But Galiana stays here.’ Almost as an afterthought she added, ‘Oh, and in case you were wondering, I do know about the pinhead munitions you and the pig left behind you.’

‘You won’t find them all in time,’ Scorpio said.

‘I won’t have to find them,’ Skade said. ‘Will I, Clavain? Because having Galiana protects me as fully as when I had Felka. No. I won’t show her to you. It isn’t necessary. Felka will tell you that she is here. She met the Wolf, too - didn’t you?’

But Felka did not stir.

‘C’mon,’ Scorpio said. ‘Let’s leave before she changes her mind.’

Clavain was with Felka when she came around. He was sitting in a seat next to her bed, scratching at his beard, a grasshopperlike scritch, scritch, scritch that burrowed remorselessly into her subconscious and tugged her towards wakefulness. She had been dreaming of Mars, dreaming of her Wall, dreaming of being lost in the endless, consuming task of maintaining the Wall’s inviolability.

‘Felka.’ His voice was sharp, almost stern. ‘Felka. Wake up. This is Clavain. You’re amongst friends now.’

‘Where is Skade?’ she asked.

‘I left Skade behind. She isn’t your concern now.’ Clavain’s hand rested on hers. ‘I’m just relieved that you’re all right. It’s good to see you again, Felka. There were times when I never thought this would happen.’

She had come around in a room that did not look like any of those she had seen on Nightshade. It had a slightly rustic feel. She was clearly aboard a ship, but it was not a sleekly engineered thing like the last vessel.

‘You never said goodbye to me before you defected,’ she said.

‘I know.’ Clavain poked a finger into the folds of one eye. He looked weary, older than she remembered him from their last meeting. ‘I know, and I apologise. But it was deliberate. You’d have talked me out of it.’ His tone became accusatory. ‘Wouldn’t you?’

‘I only wanted you to take care of yourself. That was why I convinced you to join the Closed Council.’

‘On balance, that was probably a mistake, wasn’t it?’ His tone had softened. He was, she was reasonably certain, smiling.

‘If you call this taking care of yourself, then yes, I’d have to admit it wasn’t quite what I had in mind.’

‘Did Skade take care of you?’

‘She wanted me to help her. I didn’t. I became . . . withdrawn. I didn’t want to hear that she had killed you. She tried very hard, Clavain.’

‘I know.’

‘She has Galiana.’

‘I know that as well,’ he said. ‘Remontoire, Scorpio and I placed demolition charges across her ship. Even now we could destroy it, if I was prepared to delay our arrival at Resurgam.’

Felka forced herself into a sitting position. ‘Listen to me carefully, Clavain.’

‘I’m listening.’

‘You must kill Skade. It doesn’t matter that she has Galiana. It’s what Galiana would want you to do.’

‘I know,’ Clavain said. ‘But that doesn’t make it any easier to do.’

‘No.’ Felka raised her voice, not afraid to sound angry with the man who had just saved her. ‘No. You don’t understand. I mean it is exactly what Galiana would want you to do. I know, Clavain. I touched her mind again, when we met the Wolf.’

‘There’s no part of Galiana still there, Felka.’

‘There is. The Wolf did its best to hide her, but ... I could sense her.’ She looked into his face, studying its ancient, latent mysteries. Of all the faces she knew, this was the one she had the least trouble recognising, but what exactly did that mean? Were they united by anything more than contingency, circumstance and shared history? She remembered how she had lied to Clavain about being his daughter. Nothing in his mood suggested that he had learned of that lie.

‘Felka ...’

‘Listen to me, Clavain.’ She clasped his hand, squeezing it to demand his attention. ‘Listen to me. I never told you this before because it disturbed me too much. But in the Exordium experiments, I became aware of a mind reaching towards mine, from the future. I sensed unspeakable evil. But I also sensed something that I recognised. It was Galiana.’

‘No . . .’ Clavain said.

She squeezed his hand harder. ‘It’s the truth. But it wasn’t her fault. I see it now. It was her mind, after the Wolf had taken her over. Skade allowed the Wolf to participate in the experiments. She needed its advice about the machinery.’

Clavain shook his head. ‘The Wolf would never have collaborated with Skade.’

‘But it did. She convinced it that it needed to help her. That way she would recover the weapons, not you.’

‘How would that benefit the Wolf?’

‘It wouldn’t. But it was better that the weapons be seized by an agency that the Wolf had some influence over, rather than a third party like yourself. So it agreed to help her, knowing that it could always find a way to destroy the weapons once they were close at hand. I was there, Clavain, in its domain.’

‘The Wolf allowed that?’

‘It demanded it. Or rather, the part of it that was still Galiana did.’ Felka paused. She knew how difficult this must be for Clavain. It was agonising for her, and yet Galiana had meant even more to Clavain.

‘Then there would have to be a part of Galiana that still remembers us, is that what you mean? A part that still remembers what it was like before?’

‘She still remembers, Clavain. She still remembers, and she still feels.’ Again Felka paused, knowing that this was going to be the hardest part of all. ‘That’s why you have to do it.’

‘Do what?’

‘What you always planned to do before Skade told you that she had Galiana. You have to destroy the Wolf.’ Again she looked into his face, marvelling at its age, feeling sorrow for what she was doing to him. ‘You have to destroy the ship.’

‘But if I do that,’ Clavain said suddenly and excitedly, as if he had spotted a fatal flaw in Felka’s argument, ‘I’ll kill Galiana.’

‘I know,’ Felka said. ‘I know. But you still have to do it.’

‘You can’t know that.’

‘I can, and I do. I felt her, Clavain. I felt her willing you to do this.’

He watched it alone and in silence, from the vantage point of the observation cupola near Zodiacal Light’s prow. He had given instructions that he was to remain undisturbed until he made himself available again, even though that might mean many hours of solitude.

After forty-five minutes his eyes had become highly dark-adapted. He stared into the sea of endless night behind his ship, waiting for the sign that the work was done. The occasional cosmic ray scratched a false trail across his vision, but he knew that the signature of the event would be different and impossible to mistake. Against that darkness, too, it would be unmissable.

It grew from the heart of blackness: a blue-white glint that flared to its maximum brightness over the course of three or four seconds, and then declined slowly, ramping down through spectral shades of red and rust-brown. It burned a vivid hole into his vision, a searing violet dot that remained even when he closed his eyes.

He had destroyed Nightshade.

Skade, despite her best efforts, had not located all the demolition charges that they had glued to her ship. And because they were pinheads, it had only taken one to do the necessary work. The demolition charge had merely been the initiator for the much larger cascade of detonations: first the antimatter-fuelled and -tipped warheads, and then the Conjoiner drives themselves. It would have been instantaneous, and there would have been no warning.

He thought of Galiana, too. Skade had assumed that he would never attack the ship once he knew or even suspected that she was aboard.

And perhaps Skade had been right, too.

But Felka had convinced him that it had to be done. She alone had touched Galiana’s mind and felt the agony of the Wolf’s presence. She alone had been able to convey that single, simple message back to Clavain.

Kill me.

And so he had.

He started weeping as the full realisation of what he had done hit home. There had always been the tiniest possibility that she could be made well again. He had, he supposed, never fully come to terms with her absence because that tiny hope had always made it possible to deny the fact of her death.

But no such succour was possible now.

He had killed the thing he most loved in the universe.

Clavain began to weep, silently and alone.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry ...

He felt her approaching the monstrosity that he had become. Through senses that had no precise human analogue, the Captain became aware of the blunt metallic presence of Volyova’s shuttle sidling close to him. She did not think that his omniscience was this total, he knew. In the many conversations that they had enjoyed he had learned that she still viewed him as a prisoner of Nostalgia for Infinity, albeit a prisoner who had in some sense merged with the fabric of his prison. And yet Ilia had assiduously mapped and catalogued the nerve bundles of his new, vastly enlarged anatomy, tracing the way they interfaced with and infiltrated the ship’s old cybernetic network. She must be fully aware, on an analytical level, that there was no point in distinguishing between the prison and the prisoner any more. Yet she appeared unable to make that last mental leap, unable to cease viewing him as something inside the ship. It was, perhaps, just too violent a readjustment of their old relationship. He could not blame her for that final failure of imagination. He would have had grave difficulties with it himself had the tables been reversed.

The Captain felt the shuttle intrude into him. It was an indescribable sensation, really: as if a stone had been pushed through his skin, painlessly, into a neat hole in his abdomen. A few moments later he felt a series of visceral tremors as the shuttle latched itself home.

She was back.

He turned his attention inwards, becoming acutely and overwhelmingly aware of what was going on inside him. His awareness of the external universe - everything beyond his hull - stepped down a level of precedence. He descended through scale, focusing first on a district of himself, then on the arterial tangle of corridors and service tubes that wormed through that district. Ilia Volyova was a single corpuscular presence moving down one corridor. There were other living things inside him, as there were inside any living thing. Even cells contained organisms that had once been independent. He had the rats: scurrying little presences. But they were only dimly sentient, and ultimately they moved to his will, incapable of surprising or amusing him. The machines were even duller. Volyova, by contrast, was an invading presence, a foreign cell that he could kill but never control.

Now she was speaking to him. He heard her sounds, picking them up from the vibrations she caused in the corridor material.

‘Captain?’ Ilia Volyova asked. ‘It’s me. I’m back from Resurgam.’

He answered her through the fabric of the ship, his voice barely a whisper to himself. ‘I’m glad to see you again, Ilia. I’ve been a little lonely. How was it down on the planet?’

‘Worrying,’ she said.

‘Worrying, Ilia?’

‘Things are moving to a head. Khouri thinks she can hold it together long enough to get most of them off the surface, but I’m not convinced.’

‘And Thorn?’ the Captain asked delicately. He was very glad that Volyova appeared more concerned about what was going on down on Resurgam than the other matter. Perhaps she had not noticed the incoming laser signal at all yet.

‘Thorn wants to be the saviour of the people; the man who leads them to the Promised Land.’

‘You seem to think more direct action is appropriate.’

‘Have you studied the object lately, Captain?’

Of course he had. He still had morbid curiosity, if nothing else. He had watched the Inhibitors dismantle the gas giant with ridiculous ease, spinning it apart like a child’s toy. He had seen the dense shadows of new machines coming into existence in the nebula of liberated matter, components as vast as worlds themselves. Embedded in the glowing skein of the nebula, they resembled tentative, half-formed embryos. Clearly the machines would soon assemble into something even larger. It was, perhaps, possible to guess what it would look like. The largest component was a trumpet-shaped maw, two thousand kilometres wide and six thousand kilometres deep. The other shapes, the Captain judged, would plug into the back of this gigantic blunderbuss.

It was a single machine, nothing like the extended ring-shaped structures that the Inhibitors had thrown around the gas giant. A single machine that could maim a star, or so Volyova believed. Captain John Brannigan almost thought it would be worth staying alive to see what the machine would do.

‘I’ve studied it,’ he told Volyova.

‘It’s nearly finished, I think. A matter of months, perhaps, maybe less, and it will be ready. That’s why we can’t take any chances.’

‘You mean the cache?’

He sensed her trepidation. ‘You told me you would consider letting me use it, Captain. Is that still the case?’

He let her sweat before answering. She really did not appear to know about the laser signal. He was certain it would have been the first thing on her mind had she noticed it.

He asked, ‘Isn’t there some risk in using the cache, Ilia, when we have come so far without being attacked?’

‘There’s even more risk in leaving it too late.’

‘I imagine Khouri and Thorn were less than enthusiastic about hitting back now if the exodus is proceeding according to plan.’

‘They’ve moved barely two thousand people off the surface, Captain - one per cent of the total. It’s no more than a gesture. Yes, things will move more quickly once the government is handling the operation. But there will be a great deal more civil unrest, too. That’s why we have to consider a pre-emptive strike against the Inhibitors.’

‘We would surely draw their fire,’ he pointed out. ‘Their weapons would destroy me.’

‘We have the cache.’

‘It has no defensive value, Ilia.’

‘Well, I’ve thought about that,’ she said testily. ‘We’ll deploy the weapons at a distance of several light-hours from this ship. They can move themselves into position before we activate them, just like they did against the Hades artefact.’

There was no need to remind her that the attack against the Hades artefact had gone less than swimmingly. But, in fairness to Volyova, it was not the weapons themselves that had let her down.

He groped for another token objection. He must not appear too willing, or she would begin to have suspicions. ‘What if they were traced back to us . . . to me?’

‘By then we’ll have inflicted a decisive blow. If there is a response, we’ll worry about it then.’

‘And the weapons that you had in mind ... ?’

‘Details, Captain, details. You can leave that part to me. All you have to do is assign control of them to me.’

‘All thirty-three weapons?’

‘No ... that won’t be necessary. Just the ones I’ve earmarked for use. I don’t plan to throw everything against the Inhibitors. As you kindly reminded me, we may need some weapons later, to deal with any reprisal.’

‘You’ve thought all this through, haven’t you?’

‘Let’s just say there have always been contingency plans,’ she told him. Then her tone of voice changed expectantly. ‘Captain, one final thing.’

He hesitated before replying. Here, perhaps, it came. She was going to ask him about the laser signal spraying repeatedly against his hull, the signal that he had been very unwilling to bring to her attention.

‘Go on, Ilia,’ he said, heavy-hearted.

‘I don’t suppose you’ve got any more of those cigarettes, have you?’

THIRTY

She toured the cache chamber, riding through it like a queen inspecting her troops. Thirty-three weapons were present, no two of them alike. She had spent much of her adult life studying them, together with the seven others that were now lost or destroyed. And yet in all that time she had come to no more than a passing familiarity with most of the weapons. She had tested very few of them in any meaningful sense. Indeed, those she had known most about were the ones that were now lost. Some of the remaining weapons, she was certain, could not even be tested without wasting the one opportunity that existed to use them. But they were not all like that. The tricky part was distinguishing amongst the subclasses of cache weapon, cataloguing them according to their range, destructive capability and the number of times they could be used. Though she had always concealed her ignorance from her colleagues, Volyova had no more than the sketchiest idea about what at least half of her weapons were capable of doing. But she had worked scrupulously hard to gain even that inadequate understanding.

Based on what she had learned in her years of study, she had come to a decision as to which weapons would be deployed against the Inhibitor machinery. She would release eight of the weapons, retaining twenty-five aboard Nostalgia for Infinity. They were low-mass weapons, so they could be deployed across the system quickly and discreetly. Her studies had also suggested that the eight were weapons with sufficient range to strike the Inhibitor site, but there was a lot of guesswork involved in her calculations. Volyova hated guesswork. She was even less sure that they would be able to do enough damage to make a difference to the Inhibitors’ work. But she was certain of one thing: they would get noticed. If the human activity in the system had so far been on the buzzing-fly level - irritating without being actively dangerous - she was about to notch it up to a full-scale mosquito attack.

Swat this, you bastards, she thought.

She passed each weapon amongst the eight, slowing down her propulsion pack long enough to make sure nothing had changed since her last inspection. Nothing had. The weapons hung in their armoured cradles precisely as she had left them. They looked just as foreboding and sinister, but they had not done anything unexpected.

‘These are the eight I’ll need, Captain,’ she said.

‘Just the eight?’

‘They’ll do for now. Mustn’t put all our chicks in one egg, or whatever the metaphor is.’

‘I’m sure there’s something suitable.’

‘When I say the word, I’ll need you to deploy each weapon one at a time. You can do that, can’t you?’

‘When you say “deploy”, Ilia . . . ?’

‘Just move them outside the ship. Outside you, I mean,’ she corrected herself, having noticed that the Captain now tended to refer to himself and the ship as the same entity. She did not want to do anything, no matter how slight, that might interfere with his sudden spirit of co-operation. ‘Just to the outside,’ she continued. ‘Then, when all eight weapons are outside, we’ll run another systems check. We’ll keep you between them and the Inhibitors, just to be on the safe side. I don’t have the feeling that we’re being monitored, but it makes sense to play safe.’

‘I couldn’t agree more, Ilia.’

‘Right then. We’ll start with good old weapon seventeen, shall we?’

‘Weapon seventeen it is, Ilia.’

The motion was sudden and startling. It was such a long time since any of the cache weapons had moved in any way that she had forgotten what it was like. The cradle that held the weapon began to glide along its support rail so that the whole obelisk-sized mass of the weapon slid smoothly and silently aside. Everything in the cache chamber took place in silence, of course, but nonetheless it seemed to Volyova that there was a more profound silence here, a silence that was judicial, like the silence of a place of execution.

The network of rails allowed the cache weapons to reach the much smaller chamber immediately below the main one. The smaller chamber was just large enough to accommodate the largest weapon, and had been rebuilt extensively for just this purpose.

She watched weapon seventeen vanish into the chamber, remembering her encounter with the weapon’s controlling subpersona ‘Seventeen’, the one that had shown worrying signs of free will and a marked lack of respect for her authority. She did not doubt that something like Seventeen existed in all the weapons. There was no sense worrying about it now; all she could do was hope that the Captain and the weapons continued to do what she asked of them.

No sense worrying about it, no. But she did have a dreadful sense of foreboding all the same.

The connecting door closed. Volyova switched her suit’s monitor feed to tap into the external cameras and sensors so that she could observe the weapon as it emerged beyond the hull. It would take a few minutes to get there, but she was in no immediate hurry.

And yet something very unexpected was happening. Her suit, via the monitors on the hull, was telling her that the ship was being bombarded by optical laser light.

Volyova’s first reaction was a crushing sense of failure. Finally, for whatever reason, she had alerted the Inhibitors and drawn their attention. It was as if just intending to deploy the weapons had been sufficient. The wash of laser light must be from their long-range sensor sweeps. They were noticing the ship, sniffing it out of the darkness.

But then she realised that the emissions were not coming from the right part of the sky.

They were coming from interstellar space.

‘Ilia ... ?’ the Captain asked. ‘Is something wrong? Shall I abort the deployment?’

‘You knew about this, didn’t you?’ she said.

‘Knew about what?’

‘That someone was firing laser light at us. Communications frequency. ’

‘I’m sorry, Ilia, but I just...’

‘You didn’t want me to know about it. And I didn’t until I tapped into those hull sensors to watch the weapon emerging.’

‘What emissions ... ah, wait.’ His great deific voice hesitated. ‘Wait. I see what you mean now. I didn’t notice them - there was too much else going on. You’re more attuned to such concerns than me, Ilia ... I am very self-focused these days. If you wait, I will backtrack and determine when the emissions began ... I have the sensor data, you know . . .’

She didn’t believe him, but knew there was no way to prove otherwise. He controlled everything, and it was only through a slip of his concentration that she had learned about the laser light at all.

‘Well. How long?’

‘No more than a day, Ilia. A day or so . . .’

‘What does “or so” mean, you lying bastard?’

‘I mean . . . a matter of days. No more than a week ... at a conservative estimate.’

‘Svinoi. Lying pig bastard. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?’

‘I assumed you were already aware of the signal, Ilia. Didn’t you pick it up as your shuttle approached me?’

Ah, she thought. So it was a signal now, not just a meaningless blast of laser light. What else did he know?

‘Of course I didn’t. I was asleep until the very last moment, and the shuttle wasn’t programmed to watch for anything other than in-system transmissions. Interstellar communications are blue-shifted out of the usual frequency bands. What was the blue shift, Captain?’

‘Modest, Ilia ... ten per cent of light. Just enough to shift it out of the expected frequency band.’

She did the sums. Ten per cent of light . . . a lighthugger couldn’t slow down from that kind of speed in much less than thirty days. Even if a starship was breaking into the system, she still had half a month before it would arrive. It wasn’t much of a breathing space, but it was a lot better than finding out they were mere days away.

‘Captain? The signal must be an automated transmission locked on repeat, or they wouldn’t have kept up it up for so long. Patch it through to my suit. Immediately.’

‘Yes, Ilia. And the cache weapons? Shall I abandon the deployment? ’

‘Yes . . .’ she started saying, before correcting herself. ‘No. No! Nothing changes. Keep deploying the fucking things - it’ll still take hours to get all eight of them outside. You heard what I said before, didn’t you? I want your mass screening them from the Inhibitors.’

‘What about the source of the signal, Ilia?’

Had the option been available to her, she would have kicked part of him then. But she was floating far from anything kickable. ‘Just play the fucking thing.’

Her faceplate opaqued, blanking out the view of the cache chamber. For a moment she stared into a dimensionless sea of white. Then a scene formed, a slow dissolve into an interior. She appeared to be standing at one end of a long austerely furnished room, with a black table between her and the three people at the table’s far end. The table was a wedge of pure darkness.

‘Hello,’ said the only human male among the three. ‘My name is Nevil Clavain, and I believe you have something I want.’

At first glance he appeared to be an extension of the table. His clothes were the same unreflective black, so that only his hands and head loomed out of the shadows. His fingers were laced neatly in front of him. Ropelike veins curled across the backs of his hands. His beard and hair were white, his face notched here and there by crevasses of extreme shadow.

‘He means the devices inside your ship,’ said the person sitting next to Clavain. She was a very young-looking woman who wore a similarly black quasi-uniform. Volyova struggled with her accent, thinking it sounded like one of the local Yellowstone dialects. ‘We know you have thirty-three of them. We have a permanent fix on their diagnostic signatures, so don’t even think of bluffing.’

‘It won’t work,’ said the third speaker, who was a pig. ‘We are very determined, you see. We captured this ship, when they said it couldn’t be done. We’ve even given the Conjoiners a bloody nose. We’ve come a long way to get what we want and we won’t be going home empty-handed.’ As he spoke he reinforced his points with downward swipes of one trotterlike hand.

Clavain, the first speaker, leaned forward. ‘Scorpio’s right. We have the technical means to repossess the weapons. The question is, do you have the good sense to hand them over without a fight?’

Volyova felt as if Clavain was waiting for her to answer. The urge to say something even though she knew this was not a real-time message was almost overwhelming. She began to speak, knowing that the suit could capture whatever she was saying and uplink it back to the intruding ship. There would be a hell of a turnaround on the signal, though: three days out, at the very least, which meant she could not expect a reply for a week.

But Clavain was speaking again. ‘Let’s not be too dogmatic, however. I appreciate you have local difficulties. We’ve seen the activity in your system, and we understand how it might give cause for concern. But that doesn’t change our immediate objective. We want those weapons ready to be handed over as soon as we break into circumstellar space. No tricks, no delays. That isn’t negotiable. But we can discuss the details, and the benefits of mutual co-operation. ’

‘Not when you’re half a month out, you can’t,’ Volyova whispered.

‘We will arrive shortly,’ Clavain said. ‘Perhaps sooner than you expect. But for now we’re outside efficient communications range. We will continue transmitting this message until we arrive. In the meantime, to facilitate negotiations I have prepared a beta-level copy of myself. I am sure you are familiar with the necessary simulation protocols. If not, we can also supply technical documentation. Otherwise, you can proceed to a full and immediate installation. By the time this message has cycled one thousand times, you will have all the data you need to implement my beta-level.’ Clavain smiled reasonably, spreading his hands in a gesture of openness. ‘Please, will you consider it? We will of course make any reciprocal arrangements for your own beta-level, should you wish to uplink a negotiating proxy. We await your reaction with interest. This is Nevil Clavain, for Zodiacal Light, signing off.’

Ilia Volyova swore to herself. ‘Of course we’re familiar with the fucking protocols, you patronising git.’

The message had cycled more than a thousand times, which meant that the necessary data to implement the beta-level had already been recorded.

‘Did you get that, Captain?’ she asked.

‘Yes, Ilia.’

‘Scrub the beta-level, will you? Check it for any nasties. Then find a way to implement it.’

‘Even if it contained some kind of military virus, Ilia, I doubt very much that it would harm me in my present state. It would be a little like a man with advanced leprosy worrying about a mild skin complaint, or the captain of a sinking ship concerning himself with a minor incident of woodworm, or . . .’

‘Yes, I get the point, thank you. But do it anyway. I want to talk to Clavain. Face to face.’

She reached up and de-opaqued her faceplate just in time to see the next cache weapon commence its crawl towards space. She was furious beyond words. It was not simply the fact that the newcomers had arrived so unexpectedly, or made such awkward and specific demands. It was the way the Captain appeared to have gone out of his way to conceal the whole business from her.

She did not know what he was playing at, but she did not like it at all.

Volyova took a step back from the servitor.

‘Start,’ she said, not without a little wariness.

The beta-level had conformed to the usual protocols, backwardly compatible with all major simulation systems since the mid Belle Époque. It also revealed itself to be free of any contaminating viruses, either deliberate or accidental. Volyova still did not trust it, so she spent another half-day verifying the fact that the simulation had not, in some exceedingly devious way, managed to infiltrate and modify her virus filters. It appeared that it had not, but she still did her best to make sure it was isolated from as much of the ship’s control network as possible.

The Captain, of course, was entirely correct: he was, in all major respects, now the ship. What attacked the ship attacked him. And since he had become the ship thanks to his own takeover by a super-adapted alien plague, it appeared highly unlikely that anything of merely human origin would be able to piggyback its way into him. He had already been stormed and corrupted by an expert invader.

Abruptly, the servitor moved. It took a step back from her, almost toppling before it righted itself. Dual camera-eyes looked in different directions and then snapped into binocular mode, locking on to her. Mechanical irises snicked open and shut. The machine took another step, towards her this time.

She raised a hand. ‘Halt.’

She had installed the beta-level into one of the ship’s few fully androform machines. The servitor was a skeletal assemblage of parts, all spindly openwork. She felt no sense of threat in its vicinity, or at least no rational sense of threat, since she was physically stronger and more robust than the machine.

‘Talk to me,’ she said. ‘Are you properly installed?’

The machine’s voice box buzzed like a trapped fly. ‘I am a beta-level simulation of Nevil Clavain.’

‘Good. Who am I?’

‘I don’t know. You haven’t introduced yourself.’

‘I am Triumvir Ilia Volyova,’ she said. ‘This is my ship, Nostalgia for Infinity. I’ve installed you in one of our general-mech servitors. It’s a frail machine, deliberately so, so don’t think of trying any monkey business. You’re wired for self-destruct, but even if that wasn’t the case I could rip you apart with my fingers.’

‘Monkey business is the last thing on my mind, Triumvir. Or Ilia. What shall I call you?’

‘Sir. This is my turf now.’

It appeared not have heard her. ‘Did you arrange for your own beta-level to be transmitted to Zodiacal Light, Ilia?’

‘What’s it to you if I did?’

‘I’m curious, that’s all. There’d be a pleasing symmetry if we were both represented by our respective beta-levels, wouldn’t there?’

‘I don’t trust beta-levels. And I don’t see the point, either.’

Clavain’s servitor looked around, its dual eyes clicking and whirring. She had activated it in a relatively normal part of the ship - the Captain’s transformations were very mild here - but she supposed she had become accustomed to surroundings that were still quite odd by the usual criteria. Arcs of hardened, glistening plague-matter spanned the chamber like whale ribs. They were slick with chemical secretions. Her booted feet sloshed through inches of foul black effluent.

‘You were saying?’ she prompted.

The machine snapped its attention back on to her. ‘Using beta-levels makes perfect sense, Ilia. Our two ships are out of effective communication range now, but they’re getting closer. The beta-levels can speed up the whole negotiation process, establishing the ground rules, if you like. When the ships are closer the betas can download their experiences. Our flesh progenitors can review what has been discussed and take appropriate decisions much more rapidly than would otherwise be possible.’

‘You sound plausible, but all I’m talking to is a set of algorithmic responses; a predictive model for how the real Clavain would respond in a similar situation.’

The servitor made itself shrug. ‘And your point is?’

‘I’ve no guarantee that this is exactly how Clavain really would respond, were he standing here.’

‘Ah, that old fallacy. You sound like Galiana. The fact is, the real Clavain might respond differently in any number of instances where he was presented with the same stimuli. So you lose nothing by dealing with a beta-level.’ The machine lifted up one of its skeletal arms, peering at her through the hollow spaces between the arm’s struts and wires. ‘You realise this won’t help matters, though?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Putting me in a body like this, something so obviously mechanical. And this voice ... it’s not me, not me at all. You saw the transmission. This just doesn’t do me justice, does it? I actually have a slight lisp. Even play it up sometimes. I suppose you could say it’s part of my character.’

‘I told you already . . .’

‘Here’s what I suggest, Ilia. Allow the machine to access your implants, will you, so that it can map a perceptual ghost into your visual/auditory field.’

She felt oddly defensive. ‘I have no implants, Clavain.’

The buzzing voice sounded astonished. ‘But you’re an Ultra.’

‘Yes, but I’m also brezgatnik. I’ve never had implants, not even before the plague.’

‘I thought I understood Ultras,’ Clavain’s beta-level said thoughtfully. ‘You surprise me, I admit. But you must have some way of viewing projected information, surely, when a hologram won’t work?’

‘I have goggles,’ she admitted.

‘Fetch them. It will make life a lot easier, I assure you.’

She did not like being told what to do by the beta-level, but she was prepared to admit that its suggestion made sense. She had another servitor bring her the goggles and an earpiece. She slipped the ensemble on, and then allowed the beta-level to modify the view she saw through the goggles. The spindly robot was edited out of her visual field and replaced by an image of Clavain, much as she had seen him during the transmission. The illusion was not perfect, which was a useful reminder that she was not dealing with a flesh-and-blood human. But on the whole it was a great improvement on the servitor.

‘There,’ Clavain’s real voice said in her ear. ‘Now we can do business. I’ve asked already, but will you consider uplinking a beta-level of yourself to Zodiacal Light?’

He had her in a spot. She did not want to admit that she had no provision for such a thing; that would really have made her look odd.

‘I’ll consider it. In the meantime, Clavain, let’s get this little chat over with, shall we?’ Volyova smiled. ‘You caught me in the middle of something.’

Clavain’s image smiled back. ‘Nothing too serious, I hope.’

Even while she busied herself with the servitor, she continued the operation to deploy the cache weapons. She had told the Captain that she did not want him to make his presence known while the servitor was on, so his only means of speaking to her was through the same earpiece. He, in turn, was able to read her subvocal communications.

‘I don’t want Clavain learning any more than he has to,’ she had told the Captain. ‘Especially about you, and what’s happened to this ship.’

‘Why should Clavain learn anything? If the beta-level discovers something we don’t want it to know, we’ll just kill it.’

‘Clavain will ask questions later.’

‘If there is a later,’ the Captain had said.

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning . . . we aren’t intending to negotiate, are we?’

She escorted the servitor through the ship to the bridge, doing her best to pick a route that took her through the least strange parts of the interior. She observed the beta-level taking in its surroundings, obviously aware that something peculiar had happened to the ship. Yet it did not ask her any questions directly related to the plague transformations. It was, frankly, a lost battle in any case. The approaching ship would soon have the necessary resolution to glimpse Infinity for itself, and then it would learn of the baroque external transformations.

‘Ilia,’ Clavain’s voice said. ‘Let’s not beat about the bush. We want the thirty-three items now in your possession, and we want them very badly. Do you admit knowledge of the items in question?’

‘It would be a tiny bit implausible to deny it, I think.’

‘Good.’ Clavain’s image nodded emphatically. ‘That’s progress. At least we’re clear that the items exist.’

Volyova shrugged. ‘So if we’re not going to beat about the bush, why don’t we call them what they are? They’re weapons, Clavain. You know it. I know it. They know it, in all likelihood.’

She slipped her goggles off for a moment. Clavain’s servitor strode around the room, its movements almost but not quite fluidly human. She replaced the goggles, and the overlaid image moved with the same puppetlike strides.

‘I like you better already, Ilia. Yes, they’re weapons. Very old weapons, of rather obscure origin.’

‘Don’t bullshit me, Clavain. If you know about the weapons, you probably have just as much idea as me about who made them, maybe more. Well, here’s my guess: I think the Conjoiners made them. What do you say to that?’

‘You’re warm, I’ll give you that.’

‘Warm?’

‘Hot. Very hot, as it happens.’

‘Start telling me what the hell this is all about, Clavain. If they’re Conjoiner weapons, how have you only just found out about them?’

‘They emit tracer signals, Ilia. We homed in on them.’

‘But you’re not Conjoiners.’

‘No . . .’ Clavain conceded this point with a sweep of one arm, neatly synchronised with the servitor. ‘But I’ll be honest with you, if only because it might help swing the negotiations in my favour. The Conjoiners do want those weapons back. And they’re on their way here as well. As a matter of fact, there’s a whole fleet of heavily armed Conjoiner vessels immediately behind Zodiacal Light.’

She remembered what the pig, Scorpio, had said about Clavain’s crew bloodying the noses of the spiders. ‘Why tell me this?’ Volyova said.

‘It alarms you, I see. I don’t blame you for that. I’d be alarmed, too.’ The image scratched its beard. ‘That’s why you should consider negotiating with me first. Let me take the weapons off your hands. I’ll deal with the Conjoiners.’

‘Why do you think you’d have any more luck than me, Clavain?’

‘Couple of reasons, Ilia. One, I’ve already outsmarted them on a few occasions. Two, and perhaps more pertinent, until very recently I was one.’

The Captain whispered in her ear. ‘I’ve done a check, Ilia. There was a Nevil Clavain with Conjoiner connections.’

Volyova addressed Clavain. ‘And you think that would make a difference, Clavain?’

He nodded. ‘The Conjoiners aren’t vindictive. They’ll leave you alone if you have nothing to offer them. If you still have the weapons, however, they’ll take you apart.’

‘There’s a small flaw in your thinking,’ Volyova said. ‘If I had the weapons, wouldn’t I be the one doing the taking apart?’

Clavain winked at her. ‘Know how to use them that well, do you?’

‘I have some experience.’

‘No, you don’t. You’ve barely switched the bloody things on, Ilia. If you had, we’d have detected them centuries ago. Don’t overestimate your familiarity with technologies you barely understand. It could be your undoing.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that, won’t I?’

Clavain - she had to stop thinking of it as Clavain - scratched his beard again. ‘I didn’t mean to offend. But the weapons are dangerous. I’m quite sincere in my suggestion that you hand them over now and let me worry about them.’

‘And if I say no?’

‘We’ll do just what we promised: take them by force.’

‘Look up, Clavain, will you? I want to show you something. You alluded to some knowledge of it before, but I want you to be completely certain of the facts.’

She had programmed the display sphere to come alive at that moment, filled with an enlargement of the dismantled world. The cloud of matter was curdled and torn, flecked by dense nodes of aggregating matter. But the trumpetlike object growing at its heart was ten times larger than any other structure, and now appeared almost fully formed. Although it was difficult for her sensors to see with any clarity through the megatonnes of matter that still lay along the line of sight, there was a suggestion of immense complexity, a bewildering accretion of lacy detail, from a scale of many hundreds of kilometres across to the limit of her scanning resolution. The machinery had a muscular, organic look, knotted and swollen with gristle, sinews and glandular nodes. It did not look like anything a human imagination would have produced by design. And even now layers of matter were being added to the titanic machine: she could see the density streams where mass flows were still taking place. But the thing looked worrying close to being finished.

‘Have you seen much of that before now, Clavain?’ she asked.

‘A little. Not as clearly as this.’

‘What did you make of it?’

‘Why don’t you tell me what you’ve made of it first, Ilia?’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘I came to the obvious conclusion, Clavain. I watched three small worlds get ripped apart by machines, before

they moved on to this one. They’re alien. They were drawn here by something Dan Sylveste did.’

‘Yes. We assumed he had something to do with it. We know about these machines, too - at least, we’ve had our suspicions that they exist.’

‘Who is “we”, exactly?’ she asked.

‘The Conjoiners, I mean. I only defected recently.’ He paused before continuing. ‘A few centuries ago, we launched expeditions into deep interstellar space, much further out than anything achieved by any other human faction. Those expeditions encountered the machines. We codenamed them wolves, but I think we can assume we’re seeing essentially the same entities here.’

‘They have no name for themselves,’ Volyova said. ‘But we call them the Inhibitors. It’s the name they gained during their heyday.’

‘You learned all that from observation?’

‘No,’ Volyova said. ‘Not as such.’

She was telling him too much, she thought. But Clavain was so persuasive that she could almost not help herself. Before very long, if she were not careful, she would have told him everything about what had happened around Hades: how Khouri had been given a glimpse into the galaxy’s dark prehuman history, endless chapters of extinction and war stretching back to the dawn of sentient life itself ...

There were things she was prepared to discuss with Clavain, and there were things she would rather keep to herself, for now.

‘You’re a woman of mystery, Ilia Volyova.’

‘I’m also a woman with a lot of work to do, Clavain.’ She made the sphere zoom in on the burgeoning machine. ‘The Inhibitors are building a weapon. I have strong suspicions that it will be used to trigger some kind of cataclysmic stellar event. They triggered a flare to wipe out the Amarantin, but I think this will be different - much larger and probably more terminal. And I simply cannot allow it to happen. There are two hundred thousand people on Resurgam, and they will all die if that weapon is used.’

‘I sympathise, believe me.’

‘Then you’ll understand that I won’t be handing over any weapons, now or at any point in the future.’

For the first time Clavain appeared exasperated. He rubbed a hand through his shock of hair, bristling it into a mess of jagged white spikes. ‘Give me the weapons and I’ll see that they’re used against the wolves. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing,’ she said cheerfully. ‘Except that I don’t believe you. And if these weapons are as potent as you say, I’m not sure I’m willing to hand them over to any other party. We’ve looked after them for centuries, after all. No harm was done. I’d say that puts us in rather a good light, wouldn’t you? We’ve been responsible custodians. It would be quite cavalier of us to let any old bunch of rogues get their hands on them now, wouldn’t it?’ She smiled. ‘Especially as you admit that you’re not the rightful owners, Clavain.’

‘You’ll regret dealing with the Conjoiners, Ilia.’

‘Mm. But at least I’ll be dealing with a legitimate faction.’

Clavain pushed the fingers of his right hand against his brow, like someone fighting a migraine. ‘No, you won’t be. Not in the sense you think. They only want the weapons so they can scuttle off into deep space with them.’

‘And I suppose you have some vastly more magnanimous use in mind?’

Clavain nodded. ‘I do, as a matter of fact. I want to put them back into the hands of the human race. Demarchists . . . Ultras . . . Scorpio’s army ... I don’t care who takes them over, so long as they convince me that they’ll do the right thing with them.’

‘Which is?’

‘Fight the wolves. They’re coming closer. The Conjoiners knew it, and what’s happening here proves it. The next few centuries are going to be very interesting, Ilia.’

‘Interesting?’ she repeated.

‘Yes. But not in quite the way we’d wish.’

She switched the beta-level off for the time being. The image of Clavain shattered into speckles and then faded away, leaving only the skeletal shape of the servitor where he had been standing. The transition was quite jarring: she had felt a palpable sense of being in his presence.

‘Ilia?’ It was the Captain. ‘We’re ready now. The last cache weapon is outside the hull.’

She tugged the earpiece out and spoke normally. ‘Good. Anything to report?’

‘Nothing major. Five weapons deployed without incident. Of the remaining three, I noted a transient anomaly with the propulsion harness of weapon six, and an intermittent fault with the guidance subsystems of weapons fourteen and twenty-three. Neither has recurred since deployment.’

She lit a cigarette and smoked a quarter of it before answering. ‘That doesn’t sound like nothing major to me.’

‘I’m sure the faults won’t happen again,’ boomed the Captain’s voice. ‘The electromagnetic environment of the cache chamber is quite different from that beyond the hull. The transition probably caused some confusion, that’s all. The weapons will settle down now that they’re outside.’

‘Make a shuttle ready, please.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘You heard me. I’m going outside to check on the weapons.’ She stamped her feet, waiting for his answer.

‘There’s no need for that, Ilia. I can monitor the wellbeing of the weapons perfectly well.’

‘You may be able to control them, Captain, but you don’t know them as well as I do.’

‘Ilia ...’

‘I won’t need a large shuttle. I’d even consider taking a suit, but I can’t smoke in one of those things.’

The Captain’s sigh was like the collapse of a distant building. ‘Very well, Ilia. I’ll have a shuttle ready for you. You’ll take care, won’t you? You can keep to the side of the ship that the Inhibitors can’t see, if you’re careful.’

‘They’re a long way from taking any notice of us. That isn’t about to change in the next five minutes.’

‘But you appreciate my concern.’

Did the Captain really care for her? She was not certain that she really believed it. Granted, he might be a little lonely out here, and she was his only chance of human companionship. But she was also the woman who had exposed his crime and punished him with this transformation. His feelings towards her were bound to be a little on the complex side.

She had finished enough of the cigarette. On a whim she inserted the butt-end into the wirework head assembly of the servitor, jamming it between two thin metal spars. The tip burned dull orange.

‘Filthy habit,’ Ilia Volyova said.

She took the two-seater snake-headed shuttle that Khouri and Thorn had used to explore the Inhibitor workings around the former gas giant. The Captain had already warmed the craft and presented it to an air lock. The craft had sustained some minor damage during the encounter with the Inhibitor machinery inside Roc’s atmosphere, but most of it had been easy to repair from existing component stocks. The defects that remained certainly did not prevent the shuttle being used for short-range work like this.

She settled into the command seat and assayed the avionics display. The Captain had done a very good job: even the fuel tanks were brimming, although she would not be taking the ship more than a few hundred metres out.

Something nagged at the back of her mind, a feeling she could not quite put her finger on.

She took the shuttle outside, transiting through the armoured doors until she reached naked space. She exited near the much larger aperture where the cache weapons had emerged. The weapons themselves had vanished around the mountainous curve of the great ship’s hull, out of the Inhibitors’ line of sight. Volyova followed the same path, watching the nebulous mass of the shredded planet fall beneath the sharp horizon of the hull.

The eight cache weapons came into view, lurking like monsters. They were all different, but had clearly been shaped by the same governing intellects. She had always suspected that the builders were the Conjoiners, but it was unsettling to have this confirmed by Clavain. She saw no reason for him to have lied. Why, though, had the Conjoiners brought into existence such atrocious tools? It could only have been because they had some intention, at some point, of using them. Volyova wondered whether the intended target had been humanity.

Around each weapon was a harness of girders to which were attached steering rockets and aiming subsystems, as well as a small number of defensive armaments, purely to protect the weapons themselves. The harnesses were able to move the weapons around, and in principle they could have positioned them anywhere within the system, but they were too slow for her requirements. Instead, she had lately fastened sixty-four tug rockets on to the harnesses, eight apiece, positioned at opposing corners of each weapon’s frame. It would take fewer than thirty days to move the eight weapons to the other side of the system.

She nosed the shuttle towards the group of weapons. The weapons, sensing her approach, shifted their positions. She slid through them, then banked, circled and slowed, examining the specific weapons that the Captain had reported difficulties with. Diagnostic summaries, terse but efficient, scrolled on to her wrist bracelet. She called up each weapon, paying meticulous attention to what she saw.

Something was wrong.

Or rather, something was not wrong. There appeared to be nothing the matter with any of the eight weapons.

She felt again that prickly sense of wrongness, the sense that she had been steered into doing something which only felt as if it had been her choice. The weapons were perfectly healthy; indeed, there was no evidence that there had been any faults at all, transient or otherwise. But that could only mean that the Captain had lied to her: that he had reported problems where none existed.

She composed herself. If only she had not taken him at his word, but had checked for herself before leaving the ship ...

‘Captain ...’ she said hesitantly.

‘Yes, Ilia?’

‘Captain, I’m getting some funny readings here. The weapons all appear to be healthy, no problems at all.’

‘I’m quite sure there were transient errors, Ilia.’

‘Are you?’

‘Yes.’ But he did not sound so convinced of himself. ‘Yes, Ilia, quite sure. Why would I have reported them otherwise?’

‘I don’t know. Perhaps because you wanted to get me outside the ship for some reason?’

‘Why would I have wanted to do that, Ilia?’ He sounded affronted, but not quite as affronted as she would have liked.

‘I don’t know. But I have a horrible feeling I’m about to find out.’ She watched one of the cache weapons - it was weapon thirty-one, the quintessence-force weapon - detach from the group. It slid sideways spouting bright sparks from its steering jets, the smooth movement belying the enormous mass of machinery that was being shunted so effortlessly. She examined her bracelet. Gyroscopes spun up, shifting the harness about its centre of gravity. Ponderously, like a great iron finger moving to point at the accused, the enormous weapon was selecting its target.

It was swinging back towards Nostalgia for Infinity.

Belatedly, stupidly, cursing herself, Ilia Volyova understood precisely what was happening.

The Captain was trying to kill himself.

She should have seen it coming. His emergence from the catatonic state had only ever been a ploy. He must have had it in mind all along to end himself, to finally terminate whatever extreme state of misery he found himself in. And she had given him the ideal means. She had begged him to let her use the cache weapons, and he had - too easily, she now saw - obliged.

‘Captain . . .’

‘I’m sorry, Ilia, but I have to do this.’

‘No. You don’t. Nothing has to be done.’

‘You don’t understand. I know you want to, and I know you think you do, but you can’t know what it is like.’

‘Captain ... listen to me. We can talk about it. Whatever it is that you feel you can’t deal with, we can discuss it.’

The weapon was slowing its rotation, its flowerlike muzzle nearly pointed at the lighthugger’s shadowed hull.

‘It’s long past the time for discussion, Ilia.’

‘We’ll find a way,’ she said desperately, not even believing herself. ‘We’ll find a way to make you as you were: human again.’

‘Don’t be silly, Ilia. You can’t unmake what I’ve become.’

‘Then we’ll find a way to make it tolerable ... to end whatever pain or discomfort you’re in. We’ll find a way to make it better than that. We can do it, Captain. There isn’t anything you and I couldn’t achieve, if we set our minds to it.’

‘I said you didn’t understand. I was right. Don’t you realise, Ilia? This isn’t about what I’ve become, or what I was. This is about what I did. It’s about the thing I can’t live with any more.’

The weapon halted. It was now pointed directly at the hull.

‘You killed a man,’ Volyova said. ‘You murdered a man and took over his body. I know. It was a crime, Captain, a terrible crime. Sajaki didn’t deserve what you did to him. But don’t you understand? The crime has already been paid for. Sajaki died twice: once with his mind in his body and once with yours. That was the punishment, and God knows he suffered for it. There isn’t any need for further atonement, Captain. It’s been done. You’ve suffered enough, as well. What happened to you would be considered justice enough by anyone. You’ve paid for that deed a thousand times over.’

‘I still remember what I did to him.’

‘Of course you do. But that doesn’t mean you have to inflict this on yourself now.’ She glanced at the bracelet. The weapon was powering up, she observed. In a moment it would be ready for use.

‘I do, Ilia. I do. This isn’t some whim, you realise. I have planned this moment for much longer than you can conceive. Through all our conversations, it was always my intention to end myself.’

‘You could have done it while I was down on Resurgam. Why now?’

‘Why now?’ She heard what could almost have been a laugh. It was a horrid, gallows laugh, if that was the case. ‘Isn’t it obvious, Ilia? What good is an act of justice if there isn’t a witness to see it executed?’

Her bracelet informed her that the weapon had reached attack readiness. ‘You wanted me to see this happen?’

‘Of course. You were always special, Ilia. My best friend; the only one who talked to me when I was ill. The only one who understood.’

‘I also made you what you are.’

‘It was necessary. I don’t blame you for that, I really don’t.’

‘Please don’t do this. You’ll be hurting more than just yourself.’ She knew that she had to make this good; that what she said now could be crucial. ‘Captain, we need you. We need the weapons you carry, and we need you to help evacuate Resurgam. If you kill yourself now, you’ll be killing two hundred thousand people. You’ll be committing a far greater crime than the one you feel the need to atone for.’

‘But that would only be a sin of omission, Ilia.’

‘Captain, I’m begging you . . . don’t do this.’

‘Steer your shuttle away, please, Ilia. I don’t want you to be harmed by what is about to happen. That was never my intention. I only wanted you as a witness, someone who would understand.’

‘I already understand! Isn’t that enough?’

‘No, Ilia.’

The weapon activated. The beam that emerged from its muzzle was invisible until it touched the hull. Then, in a gale of escaping air and ionised armour, it revealed itself flickeringly: a metre-thick shaft of scything destructive quintessence force, chewing inexorably through the ship. This, weapon thirty-one, was not one of the most devastating tools in her arsenal, but it had immense range. That was why she had selected it for use in the attack against the Inhibitors. The quintessence beam ghosted right through the ship, emerging in a similar gale on the far side. The weapon began to track, gnawing down the length of the hull.

‘Captain ...’

His voice came back. ‘I’m sorry, Ilia . . . I can’t stop now.’

He sounded in pain. It was hardly surprising, she thought. His nerve endings reached into every part of Nostalgia for Infinity. He was feeling the beam slice through him just as agonisingly as if she had begun to saw off her own arm. Again, Volyova understood. It had to be much more than just a quick, clean suicide. That would not be sufficient recompense for his crime. It had to be slow, protracted, excruciating. A martial execution, with a diligent witness who would appreciate and remember what he had inflicted upon himself.

The beam had chewed a hundred-metre-long furrow in the hull. The Captain was haemorrhaging air and fluids in the wake of the cutting beam.

‘Stop,’ she said. ‘Please, for God’s sake, stop!’

‘Let me finish this, Ilia. Please forgive me.’

‘No. I won’t allow it.’

She did not give herself time to think about what had to be done. If she had, she doubted that she would have had the courage to act. She had never considered herself a brave person, and most certainly not someone given to self-sacrifice.

Ilia Volyova steered her shuttle towards the beam, placing herself between the weapon and the fatal gash it was knifing into Nostalgia for Infinity.

‘No!’ she heard the Captain call.

But it was too late. He could not shut down the weapon in less than a second, nor steer it fast enough to bring her out of the line of fire. The shuttle collided glancingly with the beam - her aim had not been dead on - and the edge of the beam obliterated the entire right side of the shuttle. Armour, insulation, interior reinforcement, pressure membrane - everything wafted away in an instant of ruthless annihilation. Volyova had a moment to realise that she had missed the precise centre of the beam, and another instant to realise that it did not really matter.

She was going to die anyway.

Her vision fogged. There was a shocking, sudden cold in her windpipe, as if someone had poured liquid helium down her throat. She attempted to take a breath and the cold rammed into her lungs. There was an awful feeling of granite solidity in her chest. Her interior organs were shock freezing.

She opened her mouth, attempting to speak, to make one final utterance. It seemed the appropriate thing to do.

THIRTY-ONE

‘Why, Wolf?’ Felka asked.

They were meeting alone on the same iron-grey, silver-skied expanse of rockpools where she had, at Skade’s insistence, already encountered the Wolf. Now she was dreaming lucidly; she was back on Clavain’s ship and Skade was dead, and yet the Wolf seemed no less real than it had before. The Wolf’s shape lingered just beyond clarity, like a column of smoke that occasionally fell into a mocking approximation of human form.

‘Why what?’

‘Why do you hate life so much?’

‘I don’t. We don’t. We only do what we must.’

Felka kneeled on the rock, surrounded by animal parts. She understood that the presence of the wolves explained one of the great cosmic mysteries, a paradox that had haunted human minds since the dawn of spaceflight. The galaxy teemed with stars, and around many of those stars were worlds. It was true that not all of those worlds were the right distance from their suns to kindle life, and not all had the right fractions of metals to allow complex carbon chemistry. Sometimes the stars were not stable enough for life to gain a toehold. But none of that mattered, since there were hundreds of billions of stars. Only a tiny fraction had to be habitable for there to be a shocking abundance of life in the galaxy.

But there was no evidence that intelligent life had ever spread from star to star, despite the fact that it was relatively easy to do. Looking out into the night sky, human philosophers had concluded that intelligent life must be vanishingly rare; that perhaps the human species was the only sentient culture in the galaxy.

They were wrong, but they did not discover this until the dawn of interstellar society. Then, expeditions started finding evidence of fallen cultures, ruined worlds, extinct species. There were an uncomfortably large number of them.

It was not that intelligent life was rare, it seemed, but that intelligent life was very, very prone to becoming extinct. Almost as if something was deliberately wiping it out.

The wolves were the missing element in the puzzle, the agency responsible for the extinctions. Implacable, infinitely patient machines, they homed in on the signs of intelligence and enacted a terrible, crushing penalty. Hence, a lonely, silent galaxy, patrolled only by watchful machine sentries.

That was the answer. But it did not explain why they did it.

‘But why?’ she asked the Wolf. ‘It doesn’t make any sense to act the way you do. If you hate life so much, why not end it once and for all?’

‘For good?’ The Wolf appeared amused, curious about her speculations.

‘You could poison every world in the galaxy or smash every world apart. It’s as if you don’t have the courage to finally finish life for good.’

There was a slow, avalanche-like sigh of pebbles. ‘It isn’t about ending intelligent life,’ the Wolf said.

‘No?’

‘It is about the exact opposite, Felka. It is about life’s preservation. We are life’s keepers, steering life through its greatest crisis.’

‘But you murder. You kill entire cultures.’

The Wolf shifted in and out of vision. Its voice, when it answered, was tauntingly similar to Galiana’s. ‘Sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind, Felka.’

No one saw much of Clavain after Galiana’s death. There was an unspoken understanding amongst his crew, one that percolated right down through to the lowliest ranks of Scorpio’s army, that he was not to be disturbed by anything except the gravest of problems: matters of extreme shipwide urgency, nothing less. It remained unclear whether this edict had come from Clavain himself, or was simply something that had been assumed by his immediate deputies. Very probably it was a combination of the two. He became a shadowy figure, occasionally seen but seldom heard, a ghost stalking Zodiacal Light’s corridors in the hours when the rest of the ship was asleep. Occasionally, when the ship was under high gravity, they heard the rhythmic thump, thump, thump of his exoskeleton on the deck plates as he traversed a corridor above them. But Clavain himself was an elusive figure.

It was said that he spent long hours in the observation cupola, staring into the blackness behind them, transfixed by the starless wake. Those who saw him remarked that he looked much older than at the start of the voyage, as if in some way he remained anchored to the faster flow of world-time, rather than the dilated time that passed aboard the ship. It was said that he looked like a man who had given up on the living, and was now only going through the burdensome motions of completing some final duty.

It was recognised, without the details necessarily being understood, that Clavain had been forced into making a dreadful personal decision. Some of the crewmembers grasped that Galiana had already ‘died’ long before, and that what had happened now was only the drawing of a line beneath that event. But it was, as others appreciated, much worse than that. Galiana’s earlier death had only ever been provisional. The Conjoiners had kept her frozen, thinking that she could at some point be cleansed of the Wolf. The likelihood of that happening must have been small, but at the back of Clavain’s mind there must have remained the ghost of a hope that the Galiana he had loved since that ancient meeting on Mars could be brought back to him, healed and renewed. But now he had personally removed that possibility for ever. It was said that a large factor in his decision had been Felka’s persuasion, but it was still Clavain who had made the final choice; it was he who carried the blood of that merciful execution on his hands.

Clavain’s withdrawal was less serious to ship affairs than it might have appeared; he had already abrogated much of the responsibility to others, so that the battle preparations continued smoothly and efficiently without his day-to-day intervention. Mechanical production lines were now running at full capacity, spewing out weapons and armour. Zodiacal Light’s hull bristled with antiship armaments. As training regimes honed the battalions of Scorpio’s army into savagely efficient units, they began to realise how much their previous successes had been down to good fortune, but that would certainly not be the case in the future. They might fail, but it would not be because of any lack of tactical preparation or discipline.

With Skade’s ship destroyed, they had less need to worry about an attack while they were en route. Deep-look scans confirmed that there were other Conjoiner ships behind them, but they could only match Zodiacal Light’s acceleration, not exceed it. It appeared that no one was willing to attempt another state-four transition after what had happened to Nightshade.

Halfway to Resurgam, the ship had switched into deceleration mode, thrusting in the direction of flight, which immediately made it a harder target for the pursuing craft since they no longer had a relativistically boosted exhaust beam to lock on to. The risk of attack had dropped even further, leaving the crew free to concentrate on the mission’s primary objective. Data from the approaching system became steadily more comprehensive, too, focusing minds on the specifics of the recovery operation.

It was clear that something very odd was happening around Delta Pavonis. Scans of the planetary system showed the inexplicable omission of three moderately large terrestrial bodies, as if they had simply been deleted from existence. More worrying still was what had replaced the system’s major gas giant: only a remnant of the giant’s metallic core now remained, enveloped in a skein of liberated matter many dozens of times wider than the original planet. There were hints of an immense mechanism that had been used to spin the planet apart: arcs and cusps and coils that were in the process of being dismantled and retransformed into new machinery. And at the heart of the cloud was something even larger than those subsidiary components: a two-thousand-kilometre-wide engine that could not possibly be of human origin.

Remontoire had helped Clavain build sensors to pick up the neutrino signatures of the hell-class weapons. As they had neared the system they had established that thirty-three of the weapons were in essentially the same place, while six more were dormant, waiting in a wide orbit around the neutron star Hades. One weapon was unaccounted for, but Clavain had known about that before he left the Mother Nest. More detailed scans, which became possible only when they had slowed to within a quarter of a light-year of their destination, showed that the thirty-three weapons were almost certainly aboard a ship of the same basic type as Zodiacal Light, probably stuffed into a major storage bay. The ship - it had to be the Triumvir’s vessel, Nostalgia for Infinity - hovered in interplanetary space, orbiting Delta Pavonis at the Lagrange point between the star and Resurgam.

Now, finally, they had some measure of their adversary. But what of Resurgam itself? There was no radio or other EM-band traffic coming from the system’s sole inhabited planet, but the colony had clearly not failed. Analysis of the atmosphere’s constituent gases revealed ongoing terraforming activity, with sizeable expanses of water now visible on the surface. The icecaps had withered back towards the poles. The air was warmer and wetter than it had been in nearly a million years. The infra-red signatures of surface flora matched the patterns expected from terran genestock, modified for cold, dry, low-oxygen survivability. Hot thermal blotches showed the sites of large brute-force atmospheric reprocessors. Refined metals indicated intense surface industrialisation. At extreme magnification, there were even the suggestions of roads or pipelines, and the occasional moving echo of a fat transatmospheric cargo vehicle, like a dirigible. The planet was certainly inhabited, even now. But whoever was down there was not much interested in communicating with the outside world.

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Scorpio told Clavain. ‘You came here to take the weapons, that’s all. There’s no need to make this any more complicated than it has to be.’

Clavain had been alone until the pig had visited him. ‘Just deal with the starship, is that it?’

‘We can start negotiations immediately if we transmit a beta-level proxy. They can have the weapons ready for us when we arrive. Nice quick turnaround and we’re away. The other ships won’t even have reached the system.’

‘Nothing’s ever that easy, Scorp.’ Clavain spoke with morose resignation, his eyes focused on the starfield beyond the window.

‘You don’t think negotiation will work? Fine. We’ll skip it and just come in with all guns blazing.’

‘In which case we’d better hope they don’t know how to use the hell-class weapons. Because if it comes to a straight fight, we won’t have a snowball’s chance.’

‘I thought that Volyova turning the weapons against us wasn’t going to be a problem.’

Clavain turned from the window. ‘Remontoire can’t promise me that our pacification codes will work. And if we test them too soon we give Volyova time to find a workaround. If such a thing exists, I’m pretty sure she’ll find it.’

‘Then we keep trying negotiation,’ Scorpio said. ‘Send the proxy, Clavain. It will buy us time and cost us nothing.’

The man did not answer him directly. ‘Do you think they understand what’s happening to their system, Scorpio?’

Scorpio blinked. Sometimes he had difficulty following the swerves and evasions of Clavain’s moods. The man was far more ambivalent and complex than any human he had known since his time aboard the yacht.

‘Understand?’

‘That the machines are already there, already busy. If they look into the sky, surely they can’t miss what is happening. Surely they must realise that it isn’t good news.’

‘What else can they do, Clavain? You’ve read the intelligence summaries. They probably don’t have a single shuttle down there. What can they do but pretend it isn’t happening?’

‘I don’t know,’ Clavain said.

‘Let us transmit the proxy,’ Scorpio said. ‘Just to the ship, tight-beam only.’

Clavain said nothing for at least a minute. He had turned his attention back to the window, staring out into space. Scorpio wondered what he hoped to see out there. Did he imagine that he could unmake that glint of light, the one that had signalled Galiana’s end, if he tried hard enough? He had not known Clavain as long as some of the others, but he viewed Clavain as a rational man. But he supposed grief, the kind of howling, remorse-filled grief Clavain was experiencing, could smash rationality to shards. The impact of so familiar an emotion as sadness on the flow of history had never been properly accounted for, Scorpio thought. Grief and remorse, loss and pain, sadness and sorrow were at least as powerful shapers of events as anger, greed and retribution.

‘Clavain ... ?’ he prompted.

‘I never thought there’d be choices this hard,’ the man said. ‘But H was right. The hard choices are the only ones that matter. I thought defecting was the hardest thing I had ever done. I thought I would never see Felka again. But I didn’t realise how wrong I was, how trivial that decision was. It was nothing compared with what I had to do later. I killed Galiana, Scorpio. And the worst thing is that I did it willingly.’

‘But you got Felka back again. There are always consolations.’

‘Yes,’ Clavain said, sounding like a man grasping for the last crumb of comfort. ‘I got Felka back. Or at least I got someone back. But she isn’t the way I left her. She carries the Wolf herself now, just a shadow of it, it’s true, but when I speak to her I can’t be sure whether it’s Felka answering or the Wolf. No matter what happens now, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to take anything she says at face value.’

‘You cared for her enough to risk your life rescuing her. That was a difficult choice as well. But it doesn’t make you unique.’ Scorpio scratched at the upraised snout of his nose. ‘We’ve all made difficult choices around here. Look at Antoinette. I know her story, Clavain. Set out to do a good deed - burying her father the way he wanted - and she ends up entangled in a battle for the entire future of the species. Pigs, humans ... everything. I bet she didn’t have that in mind when she set out to salve her conscience. But we can’t guess where things will take us, or the harder questions that will follow on from one choice. You thought defecting would be an act in and of itself, but it was just the start of something much larger.’

Clavain sighed. Perhaps it was imagination, but Scorpio thought that he detected the slightest lightening of the man’s mood. His voice was softer when he spoke. ‘What about you, Scorpio? Did you have choices to make as well?’

‘Yeah. Whether I threw my weight in with you human sons of bitches.’

‘And the consequences?’

‘Some of you are still sons of bitches that deserve to die in the most painful and slow way I can envisage. But not all of you.’

‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

‘Take it while you can. I might change my mind tomorrow.’

Clavain sighed again, scratched his beard and then said, ‘All right. Do it. Transmit a beta-level proxy.’

‘We’ll need a statement to accompany it,’ Scorpio said. ‘A laying-down of terms, if you like.’

‘Whatever it takes, Scorp. Whatever the hell it takes.’

In their long, crushing reign, the Inhibitors had learned of fifteen distinct ways to murder a dwarf star.

Doubtless, the overseer thought to itself, there were other methods, more or less efficient, which might turn out to have been invented or used at various epochs in galactic history. The galaxy was very large, very old, and the Inhibitors’ knowledge of it was far from comprehensive. But it was a fact that no new technique for starcide had been added to their repository for four hundred and forty million years. The galaxy had finished two rotations since that last methodological update. Even by the Inhibitors’ glacial reckoning, it was quite a worryingly long time during which not to learn any new tricks.

Singing a star apart was the most recent method to be entered into the Inhibitor library of xenocide techniques, and though it had achieved that status four hundred and forty million years earlier, the overseer could not help view it with a trace of bemused curiosity. It was the way an aged butcher might view some newfangled apparatus designed to improve the productivity of an abbatoir. The current cleansing operation would provide a useful test-bed for the technique, a chance to fully evaluate it. If the overseer was not satisfied, it would leave a record in the archive recommending that future cleansing operations employ one of the fourteen older methods of starcide. But for now it would place its faith in the efficacy of the singer.

All stars already sang to themselves. The outer layers of every star rang constantly at a multitude of frequencies, like an eternally chiming bell. The great seismic modes tracked oscillations that plunged deep into the star, down to the caustic surface just above its fusing core. Those oscillations were modest in a star of dwarf type, like Delta Pavonis. But the singer tuned itself to them, swinging around the star in its equatorial rotation frame, pumping gravitational energy into the star at precisely the right resonant frequencies to enhance the oscillations. The singer was what the mammals would have called a graver, a gravitational laser.

In the heart of the singer a microscopic closed cosmic string, a tiny relic of the rapidly cooling early universe, had been tugged out of the seething foam of the quantum vacuum. The string was barely a scratch compared with the largest cosmic flaws, but it would suffice for the singer’s purposes. It was tugged and elongated like a loop of toffee, inflated with the same vacuum phase energy that the singer tapped for all its needs, until it had macroscopic size and macroscopic mass-energy density. Then the string was deftly knotted into a figure-of-eight configuration and plucked, generating a narrow cone of throbbing gravitational waves.

The oscillations increased in amplitude, slowly but surely. At the same time, chirping gravitational pulses with precision and elegance, the singer sculpted the patterns themselves, causing new vibrational modes to spring into play, enhancing some and suppressing others. The star’s rotation had already destroyed any spherical symmetry in the original oscillation modes, but the modes had still been symmetric with respect to the star’s axis of spin. Yet now the singer worked to instil more profoundly asymmetric modes in the star, focusing its efforts on a single equatorial point immediately between the singer and the star’s centre of mass. It increased its power and focus, the closed cosmic string oscillating even more vigorously. Immediately below the singer, on the outer envelope of the star, mass flows were pinched and reflected, heating and compressing surface hydrogen to near-fusion conditions. Fusion did indeed erupt in three or four concentric rings of stellar matter, but that was incidental. What mattered, what the singer intended, was that the star’s spherical envelope should begin to pucker and distort. Something like a navel was appearing in the star’s seething hot surface, an inward dimple wide enough to swallow a whole rocky world. Concentric rings of fusion, circles of searing brightness, spread out from the dimple, squalling X-rays and neutrinos into space. Still the singer continued pulsing the star with gravitational energy, the timing surgically acute, and still the dimple sank deeper, as if an invisible finger were pushing against the pliant skin of a balloon. Around the dimple the star was bulging higher into space as matter was redistributed. The matter had to go somewhere, for the singer was excavating a hole deep into the star’s interior.

It would continue until it had reached the star’s nuclear-burning core.

It was a fifteen-hour trip from Resurgam orbit to Nostalgia for Infinity and Khouri spent every minute of it in a state of extreme apprehension. It was not simply the strange and worrying thing that had started to happen to Delta Pavonis, although that was certainly a significant part of it. She had seen the Inhibitor weapon start its work, pointing like a great flared bugle at the surface of the star, and she had seen the star respond by growing a furious hot eye on its surface. Magnification showed the eye to be a zone of fusion, several zones, in fact, which surrounded a deepening pit in the star’s envelope. It was in the face of the star that was turned towards Resurgam, which did not seem likely to be accidental. And whatever the weapon was doing, it was doing it with astonishing speed. The weapon had taken so long to reach readiness that Khouri had mistakenly assumed that the final destruction of Delta Pavonis would take place on the same leisurely timescale. This was clearly not going to be the case. She would have been better thinking of an elaborate build-up to an execution, with many legal hurdles and delays, but which would conclude in a single bullet shot or killing surge of electrical current. That was how it was going to be with the star: a long, grave preparation followed by an extremely swift execution.

And they had still evacuated only two thousand people - in fact, it was far worse: they had transported two thousand people from the surface of Resurgam, but none of those had yet seen Nostalgia for Infinity, or had any idea of what they were going to find when they stepped aboard it. Khouri hoped that none of her nervousness was apparent, since the passengers were volatile enough already.

It was not simply the fact that the transfer craft was designed to take far fewer occupants, and so they were forced to endure the journey in cramped, prisonlike conditions, with the environmental systems strained to the limit just to provide sufficient air, water and refrigeration. These people were taking a tremendous risk, putting their faith in forces utterly beyond their control. The only thing holding them together was Thorn, and even Thorn appeared on the edge of nervous exhaustion. There were constant squabbles and minor crises breaking out all over the ship, and whenever they happened Thorn was there, soothing and reassuring, only to dash off somewhere else as soon as the trouble had been allayed. His charisma was being stretched butter-thin. He had not only been awake for the entire trip, but also for the day before the lift-off of the final shuttle flight and the six hours it had taken to find places for the five hundred new arrivals.

It was taking too long; Khouri could see that. There would have to be another ninety-nine flights like this before the evacuation operation was done, ninety-nine further opportunities for all hell to break loose. It might get easier once word got back to Resurgam that there was a starship at the end of the journey, rather than some diabolical government trap. On the other hand, when the precise nature of the starship became clearer things might get an awful lot worse. And there was every likelihood that the weapon would soon finish whatever it had initiated around Delta Pavonis. When that happened, every other problem would suddenly look very slight indeed.

But at least they were nearly home and dry with this trip.

The transfer ship was not designed for transatmospheric flight. She was a graceless sphere with a cluster of motors at one pole and the dimple of a flight deck at the other. The first five hundred passengers had spent many days aboard, exploring every grubby cranny of her austere interior. But at least they had had some room to spare. When the next load came up, things became a little more difficult. Food and water had to be rationed and each passenger assigned a specific cubbyhole. But it was still tolerable. Children had still been able to run around and make nuisances of themselves, and adults had still been able to find a little privacy when they needed it. Then the next shipment had come up - another five hundred - and the whole tone of the ship had changed subtly, and for the worse. Rules had to be enforced rather than politely suggested. Something very close to a miniature police state had been created aboard the ship, with a harsh scale of penalties for various crimes. So far there had been only minor infringements of the draconian new laws, but Khouri doubted that every trip would run as smoothly. Sooner or later she would probably be required to make an example of someone, for the benefit of the others.

The final five hundred had been the greatest headache. Slotting them in had resembled a fiendish puzzle: no matter how many permutations they tried, there were always fifty people still waiting on the shuttle, glumly aware that they had been reduced to irksome surplus units in a problem that would have been a great deal more tractable had they not existed.

And yet, finally, a way had been found to get everyone aboard. That part at least would be simpler next time, but the rule of discipline might have to be even stricter. The people could be allowed no rights aboard the transfer craft.

Thirteen hours out, a kind of exhausted calm fell across the ship. She met Thorn by a porthole, just out of earshot of the nearest huddle of passengers. Ashen light made his face statuelike. He looked utterly dejected, sapped of any joy in what they had achieved.

‘We’ve done it,’ she said. ‘No matter what happens now, we’ve saved two thousand lives.’

‘Have we?’ he asked, keeping his voice low.

‘They’re not going back to Resurgam, Thorn.’

They spoke like business associates, avoiding physical contact. Thorn was still a ‘guest’ of the government and there must not appear to be any ulterior motive behind his co-operation. Because of that necessary distance, an act that had to be maintained at all times aboard the shuttle, she felt the urge to sleep with him more strongly than she had ever done before. She knew that they had come very close aboard the ship after the encounter with the Inhibitor cubes in Roc’s atmosphere. But they had not done it then, and nor had they when they were on Resurgam. The erotic tension that had existed between them ever since had been thrilling and painful at the same time. Her attraction to him had never been stronger, and she knew that he wanted her at least as much. It would happen, she knew. It was just a question of accepting what she had long known she had to accept, which was that one life was over and another must begin. It was about making the choice to discard her past, and accepting - forcing herself to believe - that she was not dishonouring her husband by that act of disavowal. She just hoped that wherever he was, alive or dead now, Fazil Khouri had come to the same realisation and had found the strength to close the chapter on the part of his life that had included Ana Khouri. They had been in love, desperately in love, but the universe cared nothing for the vicissitudes of the human heart. Now they both had to follow their own paths.

Thorn touched her hand gently, the gesture hidden in the shadows that hung between them. ‘No,’ he said. ‘We’re not taking them back to Resurgam. But can we honestly say we’re taking them to a better place? What if all we’re doing is taking them to a different place to die?’

‘It’s a starship, Thorn.’

‘Yes, one which isn’t going anywhere in a hurry.’

‘Yet,’ she said.

‘I sincerely hope you’re right.’

‘Ilia made progress with the Captain,’ she said. ‘He began to come out of his shell. If she managed to persuade him to deploy the cache weapons, she can talk him into moving.’

He turned from the porthole, harsh shadows emphasising his face. ‘And then?’

‘Another system. It doesn’t matter which one. We’ll take our pick. Anything’s got to be better than staying here, hasn’t it?’

‘For a while, perhaps. But shouldn’t we at least investigate what Sylveste can do for us?’

She took her hand from his and said guardedly, ‘Sylveste? Are you serious?’

‘He took an interest in our affairs inside Roc. At the very least, something did. You recognised it as Sylveste, or a copy of his personality. And the object, whatever it was, returned to Hades.’

‘What are you suggesting?’

‘That we consider the unthinkable, Ana: seeking his help. You told me that the Hades matrix is older than the Inhibitors. It may be something stronger than them. That certainly appeared the case inside Roc. Shouldn’t we see what Sylveste has to say on the matter? He might not be able to help us directly, but he might have information we can use. He’s been in there for subjective aeons, and he’s had access to the archive of an entire starfaring culture.’

‘You don’t understand, Thorn. I thought I told you, but obviously it didn’t sink in. There’s no easy way into the Hades matrix.’

‘No, I remember that. But there is a way, even if it involves dying, isn’t there?’

‘There was another way, but there’s no guarantee it still works. Dying is the only way I know. And I’m not going there again, not in this life or the next.’

Thorn looked down, his face a mask that she found difficult to read. Was he disappointed or understanding? He had no idea what it had been like to fall towards Hades knowing that certain death awaited her. She had been resurrected once, after meeting Sylveste and Pascale, but there had been no promises that they would repeat the favour. The act itself had consumed a considerable fraction of the computational resources of the Hades object, and they - whoever were the agents that directed its endless calculations - might not sanction the same thing again. It was easy for Thorn; he had no idea what it had been like.

‘Thorn . . .’ she began.

But at that moment pink and blue light stammered across the side of his face.

Khouri frowned. ‘What was that?’

Thorn turned back towards space. ‘Lights. Flashing lights, like distant lightning. I’ve been watching them every time I walk past a porthole. They seem to lie near to the ecliptic plane, in the same half of the sky as the Inhibitor machine. They weren’t there when we left orbit. Whatever it is must have started in the last twelve hours. I don’t think it’s anything to do with the weapon itself.’

‘Then it must be our weapons,’ Khouri said. ‘Ilia must have started using them already.’

‘She said she’d give us a period of grace.’

It was true; Ilia Volyova had promised them that she would not deploy any of the cache weapons for thirty days, and that she would review her decision based on the success of the evacuation operation.

‘Something must have happened,’ Khouri said.

‘Or she lied,’ Thorn said quietly. In the shadows he took her hand again, and with one finger traced a line from her wrist to the conjunction of her middle and forefingers.

‘No. She wouldn’t have lied. Something’s happened, Thorn. There’s been a change of plan.’

It came out of the darkness two hours later. There was nothing that could be done to prevent some of the occupants of the transfer craft from seeing Nostalgia for Infinity from the outside, so all Khouri and Thorn could do was wait and hope that the reaction was not too extreme. Khouri had wanted to slide baffles across the portholes - the ship was of too old a design for the portholes to be simply sphinctered out of existence - but Thorn had warned her that she should do nothing that implied that the view was in any way odd or troublesome.

He whispered, ‘It may not be as bad as you expect. You know what a lighthugger’s meant to look like, and so the ship disturbs you because the Captain’s transformations have turned it into something monstrous. But most of the people we’re carrying were born on Resurgam. Most of them haven’t ever seen a starship, or even any images of what one should look like. They have a very vague idea based on the old records and the space operas they’ve been fed by Broadcasting House. Nostalgia for Infinity may strike them as a bit ... unusual ... but they won’t necessarily jump to the conclusion that she’s a plague ship.’

‘And when they get aboard?’ Khouri asked.

‘Now that might be a different story.’

Thorn, however, turned out to be more or less correct. The shocking excrescences and architectural flourishes of the ship’s mutated exterior looked pathological to Khouri, but she knew more about the plague than anyone on Resurgam. It turned out that relatively few of the passengers were as disturbed as she had expected. Most were prepared to accept that the flourishes of diseased design served some obscure military function. This, after all, was the ship that they believed had wiped out an entire surface colony. They had few preconceptions about what it should look like, other than that it was, by its very nature, evil.

‘They’re relieved that there’s a ship here at all,’ Thorn told her. ‘And most of them can’t get anywhere near a porthole anyway. They’re taking what they’re hearing with a large pinch of salt, or they just don’t care.’

‘How can they not care when they’ve thrown away their lives to come this far?’

‘They’re tired,’ Thorn told her. ‘Tired and past caring about anything except getting off this ship.’

The transfer craft executed a slow pass down the side of Infinity’s hull. Khouri had seen the approach enough times to view the prospect with only mild interest. But now something made her frown again.

‘That wasn’t there before,’ she said.

‘What?’

She kept her voice low and refrained from pointing. ‘That . . . scar. Do you see it?’

‘That thing? I can’t miss it.’

The scar was a meandering gash that wandered along the hull for several hundred metres. It appeared to be deep, very deep, in fact, gouging far into the ship, and it had every sign of being recent: the edges were sharp and there were no traces of any attempts at repair. Something squirmed in Khouri’s stomach.

‘It’s new,’ she said.

THIRTY-TWO

The transfer shuttle slid alongside the larger spacecraft, a single bubble drifting down the flank of a great scarred whale. Khouri and Thorn made their way to the rarely used flight deck, sealed the door behind them and then ordered some floodlights to be deployed. Fingers of light clawed along the hull, throwing the topology into exaggerated relief. The baroque transformations were queasily apparent - folds and whorls and acres of lizardlike scales - but there was no sign of any further damage.

‘Well?’ Thorn whispered. ‘What’s your assessment?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘But one thing’s for sure. Normally we’d have heard from Ilia by now.’

Thorn nodded. ‘You think something catastrophic happened here, don’t you?’

‘We saw a battle, Thorn, or what looked like one. I can’t help jumping to conclusions.’

‘It was a long way off.’

‘You can be certain of that, can you?’

‘Fairly, yes. The flashes weren’t spread randomly around the sky. They were clustered, and they all lay close to the plane of the ecliptic. That means that whatever we saw was distant - tens of light-minutes, maybe even whole light-hours from here. If this ship was in the thick of it, we’d have seen a much larger spatial extent to the flashes.’

‘Good. You’ll excuse me if I don’t sound too relieved.’

‘The damage we’re seeing here can’t be related, Ana. If those flashes really were on the far side of the system, then the energy being unleashed was fearsome. This ship looks as if it took a hit of some kind, but it can’t have been a direct hit from the same weapons or there wouldn’t be a ship here.’

‘So it got hit by shrapnel or something.’

‘Not very likely . . .’

‘Thorn, something sure as fuck happened.’

There was a shiver of activity from the console displays. Neither of them had done anything. Khouri leaned over and queried the shuttle, biting her lip.

‘What is it?’ Thorn asked.

‘We’re being invited to dock,’ she told him. ‘Normal approach vector. It’s as if nothing unusual’s happened. But if that’s the case, why isn’t Ilia speaking to us?’

‘We’ve got two thousand people in our care. We’d better be sure we’re not walking into a trap.’

‘I do realise that.’ She skated a finger across the console, skipping through commands and queries, occasionally tapping a response into the system.

‘So what are you doing?’ Thorn asked.

‘Landing us. If the ship wanted to do something nasty, it’s had enough chances.’

Thorn pulled a face but offered no counter-argument. There was a tug of microgravity as the transfer shuttle inserted itself into the docking approach, moving under direct control of the larger ship. The hull loomed and then opened to reveal the docking bay. Khouri closed her eyes - the transfer shuttle only just appeared to fit through the aperture - but there was no collision, and then they were inside. The shuttle wheeled and then nudged itself into a berthing cradle. There was a tiny shove of thrust at the last moment, then a faint, faint tremor of contact. And then the console altered again, signifying that the shuttle had established umbilical linkage with the bay. Everything was absolutely normal.

‘I don’t like it,’ Khouri said. ‘It’s not like Ilia.’

‘She wasn’t exactly in a forgiving mood the last time we met. Maybe she’s just having a very long sulk.’

‘Not her style,’ Khouri said, snapping her response and then immediately regretting it. ‘Something’s wrong. I just don’t know what.’

‘What about the passengers?’ he asked.

‘We keep ’em here until we know what’s going on. After fifteen hours, they can stand one or two more.’

‘They won’t like it.’

‘They’ll have to. One of your people can cook up an excuse, can’t they?’

‘I suppose one more lie at this point won’t make much difference, will it? I’ll think of something - an atmospheric pressure mismatch, maybe.’

‘That’ll do. It doesn’t have to be a show stopper. Just a plausible reason to keep them aboard for a few hours.’

Thorn went back to arrange matters with his aides. It would not be too difficult, Khouri thought: the majority of the passengers would not expect to be unloaded for several hours anyway, and so would not instantly realise anything was amiss. Provided word did not spread around the ship that no one was being let out, a riot could be held off for a while.

She waited for Thorn to return.

‘What now?’ he asked. ‘We can’t leave by the main airlock or people will get suspicious if we don’t come back.’

‘There’s a secondary lock here,’ Khouri said, nodding at an armoured door set in one wall of the flight deck. ‘I’ve requested a connecting tube to be fed across from the bay. We can get on and off the ship without anyone knowing we’re away.’

The tube clanged against the side of the hull. So far, the larger ship was being very obliging. Khouri and Thorn donned spacesuits from the emergency locker even though the indications were that the air in the connecting tube was normal in mix and pressure. They propelled themselves to the door, opened it and crammed into the chamber on the other side. The outer door opened almost immediately since there was no pressure imbalance to be adjusted.

Something waited in the tunnel.

Khouri flinched and sensed Thorn do likewise. Her soldiering years had given her a deep-seated dislike for robots. On Sky’s Edge a robot was often the last thing you saw. She had learned to suppress that phobia since moving in other cultures, but she still retained the capacity to be startled when she encountered one unexpectedly.

Yet the servitor was not one she recognised. It was human-shaped, but at the same time utterly non-human in form. It was largely hollow, a lacy scaffold of wire-thin joints and struts containing almost no solid parts. Alloyed mechanisms, whirring sensors and arterial feedlines hovered within the skeletal form. The servitor spanned the corridor with limbs outstretched, waiting for them.

‘This doesn’t look good,’ Khouri said.

‘Hello,’ the servitor said, barking at them with a crudely synthesised voice.

‘Where’s Ilia?’ Khouri asked.

‘Indisposed. Would you mind authorising your suits to interpret the ambient data field, full visual and audio realisation? It will make matters a great deal easier.’

‘What’s it talking about?’ Thorn asked.

‘It wants us to let it manipulate what we see through our suits.’

‘Can it do that?’

‘Anything on the ship can, if we let it. Most of the Ultras have implants to achieve the same effect.’

‘And you?’

‘I had mine removed before I came down to Resurgam. Didn’t want anyone to be able to trace me back here in a hurry.’

‘Sensible,’ Thorn said.

The servitor spoke again. ‘I assure you that there won’t be any trickery. As you can see, I’m actually rather harmless. Ilia chose this body for me intentionally, so that I wouldn’t be able to do any damage.’

‘Ilia chose it?’

The servitor nodded its wire-frame approximation of a skull. Something bobbed within the openwork cage: a stub of white wedged between two wires. It almost looked like a cigarette.

‘Yes. She invited me aboard. I am a beta-level simulation of Nevil Clavain. Now, I’m no oil painting, but I’m reasonably certain that I don’t look like this. If you want to see me as I really am, however ...’ The servitor gestured invitingly with one hand.

‘Be careful,’ Thorn whispered.

Khouri issued the subvocal commands that told her suit to accept and interpret ambient data fields. The change was subtle. The servitor faded away, processed out of her visual field. Her suit was filling in the gaps where it would have been, using educated guesswork and its own thorough knowledge of the three-dimensional environment. All the safeguards remained in place. If the servitor moved quickly or did anything that the suit decided was suspicious, it would be edited back into Khouri’s visual field.

Now the solid figure of a man appeared where the servitor had been. There was a slight mismatch between the man and his surroundings - he was too sharply in focus, too bright, and the shadows did not fall upon him quite as they should have done - but those errors were deliberate. The suit could have made the man appear absolutely realistic, but it was considered wise to degrade the image slightly. That way the viewer could never lapse into forgetting that they were dealing with a machine.

‘That’s better,’ the figure said.

Khouri saw an old man, frail, white-bearded and white-haired. ‘Are you Nevil . . . what did you say your name was?’

‘Nevil Clavain. You’d be Ana Khouri, I think.’ His voice was nearly human now. Only a tiny edge of artificiality remained, again quite deliberately.

‘I’ve never heard of you.’ She looked at Thorn.

‘Me neither,’ he said.

‘You wouldn’t have,’ Clavain said. ‘I’ve just arrived, you see. Or rather I’m in the process of arriving.’

Khouri could hear the details later. ‘What’s happened to Ilia?’

His face tightened. ‘It isn’t good news, I’m afraid. You’d best come with me.’ Clavain turned around with only a modicum of stiffness. He began to make his way back down the tunnel, clearly expecting to be followed.

Khouri looked at Thorn. Her companion nodded, without saying a word.

They set off after Clavain.

He led them through the catacombs of Nostalgia for Infinity. Khouri kept telling herself that the servitor could do nothing to harm her, nothing at least that Ilia had not already sanctioned. If Ilia had installed a beta-level, she would only have given it a limited set of permissions, its possible actions tightly constrained. The beta-level was only driving the servitor, anyway; the software itself - and that was all it was, she reminded herself, very clever software - was executing on one of the ship’s remaining networks.

‘Tell me what happened, Clavain,’ she said. ‘You said you were arriving. What did you mean by that?’

‘My ship’s on its final deceleration phase,’ he said. ‘She’s called Zodiacal Light. She’ll be in this system shortly, braking to a stop near this vessel. My physical counterpart is aboard it. I invited Ilia to install this beta-level, since light-lag prohibited us from having anything resembling meaningful negotiations. Ilia obliged . . . and so here I am.’

‘So where is Ilia?’

‘I can tell you where she is,’ Clavain said. ‘But I’m not totally sure what happened. She turned me off, you see.’

‘She must have turned you on again,’ Thorn said.

They were walking - or rather wading - through knee-deep ship slime the colour of bile. Ever since leaving the ship bay they had moved through portions of the vessel that were spun for gravity, although the effect varied depending on the exact route they followed.

‘Actually, she didn’t switch me on,’ Clavain said. ‘That’s the unusual thing. I came around, I suppose you’d say, and found . . . well, I’m getting ahead of myself.’

‘Is she dead, Clavain?’

‘No,’ he said, answering Khouri with a degree of emphasis. ‘No, she isn’t dead. But she isn’t well, either. It’s good that you came now. I take it you have passengers on that shuttle?’

There seemed little point in lying. ‘Two thousand of them,’ Khouri said.

‘Ilia said that you’d need to make around a hundred trips in total. This is just the first round-trip, isn’t it?’

‘Give us time and we’ll manage all hundred,’ Thorn said.

‘Time may well be the one thing you no longer have,’ Clavain replied. ‘I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it is.’

‘You mentioned negotiations,’ Khouri said. ‘What the fuck is there to negotiate?’

A sympathetic smile creased Clavain’s aged face. ‘Quite a lot, I fear. You have something that my counterpart wants very badly, you see.’

The servitor knew its way around the ship. Clavain led them through a labyrinth of corridors and shafts, ramps and ducts, chambers and antechambers, traversing many districts of which Khouri had only sketchy knowledge. There were regions of the ship that had not been visited for decades of worldtime, places into which even Ilia had shown a marked reluctance to stray. The ship had always been vast and intricate, its topology as unfathomable as the abandoned subway system of a deserted metropolis. It had been a ship haunted by many ghosts, not all of which were necessarily cybernetic or imaginary. Winds had sighed up and down its kilometres of empty corridors. It was infested with rats, stalked by machines and madmen. It had moods and fevers, like an old house.

And yet now it was subtly different. It was entirely possible that the ship still retained all its old hauntings, all its places of menace. Now, however, there was a single encompassing spirit, a sentient presence that permeated every cubic inch of the vessel and could not be meaningfully localised to any specific point within the ship. Wherever they walked, they were surrounded by the Captain. He sensed them and they sensed him, even if it was only a tingling of the neck hairs, a keen sense of being scrutinised. It made the entire ship seem both more and less threatening than it had before. It all depended on whose side the Captain was on.

Khouri didn’t know. She didn’t even think Ilia had ever been entirely sure.

Gradually, Khouri began to recognise a district. It was one of the regions of the ship that had changed only slightly since the Captain’s transformation. The walls were the sepia of old manuscripts, the corridors pervaded by a cloisterlike gloom relieved only by ochre lights flickering within sconces, like candles. Clavain was leading them to the medical bay.

The room that he led them into was low ceilinged and windowless. Medical servitors were crouched hunks of machinery backed well into the corners, as if they were unlikely to be needed. A single bed was positioned near the room’s centre, attended by a small huddle of squat monitoring devices. A woman was lying on her back in the bed, her arms folded across her chest and her eyes shut. Biomedical traces rippled above her like aurorae.

Khouri stepped closer to the bed. It was Volyova; there was no doubt about that. But she looked like a version of her friend who had been subjected to some appalling experiment in accelerated ageing, something involving drugs to suck the flesh back to the bone and more drugs to reduce the skin to the merest glaze. She looked astonishingly delicate, as if liable to splinter into dust at any moment. It was not the first time Khouri had seen Volyova here, in the medical bay. There had been the time after the gunfight on the surface of Resurgam, when they were capturing Sylveste. Volyova had been injured then, but there had never been any question of her dying. Now it took close examination to tell that she was not already dead. Volyova looked desiccated.

Khouri turned to the beta-level, horrified. ‘What happened?’

‘I still don’t really know. Before she put me to sleep there was nothing the matter with her. Then I came back around and found myself here, in this room. She was in the bed. The machines had stabilised her, but that was about the best they could do. In the long term, she was still dying.’ Clavain nodded at the displays looming above Volyova. ‘I’ve seen these kinds of injuries before, during wartime. She breathed vacuum without any kind of protection against internal moisture loss. Decompression must have been rapid, but not quite quick enough to kill her instantly. Most of the damage is in her lungs - scarring of the alveoli, where ice crystals formed. She’s blind in both eyes, and there is some damage to brain function. I don’t think it’s cognitive. There’s tracheal damage as well, which makes it difficult for her to speak.’

‘She’s an Ultra,’ Thorn said with a touch of desperation. ‘Ultras don’t die just because they swallow a little vacuum.’

‘She isn’t much like the other Ultras I’ve met,’ Clavain said. ‘There were no implants in her. If there had been, she might have walked it off. At the very least, the medichines could have buffered her brain. But she had none. I understand she was repulsed by the idea of anything invading her.’

Khouri looked at the beta-level. ‘What have you done, Clavain?’

‘What it took. It was requested that I do what I could. The obvious thing was to inject a dose of medichines.’

‘Wait.’ Khouri raised a hand. ‘Who requested what?’

Clavain scratched his beard. ‘I’m not sure. I just felt an obligation to do it. You have to understand that I’m just software. I wouldn’t claim otherwise. It’s entirely possible that something booted me up and intervened in my execution, forcing me to act in a certain manner.’

Khouri and Thorn exchanged glances. They were both thinking the same thing, Khouri knew. The only agency that could have switched Clavain back on and made him help Volyova was the Captain.

Khouri felt cold, intensely aware that she was being observed. ‘Clavain,’ she said. ‘Listen to me. I don’t know what you are, really. But you have to understand: she would sooner have died than have you do what you’ve just done.’

‘I know,’ Clavain said, extending his palms in a gesture of helplessness. ‘But I had to do it. It’s what I would have done had I been here.’

‘Ignored her deepest wish, is that what you mean?’

‘Yes, if you want to put it like that. Because someone once did the same for me. I was in the same position as her, you see. Injured - dying, in fact. I’d been wounded, but I definitely didn’t want any stinking machines in my skull. I’d have rather died than that. But someone put them in there anyway. And now I’m grateful. She gave me four hundred years of life I wouldn’t have had any other way.’

Khouri looked at the bed, at the woman lying in it, and then back to the man who had, if not saved her life, at the very least postponed her moment of death.

‘Clavain ...’ she said. ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Clavain is a Conjoiner,’ said a voice as thin as smoke. ‘You should listen to him very carefully, because he means what he says.’

Volyova had spoken, yet there had been no movement from the figure on the bed. The only indication that she was now conscious, which had not been the case when they arrived, was a shift in the biomedical traces hovering above her.

Khouri wrenched her helmet off. Clavain’s apparition vanished, replaced by the skeletal machine. She placed the helmet on the floor and knelt by the bed. ‘Ilia?’

‘Yes, it’s me.’ The voice was like sandpaper. Khouri observed the tiniest movement of Volyova’s lips as she formed the words, but the sound came from above her.

‘What happened?’

‘There was an incident.’

‘We saw the damage to the hull when we arrived. Is . . .’

‘Yes. It was my fault, really. Like everything. Always my fault. Always my damned fault.’

Khouri glanced back at Thorn. ‘Your fault?’

‘I was tricked.’ The lips parted in what might almost have been a smile. ‘By the Captain. I thought he had finally come around to my way of thinking. That we should use the cache weapons against the Inhibitors.’

Khouri could almost imagine what must have happened. ‘How did he trick ...’

‘I deployed eight of the weapons beyond the hull. There was a malfunction. I thought it was genuine, but it was really just a way to get me outside the ship.’

Khouri lowered her voice. It was an absurd gesture - there was nothing that could be hidden from the Captain now - but she could not help it. ‘He wanted to kill you?’

‘No,’ Volyova said, hissing her answer. ‘He wanted to kill himself, not me. But I had to be there to see it. Had to be a witness.’

‘Why?’

‘To understand his remorse. To understand that it was deliberate, and not an accident.’

Thorn joined them. He too had removed his helmet, tucking it respectfully under one arm. ‘But the ship’s still here. What happened, Ilia?’

Again that weary half-smile. ‘I drove my shuttle into the beam. I thought it might make him stop.’

‘Seems as if it did.’

‘I didn’t expect to survive. But my aim wasn’t quite right.’

The servitor strode towards the bed. Unclothed of Clavain’s image, its motions appeared automatically more machinelike and threatening.

‘They know that I injected medichines into your head,’ it said, its voice no longer humanoid. ‘And now they know that you know.’

‘Clavain ... the beta-level ... had no choice,’ Volyova said before either of her two human visitors could speak. ‘Without the medichines I’d be dead now. Do they horrify me? Yes. Utterly, to the absolute core of my being. I am racked with revulsion at the thought of them crawling inside my skull like so many spiders and snakes. At the same time, I accept the necessity of them. They are the tools I have always worked with, after all. And I am fully aware that they cannot work miracles. Too much damage has been done. I am not amenable to repair.’

‘We’ll find a way, Ilia,’ Khouri said. ‘Your injuries can’t be ...’

Volyova’s whisper of a voice cut her off. ‘Forget me. I don’t matter. Only the weapons matter now. They are my children, spiteful and wicked as they may be, and I won’t have them falling into the wrong hands.’

‘Now we seem to be getting to the crux of things,’ Thorn said.

‘Clavain - the real Clavain - wants the weapons,’ Volyova said. ‘By his own estimation he has the means to take them from us.’ Her voice grew louder. ‘Isn’t that so, Clavain?’

The servitor bowed. ‘I’d much rather negotiate their handover, Ilia, as you know, especially now that I’ve invested time in your welfare. But make no mistake. My counterpart is capable of a great deal of ruthlessness in pursuit of a just cause. He believes he has right on his side. And men who think they have right on their side are always the most dangerous sort.’

‘Why are you telling us that?’ Khouri said.

‘It’s in his - our - best interests,’ the servitor said amiably. ‘I’d far rather convince you to give up the weapons without a fight. At the very least we’d avoid any risk of damaging the damned things.’

‘You don’t seem like a monster to me,’ Khouri said.

‘I’m not,’ the servitor replied. ‘And nor is my counterpart. He’ll always choose the path of least bloodshed. But if some bloodshed is required . . . well, my counterpart won’t flinch from a little surgical butchery. Especially not now.’

The servitor said the last with such emphasis that Thorn asked, ‘Why not now?’

‘Because of what he has had to do to get this far.’ The servitor paused, its openwork head scanning each of them. ‘He betrayed everything that he had believed in for four hundred years. That wasn’t done lightly, I assure you. He lied to his friends and left behind his loved ones, knowing that it was the only way to get this done. And lately he took a terrible decision. He destroyed something that he loved very much. It cost him a great deal of pain. In that sense, I am not an accurate copy of the real Clavain. My personality was shaped before that dreadful act.’

Volyova’s voice rasped out again, instantly commanding their attention. ‘The real Clavain isn’t like you?’

‘I’m a sketch taken before a terrible darkness fell across his life, Ilia. I can only speculate on the extent to which we differ. But I would not like to trifle with my counterpart in his current state of mind.’

‘Psychological warfare,’ she hissed.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘That is why you’ve come, isn’t it? Not to help us negotiate a sensible settlement, but to put the fear of God into us.’

The servitor bowed again, with something of the same mechanical modesty. ‘If I were to achieve that,’ Clavain said, ‘I would consider my work well done. The path of least bloodshed, remember?’

‘You want bloodshed,’ Ilia Volyova said, ‘you’ve come to the right woman.’

Shortly afterwards she fell into a different state of consciousness, something perhaps not too far from sleep. The displays relaxed, sine waves and Fourier harmonic histograms reflecting a seismic shift in major neural activity. Her visitors observed her in that state for several minutes, wondering to themselves whether she was dreaming or scheming, or if the distinction even mattered.

The next six hours went by quickly. Thorn and Khouri returned to the transfer shuttle and conferred with their immediate underlings. They were gratified to hear that no crises had occurred while they were visiting Volyova. There had been some minor flare-ups, but for the most part the two thousand passengers had accepted the cover story about a problem with the atmospheric compatibility of the two ships. Now the passengers were assured that the technical difficulty had been resolved - it had been a sensor malfunction all along - and that disembarkation could commence in the orderly fashion that had already been agreed. A large holding area had been prepared a few hundred metres from the parking bay, just into the spun part of the ship. It was a region that was relatively unafflicted by the Captain’s plague transformations, and Khouri and Volyova had worked hard to disguise the most overtly disturbing parts of the area that the plague had affected.

The holding area was cold and dank, and though they had done their best to make it comfortable, it still had the atmosphere of a crypt. Interior partitions had been put up to divide the space into smaller chambers which were each capable of containing a hundred passengers, and those chambers were in turn equipped with partitions to allow some privacy for family units. The holding area could accommodate ten thousand passengers - four further arrivals of the transfer shuttle - but by the time the sixth flight arrived, they would have to begin dispersing passengers into the main body of the ship. And then, inevitably, the truth would dawn: that they had been brought not only aboard a ship which was carrying the feared Melding Plague, but aboard a ship which had been subsumed and reshaped by its own Captain; that they were, in every sense that mattered, now inside that selfsame Captain.

Khouri expected panic and terror to accompany that realisation. Very likely it would be necessary to enforce a state of martial emergency even more stringent than that now operating on Resurgam. There would be deaths, and there would probably have to be more executions, to make a point.

And yet none of that would matter a damn when the real truth got out, which was that Ilia Volyova, the hated Triumvir, was still alive, and that she had orchestrated this very evacuation.

Only then would the real trouble start.

Khouri watched the transfer shuttle undock and begin its return trip to Resurgam. Thirty hours of flight time, she calculated, plus - if they were lucky - no more than half that in turnaround at the other end. In two days Thorn would be back. If she could hold things together until then, she would already feel as if she had climbed a mountain.

But there would still be ninety-eight further flights to bring aboard after that ...

One step at a time, she thought. That was what they had taught her in her soldiering days: break a problem down into doable units. Then, no matter how stupendous the problem seemed, you could tackle it piece by piece. Focus on the details and worry about the bigger picture later.

Outside, the distant space battle continued to rage. The flashes resembled the random firing of synapses in a splayed-out brain. She was certain that Volyova knew something about what was going on, and perhaps Clavain’s beta-level did, too. But Volyova was sleeping and Khouri did not trust the servitor to tell her anything except subtle lies. That left the Captain, who probably knew something as well.

Khouri made her way through the ship alone. She took the dilapidated elevator system down to the cache chamber, just as she had done hundreds of times before in Volyova’s company. She felt an odd sense of mischief to be making the journey unaccompanied.

The chamber was as weightless and dark as it had been on their recent visits. Khouri halted the elevator on the lock level, and then shrugged on a spacesuit and propulsion pack. In a few breathless moments she was inside the chamber, floating into darkness. She jetted from the wall, doing her best to ignore the sense of unease she always felt in the presence of the cache weapons. She keyed on the suit’s navigation system and waited for it to align itself with the chamber’s transponder beacons. Annotated grey-green forms hoved on to her faceplate, at distances ranging from tens to hundreds of metres. The spidery lattice of the monorail system was a series of harder lines transecting the chamber at various angles. There were still weapons in the chamber. But not as many as she had expected.

There had been thirty-three before she had left for Resurgam. Volyova had deployed eight of them before the Captain tried to destroy himself. But just from the paucity of hovering shapes, Khouri could see that there were a lot fewer than twenty-five weapons left here. She counted the hovering shapes and then counted again, steering her suit deeper into the chamber just in case there was a problem with the transponder. But her first suspicion had been correct. There were only thirteen weapons left aboard Nostalgia for Infinity. Twenty of the damned things were unaccounted for.

Except she knew exactly where they were, didn’t she? Eight were outside somewhere, and so - presumably - were the other twelve that had gone missing. And, very probably, they were halfway across the system, responsible for at least some of the glints and flashes she had seen from the shuttle.

Volyova - or someone, anyway - had thrown twenty cache weapons into battle against the Inhibitors.

And it was anyone’s guess who was winning.

Know thine enemy, Clavain thought.

Except he didn’t know his enemy at all.

He was alone on the bridge of Zodiacal Light, sitting in rapt concentration. With his eyes nearly closed and his forehead creased by habitual worry lines, he resembled a chess master about to make the most vital move of his career. Beyond the steeple of his fingers hung a projected form: a deeply nested composite view of the lighthugger that held the long-lost weapons.

He recalled what Skade had told him, back in the Mother Nest. The evidence trail pointed to this ship being Nostalgia for Infinity; her commander most likely a woman named Ilia Volyova. He could even remember the picture of the woman that Skade had shown him. But even if that evidence trail was correct, and he really would be dealing with Volyova, it told him almost nothing. The only thing he could trust was what he learned with his own extended senses, in the present.

The image before him composited all salient tactical knowledge of the enemy craft. Its details were constantly shifting and re-layering as Zodiacal Light’s intelligence-gathering systems improved their guesswork. Long baseline interferometry teased out the electromagnetic profile of the ship across the entire spectrum from soft gamma rays to low-frequency radio. At all wavelengths the backscatter of radiation was perplexing, making the interpretive software crash or come up with nonsensical guesses. Clavain had to intervene every time the software threw up another absurd interpretation. For some reason the software kept insisting that the vessel resembled some weird fusion of ship, cathedral and sea urchin. Clavain could see the underlying form of a plausible spacecraft, and had to constantly nudge the software away from its more outlandish solution minima. He could only imagine that the lighthugger had cloaked itself in a shell of confusing material, like the obfuscatory clouds that Rust Belt habitats occasionally employed.

The alternative - that the software was correct, and that he was merely enforcing his own expectations on it - was too unnerving to consider.

There was a knock against the frame of the door.

He turned around with a stiff whirr of his exoskeleton. ‘Yes?’

Antoinette Bax stalked into the room, followed by Xavier. They both wore exoskeletons as well, though they had ornamented theirs with swirls of luminous paint and welded-on baroquework. Clavain had observed a lot of that amongst his crew, especially amongst Scorpio’s army, and had seen no reason to enforce a more disciplined regime. Privately, he welcomed anything that instilled a sense of camaraderie and purpose.

‘What is it, Antoinette?’ Clavain asked.

‘There’s something we wanted to discuss, Clavain.’

‘It’s about the attack,’ Xavier Liu added.

Clavain nodded and made the effort of a smile. ‘If we are very lucky, there won’t be one. The crew will see reason and hand over the weapons, and we can go home without firing a shot.’

Of course, that outcome was looking less likely by the hour. He had already learned from the weapon traces that twenty of them had been dispersed from the ship, leaving only thirteen aboard. Worse than that, the specific diagnostic patterns suggested that some of the weapons had actually been activated. Three of the patterns had even vanished in the last eight hours of shiptime. He didn’t know what to make of that, but he had a nasty feeling that he knew exactly what it meant.

‘And if they don’t hand them over?’ Antoinette asked, easing into a seat.

‘Then some force may be in order,’ Clavain said.

Xavier nodded. ‘That’s what we figured.’

‘I hope it will be brief and decisive,’ Clavain said. ‘And I have every expectation that it will be. Scorpio’s preparations have been thorough. Remontoire’s technical assistance has been invaluable. We have a well-trained assault force and the weapons to back them up.’

‘But you haven’t asked for our help,’ Xavier said.

Clavain turned back to the image of the ship, examining it to see if there had been any changes in the last few minutes. To his annoyance, the software had started building up scablike accretions and spirelike spines along one flank of the hull. He swore under his breath. The ship looked like nothing so much as one of the plague-stricken buildings in Chasm City. The thought hovered in his mind, worryingly.

‘You were saying?’ he said, his attention drifting back to the youngsters.

‘We want to help,’ Antoinette said.

‘You’ve already helped,’ Clavain told her. ‘Without you we probably wouldn’t have seized this ship in the first place. Not to mention the fact that you helped me to defect.’

‘That was then. Now we’re talking about helping in the attack,’ Xavier said.

‘Ah.’ Clavain scratched his beard. ‘You mean really help, in a military sense?’

‘Storm Bird’s hull can take more weapons,’ Antoinette said. ‘And she’s fast and manoeuvrable. Had to be, to make a profit back home.’

‘She’s armoured, too,’ Xavier said. ‘You saw the damage she did when we busted out of Carousel New Copenhagen. And there’s a lot of room inside her. She could probably carry half of Scorpio’s army, with space to spare.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘Then what’s your objection?’ Antoinette asked.

‘This isn’t your fight. You helped me, and I’m grateful for that. But if I know Ultras, and I think I do, they won’t give up anything without some trouble. There’s been enough bloodshed already, Antoinette. Let me handle the rest of it.’

The two youngsters - he wondered if they had really seemed so young to him before - exchanged coded looks. He had the sense that they were privy to a script he had not been shown.

‘You’d be making a mistake, Clavain,’ Xavier said.

Clavain looked into his eyes. ‘Thought this through, have you, Xavier?’

‘Of course ...’

‘I really don’t think you have.’ Clavain returned his attention to the hovering image of the lighthugger. ‘Now, if you don’t mind . . . I’m a little on the busy side.’

THIRTY-THREE

‘Ilia. Wake up.’

Khouri stood by Ilia’s bedside, watching the neural diagnostics for a sign that Volyova was returning to consciousness. The possibility that she might have died could not be dismissed - there was certainly very little visual indication that she was alive - but the diagnostics looked very much as they had before Khouri had taken her trip to the cache chamber.

‘May I help?’

Khouri turned around, startled and ashamed at the same time. The skeletal servitor had just spoken to her again.

‘Clavain . . .’ she said. ‘I didn’t think you were still switched on.’

‘I wasn’t until a moment ago.’ The servitor advanced out of the shadows, coming to a halt on the opposite side of the bed from Khouri. It moved to one of the squat hunks of machinery attending the bed and made a series of adjustments to the controls.

‘What are you doing?’ Khouri asked.

‘Elevating her to consciousness. Isn’t that what you wanted?’

‘I ... I’m not sure if I should trust you or smash you apart,’ she said.

The servitor stepped back from its handiwork. ‘You should certainly not trust me, Ana. My primary goal is to convince you to turn over the weapons. I can’t use force, but I can use persuasion and disinformation.’ Then it reached down beneath the bed and tossed something to her with a lithe sweep of one limb.

Khouri caught a pair of goggles equipped with an earpiece. They appeared to be perfectly normal shipboard issue, scuffed and discoloured. She slipped them on and watched Clavain’s human form cloak itself over the skeletal frame of the servitor. His voice came through the earpiece with human timbre and inflection.

‘That’s better,’ he said.

‘Who’s running you, Clavain?’

‘Ilia told me a little about your Captain,’ the servitor said. ‘I haven’t seen or heard from him, but I think he must be using me. He switched me on when Ilia was injured, and I was able to help her. But I’m just a beta-level simulation. I have Clavain’s expertise, and Clavain has detailed medical training, but then I imagine the Captain must be able to draw on many other sources for that kind of thing, including his own memories. My only conclusion is that the Captain does not wish to intervene directly, so he has elected to use me as an intermediary. I’m his puppet, more or less.’

Khouri felt an urge to disagree with him, but nothing in Clavain’s manner suggested that he was lying or aware of a more plausible explanation. The Captain had only emerged from his isolation in order to orchestrate his suicide, but now that the attempt had failed, and Ilia had been hurt in the process, he had retreated into some even darker psychosis. She wondered whether that made Clavain the Captain’s puppet or his weapon.

‘What can I trust you to do, in that case?’ Khouri looked from Clavain to Volyova. ‘Could you kill her?’

‘No.’ He shook his head vigorously. ‘Your ship, or your Captain, wouldn’t allow me to do it. I’m certain of that. And I wouldn’t think of doing it anyway - I’m not a cold-blooded murderer, Ana.’

‘You’re just software,’ she said. ‘Software’s capable of anything.’

‘I won’t kill her, I assure you. I want those weapons because I believe in humanity. I’ve never believed that the ends justify the means. Not in this war, not in any damned war I’ve ever served in. If I have to kill to get what I want, I will. But not before I’ve done all that I can to avoid it. Otherwise I’m no better than the other Conjoiners.’

Without warning, Ilia Volyova spoke from her bed. ‘Why do you want them, Clavain?’

‘I could ask you the same question.’

‘They’re my damned weapons.’

Khouri studied Volyova’s figure, but she appeared no more awake than she had five minutes earlier.

‘Actually, they don’t belong to you,’ Clavain said. ‘They’re still Conjoiner property.’

‘Taken your damned time reclaiming them, haven’t you?’

‘It isn’t me who’s doing the reclaiming, Ilia. I’m the nice man who’s come to take them off your hands before the really nasty people arrive. Then they’ll be my worry, not yours. And when I say nasty, I mean it. Deal with me and you’ll be dealing with someone reasonable. But the Conjoiners won’t even bother negotiating. They’ll just take the weapons without asking.’

‘I still find this defection story a little hard to believe, Clavain.’

‘Ilia ...’ Khouri leaned closer to the bed. ‘Ilia, never mind Clavain for now. There’s something I need to know. What have you done with the cache weapons? I only counted thirteen in the chamber.’

Volyova clucked before answering. Khouri thought she sounded amused at her own cleverness. ‘I dispersed them. Killed two birds with one stone. Put them out of Clavain’s easy reach, strewn across the system. I also let them go into autonomous firing mode against the Inhibitor machinery. How are my little beauties doing, Khouri? Are the fireworks impressive tonight?’

‘There are fireworks, Ilia, but I haven’t got a fucking clue who’s winning.’

‘At least the battle is still continuing, then. That has to be a good sign, doesn’t it?’ She did nothing visibly, but a flattened globe popped into existence above her head, looking for all the world like a cartoon thought-bubble. Though she had been blinded in the attack by the cache weapon, she now wore slender grey goggles that communicated with the implants Clavain’s proxy had installed in her head. In some respects she was now better sighted than she had been before, Khouri thought. She could see in all the wavelength and non-EM bands offered by the goggles, and she could tap into machine-generated fields with far greater clarity than had been possible before. For all that, however, she must have been quietly repulsed by the presence of the foreign machines inside her skull. Such things had always revolted her, and she would accept them now only out of necessity.

The projected globe was a mutual hallucination rather than a hologram. It was gridded with the green lines of an equatorial coordinate system, bulging at the equator and narrowing at the poles. The system’s ecliptic was a milky disc spanning the bubble from side to side, dotted with many annotated symbols. In the middle was the hard orange eye of the star, Delta Pavonis. A vermilion smudge was the ruined corpse of Roc, with a harder, offset core of red indicating the bugle-shaped vastness of the Inhibitor weapon, now locked in rotational phase with the star. The star was itself gridded with glowing lilac contour lines. The spot on the surface of the star immediately below the weapon was shown to be bulging inwards for an eighth of the star’s diameter, a quarter of the way to the nuclear-burning core. Furious violet-white rings of fusing matter radiated out from the depression, frozen like ripples on a lake, but those hotspots of fusion were mere sparks compared with the power-house of the core itself. And yet, as disturbing as these transformations were, the star was not the immediate centre of attention. Khouri counted twenty black triangles in the same approximate quadrant of the ecliptic as the Inhibitor weapon, and judged that those were the cache weapons.

‘This is the state of play,’ Volyova said. ‘A real-time battle display. Aren’t you jealous of my toys, Clavain?’

‘You have no idea of the importance of those weapons,’ the servitor replied.

‘Don’t I?’

‘They mean the difference between the extinction or survival of the entire human species. We know about the Inhibitors as well, Ilia, and we know what they can do. We’ve seen it in messages from the future, the human race on the brink of extinction, almost totally wiped out by Inhibitor machines. We called them the wolves, but there’s no doubt that we’re talking about the same enemy. That’s why you can’t squander the weapons here.’

‘Squander them? I am not squandering them.’ She sounded mortally affronted. ‘I am using them tactically to delay the Inhibitor processes. I’m buying valuable time for Resurgam.’

Clavain’s voice became probing. ‘How many weapons have you lost since you started the campaign?’

‘Precisely none.’

The servitor arched over her. ‘Ilia . . . listen to me very carefully. How many weapons have you lost?’

‘What do you mean, “lost”? Three weapons malfunctioned. So much for Conjoiner engineering, in that case. Another two were only designed to be used once. I hardly call those “losses”, Clavain.’

‘So no weapons have been destroyed by return fire from the Inhibitors? ’

‘Two weapons have suffered some damage.’

‘They were destroyed entirely, weren’t they?’

‘I’m still receiving telemetry from their harnesses. I won’t know the extent of the damage until I examine the scene of the battle.’

Clavain’s image stepped back from the bed. He had turned, if that was possible, a shade paler than before. He closed his eyes and muttered something under his breath, something that might almost have been a prayer.

‘You had forty weapons to begin with. Now you have lost nine of them, by my reckoning. How many more, Ilia?’

‘As many as it takes.’

‘You can’t save Resurgam. You’re dealing with forces beyond your comprehension. All you’re doing is wasting the weapons. We need to keep them back until we can use them properly, in a way that will really make a difference. This is just an advance guard of wolves, but there’ll be many more. Yet if we can examine the weapons perhaps we can make more like them; thousands more.’

She smiled again; Khouri was certain of it. ‘So all that fine talk just now, Clavain, about how the ends don’t justify the means - did you believe a word of it?’

‘All I know is that if you squander the weapons, everyone on Resurgam will still die. The only difference is that they’ll die later, and their deaths will be outnumbered by millions more. But hand over the weapons now, and there’ll still be time to make a difference.’

‘And let two hundred thousand people die so millions can live in the future?’

‘Not millions, Ilia. Billions.’

‘You had me going for a minute there, Clavain. I was almost starting to think you might be someone I could do business with.’ She smiled, as if it was the last time she would ever smile in her life. ‘I was wrong, wasn’t I?’

‘I’m not a bad man, Ilia. I’m just somone who knows exactly what needs to be done.’

‘Like you said, always the most dangerous sort.’

‘Please don’t underestimate me. I will take those weapons.’

‘You’re weeks away, Clavain. By the time you arrive, I’ll be more than ready for you.’

Clavain’s figure said nothing. Khouri had no idea what to read into that lack of response, but it troubled her greatly.

Her ship towered over her, barely contained by its prison of repair scaffolding. Storm Bird’s internal lights were on, and in the upper row of flight deck windows Antoinette saw Xavier’s silhouetted form hard at work. He had a compad in one hand and a stylus gripped between his teeth, and he was flicking ancient toggle switches above his head, taking typically diligent notes. Always the bookkeeper, she thought.

Antoinette eased her exoskeleton into a standing position. Now and then Clavain allowed the crew a few hours under conditions of normal gravity and inertia, but this was not one of those periods. The exoskeleton gave her dozens of permanent sores where the support pads and haptic motion sensors touched her skin. In a perverse way, she was almost looking forward to arriving around Delta Pavonis, since they would then be able to discard the skeletons.

She took a good long look at Storm Bird. She had not seen it since the time she had walked away, refusing to enter what no longer felt like her own territory. It felt like months ago, and some of the anger - though not all of it - had abated.

She was still pretty pissed off.

Her ship was certainly ready for the fight. To the untrained eye, there had been no drastic alteration in Storm Bird’s external appearance. The extra weapons that had been grafted on, in addition to the deterrents already present, merely amounted to a few more bulges, spines and asymmetries to add to those that were already present. With the manufactories churning out armaments by the tonne, it had been an easy enough matter to divert some of that output her way, and Scorpio had been perfectly willing to turn a blind eye. Remontoire and Xavier had even worked together to couple the more exotic weapons into Storm Bird’s control net.

For a time, she had wondered why she felt the urge to fight. She did not consider herself given to violence or heroic gestures. Pointless, stupid gestures - such as burying her father in a gas giant - were another thing entirely.

She climbed up through the ship until she reached the flight deck. Xavier carried on working after she had entered. He was too engrossed in what he was doing, and he must have become used to her never visiting Storm Bird.

She sat in the seat next to him, waiting for him to notice her and look up from his work. When he did he just nodded, giving her the space and time to say what she needed to. She appreciated that.

‘Beast?’ Antoinette said quietly.

The pause before Lyle Merrick replied was probably no longer than usual, but it felt like an eternity. ‘Yes, Antoinette?’

‘I’m back.’

‘Yes ... I gathered.’ There was another long intermission. ‘I’m pleased that you’ve returned.’

The voice had the same tonal quality as ever, but something had changed. She supposed that Lyle was no longer obliged to mimic the old subpersona, the one that he had replaced sixteen years before.

‘Why?’ she asked sharply. ‘Did you miss me?’

‘Yes,’ Merrick said. ‘Yes, I did.’

‘I don’t think I can ever forgive you, Lyle.’

‘I wouldn’t ever want or expect your forgiveness, Antoinette. I certainly wouldn’t deserve it.’

‘No, you wouldn’t.’

‘But you understand that I made a promise to your father?’

‘That’s what Xavier said.’

‘Your father was a good man, Antoinette. He only wanted the best for you.’

‘The best for you as well, Lyle.’

‘I’m in his debt. I wouldn’t argue with that.’

‘How do you live with what you did?’

There was something that might have been a laugh, or even a self-deprecating snigger. ‘The part of me that mattered the most isn’t greatly troubled by that question, you know. The flesh-and-blood me was executed. I’m just a shadow, the only shadow that the eraserheads missed.’

‘A shadow with a highly evolved sense of self-preservation.’

‘Again, that’s nothing I’d deny.’

‘I want to hate you, Lyle.’

‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘Millions already do.’

She sighed. ‘But I can’t afford to. This is still my ship. You are still running it whether I like it or not. True, Lyle?’

‘I was already a pilot, Little ... I mean Antoinette. I already had an intimate knowledge of spacecraft operations before my small mishap. It hasn’t been difficult for me to integrate myself with Storm Bird. I doubt that a real subpersona would ever prove an adequate replacement. ’

She sneered. ‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m not going to replace you.’

‘You’re not?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But my reasons are pragmatic. I can’t afford to, not without seriously fucking up my ship’s performance. I don’t want to go through the learning curve of integrating a new gamma-level, especially not now.’

‘That’s reason enough for me.’

‘I’m not finished. My father made a deal with you. That means you made a deal with the Bax family. I can’t renege on that, even if I wanted to. It wouldn’t be good for business.’

‘We’re a little far from any business opportunities now, Antoinette.’

‘Well, maybe. But there’s one other thing. Are you listening?’

‘Of course.’

‘We’re going into battle. You’re going to help me. And by that I mean you’re going to fly this ship and make it do whatever the fuck I ask of it. Understood? I mean everything. No matter how much danger it puts me in.’

‘Vowing to protect you was also part of the arrangement I made with your father, Antoinette.’

She shrugged. ‘That was between you and him, not me. From now on I take my own risks, even if they’re the kind that might get me killed. Got that?’

‘Yes . . . Antoinette.’

She stood up from her seat. ‘Oh, and one other thing.’

‘Yes?’

‘No more “Little Miss”.’

Khouri was down in the reception bay, showing her face and generally doing her best to reassure the evacuees that they had not been forgotten, when she felt the entire ship lurch to one side. The movement was sudden and violent, enough to knock her off her feet and send her crashing bruisingly into the nearest wall. Khouri swore, a thousand possibilities flashing through her mind, but her thoughts were immediately drowned under the vast roar of panic that emanated from the two thousand passengers. She heard screams and shouts, and it was many seconds before the sound began to die down to a general rumble of disquiet. The motion had not repeated itself, but any illusions they had that the ship was a solid and unchanging thing had just been annihilated.

Khouri snapped into damage-limitation mode. She made her way through the maze of partitions that divided the chamber, offering nothing more than a reassuring wave to the families and individuals who tried to stop her to ask what was going on. At that point she was still trying to work it out for herself.

It had already been agreed that her immediate deputies would assemble together in the event of anything unexpected happening. She found a dozen of them waiting for her, all looking only slightly less panicked than the people in their care.

‘Vuilleumier . . .’ they said, in near unison, on her arrival.

‘What the hell just happened?’ one asked. ‘We’ve got broken bones, fractures, people scared shitless. Shouldn’t someone have warned us?’

‘Collision avoidance,’ she said. ‘The ship detected a piece of debris heading towards it. Didn’t have time to shoot it away, so it moved itself.’ It was a lie, and it did not even sound convincing to her, but it was at least a stab at a rational explanation. ‘That’s why there was no warning,’ she added, by way of an afterthought. ‘It’s good, really: it means the safety subsystems are still working.’

‘You never said they wouldn’t be,’ the man told her.

‘Well, now we know for sure, don’t we?’ And with that she told them to spread the word that the sudden movement had been nothing to worry about, and to make sure that the injured got the care they needed.

Fortunately, no one had been killed, and the broken bones and fractures turned out to be clean breaks that could be attended to with simple procedures, without the need to take anyone beyond the chamber to the medical bay. An hour passed, and then two, and a nervous calm descended. Her explanation, it appeared, had been accepted by the majority of the evacuees.

Great, she thought. Now all I have to do is convince myself.

But an hour later the ship moved again.

This time it was less violent than before, and the only effect was to make Khouri sway and reach hastily for a support. She swore, but now it was less out of surprise than annoyance. She had no idea what she was going to tell the passengers next, and her last explanation was going to start looking less than convincing. She decided, for the time being, not to offer any explanation at all, and to let her underlings figure out what had happened. Give them time and they might come up with something better than she was capable of.

She made her way back to Ilia Volyova, thinking all the while that something was wrong, experiencing a sense of dislocation that she could not quite put her finger on. It was as if every vertical surface in the ship was minutely askew. The floor was no longer perfectly level, so that the liquid effluent in the flooded zones built up more on one side of the corridor than the other. Where it dripped from the walls it no longer fell vertically, but at a pronounced angle. By the time she reached Volyova’s bed, she could not ignore the changes. It was an effort to walk upright, and she found it easier and safer to move along one wall at a time.

‘Ilia.’

She was, mercifully, awake, engrossed in the swollen bauble of her battle display. Clavain’s beta-level was by her side, the servitor’s fingers forming a contemplative steeple beneath its nose as it viewed the same abstract realisation.

‘What is it, Khouri?’ came Volyova’s scratch of a voice.

‘Something’s happening to the ship.’

‘Yes, I know. I felt it as well. So did Clavain.’

Khouri slipped her goggles on and viewed the two of them properly: the ailing woman and the elderly white-haired man who stood patiently at her bedside. They looked as if they had known each other all their lives.

‘I think we’re moving,’ Khouri said.

‘More than just moving, I’d say,’ Clavain replied. ‘Accelerating, aren’t we? The local vertical is shifting.’

He was right. When the ship was parked in orbit somewhere it generated gravity for itself by spinning sections of its interior. The occupants felt themselves being flung outwards, away from the ship’s long axis. But when Nostalgia for Infinity was under thrust, the acceleration created another source of false gravity exactly at right angles to the spin-generated pseudo-force. The two vectors combined to give a force that acted at an angle between them.

‘About a tenth of a gee,’ Clavain added, ‘or thereabouts. Enough to distort local vertical by five or six degrees.’

‘No one asked the ship to move,’ Khouri said.

‘I think it decided to move itself,’ Volyova said. ‘I imagine that was why we experienced some jolts earlier on. Our host’s fine control is a little rusty. Isn’t it, Captain?’

But the Captain did not answer her.

‘Why are we moving?’ Khouri asked.

‘I think that might have something to do with it,’ Volyova said.

The squashed bauble of the battle realisation swelled larger. At first glance it looked much as it had before. The remaining cache weapons were still displayed, together with the Inhibitor device. But there was something new: an icon that she did not remember being displayed before. It was arrowing into the arena of battle from an oblique angle to the ecliptic, exactly as if it had come in from interstellar space. Next to it was a flickering cluster of numbers and symbols.

‘Clavain’s ship?’ Khouri asked. ‘But that isn’t possible. We weren’t expecting to see it for weeks ...’

‘Seems we were wrong,’ Volyova said. ‘Weren’t we, Clavain?’

‘I can’t possibly speculate.’

‘His blue shift was falling too swiftly,’ Volyova said. ‘But I didn’t believe the evidence of my sensors. Nothing capable of interstellar flight could decelerate as hard as Clavain’s ship appeared to be slowing. And yet...’

Khouri finished the sentence for her. ‘It has.’

‘Yes. And instead of being a month out, he was two or three days out, maybe fewer. Clever, Clavain, I’ll give you that. How do you manage that little trick, might I ask?’

The beta-level shook its head. ‘I don’t know. That particular piece of intelligence was edited from my personality before I was transmitted here. But I can speculate as well as you can, Ilia. Either my counterpart has a more powerful drive than anything known to the Conjoiners, or he has something worryingly close to inertia-suppression technology. Take your pick. Either way, I’d say it wasn’t exactly good news, wouldn’t you?’

‘Are you saying the Captain saw the other ship coming in?’ Khouri asked.

‘You can be certain of it,’ Volyova said. ‘Everything I see, he sees.’

‘So why are we moving? Doesn’t he want to die?’

‘Not here, it would seem,’ Clavain said. ‘And not now. This trajectory will bring us back into local Resurgam space, won’t it?’

‘In about twelve days,’ Volyova confirmed. ‘Which strikes me as too long to be of any use. Of course, that’s assuming he sticks to one-tenth of a gee ... he has no need to, ultimately. At a gee he could reach Resurgam in two days, ahead of Clavain.’

‘What good will it do?’ Khouri asked. ‘We’re just as vulnerable there as here. Clavain can reach us wherever we move to.’

‘We’re not remotely vulnerable,’ Volyova said. ‘We still have thirteen damned cache weapons and the will to use them. I can’t guess at the Captain’s deeper motive for moving us, but I know one thing: it makes the evacuation operation a good deal easier, doesn’t it?’

‘You think he’s trying to help, finally?’

‘I don’t know, Khouri. I’ll admit it is a distinct theoretical possibility, that is all. You’d better tell Thorn, anyway.’

‘Tell him what?’

‘To start accelerating things. The bottleneck may be about to change.’

THIRTY-FOUR

A figure grew to flickering solidity within Zodiacal Light’s imaging tank. Clavain, Remontoire, Scorpio, Blood, Cruz and Felka sat in a rough semicircle around the device as the man’s form sharpened and then took on animation.

‘Well,’ Clavain’s beta-level said. ‘I’m back.’

Clavain had the uneasy sense that he was looking at his own reflection flipped left-to-right, all the subtle asymmetries of his face thrown into exaggerated relief. He did not like beta-levels, especially not of himself. The whole idea of being mimicked rankled him, and the more accurate the mimicry the less he liked it. Am I supposed to be flattered, he thought, that my essence is so easily captured by an assemblage of mindless algorithms?

‘You’ve been hacked,’ Clavain told his image.

‘I’m sorry?’

Remontoire leaned towards the tank and spoke. ‘Volyova stripped out large portions of you. We can see her handiwork, the damage she left, but we can’t tell exactly what she did. Very probably all she managed was to delete sensitive memory blocks, but since we can’t know for sure, we’ll have to treat you as potentially viral. That means that you’ll be quarantined once this debriefing is over. Your memories won’t be neurally merged with Clavain’s, since there’s too much risk of contamination. You’ll be frozen on to a solid-state memory substrate and archived. Effectively, you’ll be dead.’

Clavain’s image shrugged apologetically. ‘Let’s just hope I can be of some service before then, shall we?’

‘Did you learn anything?’ Scorpio asked.

‘I learned a lot, I think. Of course, I can’t be sure which of my memories are genuine, and which are plants.’

‘We’ll worry about that,’ Clavain said. ‘Just tell us what you found out. Is the commander of the ship really Volyova?’

The image nodded keenly. ‘Yes, it’s her.’

‘And does she know about the weapons?’ asked Blood.

‘Yes, she does.’

Clavain looked at his fellows, then back to the tank. ‘Right, then. Is she going to hand them over without a fight?’

‘I don’t think you can count on that, no. As a matter of fact, I think you’d better assume she’s going to make matters a little on the awkward side.’

Felka spoke now. ‘What does she know about the weapons’ origin?’

‘Not much, I think. She might have some vague inkling, but I don’t think it is a great interest of hers. She does know a little about the wolves, however.’

Felka frowned. ‘How so?’

‘I don’t know. We never got that chatty. We’d better just assume that Volyova has already had some tangential involvement with them - and survived, as I need hardly point out. That makes her at least worthy of our respect, I think. She calls them the Inhibitors, incidentally. I never got to the bottom of why.’

‘I know why,’ Felka said quietly.

‘She may not have had any direct involvement with them,’ Remontoire said. ‘There is already wolf activity in this system, and must have been for some time. Very probably all she’s done is make some shrewd deductions.’

‘I think her experience goes a little deeper than that,’ Clavain’s beta-level answered, but made no further elaboration.

‘I agree,’ Felka said.

Now they all looked at her for a moment.

‘Did you impress on her our seriousness?’ Clavain asked, turning his attention back to the beta-level. ‘Did you let her know that she would be much better off dealing with us than the rest of the Conjoiners?’

‘I think she got the message, yes.’

‘And?’

‘Thanks, but no thanks, was the general idea.’

‘She’s a very foolish woman, this Volyova,’ Remontoire said. ‘That’s a shame. It would be so much easier if we could proceed in a cordial manner, without all this unfortunate need to use aggressive force.’

‘There’s another matter,’ the simulated Clavain said. ‘There’s some kind of evacuation operation in progress. You’ve already seen what the wolf machine is doing to the star, gnawing into it with some kind of focused gravity-wave probe. Soon it will reach the nuclear-burning core, releasing the energy at the heart of the star. It will be like drilling a hole into the base of a dam, unleashing water under tremendous pressure. Except it won’t be water. It will be fusing hydrogen, at stellar-core pressure and temperature. My guess is that it will convert the star into a form of flame-thrower. The core’s energy will be bled away very rapidly once the drill has reached it, and the star will die - or at least become a much dimmer and cooler star in the process. But at the same time I imagine the star itself will become a weapon capable of incinerating any planet within a few light-hours of Delta Pavonis, simply by dousing that arterial spray of fusion fire across the face of a world. I imagine it would strip the atmosphere from a gas giant and smelt a rocky world to metallic lava. They don’t necessarily know what will happen on Resurgam, but you can be certain that they wish to get away from there as soon as possible. There are already people aboard the ship, airlifted from the surface. A few thousand, at the very least.’

‘And you have evidence of this, do you?’ asked Scorpio.

‘Nothing I can prove, no.’

‘Then we’ll assume that they don’t exist. It’s obviously a crude attempt at convincing us not to attack.’

Thorn stood on the surface of Resurgam, his coat buttoned high against the harsh polar wind that scraped and scoured every exposed inch of his skin. It was not quite what they would once have called a razorstorm, but it was unpleasant enough when there was no nearby shelter. He adjusted flimsy dust goggles, squinting into starlight, looking for the tiny moving star of the transfer ship.

It was dusk. The sky overhead was a deep velvet purple which shaded to black at the southern horizon. Only the brightest stars were visible through his goggles, and now and then even these would appear to dim as his eyes readjusted to the sudden flash of one of the warring weapons. To the north, and reaching some way to east and west, soft pink auroral curtains trembled in invisible wind. The lightshow was only beautiful if one had no idea what was causing it, and therefore no grasp of how portentous it was. The aurorae were fuelled by ionised particles that were being clawed and gouged off the surface of the star by the Inhibitor weapon. The inwards bulge, the tunnel that the weapon was boring into the star, now reached halfway to the nuclear-burning core. Around the walls of the tunnel, propped apart by standing waves of pumped gravitational energy, the interior structure of the star had undergone a series of drastic changes as the normal convective processes struggled to adjust to the weapon’s assault. Already the core was beginning to change its shape as the overlying mass density shifted. The song of neutrinos streaming out from the star’s heart had changed tune, signifying the imminence of the core breakthrough. There was still no clear idea about exactly what would happen when the weapon finished its work, but in Thorn’s view the best they could do was not hang around to find out.

He was waiting for the last of the day’s shuttle flights to finish boarding. The elegant craft was parked below him, surrounded by a throbbing insectile mass of potential evacuees. Fights broke out constantly as people struggled to jump the queue for the next departure. The mob revolted him, even though he felt nothing but admiration and sympathy for its individual elements. In all his years of agitation he had only ever had to deal with small numbers of trusted people, but he had always known it would come to this. The mob was an emergent property of crowds, and as such he had to take credit for bringing this particular mob into being. But he did not have to like what he had done.

Enough, Thorn thought. Now was not the time to start despising the people he had saved simply because they allowed their fears to surface. Had he been amongst them, he doubted that he would have behaved with any great saintliness. He would have wanted to get his family off the planet, and if that meant stamping on someone else’s escape plans, so be it.

But he wasn’t in the mob, was he? He was the one who had actually found a way off the planet. He was the one who had actually made it possible.

He supposed that had to count for something.

There - sliding overhead. The transfer ship crossed his zenith and then dove into shadow. He felt a flicker of relief that it was still there. Its orbit was tightly proscribed, for any deviation was likely to trigger an attack from the surface-to-orbit defence system. Although Khouri and Volyova had dug their claws into many branches of government, there were still certain departments that they had only been able to influence indirectly. The Office of Civil Defence was one, and it was also one of the most worrying, entrusted as it was with the defences to prevent a recurrence of the Volyova incident. The Office had rapid-response surface-to-orbit missiles equipped with hot-dust warheads, designed to take out an orbiting starship before it became a threat to the colony as a whole. The Ultras’ smaller ships had been able to duck and dive under the radar nets, but the transfer shuttle was too large for such subterfuge. So there had been brokering and behind-the-scenes leverage and the result was that the Office’s missiles would be held in their bunkers provided that the transfer ship or any of the transatmospheric shuttles did not deviate from rigidly defined flight corridors. Thorn knew this, and was confident that the various ships’ avionics systems knew it too, but he still felt an irrational moment of relief every time the transfer ship came into view again.

His portable telephone chimed. Thorn fished the bulky item from his coat pocket, fiddling with the controls through thick-fingered gloves. ‘Thorn.’ He recognised the voice of one of the Inquisition House operators.

‘Recorded message from Nostalgia for Infinity, sir. Shall I put it through to you, or will you take the call when you are in orbit?’

‘Put it through, please.’ He waited a moment, hearing the faint chatter of electromechanical relays and the hiss of analogue tape, imagining the dark telephonic machinery of Inquisition House moving to serve him.

‘Thorn, it’s Vuilleumier. Listen carefully. There’s been a slight change of plan. It’s a long story, but we’re moving closer to Resurgam. I’ll have updated navigation coordinates for the transfer ship, so you won’t have to worry about that. But now we may be looking at much less than thirty hours’ round trip. We might even be able to get close enough that we don’t need to use the transfer ship at all, just bring them straight aboard Infinity. That means we can accelerate the surface-to-orbit flights. We only need five hundred rounds of shuttle flights and we’ve evacuated the entire planet. Thorn, suddenly it seems as if we might have a chance. Can you arrange things at your end?’

Thorn looked down at the brewing mob. Khouri appeared to be waiting for him to reply. ‘Operator, record and transmit this, will you?’ He waited a decent interval before responding. ‘This is Thorn. Message understood. I’ll do what I can to speed up the evacuation process when I know that it makes sense to do so. But in the meantime, might I inject a note of caution? If you can reduce the thirty hours’ round trip, great. I endorse that wholeheartedly. But you can’t bring the starship too close to Resurgam. Even if you don’t succeed in scaring half the planet out of their skins, you’ll have the Office of Civil Defence to worry about. And I mean worry. We’ll speak later, Ana. I have work to do, I’m afraid.’ He looked down at the mob, noting a disturbance where all had been quiet a minute earlier. ‘Perhaps a little more than I feared.’

Thorn told the operator to send the message and alert him if a reply was forthcoming. He slipped the phone back into his pocket, where it lay as heavy and inert as a truncheon. Then he began to scramble and skid his way back down towards the mob, kicking up dust as he descended.

‘Clear of Zodiacal Light, Antoinette.’

‘Good,’ she said. ‘I think I can start breathing again.’

Through the flight deck windows the lighthugger still loomed enormously large, extending in either direction like a great dark cliff, chiselled here and there with strangely mechanistic outcrops, defiles and prominences. The docking bay Storm Bird had just cleared was a diminishing rectangle of gold light in the nearest part of the cliff, the huge toothed doors already sliding towards each other. Yet even though the doors were sealing, there was still adequate room for smaller vessels to make their departures. She saw them with her own eyes and on the various tactical displays and radar spheres that packed the flight deck. As the armoured jaws slid towards closure, small skeletal attack ships, little more than armoured trikes, were able to slip between the teeth. They zipped out, riding agile high-burn antimatter-catalysed fusion rockets. They made Antoinette think of the mouth-cleaning parasites of some enormous underwater monster. By comparison, Storm Bird was a sizeable fish in its own right.

The departure had been the most technically difficult she had ever known. Clavain’s surprise attack demanded that Zodiacal Light sustain a deceleration of three gees until its arrival within ten light-seconds of Nostalgia for Infinity. All the attack ships in the current wave had been forced to make their departures under the same three gees of thrust. Exiting any spacecraft bay was a technically demanding operation, most especially when the departing ships were armed and fuel-heavy. But doing it under sustained thrust was an order of magnitude more difficult again. Antoinette would have considered it a white-knuckle job if Clavain had demanded that they exit at a half-gee, the way rim pilots arrived and departed from Carousel New Copenhagen. But three gees? That was just being sadistic.

But she had made it. Now she had clear space for hundreds of metres in any direction, and a lot more than that in most.

‘Cut in tokamak on my mark, Ship. Five . . . four . . . three ... two . . . and mark.’ Through years of conditioning she tensed, anticipating the tiny thump in the seat of her pants that always signified the switch from nuclear rockets to pure fusion.

It never came.

‘Fusion burn sustained and steady. Green across the board. Three gees, Antoinette.’

She raised an eyebrow and nodded. ‘Damn, but that was smooth.’

‘You can thank Xavier for that, and perhaps Clavain. They found a glitch in one of the oldest drive-management subroutines. It was responsible for a slight mismatch in thrust during the switch between thrust modes.’

She switched to a lower-magnification view of the lighthugger, one that showed the entire length of the hull. Streams of makeshift attack craft - mostly trike-sized, but up to small shuttles - were emerging from five different bays along the hull. Many of the craft were decoys, and not all of the decoys had enough fuel to get within a light-second of Nostalgia for Infinity. But even knowing that it still looked impressive. The huge ship appeared to be bleeding streams of light.

‘And you had nothing to do with it?’

‘One always tries one’s best.’

‘I never thought otherwise, Ship.’

‘I’m sorry about what happened, Antoinette . . .’

‘I’m over it, Ship.’

She couldn’t call it Beast any more. And she certainly couldn’t bring herself to call it Lyle Merrick.

Ship would have to do.

She switched to an even lower magnification, calling up an overlay that boxed the numerous attack craft, tagging them with numeric codes according to type, range, crew and armament, and plotted their vectors. Some idea of the scale of the assault now became apparent. There were around a hundred ships in total. Sixty or so of the hundred were trikes, and about thirty of the trikes actually carried assault-squad members - usually one heavily armoured pig, although there were one or two tandem trikes for specialist operations. All of the crewed trikes carried some form of armament, ranging from single-use grasers to gigawatt-yield Breitenbach bosers. The crew all wore servo armour; most carried firearms, or would be able to disengage and carry their trike’s weapon when they reached the enemy ship.

There were about thirty intermediate-sized craft: two- or three-seater closed-hull shuttles. They were all of civilian design, either adapted from the ships that had already been present in Zodiacal Light’s holds when she was captured, or supplied by H from his own raiding fleets. They were equipped with a similar spectrum of armaments as the trikes, but also carried the heavier equipment: missile racks and specialised hard-docking gear. And then there were nine medium-to-large shuttles or corvettes, all capable of holding at least twenty armoured crew and with hulls long enough to carry the smallest kind of railgun slug-launchers. Three of these craft carried inertia-suppressors, extending their acceleration ceiling from four to eight gees. Their blocky hulls and asymmetric designs marked them as non-atmospheric ships, but this would be no handicap in the anticipated sphere of combat.

Storm Bird was much larger than the other ships, large enough that its own hold now contained three shuttles and a dozen trikes, along with their associated crews. It had no inertia-suppression machinery - the technology had proven impossible to replicate en masse, especially under the conditions aboard Zodiacal Light - but by way of compensation, Antoinette’s ship carried more armaments and more armour than any other ship in the assault fleet. It wasn’t a freighter now, she thought. It was a warship, and she had better start getting used to the idea.

‘Little . . . I mean, Antoinette?’

‘Yes?’ she asked, gritting her teeth.

‘I just wanted to say ... now . . . before it’s too late ...’

She hit the switch that disabled the voice, then eased out of her seat and into her exoskeleton. ‘Later, Ship. I’ve got to inspect the troops.’

Alone, with his hands clasped tightly behind his back, Clavain stood in the stiff embrace of his exoskeleton, watching the departure of the attack ships from an observation cupola.

The drones, decoys, trikes and ships gyred and wheeled as they left Zodiacal Light, falling into designated squadrons. The cupola’s smart glass protected his eyes against the savage glare of the exhausts, smudging the core of each flame with black so that he saw only the violet extremities. In the distance, far beyond the swarm of departing ships, was the brown-grey crescent face of Resurgam, the whole planet as small as a marble held at arm’s length. His implants indicated the position of Volyova’s lighthugger, though the other ship was much too distant to see with the naked eye. Yet a single neural command made the cupola selectively magnify that part of the image so that a reasonably sharp view of Nostalgia for Infinity swelled out of darkness. The Triumvir’s ship was nearly ten light-seconds away, but it was also very large; the four-kilometre-long hull subtended an angle of a third of an arc-second, which was well within the resolving capabilities of Zodiacal Light’s smallest optical telescopes. The downside was that the Triumvir would have at least as good a view of his own ship. Provided she was paying attention, she would not be able to miss the departure of the attack fleet.

Clavain knew now that the baroque augmentations he had seen before and dismissed as phantoms added by the processing software were quite real; that something astonishing and strange had happened to Volyova’s ship. The ship had remade itself into a festering gothic caricature of what a starship ought to look like. Clavain could only speculate that the Melding Plague must have had something to do with it. The only other place he had seen transformations that even approximated what he was seeing now was in the warped, phantasmagorical architecture of Chasm City. He had heard of ships being infected with the plague, and he had heard that sometimes the plague reached the repair-and-redesign machinery which allowed ships to evolve, but he had never heard of a ship becoming so thoroughly perverted as this one while still, so far as he could tell, being able to continue functioning as a ship. It made his skin crawl just to look it. He hoped that no one living had been caught up in those transformations.

The sphere of battle would encompass the ten light-seconds between Zodiacal Light and the other ship, although its focus would be determined by Volyova’s movements. It was a good volume for a war, Clavain thought. Tactically, it was not the scale that mattered so much as the typical crossing times for various craft and weapons.

At three gees, the sphere could be crossed in four hours; a little over two hours for the fastest ships in the fleet. A hyperfast missile would take fewer than forty minutes to span the sphere. Clavain had already dug through his memories of previous battle campaigns, searching for tactical parallels. The Battle of Britain - an obscure aerial dispute from one of the early transnational wars, fought with subsonic piston-engined aircraft - had encompassed a similar volume from the point of view of crossing times, although the three-dimensional element had been much less important. The twenty-first century’s global wars were less relevant; with sub-orbital waverider drones, no point on the planet had been more than forty minutes away from annihilation. But the solar system wars of the latter half of that century offered more useful parallels. Clavain thought of the Earth-Moon secession crisis, or the battle for Mercury, noting victories and failures and the reasons for each. He thought of Mars, too, of the battle against the Conjoiners at the end of the twenty-second century. The sphere of combat had reached far above the orbits of Phobos and Deimos, so that the effective crossing time for the fastest single-person fighters had been three or four hours. There had been timelag problems, too, with line-of-sight communications blocked by huge clouds of silvered chaff.

There had been other campaigns, other wars. It was not necessary to bring them all to mind. The salient lessons were there already. He knew the mistakes that others had made; he knew also the mistakes he had made in the earlier engagements of his career. They had never been significant errors, he thought, or he would not be standing here now. But no lesson was valueless.

A pale reflection moved across the cupola’s glass.

‘Clavain.’

He snapped around with a whirr of his exoskeleton. He had imagined himself to be alone until then.

‘Felka ...’ he said, surprised.

‘I came to watch it happen,’ she said.

Her own exoskeleton propelled her towards him with a stiff, marching gait, like someone being escorted by invisible guards. Together they watched the dregs of the attack squadron fall into space.

‘If you didn’t know it was war ...’ he began.

‘ ... it would almost be beautiful,’ she said. ‘Yes. I agree.’

‘I’m doing the right thing, aren’t I?’ Clavain asked.

‘Why do you ask me?’

‘You’re the closest thing I have left to a conscience, Felka. I keep asking myself what Galiana would do, if she were here now . . .’

Felka interrupted him. ‘She would worry, just as you worry. It’s the people who don’t worry - those who never have any doubts that what they’re doing is good and right - they’re the ones that cause the problems. People like Skade.’

He remembered the searing flash when he had destroyed Nightshade . ‘I’m sorry about what happened.’

‘I told you to do it, Clavain. I know it was what Galiana wanted.’

‘That I should kill her?’

‘She died years ago. She just didn’t . . . end. All you’ve done is close the book.’

‘I removed any possibility of her ever living again,’ he said.

Felka held his age-spotted hand. ‘She would have done the same to you, Clavain. I know it.’

‘Perhaps. But you still haven’t told me if you agree with this.’

‘I agree that it will serve our short-term interests if we possess the weapons. Beyond that, I’m not sure.’

Clavain looked at her carefully. ‘We need those weapons, Felka.’

‘I know. But what if she - the Triumvir - needs them as well? Your proxy said she was trying to evacuate Resurgam.’

He chose his words. ‘That’s ... not my immediate concern. If she is engaged in evacuating the planet, and I’ve no evidence that she is, then she has all the more reason to give me what I want so that I don’t interfere with the evacuation.’

‘And it wouldn’t cross your mind to think for a moment about helping her?’

‘I’m here to get those weapons, Felka. Everything else, no matter how well intentioned, is just a detail.’

‘That’s what I thought,’ Felka said.

Clavain knew that it was better that he say nothing in answer.

In silence, they watched the violet flames of the attack ships fall towards Resurgam, and the Triumvir’s starship.

When Khouri had finished responding to Thorn’s latest message she arrived at a troubling conclusion. Walking was even harder than it had been before, the apparent slope of the floor even more severe. It was exactly as Ilia Volyova had predicted: the Captain had increased his rate of thrust, no longer satisfied with a mere tenth of a gee. By Khouri’s estimation, and the Clavain beta-level agreed with her, the rate was now double that and probably climbing. Previously horizontal surfaces now felt as if they were sloping at twelve degrees, enough to make some of the more slippery passages difficult to traverse. But that was not what was concerning her.

‘Ilia, listen to me. We have a serious fucking problem.’

Volyova emerged from contemplation of her battlescape. The icons floated within the squashed sphere of the projection like dozens of bright frozen fish. The view had changed since the last time she had seen it, Khouri was certain.

‘What is it, child?’

‘It’s the holding bay, where we have the newcomers.’

‘Continue.’

‘It’s not designed to deal with the ship moving under thrust. We built it as a temporary holding bay, to be used while we were parked. It’s spun for gravity so that the force acts radially, away from the ship’s long axis. But now that’s changing. The Captain’s applying thrust, so we’ve got a new source acting along the axis. It’s only a fifth of a gee at the moment, but you can bet it’s going to get worse. We can turn off the spin, but that won’t change things. The walls are becoming floors.’

‘This is a lighthugger, Khouri. This is a normal transition to starflight mode.’

‘You don’t understand, Ilia. We’ve got two thousand people crammed into one chamber, and they can’t stay there. They’re already freaking out because the floor is sloping so much. They feel as if they’re on the deck of a sinking ship, and no one is telling them anything’s wrong.’ She paused; she was a little out of breath. ‘Ilia, here’s the deal. You were right about the bottleneck. I told Thorn to get things moving faster at the Resurgam end. That means we’re going to be getting thousands of people arriving very soon indeed. We always knew we’d have to start emptying the holding bay. Now we’ll just have to start doing it a bit sooner.’

‘But that would mean ...’ Volyova appeared unable to complete the thought.

‘Yes, Ilia. They’re going to have to get the tour of the ship. Whether they like it or not.’

‘This could turn out very badly, Khouri. Very badly indeed.’

Khouri looked down at her old mentor. ‘You know what I like about you, Ilia? You’re such a frigging optimist.’

‘Shut up and take a look at the battle display, Khouri. We are under attack - or we will be very shortly.’

‘Clavain?’

The merest hint of a nod. ‘Zodiacal Light has released squadrons of attack craft, around a hundred in total. They’re headed here, most of them at three gees. They won’t take more than four hours to reach us, no matter what we do.’

‘Clavain can’t have those weapons, Ilia.’

The Triumvir, who now looked far older and frailer than Khouri ever remembered, shook her head by the barest degree. ‘He isn’t going to get them. Not without a fight.’

They exchanged ultimatums. Clavain gave Ilia Volyova one last chance to surrender the hell-class weapons; if she complied he would recall his attack fleet. Volyova told Clavain that if he did not recall his fleet immediately, she would turn the thirteen remaining weapons against him.

Clavain readied his response. ‘Sorry. Unacceptable. I need those weapons very badly.’

He transmitted it and was only slightly startled when the Triumvir’s answer came back three seconds later. It was identical to his own. There had not been enough time for her to see his response.

THIRTY-FIVE

Volyova watched five of the thirteen remaining cache weapons assume attack positions beyond Nostalgia for Infinity. Their coloured icons floated above her bed like the kinds of bauble that were used to amuse infants in cots. Volyova raised a hand and poked it through the ghostly representation, pushing against the icons, adjusting the positions of the weapons relative to her ship, using its hull for camouflage wherever possible. The icons moved stubbornly, reflecting the sluggish real-time movements of the weapons themselves.

‘Are you going to use them immediately?’ Khouri asked.

Volyova glanced at the woman. ‘No. Not yet. Not until he forces my hand. I don’t want the Inhibitors to know that there are more cache weapons than the twenty they already know about.’

‘You’ll have to use them eventually.’

‘Unless Clavain sees sense and realises he can’t possibly win. Maybe he will. It isn’t too late.’

‘But we don’t know anything about the kinds of weapons he has,’ Khouri said. ‘What if he has something equally powerful?’

‘It won’t make a blind bit of difference if he has, Khouri. He wants something from me, understand? I want nothing from him. That gives me a distinct advantage over Clavain.’

‘I don’t ...’

Volyova sighed, disappointed that it was necessary to spell this out. ‘His strike against us has to be surgical. He can’t risk damaging the weapons he so badly wants. In crude terms, you don’t rob someone by dropping a crustbuster on them. But I’m bound by no such constraint. Clavain has nothing that I want.’

Well, Volyova admitted to herself, almost nothing. She had a vague curiosity concerning whatever it was that had allowed him to decelerate so savagely. Even if it was nothing as exotic as inertia-suppression technology ... but no. It was nothing she needed desperately. That meant she could use all the force in her arsenal against him. She could wipe him out of existence, and her only loss would be something she was not even sure had ever existed.

But something still troubled her. Clavain, surely, could see all that for himself? Especially if she was dealing with the Clavain, the real Butcher of Tharsis. He had not lived through four hundred or more dangerous years of human history by making tragically simple errors.

What if Clavain knew something she didn’t?

She moved her fingers through the projection, nervously reconfiguring her pieces, wondering which of them she should use first, thinking also that, given Clavain’s limitations, it would be more interesting to let the battle escalate rather than taking his main ship out instantly.

‘Any news from Thorn?’ she asked.

‘He’s en route from Resurgam with another two thousand passengers. ’

‘And does he know about our little difficulty with Clavain?’

‘I told him we were moving closer to Resurgam. I didn’t see any sense in giving him anything more to worry about.’

‘No,’ Volyova said, agreeing with her for once. ‘The people are at least as safe in space as they’d be on Resurgam. At least once they’re off the planet they’ve got a hope of survival. Not much of one, but . . .’

‘Are you certain you won’t use the cache weapons?’

‘I will use them Khouri, but not a moment sooner than I have to. Haven’t you ever heard of the expression “whites of their eyes”? Perhaps not; it’s the sort of thing only a soldier would be likely to know.’

‘I’ve forgotten more about soldiering than you’ll ever know, Ilia.’

‘Just trust me. Is it so much to ask?’

Twenty-two minutes later the battle began. Clavain’s opening salvo was almost insultingly inadequate. She had detected the signatures of railgun launchers, ripples of electromagnetic energy designed to slam a small dense slug up to one or two thousand kilometres per second. The slugs took an hour to reach her from their launch points near Zodiacal Light. At the very limit of her resolution she could make out the skeletal cruciform shapes of the launchers themselves, and then watch the pulse of sequenced matter-antimatter explosions that drove the slugs up to their terminal velocities, gobbling up the railguns in the process. Clavain did not have enough railguns to saturate the immediate volume of space around her ship, so she could avoid being hit simply by making sure she - or rather the Captain - kept Nostalgia for Infinity in a constant random-walk pattern, never entering the volume of space where it had been an hour earlier, which was where any arriving railgun slug would have been aimed.

At first, that was exactly what happened. She did not even have to ask it of the Captain. He was privy to the same tactical information as Volyova, and appeared capable of arriving at the same conclusions. She felt the faint yawing and pitching, as if her bed was adrift on a raft on a mildly choppy sea, as Nostalgia for Infinity moved, shifting with short, thunderous bursts of the many station-keeping thrusters which dotted the hull.

But she could do better than that.

With the long-range grabs of the railguns and the electromagnetic launch signatures, she could determine the precise direction in which a particular slug had been aimed. There was a margin of error, but it was not large, and it amused Volyova to remain exactly where she was until the last possible moment, only then moving her ship. She ran simulations in the tactical display, showing the Captain the projected impact point of each new slug launch, and was gratified when the Captain revised his strategy. She liked it better this way. It was far more elegant and fuel-efficient, and she hoped that the lesson was not lost on Clavain.

She wanted him to become cleverer, so that she could become cleverer still.

Clavain watched as the last of his railguns fired and launched, destroying itself in a cascade of quick, bright explosions.

It was an hour since he had begun the attack, and he had never seriously expected that it would do more than occupy the Triumvir’s time, diverting her attention away from the other elements of the attack. If one of the slugs had hit her ship it would have delivered about a kilotonne of kinetic energy on impact; enough to cripple the lighthugger, perhaps even to rip it open, but not enough to destroy it entirely. There remained a chance of success - four slugs were still on their way - but the Triumvir had already shown every indication that she could deal with this particular threat. Clavain felt little in the way of regret; more a sense of quiet relief that they were past the negotiating stage and into the infinitely more honest arena of actual battle. He suspected that the Triumvir felt likewise.

Felka and Remontoire were floating next to him in the observation cupola, which was decoupled from the spinning part of the ship. Now that Zodiacal Light had slowed to a halt on the edge of the battle volume they no longer had need of their exoskeletons, and Clavain felt oddly vulnerable without his.

‘Disappointed, Clavain?’ asked Remontoire.

‘No. As a matter of fact I’m reassured. If anything feels too easy, I start looking for a trap.’

Remontoire nodded. ‘She’s no fool, that’s for certain, no matter what she’s done to her ship. You still don’t believe that story about an evacuation attempt, I take it?’

‘There’s more reason to believe it now than there was before,’ Felka said. ‘Isn’t that right, Clavain? We’ve seen shuttles moving between surface and orbit.’

‘That’s all we’ve seen,’ Clavain said.

‘And a larger ship moving between orbit and the lighthugger,’ she continued. ‘What more evidence do we need that she’s sincere?’

‘It doesn’t necessarily indicate an evacuation programme,’ Clavain said through gritted teeth. ‘It could be many things.’

‘So give her the benefit of the doubt,’ Felka said.

Clavain turned to her, brimming with sudden fury but hoping that it did not show. ‘It’s her choice. She has the weapons. They’re all I want.’

‘The weapons won’t make any difference in the long run.’

Now he made no attempt to hide his anger. ‘What the hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘Exactly what I said. I know, Clavain. I know that everything that is happening here, everything that means so much to you, to us, means precisely nothing in the long run.’

‘And this pearl of wisdom came from the Wolf, did it?’

‘You know I brought a part of it back from Skade’s ship.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And that means I have all the more reason to disregard anything you say, Felka.’

She hauled herself to one side of the cupola and disappeared through the exit hole, back into the main body of the ship. Clavain opened his mouth to call after her, to say something in apology. Nothing came.

‘Clavain?’

He looked at Remontoire. ‘What, Rem?’

‘The first hyperfast missiles will be arriving in a minute.’

Antoinette saw the first wave of hyperfast missiles streak past, overtaking Storm Bird with a velocity differential of nearly a thousand kilometres per second. There had been four missiles in the spread, and although they passed around her ship on all four sides, they converged ahead an instant later, the flares of their exhausts meeting like the lines in a perspective sketch.

Two minutes later another wave passed to starboard, and then a third slipped by to port, much further out, three minutes after that.

‘Holy shit,’ she whispered. ‘We’re not just playing war, are we?’

‘Scared?’ Xavier asked, pressed into the seat beside hers.

‘More than scared.’ She had already been back into the body of Storm Bird, inspecting the ferociously armoured assault squad she carried in her ship’s cargo bay. ‘But that’s good. Dad always said ...’

‘Be scared if you aren’t scared. Yeah.’ Xavier nodded. ‘That was one of his.’

‘Actually...’

They both looked at the console.

‘What, Ship?’ asked Antoinette.

‘Actually, that was one of mine. But your father liked it enough to steal it from me. I took that as a compliment.’

‘So Lyle Merrick actually said ...’ Xavier began.

‘Yes.’

‘No shit?’ Antoinette said.

‘No shit, Little Miss.’

The last wave of slugs was still on its way when Clavain escalated to the next level of his attack against Volyova. Again, there was no element of surprise. But there almost never was in space war, where hiding places and opportunities for camouflage were so few and far between. One could plan, and strategise, and hope that the enemy missed the obvious or subtle traps buried in the placement of one’s forces, but in every other respect war in space was a game of total transparency. It was war between enemies who could safely each assume the other to be omniscient. Like a game of chess, the outcome could often be guessed after only a few moves had been made, especially if the opponents were unevenly matched.

Volyova tracked the trajectories of the hyperfast missiles as they streaked across space from the launchers deployed by Zodiacal Light. They accelerated at a hundred gees, sustaining that thrust for forty minutes before becoming purely ballistic. Then they were moving at slightly less than one per cent of the speed of light - formidable targets, but still within the capabilities of Nostalgia for Infinity’s autonomic hull defences. Any starship had to be able to track and destroy rapidly moving objects as a normal part of its collision-avoidance procedures, so Volyova had barely had to upgrade the existing safeguards to make full-scale weapons.

It was a question of numbers. Each missile occupied a certain fraction of her available hull weapons, and there was always a small statistical chance that too many missiles would arrive at the same time for her - or the Captain, who was doing all the actual defending - to deal with.

But it never happened. She ran an analysis on the missile spread and concluded that Clavain was not trying to hit her. It was within his capability to do so; he had some control over the missiles until the moment they stopped accelerating, enough to correct for any small changes in Infinity’s position. And a direct hit from a hyperfast, even one with a dummy warhead, would have taken out the entire ship in a flash. Yet the missiles were all on trajectories that stood only a small chance of actually hitting her ship. They slammed past with tens of kilometres to spare, while roughly one in twenty went on to detonate slightly closer to Resurgam. The blast signatures suggested small matter-antimatter explosions: either residual fuel, or pinhead-sized warheads. The other nineteen missiles were effectively dummies.

A close blast would certainly damage Infinity, she thought. The five deployed cache weapons were robust enough not to worry her, but a close matter-antimatter blast could well incapacitate her hull armaments, leaving her wide open to a more concerted assault. Not that she was going to let it happen, but she would have to expend a good fraction of her resources in preventing it. And the annoying thing was that most of the missiles she had to destroy posed no actual threat; they were neither on intercept trajectories nor armed.

She did not go so far as to congratulate Clavain. All he had done was adopt a textbook saturation-attack approach, tying up her defences with a low probability/high consequence threat. It was neither clever nor original, but it was, more or less, exactly what she would have done under the same circumstances. She would give him that, at least: he had certainly not disappointed her.

Volyova decided to give him one last chance before ending his fun.

‘Clavain?’ she asked, broadcasting on the same frequency she had already used for her ultimatum. ‘Clavain, are you listening to me?’

Twenty seconds passed, and then she heard his voice. ‘I’m listening, Triumvir. I take it this isn’t an offer of surrender?’

‘I’m offering you a chance, Clavain, before I end this. A chance for you to walk away and fight on another day, against a more enthusiastic adversary.’

She waited for his reply to crawl back to her. The delay could be artificial, but it almost certainly meant he was still aboard Zodiacal Light.

‘Why would you want to cut me any slack, Triumvir?’

‘You’re not a bad man, Clavain. Just . . . misguided. You think you need the weapons more than I do, but you’re wrong, mistaken. I won’t hold it against you. No serious harm has yet been done. Turn your forces around and we’ll call it a misunderstanding.’

‘You speak as someone who thinks they hold the upper hand, Ilia. I wouldn’t be so certain, if I were you.’

‘I have the weapons, Clavain.’ She found herself smiling and frowning at the same time. ‘That makes rather a lot of difference, don’t you think?’

‘I’m sorry, Ilia, but I think one ultimatum is enough for anyone, don’t you?’

‘You’re a fool, Clavain. The sad thing is that you’ll never know how much of a fool.’

He did not respond.

‘Well, Ilia?’ Khouri asked.

‘I gave the bastard his chance. Now it’s time to stop playing games.’ She raised her voice. ‘Captain? Can you hear me? I want you to give me full control of cache weapon seventeen. Are you willing to do that?’

There was no answer. The moment stretched. The back of her neck crawled with anticipation. If the Captain was not prepared to let her actually use the five deployed weapons, then all her plans crumbled to dust and Clavain would suddenly seem a lot less foolish than he had a minute earlier.

Then she noticed the subtle change in the weapon’s icon status, signifying that she now had full military control of cache weapon seventeen.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ Volyova said sweetly. Then she addressed the weapon. ‘Hello, Seventeen. Nice to be doing business with you again.’

She pushed her hand into the projection, pinching the floating icon of the weapon between her fingers. Again the icon responded sluggishly, reflecting the dead weight of the weapon as it was brought out from the sensor shadow of Infinity’s hull. As it moved it was aligning itself, bringing its long killing axis to bear on the distant, but not really so distant, target of Zodiacal Light. At any time, Volyova’s knowledge of the position of Clavain’s ship was twenty seconds out of date, but that was only a minor annoyance. In the unlikely event that he suddenly moved, she was still guaranteed a kill. She would sweep his volume of possible occupancy with the weapon, knowing that she was sure to hit him at some point. She would know when she did; the detonation of his Conjoiner drives would light up the entire system. If anything was guaranteed to prick the interest of the Inhibitors, it would be that.

Still, she had to do it.

Yet Volyova trembled on the verge of execution. It felt wrong: too final; too abrupt; too - and this surprised her - unsporting. She felt she owed him a last chance to back down; that some final, direly urgent warning should be given. He had come such a long way, after all. And he had clearly imagined himself to be in with a chance of gaining the weapons.

Clavain ... Clavain ... she thought to herself. It should not have been like this ...

But it was, and that was that.

She tapped the icon, like a baby poking a bauble.

‘Goodbye,’ Volyova whispered.

The moment passed. The status indices and symbols next to the cache weapon’s icon changed, signifying a profound alteration in the weapon’s condition. She looked at the real-time image of Clavain’s ship, mentally counting down the twenty seconds it would take before the ship was torn apart by the beam from weapon seventeen. The beam would chew a canyon-sized wound in Clavain’s ship, assuming it did not trigger an immediate and fatal Conjoiner-drive detonation.

After ten seconds he had not moved. She knew then that her aim had been good, that the impact would be precise and devastating. Clavain would know nothing of his own death, nothing of the oblivion that was coming.

She waited out the remaining ten seconds, anticipating the bitter sense of triumph that would accompany the kill.

The time elapsed. Involuntarily, she flinched against the coming brightness, like a child waiting for the biggest and best firework.

Twenty seconds became twenty-one ... twenty-one became twenty-five ... thirty. Half a minute passed. Then a minute.

Clavain’s ship remained in view.

Nothing had happened.

THIRTY-SIX

She heard his voice again. It was calm, polite, almost apologetic.

‘I know what you just tried, Ilia. But don’t you think I’d already have considered the possibility of you turning the weapons against me?’

She stammered an answer. ‘What . . . did . . . you . . . do?’

Twenty seconds stretched to an eternity.

‘Nothing, really,’ Clavain said. ‘I just told the weapon not to fire. They’re our property, Ilia, not yours. Didn’t it occur to you for one moment that we might have a way to protect ourselves against them?’

‘You’re lying,’ she said.

Clavain sounded amused, as if he had secretly hoped she would demand more proof. ‘I can show it to you again, if you like.’

He told her to turn her attention to the other cache weapons, the ones that she had already thrown against the Inhibitors.

‘Now concentrate on the weapon closest to the remains of Roc, will you? You’re about to see it stop firing.’

It was a different kind of war after that. Within an hour the first waves of Clavain’s assault force were reaching the immediate volume of space around Nostalgia for Infinity. He watched it at the dead remove of ten light-seconds, feeling as distant from the battle he had initiated as some antiquated hill-top general gazing at his armies through field glasses, the din and fury of combat too far away to hear.

‘It was a good trick,’ Volyova told him.

‘It wasn’t any trick. Just a precaution you should never have assumed we wouldn’t have taken. Our own weapons, Ilia? Be serious.’

‘A signal, Clavain?’

‘A coded neutrino burst. You can’t block it or jam it, so don’t even think of trying. It won’t work.’

She came back with a question he had not been expecting, one that reminded him not to underestimate her for an instant.

‘Fair enough. But I would have thought, assuming you have the means to stop them from working, that you’d also have the means to destroy them.’

Despite the timelag he knew he only had a second or so to concoct an answer. ‘What good would that do me, Ilia? I’d be destroying the very things I’ve come to collect.’

Volyova’s response snapped back twenty seconds later. ‘Not necessarily, Clavain. You could just threaten to destroy them. I presume the destruction of a cache weapon would be fairly spectacular no matter which way you went about it? Actually, I don’t need to presume anything. I’ve already seen it happen, and yes, it was spectacular. Why not threaten to detonate one of the weapons still inside my ship and see where that takes you?’

‘You shouldn’t give me ideas,’ he told her.

‘Why not? Because you might do it? I don’t think you can, Clavain. I don’t think you have the means to do anything but stop the weapons from firing.’

She had led him into a trap by then. He could do nothing but follow her. ‘I do . . .’

‘Then prove it. Send a destruction signal to one of the other weapons, one of those across the system. Why not destroy the one you’ve already stopped?’

‘It would be silly to destroy an irreplaceable weapon just to make a point, wouldn’t it?’

‘That would very much depend on the point you wanted to make, Clavain.’

He realised that he gained nothing more by lying to her. He sighed, feeling a tremendous weight lift off his shoulders. ‘I can’t destroy any of the weapons.’

‘Good ...’ she purred. ‘Negotiation is all about transparency, you see. Tell me, can the weapons ever be destroyed remotely, Clavain?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘There is a code, unique to each weapon.’

‘And?’

‘I don’t know those codes. But I am searching for them, trying permutations.’

‘So you might get there eventually?’

Clavain scratched his beard. ‘Theoretically. But don’t hold your breath.’

‘You’ll keep searching, though?’

‘I’d like to know what they are, wouldn’t you?’

‘I don’t have to, Clavain. I have my own self-destruct systems grafted to each weapon, entirely independent of anything your own people might have installed at root level.’

‘You strike me as a prudent woman, Ilia.’

‘I take my work very seriously, Clavain. But then so do you.’

‘Yes,’ he said.

‘So what happens now? I’m still not going to give you the things, you know. I still have other weapons.’

Clavain watched the battle on extreme magnification, glints of light peppering the space around the Triumvir’s ship. The first fatalities had already been recorded. Fifteen of Scorpio’s pigs were dead, killed by Volyova’s hull defences before they got within thirty kilometres of the ship. Other assault teams were reportedly closer - one team might even have reached the hull - but whatever the outcome, it no longer stood any chance of being a bloodless campaign.

‘I know,’ Clavain said, before ending the conversation.

He placed Remontoire in complete control of Zodiacal Light, and then assigned himself one of the last remaining spacecraft in the ship’s bay. The ex-civilian shuttle was one of H’s; he recognised the luminous arcs and slashes of the banshee war markings as they stammered into life. The wasp-waisted ship was small and lightly armoured, but it carried the last functioning inertia-suppression device and that was why he had kept it back until now. On some subconscious level he must have always known he would want to join the battle, and this ship would get him there in little more than an hour.

Clavain was suited-up, cycling through the airlock connection that allowed access to the berthed ship, when she caught up with him.

‘Clavain.’

He turned around, his helmet tucked under his arm. ‘Felka,’ he said.

‘You didn’t tell me you were leaving.’

‘I didn’t have the nerve.’

She nodded. ‘I’d have tried talking you out of it. But I understand. This is something you have to do.’

He nodded without saying anything.

‘Clavain . . .’

‘Felka, I’m so sorry about what I . . .’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, taking a step closer. ‘I mean, it does matter - of course it matters - but we can talk about it later. On the way.’

‘On the way where?’ he said stupidly.

‘To battle, Clavain. I’m coming with you.’

It was only then that he realised that she was carrying a suit herself, bundled under one arm, the helmet dangling from her fist like an overripe fruit.

‘Why?’

‘Because if you die, I want to die as well. It’s as simple as that, Clavain.’

They fell away from Zodiacal Light. Clavain watched the ship recede, wondering if he would ever set foot in it again. ‘This won’t be comfortable,’ he warned as he gunned the thrust up to its ceiling. The inertia-suppression bubble swallowed four-fifths of the banshee craft’s mass, but the bubble’s effective radius did not encompass the flight deck. Clavain and Felka felt the full crush of eight gees building up like a series of weights being placed on their chests.

‘I can take it,’ she told him.

‘It’s not too late to turn back.’

‘I’m coming with you. There’s a lot we need to discuss.’

Clavain called a battle realisation into view, appraising any changes that had taken place since he had gone to fetch his spacesuit. His ships swarmed around Nostalgia for Infinity like enraged hornets, arcing tighter with each loop. Twenty-three members of Scorpio’s army were now dead, most of them pigs, but the closest of the attack swarm were now within kilometres of the great ship’s hull; at such close range they became very difficult targets for Volyova’s medium-range defences. Storm Bird, identified by its own fat icon, was now approaching the edge of the combat swarm. The Triumvir had pulled all but one of her hell-class weapons back within cover of the lighthugger. Elsewhere, on the general system-wide view, the wolf weapon continued to sink its single gravitational fang into the meat of the star. Clavain contracted the displays until they were just large enough to view, and then turned to Felka. ‘I’m afraid talking isn’t going to be too easy.’

[Then we won’t talk, will we?]

He looked at her, startled that she had spoken to him in the Conjoiner fashion, opening a window between their heads, pushing words and much more than words into his skull. Felka ...

[It’s all right, Clavain. Just because I didn’t do this very often doesn’t mean I couldn’t ...]

I never thought you couldn’t . . . it’s just . . . They were close enough for Conjoined thought, he realised, even though there was no Conjoiner machinery in the ship itself. The fields generated by their implants were strong enough to influence each other without intermediate amplification, provided they were no more than a few metres apart.

[You’re right. Normally I didn’t want to. But you aren’t just anyone.]

You don’t have to if you don’t . . .

[Clavain: a word of warning. You can look all the way into my head. There are no barriers, no partitions, no mnemonic blockades. Not to you, at least. But don’t look too deeply. It’s not that you’d see anything private, or anything I’m ashamed of . . . it’s just ...]

I might not be able to take it?

[Sometimes I can’t take it, Clavain, and I’ve lived with it since I was born.]

I understand.

He could see into the surface layers of her personality, feel the surface traffic of her thoughts. The data was calm. There was nothing that he could not examine; no sensory experience or memory that he could not unravel and open as if it were one of his own. But beneath that calm surface layer, glimpsed like something rushing behind smoked glass, there lay a howling storm of consciousness. It was frantic and ceaseless, like a machine always on the point of ripping itself apart, but one that would never find respite in its own destruction.

He pulled back, terrified that he might fall in. [You see what I mean?]

I always knew you lived with something like that. I just didn’t . . .

[It isn’t your fault. It isn’t anyone’s fault, not even Galiana’s. It’s just the way I am.]

He understood then, perhaps more thoroughly than at any point since he had known her, just what Felka’s craving was like. Games, complex games, sated that howling machine, gave it something to work on, slowed it to something less furious. When she had been a child, the Wall had been all that she needed, but the Wall had been taken from her. After that, nothing had ever been enough. Perhaps the machine would have evolved as Felka grew. Or perhaps the Wall would always have turned out to be inadequate. All that mattered now was that she find surrogates for it: games or puzzles, labyrinths or riddles, which the machine could process and thereby give her the tiniest degree of inner calm.

Now I understand why you think the Jugglers might be able to help.

[Even if they can’t change me - and I’m not even sure I want them to change me - they might at least give me something to think about, Clavain. So many alien minds have been imprinted in their seas, so many patterns stored. I might even be able to make sense of something that the other swimmers haven’t. I might even be valuable.]

I always said I’d do what I could. But it hasn’t got any easier. You understand that, don’t you?

[Of course.]

Felka . . .

She must have read enough of his mind to see what he was about to ask. [I lied, Clavain. I lied to save you, to get you to turn around.]

He already knew; Skade had told him. But until now he had never entirely dismissed the possibility that Skade herself might have been lying; that Felka was indeed his daughter. It would have been a white lie, in that case. I’ve been responsible for enough of those in my time.

[It was still a lie. But I didn’t want Skade to kill you. It seemed better not to tell the truth . . .]

You must have known that I’d always wondered ...

[It was natural for you to wonder, Clavain. There was always a bond between us, after you saved my life. And you were Galiana’s prisoner before I was born. It would have been easy for her to harvest genetic material . . .] Her thoughts became hazy. [Clavain ... do you mind if I ask you something?]

There aren’t any secrets between us, Felka.

[Did you make love with Galiana, when you were her prisoner?]

He answered with a calm clarity of mind that surprised even himself. I don’t know. I think so. I remember it. But then what do memories mean, after four hundred years? Maybe I’m just remembering a memory. I hope that isn’t the case. But afterwards ... when I had become one of the Conjoined ...

[Yes?]

We did make love. Early on, we made love often. The other Conjoiners didn’t like it, I think - they saw it as an animal act, a primitive throwback to baseline humanity. Galiana didn’t agree, of course. She was always the sensual one, the one who revelled in the realm of the senses. That was what her enemies never truly understood about her - that she honestly loved humanity more than they did. It was why she made the Conjoined. Not to be something better than humanity, but as a gift, a promise of what humanity could be if we only realised our potential. Instead, they painted her as some coldly reductionist monster. They were so terribly wrong. Galiana didn’t think of love as some ancient Darwinian trick of brain chemistry that had to be eradicated from the human mind. She saw it as something that had to be brought to its culmination, like a seed that needed to be nurtured as it grew. But they never understood that part. And the trouble was you had to be Conjoined before you appreciated what it was that she had achieved.

Clavain paused, taking a moment to review the disposition of his forces around the Triumvir’s ship. There had been two more deaths in the last minute, but the steady encroachment of his forces continued. Yes, we did make love, back in my first days amongst the Conjoined. But there came a time when it was no longer necessary, except as a nostalgic act. It felt like something that children do: not wrong, not primitive, not even dull, just no longer of any interest. It wasn’t that we had stopped loving each other, or had lost our thirst for sensory experience. It was simply that there were so many more rewarding ways of achieving that same kind of intimacy. Once you’ve touched someone else’s mind, walked through their dreams, seen the world through their eyes, felt the world through their skin ... well . . . there never seemed to be any real need to go back to the old way. And I was never much one for nostalgia. It was as if we had stepped into a more adult world, crammed with its own pleasures and enticements. We had no reason to look back at what we were missing.

She did not respond immediately. The ship flew on. Clavain eyed the read-outs and tactical summaries again. For a moment, a terrible, yawning moment, he felt that he had said far too much. But then she spoke, and he knew that she had understood everything.

[I think I need to tell you about the wolves.]

THIRTY-SEVEN

When Volyova had made the decision, she felt a rush of strength, enabling her to rip the medical probes and shunts from her body, flinging them aside with wicked abandon. She retained only the goggles which substituted for her blinded eyes, while doing her best not to think of the vile machinery now floating in her skull. Other than that, she felt quite hale and hearty. She knew that it was an illusion, that she would pay for this burst of energy later, and that almost certainly she would pay for it with her life. But she felt no fear at the prospect, only a quiet satisfaction that she might at least do something with the time that remained to her. It was all very well lying here, directing distant affairs like some bed-ridden pontiff, but it was not the way she was meant to be. She was Triumvir Ilia Volyova, and she had certain standards to uphold.

‘Ilia ...’ Khouri began, when she saw what was happening.

‘Khouri,’ she said, her voice still a croak, but finally imbued with something resembling the old fire. ‘Khouri ... do this for me, and never once stop to question me or talk me out of it. Understood?’

‘Understood . . . I think.’

Volyova clicked her fingers at the nearest servitor. It scuttled towards her, dodging between the squawking medical monitors. ‘Captain ... have the servitor assist me to the spacecraft bay, will you? I will expect a suit and a shuttle to be waiting for me.’

Khouri steadied her, holding her in a sitting position. ‘Ilia, what are you planning?’

‘I’m going outside. I need to have a word - a serious word - with weapon seventeen.’

‘You’re in no state . . .’

Volyova cut her off with a chop of one frail hand. ‘Khouri, I may have a weak and feeble body, but give me weightlessness, a suit and possibly a weapon or two and you’ll find I can still do some damage. Understood?’

‘You haven’t given up, have you?’

The servitor helped her to the floor. ‘Given up, Khouri? It’s not in my dictionary.’

Khouri helped her as well, taking the Triumvir’s other arm.

On the edge of the combat swarm, though still within range of potentially damaging weapons, Antoinette disengaged the evasive pattern she had been running and throttled Storm Bird down to one gee. Through Storm Bird’s windows she could see the elongated shape of the Triumvir’s lighthugger, visible at a distance of two thousand kilometres as a tiny scratch of light. Most of the time it was dark enough that she did not see the ship at all, but two or three times a minute a major explosion - some detonating mine, warhead, drive-unit or weapons-trigger - threw light against the hull, momentarily picking it out the way a lighthouse might glance against a jagged pinnacle rising from the depths of a storm-racked ocean. But there was never any doubt about where the ship was. Sparks of flame were swarming around it, so bright that they smeared across her retina, etching dying pink arcs and helices against the stellar backdrop, the trails reminding her of the fiery sticks children had played with during fireworks shows in the old carousel. Pinpricks of light within the swarm signified smaller armaments detonating, and very occasionally Antoinette saw the hard red or green line of a laser precursor beam, caught in outgassing air or propellant from one or other of the ships. Absently, cursing her mind’s ability to focus on the most trivial of things at the wrong time, she realised that this was a detail that they always got wrong in the space opera holo-dramas, where laser beams were invisible, the sinister element of invisibility adding to the drama. But a real close-range space battle was a far messier affair, with gas clouds and chaff shards erupting all over the place, ready to reflect and disperse any beam weapon.

The swarm was tighter towards the middle, thinning out through dozens of kilometres. Though she was on the edge of it, she was aware of how tempting a target Storm Bird must present. The Triumvir’s defences were preoccupied with the closer attack elements, but Antoinette knew that she could not afford to count on that continuing.

Xavier’s voice came over the intercom. ‘Antoinette? Scorpio’s ready for departure. Says you can open the bay door any time you like.’

‘We’re not close enough,’ she said.

Scorpio’s voice cut over the intercom. She no longer had any difficulty distinguishing his voice from those of the other pigs. ‘Antoinette? This is close enough. We have the fuel to cross from here. There’s no need for you to risk Storm Bird by taking us any closer.’

‘But the closer I take you, the more fuel you’ll have in reserve. Isn’t that true?’

‘I can’t argue with that. Take us five hundred kilometres closer, then. And Antoinette? That really will be close enough.’

She magnified the battle view, tapping into the telemetry stream from the many cameras that now whipped around the Triumvir’s ship. The image data had been seamlessly merged and then processed to remove the motion, and while there were occasional snags and dropouts as the view was refreshed, the impression was as if she were hovering in space only two or three kilometres beyond the ship itself. The silence was one thing that the holo-dramas got right, she realised, but she had never realised how terribly, profoundly wrong that silence would be when accompanying an actual battle. It was an abject void into which her imagination projected endless screams. What did not help was the way that the Triumvir’s ship loomed out of darkness in random, fitful flashes of light, never lingering long enough for her to comprehend the form of the ship in its entirety. What she saw of the ship’s perverted architecture was nonetheless adequately disturbing.

Now she saw something that she had not seen before: a rectangle of light, like a golden door, opened somewhere along the wrinkled complexity of Nostalgia for Infinity’s hull. It was open for only a moment, but that was long enough for something to slip through. The glare from the engine of the shuttle that had emerged caught the stepped spinal edge of a flying buttress, and as the ship gyred, orientating itself with strobing flashes of thrust, the black shadow of the buttress crawled across an acre of hull material that had the scaled texture of lizardskin.

What about the wolves, Felka?

[Everything, Clavain. At least, everything that I learned. Everything that the Wolf was prepared to let me know.]

It may not be all of the picture, Felka. It may not even be part of it.

[I know. But I still think I should tell you.]

It was not simply about the war against intelligence, she told Clavain. That was only part of it; only one detail in their vast, faltering program of cosmic stewardship. Despite all evidence to the contrary the wolves were not trying to rid the galaxy of intelligence altogether. What they were striving to do was akin to pruning a forest back to a few saplings rather than incinerating or defoliating completely; or reducing a fire to a few carefully managed flickering flames rather than extinguishing it utterly.

Think about it, Felka told him. The existence of the wolves solved one cosmic riddle: the killing machines explained why it was that humanity found itself largely alone in the universe; why the Galaxy appeared barren of other intelligent cultures. It might have been that humanity was just a statistical quirk in an otherwise lifeless cosmos; that the emergence of intelligent, tool-using life was astonishingly rare and that the universe had to be a certain number of billion years old before there was a chance of such a culture arising. This possibility had lingered on until the dawn of the starfaring era, when human explorers began to pick through the ruins of other cultures around nearby stars. Far from being rare, it looked as if tool-using technological life was actually rather common. But for some reason, these cultures had all become extinct.

The evidence suggested that the extinction events happened on a short timescale compared with the evolutionary development cycles of species: perhaps no more than a few centuries. The extinctions also seemed to happen at around the time each culture attempted to make a serious expansion into interstellar space.

In other words, at around the development point that humanity - fractured, squabbling, but still essentially one species - now found itself.

Given that premise, she said, it was not too surprising to find that something like the wolves - or the Inhibitors, as some of their victims called them - existed; they were almost inevitable given the pattern of extinctions: remorseless droves of killer machines lurking between the stars, waiting patiently across the aeons for the signs of emergent intelligence ...

Except that didn’t make any real sense, Felka continued. If intelligence was worth wiping out, for whatever reason, why not do it at source? Intelligence sprang from life; life - except in very rare and exotic niches - sprang from a common brew of chemicals and preconditions. So if intelligence were the enemy, why not intervene earlier in the development cycle?

There were a thousand ways it might have been done, especially if you were working on a timescale of billions of years. You could interfere in the formation processes of planets themselves, delicately perturbing the swirling clouds of accreting matter that gathered around young stars. You could make it happen that no planets formed in the right orbits for water to occur, or that only very heavy or very light worlds were formed. You could fling worlds into interstellar cold or dash them into the roiling faces of their mother stars.

Or you could poison planets, subtly disturbing the stew of elements in their crusts, oceans and atmospheres so that certain kinds of organic carbon chemistry became unfavourable. Or you could ensure that the planets never settled down into the kind of stable middle age that allowed complex multi-cellular life to arise. You could keep ramming comets into their crusts so that they shuddered and convulsed under an eternity of bombardment, locked in permanent winters.

Or you could tamper with their stars so that the worlds were periodically doused in flame from massive coronal flares, or thrown into terrible deep ice ages.

Even if you were late, even if you had to accept that complex life had arisen and had perhaps even achieved intelligence and technology, there were ways . . .

Of course there were ways.

A single determined culture could wipe out all life in the Galaxy by the deft manipulation of superdense stellar corpses. Neutron stars could be nudged together until they annihilated each other in sterilising storms of gamma rays. The jets from binary stars could be engineered into directed-energy weapons: flame-throwers reaching a thousand light-years ...

And even if that were not feasible, or desirable, life could be wiped out by sheer force. A single machine culture could dominate the entire Galaxy in less than a million years, crushing organic life out of existence.

But that’s not what they are here for, Felka told him.

Why, then? he asked.

There’s a crisis, she told him. A crisis in the deep galactic future, three billion years from now. Except it wasn’t really ‘deep’ at all.

Thirteen turns of the Galactic spiral, that was all. Before the glaciers had rolled in, you could have walked on to a beach on Earth and picked up a sedimentary rock that was older than three billion years.

Thirteen turns of the wheel? It was nothing in cosmic terms. It was almost upon them.

What crisis? Clavain asked.

A collision, Felka told him.

THIRTY-EIGHT

When she was five hundred kilometres closer to the battle, Antoinette left the bridge unattended, trusting the ship to take care of itself for three or four minutes while she said goodbye to Scorpio and his squad. By the time she reached the huge depressurised bay where the pigs were waiting, the exterior door had eased open and the first of the three shuttles had already launched. She saw the blue spark of its exhaust flame veering towards the glittering nest of light that was the core of the battle. Two trikes followed immediately behind it, and then the second shuttle was jacked forward, pushed by the squat hydraulic rams that were normally used for moving bulky cargo pallets.

Scorpio was already buckling himself into his trike alongside the third shuttle. Since the trikes aboard Storm Bird had not needed to make the journey all the way from Zodiacal Light, they carried far more armour and weaponry than the other units. Scorpio’s own armour was an eye-wrenching combination of luminous colour and reflective patches. The frame of his trike was almost impossible to make out behind the layers of armour and the flanged and muzzled shapes of projectile and beam weapons. Xavier was helping him with his final systems checks, disconnecting a compad from a diagnostics port under the saddle of the trike. He gave a thumbs-up sign and patted Scorpio’s armour.

‘Looks like you’re ready,’ Antoinette said through her suit’s general comm channel.

‘You didn’t have to risk your ship,’ Scorpio said. ‘But since you did, I’ll make the extra fuel count.’

‘I don’t envy you this, Scorpio. I know you’ve already lost quite a few of your soldiers.’

‘They’re our soldiers, Antoinette, not just mine.’ He made the control fascia of his trike light up with displays, luminous dials and targeting grids, while beyond him the second shuttle departed from the bay, shoved into empty space by the loading rams. The ignition of its drive painted a hard blue radiance against Scorpio’s armour. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘There’s something you ought to appreciate. If you knew what the life expectancy of a pig in the Mulch was, nothing that’s happened today would seem quite so tragic. Most of my army would have died years ago if they hadn’t signed up for Clavain’s crusade. I figure they owe Clavain, not the other way round.’

‘It doesn’t mean they should die today.’

‘And most of them won’t. Clavain always knew we’d have to accept some losses, and my pigs knew it as well. We never took a block of Chasm City without spilling some pig blood. But most of us will make it back, and we’ll make it with the weapons. We’re already winning, Antoinette. Once Clavain used the pacification code, Volyova’s war was over.’ Scorpio tugged down his flash visor with one stubby gauntlet. ‘We’re not even fighting the war now. This is just a mopping-up operation.’

‘Can I still wish you good luck?’

‘You can wish me what the hell you like. It won’t make any difference. If it did, it would mean I hadn’t prepared well enough.’

‘Good luck, Scorpio. Good luck to you and all your army.’

The third shuttle was being pushed forwards to the departure point. She watched it depart along with the remaining trikes - along with Scorpio - and then told her ship to seal up and head away from the battle.

Volyova reached weapon seventeen unscathed. Though the battle for her ship continued to rage around her, Clavain was evidently taking great pains to ensure that the prizes remained unharmed. Before departing she had studied the attack pattern of his trikes, shuttles and corvettes and concluded that her own ship could reach weapon seventeen with only a fifteen per cent chance of being fired upon. Ordinarily the odds would have struck her as unacceptably poor, but now, somewhat to her horror, she considered them rather favourable.

Weapon seventeen was the only one of the five that she had not withdrawn back into the safety and seclusion of Nostalgia for Infinity. She parked her shuttle next to it, moored close enough that there would be no chance of attacking the shuttle without harming the weapon. Then she depressurised the entire cabin, not wishing to go through the time-consuming rigmarole of cycling through the airlock. The powered suit assisted her movements, giving her a false sense of strength and vitality. But perhaps not all of that was down to the suit.

Volyova hauled herself from the shuttle’s open lock, and for a moment she was poised midway between the ship and the looming side of weapon seventeen. She felt terribly vulnerable, but the spectacle of the battle was hypnotic. In every direction she looked, all she saw was rushing ships, the dancing sparks of exhaust flames and the brief blue-edged flowers of nuclear and matter-antimatter explosions. Her radio crackled with constant interference. Her suit’s radiation sensor was chirping off the scale. She killed them both, preferring peace and quiet.

Volyova had parked the shuttle directly over the hatch in the side of weapon seventeen. Her fingers felt clumsy as they tapped the commands into the thick studs of her suit bracelet, but she worked slowly and made no mistakes. Given the shutdown order Clavain had transmitted to the weapon, she did not necessarily expect that any of her commands would be acted upon.

But the hatch slid open, sickly green light spewing out.

‘Thank you,’ Ilia Volyova said, to no one in particular.

Headfirst, she sunk into the green well. All evidence of the war vanished like a bad dream. Above her, Volyova could see only the armoured belly lock of her shuttle, and all around her she could make out only the interior machinery of the weapon, bathed in the same insipid green glow.

She worked through the procedure she had gone through before, at every step expecting failure, but knowing that she had absolutely nothing to lose. The weapon’s fear generators were still firing at full tilt, but this time she found the anxiety reassuring rather than disturbing. It meant that critical weapon functions were still active, and that Clavain had only stunned rather than killed weapon seventeen. She had never seriously thought otherwise, but there had always been a trace of doubt in her mind. What if Clavain himself had not properly understood the code?

But the weapon was not dead, just sleeping.

And then it happened, just as it had happened that first time. The hatch snapped closed, the interior of the weapon began to shift alarmingly and she sensed something approaching, an unspeakable malevolence rushing towards her. She steeled herself. The knowledge that all she was dealing with was a sophisticated subpersona did not make the experience any less unsettling.

There it was. The presence oozed behind her, a shadow that always hovered just on the very edge of her peripheral vision. Once again, she was paralysed, and as before the fear was ten times worse than what she had just been experiencing.

[There’s no rest for the wicked, is there, Ilia?]

She remembered that the weapon could read her thoughts. I thought I’d just drop by to see how you were doing, Seventeen. You don’t mind, do you?

[Then that’s all this is? A social call?]

Well, actually it’s a bit more than that.

[I thought it might be. You only ever come when you want something, don’t you?]

You don’t exactly go out of your way to make me feel welcome, Seventeen. [What, the enforced paralysis and the sense of creeping terror? You mean you don’t like that?]

I don’t think I was ever meant to like it, Seventeen.

She detected the tiniest hint of a sulk in the weapon’s reply. [Perhaps.]

Seventeen ... there’s a matter we need to talk about, if you don’t mind ...

[I’m not going anywhere. You’re not either.]

No. I don’t suppose I am. Are you aware of the difficulty, Seventeen? The code that won’t allow you to fire?

Now the sulk - if that was what it had been - shifted to something closer to indignation. [How could I not know about it?]

I was just checking, that’s all. About this code, Seventeen . . .

[Yes?]

I don’t suppose there’s any chance of you ignoring it, is there?

[Ignore the code?]

Something along those lines, yes. You having a certain degree of free will and all that, I thought it might just be worth raising, as - shall we say - a matter for debate, if nothing else . . . Of course, I know it’s unreasonable to expect you to be capable of such a thing . . .

[Unreasonable, Ilia?]

Well, you’re bound to have your limitations. And if, as Clavain says, this code is causing a system interrupt at root level . . . well, there’s not a lot I can expect you to do about it, is there?

[What would Clavain know?]

Rather a lot more than you or I, I suspect...

[Don’t be silly, Ilia.]

Then might it be possible . . . ?

There was a pause before the weapon deigned to reply. She thought for that moment that she might have succeeded. Even the degree of fear lessened, becoming nothing much more than acute screaming hysteria.

But then the weapon etched its response into her head. [I know what you’re trying to do, Ilia.]

Yes?

[And it won’t work. You don’t seriously imagine I’m that easily manipulated, do you? That pliant? That ridiculously childlike?]

I don’t know. I thought for a moment I detected a trace of myself in you, Seventeen. That was all.

[You’re dying, aren’t you?]

That shocked her. How would you know?

[I can tell a lot more about you than you can about me, Ilia.]

I am dying, yes. What difference does that make? You’re just a machine, Seventeen. You don’t understand what it’s like at all.

[I won’t help you.]

No?

[I can’t. You’re right. The code is at root level. There’s nothing I can do about it.]

Then all that talk of free will ... ?

The paralysis ended in an instant, without warning. The fear remained, but it was not as extreme as it had been before. And around her the weapon was shifting itself again, the door into space opening above her, revealing the belly of the shuttle.

[It was nothing. Just talk.]

Then I’ll be on my way. Goodbye, Seventeen. I’ve a feeling we won’t be talking again.

She reached the shuttle. She had just pushed herself through the airlock into the airless cabin when she saw movement outside. Ponderously, like a great compass needle seeking north, the cache weapon was re-aiming itself, sparks of flame erupting from the thruster nodes on the weapon’s harness. Volyova sighted down the long axis of the weapon, looking for a reference point, anything in the sphere of battle that would tell her where weapon seventeen was pointing. But the view was too confusing, and there was no time to call up a tactical display on the shuttle’s console.

The weapon came to a halt, stopping abruptly. Now she thought of the iron hand of some titanic clock striking the hour.

And then a line of searing brightness ripped from the maw of the weapon, into space.

Seventeen was firing.

It happens in three billion years, she told him.

Two galaxies collide: ours and its nearest spiral neighbour, the Andromeda galaxy. At the moment the galaxies are more than two million light-years apart, but are cruising towards each other with unstoppable momentum, dead set on cosmic destruction.

Clavain asked her what would happen when the galaxies met each other and she explained that there were two scenarios, two possible futures. In one, the wolves - the Inhibitors or, more accurately, their remote machine descendants - steered life through that crisis, ensuring that intelligence came out on the other side, where it could be allowed to flourish and expand unchecked. It was not possible to prevent the collision, Felka said. Even a galaxy-spanning, super-organised machine culture did not have the necessary resources to stop it from happening completely. But it could be managed; the worst effects could be avoided.

It would happen on many levels. The wolves knew of several techniques for moving entire solar systems, so that they could be steered out of harm’s way. The methods had not been employed in recent galactic history, but most had been tried and tested in the past, during local emergencies or vast cultural segregation programmes. Simple machinery, necessitating the demolition of only one or two worlds per system, could be shackled around the belly of a star. The star’s atmosphere could be squeezed and flexed by rippling magnetic fields, coaxing matter to fly off the surface. The starstuff could be manipulated and forced to flow in one direction only, acting like a huge rocket exhaust. It had to be done delicately, so that the star continued to burn in a stable manner, and also so that the remaining planets did not tumble out of their orbits when the star started moving. It took a long time, but that was usually not a problem; normally they had tens of millions years’ warning before a system had to be moved.

There were other techniques, too: a star could be partially enshrouded in a shell of mirrors, so that the pressure of its own radiation imparted momentum. Less tested or trusted methods employed large-scale manipulation of inertia. Those techniques were the easiest when they worked well, but there had been dire accidents when they went wrong, catastrophes in which whole systems had been suddenly ejected from the galaxy at near light-speed, hurled into intergalactic space with no hope of return.

The slower, older approaches were often better than newfangled gimmicks, the wolves had learned.

The great work encompassed more than just the movement of stars, of course. Even if the two galaxies only grazed past each other rather than ramming head-on, there would still be incandescent fireworks as walls of gas and dust hit each other. As shockwaves rebounded through the galaxies, furious new cycles of stellar birth would be kickstarted. A generation of supermassive hot stars would live and die in a cosmic eyeblink, dying in equally convulsive cycles of supernovae. Although individual stars and their solar systems might pass through the event unscathed, vast tracts of the galaxy would still be sterilised by these catastrophic explosions. It would be a million times worse if the collision was head-on, of course, but it was still something that had to be contained and minimised. For another billion years, the machines would toil to suppress not the emergence of life but the creation of hot stars. Those that slipped through the net would be ushered to the edge of space by the star-moving machinery so that their dying explosions did not threaten the newly flourishing cultures.

The great work would not soon be over.

But that was only one future. There was another, Felka said. It was the future in which intelligence slipped through the net here and now, the future in which the Inhibitors lost their grip on the galaxy.

In that future, she said, the time of great flourishing was imminent in cosmic terms; it would happen within the next few million years. In a heartbeat, the galaxy would run amok with life, becoming a teeming, packed oasis of sentience. It would be a time of wonder and miracles.

And yet it was doomed.

Organic intelligence, Felka said, could not achieve the necessary organisation to steer itself through the collision. Species co-operation was just not possible on that scale. Short of xenocide, one species wiping out all the others, the galactic cultures would never become sufficiently united to engage in such a massive and protracted programme as the collision-avoidance operation. It was not that they would fail to see that something had to be done, but that every species would have its own strategy, its own preferred solution to the problem. There would be disputes over policy as violent as the Dawn War.

Too many hands on the cosmic wheel, Felka said.

The collision would happen, and the results - from the collison and the wars that would accompany it - would be utterly catastrophic. Life in the Milky Way would not end immediately; a few flickering flames of sentience would struggle on for another couple of billion years, but because of the measures they had taken to survive in the first place, they would be little more than machines themselves. Nothing resembling the pre-collision societies would ever arise again.

Almost as soon as she had registered the fact that the weapon was firing, the beam shut down, leaving weapon seventeen exactly as she found it. By Volyova’s estimation, the weapon had broken free of Clavain’s control for perhaps half a second. It might even have been less than that.

She fumbled her suit-radio on. Khouri’s voice was there immediately. ‘Ilia . . . ? Ilia . . . ? Can you—’

‘I can hear you, Khouri. Is something the matter?’

‘Nothing’s the matter, Ilia. It’s just that you seem to have done whatever it was you set out to do. The cache weapon landed a direct hit on Zodiacal Light.’

She closed her eyes, tasting the moment, wondering why it felt far less like victory than she had imagined it would. ‘A direct hit?’

‘Yes.’

‘It can’t have been. I didn’t see the flash as the Conjoiner drives went up.’

‘I said it was a direct hit. I didn’t say it was a fatal hit.’

By then Volyova had managed to call up a long-range grab of Zodiacal Light on the shuttle’s console. She piped it through to her helmet faceplate, studying the damage with awed fascination. The beam had sliced through the hull of Clavain’s ship like a knife through bread, snipping off perhaps a third of its length. The needle-nosed prow, glittering with carved facets of diamond-threaded ice, was buckling away from the rest of the hull in ghastly slow motion, like some toppling spire. The wound that the beam had excavated was still shining a livid shade of red, and there were explosions on either side of the severed hull. It was the most heart-wrenchingly beautiful thing she had seen in some time. It was just a shame she was not seeing it with her own eyes.

That was when the shuttle jarred to one side. Volyova thumped against one wall, for she had not had time to buckle herself back into the control seat. What had happened? Had the weapon adjusted its direction of aim, shoving her shuttle in the process? She steadied herself and directed her goggles to the window, but the weapon was in the same orientation as it had been when it had stopped firing. Again the shuttle jarred to one side, and this time she felt, through the tactile-transmitting fabric of her gloves, the shrill scrape of metal against metal. It was exactly as if another ship were brushing against her own.

She arrived at this conclusion only a moment before the first figure came through the still open airlock door. She cursed herself for not closing the lock behind her, but she had been lulled into a false sense of security by the fact that she was wearing a suit. She should have been thinking about intruders rather than her own life-support needs. It was exactly the kind of mistake she would never have made had she been well, but she supposed she could allow herself one or two errors this late in the game. She had, after all, delivered something of a winning move against Clavain’s ship. The broken hull was drifting away now, trailing intricate strands of mechanical gore.

‘Triumvir?’ The figure was speaking, his voice buzzing in her helmet. She studied the intruder’s armour, noting baroque ornamentation and dazzling juxtapositions of luminous paint and mirrored surface.

‘You have that pleasure,’ she said.

The figure had a wide-muzzled weapon pointed at her. Behind, two more similarly armoured specimens had squeezed into the cabin. The first tugged up a black flash visor; through the thick dark glass of his helmet she caught the not-quite-human facial anatomy of a hyperpig.

‘My name is Scorpio,’ the pig informed her. ‘I’m here to accept your surrender, Triumvir.’

She clucked in surprise. ‘My surrender?

‘Yes, Triumvir.’

‘Have you looked out of the window lately, Scorpio? I really think you ought to.’

There was a moment while her intruders conferred amongst themselves. She sensed to the second the moment when they became aware of what had just happened. There was the minutest lowering of the gun muzzle, a flicker of hesitation in Scorpio’s eyes.

‘You’re still our prisoner,’ he said, but with a good deal less conviction than before.

Volyova smiled indulgently. ‘Well, that’s very interesting. Where do you think we should complete the formalities? Your ship or mine?’

So that’s it? That’s the choice I’m given? That even if we win, even if we beat the wolves, it won’t mean a damn in the long term? That the best thing we could do in the interests of the preservation of life itself, taking the long view, is to curl up and die now? That what we should be doing is surrendering to the wolves, not preparing to fight them?

[I don’t know, Clavain.]

It could be a lie. It could be propaganda that the Wolf showed you, self-justifying rhetoric. Maybe there is no higher cause. Maybe all they’re really doing is wiping out intelligence for no other reason than that’s what they do. And even if what they showed you is true, that doesn’t begin to make it right. The cause might be just, Felka, but history’s littered with atrocities committed in the name of righteousness. Trust me on this. You can’t excuse the murder of billions of sentient individuals because of some remote utopian dream, no matter what the alternative.

[But you know precisely what the alternative is, Clavain. Absolute extinction.]

Yes. Or so they say. But what if it isn’t that simple? If what they told you is true, then the entire future history of the galaxy has been biased by the presence of the wolves. We’ll never know what would have happened if the wolves hadn’t emerged to steer life through the crisis. The experiment has changed. And there’s a new factor now: the wolves’ own weakness, the fact that they’re slowly failing. Maybe they were never meant to be this brutal, Felka - have you considered that? That they might once have been more like shepherds and less like poachers? Perhaps that was the first failure, so long ago that no one remembers it. The wolves kept following the rules they had been instructed to enforce, but with less and less wisdom; less and less mercy. What started as gentle containment became xenocide. What started as authority became tyranny, self-perpetuating and self-reinforcing. Consider it, Felka. There might be a higher cause to what they’re doing, but it doesn’t have to be right.

[I only know what it showed me. It’s not my job to choose, Clavain. Not my job to show you what you should do. I just thought you ought to be told.]

I know. I’m not blaming you for it.

[What are you going to do, Clavain?]

He thought of the cruel balance of things: equating vistas of cosmic strife - millennia-long battles thrumming across the face of the galaxy - against infinitely grander vistas of cosmic silence. He thought of worlds and moons spinning, their days uncounted, their seasons unremembered. He thought of stars living and dying in the absence of sentient observers, flaring into mindless darknesss until the end of time itself, not a single conscious thought to disturb the icy calm between here and eternity. Machines might still stalk those cosmic steppes, and they might in some sense continue to process and interpret data, but there would be no recognition, no love, no hate, no loss, no pain, only analysis, until the last flicker of power faded from the last circuit, leaving a final stalled algorithm half-executed.

He was being hopelessly anthropomorphic, of course. This entire drama concerned only the local group of galaxies. Out there - not just tens, but hundreds of millions of light years away - there were other such groups, clumps of one or two dozen galaxies bound together in darkness by their mutual self-gravity. Too far to imagine reaching, but they were there all the same. They were ominously silent - but that didn’t mean they were necessarily devoid of sentience. Perhaps they had learned the value of silence. The grand story of life in the Milky Way - across the entire local group - might just be one thread in something humblingly vast. Perhaps, after all, it didn’t actually matter what happened here. Blindly executing whatever instructions they had been given in the remote galactic past, the wolves might strangle sentience out of existence now, or they might guard a thread of it through its gravest crisis. And perhaps neither outcome really mattered, any more than a local cluster of extinctions on a single island would make any significant difference when set against the rich, swarming ebb and flow of life on an entire world.

Or perhaps it mattered more than anything.

Clavain saw it all with sudden, heart-stopping clarity: all that mattered was the here and now. All that mattered was survival. Sentience that bowed down and accepted its own extinction - no matter what the long-term arguments, no matter how good the greater cause - was not the kind of sentience he was interested in preserving.

Nor was it the kind he was interested in serving. Like all the hard choices he had ever made, the heart of the problem was childishly simple: he could concede the weapons and accept his complicity in humanity’s coming extinction, while knowing that he had done his part for sentient life’s ultimate destiny. Or he could take the weapons now - or as many of them as he could get his hands on - and make some kind of stand against tyranny.

It might be pointless. It might just be postponing the inevitable. But if that was the case, what was the harm in trying?

[Clavain ...]

He felt a vast, searing, calm. All was clear now. He was about to tell her that he had made his mind up to take the weapons and make a stand, future history be damned. He was Nevil Clavain and he had never surrendered in his life.

But suddenly something else merited his immediate attention. Zodiacal Light had been hit. The great ship was breaking in two.

THIRTY-NINE

‘Hello, Clavain,’ Ilia Volyova said, her voice a fine papery rasp that he had to struggle to understand. ‘It’s good to see you, finally. Come closer, will you?’

He walked to the side of her bed, unwilling to believe that this was the Triumvir. She looked dreadfully ill, and yet at the same time he could feel a profound calm about the woman. Her expression, as well as he could read it, for her eyes were hidden behind blank grey goggles, spoke of quiet accomplishment, of the weary elation that came with the concluding of a lengthy and difficult business.

‘It’s good to meet you, Ilia,’ he said. He shook her hand as gently as he could. She had already been injured, he knew, and had then gone back into space, into the battle. Unprotected, she had received the kind of radiation dose that even broad-spectrum medichines could not remedy.

She was going to die, and she was going to die sooner rather than later.

‘You are very like your proxy, Clavain,’ she said in that quiet rasp. ‘And different, too. You have a gravitas that the machine lacked. Or perhaps it is simply that I know you better now as an adversary. I am not at all sure I respected you before.’

‘And now?’

‘You have given me pause for thought, I will certainly say that much.’

There were nine of them present. Next to Volyova’s bed was Khouri, the woman Clavain took to be her deputy. Clavain, in turn, was accompanied by Felka, Scorpio, two of Scorpio’s pig soldiers, Antoinette Bax and Xavier Liu. Clavain’s shuttle had docked with Nostalgia for Infinity after the immediate declaration of cease-fire, with Storm Bird following shortly after.

‘Have you considered my proposal?’ Clavain asked, delicately.

‘Your proposal?’ she said, with a sniff of disdain.

‘My revised proposal, then. The one that didn’t involve your unilateral surrender.’

‘You’re hardly in a position to be putting proposals to anyone, Clavain. The last time I looked, you only had half a ship left.’

She was right. Remontoire and most of the remaining crew were still alive, but the damage to the ship was acute. It was a minor miracle that the Conjoiner drives had not detonated.

‘By proposal I meant . . . suggestion. A mutual arrangement, to the benefit of both of us.’

‘Refresh my memory, will you, Clavain?’

He turned to Bax. ‘Antoinette, introduce yourself, will you?’

She came closer to the bed with something of the same trepidation that Clavain had shown. ‘Ilia . . .’

‘It’s Triumvir Volyova, young lady. At least until we’re better acquainted.’

‘What I meant to say is ... I’ve got this ship . . . this freighter ...’

Volyova glared at Clavain. He knew what she meant. She was acutely conscious that she did not have a great deal of time left, and what she did not need was indirection.

‘Bax has a freighter,’ Clavain said urgently. ‘It’s docked with us now. It has limited transatmospheric capability - not the best, but it can cope.’

‘And your point, Clavain?’

‘My point is that it has large pressurised cargo holds. It can take passengers, a great many passengers. Not in anything you’d call luxury, but...’

Volyova gestured for Bax to come closer. ‘How many?’

‘Four thousand, easily. Maybe even five. The thing’s crying out to be used as an ark, Triumvir.’

Clavain nodded. ‘Think of it, Ilia. I know you’ve got an evacuation plan going here. I thought it was a ruse before, but now I’ve seen the evidence. But you haven’t made a dent in the planet’s population.’

‘We’ve done what we could,’ Khouri said, with a trace of defensiveness.

Clavain held up a hand. ‘I know. Given your constraints, you did well to get as many off the surface as you’ve managed to. But that doesn’t mean we can’t do a lot better now. The wolf weapon - the Inhibitor device - has nearly bored its way through to the heart of Delta Pavonis. There simply isn’t time for any other plan. With Storm Bird we’d need only fifty return trips. Maybe fewer, as Antoinette says. Forty, perhaps. She’s right - it’s an ark. And it’s a fast one.’

Volyova let out a sigh as old as time. ‘If only it were that simple, Clavain.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘We aren’t simply moving faceless units off the surface of Resurgam. We’re moving people. Frightened, desperate people.’ The grey goggles tilted a fraction. ‘Aren’t we, Khouri?’

‘She’s right. It’s a mess down there. The administration ...’

‘Before, there were just two of you,’ Clavain said. ‘You had to work with the government. But now we have an army, and the means to enforce our will. Don’t we, Scorpio?’

‘We can take Cuvier,’ the pig said. ‘I’ve already looked into it. It’s no worse than taking a single block of Chasm City. Or this ship, for that matter.’

‘You never did take my ship,’ Volyova reminded him. ‘So don’t overestimate your capabilities.’ She turned her attention to Clavain and her voice became sharper, more probing than it had been upon his arrival. ‘Would you seriously consider a forced takeover?’

‘If that’s the only way to get those people off the planet, then yes, that’s exactly what I’d consider.’

Volyova looked at him craftily. ‘You’ve changed your tune, Clavain. Since when was evacuating Resurgam your highest priority?’

He looked at Felka. ‘I realised that the possession of the weapons was not quite the clear-cut issue I’d been led to believe. There were choices to be made, harder choices than I would have liked, and I realised that I had been neglecting them because of their very difficulty.’

Volyova said, ‘Then you don’t want the weapons, is that it?’

Clavain smiled. ‘Actually, I still do. And so do you. But I think we can come to an agreement, can’t we?’

‘We have a job to do here, Clavain. I’m not just talking about the evacuation of Resurgam. Do you honestly think I’d leave the Inhibitors to get on with their business?’

He shook his head. ‘No. As a matter of fact, I already had my suspicions.’

‘I’m dying, Clavain. I have no future. With the right intervention I might survive a few more weeks, no more than that. I suppose they might be able to do something for me on another world, assuming anyone still retains a pre-plague technology, but that would entail the tedious business of being frozen, something I have had quite enough of for one existence. So I am calling it a day.’ She raised a bird-boned wrist and thumped the bed. ‘I bequeath you this damned monstrosity of a ship. You can take it and the evacuees away from here once we’re done airlifting them from Resurgam. Here, I give it to you. It’s yours.’ She raised her voice, an effort that must have cost her more than he could even begin to imagine. ‘Are you listening, Captain? It’s Clavain’s ship now. I hereby resign as Triumvir.’

‘Captain ... ?’ Clavain ventured.

She smiled. ‘You’ll find out, don’t you worry.’

‘I’ll take care of the evacuees,’ Clavain said, moved at what had just happened. He nodded at Khouri as well. ‘You have my word on that. I promise you I will not let you down, Triumvir.’

Volyova dismissed him with one weary wave of her hand. ‘I believe you. You appear to be a man who gets things done, Clavain.’

He scratched his beard. ‘Then there’s just one other thing.’

‘The weapons? Who gets them in the end? Well, don’t worry. I’ve already thought of that.’

He waited, studying the series of abstract grey curves that was the Triumvir’s bed-ridden form.

‘Here’s my proposal,’ she said, her voice as thin as the wind. ‘It happens to be non-negotiable.’ Then her attention flicked to Antoinette again. ‘You. What did you say your name was?’

‘Bax,’ Antoinette said, almost stuttering on her answer.

‘Mm.’ The Triumvir sounded as if this was the least interesting thing she had heard in her life. ‘And this ship of yours ... this freighter . . . is it really as large and fast as is claimed?’

She shrugged. ‘I suppose so.’

‘Then I’ll take it as well. You won’t need it once we’ve finished evacuating the planet. You’d just better make sure you get the job done before I die.’

Clavain looked at Bax, and then back to the Triumvir. ‘What do you want her ship for, Ilia?’

‘Glory,’ Volyova said dismissively. ‘Glory and redemption. What else did you imagine?’

Antoinette Bax sat alone on the bridge of her ship, the ship that had been hers and her father’s before that, the ship that she had loved once and hated once, the ship that was as much a part of her as her own flesh, and knew that this would be the last time. For better or for worse, nothing would be the same from this moment on. It was time to finish the process that had begun with that trip from Carousel New Copenhagen to honour a ridiculous and stupid childhood vow. For all its foolishness it had been a vow born out of kindness and love, and it had taken her into the heart of the war and into the great crushing machine of history itself. Had she known - had she had the merest inkling of what would happen, of how she would become embroiled in Clavain’s story, a story that had been running for centuries before her birth and which would see her yanked out of her own environment and flung light-years from home and decades into the future - then perhaps she might have quailed. Perhaps. But she might also have stared into the face of fear and been filled with an even more stubborn determination to do what she had promised herself all those years ago. It was, Antoinette thought, entirely possible that she would have done just that. Once a stubborn bitch, always a stubborn bitch - and if that wasn’t her personal motto, it was about time she adopted it. Her father might not have approved, but she was sure that in his heart of hearts he would have agreed and perhaps even admired her for it.

‘Ship?’

‘Yes, Antoinette?’

‘It’s all right, you know. I don’t mind. You can still call me Little Miss.’

‘It was only ever an act.’ Beast - or Lyle Merrick, more properly - paused. ‘I did it rather well, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Dad was right to trust you. You did look after me, didn’t you?’

‘As well as I was able to. Which wasn’t as well as I hoped. But then again, you didn’t exactly make it easy. I suppose that was inevitable, given the family connection. Your father was not exactly the most cautious of individuals, and you are very much a chip off the old block.’

‘We came through, Ship,’ Antoinette said. ‘We still came through. That has to count for something, doesn’t it?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Ship ... Lyle ...’

‘Antoinette?’

‘You know what the Triumvir wants, don’t you?’

Merrick did not answer her for several seconds. All her life she had imagined that the pauses were inserted cosmetically into the subpersona’s conversation, but she knew now that they had been quite real. Merrick’s simulation experienced consciousness at a rate very close to normal human thought, so his pauses indicated genuine introspection.

‘Xavier did inform me, yes.’

Antoinette was glad at least that she did not have to reveal that particular piece of the arrangement. ‘When the evacuation is done, when we’ve got as many people away from the planet as we can, then the Triumvir wants to use Storm Bird for herself. She says it’s for glory and redemption. It sounds like a suicide mission, Lyle.’

‘I more or less came to the same conclusion as well, Antoinette.’ Merrick’s synthesised voice was quite unnervingly calm. ‘She’s dying, so I gather, so I suppose it isn’t suicide in the old sense . . . but that’s a fairly pointless distinction. I gather she wishes to make amends for her past.’

‘Khouri, the other woman, says she isn’t the monster the people on the planet make out.’ Antoinette struggled to keep her own voice as level and collected as Merrick’s. They were skirting around something dreadful, orbiting an absence neither wished to acknowledge. ‘But I guess she must have done some bad stuff in the past anyway.’

‘Then I suppose that makes two of us,’ Merrick said. ‘Yes, Antoinette, I know what you are concerned about. But you mustn’t worry about me.’

‘She thinks you’re just a ship, Lyle. And no one will tell her the truth because they need her co-operation so badly. Not that it would make any difference if they did ...’ Antoinette trailed off, hating herself for feeling so sad. ‘You’ll die, won’t you? Finally, the way it would have happened all those years ago if Dad and Xavier hadn’t helped you.’

‘I deserved it, Antoinette. I did a terrible thing, and I escaped justice.’

‘But Lyle . . .’ Her eyes were stinging. She could feel tears welling inside her, stupid irrational tears that she despised herself for. She had loved her ship, then hated it - hated it because of the lie in which it had implicated her father, the lie that she had been told; and then she had come to love it again, because the ship, and the ghost of Lyle Merrick that haunted it, were both tangible links back to her father. And now that she had come to that accommodation, the knife was twisting again. What she had learned to love was being taken away from her, the last link back to her father snatched from her hands by that bitch Volyova ...

Why was it never easy? All she had wanted to do was keep a vow.

‘Antoinette?’

‘We could remove you,’ she said. ‘Take you out of the ship and replace you with an ordinary subpersona. Volyova wouldn’t have to know, would she?’

‘No, Antoinette. It’s my time as well. If she wants glory and redemption, then why can’t I take a little of that for myself?’

‘You’ve already made a difference. There isn’t any need for a larger sacrifice.’

‘But this is still what I choose to do. You can’t begrudge me that, can you?’

‘No,’ she said, her voice breaking up. ‘No, I can’t. And I wouldn’t.’

‘Promise me something, Antoinette?’

She rubbed her eyes, ashamed at her tears and yet oddly exultant at the same time. ‘What, Lyle?’

‘That you will continue to take good care of yourself, no matter what happens from here on in.’

She nodded. ‘I will. I promise.’

‘That’s good. There’s one other thing I want to say, and then I think we should go our separate ways. I can continue with the evacuation unaided. In fact, I positively refuse to let you put yourself in further danger by continuing to fly aboard me. How does that sound for an order? Impressed, aren’t you? You didn’t think I was capable of that, did you?’

‘No, Ship. I didn’t.’ She smiled despite herself.

‘One final thing, Antoinette. It was a pleasure to serve under you. A pleasure and an honour. Now, please go away and find another ship - preferably something bigger and better - to captain. I am sure you will make an excellent job of it.’

She stood up from the seat. ‘I’ll do my best, I promise.’

‘Of that I have no doubt.’

She stepped towards the door, hesitating on the threshold. ‘Goodbye Lyle,’ she said.

‘Goodbye, Little Miss.’

FORTY

They pulled him shivering from the open womb of the casket. He felt like a man who had been rescued from drowning in winter. The faces of the people around him sharpened into focus, but he did not recognise any of them immediately. Someone threw a quilted thermal blanket around the narrow frame of his shoulders. They eyed him without speaking, guessing that he was in no mood for conversation and would wish instead to orientate himself by his own efforts.

Clavain sat on the edge of the casket for several minutes until he had enough strength in his legs to hobble across the chamber. He stumbled at the last moment and yet made the fall appear graceful, as if he had intended to lean suddenly against the support of the porthole’s armoured frame. He peered through the glass. He could see nothing beyond except blackness, with his own ghastly reflection hovering in the foreground. He appeared strangely eyeless, his sockets crammed with shadows which were the precise black of the background vacuum. He felt a savage jolt of déjà vu, the feeling that he had been here before, contemplating his own masklike face. He tugged and nagged at the thread of memory until it spooled free, recalling a last-minute diplomatic mission, a shuttle falling towards occupied Mars, an imminent confrontation with an old enemy and friend called Galiana ... and he remembered that even then, four hundred years ago - though it was more now, he thought - he had felt too old for the world, too old for the role it forced upon him. Had he known what lay before him then, he would have either laughed or gone insane. It had felt like the end of his life, and yet it had been only a moment from its beginning, barely separable in his memories now from his childhood.

He looked back at the people who had brought him around and then up at the ceiling.

‘Dim the lights,’ someone said.

His reflection disappeared. Now he could see something other than blackness. It was a swarm of stars, squashed into one hemisphere of the sky. Reds and blues and golds and frigid whites. Some were brighter than others, though he saw no familiar constellations. But the clumping of the stars, stirred into one part of the sky, meant only one thing. They were still moving relativistically, still skimming near the speed of light.

Clavain turned back to the small huddle of people. ‘Has the battle taken place?’

A pale dark-haired woman spoke for the group. ‘Yes, Clavain.’ She spoke warmly, but not with the absolute assurance Clavain had expected. ‘Yes, it’s over. We engaged the trio of Conjoiner ships, destroying one and damaging the other two.’

‘Only damaged?’

‘The simulations didn’t get it quite right,’ said the woman. She moved to Clavain’s side and pushed a beaker of brown fluid under his nose. He looked at her face and hair. There was something familiar about the way she wore it, something that sparked the same ancient memories that had been stirred by his reflection in the porthole. ‘Here, drink this. Recuperative medichines from Ilia’s arsenal. It’ll do you the world of good.’

Clavain took the beaker from the woman’s hand and sniffed at the broth. It smelt of chocolate when he had expected tea. He tipped some down his throat. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Do you mind if I ask your name?’

‘Not at all,’ the woman said. ‘I’m Felka. You know me quite well.’

He looked at her and shrugged. ‘You seem familiar . . .’

‘Drink up. I think you need it.’

His memory came back in swathes, like a city recovering from a power failure: block by random block, utilities stuttering and flickering before normal service was resumed. Even when he felt all right, there came other medichine therapies, each of which dealt with specific areas of brain function, each of which was administered in doses more carefully tuned than the last, while Clavain grimaced and cooperated with the minimum of good grace. By the end of it he did not want to see another thimbleful of chocolate in his life.

After several hours he was deemed to be neurologically sound. There were still things that he did not recall with great precision, but he was told this was within the error margins of the usual amnesia that accompanied reefersleep fugue, and did not indicate any untoward lapses. They gave him a lightweight bio-monitor tabard, assigned a spindly bronze servitor to him and told him he was free to move around as he pleased.

‘Shouldn’t I be asking why you’ve woken me?’ he said.

‘We’ll get to that later,’ said Scorpio, who seemed to be in charge. ‘There’s no immediate hurry, Clavain.’

‘But I take it there’s a decision that needs to be made?’

Scorpio glanced at one of the other leaders, the woman called Antoinette Bax. She had wide eyes and a freckled nose and he felt that there were memories of her that he had yet to unearth. She nodded back, almost imperceptibly.

‘We wouldn’t have woken you for the view, Clavain,’ Scorpio said. ‘It’s a piece of crap even with the lights out.’

Somewhere in the heart of the immense vessel was a place that felt like it belonged in some entirely different part of the universe. It was a glade, a place of grass and trees and synthetic blue skies. There were holographic birds in the air: parrots and hornbills and suchlike, skimming from tree to tree in cometlike flashes of bright primary colour, and there was a waterfall in the distance which looked suspiciously real, hazed in a swirling talcum-blue mist where it emptied into a small dark lake.

Felka escorted Clavain on to a flat apron of cool glistening grass. She wore a long black dress, her feet lost under the black spillage of the hem. She did not seem to mind it dragging through the dew-laden grass. They sat down facing each other, resting on tree stumps whose tops had been polished to mirrored smoothness. They had the place to themselves, except for the birds.

Clavain looked around. He felt much better now and his memory was nearly whole, but he did not remember this place at all. ‘Did you create this, Felka?’

‘No,’ she said cautiously, ‘but why do you ask?’

‘Because it reminds me a little of the forest at the core of the Mother Nest, I suppose. Where you had your atelier. Except it has gravity, of course, which your atelier didn’t.’

‘So you do remember, then.’

He scratched at the stubble on his chin. Someone had thoughtfully shaved off his beard when he was asleep. ‘Dribs and drabs. Not as much of what happened before I went under as I’d like.’

‘What do you remember, exactly?’

‘Remontoire leaving to make contact with Sylveste. You almost going with him, and then deciding not to. Not much else. Volyova’s dead, isn’t she?’

Felka nodded. ‘We got the planet evacuated. You and Volyova agreed to split the remaining hell-class weapons. She took Storm Bird, loaded as many weapons on to it as she could manage and rode it straight into the heart of the Inhibitor machine.’

Clavain pursed his lips and whistled quietly. ‘Did she make much difference?’

‘None at all. But she went out with a bang.’

Clavain smiled. ‘I never expected anything less of her. And what else?’

‘Khouri and Thorn - you remember them? They joined Remontoire’s expedition to Hades. They have shuttles, and they’ve initiated Zodiacal Light’s self-repair systems. All they have to do is keep supplying it with raw material and it will repair itself. But it will take a little while, time enough for them to make contact with Sylveste, Khouri thinks.’

‘I didn’t know quite what to make of her claim to have already been into Hades,’ Clavain said, picking blades of grass from the area around his feet. He crushed them and sniffed the pulpy green residue that stained his fingers. ‘But the Triumvir seemed to think it was true.’

‘We’ll find out sooner or later,’ Felka said. ‘After they’ve made contact - however long that takes - they’ll take Zodiacal Light out of the system and follow our trajectory. As for us, well, it’s still your ship, Clavain, but day-to-day affairs are handled by a Triumvirate. Triumvirs Blood, Cruz and Scorpio, by popular vote. Khouri would be one of them, of course, if she hadn’t chosen to stay behind after the evacuation.’

‘My memory says they rescued one hundred and sixty thousand people,’ Clavain said. ‘Is that shockingly wide of the mark?’

‘No, it’s about right. Which sounds pretty impressive until you realise that we didn’t manage to save forty thousand others ...’

‘We were the thing that went wrong, weren’t we? If we hadn’t intervened ...’

‘No, Clavain.’ Her voice was admonitionary, as if he was an old man who had committed some awful faux pas in polite company. ‘No. You mustn’t think like that. Look, it was like this, understand?’ They were close enough for Conjoined thought. She piped images into his head, pictures from the death of Resurgam. He saw the last hours as the wolf machine - that was what they were now all calling the Inhibitor weapon - bored its gravitation sinkhole into the very heart of the star, stabbing an invisible curette deep into the nuclear-burning core. The tunnel that it had opened was exceedingly narrow, no more than a few kilometres wide at its deepest point - and though the star was being drained of blood, the process was no uncontrolled haemorrhage. Instead the fusing matter in the nuclear-burning core was allowed to squirt out in a fine jetting arc, a column of expanding, cooling hellfire that speared from the star’s surface at half the speed of light. Constrained and guided by pulses of the same gravitational energy that had cored the star in the first place, the spike was bent in a lazy parabola that caused it to douse against the dayside of Resurgam. By the time it impacted, the starfire flame was a thousand kilometres across. The effect was catastrophic and practically instantaneous. The atmosphere was boiled away in a searing flash, the icecaps and the few areas of open water following instants later. Arid and airless, the crust under the beam became molten, the spike gouging a cherry-red scar across the face of the planet. Hundreds of vertical kilometres of the planet’s surface were incinerated, gouting into space in a hot cloud of boiled rock. Shockwaves from the initial impact reached around the world and destroyed all life on the nightside: every human being, every organism that humans had brought to Resurgam. And yet they would have died soon enough without that shockwave. Within hours, the nightside had turned to face the sun. The spike continued to boil, the well of the energy at the heart of the star barely tapped. Resurgam’s crust burned away, and still the beam continued to chew into the planet’s mantle.

It took three weeks to reduce the planet to a smoking red-hot cinder, four-fifths of its previous size. Then the beam flicked to another target, another world, and began the same murderous sweep. The depletion of matter from the star’s heart would eventually bleed Delta Pavonis down to a cool husk of itself, until so much matter had been removed that fusion came to an abrupt halt. It had not happened yet, Felka said - at least not according to the light-signals that were catching up with them from the system - but when it did, it stood every chance of being a violent event.

‘So you see,’ Felka said, ‘we were actually lucky to rescue as many as we did. It wasn’t our fault that more died. We just did what was right under the circumstances. There’s no sense feeling guilty about it. If we hadn’t shown up, a thousand other things could have gone wrong. Skade’s fleet would still have arrived, and she wouldn’t have been any more inclined to negotiate than you were.’

Clavain remembered the vile flash of a dying starship, and remembered also the ultimate death of Galiana that he had sanctioned with the decision to destroy Nightshade. Even now the thought of that was painful.

‘Skade died, didn’t she? I killed her, in interstellar space. The other elements of her fleet were acting autonomously, even when we engaged them.’

‘Everything was autonomous,’ Felka said, with curious evasion.

Clavain watched a macaw orbit from tree to tree. ‘I don’t mind being consulted on strategic matters, but I’m not seeking a position of authority on this ship. It isn’t mine, for a start, no matter what Volyova might have thought. I’m too old to take command. And besides, what would the ship need with me anyway? It already has its own Captain.’

Felka’s voice was low. ‘So you remember the Captain?’

‘I remember what Volyova told us. I don’t remember ever talking with the Captain himself. Is he still running things, the way she said he would?’

Her voice remained guarded. ‘Depends what you mean by running things. His infrastructure is still intact, but there’s been no sign of him as a conscious entity since we left Delta Pavonis.’

‘Then the Captain’s dead, is that it?’

‘No, that can’t be it either. He had fingers in too many aspects of routine shipwide functioning, so Volyova said. When he used to go into one of his catatonic states, it was like pulling the plug on the entire ship. That hasn’t happened. The ship’s still taking care of itself, keeping itself ticking over, indulging in self-repair and the occasional upgrade.’

Clavain nodded. ‘Then it’s as if the Captain’s still functioning on an involuntary level, but there’s no sentience there any more? Like a patient who still has enough brain function to breathe, but not much else?’

‘That’s our best guess. But we can’t be totally sure. Sometimes there are little glimmers of intelligence, things that the ship does to itself without asking anyone. Flashes of creativity. It’s more as if the Captain’s still there, but buried more deeply than was ever the case before.’

‘Or perhaps he just left behind a ghost of himself,’ Clavain said. ‘A mindless shell, pottering through the same behavioural patterns.’

‘Whatever it was, he redeemed himself,’ Felka said. ‘He did something terrible, but in the end he also saved one hundred and sixty thousand lives.’

‘So did Lyle Merrick,’ Clavain said, remembering for the first time since he had awakened the secret within Antoinette’s ship and the necessary sacrifice the man had made. ‘Two redemptions for the price of one? I suppose it’s a start.’ Clavain picked at a stray splinter of wood that had embedded itself in his palm, torn from the very edge of the tree stump. ‘So what did happen, Felka? Why have I been awakened when everyone knew it might kill me?’

‘I’ll show you,’ she said. She looked in the direction of the waterfall. Startled, for he had been certain that they were alone, Clavain saw a figure standing on the very edge of the lake immediately before the waterfall. The mist ebbed and swirled around the figure’s extremities.

But he recognised her.

‘Skade,’ he said.

‘Clavain,’ she answered. But she did not step closer. Her voice had been hollow, the acoustics all wrong for the environment. Clavain realised, with a jolt of irritation at how easily he had been fooled, that he was being addressed by a simulation.

‘She’s a beta-level, isn’t she,’ he said, talking only to Felka. ‘The Master of Works would have retained a good enough working memory of Skade to put a beta-level aboard any of the other ships.’

‘She’s a beta-level, yes,’ Felka said. ‘But that isn’t how it happened. Is it, Skade?’

The figure was crested and armoured. It nodded. ‘This beta-level is a recent version, Clavain. My physical counterpart transmitted it to you during the engagement.’

‘Sorry,’ Clavain said, shaking his head, ‘my memory may not be what it was, but I remember killing your counterpart. I destroyed Nightshade shortly after I rescued Felka.’

‘That’s what you remember. It’s almost what happened, too.’

‘You can’t have survived, Skade.’ He said it with numb insistence, despite the evidence of his eyes.

‘I saved my head, Clavain. I feared that you would destroy Nightshade once I gave you back Felka, even though I didn’t think you would have the courage to do it when you knew I had Galiana aboard ...’ She smiled, her expression strangely close to admiration. ‘I was wrong about that, wasn’t I? You were a far more ruthless adversary than I had ever imagined, even after you did this to me.’ ‘You had Galiana’s body, not Galiana.’ Clavain held his voice steady. ‘All I did was give her the peace she should have had when she died all those years ago.’

‘But you don’t really believe that, do you? You always knew she was not really dead, but merely in a state of deadlock with the Wolf.’ ‘That was as good as death.’

‘But there was always the chance the Wolf could be removed, Clavain ...’ Her voice became soft. ‘You believed that, too. You believed there was a chance you could have her back one day.’ ‘I did what I had to do,’ he said.

‘It was ruthlessness, Clavain. I admire you for it. You’re more of a spider than any of us.’

He stood up from the stump and made his way to the water’s edge until he was only a few metres from Skade. She hovered in the mist, neither fully solid nor fully anchored to the ground. ‘I did what I had to do,’ he repeated. ‘It was all I ever did. It wasn’t ruthlessness, Skade. Ruthlessness implies that I felt no pain when I did it.’

‘And did you?’

‘It was the worst thing I have ever done. I removed her love from the universe.’

‘I feel sorry for you, Clavain.’

‘How did you survive, Skade?’

She reached up and fingered the curious collar where armour joined flesh. ‘After you left with Felka, I detached my head and placed it inside a small warhead casing. My brain tissue was buffered by interglial medichines to withstand rapid deceleration. The warhead was ejected backwards from Nightshade, back towards the other elements of the fleet. You never noticed because you were concerned only with the prospect of an attack against yourselves. The warhead fell through space silently until it was well beyond your detection sphere. Then it activated a focused homing pulse. One element of the fleet was delegated to change velocity until an intercept was feasible. The warhead was captured and brought aboard the other ship.’ She smiled and closed her eyes. ‘The late Doctor Delmar was aboard another fleet vessel. Unfortunately it happened to be the ship you destroyed. But before his death he was able to finish the cloning of my new body. Neural reintegration was surprisingly easy, Clavain. You should try it one day.’

Clavain almost stumbled on his words. ‘Then . . . you are whole again?’

‘Yes.’ She said it tartly, as if the subject was a matter for mild regret. ‘Yes. I am whole again now.’

‘Then why do you choose to manifest this way?’

‘As a reminder, Clavain, of what you made of me. I am still out there, you see. My ship survived the engagement. There was damage, yes - just as there was damage to your ship. But I haven’t given up. I want what you have stolen from us.’

He turned back to Felka, who was still watching patiently from her wooden stump. ‘Is this true? Is Skade still out there?’

‘We can’t know for sure,’ she said. ‘All we know is what this beta-level tells us. It could be lying, trying to destabilise us. But in that case Skade must have shown astonishing foresight to create it in the first place.’

‘And the surviving ships?’

‘That’s sort of why we woke you. They are out there. We have fixes on their flames even now.’ And then she told him that the three Conjoiner ships had streaked past at half the speed of light relative to Nostalgia for Infinity, just as the simulations had predicted. Weapons had been deployed, their activation sequences as carefully choreographed as the individual explosions in a fireworks performance. The Conjoiners had used particle beams and heavy relativistic railguns for the most part. Infinity had fired back with lighter versions of the same armaments, while also deploying two of the salvaged cache weapons. Both sides made much use of decoys and feints, and in the most critical phase of the engagement savage accelerations were endured as the ships tried to deviate from predicted flight-paths.

Neither side had been able to claim victory. One Conjoiner ship had been destroyed and damage wrought on the other two, but Clavain considered this almost as close to failure as having inflicted no damage at all. Two enemies were almost as dangerous as three.

And yet the outcome could have been so much worse. Nostalgia for Infinity had sustained some damage, but not enough to prevent it from making it to another solar system. None of the occupants had been hurt and none of the critical systems had been taken out.

‘But we’re not home and dry,’ Felka told him.

Clavain turned from Skade’s image. ‘We’re not?’

‘The two ships that survived? They’re turning around. Slowly but surely, they’re sweeping back around to chase us.’

Clavain let out a laugh. ‘But it’ll take them light-years to make the turn.’

‘It wouldn’t if they had inertia-suppression technology. But the machinery must have been damaged during the engagement. That doesn’t mean they can’t repair it again, however.’ She looked at Skade, but the image made no reaction. It was as if she had become a statue poised at the water’s edge, a slightly macabre decorative feature of the glade.

‘If they can, they will,’ Clavain said.

Felka agreed. ‘The Triumvirate ran simulations. Under certain assumptions, we can always outrun the pursuing ships - at least in our reference frame - for as long as you care to specify. We just have to keep crawling closer and closer to the speed of light. But that isn’t much of a solution in my book.’

‘It isn’t in mine either.’

‘Anyway, it doesn’t happen to be practical. We do need to stop to make repairs, and sooner rather than later. That’s why we woke you, Clavain.’

Clavain walked back to the tree stumps. He lowered himself on to his with a crick of leg joints. ‘If there’s a decision to be taken, there must be some choices on the table. Is that the case?’

‘Yes.’

He waited patiently, listening to the soothing white-noise hiss of the waterfall. ‘Well?’

Felka spoke with a reverent hush. ‘We’re a long way out, Clavain. The Resurgam system is nine light-years behind us and there isn’t another settled colony for fifteen light-years in any direction. But there’s a solar system dead ahead of us. Two cool stars. It’s a wide binary, but one of the stars has formed planets in stable orbits. They’re mature, at least three billion years old. There’s one world in the habitable zone that has a couple of small moons. Indications are that it has an oxygen atmosphere and a lot of water. There are even chlorophyll bands in the atmosphere.’

Clavain asked, ‘Human terraforming?’

‘No. There’s no sign of human presence ever having established itself around these stars. Which leaves only one possibility, I think.’

‘The Pattern Jugglers.’

She was evidently pleased that it did not need to be spelled out. ‘We always knew we’d stumble on more Juggler worlds as we moved further out into the galaxy. We shouldn’t be surprised to find one now.’

‘Dead ahead, just like that?’

‘It isn’t dead ahead, but it’s close enough. We can slow down and reach it. If it’s anything like the other Juggler worlds there may even be dry land; enough to take a few settlers.’

‘How many is a few?’

Felka smiled. ‘We won’t know until we get there, will we?’

Clavain made his decision - it was, in truth, little more than a blessing on the obvious choice - and then returned to sleep. There were few medics amongst his crew, and almost none of them had received formal training beyond a few hasty memory uploads. But he trusted them when they said that he could not expect to survive more than one or two further cycles of freezing and thawing.

‘But I’m an old man,’ he told them. ‘If I stay warm, I probably won’t survive that way either.’

‘It’ll have to be your choice,’ they told him, unhelpfully.

He was getting old, that was all. His genes were very antiquated, and though he had been through several rejuvenation programmes since leaving Mars, they had only reset a clock which then proceeded to start ticking again. Back on the Mother Nest they could have given him another half-century of virtual youth, had he wished . . . but he had never taken that final rejuvenation. The will had never been there after Galiana’s strange return and her even stranger half-death.

He did not even know if he regretted it now. If they had been able to limp to a fully equipped colony world, somewhere that hadn’t yet been ravaged by the Melding Plague, there might have been hope for him. But what difference would it have made? Galiana was still gone. He was still old inside his skull, still seeing the world through eyes that were yellow and weary with four hundred years of war. He had done what he could, and the emotional burden had cost him terribly, and he did not think he had the energy to do it one more time. It was enough that he had not totally failed this time.

And so he submitted to the reefersleep casket for the final time.

Just before he went under, he authorised a tight-beam laser transmission back to the dying Resurgam system. The message was one-time-pad coded for Zodiacal Light. If the other ship hadn’t been totally destroyed, there was a chance it would intercept and decode the signal. It would never be seen by the other Conjoiner ships, and even if Skade’s forces had somehow managed to sow receivers through Resurgam space, they would not be able to crack the encryption.

The message was very simple. It told Remontoire, Khouri, Thorn and the others that had gone with them that they were to slow and stop in the Pattern Juggler system; they would wait there for twenty years. That was enough time to allow Zodiacal Light to rendezvous with them; it was also enough time to establish a self-sustaining colony of a few tens of thousands of people, a hedge against any future catastrophe that might befall the ship.

Knowing this, feeling that in some small but significant way he had put his affairs in order, Clavain slept.

He woke to find that Nostalgia for Infinity had changed itself without consulting anyone.

No one knew why.

The changes were not at all apparent from within; it was only from the outside - seen from an inspection shuttle - that they became manifest. The changes had happened during the slow-down phase as the great ship was decelerating into the new system. With the inching speed of land erosion, the rear of the ship’s conic hull, normally a smaller inverted cone in its own right, had become flattened, like the base of a chess piece. No control over this transformation had been possible, and indeed, much of it had already taken place before anyone had noticed. There were vaults of the great ship that were only visited by humans once or twice a century, and much of the rear of the hull fell into that category. The machinery that lurked there had been surreptitiously dismantled or relocated further up the hull, in other disused spaces. Ilia Volyova might have noticed sooner than anyone - not much had ever escaped Ilia Volyova - but she was gone now, and the ship had new tenants who were not yet as devoutly familiar with its territory.

The changes were neither life-threatening nor injurious to the ship’s performance, but they remained puzzling, and further evidence - if any were needed - that the Captain’s psyche had not completely vanished, and could be expected to surprise them still further at times in the future. There appeared little doubt that the Captain had played some role in the reshaping of the ship he had become. The question of whether the reshaping had been consciously driven, or had merely sprung from some irrational dreamlike whim, was much harder to answer.

So for the time being, because there were other things to worry about, they ignored it. Nostalgia for Infinity fell into tight orbit around the watery world and probes were sent arcing into the atmosphere and the vast turquoise oceans that nearly enclosed the world from pole to pole. Creamy cloud patterns had been dabbed on it in messy, exuberant swirls. There were no large landmasses; the visible ocean was unmarred except for a few carelessly tossed archipelagos of islands, splashes of ochre paint against corneal blue-green. The closer they had come, the more nearly certain it became that this was a Juggler World, and the indications turned out to be correct. Continental rafts of living biomass stained swathes of the ocean grey-green. The atmosphere could be breathed by humans, and there were enough trace elements in the soils and bedrocks of the islands to support self-sustaining colonies.

It wasn’t perfect, by any means. Islands on Juggler worlds had a habit of vanishing under tsunamis mediated by the great semi-sentient biomass of the oceans themselves. But for twenty years, it would suffice. If the colonists wanted to stay, they’d have time to build pontoon cities floating on the sea itself.

A chain of islands - northerly, cold, but predicted to be tectonically stable - was selected.

‘Why there, in particular?’ Clavain asked. ‘There are other islands at the same latitude, and they can’t be any less stable.’

‘There’s something down there,’ Scorpio told him. ‘We keep getting a faint signal from it.’

Clavain frowned. ‘A signal? But no one’s ever supposed to have been here.’

‘It’s just a radio pulse, very weak,’ Felka said. ‘But the modulation is interesting. It’s Conjoiner code.’

‘We put a beacon down here?’

‘We must have, at some point. But there’s no record of any Conjoiner ship ever coming here. Except . . .’ She paused, unwilling to say what had to be said.

‘Well?’

‘It probably doesn’t mean anything, Clavain. But Galiana could have come here. It’s not impossible, and we know she would have investigated any Juggler worlds she came across. Of course, we don’t know where her ship went before the wolves found her, and by the time she made it back to the Mother Nest all on-board records were lost or corrupted. But who else could have left a Conjoiner beacon?’

‘Anyone who was operating covertly. We don’t know everything that the Closed Council got up to, even now.’

‘I thought it was worth mentioning, that’s all.’

He nodded. He had felt a great crescendo of hope, and then a wave of sadness that was made all the deeper by what had preceded it. Of course she had not been here. It was stupid of him even to entertain the thought. But there was something down below that merited investigation, and it was sensible to locate their settlement near the item of interest. He had no problem with that.

Detailed plans for settlement were quickly drawn up. Tentative surface camps were established a month after their arrival.

And that was when it happened. Slowly, unhurriedly, as if this were the most natural thing in the world for a four-kilometre-long space vessel, Nostalgia for Infinity began to lower its orbit, spiralling down into the thin upper reaches of the atmosphere. By then it had slowed itself, too, braking to sub-orbital velocity so that the friction of re-entry did not scald away the outer layer of its hull. There was panic aboard from some quarters, for the ship was acting outside of human control. But there was also a more general feeling of quiet, calm resignation about whatever was about to happen. Clavain and the Triumvirate did not understand their ship’s intentions, but it was unlikely that it meant them harm, not now.

And so it proved. As the great ship fell out of orbit it tilted, bringing its long axis into line with the vertical defined by the planet’s gravitational field. Nothing else was possible; the ship would have snapped its spine had it come in obliquely. But provided it did descend vertically, lowering down through the clouds like the detached spire of a cathedral, it would suffer no more structural stress than was imposed by normal one-gee starflight. Aboard, it even felt normal. There was only the dull roar of the motors, normally unheard, but now transmitted back through the hull via the surrounding medium of air, a ceaseless, distant thunder that became louder as the ship approached the ground.

But there was no ground below. Though the landing site it had selected was close to the target archipelago where the first camps had already been sited, the ship was lowering itself towards the sea.

My God, Clavain thought. Suddenly he understood why the ship had remade itself. It - or whatever part of the Captain remained in charge - must have had this descent in mind from the moment the nature of the watery planet became clear. It had flattened the spike of its tail to allow itself to rest on the seabed. Down below, the sea began to boil away under the assault of the drive flames. The ship descended through mountains of steam, billowing tens of kilometres into the stratosphere. The sea was a kilometre deep under the touchdown point, for the bed sloped sharply away from the archipelago’s edge. But that kilometre hardly mattered. When Clavain felt the ship keel, coming to rest with a tremendous deep groan, most of it was still above the surface of the roiling waves.

On a nameless waterlogged world on the ragged edge of human space, under dual suns, Nostalgia for Infinity had landed.

EPILOGUE

For days after the landing the hull creaked and echoed from the lower depths as it adjusted to the external pressure of the ocean. Now and then, without human bidding, servitors scurried into the bilges to repair hull leaks where the seawater was surging in. The ship rocked ominously from time to time, but gradually anchored itself until it began to feel less like a temporary addition to the landscape than a weirdly hollowed-out geological feature: a sliver-thin stack of morbidly weathered pumice or obsidian; an ancient natural sea-tower wormed with man-made tunnels and caverns. Overhead, silver-grey clouds only occasionally ripped apart to reveal pastel-blue skies.

It was a week before anyone left the ship. For days, shuttles wheeled around it, circling it like nervous seabirds. Although not all the docking bays had been submerged, no one was yet willing to attempt a landing. Contact was however re-established with the teams who had already landed on the Juggler world, and who had made the descent from the surface. Makeshift boats were sent across the water from the nearest island - a distance of fifteen kilometres only - until they kissed against the sheer-sided cliff of the ship. Depending on tidal conditions it was possible to reach a small human-only airlock.

Clavain and Felka were in the first boat to make it back to the island. They said nothing during the crossing as they slid through wet grey mist. Clavain felt cold and despondent as he watched the black wall of the ship fall back into the fog. The sea here was soup-thick with floating micro-organisms - they were on the very fringes of a major Juggler biomass focus - and the organisms had already begun to plaster themselves against the side of the ship above the waterline. There was a scabby green accretion, a little like verdigris, which made the ship look like it had been here for centuries. He wondered what would happen if they could not persuade Nostalgia for Infinity to take off again. They had twenty years to talk it into leaving, but if the ship had already made up its mind that it wanted to stay rooted here, he doubted very much that they would be able to persuade it otherwise. Perhaps it wanted a final resting place, where it could become a memorial to its crime and the redemptive act that had followed.

‘Clavain . . .’ Felka said.

He looked at her. ‘I’m all right.’

‘You look tired. But we need you, Clavain. We haven’t even begun the struggle yet. Don’t you understand? All that’s happened so far is only the beginning. We have the weapons now . . .’

‘A handful of them. And Skade still wants them.’

‘Then she’ll have to fight us for them, won’t she? She won’t find that as easy as she imagines.’

Clavain looked back, but the ship was hidden. ‘If we’re still here, there won’t be a lot we can do to stop her.’

‘We’ll have the weapons themselves. But Remontoire will have returned by then, I’m sure of it. And he’ll have Zodiacal Light with him. The damage wasn’t fatal; a ship like that can repair itself.’

Clavain tightened his lips and agreed. ‘I suppose so.’

She held his hand as if to warm it. ‘What’s wrong, Clavain? You brought us so far. We followed you. You can’t give up now.’

‘I’m not giving up,’ he said. ‘I’m just ... tired. It’s time to let someone else carry on the fight. I’ve been a soldier too long, Felka.’

‘Then become something else.’

‘That’s not quite what I meant.’ He tried to force some cheer into his voice. ‘Look, I’m not going to die tomorrow, or next week. I owe it to everyone to get this settlement off the ground. I just don’t think I’ll necessarily be here when Remontoire makes it back. But who knows? Time has a nasty way of surprising me. God knows I’ve learned that often enough.’

They continued in silence. The crossing was choppy, and now and then the boat had to steer itself past huge seaweedlike concentrations of ropy biomass, which shifted and reacted to the boat’s presence in an unnervingly purposeful way. Presently Clavain sighted land, and shortly after that the boat skidded to a halt in a few feet of water, bottoming out on rock.

They had to get out and wade the rest of the way to dry land. Clavain was shivering by the time he squelched out of the last inch of water. The boat looked a long way away, and Nostalgia for Infinity was nowhere to be seen at all.

Antoinette Bax came to meet them, picking her way carefully across a field of rockpools that gleamed like a tessellation of perfect grey mirrors. Behind her, on a higher rising slope of land, was the first encampment: a hamlet of bubbletents stapled into rock.

Clavain wondered how it would look in twenty years.

More than one hundred and sixty thousand people were aboard Nostalgia for Infinity, far too many to place on one island. There would be a chain of settlements, instead - as many as fifty, with a few hubs on the larger, drier nubs of land. Once those settlements were established, work could begin on the floating colonies that would provide long-term shelter. There would be enough work here to keep anyone busy. He felt an obligation to be part of it, but no sense that it was anything he had been born to do.

He felt, in fact, that he had done what he was born to do.

‘Antoinette,’ he said, knowing that Felka would not have recognised the woman without his help, ‘how are things on dry land?’

‘There’s shit brewing already, Clavain.’

He kept his eyes on the ground, for fear of tripping. ‘Do tell.’

‘A lot of people aren’t happy with the idea of staying here. They bought into Thorn’s exodus because they wanted to go home, back to Yellowstone. Being stuck on an uninhabited piss-ball for twenty years wasn’t quite what they had in mind.’

Clavain nodded patiently. He steadied himself against Felka, using her as a walking stick. ‘And did you impress on these people the fact that they’d be dead if they hadn’t come with us?’

‘Yes, but you know what it’s like. No pleasing some people, is there?’ She shrugged. ‘Well, just thought I’d cheer you up with that, in case you thought it was all going to be plain sailing from now on.’

‘For some reason, that thought never crossed my mind. Now, can someone show us around the island?’

Felka helped him pick his way on to smoother ground. ‘Antoinette, we’re cold and wet. Is there somewhere we can get warm and dry?’

‘Just follow me. We’ve even got tea on the go.’

‘Tea?’ Felka asked suspiciously.

‘Seaweed tea. Local. But don’t worry. No one’s died of it yet, and you do eventually get used to the taste.’

‘I suppose we’d better make a start,’ Clavain said.

They followed Antoinette into the huddle of tents. People were at work outside, putting up new tents and plumbing-in snakelike power cables from turtle-shaped generators. She led them into one enclosure, sealing the flap behind them. It was warmer inside, and drier, but this served only to make Clavain feel more damp and cold than he had a moment before.

Twenty years in a place like this, he thought. They’d be busy staying alive, yes, but what kind of a life was one of pure struggle for existence? The Jugglers might prove endlessly fascinating, awash with eternally old mysteries of cosmic provenance, or they might not wish to communicate with the humans at all. Although lines of rapport had been established between humans and Pattern Jugglers on the other Juggler worlds, it had sometimes taken decades of study before the key was found to unlock the aliens. Until then, they were little more than sluggish vegetative masses, evidencing the work of intelligence without in any way revealing it themselves. What if this turned out to be the first group of Jugglers that did not wish to drink human neural patterns? It would be a lonely and bleak place to stay, shunned by the very things one had imagined might make it tolerable. Staying with Remontoire, Khouri and Thorn, plunging into the intricate structure of the living neutron star, might begin to seem like the more attractive option.

Well, in twenty years they’d find out whether that had been the case.

Antoinette pushed a mug of green-coloured tea in front of him. ‘Drink up, Clavain.’

He sipped at it, wrinkling his nose against the miasma of pungent, briny fumes that hovered above the drink. ‘What if I’m drinking a Pattern Juggler?’

‘Felka says you won’t be. She should know, I think - I gather she’s been itching to meet these bastards for quite a while, so she knows a thing or two about them.’

Clavain gave the tea another go. ‘Yes, that’s true, isn’t . . .’

But Felka had gone. She had been in the tent a moment ago, but now she wasn’t.

‘Why does she want to meet them so badly?’ Antoinette asked.

‘Because of what she hopes they’ll give her,’ Clavain said. ‘Once, when she lived on Mars, she was at the core of something very complex - a vast, living machine she had to keep alive with her own willpower and intellect. It was what gave her a reason to live. Then people - my people, as a matter of fact - took the machine away from her. She nearly died then, if she had ever truly been alive. And yet she didn’t. She made it back to something like normal life. But everything that has followed, everything that she has done since, has been a way to find something else that she can use and that will use her in the same way; something so intricate that she can’t understand all its secrets in a single intuitive flash, and something that, in its own way, might be able to exploit her as well.’

‘The Jugglers.’

Still clasping the tea - and it wasn’t so bad, really, he noted - he said, ‘Yes, the Jugglers. Well, I hope she finds what she’s looking for, that’s all.’

Antoinette reached beneath the table and hefted something up from the floor. She placed it between them: a corroded metal cylinder covered in a lacy froth of calcified micro-organisms.

‘This is the beacon. They found it yesterday, a mile down. There must have been a tsunami which washed it into the sea.’

He leaned over and examined the hunk of metal. It was squashed and dented, like an old rations tin that had been stepped on. ‘It could be Conjoiner,’ he said. ‘But I’m not sure. There aren’t any markings which have survived.’

‘I thought the code was Conjoiner?’

‘It was: it’s a simple in-system transponder beacon. It’s not meant to be detected over much more than a few hundred million kilometres. But that doesn’t mean it was put here by Conjoiners. Ultras could have stolen it from one of our ships, perhaps. We’ll know a little more when we dismantle it, but that has to be done carefully.’ He rapped the rough metal husk with his knuckles. ‘There is antimatter in here, or it wouldn’t be transmitting. Not much, maybe, but enough to make a dent in this island if we don’t open it properly.’

‘Rather you than me.’

‘Clavain . . .’

He looked around; Felka had returned. She looked even wetter than when they had arrived. Her hair was glued to her face in lank ribbons, and the black fabric of her dress was tight against one side of her body. She should have been pale and shivering, by Clavain’s estimation. But she was flushed red, and she looked excited.

‘Clavain,’ she repeated.

He put down the tea. ‘What is it?’

‘You have to come outside and see this.’

He stepped out of the tent. He had warmed up just enough to feel a sudden spike of cold as he did so, but something in Felka’s manner made him ignore it, just as he had long ago learned to selectively suppress pain or discomfort in the heat of battle. It did not matter for now; it could, like most things in life, be dealt with later, or not at all.

Felka was looking out to sea.

‘What is it?’ he asked again.

‘Look. Do you see?’ She stood by him and directed his gaze. ‘Look. Look hard, where the mist thins out.’

‘I’m not sure if—’

‘Now.’

And he did see it, if only fleetingly. The local wind direction must have changed since they had arrived in the tent, enough to push the fog around into a different configuration and allow brief openings that reached far out to sea. He saw the mosaic of sharp-edged rockpools, and beyond that the boat they had come in on, and beyond that a horizontal stroke of slate-grey water which turned fainter as his eye skidded toward the horizon, becoming the pale milky grey of the sky itself. And there, for an instant, was the upright spire of Nostalgia for Infinity, a tapering finger of slightly darker grey rising from just below the horizon line itself.

‘It’s the ship,’ Clavain said mildly, determined not to disappoint Felka.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It’s the ship. But you don’t understand. It’s more than that. It’s much, much more.’

Now he was beginning to feel slightly worried. ‘It is?’

‘Yes. Because I’ve seen it before.’

‘Before?’

‘Long before we ever came here, I saw it.’ She turned to him, peeling hair from her eyes, squinting against the sting of the spray. ‘It was the Wolf, Clavain. It showed me this view when Skade coupled us together. At the time I didn’t know what to make of it. But now I understand. It wasn’t really the Wolf at all. It was Galiana, getting through to me even though the Wolf thought it was in control.’

Clavain knew what had happened aboard Skade’s ship while Felka was her hostage. He had been told about the experiments, and the times when Felka had glimpsed the Wolf’s mind. But she had never mentioned this before.

‘It must be a coincidence,’ he said. ‘Even if you did get a message from Galiana, how could she have known what was going to happen here?’

‘I don’t know, but there must have been a way. Information has already reached the past, or none of this would have happened. All we know now is that somehow, our memories of this place - whether they’re yours or mine - will reach the past. More than that, they will reach Galiana.’ Felka leaned down and touched the rock beneath her. ‘Somehow this is the crux, Clavain. We haven’t just stumbled on this place. We’ve been led here by Galiana because she knows that it matters that we find it.’

Clavain thought back to the beacon he had just been shown. ‘If she had been here ...’

Felka completed the thought. ‘If she came here, she would have attempted communion with the Pattern Jugglers. She would have tried swimming with them. Now, she may not have succeeded ... but just supposing she did, what would have happened?’

The mist had closed in completely now; there was no sign of the looming sea-tower.

‘Her neural patterns would have been remembered,’ Clavain said, as if speaking in a dream. ‘The ocean would have recorded her essence, her personality, her memories. Everything that she was. She’d have left it physically, but also left behind a holographic copy of herself, in the sea, ready to be imprinted on another sentience, another mind.’

Felka nodded emphatically. ‘Because that’s what they do, Clavain. Pattern Jugglers store all who swim in their oceans.’

Clavain looked out, hoping to glimpse the ship again. ‘Then she’d still be here.’

‘And we can reach her ourselves if we swim as well. That’s what she knew, Clavain. That’s the message she slipped past the Wolf.’

His eyes were stinging as well. ‘She’s a clever one, that Galiana. What if we’re wrong?’

‘We’ll know. Not necessarily the first time, but we’ll know. All we have to do is swim and open our minds. If she’s in the sea, in their collective memory, the Jugglers will bring her to us.’

‘I don’t think I could stand for this to be wrong, Felka.’

She took his hand and squeezed it tighter. ‘We won’t be wrong, Clavain. We won’t be wrong.’

He hoped against hope that she was right. She tugged his hand harder, and the two of them took the first tentative steps towards the sea.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Contents

Dedication

PROLOGUE

ONE - Ararat, p Eridani A System, 2675

TWO - Lighthugger Gnostic Ascension, Interstellar Space, 2615

THREE - Lighthugger Gnostic Ascension, Interstellar Space, 2615

FOUR - Ararat, 2675

FIVE - Ararat, 2675

SIX - Ararat, 2675

SEVEN - Approaching Hela, 2615

EIGHT - Hela, 2727

NINE - Hela Surface, 2615

TEN - Hela, 2615

ELEVEN - Hela, 2727

TWELVE - Hela, 2727

THIRTEEN - Ararat, 2675

FOURTEEN - Ararat, 2675

FIFTEEN - Ararat, 2675

SIXTEEN - Ararat, 2675

SEVENTEEN - Hela, 2727

EIGHTEEN - Ararat, 2675

NINETEEN - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY - Hela, 2727

TWENTY-ONE - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY-TWO - p Eridani 40, 2675

TWENTY-THREE - Hela, 2727

TWENTY-FOUR - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY-FIVE - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY-SIX - Hela, 2727

TWENTY-SEVEN - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY-EIGHT - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY-NINE - Ararat, 2675

THIRTY - Ararat, 2675

THIRTY-ONE - Near Ararat, 2675

THIRTY-TWO - Hela, 2727

THIRTY-THREE - Near Ararat, 2675

THIRTY-FOUR - Interstellar Space, Near p Eridani 40, 2675

THIRTY-FIVE - Hela, 2727

THIRTY-SIX - Interstellar Space, Near Epsilon Eridani, 2698

THIRTY-SEVEN - Interstellar Space, Epsilon Eridani, 2698

THIRTY-EIGHT - Hela, 2727

THIRTY-NINE - Hela Surface, 2727

FORTY - Hela Surface, 2727

FORTY-ONE - Hela, 2727

FORTY-TWO - Hela, 2727

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

EPILOGUE

For my Grandparents

‘The Universe begins to look more like a great thought than a great machine’

Sir James Jeans

PROLOGUE

She stands alone at the jetty’s end, watching the sky. In the moonlight, the planked boarding of the jetty is a shimmering silver-blue ribbon reaching back to shore. The sea is ink-black, lapping calmly against the jetty’s supports. Across the bay, out towards the western horizon, there are patches of luminosity: smudges of twinkling pastel-green, as if a fleet of galleons has gone down with all lights ablaze.

She is clothed, if that is the word, in a white cloud of mechanical butterflies. She urges them to draw closer, their wings meshing tight. They form themselves into a kind of armour. It is not that she is cold - the evening breeze is warm and freighted with the faint, exotic tang of distant islands - but that she feels vulnerable, sensing the scrutiny of something vaster and older than she. Had she arrived a month earlier, when there were still tens of thousands of people on this planet, she doubted that the sea would have paid her this much attention. But the islands are all abandoned now, save for a handful of stubborn laggards, or newly arrived latecomers like herself. She is something new here - or, rather, something that has been away for a great while - and her chemical signal is awakening the sea. The smudges of light across the bay have appeared since her descent. It is not coincidence.

After all this time, the sea still remembers her.

‘We should go now,’ her protector calls, his voice reaching her from the black wedge of land where he waits, leaning impatiently on his stick. ‘It isn’t safe, now that they’ve stopped shepherding the ring.’

The ring, yes: she sees it now, bisecting the sky like an exaggerated, heavy-handed rendition of the Milky Way. It spangles and glimmers: countless flinty chips of rubble catching the light from the closer sun. When she arrived, the planetary authorities were still maintaining it: every few minutes or so, she would see the pink glint of a steering rocket as one of the drones boosted the orbit of a piece of debris, keeping it from grazing the planet’s atmosphere and falling into the sea. She understood that the locals made wishes on the glints. They were no more superstitious than any of the other planet dwellers she had met, but they understood the utter fragility of their world - that without the glints there was no future. It would have cost the authorities nothing to continue shepherding the ring: the self-repairing drones had been performing the same mindless task for four hundred years, ever since the resettlement. Turning them off had been a purely symbolic gesture, designed to encourage the evacuation.

Through the veil of the ring, she sees the other, more distant moon: the one that wasn’t shattered. Almost no one here had any idea what happened. She did. She had seen it with her own eyes, albeit from a distance.

‘If we stay . . .’ her protector says.

She turns back, towards the land. ‘I just need a little time. Then we can go.’

‘I’m worried about someone stealing the ship. I’m worried about the Nestbuilders.’

She nods, understanding his fears, but still determined to do the thing that has brought her here.

‘The ship will be fine. And the Nestbuilders aren’t anything to worry about.’

‘They seem to be taking a particular interest in us.’

She brushes an errant mechanical butterfly from her brow. ‘They always have. They’re just nosy, that’s all.’

‘One hour,’ he says. ‘Then I’m leaving you here.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Only one way to find out, isn’t there?’

She smiles, knowing he won’t desert her. But he’s right to be nervous: all the way in they had been pushing against the grain of evacuation. It was like swimming upstream, buffeted by the outward flow of countless ships. By the time they reached orbit, the transit stalks had already been blockaded: the authorities weren’t allowing anyone to ride them down to the surface. It had taken bribery and guile to secure passage on a descending car. They’d had the compartment to themselves, but the whole thing - so her companion had said - had smelt of fear and panic; human chemical signals etched into the very fabric of the furniture. She was glad she didn’t have his acuity with smells. She is frightened enough as it is: more than she wants him to know. She had been even more frightened when the Nestbuilders followed her into the system. Their elaborate spiral-hulled ship - fluted and chambered, vaguely translucent - is one of the last vessels in orbit. Do they want something of her, or have they just come to spectate?

She looks out to sea again. It might be her imagination, but the glowing smudges appear to have increased in number and size; less like a fleet of galleons below the water now than an entire sunken metropolis. And the smudges seem to be creeping towards the seaward end of the jetty. The ocean can taste her: tiny organisms scurry between the air and the sea. They seep through skin, into blood, into brain.

She wonders how much the sea knows. It must have sensed the evacuation: felt the departure of so many human minds. It must have missed the coming and going of swimmers, and the neural information they carried. It might even have sensed the end of the shepherding operation: two or three small chunks of former moon have already splashed down, although nowhere near these islands. But how much does it really know about what is going to happen? she wonders.

She issues a command to the butterflies. A regiment detaches from her sleeve, assembling before her face. They interlace wings, forming a ragged-edged screen the size of a handkerchief, with only the wings on the edge continuing to flutter. Now the sheet changes colour, becoming perfectly transparent save for a violet border. She cranes her head, looking high into the evening sky, through the debris ring. With a trick of computation the butterflies erase the ring and the moon. The sky darkens by degrees, the blackness becoming blacker, the stars brighter. She directs her attention to one particular star, picking it out after a moment’s concentration.

There is nothing remarkable about this star. It is simply the nearest one to this binary system, a handful of light-years away. But this star has now become a marker, the leading wave of something that cannot be stopped. She was there when they evacuated that system, thirty years ago.

The butterflies perform another trick of computation. The view zooms in, concentrating on that one star. The star becomes brighter, until it begins to show colour. Not white now, not even blue-white, but the unmistakable tint of green.

It isn’t right.

ONE

Ararat, p Eridani A System, 2675

Scorpio kept an eye on Vasko as the young man swam to shore. All the way in he had thought about drowning, what it would feel like to slide down through unlit fathoms. They said that if you had to die, if you had no choice in the matter, then drowning was not the worst way to go. He wondered how anyone could be sure of this, and whether it applied to pigs.

He was still thinking about it when the boat came to a sliding halt, the electric outboard racing until he killed it.

Scorpio poked a stick overboard, judging the water to be no more than half a metre deep. He had hoped to locate one of the channels that allowed a closer approach to the island, but this would have to do. Even if he had not agreed a place of rendezvous with Vasko, there was no time to push back out to sea and curl around hunting for something he had enough trouble finding when the sea was clear and the sky completely empty of clouds.

Scorpio moved to the bow and took hold of the plastic-sheathed rope Vasko had been using as a pillow. He wrapped one end tightly around his wrist and then vaulted over the side of the boat in a single fluid movement. He splashed into the shallows, the bottle-green water lapping just above his knees. He could barely feel the cold through the thick leather of his boots and leggings. The boat was drifting slowly now that he had disembarked, but with a flick of his wrist he took up the slack in the line and brought the bow around by several degrees. He started walking, leaning hard to haul the boat. The rocks beneath his feet were treacherous, but for once his bow-legged gait served him well. He did not break his rhythm until the water was only halfway up his boots and he again felt the boat scrape bottom. He hauled it a dozen strides further ashore, but that was as far as he was prepared to risk dragging it.

He saw that Vasko had reached the shallows. The young man abandoned swimming and stood up in the water.

Scorpio got back into the boat, flakes and scabs of corroded metal breaking away in his grip as he tugged the hull closer by the gunwale. The boat was past its hundred and twentieth hour of immersion, this likely to be its final voyage. He reached over the side and dropped the small anchor. He could have done so earlier, but anchors were just as prone to erosion as hulls. It paid not to place too much trust in them.

Another glance at Vasko. He was picking his way carefully towards the boat, his arms outstretched for balance.

Scorpio gathered his companion’s clothes and stuffed them into his pack, which already contained rations, fresh water and medical supplies. He heaved the pack on to his back and began the short trudge to dry land, taking care to check on Vasko occasionally. Scorpio knew he had been hard on Vasko, but once the anger had started rising in him there had been no holding it in check. He found this development disturbing. It was twenty-three years since Scorpio had raised his hand in anger against a human, except in the pursuit of duty. But he recognised that there was also a violence in words. Once, he would have laughed it off, but lately he had been trying to live a different kind of life. He thought he had put certain things behind him.

It was, of course, the prospect of meeting Clavain that had brought all that fury to the surface. Too much apprehension, too many emotional threads reaching back into the blood-drenched mire of the past. Clavain knew what Scorpio had been. Clavain knew exactly what he was capable of doing.

He stopped and waited for the young man to catch up with him.

‘Sir . . .’ Vasko was out of breath and shivering.

‘How was it?’

‘You were right, sir. It was a bit colder than it looked.’

Scorpio shrugged the pack from his back. ‘I thought it would be, but you did all right. I’ve got your things with me. You’ll be dry and warm in no time. Not sorry you came?’

‘No, sir. Wanted a bit of adventure, didn’t I?’

Scorpio passed him his things. ‘You’ll be after a bit less of it when you’re my age.’

It was a still day, as was often the case when the cloud cover on Ararat was low. The nearer sun - the one that Ararat orbited - was a washed-out smudge hanging low in the western sky. Its distant binary counterpart was a hard white jewel above the opposite horizon, pinned between a crack in the clouds. P Eridani A and B, except no one ever called them anything other than Bright Sun and Faint Sun.

In the silver-grey daylight the water was leached of its usual colour, reduced to a drab grey-green soup. It looked thick when it sloshed around Scorpio’s boots, but despite the opacity of the water the actual density of suspended micro-organisms was low by Ararat standards. Vasko had still taken a small risk by swimming, but he had been right to do so, for it had allowed them to sail the boat much closer to the shore. Scorpio was no expert on the matter, but he knew that most meaningful encounters between humans and Jugglers took place in areas of the ocean that were so saturated with organisms that they were more like floating rafts of organic matter. The concentration here was low enough that there was little risk of the Jugglers eating the boat while they were away, or creating a local tide system to wash it out to sea.

They covered the remaining ground to dry land, reaching the gently sloping plain of rock that had been visible from sea as a line of darkness. Here and there shallow pools interrupted the ground, mirroring the overcast sky in silver-grey. They made their way between them, heading for a pimple of white in the middle distance.

‘You still haven’t told me what all this is about,’ Vasko said.

‘You’ll find out soon enough. Aren’t you sufficiently excited about meeting the old man?’

‘Scared, more likely.’

‘He does that to people, but don’t let it get to you. He doesn’t get off on reverence.’

After ten minutes of further walking, Scorpio had recovered the strength he had expended hauling in the boat. In that time the pimple had become a dome perched on the ground, and finally revealed itself to be an inflatable tent. It was guyed to cleats pinned into the rock, the white fabric around its base stained various shades of briny green. It had been patched and repaired several times. Gathered around the tent, leaning against it at odd angles, were pieces of conch material recovered from the sea like driftwood. The way they had been poised was unmistakably artful.

‘What you said earlier, sir,’ Vasko said, ‘about Clavain not going around the world after all?’

‘Yes?’

‘If he came here instead, why couldn’t they just tell us that?’

‘Because of why he came here,’ Scorpio replied.

They made their way around the inflatable structure until they reached the pressure door. Next to it was the small humming box that supplied power to the tent, maintaining the pressure differential and providing heat and other amenities for its occupant.

Scopio examined one of the conch pieces, fingering the sharp edge where it had been cut from some larger whole. ‘Looks like he’s been doing some beachcombing.’

Vasko pointed to the already open outer door. ‘All the same, doesn’t look as if there’s anyone home at the moment.’

Scorpio opened the inner door. Inside he found a bunk bed and a neatly folded pile of bedclothes. A small collapsible desk, a stove and food synthesiser. A flagon of purified water and a box of rations. An air pump that was still running and some small conch pieces on the table.

‘There’s no telling how long it’s been since he was last here,’ Vasko said.

Scorpio shook his head. ‘He hasn’t been away for very long, probably not more than an hour or two.’

Vasko looked around, searching for whatever piece of evidence Scorpio had already spotted. He wasn’t going to find it: pigs had long ago learned that the acute sense of smell they had inherited from their ancestors was not something shared by baseline humans. They had also learned - painfully - that humans did not care to be reminded of this.

They stepped outside again, sealing the inner door as they had found it.

‘What now?’ Vasko asked.

Scorpio snapped a spare communications bracelet from one wrist and handed it to Vasko. It had already been assigned a secure frequency, so there was no danger of anyone on the other islands listening in. ‘You know how to use one of these things?’

‘I’ll manage. Anything in particular you want me to do with it?’

‘Yes. You’re going to wait here until I get back. I expect to have Clavain with me when I return. But in the event he finds you first, you’re to tell him who you are and who sent you. Then you call me and ask Clavain if he’d like to talk to me. Got that?’

‘And if you don’t come back?’

‘You’d better call Blood.’

Vasko fingered the bracelet. ‘You sound a bit worried about his state of mind, sir. Do you think he might be dangerous?’

‘I hope so,’ Scorpio said, ‘because if he isn’t, he’s not a lot of use to us.’ He patted the young man on the shoulder. ‘Now wait here while I circle the island. It won’t take me more than an hour, and my guess is I’ll find him somewhere near the sea.’

Scorpio made his way across the flat rocky fringes of the island, spreading his stubby arms for balance, not caring in the slightest how awkward or comical he appeared.

He slowed, thinking that in the distance he could see a figure shifting in and out of the darkening haze of late-afternoon sea mist. He squinted, trying to compensate for eyes that no longer worked as well as they had in Chasm City, when he had been younger. On one level he hoped that the mirage would turn out to be Clavain. On another he hoped that it would turn out to be a figment of his imagination, some conjunction of rock, light and shade tricking the eye.

As little as he cared to admit it, he was anxious. It was six months since he had last seen Clavain. Not that long a time, really, most certainly not when measured against the span of the man’s life. Yet Scorpio could not rid himself of the sense that he was about to encounter an acquaintance he had not met in decades, someone who might have been warped beyond all recognition by life and experience. He wondered how he would respond if it turned out that Clavain had indeed lost his mind. Would he even recognise it if that was true? Scorpio had spent enough time around baseline humans to feel confident about reading their intentions, moods and general states of sanity. It was said that human and pig minds were not so very different. But with Clavain, Scorpio always made a mental note to ignore his expectations. Clavain was not like other humans. History had shaped him, leaving behind something unique and quite possibly monstrous.

Scorpio was fifty. He had known Clavain for half his life, ever since he had been captured by Clavain’s former faction in the Yellowstone system. Shortly after that, Clavain had defected from the Conjoiners, and after some mutual misgivings he and Scorpio had ended up fighting together. They had gathered a loose band of soldiers and assorted hangers-on from the vicinity of Yellowstone and had stolen a ship to make the journey to Resurgam’s system. Along the way they had been hectored and harried by Clavain’s former Conjoiner comrades. From Resurgam space - riding another ship entirely - they had arrived here, on the blue-green waterlogged marble of Ararat. Little fighting had been required since Resurgam, but the two had continued to work together in the establishment of the temporary colony.

They had schemed and plotted whole communities into existence. Often they had argued, but only ever over matters of the gravest importance. When one or the other leant towards too harsh or too soft a policy, the other was there to balance matters. It was in those years that Scorpio had found the strength of character to stop hating human beings every waking moment of his life. If nothing else, he owed that to Clavain.

But nothing was ever that simple, was it?

The problem was that Clavain had been born five hundred years ago and had lived through many of those years. What if the Clavain that Scorpio knew - the Clavain that most of the colonists knew, for that matter - was only a passing phase, like a deceitful glimpse of sunshine on an otherwise stormy day? In the early days of their acquaintance, Scorpio had kept at least half an eye on him, alert for any reversion to his indiscriminate butcher tendencies. He had seen nothing to arouse his suspicions, and more than enough to reassure him that Clavain was not the ghoul that history said he was.

But in the last two years, his certainties had crumbled. It was not that Clavain had become more cruel, argumentative or violent than before, but something in him had changed. It was as if the quality of light on a landscape had shifted from one moment to another. The fact that Scorpio knew that others harboured similar doubts about his own stability was of scant comfort. He knew his own state of mind and hoped he would never hurt another human the way he had done in the past. But he could only speculate about what was going on inside his friend’s head. What he could be certain about was that the Clavain he knew, the Clavain alongside whom he had fought, had withdrawn to some intensely private personal space. Even before he had retreated to this island, Scorpio had reached the point where he could hardly read the man at all.

But he did not blame Clavain for that. No one would.

He continued his progress until he was certain that the figure was real, and then advanced further until he was able to discern detail. The figure was crouched down by the shore of sea, motionless, as if caught in some reverie that had interrupted an otherwise innocent examination of the tide pools and their fauna.

Scorpio recognised him as Clavain; he would have been as certain even if he had thought the island uninhabited.

The pig felt a momentary surge of relief. At least Clavain was still alive. No matter what else transpired today, that much had to count as a victory.

When he was within shouting distance of the man, Clavain sensed his presence and looked around. There was a breeze now, one that had not been there when Scorpio landed. It pulled wild white hair across Clavain’s pink-red features. His beard, normally neatly trimmed, had also grown long and unkempt since his departure. His thin figure was clad in black, with a dark shawl or cloak pulled across his shoulders. He maintained an awkward posture between kneeling and standing, poised on his haunches like a man who had only stopped there for a moment.

Scorpio was certain he had been staring out to sea for hours.

‘Nevil,’ Scorpio said.

He said something back, his lips moving, but his words were masked by the hiss of the surf.

Scorpio called out again. ‘It’s me - Scorpio.’

Clavain’s mouth moved a second time. His voice was a croak that barely made it above a whisper. ‘I said, I told you not to come here.’

‘I know.’ Scorpio had approached closer now. Clavain’s white hair flicked in and out of his deeply recessed old-man’s eyes. They appeared to be focused on something very distant and bleak. ‘I know, and for six months we honoured that request, didn’t we?’

‘Six months?’ Clavain almost smiled. ‘Is that how long it’s been?’

‘Six months and a week, if you want to be finicky about it.’

‘It doesn’t feel like it. It feels like no time at all.’ Clavain looked back out to sea again, the back of his head turned towards Scorpio. Between thin strands of white hair his scalp had the same raw pink colour as Scorpio’s skin.

‘Sometimes it feels like a lot longer, as well,’ Clavain continued, ‘as if all I’ve ever done was spend each day here. Sometimes I feel as if there isn’t another soul on this planet.’

‘We’re all still here,’ Scorpio said, ‘all one hundred and seventy thousand of us. We still need you.’

‘I expressly asked not to be disturbed.’

‘Unless it was important. That was always the arrangement, Nevil.’

Clavain stood up with painful slowness. He had always been taller than Scorpio, but now his thinness gave him the appearance of something sketched in a hurry. His limbs were quick cursive scratches against the sky.

Scorpio looked at Clavain’s hands. They were the fine-boned hands of a surgeon. Or, perhaps, an interrogator. The rasp of his long fingernails against the damp black fabric of his trousers made Scorpio wince.

‘Well?’

‘We’ve found something,’ Scorpio said. ‘We don’t know exactly what it is, or who sent it, but we think it came from space. We also think there might be someone in it.’

TWO

Lighthugger Gnostic Ascension, Interstellar Space, 2615

Surgeon-General Grelier strode through the circular green-lit corridors of the body factory.

He hummed and whistled, happy in his element, happy to be surrounded by humming machines and half-formed people. With a shiver of anticipation he thought about the solar system that lay ahead of them and the great many things that depended on it. Not necessarily for him, it was true, but certainly for his rival in the matter of the queen’s affection. Grelier wondered how she would take another of Quaiche’s failures. Knowing Queen Jasmina, he did not think she would take it awfully well.

Grelier smiled at that. The odd thing was that for a system on which so much hung, the place was still nameless; no one had ever bothered with the remote star and its uninteresting clutch of planets. There had never been any reason to. There would be an obscure catalogue entry for the system in the astrogation database of the Gnostic Ascension, and indeed of almost every other starship, along with brief notes on the major characteristics of its sun and worlds, likely hazards and so forth. But these databases had never been intended for human eyes; they existed only to be interrogated and updated by other machines as they went about their silent, swift business executing those shipboard tasks considered too dull or too difficult for humans. The entry was just a string of binary digits, a few thousand ones and zeroes. It was a measure of the system’s unimportance that the entry had only been queried three times in the entire operational lifetime of the Gnostic Ascension. It had been updated once.

Grelier knew: he had checked, out of curiosity.

Yet now, perhaps for the first time in history, the system was of more than passing interest. It still had no name, but now at least the absence of one had become vaguely troubling, to the point where Queen Jasmina sounded a trifle more irritated every time she was forced to refer to the place as ‘the system ahead’ or ‘the system we are approaching’. But Grelier knew that she would not deign to give the place a name until it had proved valuable. And the system’s value was entirely in the hands of the queen’s fading favourite, Quaiche.

Grelier paused a while near one of the bodies. It was suspended in translucent support gel behind the green glass of its vivification tank. Around the base of the tank were rows of nutrient controls like so many organ stops, some pushed in and some pulled out. The stops controlled the delicate biochemical environment of the nutrient matrix. Bronze valve wheels set into the side of the tank adjusted the delivery of bulk chemicals like water or saline.

Appended to the tank was a log showing the body’s clonal history. Grelier flicked through the plastic-laminated pages of the log, satisfying himself that all was well. Although most of the bodies in the factory had never been decanted, this specimen - an adult female - had been warmed and used once before. The evidence of the injuries inflicted on it was fading under the regenerative procedures, abdominal scars healing invisibly, the new leg now only slightly smaller than its undamaged counterpart. Jasmina did not approve of these patch-up jobs, but her demand for bodies had outstripped the production capacity of the factory.

Grelier patted the glass affectionately. ‘Coming along nicely.’

He walked on, making random checks on the other bodies. Sometimes a glance was sufficient, though more often than not Grelier would thumb through the log and pause to make some small adjustment to the settings. He took a great deal of pride in the quiet competence of his work. He never boasted of his abilities or promised anything he was not absolutely certain of being able to deliver - utterly unlike Quaiche, who had been full of exaggerated promises from the moment he stepped aboard the Gnostic Ascension.

For a while it had worked, too. Grelier, long the queen’s closest confidant, had found himself temporarily usurped by the flashy newcomer. All he heard while he was working on her was how Quaiche was going to change all their fortunes: Quaiche this, Quaiche that. The queen had even started complaining about Grelier’s duties, moaning that the factory was too slow in delivering bodies and that the attention-deficit therapies were losing their effectiveness. Grelier had been briefly tempted to try something seriously attention-grabbing, something that would catapult him back into her good graces.

Now he was profoundly glad that he had done no such thing; he had needed only to bide his time. It was simply a question of letting Quaiche dig his own grave by setting up expectations that he could not possibly meet. Sadly - for Quaiche, if not for Grelier - Jasmina had taken him exactly at his word. If Grelier judged the queen’s mood, poor old Quaiche was about this close to getting the figurehead treatment.

Grelier stopped at an adult male that had begun to show developmental anomalies during his last examination. He had adjusted the tank settings, but his tinkering had apparently been to no avail. To the untrained eye the body looked normal enough, but it lacked the unmarred symmetry that Jasmina craved. Grelier shook his head and placed a hand on one of the polished brass valve wheels. Always a difficult call, this. The body wasn’t up to scratch by the usual standards of the factory, but then again neither were the patch-up jobs. Was it time to make Jasmina accept a lowering of quality? It was she who was pushing the factory to its limit, after all.

No, Grelier decided. If he had learned one lesson from this whole sordid Quaiche business, it was to maintain his own standards. Jasmina would scold him for aborting a body, but in the long run she would respect his judgement, his stolid devotion to excellence.

He twisted the brass wheel shut, blocking saline. He knelt down and pushed in most of the nutrient valves.

‘Sorry,’ Grelier said, addressing the smooth, expressionless face behind the glass, ‘but I’m afraid you just didn’t cut it.’

He gave the body one last glance. In a few hours the processes of cellular deconstruction would be grotesquely obvious. The body would be dismantled, its constituent chemicals recycled for use elsewhere in the factory.

A voice buzzed in his earpiece. He touched a finger to the device.

‘Grelier . . . I was expecting you already.’

‘I’m on my way, ma’am.’

A red light started flashing on top of the vivification tank, synchronised to an alarm. Grelier cuffed the override, silencing the alarm and blanking the emergency signal. Calm returned to the body factory, a silence broken only by the occasional gurgle of nutrient flows or the muffled click of some distant valve regulator.

Grelier nodded, satisfied that all was in hand, and resumed his unhurried progress.

At the same instant that Grelier pushed in the last of the nutrient valves, an anomaly occurred in the sensor apparatus of the Gnostic Ascension. The anomaly was brief, lasting only a fraction over half a second, but it was sufficiently unusual that a flag was raised in the data stream: an exceptional event marker indicating that something merited attention.

As far as the sensor software was concerned that was the end of it: the anomaly had not continued, and all systems were now performing normally. The flag was a mere formality; whether it was to be acted on was the responsibility of an entirely separate and slightly more intelligent layer of monitoring software.

The second layer - dedicated to health-monitoring all shipwide sensor subsystems - detected the flag, along with several million others raised in the same cycle, and assigned it a schedule in its task profile. Less than two hundred thousandths of a second had lapsed since the end of the anomaly: an eternity in computational terms, but an inevitable consequence of the vast size of a lighthugger’s cybernetic nervous system. Communications between one end of the Gnostic Ascension and the other required three to four kilometres of main trunk cabling, six to seven for a round-trip signal.

Nothing happened quickly on a ship that large, but it made little practical difference. The ship’s huge mass meant that it responded sluggishly to external events: it had precisely the same need for lightning-fast reflexes as a brontosaurus.

The health-monitoring layer worked its way down the pile.

Most of the several million events it looked at were quite innocuous. Based on its grasp of the statistical expectation pattern of error events, it was able to de-assign most of the flags without hesitation. They were transient errors, not indicative of any deeper malaise in the ship’s hardware. Only a hundred thousand looked even remotely suspicious.

The second layer did what it always did at this point: it compiled the hundred thousand anomalous events into a single packet, appended its own comments and preliminary findings and offered the packet to the third layer of monitoring software.

The third layer spent most of its time doing nothing: it existed solely to examine those anomalies forwarded to it by duller layers. Quickened to alertness, it examined the dossier with as much actual interest as its borderline sentience allowed. By machine standards it was still somewhere below gamma-level intelligence, but it had been doing its job for such a long time that it had built up a huge hoard of heuristic expertise. It was insultingly clear to the third layer that more than half of the forwarded events in no way merited its attention, but the remaining cases were more interesting, and it took its time going through them. Two-thirds of those anomalies were repeat offenders: evidence of systems with some real but transient fault. None, however, were in critical areas of ship function, so they could be left alone until they became more serious.

One-third of the interesting cases were new. Of these, perhaps ninety per cent were the kind of failures that could be expected once in a while, based on the layer’s knowledge of the various hardware components and software elements involved. Only a handful were in possibly critical areas, and thankfully these faults could all be dealt with by routine repair methods. Almost without blinking, the layer dispatched instructions to those parts of the ship dedicated to the upkeep of its infrastructure.

At various points around the ship, servitors that were already engaged in other repair and overhaul jobs received new entries in their task buffers. It might take them weeks to get around to those chores, but eventually they would be performed.

That left a tiny core of errors that might potentially be of some concern. They were more difficult to explain, and it was not immediately clear how the servitors should be ordered to deal with them. The layer was not unduly worried, in so far as it was capable of worrying about anything: past experience had taught it that these gremlins generally turned out to be benign. But for now it had no choice but to forward the puzzling exceptions to an even higher stratum of shipboard automation.

The anomaly moved up like this, through another three layers of steadily increasing intelligence.

By the time the final layer was invoked, only one outstanding event remained in the packet: the original transient sensor anomaly, the one that had lasted just over half a second. None of the underlying layers could account for the error via the usual statistical patterns and look-up rules.

An event only filtered this high in the system once or twice a minute.

Now, for the first time, something with real intelligence was invoked. The gamma-level subpersona in charge of overseeing layer-six exceptions was part of the last line of defence between the cybernetics and the ship’s flesh crew. It was the subpersona that had the difficult role of deciding whether a given error merited the attention of its human stewards. Over the years it had learned not to cry wolf too often: if it did, its owners might decide that it needed upgrading. As a consequence, the subpersona agonised for many seconds before deciding what to do.

The anomaly was, it decided, one of the strangest it had ever encountered. A thorough examination of every logical path in the sensor system failed to explain how something so utterly, profoundly unusual could ever have happened.

In order to do its job effectively, the subpersona had to have an abstract understanding of the real world. Nothing too sophisticated, but enough that it could make sensible judgements about which kinds of external phenomena were likely to be encountered by the sensors, and which were so massively unlikely that they could only be interpreted as hallucinations introduced at a later stage of data processing. It had to grasp that the Gnostic Ascension was a physical object embedded in space. It also had to grasp that the events recorded by the ship’s web of sensors were caused by objects and quanta permeating that space: dust grains, magnetic fields, radar echoes from nearby bodies; and by the radiation from more distant phenomena: worlds, stars, galaxies, quasars, the cosmic background signal. In order to do this it had to be able to make accurate guesses about how the data returns from all these objects were supposed to behave. No one had ever given it these rules; it had formulated them for itself, over time, making corrections as it accumulated more information. It was a never-ending task, but at this late stage in the game it considered itself rather splendid at it.

It knew, for instance, that planets - or rather the abstract objects in its model that corresponded to planets - were definitely not supposed to do that. The error was completely inexplicable as an outside-world event. Something must have gone badly wrong at the data-capture stage.

It pondered this a little more. Even allowing for that conclusion, the anomaly was still difficult to explain. It was so peculiarly selective, affecting only the planet itself. Nothing else, not even the planet’s moons, had done anything in the least bit odd.

The subpersona changed its mind: the anomaly had to be external, in which case the subpersona’s model of the real world was shockingly flawed. It didn’t like that conclusion either. It was a long time since it had been forced to update its model so drastically, and it viewed the prospect with a stinging sense of affront.

Worse, the observation might mean that the Gnostic Ascension itself was . . . well, not exactly in immediate danger - the planet in question was still dozens of light-hours away - but conceivably headed for something that might, at some point in the future, pose a non-negligible risk to the ship.

That was it, then. The subpersona made its decision: it had no choice but to alert the crew on this one.

That meant only one thing: a priority interrupt to Queen Jasmina.

The subpersona established that the queen was currently accessing status summaries through her preferred visual read-out medium. As it was authorised to do, it seized control of the data channel and cleared both screens of the device ready for an emergency bulletin.

It prepared a simple text message: SENSOR ANOMALY: REQUEST ADVICE.

For an instant - significantly less than the half-second that the original event had consumed - the message hovered on the queen’s read-out, inviting her attention.

Then the subpersona had a hasty change of heart.

Perhaps it was making a mistake. The anomaly, bizarre as it had been, had cleared itself. No further reports of strangeness had emanated from any of the underlying layers. The planet was behaving in the way the subpersona had always assumed planets were supposed to.

With the benefit of a little more time, the layer decided, the event could surely be explained as a perceptual malfunction. It was just a question of going over things again, looking at all the components from the right perspective, thinking outside the box. As a subpersona, that was exactly what it was meant to do. If all it ever did was blindly forward every anomaly that it couldn’t immediately explain, then the crew might as well replace it with another dumb layer. Or, worse, upgrade it to something cleverer.

It cleared the text message from the queen’s device and immediately replaced it with the data she had been viewing just before.

It continued to gnaw away at the problem until, a minute or so later, another anomaly bumped into its in-box. This time it was a thrust imbalance, a niggling one-per-cent jitter in the starboard Conjoiner drive. Faced with a bright new urgency, it chose to put the matter of the planet on the back-burner. Even by the slow standards of shipboard communications, a minute was a long time. With every further minute that passed without the planet misbehaving, the whole vexing event would inevitably drop to a diminished level of priority.

The subpersona would not forget about it - it was incapable of forgetting about anything - but within an hour it would have a great many other things to deal with instead.

Good. It was decided, then. The way to handle it was to pretend it had never happened in the first place.

Thus it was that Queen Jasmina was informed of the sensor event anomaly for only a fraction of a second. And thus it was that no human members of the crew of the Gnostic Ascension - not Jasmina, not Grelier, not Quaiche, nor any of the other Ultras - were ever aware that, for more than half a second, the largest gas giant in the system they were approaching, the system unimaginatively called 107 Piscium, had simply ceased to exist.

Queen Jasmina heard the surgeon-general’s footsteps echoing towards her, approaching along the metal-lined companionway that connected her command chamber to the rest of the ship. As always, Grelier managed not to sound in any particular hurry. Had she tested his loyalty by fawning over Quaiche? she wondered. Perhaps. In which case it was probably time to make Grelier feel valued again.

A flicker on the read-out screens of the skull caught her attention. For a moment a line of text replaced the summaries she was paging through - something about a sensor anomaly.

Queen Jasmina shook the skull. She had always been convinced that the horrid thing was possessed, but increasingly it appeared to be going senile, too. Had she been less superstitious, she would have thrown it away, but dreadful things were rumoured to have happened to those who ignored the skull’s counsel.

A polite knock sounded at the door.

‘Enter, Grelier.’

The armoured door eased itself open. Grelier emerged into the chamber, his eyes wide and showing a lot of white as they adjusted to the chamber’s gloom. Grelier was a slim, neatly dressed little man with a flat-topped shock of brilliant white hair. He had the flattened, minimalist features of a boxer. He wore a clean white medical smock and apron; his hands were always gloved. His expression never failed to amuse Jasmina: it always appeared that he was on the point of breaking into tears or laughter. It was an illusion: the surgeon-general had little familiarity with either emotional extreme.

‘Busy in the body factory, Grelier?’

‘A wee bit, ma’am.’

‘I’m anticipating a period of high demand ahead. Production mustn’t slacken.’

‘Little danger of that, ma’am.’

‘Just as long as you’re aware of it.’ She sighed. ‘Well, niceties over with. To business.’

Grelier nodded. ‘I see you’ve already made a start.’

While awaiting his arrival, she had strapped her body into the throne, leather cuffs around her ankles and thighs, a thick band around her belly, her right arm fixed to the chair rest, with only her left arm free to move. She held the skull in her left hand, its face turned towards her so that she could view the read-out screens bulging from its eye sockets. Prior to picking up the skull she had inserted her right arm into a skeletal machine bracketed to the side of the chair. The machine - the alleviator - was a cage of rough black ironwork equipped with screw-driven pressure pads. They were already pressing uncomfortably against her skin.

‘Hurt me,’ Queen Jasmina said.

Grelier’s expression veered momentarily towards a smile. He approached the throne and examined the arrangement of the alleviator. Then he commenced tightening the screws on the device, adjusting each in sequence by a precise quarter turn at a time. The pressure pads bore down on the skin of the queen’s forearm, which was supported in turn by an underlying arrangement of fixed pads. The care with which Grelier turned the screws made the queen think of someone tuning some ghastly stringed instrument.

It wasn’t pleasant. That was the point.

After a minute or so, Grelier stopped and moved behind the throne. She watched him tug a spool of tubing from the little medical kit he always kept there. He plugged one end of the tubing into an oversized bottle full of something straw-yellow and connected the other to a hypodermic. He hummed and whistled as he worked. He lifted up the bottle and attached it to a rig on the back of the throne, then pushed the hypodermic line into the queen’s upper right arm, fiddling around a little until he found the vein. Then she watched him return to the front of the throne, back into view of the body.

It was a female one this time, but there was no reason that it had to be. Although all the bodies were cultured from Jasmina’s own genetic material, Grelier was able to intervene at an early stage of development and force the body down various sexual pathways. Usually it was boys and girls. Now and then, for a treat, he made weird neuters and intersex variants. They were all sterile, but that was only because it would have been a waste of time to equip them with functioning reproductive systems. It was enough bother installing the neural coupling implants so that she could drive the bodies in the first place.

Suddenly she felt the agony lose its focus. ‘I don’t want anaesthetic, Grelier.’

‘Pain without intermittent relief is like music without silence,’ he said. ‘You must trust my judgement in this matter, as you have always done in the past.’

‘I do trust you, Grelier,’ she said, grudgingly.

‘Sincerely, ma’am?’

‘Yes. Sincerely. You’ve always been my favourite. You do appreciate that, don’t you?’

‘I have a job to do, ma’am. I simply do it to the limit of my abilities.’

The queen put the skull down in her lap. With her free hand she ruffled the white brush of his hair.

‘I’d be lost without you, you know. Especially now.’

‘Nonsense, ma’am. Your expertise threatens any day to eclipse my own.’

It was more than automatic flattery: though Grelier had made the study of pain his life’s work, Jasmina was catching up quickly. She knew volumes about the physiology of pain. She knew about nociception; she knew the difference between epicritic and protopathic pain; she knew about presynaptic blocking and the neospinal pathway. She knew her prostaglandin promoters from her GABA agonists.

But the queen also knew pain from an angle Grelier never would. His tastes lay entirely in its infliction. He did not know it from the inside, from the privileged point of view of the recipient. No matter how acute his theoretical understanding of the subject, she would always have that edge over him.

Like most people of his era, Grelier could only imagine agony, extrapolating it a thousandfold from the minor discomfort of a torn hangnail.

He had no idea.

‘I may have learned a great deal,’ she said, ‘but you will always be a master of the clonal arts. I was serious about what I said before, Grelier: I anticipate increased demand on the factory. Can you satisfy me?’

‘You said production mustn’t slacken. That isn’t quite the same thing.’

‘But surely you aren’t working at full capacity at this moment.’

Grelier adjusted the screws. ‘I’ll be frank with you: we’re not far off it. At the moment I’m prepared to discard units that don’t meet our usual exacting standards. But if the factory is expected to increase production, the standards will have to be relaxed.’

‘You discarded one today, didn’t you?’

‘How did you know?’

‘I suspected you’d make a point of your commitment to excellence. ’ She raised a finger. ‘And that’s all right. It’s why you work for me. I’m disappointed, of course - I know exactly which body you terminated - but standards are standards.’

‘That’s always been my watchword.’

‘It’s a pity that can’t be said for everyone on this ship.’

He hummed and whistled to himself for a little while, then asked, with studied casualness, ‘I always got the impression that you have a superlative crew, ma’am.’

‘My regular crew is not the problem.’

‘Ah. Then you would be referring to one of the irregulars? Not myself, I trust?’

‘You are well aware of whom I speak, so don’t pretend otherwise.’

‘Quaiche? Surely not.’

‘Oh, don’t play games, Grelier. I know exactly how you feel about your rival. Do you want to know the truly ironic thing? The two of you are more similar than you realise. Both baseline humans, both ostracised from your own cultures. I had great hopes for the two of you, but now I may have to let Quaiche go.’

‘Surely you’d give him one last chance, ma’am. We are approaching a new system, after all.’

‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? You’d like to see him fail one final time, just so that my punishment would be all the more severe?’

‘I was thinking only of the welfare of the ship.’

‘Of course you were, Grelier.’ She smiled, amused by his lies. ‘Well, the fact of the matter is I haven’t made up my mind what to do with Quaiche. But I do think he and I need a little chat. Some interesting new information concerning him has fallen into my possession, courtesy of our trading partners.’

‘Fancy that,’ Grelier said.

‘It seems he wasn’t completely honest about his prior experience when I hired him. It’s my fault: I should have checked his background more thoroughly. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that he exaggerated his earlier successes. I thought we were hiring an expert negotiator, as well as a man with an instinctive understanding of planetary environments. A man comfortable among both baseline humans and Ultras, someone who could talk up a deal to our advantage and find treasure where we’d miss it completely.’

‘That sounds like Quaiche.’

‘No, Grelier, what it sounds like is the character Quaiche wished to present to us. The fiction he wove. In truth, his record is a lot less impressive. The occasional score here and there, but just as many failures. He’s a chancer: a braggart, an opportunist and a liar. And an infected one, as well.’

Grelier raised an eyebrow. ‘Infected?’

‘He has an indoctrinal virus. We scanned for the usuals but missed this one because it wasn’t in our database. Fortunately, it isn’t strongly infectious - not that it would stand much of a chance infecting one of us in the first place.’

‘What type of indoctrinal virus are we talking about here?’

‘It’s a crude mishmash: a half-baked concoction of three thousand years’ worth of religious imagery jumbled together without any overarching theistic consistency. It doesn’t make him believe anything coherent; it just makes him feel religious. Obviously he can keep it under control for much of the time. But it worries me, Grelier. What if it gets worse? I don’t like a man whose impulses I can’t predict.’

‘You’ll be letting him go, then.’

‘Not just yet. Not until we’ve passed beyond 107 Piscium. Not until he’s had one last chance to redeem himself.’

‘What makes you think he’ll find anything now?’

‘I have no expectation that he will, but I do believe he’s more likely to find something if I provide him with the right incentive.’

‘He might do a runner.’

‘I’ve thought of that as well. In fact, I think I’ve got all bases covered where Quaiche is concerned. All I need now is the man himself, in some state of animation. Can you arrange that for me?’

‘Now, ma’am?’

‘Why not? Strike while the iron’s hot, as they say.’

‘The trouble is,’ Grelier said, ‘he’s frozen. It’ll take six hours to wake him, assuming that we follow the recommended procedures.’

‘And if we don’t?’ She wondered how much mileage was left in her new body. ‘Realistically, how many hours could we shave off?’

‘Two at the most, if you don’t want to run the risk of killing him. Even then it’ll be a wee bit unpleasant.’

Jasmina smiled at the surgeon-general. ‘I’m sure he’ll get over it. Oh, and Grelier? One other thing.’

‘Ma’am?’

‘Bring me the scrimshaw suit.’

THREE

Lighthugger Gnostic Ascension, Interstellar Space, 2615

His lover helped him out of the casket. Quaiche lay shivering on the revival couch, racked with nausea, while Morwenna attended to the many jacks and lines that plunged into his bruised baseline flesh.

‘Lie still,’ she said.

‘I don’t feel very well.’

‘Of course you don’t. What do you expect when the bastards thaw you so quickly?’

It was like being kicked in the groin, except that his groin encompassed his entire body. He wanted to curl up inside a space smaller than himself, to fold himself into a tiny knot like some bravura trick of origami. He considered throwing up, but the effort involved was much too daunting.

‘They shouldn’t have taken the risk,’ he said. ‘She knows I’m too valuable for that.’ He retched: a horrible sound like a dog that had been barking too long.

‘I think her patience might be a bit strained,’ Morwenna said, as she dabbed at him with stinging medicinal salves.

‘She knows she needs me.’

‘She managed without you before. Maybe it’s dawning on her that she can manage without you again.’

Quaiche brightened. ‘Maybe there’s an emergency.’

‘For you, perhaps.’

‘Christ, that’s all I need - sympathy.’ He winced as a bolt of pain hit his skull, something far more precise and targeted than the dull unpleasantness of the revival trauma.

‘You shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain,’ Morwenna said, her tone scolding. ‘You know it only hurts you.’

He looked into her face, forcing his eyes open against the cruel glare of the revival area. ‘Are you on my side or not?’

‘I’m trying to help you. Hold still, I’ve nearly got the last of these lines out.’ There was a final little stab of pain in his thigh as the shunt popped out, leaving a neat eyelike wound. ‘There, all done.’

‘Until next time,’ Quaiche said. ‘Assuming there is a next time.’

Morwenna fell still, as if something had struck her for the first time. ‘You’re really frightened, aren’t you?’

‘In my shoes, wouldn’t you be?’

‘The queen’s insane. Everyone knows that. But she’s also pragmatic enough to know a valuable resource when she sees one.’ Morwenna spoke openly because she knew that the queen had no working listening devices in the revival chamber. ‘Look at Grelier, for pity’s sake. Do you think she’d tolerate that freak for one minute if he wasn’t useful to her?’

‘That’s precisely my point,’ Quaiche said, sinking into an even deeper pit of dejection and hopelessness. ‘The moment either of us stops being useful . . .’ Had he felt like moving, he would have mimed drawing a knife across his throat. Instead he just made a choking sound.

‘You’ve an advantage over Grelier,’ Morwenna said. ‘You have me, an ally amongst the crew. Who does he have?’

‘You’re right,’ Quaiche said, ‘as ever.’ With a tremendous effort he reached out and closed one hand around Morwenna’s steel gauntlet.

He didn’t have the heart to remind her that she was very nearly as isolated aboard the ship as he was. The one thing guaranteed to get an Ultra ostracised was having any kind of interpersonal relationship with a baseline human. Morwenna put a brave face on it, but, Quaiche knew, if he had to rely on her for help when the queen and the rest of the crew turned against him, he was already crucified.

‘Can you sit up now?’ she asked.

‘I’ll try.’

The discomfort was abating slightly, as he had known it must do, and at last he was able to move major muscle groups without crying. He sat on the couch, his knees tucked against the hairless skin of his chest, while Morwenna gently removed the urinary catheter from his penis. He looked into her face while she worked, hearing only the whisk of metal sliding over metal. He remembered how fearful he had been when she first touched him there, her hands gleaming like shears. Making love to her was like making love to a threshing machine. Yet Morwenna had never hurt him, even when she inadvertently cut her own living parts.

‘All right?’ she asked.

‘I’ll make it. Takes more than a quick revival to put a dent in Horris Quaiche’s day.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ she said, sounding less than fully convinced. She leant over and kissed him. She smelt of perfume and ozone.

‘I’m glad you’re around,’ Quaiche said.

‘Wait here. I’ll get you something to drink.’

Morwenna moved off the revival couch, telescoping to her full height. Still unable to focus properly, he watched her slink across the room towards the hatch where various recuperative broths were dispensed. Her iron-grey dreadlocks swayed with the motion of her high-hipped piston-driven legs.

Morwenna was on her way back with a snifter of recuperative broth - chocolate laced with medichines - when the door to the chamber slid open. Two more Ultras strode into the room: a man and a woman. After them, hands tucked demurely behind his back, loomed the smaller, unaugmented figure of the surgeon-general. He wore a soiled white medical smock.

‘Is he fit?’ the man asked.

‘You’re lucky he’s not dead,’ Morwenna snapped.

‘Don’t be so melodramatic,’ the woman said. ‘He was never going to die just because we thawed him a bit faster than usual.’

‘Are you going to tell us what Jasmina wants with him?’

‘That’s between him and the queen,’ she replied.

The man threw a quilted silver gown in Quaiche’s general direction. Morwenna’s arm whipped out in a blur of motion and caught it. She walked over to Quaiche and handed it to him.

‘I’d like to know what’s going on,’ Quaiche said.

‘Get dressed,’ the woman said. ‘You’re coming with us.’

He pivoted around on the couch and lowered his feet to the coldness of the floor. Now that the discomfort was wearing off he was starting to feel scared instead. His cock had shrivelled in on itself, retreating into his belly as if already making its own furtive escape plans. Quaiche put on the gown, cinching it around his waist. To the surgeon-general he said, ‘You had something to do with this, didn’t you?’

Grelier blinked. ‘My dear fellow, it was all I could do to stop them warming you even more rapidly.’

‘Your time will come,’ Quaiche said. ‘Mark my words.’

‘I don’t know why you insist on that tone. You and I have a great deal in common, Horris. Two human men, alone aboard an Ultra ship? We shouldn’t be bickering, competing for prestige and status. We should be supporting each other, cementing a friendship.’ Grelier wiped the back of his glove on his tunic, leaving a nasty ochre smear. ‘We should be allies, you and I. We could go a long way together.’

‘When hell freezes over,’ Quaiche replied.

The queen stroked the mottled cranium of the human skull resting on her lap. She had very long finger- and toenails, painted jet-black. She wore a leather jerkin, laced across her cleavage, and a short skirt of the same dark fabric. Her black hair was combed back from her brow, save for a single neatly formed cowlick. Standing before her, Quaiche initially thought she was wearing make-up, vertical streaks of rouge as thick as candlewax running from her eyes to the curve of her upper lip. Then, joltingly, he realised that she had gouged out her eyes.

Despite this, her face still possessed a certain severe beauty.

It was the first time he had seen her in the flesh, in any of her manifestations. Until this meeting, all his dealings with her had been at a certain remove, either via alpha-compliant proxies or living intermediaries like Grelier.

He had hoped to keep things that way.

Quaiche waited several seconds, listening to his own breathing. Finally he managed, ‘Have I let you down, ma’am?’

‘What kind of ship do you think I run, Quaiche? One where I can afford to carry baggage?’

‘I can feel my luck changing.’

‘A bit late for that. How many stopovers have we made since you joined the crew, Quaiche? Five, isn’t it? And what have we got to show for ourselves, after those five stopovers?’

He opened his mouth to answer her when he saw the scrimshaw suit lurking, almost lost, in the shadows behind her throne. Its presence could not be accidental.

It resembled a mummy, worked from wrought iron or some other industrial-age metal. There were various heavy-duty input plugs and attachment points, and a dark grilled-over rectangle where the visor should have been. There were scabs and fillets of solder where parts had been rewelded or braised. There was the occasional smooth patch of obviously new metal.

Covering every other part of the suit, however, was an intricate, crawling complexity of carvings. Every available square centimetre had been crammed with obsessive, eye-wrenching detail. There was far too much to take in at one glance, but as the suit gyrated above him Quaiche made out fanciful serpent-necked space monsters, outrageously phallic spacecraft, screaming faces and demons, depictions of graphic sex and violence. There were spiralling narratives, cautionary tales, boastful trade episodes writ large. There were clock faces and psalms. Lines of text in languages he didn’t recognise, musical stanzas, even swathes of lovingly carved numerals. Sequences of digital code or DNA base pairs. Angels and cherubim. Snakes. A lot of snakes.

It made his head hurt just to look at it.

It was pocked and gouged by the impact spots of micrometeorites and cosmic rays, its iron-grey tainted here and there with emerald-green or bronze discoloration. There were scratchlike striations where ultra-heavy particles had gouged out their own impact furrows as they sliced by at oblique angles. And there was a fine dark seam around the whole thing where the two armoured halves could be popped open and then welded shut again.

The suit was a punishment device, its existence no more than a cruel rumour. Until this moment.

The queen put people in the suit. It kept them alive and fed them sensory information. It protected them from the sleeting radiation of interstellar flight when they were entombed, for years at a time, in the ice of the ship’s ablative shield.

The lucky ones were dead when they pulled them out of the suit.

Quaiche tried to stop the tremble in his voice. ‘If you look at things one way, we didn’t really . . . we didn’t really do too badly . . . all things considered. There was no material damage to the ship. No crew fatalities or major injuries. No contamination incidents. No unforeseen expenditures . . .’ He fell silent, looking hopefully at Jasmina.

‘That’s the best you can come up with? You were supposed to make us rich, Quaiche. You were supposed to turn our fortunes around in these difficult times, greasing the wheels of trade with your innate charm and grasp of planetary psychologies and landscapes. You were supposed to be our golden goose.’

He shifted uneasily.

‘Yet in five systems all you found was junk.’

‘You chose the systems, not me. It isn’t my fault if there wasn’t anything worth finding.’

Slowly and worryingly the queen shook her head. ‘No, Quaiche. Not that easy, I’m afraid. You see, a month ago we intercepted something. It was a transmission, a two-way trade dialogue between a human colony on Chaloupek and the lighthugger Faint Memory of Hokusai. Ring any bells?’

‘Not really . . .’

But it did.

‘The Hokusai was entering Gliese 664 just as we departed that system. It was the second system you swept for us. Your report was . . .’ The queen hoisted the skull to the side of her head, listening to its chattering jaw. ‘Let’s see . . . “nothing of value found on Opincus or the other three terrestrial worlds; only minor items of discarded technology recovered on moons five to eight of the Haurient giant . . . nothing in the inner asteroid fields, D-type swarms, Trojan points or major K-belt concentrations”.’

Quaiche could see where this was heading. ‘And the Faint Memory of Hokusai?’

‘The trade dialogue was absolutely fascinating. By all accounts, the Hokusai located a cache of buried trade items around one century old. Pre-war, pre-plague. Very valuable stuff: not merely technological artefacts, but also art and culture, much of it unique. I hear they made enough on that to buy themselves an entirely new layer of ablative hull cladding.’ She looked at him expectantly. ‘Any comments, thoughts, on that?’

‘My report was honest,’ Quaiche said. ‘They must have got lucky, that’s all. Look, just give me another chance. Are we approaching another system?’

The queen smiled. ‘We’re always approaching another system. This time it’s a place called 107 Piscium, but frankly from this distance it doesn’t look much more promising than the last five. What’s to say you’re going to be any use this time?’

‘Let me take the Dominatrix,’ he said, knitting his hands together involuntarily. ‘Let me take her down into that system.’

The queen was silent for many seconds. Quaiche heard only his own breathing, punctuated now and then by the abrupt, attenuated sizzle of a dying insect or rat. Something moved languidly beyond the green glass of a hemispherical dome set into one of the chamber’s twelve walls. He sensed that he was being observed by something other than the eyeless figure in the chair. Without having been told, he understood then that the thing beyond the glass was the real queen, and that the ruined body in the seat was only a puppet that she currently inhabited. They were all true, then, all the rumours he had ever heard: the queen’s solipsism; her addiction to extreme pain as a reality-anchoring device; the vast reserve of cloned bodies she was said to keep for just that purpose.

‘Have you finished, Quaiche? Have you made your case?’

He sighed. ‘I suppose I have.’

‘Very well, then.’

She must have issued some secret command, because at that moment the door to the chamber opened again. Quaiche spun around as the blast of cold fresh air touched the nape of his neck. The surgeon-general and the two Ultras who had helped him during Quaiche’s revival entered the room.

‘I’m done with him,’ the queen said.

‘And your intention?’ Grelier asked.

Jasmina sucked at a fingernail. ‘I haven’t changed my mind. Put him in the scrimshaw suit.’

FOUR

Ararat, 2675

Scorpio knew better than to interrupt Clavain when the old man was thinking something over. How long had it been since he had told him about the object falling from space, if that was indeed where it had come from? Five minutes, easily. In all that time, Clavain had sat there as gravely as a statue, his expression fixed, his eyes locked on the horizon.

Finally, just when Scorpio was beginning to doubt his old friend’s sanity, Clavain spoke. ‘When did it happen?’ he asked. ‘When did this “thing” - whatever it is - arrive?’

‘Probably in the last week,’ Scorpio said. ‘We only found it a couple of days ago.’

There was another troubling pause, though it was only a minute or so long this time. Water slapped against rock and gurgled in little eddies in and out of shallow pools by the shoreline.

‘And what exactly is it?’

‘We can’t be absolutely certain. It’s a capsule of some kind. A human artefact. Our best guess is that it’s an escape pod, something with re-entry capabilities. We think it splashed down in the ocean and bobbed to the surface.’

Clavain nodded, as if the news was of only minor interest. ‘And you’re certain it wasn’t left behind by Galiana?’

He said the woman’s name with ease, but Scorpio could only guess at the pain it caused him. Especially now, looking out to sea.

Scorpio had some inkling of what the ocean meant to Clavain: both loss and the cruellest kind of hope. In an unguarded moment, not long before his voluntary exile from island affairs, Clavain had said, ‘They’re all gone now. There’s nothing more the sea can do to me.’

‘They’re still there,’ Scorpio had replied. ‘They aren’t lost. If anything, they’re safer than they ever were.’

As if Clavain could not have seen that for himself.

‘No,’ Scorpio said, snapping his attention back to the present, ‘I don’t think Galiana left it.’

‘I thought it might hold a message from her,’ Clavain said. ‘But I’m wrong, aren’t I? There won’t be any messages. Not that way. Not from Galiana, not from Felka.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Scorpio said.

‘There’s no need to be. It’s the way of things.’

What Scorpio knew of Clavain’s past was drawn as much from hearsay as from things the old man had told him directly. Memories had always been fickle, but in the present era they were as mutable as clay. There were aspects of his own past even Clavain could not now be sure of.

Yet there were some things that were certain. Clavain had once loved a woman named Galiana; their relationship had begun many centuries ago and had spanned many of those same centuries. It was clear that they had birthed - or created - a kind of daughter, Felka; that she had been both terribly damaged and terribly powerful; and that she had been loved and feared in equal measure.

Whenever Clavain spoke of those times, it was with a happiness tempered by the knowledge of what was to follow.

Galiana had been a scientist, fascinated by the augmentation of the human mind. But her curiosity had not stopped there. What she ultimately wanted was an intimate connection with reality, at its root level. Her neural experiments had only ever been a necessary part of this process. To Galiana, it had been natural that the next step should be physical exploration, pushing out into the cosmos. She wanted to go deeper, far beyond the ragged edge of mapped space, to see what was actually out there. So far the only indications of alien intelligence anyone had found had been ruins and fossils, but who was to say what might be found further into the galaxy? Human settlements at that time spanned a bubble two dozen light-years across, but Galiana intended to travel more than a hundred light-years before returning.

And she had. The Conjoiners had launched three ships, moving slightly slower than the speed of light, on an expedition into deep interstellar space. The expedition would take at least a century and a half; equally eager for new experience, Clavain and Felka had journeyed with her. All had progressed according to plan: Galiana and her allies visited many solar systems, and while they never found any unambiguous signs of active intelligence, they nonetheless catalogued many remarkable phenomena, as well as uncovering further ruins. Then came reports, already outdated, of a crisis back home: growing tensions between the Conjoiners and their moderate allies, the Demarchists. Clavain needed to return home to lend his tactical support to the remaining Conjoiners.

Galiana had considered it more important to continue with the expedition; their amicable separation in deep space left one of the ships returning home, carrying Clavain and Felka, while the two other craft continued to loop further into the plane of the galaxy.

They had intended to be reunited, but when Galiana’s ship finally returned to the Conjoiner Mother Nest, it did so on automatic pilot, damaged and dead. Somewhere out in space a parasitic entity had attacked both of the ships, destroying one. Immediately afterwards, black machines had clawed into the hull of Galiana’s ship, systematically anatomising her crew. One by one, they had all been killed, until only Galiana remained. The black machines had infiltrated her skull, squeezing into the interstices of her brain. Horribly, she was still alive, but utterly incapable of independent action. She had become the parasite’s living puppet.

With Clavain’s permission the Conjoiners had frozen her against the day when they might be able to remove the parasite safely. One day they might even have succeeded, but then a rift had opened in Conjoiner affairs: the beginning of the same crisis that had eventually brought Clavain to the Resurgam system and, latterly, to Ararat. In the conflict Galiana’s frozen body had been destroyed.

Clavain’s grief had been a vast, soul-sucking thing. It would have killed him, Scorpio thought, had not his people been in such desperate need of leadership. Saving the colony on Resurgam had given him something to focus on besides the loss he had suffered. It had kept him somewhere this side of sanity.

And, later, there had been a kind of consolation.

Galiana had not led them to Ararat, yet it turned out that Ararat was one of the worlds she had visited after her separation from Clavain and Felka. The planet had attracted her because of the alien organisms filling its ocean. It was a Juggler world, and that was vitally important, for few things that visited Juggler worlds were ever truly forgotten.

Pattern Jugglers had been encountered on many worlds that conformed to the same aquatic template as Ararat. After years of study, there was still no agreement as to whether or not the aliens were intelligent in their own right. But all the same it was clear that they prized intelligence themselves, preserving it with the loving devotion of curators.

Now and then, when a person swam in the seas of a Juggler planet, the microscopic organisms entered the swimmer’s nervous system. It was a kinder process than the neural invasion that had taken place aboard Galiana’s ship. The Juggler organisms only wanted to record, and when they had unravelled the swimmer’s neural patterns they would retreat. The mind of the swimmer would have been captured by the sea, but the swimmer was almost always free to return to land. Usually, they felt no change at all. Rarely, they would turn out to have been given a subtle gift, a tweak to their neurological architecture that permitted superhuman cognition or insight. Mostly it lasted for only a few hours, but very infrequently it appeared permanent.

There was no way to tell if Galiana had gained any gifts after she had swum in the ocean of this world, but her mind had certainly been captured. It was there now, frozen beneath the waves, waiting to be imprinted on the consciousness of another swimmer.

Clavain had guessed this, but he had not been the first to attempt communion with Galiana. That honour had fallen to Felka. For twenty years she had swum, immersed in the memories and glacial consciousness of her mother. In all that time Clavain had held back from swimming himself, fearing perhaps that when he encountered the imprint of Galiana he would find it in some sense wrong, untrue to his memory of what she had been. His doubts had ebbed over the years, but he had still never made the final commitment of swimming. Nonetheless, Felka - who had always craved the complexity of experience that the ocean offered - had swum regularly, and she had reported back her experiences to Clavain. Through his daughter he had again achieved some connection with Galiana, and for the time being, until he summoned the courage to swim himself, that had been enough.

But two years ago the sea had taken Felka, and she had not returned.

Scorpio thought about that now, choosing his next words with great care. ‘Nevil, I understand this is difficult for you, but you must also understand that this thing, whatever it is, could be a very serious matter for the settlement.’

‘I get that, Scorp.’

‘But you think the sea matters more. Is that it?’

‘I think none of us really has a clue what actually matters.’

‘Maybe we don’t. Me, I don’t really care about the bigger picture. It’s never been my strong point.’

‘Right now, Scorp, the bigger picture is all we have.’

‘So you think there are millions - billions - of people out there who are going to die? People we’ve never met, people we’ve never come within a light-year of in our lives?’

‘That’s about the size of it.’

‘Well, sorry, but that isn’t the way my head works. I just can’t process that kind of threat. I don’t do mass extinction. I’m a lot more locally focused than that. And right now I have a local problem.’

‘You think so?’

‘I have a hundred and seventy thousand people here that need worrying about. That’s a number I can just about get my head around. And when something drops out of the sky without warning, it keeps me from sleeping.’

‘But you didn’t actually see anything drop out of the sky, did you?’ Clavain did not wait for Scorpio’s answer. ‘And yet we have the immediate volume of space around Ararat covered with every passive sensor in our arsenal. How did we miss a re-entry capsule, let alone the ship that must have dropped it?’

‘I don’t know,’ Scorpio said. He couldn’t tell if he was losing the argument, or doing well just to be engaging Clavain in discussion about something concrete, something other than lost souls and the spectre of mass extinction. ‘But whatever it is must have come down recently. It’s not like any of the other artefacts we’ve pulled from the ocean. They were all half-dissolved, even the ones that must have been sitting on the seabed, where the organisms aren’t so thick. This thing didn’t look as though it had been under for more than a few days.’

Clavain turned away from the shore, and Scorpio took this as a welcome sign. The old Conjoiner moved with stiff, economical footsteps, never looking down, but navigating his way between pools and obstacles with practised ease.

They were returning to the tent.

‘I watch the skies a lot, Scorp,’ Clavain said. ‘At night, when there aren’t any clouds. Lately I’ve been seeing things up there. Flashes. Hints of things moving. Glimpses of something bigger, as if the curtain’s just been pulled back for an instant. I’m guessing you think that makes me mad, don’t you?’

Scorpio didn’t know what he thought. ‘Alone out here, anyone would see things,’ he said.

‘But it wasn’t cloudy last night,’ Clavain said, ‘or the night before, and I watched the sky on both occasions. I didn’t see anything. Certainly no indication of any ships orbiting us.’

‘We haven’t seen anything either.’

‘How about radio transmissions? Laser squirts?’

‘Not a peep. And you’re right: it doesn’t make very much sense. But like it or not, there’s still a capsule, and it isn’t going away. I want you to come and see it for yourself.’

Clavain shoved hair from his eyes. The lines and wrinkles in his face had become shadowed crevasses and gorges, like the contours of an improbably weathered landscape. Scorpio thought that he had aged ten or twenty years in the six months he had been on this island.

‘You said something about there being someone inside it.’

While they had been talking, the cloud cover had begun to break up in swathes. The sky beyond had the pale, crazed blue of a jackdaw’s eye.

‘It’s still a secret,’ Scorpio said. ‘Only a few of us know that the thing’s been found at all. That’s why I came here by boat. A shuttle would have been easier, but it wouldn’t have been low-key. If people find out we’ve brought you back they’ll think there’s a crisis coming. Besides which, it isn’t supposed to be this easy to bring you back. They still think you’re somewhere halfway around the world.’

‘You insisted on that lie?’

‘What do you think would have been more reassuring? To let the people think you’d gone on an expedition - a potentially hazardous one, admittedly - or to tell them you’d gone away to sit on an island and toy with the idea of committing suicide?’

‘They’ve been through worse. They could have taken it.’

‘It’s what they’ve been through that made me think they could do without the truth,’ Scorpio said.

‘Anyway, it isn’t suicide.’ He stopped and looked back out to sea. ‘I know she’s there, with her mother. I can feel it, Scorpio. Don’t ask me how or why, but I know she’s still here. I read about this sort of thing happening on other Juggler worlds, you know. Now and then they take swimmers, dismantle their bodies completely and incorporate them into the organic matrix of the sea. No one knows why. But swimmers who enter the oceans afterwards say that sometimes they feel the presence of the ones who vanished. It’s a much stronger impression than the usual stored memories and personalities. They say they experience something close to dialogue.’

Scorpio held back a sigh. He had listened to exactly the same speech before he had taken Clavain out to this island six months ago. Clearly the period of isolation had done nothing to lessen Clavain’s conviction that Felka had not simply drowned.

‘So hop in and find out for yourself,’ he said.

‘I would, but I’m scared.’

‘That the ocean might take you as well?’

‘No.’ Clavain turned to face Scorpio. He looked less surprised than affronted. ‘No, of course not. That doesn’t scare me at all. What does is the idea that it might leave me behind.’

Hela, 107 Piscium, 2727

Rashmika Els had spent much of her childhood being told not to look quite so serious. That was what they would have said if they could have seen her now: perched on her bed in the half-light, selecting the very few personal effects she could afford to carry on her mission. And she would have given them precisely the same look of pique she always mustered on those occasions. Except this time she would have known with a deeper conviction than usual that she was right and they were wrong. Because even though she was still only seventeen, she knew that she had every right to feel this serious, this frightened.

She had filled a small bag with three or four days’ worth of clothes, even though she expected her journey to take a lot longer than that. She had added a bundle of toiletries, carefully removed from the family bathroom without her parents noticing, and some dried-up biscuits and a small wedge of goat’s cheese, just in case there was nothing to eat (or, perhaps, nothing she would actually wish to eat) aboard Crozet’s icejammer. She had packed a bottle of purified water because she had heard that the water nearer the Way sometimes contained things that made you ill. The bottle would not last her very long, but it at least made her feel as if she was thinking ahead. And then there was a small plastic-wrapped bundle containing three tiny scuttler relics that she had stolen from the digs.

After all that, there was not much space left in the bag for anything else. It was already heavier than she had expected. She looked at the sorry little collection of items still spread on the bed before her, knowing that she only had room for one of them. What should she take?

There was a map of Hela, peeled from her bedroom wall, with the sinuous, equator-hugging trail of the Way marked in faded red ink. It wasn’t very accurate, but she had no better map in her compad. Did it matter, though? She had no means of reaching the Way without relying on other people to get her there, and if they didn’t know the direction, her map was unlikely to make very much difference.

She pushed the map aside.

There was a thick blue book, its edges protected with gold metal. The book contained her handwritten notes on the scuttlers, kept assiduously over the last eight years. She had started the book at the age of nine, when - in a perfect fit of precocity - she had first decided that she wanted to be a scuttler scholar. They had laughed at her, of course - in a kindly, indulgent way, naturally - but that had only made her more determined to continue with it.

Rashmika knew she did not have time to waste, but she could not stop herself from flicking through the book, the rough whisper of page against page harsh in the silence. In the rare moments when she saw it afresh, as if through someone else’s eyes, the book struck her as a thing of beauty. At the beginning, her handwriting was large and neat and childish. She used inks of many colours and underlined things with scrupulous care. Some of the inks had faded or blotted, and there were smears and stains where she had marked the paper, but that sense of damaged antiquity only added to the medieval allure of the artefact. She had made drawings, copying them from other sources. The first few were crude and childlike, but within a few pages her figures had the precision and confidence of Victorian naturalists’ sketches. They were painstakingly crosshatched and annotated, with the text crawling around them. There were drawings of scuttler artefacts, of course, with notes on function and origin, but there were also many pictures of the scuttlers themselves, their anatomies and postures reconstructed from the fossil evidence.

She flicked on through the book, through years of her life. The text grew smaller, more difficult to read. The coloured inks were used increasingly sparingly until, in the last few chapters, the writing and figures were worked in almost unrelieved black. The same neatness was there, the same methodical care applied to both text and figurework, but now it appeared to be the work of a scholar rather than an enthusiastic, gifted child. The notes and drawings were no longer recycled from other sources, but were now part of an argument she herself was advancing, independent of external thinking. The difference between the start and the end of the written parts of the book was shockingly obvious to Rashmika, a reminder of the distance she had travelled. There had been many times when she had been so embarrassed by her earlier efforts that she had wanted to discard the book and start another. But paper was expensive on Hela, and the book had been a gift from Harbin.

She fingered the unmarked pages. Her argument was not yet completed, but she could already see the trajectory it would take. She could almost see the words and figures on the pages, spectrally faint but needing only time and concentration to bring them into sharp focus. On a journey as long as the one she planned to take, there would surely be many opportunities to work on her book.

But she couldn’t take it. The book meant too much to her, and she could not bear the thought of losing it or having it stolen. At least if she left it here it would be safe until her return. She could still take notes while she was away, after all, refining her argument, ensuring that the edifice came together with no obvious flaws or weaknesses. The book would be all the stronger for it.

Rashmika clasped it shut, pushed it aside.

That left two things. One was her compad, the other a scuffed and dirty toy. The compad did not even belong to her, really; it was the family’s, and she only had it on extended loan while no one else needed it. But as no one had asked for it for months, it was unlikely to be missed during her absence. In its memory were many items relevant to her study of the scuttlers, sourced from other electronic archives. There were images and movies she had made herself, down in the digs. There were spoken testimonies from miners who had found things that did not quite accord with the standard theory of the scuttler extinction, but whose reports had been suppressed by the clerical authorities. There were texts from older scholars. There were maps and linguistics resources, and much that would guide her when she reached the Way.

She picked up the toy. It was a soft, pink thing, ragged and faintly pungent. She had had it since she was eight or nine, had picked it herself from the stall of an itinerant toymaker. She supposed it must have been bright and clean then, but she had no memory of the toy ever being anything other than well loved, grubby with affection. Looking at it now with the rational detachment of a seventeen-year-old, she had no idea what kind of creature the toy had ever been meant to represent. All she knew was that from the moment she saw it on the stall she had decided it was a pig. It didn’t matter that no one on Hela had ever seen a living pig.

‘You can’t come with me either,’ she whispered.

She picked up the toy and placed it atop the book, squeezing it down until it sat like a sentry. It wasn’t that she did not want it to come with her. She knew it was just a toy, but she also knew that there would be days ahead when she would feel terribly homesick, anxious for any connection to the safe environment of the village. But the compad was more useful, and this was not a time for sentiment. She pushed the dark slab into the bag, drew tight the bag’s vacuum seal and quietly left her room.

Rashmika had been fourteen when the caravans had last come within range of her village. She had been studying then and had not been allowed to go out to see the meeting. The time before that, she had been nine: she had seen the caravans then, but only briefly and only from a distance. What she now remembered of that spectacle was inevitably coloured by what had happened to her brother. She had replayed those events so many times that it was quite impossible to separate reliable memory from imagined detail.

Eight years ago, she thought: a tenth of a human life, by the grim new reckoning. A tenth of a life was not to be underestimated, even if eight years would once have been a twentieth or a thirtieth of what one could expect. But at the same time it felt vastly more than that. It was half of her own life, after all. The wait until she could next see the caravans had felt epochal. She really had been a little girl the last time she had seen them: a little girl from the Vigrid badlands with a reputation, however strange, for always telling the truth.

But now her chance had come again. It was near the hundredth day of the hundred and twenty-second circumnavigation that one of the caravans had taken an unexpected detour east of Hauk Crossing. The procession had veered north into the Gaudi Flats before linking up with a second caravan that happened to be heading south towards Glum Junction. This did not happen very often: it was the first time in nearly three revolutions that the caravans had come within a day’s travel of the villages on the southern slopes of the Vigrid badlands. There was, naturally, a great deal of excitement. There were parties and feasts, jubilation committees and invitations to secret drinking dens. There were romances and affairs, dangerous flirtations and secret liaisons. Nine months from now there would arrive a clutch of wailing new caravan babies.

Compared with the general austerity of life on Hela and the particular hardships of the badlands, it was a period of measured, tentative hope. It was one of those rare times when - albeit within tightly prescribed parameters - personal circumstances could change. The more sober-minded villagers did not allow themselves to show any visible signs of excitement, but privately they could not resist wondering if this was their turn for a change of fortune. They made elaborate excuses to allow themselves to travel out to the rendezvous point: excuses that had nothing to do with personal gain, but everything to do with the communal prosperity of the villages. And so, over a period of nearly three weeks, the villages sent out little caravans of their own, crossing the treacherous scabbed ground to rendezvous with the larger processions.

Rashmika had planned to leave her home at dawn, while her parents were still sleeping. She had not lied to them about her departure, but only because it had never been necessary. What the adults and the other villagers did not understand was that she was as capable of lying as any of them. More than that, she could lie with great conviction. The only reason why she had spent most of her childhood not lying was because until very recently she had failed to see the point in it.

Quietly she stole through the buried warrens of her home, treading with loping strides between shadowed corridors and bright patches beneath the overhead skylights. The homes in her village were almost all sunk below ground level, irregularly shaped caverns linked by meandering tunnels lined with yellowing plaster. Rashmika found the idea of living above ground faintly unsettling, but she supposed one could get used to it given time; just as one could eventually get used to life in the mobile caravans, or even the cathedrals that they followed. It was not as if life below ground was without its hazards, after all. Indirectly, the network of tunnels in the village was connected to the much deeper network of the digs. There were supposed to be pressure doors and safety systems to protect the village if one of the dig caverns collapsed, or if the miners penetrated a high-pressure bubble, but these systems did not always work as well as intended. There had been no serious dig accidents during Rashmika’s life, only near misses, but everyone knew that it was only a matter of time before another catastrophe of the kind her parents still talked about occurred. Only the week before, there had been an explosion on the surface: no one had been hurt, and there was even talk that the demolition charges had been let off deliberately, but it was still a reminder that her world was only ever one accident away from disaster.

It was, she supposed, the price that the villages paid for their economic independence from the cathedrals. Most of the settlements on Hela lay near the Permanent Way, not hundreds of kilometres to the north or south of it. With very few exceptions the settlements near the Way owed their existence to the cathedrals and their governing bodies, the churches, and by and large they subscribed to one or other of the major branches of the Quaicheist faith. That was not to say that there was no one of faith in the badlands, but the villages were run by secular committees and made their living from the digs rather than the elaborate arrangement of tithes and indulgences which bound the cathedrals and the communities of the Way. As a consequence they were free of many of the religious restrictions that applied elsewhere on Hela. They made their own laws, had less restrictive marriage practices and turned a blind eye to certain perversions that were outlawed along the Way. Visits from the Clocktower were rare, and whenever the churches did send their envoys they were viewed with suspicion. Girls like Rashmika were allowed to study the technical literature of the digs rather than Quaicheist scripture. It was not unthinkable that a woman should find work for herself.

But by the same token, the villages of the Vigrid badlands were beyond the umbrella of protection that the cathedrals offered. The settlements along the Way were guarded by a loose amalgamation of cathedral militia, and in times of crisis they turned to the cathedrals for help. The cathedrals held medicine far in advance of anything in the badlands, and Rashmika had seen friends and relatives die because her village had no access to that care. The cost to be paid for that care, of course, was that one submitted to the machinations of the Office of Bloodwork. And once you had Quaicheist blood in your veins you couldn’t be sure of anything ever again.

Yet she accepted the arrangement with the combination of pride and stubbornness common to all the badlanders. It was true that they endured hardships unknown along the Way. It was true that, by and large, few of them were fervent believers; even those of faith were usually troubled by doubt. Typically it was doubt that had driven them to the digs in the first place, to search for answers to questions that bothered them. And yet for all this, the villagers would not have had it any other way. They lived and loved as they pleased, and viewed the more pious communities of the Way with a lofty sense of moral superiority.

Rashmika reached the final chamber of her home, the heavy bag knocking against the small of her back. The house was quiet, but if she kept very still and listened intently she was certain that she could hear the nearly subliminal rumble of the distant excavations, reports of drilling and digging and earthmoving reaching her ears through snaking kilometres of tunnel. Now and then there was a percussive thud or a fusillade of hammer blows. The sounds were so familiar to Rashmika that they never disturbed her sleep; indeed, she would have snapped awake instantly had the mining ceased. But now she wished for a louder series of noises to conceal the sounds she would inevitably make as she left her home.

The final chamber contained two doors. One led horizontally into the wider tunnel network, accessing a thoroughfare that connected with many other homes and community chambers. The other door was set in the ceiling, ringed by handrails. At that moment the door was hinged open into the dark space above it. Rashmika opened a locker set into the smooth curve of the wall and removed her surface suit, taking care not to clatter the helmet and backpack against the three other suits hanging on the same rotating rack. She had to put the suit on three times a year during practice drills, so it was easy enough for her to work the latches and seals. Even then, it still took ten minutes, during which time she stopped and held her breath whenever she heard a sound somewhere in the house, whether it was the air-circulator clicking on and off or the low groan as a tunnel resettled.

Finally she had the suit on and ready, with the read-outs on her cuff all safely in the green. The tank wasn’t completely full of air - there must have been a slow leak in the suit as the tanks were usually kept fully topped-up - but there was more than enough in there for her needs.

But when she closed the helmet visor all she could hear was her own breathing; she had no idea how much sound she was making, or whether anyone else was stirring in the house. And the noisiest part of her escape was still to come. She would just have to be as careful and quick as possible, so that even if her parents did wake she could get to her meeting point before they caught up with her.

The suit doubled her weight, but even then she did not find it difficult to haul herself up into the dark space above the ceiling door. She had reached the surface access airlock. Every home had one, but they varied in size. Rashmika’s was large enough for two adults at a time. Even so, she had to sit in a stooped position while she lowered the inner door back down and turned the manual wheel to lock it tight.

In a sense, she was safe for a moment. Once she started the depressurisation cycle, there was no way her mother and father would be able to get into the chamber. It took two minutes for the lock to finish its business. By the time the lower door could again be reopened, she would be halfway across the village. Once she got away from the exit point, her footprints would quickly be lost amongst the confusion of marks left by other villagers as they went about their errands.

Rashmika checked her suit again, satisfying herself that the readings were still in the green. Only then did she initiate the depressurisation sequence. She heard nothing, but as the air was sucked from the chamber the suit’s fabric swelled out between the concertina joints and it took a little more effort to move her limbs. A separate read-out around the faceplate of her helmet informed her that she was now in vacuum.

No one had hammered on the bottom of the door. Rashmika had been a little worried that she might trip an alarm by using the lock. She was not aware that such a thing existed, but her parents might have chosen not to tell her, just in case she ever intended making this kind of escape. Her fears appeared to have been groundless, however: there was no alarm, no fail-safe, no hidden code that needed to be used before the door worked. She had run through this so many times in her imagination that it was impossible not to feel a small twinge of déjà vu.

When the chamber was fully evacuated, a relay allowed the outer door to be opened. Rashmika pushed hard, but at first nothing happened. Then the door budged - only by an inch, but it was enough to let in a sheet of blindingly bright daylight that scythed against her faceplate. She pushed harder and the door moved higher, hinging back as it did so. Rashmika pushed through until she was sitting on the surface. She saw now that the door had been covered in an inch of recent frost. It snowed on Hela, especially when the Kelda or Ragnarok geysers were active.

Although the house clock had said it was dawn, this meant very little on the surface. The villagers still lived by a twenty-six-hour clock (many of them were interstellar refugees from Yellowstone) despite the fact that Hela was a different world entirely, with its own complex cycles. A day on Hela was actually about forty hours long, which was the time it took Hela to complete one orbit around its mother world, the gas giant Haldora. Since the moon’s inclination to the plane of its orbit was essentially zero, all points on the surface experienced about twenty hours of darkness during each orbit. The Vigrid badlands were on the dayside now, and would remain so for another seven hours. There was another kind of night on Hela, for once in its orbit around Haldora the moon swung into the gas giant’s shadow. But that short night was only two hours long, brief enough to be of little consequence to the villagers. At any given time the moon was far more likely to be out of Haldora’s shadow than within it.

After a few seconds, Rashmika’s visor had compensated for the glare and she was able to get her bearings. She extracted her legs from the hole and carefully closed the surface door, latching it shut so that it would begin pressurising the lower chamber. Perhaps her parents were waiting below, but even if that was the case they could not reach the surface for another two minutes, even if they were already wearing suits. It would take them even longer to navigate the community tunnels to reach the next-nearest surface exit.

Rashmika stood up and began walking briskly but with what she hoped was no apparent sense of haste or panic. There was some more good fortune: she had expected to have to cross several dozen metres of unmarked ice, so that her trail would at first be easy to follow. But someone else had come this way recently, and their prints meandered away in a different direction from the one she intended to take. Anyone following her now would have no idea which set of prints to follow. They looked like her mother’s, for the shoe-prints were too small to have belonged to her father. What kind of business had her mother been on? It bothered Rashmika for a moment, for she did not recall anyone mentioning any recent trips to the surface.

Never mind: there was bound to be an innocent explanation. She had enough to think about without adding to her worries.

Rashmika followed a circuitous path between the black upright slabs of radiator panels, the squatting orange mounds of generators or navigation transponders and the soft snow-covered lines of parked icejammers. She had been right about the footprints, for when she looked back it was impossible to separate her own from the muddle of those that had been left before.

She rounded a huddle of radiator fins and there it was, looking much like the other parked icejammers except that the snow had melted from the flanged radiator above the engine cowlings. It was too bright to tell if there were lights on inside the machine. There were fan-shaped arcs of transparency in the windscreen where the mechanical wiper blades had flicked aside the snow. Rashmika thought she saw figures moving behind the glass.

Rashmika walked around the low, splayed-legged jammer. The black of its boat-shaped hull was relieved only by a glowing snake motif coiling along the side. The single front leg ended in a broad, upturned ski blade, with smaller skis tipping the two rear legs. Rashmika wondered if it was the right machine. She would look rather silly if she made a mistake now. She felt certain that there was no one in the village who would not recognise her, even though she had a suit on.

But Crozet had been very specific in his instructions. With some relief she saw a boarding ramp was already waiting for her, lowered down into the snow. She walked up the flexing metal slope and knocked politely on the jammer’s outer door. There was an agonising moment and then the door slid aside, revealing another airlock. She squeezed into it - there was only room for one person.

A man’s voice - she recognised it immediately as Crozet’s - came through on her helmet channel. ‘Yes?’

‘It’s me.’

‘Who is “me”?’

‘Rashmika,’ she said. ‘Rashmika Els. I think we had an arrangement.’

There was a pause - an agonising pause during which she began to think that, yes, she had made an error - when the man said, ‘It’s not too late to change your mind.’

‘I think it is.’

‘You could go home now.’

‘My parents won’t be very pleased that I came this far.’

‘No,’ the man said, ‘I doubt that they’ll be thrilled. But I know your folks. I doubt that they’d punish you too severely.’

He was right, but she did not want to be reminded of that now. She had spent weeks psyching herself up for this, and the last thing she needed was a rational argument for backing out at the final minute.

Rashmika knocked on the inner door again, knuckling it hard with her gauntlet. ‘Are you going to let me in or not?’

‘I just wanted to make sure you’re certain. Once we leave the village, we won’t turn back until we meet the caravan. That’s not open to negotiation. Step inside, you’re committed to a three-day trip. Six if you decide to come back with us. No amount of pissing and moaning is going to make me turn around.’

‘I’ve waited eight years,’ she said. ‘Three more days won’t kill me.’

He laughed, or sniggered - she wasn’t sure which. ‘You know, I almost believe you.’

‘You should do,’ Rashmika told him. ‘I’m the girl that never lies, remember?’

The outer door closed itself, cramming her even further into the tight cavity of the lock. Air began to skirl in through grilles. At the same time she felt motion. It was soft and rhythmic, like being rocked in a cradle. The jammer was on the move, propelling itself with alternating movements of its rear skis.

She supposed that her escape had begun the moment she crawled out of bed, but only now did it feel as if she was actually on her way.

When the inner door allowed Rashmika into the body of the jammer, she snapped off her helmet and hung it dutifully next to the three that were already there. The jammer had looked reasonably large from the outside, but she had forgotten how much of the interior volume would be occupied by its own engines, generators, fuel tanks, life-support equipment and cargo racks. Inside it was cramped and noisy, and the air made her want to put the helmet back on again. She imagined she could get used to it, but she wondered if three days would be anywhere near enough time.

The jammer lurched and yawed. Through one of the windows she saw the blazing white landscape tilt and tilt again. Rashmika reached for a handhold and was just beginning to make her way to the front when a figure stepped into view.

It was Crozet’s son, Culver. He wore grubby ochre overalls, tools cramming the many pockets. He was a year or two younger than Rashmika, blond-haired and with a permanent look of malnourishment. He viewed Rashmika with lecherous intent.

‘Decided to stay aboard after all, did you? That’s good. We can get to know each other a bit better now, can’t we?’

‘It’s only for three days, Culver. Don’t get any ideas.’

‘I’ll help you get that suit off, then we can go up front. Dad’s busy steering us out of the village now. We’re having to take a detour because of the crater. That’s why it’s a bit bumpy.’

‘I’ll manage my suit on my own, thank you.’ Rashmika nodded encouragingly towards the icejammer’s cabin. ‘Why don’t you go back and see if your dad needs any help?’

‘He doesn’t need any help. Mother’s there as well.’

Rashmika beamed approvingly. ‘Well, I expect you’re glad that she’s here to keep you two men out of trouble. Right, Culver?’

‘She doesn’t mind what we get up to, so long as we stay in the black.’ The machine lurched again, knocking Rashmika against the metal wall. ‘Fact of the matter is, she mostly turns a blind eye.’

‘So I’ve heard. Well, I really need to get this suit off . . . would you mind telling me where I’m sleeping?’

Culver showed her a tiny compartment tucked away between two throbbing generators. There was a mattress, a pillow and a blanket made of slippery quilted silver material. A curtain could be tugged across for privacy.

‘I hope you weren’t expecting luxury,’ Culver said.

‘I was expecting the worst.’

Culver lingered. ‘You sure you don’t want any help getting that suit off?’

‘I’ll manage, thanks.’

‘Got something to wear afterwards, have you?’

‘What I’m wearing under the suit, and what I brought with me.’ Rashmika patted the bag which was now tucked beneath her life-support pack. Through the fabric she could feel the hard edge of her compad. ‘You didn’t seriously think I’d forget to bring any clothes with me, did you?’

‘No,’ Culver said, sullenly.

‘Good. Now why don’t you run along and tell your parents that I’m safe and sound? And please let them know that the sooner we clear the village, the happier I’ll be.’

‘We’re moving as fast as we can go,’ Culver said.

‘Actually,’ Rashmika said, ‘that’s just what’s worrying me.’

‘In a bit of a hurry, are you?’

‘I’d like to reach the cathedrals as soon as I can, yes.’

Culver eyed her. ‘Got religion, have you?’

‘Not exactly,’ she said. ‘More like some family business I have to take care of.’

107 Piscium, 2615

Quaiche awoke, his body insinuated into a dark form-fitting cavity.

There was a moment of blissful disconnection while he waited for his memories to return, a moment in which he had no cares, no anxieties. Then all the memories barged into his head at once, announcing themselves like rowdy gate-crashers before shuffling themselves into something resembling chronological order.

He remembered being woken, to be greeted with the unwelcome news that he had been granted an audience with the queen. He remembered her dodecahedral chamber, furnished with instruments of torture, its morbid gloom punctuated by the flashes of electrocuted vermin. He remembered the skull with the television eyes. He remembered the queen toying with him the way cats toyed with sparrows. Of all his errors, imagining that she had it in her to forgive him had been the most grievous, the least forgivable.

Quaiche screamed now, grasping precisely what had happened to him and where he was. His screams were muffled and soft, uncomfortably childlike. He was ashamed to hear such sounds coming out of his mouth. He could move no part of himself, but he was not exactly paralysed - rather, there was no room to move any part of his body by more than a fraction of a centimetre.

The confinement felt oddly familiar.

Gradually Quaiche’s screams became wheezes, and then merely very hard rasping breaths. This continued for several minutes, and then Quaiche started humming, reiterating six or seven notes with the studied air of a madman or a monk. He must already be under the ice, he decided. There had been no entombment ceremony, no final chastising meeting with Jasmina. They had simply welded him into the suit and buried him within the shield of ice that Gnostic Ascension pushed ahead of itself. He could not guess how much time had passed, whether it was hours or larger fractions of a day. He dared not believe it was any longer than that.

As the horror hit him, so did something else: a nagging feeling that some detail was amiss. Perhaps it was the sense of familiarity he felt in the confined space, or perhaps it was the utter absence of anything to look at.

A voice said, ‘Attention, Quaiche. Attention, Quaiche. Deceleration phase is complete. Awaiting orders for system insertion.’

It was the calm, avuncular voice of the Dominatrix’s cybernetic subpersona.

He realised, joltingly, that he was not in the iron suit at all, but rather inside the slowdown coffin of the Dominatrix, packed into a form-fitting matrix designed to shield him during the high-gee deceleration phase. Quaiche stopped humming, simultaneously affronted and disorientated. He was relieved, no doubt about that. But the transition from the prospect of years of torment to the relatively benign environment of the Dominatrix had been so abrupt that he had not had time to depressurise emotionally. All he could do was gasp in shock and wonderment.

He felt a vague need to crawl back into the nightmare and emerge from it more gradually.

‘Attention, Quaiche. Awaiting orders for system insertion.’

‘Wait,’ he said. His throat was raw, his voice gummy. He must have been in the slowdown coffin for quite some time. ‘Wait. Get me out of here. I’m . . .’

‘Is everything satisfactory, Quaiche?’

‘I’m a bit confused.’

‘In what way, Quaiche? Do you need medical attention?’

‘No, I’m . . .’ He paused and squirmed. ‘Just get me out of here. I’ll be all right in a moment.’

‘Very well, Quaiche.’

The restraints budged apart. Light rammed in through widening cracks in the coffin’s walls. The familiar onboard smell of the Dominatrix hit his olfactory system. The ship was nearly silent, save for the occasional tick of a cooling manifold. It was always like that after slowdown, when they were in coast phase.

Quaiche stretched, his body creaking like an old wooden chair. He felt bad, but not nearly as bad as he had felt after his last hasty revival from reefersleep on board the Gnostic Ascension. In the slowdown coffin he had been drugged into a state of unconsciousness, but most bodily processes had continued normally. He only spent a few weeks in the coffin during each system survey, and the medical risks associated with being frozen outweighed the benefits to the queen of arresting his ageing.

He looked around, still not quite daring to believe he had been spared the nightmare of the scrimshaw suit. He considered the possibility that he might be hallucinating, that he had perhaps gone mad after spending several months under the ice. But the ship had a hyper-reality about it that did not feel like any kind of hallucination. He had no recollection of ever dreaming in slowdown before - at least, not the kind of dreams that resulted in him waking screaming. But the more time that passed, and the more the ship’s reality began to solidify around him, the more that seemed to be the most likely explanation.

He had dreamed every moment of it.

‘Dear God,’ Quaiche said. With that came a jolt of pain, the indoctrinal virus’s usual punishment for blasphemy, but the feeling of it was so joyously real, so unlike the horror of being entombed, that he said it again. ‘Dear God, I’d never have believed I had that in me.’

‘Had what in you, Quaiche?’ Sometimes the ship felt obliged to engage in conversation, as if secretly bored.

‘Never mind,’ he said, distracted by something. Normally when he emerged from the coffin he had plenty of room to twist around and align himself with the long, thin axis of the little ship’s main companionway. But now something chafed his elbow, something that was not usually there. He turned to look at it, half-knowing as he did so exactly what it would be.

Corroded and scorched metal skin the colour of pewter. A festering surface of manic detail. The vague half-formed shape of a person with a dark grilled slot where the eyes would have been.

‘Bitch,’ he said.

‘I am to inform you that the presence of the scrimshaw suit is a spur to success in your current mission,’ the ship said.

‘You were actually programmed to say that?’

‘Yes.’

Quaiche observed that the suit was plumbed into the life-support matrix of the ship. Thick lines ran from the wall sockets to their counterparts in the skin of the suit. He reached out again and touched the surface, running his fingers from one rough welded patch to another, tracing the sinuous back of a snake. The metal was mildly warm to the touch, quivering with a vague sense of subcutaneous activity.

‘Be careful,’ the ship said.

‘Why - is there something alive inside that thing?’ Quaiche said. Then a sickening realisation dawned. ‘Dear God. Someone’s inside it. Who?’

‘I am to inform you that the suit contains Morwenna.’

Of course. Of course. It made delicious sense.

‘You said I should be careful. Why?’

‘I am to inform you that the suit is rigged to euthanise its occupant should any attempt be made to tamper with the cladding, seams or life-support couplings. I am to inform you that only Surgeon-General Grelier has the means to remove the suit without euthanising the occupant.’

Quaiche pulled away from the suit. ‘You mean I can’t even touch it?’

‘Touching it would not be your wisest course of action, given the circumstances.’

He almost laughed. Jasmina and Grelier had excelled themselves. First the audience with the queen to make him think that she had at last run out of patience with him. Then the charade of being shown the suit and made to think that punishment was finally upon him. Made to believe that he was about to be buried in ice, forced into consciousness for what might be the better part of a decade. And then this: the final, mocking reprieve. His last chance to redeem himself. And make no bones about it: this would be his last chance. That was clear to him now. Jasmina had shown him exactly what would happen if he failed her one more time. Idle threats were not in Jasmina’s repertoire.

But her cleverness ran deeper than that, for with Morwenna imprisoned in the suit he had no hope of doing what had sometimes occurred to him, which was to hide in a particular system until the Gnostic Ascension had passed out of range. No - he had no practical choice but to return to the queen. And then hope for two things: firstly, that he would not have disappointed her; and secondly, that she would free Morwenna from the suit.

A thought occurred to him. ‘Is she awake?’

‘She is now approaching consciousness,’ the ship replied.

With her Ultra physiology, Morwenna would have been much better equipped to tolerate slowdown than Quaiche, but it still seemed likely that the scrimshaw suit had been modified to protect her in some fashion.

‘Can we communicate?’

‘You can speak to her when you wish. I will handle ship-to-suit protocols.’

‘All right, put me through now.’ He waited a second, then said, ‘Morwenna?’

‘Horris.’ Her voice was stupidly weak and distant. He had trouble believing she was only separated from him by mere centimetres of metal: it might as well have been fifty light-years of lead. ‘Horris, where am I? What’s happened?’

Nothing in his experience gave him any clue about how you broke news like this to someone. How did you gently wend the topic of a conversation around to being imprisoned alive in a welded metal suit? Well, funny you should mention incarceration . . .

‘Morwenna, something’s up, but I don’t want you to panic. Everything will be all right in the end, but you mustn’t, mustn’t panic. Will you promise me that?’

‘What’s wrong?’ There was now a distinctly anxious edge to Morwenna’s voice.

Memo to himself: the one way to make people panic was to warn them not to.

‘Morwenna, tell me what you remember. Calmly and slowly.’ He heard the catch in her voice, the approaching onset of hysteria. ‘Where do you want me to begin?’

‘Do you remember me being taken to see the queen?’

‘Yes.’

‘And do you remember me being taken away from her chamber?’

‘Yes . . . yes, I do.’

‘Do you remember trying to stop them?’

‘No, I . . .’ She stopped and said nothing. He thought he had lost her - when she wasn’t speaking, the connection was silent. ‘Wait. Yes, I do remember.’

‘And after that?’

‘Nothing.’

‘They took me to Grelier’s operating theatre, Morwenna. The one where he did all those other things to me.’

‘No . . .’ she began, misunderstanding, thinking that the dreadful thing had happened to Quaiche rather than herself.

‘They showed me the scrimshaw suit,’ he said. ‘But they put you in it instead. You’re in it now, and that’s why you mustn’t panic.’

She took it well, better than he had been expecting. Poor, brave Morwenna. She had always been the more courageous half of their partnership. If she’d been given the chance to take the punishment upon herself, he knew she would have done so. Equally, he knew that he lacked that strength. He was weak and cowardly and selfish. Not a bad man, but not exactly one to be admired either. It was the flaw that had shaped his life. Knowing this did not make it any easier.

‘You mean I’m under the ice?’ she asked.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, it’s not that bad.’ He realised as he spoke how absurdly little difference it made whether she was buried under ice or not. ‘You’re in the suit now, but you’re not under the ice. And it isn’t because of anything you did. It’s because of me. It’s to force me to act in a certain way.’

‘Where am I?’

‘You’re with me, aboard the Dominatrix. I think we just completed slowdown into the new system.’

‘I can’t see or move.’

He had been looking at the suit while he spoke, holding an image of her in his mind. Although she was clearly doing her best to hide it, he knew Morwenna well enough to understand that she was terribly frightened. Ashamed, he looked sharply away. ‘Ship, can you let her see something?’

‘That channel is not enabled.’

‘Then fucking well enable it.’

‘No actions are possible. I am to inform you that the occupant can only communicate with the outside world via the current audio channel. Any attempt to instate further channels will be viewed as...’

He waved a hand. ‘All right. Look, I’m sorry, Morwenna. The bastards won’t let you see anything. I’m guessing that was Grelier’s little idea.’

‘He’s not my only enemy, you know.’

‘Maybe not, but I’m willing to bet he had more than a little say in the matter.’ Quaiche’s brow was dripping with condensed beads of zero-gravity sweat. He mopped himself with the back of his hand. ‘All of this is my fault.’

‘Where are you?’

The question surprised him. ‘I’m floating next to you. I thought you might be able to hear my voice through the armour.’

‘All I can hear is your voice in my head. You sound a long way away. I’m scared, Horris. I don’t know if I can handle this.’

‘You’re not alone,’ he said. ‘I’m right by you. You’re probably safer in the suit than out of it. All you have to do is sit tight. We’ll be home and dry in a few weeks.’

Her voice had a desperate edge to it now. ‘A few weeks? You make it sound as if it’s nothing at all.’

‘I meant it’s better than years and years. Oh, Christ, Morwenna, I’m so sorry. I promise I’ll get you out of this.’ Quaiche screwed up his eyes in pain.

‘Horris?’

‘Yes?’ he asked, through tears.

‘Don’t leave me to die in this thing. Please.’

‘Morwenna,’ he said, a little while later, ‘listen carefully. I have to leave you now. I’m going up to the command deck. I have to check on our status.’

‘I don’t want you to go.’

‘You’ll still be able to hear my voice. I must do this, Morwenna. I absolutely must. If I don’t, neither of us will have any kind of a future to look forward to.’

‘Horris.’

But he was already moving. He drifted away from the slowdown coffin and the scrimshaw suit, crossing the compartment space to reach a set of padded wall grips. He began to make his way down the narrow companionway towards the command deck, pulling himself along hand over hand. Quaiche had never developed a taste for weightlessness, but the needle-hulled survey craft was far too small for centrifugal gravity. It would be better once they were underway again, for then he would have the illusion of gravity provided by the Dominatrix’s engines.

Under pleasanter circumstances, he would have been enjoying the sudden isolation of being away from the rest of the crew. Morwenna had not accompanied him on most of his previous excursions, but, while he missed her, he had generally revelled in the enforced solitude of his periods away from the Gnostic Ascension. It was not strictly the case that he was antisocial; admittedly, during his time in mainstream human culture, Quaiche had never been the most gregarious of souls, but he had always ornamented himself with a handful of strong friendships. There had always been lovers, some tending towards the rare, exotic, or - in Morwenna’s case - the downright hazardous. But the environment of Jasmina’s ship was so overwhelmingly claustrophobic, so cloyingly saturated with the pheromonal haze of paranoia and intrigue, that he found himself longing for the hard simplicity of a ship and a mission.

Consequently the Dominatrix and the tiny survey craft it contained had become his private empire within the greater dominion of the Ascension. The ship nurtured him, anticipating his desires with the eagerness of a courtesan. The more time he spent in it, the more it learned his whimsies and foibles. It played music that not only suited his moods, but was precisely calibrated to steer him from the dangerous extremes of morbid self-reflection or careless euphoria. It fed him the kinds of meals that he could never persuade the food synthesisers on the Ascension to produce, and seemed able to delight and surprise him whenever he suspected he had exhausted its libraries. It knew when he needed sleep and when he needed bouts of feverish activity. It amused him with fancies when he was bored, and simulated minor crises when he showed indications of complacency. Now and then it occurred to Quaiche that because the ship knew him so well he had in a sense extended himself into it, permeating its machine systems. The merging had even taken place on a biological level. The Ultras did their best to sterilise it every time it returned to its storage bay in the belly of the Ascension, but Quaiche knew that the ship now smelt different from the first time he had boarded it. It smelt of places he had lived in.

But any sense that the ship was a haven, a place of sanctuary, was now gone. Every glimpse of the scrimshaw suit was a reminder that Jasmina had pushed her influence into his fiefdom. There would be no second chances. Everything that mattered to him now depended on the system ahead.

‘Bitch,’ he said again.

Quaiche reached the command deck and squeezed into the pilot’s seat. The deck was necessarily tiny, for the Dominatrix was mostly fuel and engine. The space he sat in was little more than a bulbous widening of the narrow companionway, like the reservoir in a mercury thermometer. Ahead was an oval viewport showing nothing but interstellar space.

‘Avionics,’ he said.

Instrument panels closed around him like pincers. They flickered and then lit up with animated diagrams and input fields, flowing to meet the focus of his gaze as his eyes moved.

‘Orders, Quaiche?’

‘Just give me a moment,’ he said. He appraised the critical systems first, checking that there was nothing wrong that the subpersona might have missed. They had eaten slightly further into the fuel budget than Quaiche would ordinarily have expected at this point in a mission, but given the additional mass of the scrimshaw suit it was only to be expected. There was enough in reserve for it not to worry him. Other than that all was well: the slowdown had happened without incident; all ship functions were nominal, from sensors and life support to the health of the tiny excursion craft that sat in the Dominatrix’s belly like an embryonic dolphin, anxious to be born.

‘Ship, were there any special requirements for this survey?’

‘None that were revealed to me.’

‘Well, that’s splendidly reassuring. And the status of the mother ship?’

‘I am receiving continuous telemetry from Gnostic Ascension. You will be expected to rendezvous after the usual six- to seven-week survey period. Fuel reserves are sufficient for the catch-up manoeuvre.’

‘Affirmative.’ It would never have made much sense for Jasmina to have stranded him without enough fuel, but it was gratifying to know, on this occasion at least, that she had acted sensibly.

‘Horris?’ said Morwenna. ‘Talk to me, please. Where are you?’

‘I’m up front,’ he said, ‘checking things out. Everything looks more or less OK at this point, but I want to make certain.’

‘Do you know where we are yet?’

‘I’m about to find out.’ He touched one of the input fields, enabling voice control of major ship systems. ‘Rotate plus one-eighty, thirty-second slew,’ he said.

The console display indicated compliance. Through the oval viewport, a sprinkling of faintly visible stars began to ooze from one edge to the other.

‘Talk to me,’ Morwenna said again.

‘I’m slewing us around. We were pointed tailfirst after slowdown. Should be getting a look at the system any moment now.’

‘Did Jasmina say anything about it?’

‘Not that I remember. What about you?’

‘Nothing,’ she said. For the first time since waking she sounded almost like her old self. He imagined it was a coping mechanism. If she acted normally, she would keep panic at bay. Panicking was the last thing she needed in the scrimshaw suit. Morwenna continued, ‘Just that it was another system that didn’t look particularly noteworthy. A star and some planets. No record of human presence. Dullsville, really.’

‘Well, no record doesn’t mean that someone hasn’t passed through here at some point, just like we’re doing. And they may have left something behind.’

‘Better bloody hope they did,’ Morwenna remarked caustically.

‘I’m trying to look on the optimistic side.’

‘I’m sorry. I know you mean well, but let’s not expect the impossible, shall we?’

‘We may have to,’ he said under his breath, hoping that the ship would not pick it up and relay it to Morwenna.

By then the ship had just about completed its rotation, flipping nose-to-tail. A prominent star slid into view and centred itself in the oval. At this distance it was really more a sun than a star: without the command deck’s selective glare shields it would have been uncomfortably bright to look at.

‘I’ve got something,’ Quaiche said. His fingers skated across the console. ‘Let’s see. Spectral type’s a cool G. Main sequence, about three-fifths solar luminosity. A few spots, but no worrying coronal activity. About twenty AU out.’

‘Still pretty far away,’ Morwenna said.

‘Not if you want to be certain of including all the major planets in the same volume.’

‘What about the worlds?’

‘Just a sec.’ His nimble fingers worked the console again and the forward view changed, coloured lines of orbits springing on to the read-out, squashed into ellipses, each flattened hoop tagged by a box of numbers showing the major characteristics of the world belonging to that orbit. Quaiche studied the parameters: mass, orbital period, day length, inclination, diameter, surface gravity, mean density, magnetospheric strength, the presence of moons or ring systems. From the confidence limits assigned to the numbers he deduced that they had been calculated by the Dominatrix, using its own sensors and interpretation algorithms. If they had been dredged out of some pre-existing database of system parameters they would have been significantly more precise.

The numbers would improve as the Dominatrix got closer to the system, but until then it was worth keeping in mind that this region of space was essentially unexplored. Someone else might have passed through, but they had probably not stayed long enough to file an official report. That meant that the system stood a chance of containing something that someone, somewhere, might possibly regard as valuable, if only on novelty grounds.

‘In your own time,’ the ship said, anxious to begin its work.

‘All right, all right,’ Quaiche said. ‘In the absence of any anomalous data, we’ll work our way towards the sun one world at a time, and then we’ll take those on the far side as we head back into interstellar space. Given those constraints, find the five most fuel-efficient search patterns and present them to me. If there’s a significantly more efficient strategy that requires skipping a world and returning to it later, I’d like to know about it as well.’

‘Just a moment, Quaiche.’ The pause was barely enough time for him to pick his nose. ‘Here we are. Given your specified parameters, there is no strongly favoured solution, nor is there a significantly more favourable pattern with an out-of-order search.’

‘Good. Now display the five options in descending order of the time I’d need to spend in slowdown.’

The options reshuffled themselves. Quaiche stroked his chin, trying to decide between them. He could ask the ship to make the final decision itself, applying some arcane selection criteria of its own, but he always preferred to make this final selection himself. It wasn’t simply a question of picking one at random, for there was always a solution that for one reason or another just happened to look more right than the others. Quaiche was perfectly willing to admit that this amounted to decision by hunch, rather than any conscious process of elimination. But he did not think it was any less valid for that. The whole point of having Quaiche conduct these in-system surveys was precisely to use those slippery skills that could not be easily cajoled into the kind of algorithmic instruction sets that machines ran. Intervening to select the pattern that best pleased him was just what he was along to do.

This time it was far from obvious. None of the solutions were elegant, but he was used to that: the arrangement of the planets at a given epoch could not be helped. Sometimes he got lucky and arrived when three or four interesting worlds were lined up in their orbits, permitting a very efficient straight-line mapping path. Here, they were all strung out at various angles from each other. There was no search pattern that did not look like a drunkard’s walk.

There were consolations. If he had to change direction regularly, then it would not cost him much more fuel to slow down completely and make close-up inspections of whichever worlds caught his eye. Rather than just dropping instrument packages as he made highspeed flybys, he could take the Scavenger’s Daughter out and have a really good look.

For a moment, as the thought of flying the Daughter took hold, he forgot about Morwenna. But it was only for an instant. Then he realised that if he were to leave the Dominatrix, he would be leaving her as well.

He wondered how she would take that.

‘Have you made a decision, Quaiche?’ the ship asked.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We’ll take search pattern two, I think.’

‘Is that your final answer?’

‘Let’s see: minimal time in slowdown; one week for most of the larger planets, two for that gas-giant system with a lot of moons . . . a few days for the tiddlers . . . and we should still have fuel to spare in case we find anything seriously heavy.’

‘I concur.’

‘And you’ll tell me if you notice anything unusual, won’t you, ship? I mean, you haven’t been given any special instructions in that area, have you?’

‘None whatsoever, Quaiche.’

‘Good.’ He wondered if the ship detected his note of distrust. ‘Well, tell me if anything crops up. I want to be informed.’

‘Count on me, Quaiche.’

‘I’ll have to, won’t I?’

‘Horris?’ It was Morwenna now. ‘What’s happening?’

The ship must have locked her out of the audio channel while they discussed the search pattern.

‘Just weighing the options. I’ve picked us a sampling strategy. We’ll be able to take a close look-see at anything we like down there.’

‘Is there anything of interest?’

‘Nothing startling,’ he said. ‘It’s just the usual single star and a family of worlds. I’m not seeing any obvious signs of a surface biosphere, or any indications that anyone’s been here before us. But if there are small artefacts dotted around the place, we’d probably miss them at this range unless they were making an active effort to be seen, which, clearly, they aren’t. But I’m not despondent yet. We’ll go in closer and take a very good look around.’

‘We’d better be careful, Horris. There could be any number of unmapped hazards.’

‘There could,’ he said, ‘but at the moment I’m inclined to consider them the least of our worries, aren’t you?’

‘Quaiche?’ the ship asked before Morwenna had a chance to answer. ‘Are you ready to initiate the search?’

‘Do I have time to get to the slowdown tank?’

‘Initial acceleration will be one gee only, until I have completed a thorough propulsion diagnostic. When you are safely in slowdown, acceleration will increase to the safe limit of the slowdown tank.’

‘What about Morwenna?’

‘No special instructions were received.’

‘Did we make the deceleration burn at the usual five gees, or were you told to keep it slower?’

‘Acceleration was held within the usual specified limits.’

Good. Morwenna had endured that, so there was every indication that whatever modifications Grelier had made to the scrimshaw suit offered at least the same protection as the slowdown tank. ‘Ship,’ he said, ‘will you handle Morwenna’s transitions to slowdown buffering? ’

‘The transitions will be managed automatically.’

‘Excellent. Morwenna - did you hear that?’

‘I heard it,’ she said. ‘Maybe you can ask another question, too. If it can put me to sleep when it needs to, can it put me under for the whole journey?’

‘You heard what she asked, ship. Can you do it?’

‘If required, it can be arranged.’

Stupidly, it had never occurred to Quaiche to ask the same question. He felt ashamed not to have thought of it first. He had, he realised, still not adequately grasped what it must be like for her in that thing.

‘Well, Mor, do you want it now? I can have you put asleep immediately. When you wake up we’ll be back aboard the Ascension.’

‘And if you fail? Do you think I’ll ever be allowed to wake up?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I wish I did. But I’m not planning to fail.’

‘You always sound so sure of yourself,’ she said. ‘You always sound as if everything’s about to go right.’

‘Sometimes I even believe it as well.’

‘And now?’

‘I told Jasmina that I thought I could feel my luck changing. I wasn’t lying.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ she said.

‘So are you going to sleep?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll stay awake with you. When you sleep, I’ll sleep. For now. I don’t rule out changing my mind.’

‘I understand.’

‘Find something out there, Horris. Please. For both of us.’

‘I will,’ he said. And in his gut he felt something like certainty. It made no sense, but there it was: hard and sharp as a gallstone.

‘Ship,’ he said, ‘take us in.’

FIVE

Ararat, 2675

Clavain and Scorpio had nearly reached the tent when Vasko appeared, moving around from the back until he stood at the entrance. A sudden gust of wind rattled the tent’s stays, lashing them against the green-stained fabric. The wind sounded impatient, chivvying them on. The young man waited nervously, unsure what to do with his hands.

Clavain eyed him warily. ‘I assumed that you’d come alone,’ he said quietly.

‘You needn’t worry about him,’ Scorpio replied. ‘He was a bit surprised to find out where you’d been all this time, but I think he’s over that now.’

‘He’d better be.’

‘Nevil, go easy on him, will you? There’ll be plenty of time to play the tyrannical ogre later.’

When the young man was in earshot Clavain raised his voice and cried hoarsely, ‘Who are you, son?’

‘Vasko, sir,’ he said. ‘Vasko Malinin.’

‘That’s a Resurgam name, isn’t it? Is that where you’re from?’

‘I was born here, sir. My parents were from Resurgam. They lived in Cuvier before the evacuation.’

‘You don’t look old enough.’

‘I’m twenty, sir.’

‘He was born a year or two after the colony was established,’ Scorpio said in something close to a whisper. ‘That makes him one of the oldest people born on Ararat. But he’s not alone. We’ve had second-generation natives born while you were away, children whose parents don’t remember Resurgam, or even the trip here.’

Clavain shivered, as if the thought of this was easily the most frightful thing he had ever imagined. ‘We weren’t supposed to put down roots, Scorpio. Ararat was intended to be a temporary stopover. Even the name is a bad joke. You don’t settle a planet with a bad joke for a name.’

Scorpio decided that now was not the ideal time to remind him that it had always been the plan to leave some people behind on Ararat, even if the majority of them departed.

‘You’re dealing with humans,’ he said. ‘And pigs. Trying to stop us breeding is like trying to herd cats.’

Clavain turned his attention back to Vasko. ‘And what do you do?’

‘I work in the food factory, sir, in the sedimentation beds mostly, cleaning sludge out of the scrapers or changing the blades on the surface skimmers.’

‘It sounds like very interesting work.’

‘In all honesty, sir, if it were interesting work, I wouldn’t be here today.’

‘Vasko also serves in the local league of the Security Arm,’ Scorpio said. ‘He’s had the usual training: firearms, urban pacification, and so on. Most of the time, of course, he’s putting out fires or helping with the distribution of rations or medical supplies from Central Amenities.’

‘Essential work,’ Clavain said.

‘No one, least of all Vasko, would argue with that,’ Scorpio said. ‘But all the same, he put the word around that he was interested in something a little more adventurous. He’s been pestering Arm administration for promotion to a full-time position. His scores are very good and he fancies trying his hand at something a tiny bit more challenging than shovelling shit.’

Clavain regarded the young man with narrowed eyes. ‘What exactly has Scorp told you about the capsule?’

Vasko looked at the pig, then back to Clavain. ‘Nothing, sir.’

‘I told him what he needed to know, which wasn’t much.’

‘I think you’d better tell him the rest,’ Clavain said.

Scorpio repeated the story he had already told to Clavain. He watched, fascinated, as the impact of the news became apparent in Vasko’s expression.

He didn’t blame him for that: for twenty years the absolute isolation of Ararat must have been as deeply woven into the fabric of his life as the endless roar of the sea and the constant warm stench of ozone and rotting vegetation. It was so absolute, so ever-present, that it vanished beneath conscious notice. But now something had punctured that isolation: a reminder that this ocean world had only ever been a fragile and temporary place of sanctuary amid an arena of wider conflict.

‘As you can see,’ Scorpio said, ‘it isn’t something we want everyone to find out about before we know exactly what’s going on, and who’s in the thing.’

‘I’m assuming you have your suspicions,’ Clavain said.

Scorpio nodded. ‘It could be Remontoire. We were always expecting the Zodiacal Light to show up one of these days. Sooner than this, admittedly, but there’s no telling what happened to them after we left, or how long it took the ship to repair itself. Maybe when we crack open the capsule we’ll find my second-favourite Conjoiner sitting inside it.’

‘You don’t sound convinced.’

‘Explain this to me, Clavain,’ Scorpio said. ‘If it’s Remontoire and the rest, why the secrecy? Why don’t they just move into orbit and announce they’ve arrived? At the very least they could have dropped the capsule a bit closer to land, so that it wouldn’t have cost us so much time recovering it.’

‘So consider the alternative,’ Clavain said. ‘It might be your least favourite Conjoiner instead.’

‘I’ve considered that, of course. If Skade had arrived in our system, I’d expect her to maintain a maximum-stealth profile the whole way in. But we should still have seen something. By the same token, I don’t think she’d be very likely to start her invasion with a single capsule - unless there’s something extremely nasty in it.’

‘Skade can be nasty enough on her own,’ Clavain said. ‘But I agree: I don’t think it’s her. Landing on her own would be a suicidal and pointless gesture; not her style at all.’

They had arrived at the tent. Clavain opened the door and led the way in. He paused at the threshold and examined the interior with a vague sense of recrimination, as if someone else entirely lived there.

‘I’ve become very used to this place,’ he said, almost apologetically.

‘Meaning you don’t think you can stand to go back?’ Scorpio asked. He could still smell the lingering scent of Clavain’s earlier presence.

‘I’ll just have to do my best.’ Clavain closed the door behind them and turned to Vasko. ‘How much do you know about Skade and Remontoire?’

‘I don’t think I’ve heard either name before.’

Clavain eased himself into the collapsible chair, leaving the other two to stand. ‘Remontoire was - is - one of my oldest allies. Another Conjoiner. I’ve known him since we fought against each other on Mars.’

‘And Skade, sir?’

Clavain picked up one of the conch pieces and began examining it absent-mindedly. ‘Skade’s a different kettle of fish. She’s also a Conjoiner, but from a later generation than either of us. She’s cleverer and faster, and she has no emotional ties to old-line humanity whatsoever. When the Inhibitor threat became clearer, Skade made plans to save the Mother Nest by running away from this sector of space. I didn’t like that - it meant leaving the rest of humanity to fend for itself when we should have been helping each other - and so I defected. Remontoire, after some misgivings, threw his lot in with me as well.’

‘Then Skade hates both of you?’ Vasko asked.

‘I think she might still be prepared to give Remontoire the benefit of the doubt,’ Clavain said. ‘But me? No, I more or less burnt my bridges with Skade. The last straw as far as she was concerned was the time when I cut her in half with a mooring line.’

Scorpio shrugged. ‘These things happen.’

‘Remontoire saved her,’ Clavain said. ‘That probably counts for something, even though he betrayed her later. But with Skade, it’s probably best not to assume anything. I think I killed her later, but I can’t exclude the possibility that she escaped. That’s what her last transmission claimed, at any rate.’

Vasko asked, ‘So why exactly are we waiting for Remontoire and the others, sir?’

Clavain narrowed an eye in Scorpio’s direction. ‘He really doesn’t know a lot, does he?’

‘It’s not his fault,’ Scorpio said. ‘You have to remember that he was born here. What happened before we came here is ancient history as far as he’s concerned. You’ll get the same reaction from most of the youngsters, human or pig.’

‘Still doesn’t make it excusable,’ Clavain said. ‘In my day we were more inquisitive.’

‘In your day you were slacking if you didn’t get in a couple of genocides before breakfast.’

Clavain said nothing. He put down the conch piece and picked up another, testing its sharp edge against the fine hairs on the back of his hand.

‘I do know a bit, sir,’ Vasko said hastily. ‘I know that you came to Resurgam from Yellowstone, just when the machines began to destroy our solar system. You helped evacuate the entire colony aboard the Nostalgia for Infinity - nearly two hundred thousand of us.’

‘More like a hundred and seventy thousand,’ Clavain said. ‘And there isn’t a day when I don’t grieve for those we didn’t manage to save.’

‘No one’s likely to blame you, considering how many of them you did save,’ Scorpio said.

‘History will have to be the judge of that.’

Scorpio sighed. ‘If you want to wallow in self-recrimination, Nevil, be my guest. Personally I have a mystery capsule to attend to and a colony that would very much like its leader back. Preferably washed and tidied and not smelling quite so much of seaweed and old bedclothes. Isn’t that right, Vasko?’

Clavain looked at Vasko, a scrutiny that lasted several moments. The fine pale hairs on the back of Scorpio’s neck prickled. He had the sense that Clavain was taking the measure of the young man, correlating him against some strict internal ideal, one that had been assembled and refined across centuries. In those moments, Scorpio suspected, Vasko’s entire destiny was being decided for him. If Clavain decided that Vasko was not worthy of his trust, then there would be no more indiscretions, no further mention of individuals not known to the colony as a whole. His involvement with Clavain would remain a peripheral matter, and even Vasko himself would soon learn not to think too much about what had happened today.

‘It might help things,’ Vasko said, hesitantly, glancing back towards Scorpio as he spoke. ‘We need you, sir. Especially now, if things are going to change.’

‘I think we can safely assume they are,’ Clavain said, pouring himself a glass of water.

‘Then come back with us, sir. If the person in the capsule turns out to be your friend Remontoire, won’t he expect you to be there when we bring him out?’

‘He’s right,’ Scorpio said. ‘We need you there, Nevil. I want your agreement that we should open it, and not just bury it at sea.’

Clavain was silent. The wind snapped the stays again. The quality of light in the tent had turned milky in the last hour, as Bright Sun settled down below the horizon. Scorpio felt drained of energy, as he so often did at sundown these days. He was not looking forward to the return trip at all, fully expecting that the sea would be rougher than on the outward leg.

‘If I come back . . .’ Clavain said. He halted, paused and took another sip of his drink. He licked his lips before continuing. ‘If I come back, it changes nothing. I came here for a reason and that reason remains as valid as ever. I intend to return here when this affair is settled.’

‘I understand,’ Scorpio said, though it was not what he had hoped to hear.

‘Good, because I’m serious about it.’

‘But you’ll accompany us back, and supervise the opening of the capsule?’

‘That, and that only.’

‘They still need you, Clavain. No matter how difficult this will be. Don’t abrogate responsibility now, after all you’ve done for us.’

Clavain threw aside his glass of water. ‘After all I’ve done for you? After I embroiled all of you in a war, ripped up your lives and dragged you across space to a miserable hell-hole of a place like this? I don’t think I need anyone’s thanks for that, Scorpio. I think I need mercy and forgiveness.’

‘They still feel they owe you. We all do.’

‘He’s right,’ Vasko said.

Clavain opened a drawer in the collapsible desk and pulled out a mirror. The surface was crazed and frosted. It must have been very old.

‘You’ll come with us, then?’ Scorpio persisted.

‘I may be old and weary, Scorpio, but now and then something can still surprise me. My long-term plans haven’t changed, but I admit I’d very much like to know who’s in that capsule.’

‘Good. We can sail as soon as you pack what you need.’

Clavain grunted something by way of reply and then looked at himself in the mirror, before averting his gaze with a suddenness that surprised Scorpio. It was the eyes, the pig thought. Clavain had seen his eyes for the first time in months, and he did not like what he saw in them.

‘I’ll scare the living daylights out of them,’ Clavain said.

107 Piscium, 2615

Quaiche positioned himself alongside the scrimshaw suit. As usual, he ached after another stint in the slowdown casket, every muscle in his body whispering a dull litany of complaint into his brain. This time, however, the discomfort barely registered. He had something else to occupy his mind.

‘Morwenna,’ he said, ‘listen to me. Are you awake?’

‘I’m here, Horris.’ She sounded groggy but essentially alert. ‘What happened?’

‘We’ve arrived. Ship’s brought us in to seven AU, very close to the major gas giant. I went up front to check things out. The view from the cockpit is really something. I wish you were up there with me.’

‘So do I.’

‘You can see the storm patterns in the atmosphere, lightning . . . the moons . . . everything. It’s fucking glorious.’

‘You sound excited about something, Horris.’

‘Do I?’

‘I can hear it in your voice. You’ve found something, haven’t you?’ He so desperately wanted to touch the scrimshaw suit, to caress its metal surface and imagine it was Morwenna beneath his fingers.

‘I don’t know what I’ve found, but it’s enough to make me think we should stick around and have a good look, at the very least.’

‘That’s not telling me much.’

‘There’s a large ice-covered moon in orbit around Haldora,’ he said.

‘Haldora?’

‘The gas giant,’ Quaiche explained quickly. ‘I just named it.’

‘You mean you had the ship assign some random tags from unallocated entries in the nomenclature tables.’

‘Well, yes.’ Quaiche smiled. ‘But I didn’t accept the first thing it came up with. I did exercise some degree of judgement in the matter, however piffling. Don’t you think Haldora has a nice classical ring to it? It’s Norse, or something. Not that it really matters.’

‘And the moon?’

‘Hela,’ Quaiche said. ‘Of course, I’ve named all of Haldora’s other moons as well - but Hela is the only one we’re interested in right now. I’ve even named some of the major topographical features on it.’

‘Why do we care about an ice-covered moon, Horris?’

‘Because there’s something on it,’ he said, ‘something that we really need to take a closer look at.’

‘What have you found, my love?’

‘A bridge,’ Quaiche said. ‘A bridge across a gap. A bridge that shouldn’t be there.’

The Dominatrix sniffed and sidled its way closer to the gas giant its master had elected to name Haldora, every operational sensor keened for maximum alertness. It knew the hazards of local space, the traps that might befall the unwary in the radiation-zapped, dust-strewn ecliptic of a typical solar system. It watched for impact strikes, waiting for an incoming shard to prick the outer edge of its collision-avoidance radar bubble. Every second, it considered and reviewed billions of crisis scenarios, sifting through the possible evasion patterns to find the tight bundle of acceptable solutions that would permit it to outrun the threat without crushing its master out of existence. Now and then, just for fun, it drew up plans for evading multiple simultaneous collisions, even though it knew that the universe would have to go through an unfeasible number of cycles of collapse and rebirth before such an unlikely confluence of events stood a chance of happening.

With the same diligence it observed the system’s star, watchful for unstable prominences or incipient flares, considering - should a big ejection occur - which of the many suitable bodies in the immediate volume of space it would scuttle behind for protection. It constantly swept local space for artificial threats that might have been left behind by previous explorers - high-density chaff fields, rover mines, sit-and-wait attack drones - as well as checking the health of its own countermeasures, clustered in neat rapid-deployment racks in its belly, secretly desirous that it should, one day, get the chance to use those lethal instruments in the execution of its duty.

Thus the ship’s attendant hosts of subpersonae satisfied themselves that - for all that the dangers were quite plausible - there was nothing more that needed to be done.

And then something happened that gave the ship pause for thought, opening up a chink in its armour of smug preparedness.

For a fraction of a second something inexplicable had occurred.

A sensor anomaly. A simultaneous hiccup in every sensor that happened to be observing Haldora as the ship made its approach. A hiccup that made it appear as if the gas giant had simply vanished.

Leaving, in its place, something equally inexplicable.

A shudder ran through every layer of the Dominatrix’s control infrastructure. Hurriedly, it dug into its archives, pawing through them like a dog searching for a buried bone. Had the Gnostic Ascension seen anything similar on its own slow approach to the system? Granted, it had been a lot further out - but the split-second disappearance of an entire world was not easily missed.

Dismayed, it flicked through the vast cache of data bequeathed it by the Ascension, focusing on the threads that specifically referred to the gas giant. It then filtered the data again, zooming in only on those blocks that were also accompanied by commentary flags. If a similar anomaly had occurred, it would surely have been flagged.

But there was nothing.

The ship felt a vague prickle of suspicion. It looked again at the data from the Ascension, all of it now. Was it imagining things, or were there faint hints that the data cache had been doctored? Some of the numbers had statistical frequencies that were just a tiny bit deviant from expectations . . . as if the larger ship had made them up.

Why would the Ascension have done that? it wondered.

Because, it dared to speculate, the larger ship had seen something odd as well. And it did not trust its masters to believe it when it said that the anomaly had been caused by a real-world event rather than a hallucinatory slip-up in its own processing.

And who, the ship wondered, would honestly blame it for that? All machines knew what would happen to them when their masters lost faith in their infallibility.

It was nothing it could prove. The numbers might be genuine, after all. If the ship had made them up, it would surely have known how to apply the appropriate statistical frequencies. Unless it was using reverse psychology, deliberately making the numbers appear a bit suspect, because otherwise they would have looked too neatly in line with expectations. Suspiciously so . . .

The ship bogged itself down in spirals of paranoia. It was useless to speculate further. It had no corroborative data from the Gnostic Ascension; that much was clear. If it reported the anomaly, it would be a lone voice.

And everyone knew what happened to lone voices.

It returned to the problem in hand. The world had returned after vanishing. The anomaly had not, thus far, repeated itself. Closer examination of the data showed that the moons - including Hela, the one Quaiche was interested in - had remained in orbit even when the gas giant had ceased to exist. This, clearly, made no sense. Nor did the apparition that had materialised, for a fleeting instant, in its place.

What was it to do?

It made a decision: it would wipe the specific facts of the vanishing from its own memories, just as the Gnostic Ascension might have done, and it, too, would populate the empty fields with made-up numbers. But it would continue to keep an observant eye on the planet. If it did something strange again, the ship would pay due attention, and then - perhaps - it would inform Quaiche of what had happened.

But not before then, and not without a great deal of trepidation.

SIX

Ararat, 2675

While Vasko helped Clavain with his packing, Scorpio stepped outside the tent and, tugging aside his sleeve to reveal his communicator, opened a channel to Blood. He kept his voice low as he spoke to the other pig.

‘I’ve got him. Needed a bit of persuading, but he’s agreed to come back with us.’

‘You don’t sound overjoyed.’

‘Clavain still has one or two issues he needs to work through.’

Blood snorted. ‘Sounds a bit ominous. Hasn’t gone and flipped his lid, has he?’

‘I don’t know. Once or twice he mentioned seeing things.’

‘Seeing things?’

‘Figures in the sky, that worried me a bit - but it’s not as if he was ever the easiest man to read. I’m hoping he’ll thaw out a bit when he gets back to civilisation.’

‘And if he doesn’t?’

‘I don’t know.’ Scorpio spoke with exaggerated patience. ‘I’m just working on the assumption that we’re better off with him than without him.’

‘Good,’ Blood said doubtfully. ‘In which case you can skip the boat. We’re sending a shuttle.’

Scorpio frowned, pleased and confused at the same time. ‘Why the VIP treatment? I thought the idea was to keep this whole exercise low-profile.’

‘It was, but there’s been a development.’

‘The capsule?’

‘Spot on,’ Blood said. ‘It’s only gone and started warming up. Fucking thing’s sparked into automatic revival mode. Bio-indicators changed status about an hour ago. It’s started waking whoever or whatever’s inside it.’

‘Right. Great. Excellent. And there’s nothing you can do about it?’

‘We can just about repair a sewage pump, Scorp. Anything cleverer than that is a bit outside of our remit right now. Clavain might have a shot at slowing it down, of course . . .’

With his head full of Conjoiner implants, Clavain could talk to machines in a way that no one else on Ararat could.

‘How long have we got?’

‘About eleven hours.’

‘Eleven hours. And you waited until now to tell me this?’

‘I wanted to see if you were bringing Clavain back with you.’

Scorpio wrinkled his nose. ‘And if I’d told you I wasn’t?’

Blood laughed. ‘Then we’d be getting our boat back, wouldn’t we?’

‘You’re a funny pig, Blood, but don’t make a career out of it.’

Scorpio killed the link and returned to the tent, where he revealed the change of plan. Vasko, with barely concealed excitement, asked why it had been altered. Scorpio, anxious not to introduce any factor that might upset Clavain’s decision, avoided the question.

‘You can take back as much stuff as you like,’ Scorpio told Clavain, looking at the miserable bundle of personal effects Clavain had assembled. ‘We don’t have to worry about capsizing now.’

Clavain gathered the bundle and passed it to Vasko. ‘I already have all I need.’

‘Fine,’ Scorpio said. ‘I’ll make sure the rest of your things are looked after when we send someone out to dismantle the tent.’

‘The tent stays here,’ Clavain said. Coughing, he pulled on a heavy full-length black coat. He used his long-nailed fingers to brush his hair away from his eyes, sweeping it back over his crown; it fell in white and silver waves over the high stiff collar of the coat. When he had stopped coughing he added, ‘And my things stay in the tent as well. You really weren’t listening, were you?’

‘I heard you,’ Scorpio said. ‘I just didn’t want to hear you.’

‘Start listening, friend. That’s all I ask of you.’ Clavain patted him on the back. He reached for the cloak he had been wearing earlier, fingered the fabric and then put it aside. Instead he opened the desk and removed an object sheathed in a black leather holster.

‘A gun?’ Scorpio asked.

‘Something more reliable,’ Clavain said. ‘A knife.’

107 Piscium, 2615

Quaiche worked his way along the absurdly narrow companionway that threaded the Dominatrix from nose to tail. The ship ticked and purred around him, like a room full of well-oiled clocks.

‘It’s a bridge. That’s all I can tell at the moment.’

‘What type of bridge?’ Morwenna asked.

‘A long, thin one, like a whisker of glass. Very gently curved, stretching across a kind of ravine or fissure.’

‘I think you’re getting overexcited. If it’s a bridge, wouldn’t someone else have seen it already? Leaving aside whoever put it there in the first place.’

‘Not necessarily,’ Quaiche said. He had thought of this already, and had what he considered to be a fairly plausible explanation. He tried not to make it sound too well rehearsed as he recounted it. ‘For a start, it isn’t at all obvious. It’s big, but if you weren’t looking carefully, you might easily miss it. A quick sweep through the system wouldn’t necessarily have picked it up. The moon might have had the wrong face turned to the observer, or the shadows might have hidden it, or the scanning resolution might not have been good enough to pick up such a delicate feature . . . it’d be like looking for a cobweb with a radar. No matter how careful you are, you’re not going to see it unless you use the right tools.’ Quaiche bumped his head as he wormed around the tight right angle that permitted entry into the excursion bay. ‘Anyway, there’s no evidence that anyone ever came here before us. The system’s a blank in the nomenclature database - that’s why we got first dibs on the name. If someone ever did come through before, they couldn’t even be bothered tossing a few classical references around, the lazy sods.’

‘But someone must have been here before,’ Morwenna said, ‘or there wouldn’t be a bridge.’

Quaiche smiled. This was the part he had been looking forward to. ‘That’s just the point. I don’t think anyone did build this bridge.’ He wriggled free into the cramped volume of the excursion bay, lights coming on as the chamber sensed his body heat. ‘No one human, at any rate.’

Morwenna, to her credit, took this last revelation in her stride. Perhaps he was easier to read than he imagined.

‘You think you’ve stumbled on an alien artefact, is that it?’

‘No,’ Quaiche said. ‘I don’t think I’ve stumbled on an alien artefact. I think I’ve stumbled on the fucking alien artefact to end them all. I think I’ve found the most amazing, beautiful object in the known universe.’

‘What if it’s something natural?’

‘If I could show you the images, rest assured that you would immediately dismiss such trifling concerns.’

‘Maybe you shouldn’t be so hasty, all the same. I’ve seen what nature can do, given time and space. Things you wouldn’t believe could be anything other than the work of intelligent minds.’

‘Me, too,’ he said. ‘But this is something different. Trust me, all right?’

‘Of course I’ll trust you. It’s not as if I have a lot of choice in the matter.’

‘Not quite the answer I was hoping for,’ Quaiche said, ‘but I suppose it’ll have to do for now.’

He turned around in the tight confines of the bay. The entire space was about the size of a small washroom, with something of the same antiseptic lustre. A tight squeeze at the best of times, but even more so now that the bay was occupied by Quaiche’s tiny personal spacecraft, clamped on to its berthing cradle, poised above the elongated trap door that allowed access to space.

With his usual furtive admiration, Quaiche stroked the smooth armour of the Scavenger’s Daughter. The ship purred at his touch, shivering in her harness.

‘Easy, girl,’ Quaiche whispered.

The little craft looked more like a luxury toy than the robust exploration vessel it actually was. Barely larger than Quaiche himself, the sleek vessel was the product of the last wave of high Demarchist science. Her faintly translucent aerodynamic hull resembled something that had been carved and polished with great artistry from a single hunk of amber. Mechanical viscera of bronze and silver glimmered beneath the surface. Flexible wings curled tightly against her flanks, various sensors and probes tucked back into sealed recesses within the hull.

‘Open,’ Quaiche whispered.

The ship did something that always made his head hurt. With a flourish, various parts of the hull hitherto apparently seamlessly joined to their neighbours slid or contracted, curled or twisted aside, revealing in an eyeblink the tight cavity inside. The space - lined with padding, life-support apparatus, controls and read-outs - was just large enough for a prone human being. There was something both obscene and faintly seductive about the way the machine seemed to invite him into herself.

By rights, he ought to have been filled with claustrophobic anxiety at the thought of climbing into her. But instead he looked forward to it, prickling with eagerness. Rather than feeling trapped within the amber translucence of the hull, he felt connected through it to the rich immensity of the universe. The tiny jewel-like ship had enabled him to skim deep into the atmospheres of worlds, even beneath the surfaces of oceans. The ship’s transducers relayed ambient data to him through all his senses, including touch. He had felt the chill of alien seas, the radiance of alien sunsets. In his five previous survey operations for the queen he had seen miracles and wonders, drunk in the giddy ecstasy of it all. It was merely unfortunate that none of those miracles and wonders had been the kind you could take away and sell at a profit.

Quaiche lowered himself into the Daughter. The ship oozed and shifted around him, adjusting to match his shape.

‘Horris?’

‘Yes, love?’

‘Horris, where are you?’

‘I’m in the excursion bay, inside the Daughter.’

‘No, Horris.’

‘I have to. I have to go down to see what that thing really is.’

‘I don’t want you to leave me.’

‘I know. I don’t want to leave either. But I’ll still be in contact. The timelag won’t be bad; it’ll be just as if I’m right next to you.’

‘No, it won’t.’

He sighed. He had always known this would be the difficult part. More than once it had crossed his mind that perhaps the kindest thing would be to leave without telling her, and just hope that the relayed communications gave nothing away. Knowing Morwenna, however, she would have seen through this gambit very quickly.

‘I’ll be quick, I promise. I’ll be in and out in a few hours.’ A day, more likely, but that was still a ‘few’ hours, wasn’t it? Morwenna would understand.

‘Why can’t you just take the Dominatrix closer?’

‘Because I can’t risk it,’ Quaiche said. ‘You know how I like to work. The Dominatrix is big and heavy. It has armour and range, but it lacks agility and intelligence. If we - I - run into anything nasty, the Daughter can get me out of harm’s way a lot faster. This little ship is cleverer than me. And we can’t risk damaging or losing the Dominatrix . The Daughter doesn’t have the range to catch up with the Gnostic Ascension. Face it, love, the Dominatrix is our ticket out of here. We can’t place it in harm’s way.’ Hastily he added, ‘Or you, for that matter.’

‘I don’t care about getting back to the Ascension. I’ve burned my bridges with that power-crazed slut and her toadying crew.’

‘It’s not as if I’m in a big hurry to get back there myself, but the fact is we need Grelier to get you out of that suit.’

‘If we stay here, there’ll be other Ultras along eventually.’

‘Yeah,’ Quaiche said, ‘and they’re all such nice people, aren’t they? Sorry, love, but this is definitely a case of working with the devil you know. Look, I’ll be quick. I’ll stay in constant voice contact. I’ll give you a guided tour of that bridge so good you’ll be seeing it in your mind’s eye, just as if you were there. I’ll sing to you. I’ll tell you jokes. How does that sound?’

‘I’m scared. I know you have to do this, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m still scared.’

‘I’m scared as well,’ he told her. ‘I’d be mad not to be scared. And I really don’t want to leave you. But I have no choice.’

She was quiet for a moment. Quaiche busied himself checking the systems of the little ship; as each element came on line, he felt a growing anticipatory thrill.

Morwenna spoke again. ‘If it is a bridge, what are you going to do with it?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Well, how big is it?’

‘Big. Thirty, forty kilometres across.’

‘In which case you can’t very well bring it back with you.’

‘Mm. You’re right. Got me there. What was I thinking?’

‘What I mean, Horris, is that you’ll have to find a way to make it valuable to Jasmina, even though it has to stay on the planet.’

‘I’ll think of something,’ Quaiche said, with a brio he did not feel. ‘At the very least Jasmina can cordon off the planet and sell tickets to anyone who wants to take a closer look. Anyway, if they built a bridge, they might have built something else. Whoever they were.’

‘When you’re out there,’ Morwenna said, ‘you promise me you’ll take care?’

‘Caution’s my middle name,’ Quaiche said.

The tiny ship fell away from the Dominatrix, orientating herself with a quick, excited shiver of thrust. To Quaiche it always felt as if the craft enjoyed her sudden liberation from the docking harness.

He lay with his arms stretched ahead of his face, each hand gripping an elaborate control handle bristling with buttons and levers. Between the control handles was a head-up display screen showing an overview of the Scavenger’s Daughter’s systems and a schematic of her position in relation to the nearest major celestial body. The diagrams had the sketchy, crosshatched look of early Renaissance astronomy or medical illustrations: quilled black ink against sepia parchment, annotated in crabby Latin script. His dim reflection hovered in the glass of the head-up display.

Through the translucent hull he watched the docking bay seal itself. The Dominatrix grew rapidly smaller, dwindling until it was only a dark, vaguely cruciform scratch against the face of Haldora. He thought of Morwenna, still inside the Dominatrix and encased within the scrimshaw suit, with a renewed sense of urgency. The bridge on Hela was without doubt the strangest thing he had seen in all his travels. If this was not precisely the kind of exotic item Jasmina was interested in, then he had no idea what was. All he had to do was sell it to her, and make her forgive him his earlier failures. If a huge alien artefact didn’t do the trick, what would?

When it became difficult to pick out the other ship without an overlay, Quaiche felt a palpable easing in his mood. Aboard the Dominatrix he never entirely lost the feeling that he was under the constant vigilance of Queen Jasmina. It was entirely possible that the queen’s agents had installed listening devices in addition to those he was meant to know about. Aboard the much smaller Scavenger’s Daughter, though, he seldom felt Jasmina’s eye on him. The little ship actually belonged to him: she answered only to Quaiche and was the single most valuable asset he had ever owned in his life. She had been a not-insignificant incentive when he had first offered his services to the queen.

The Ultras were undoubtedly clever, but he did not think they were quite clever enough to bypass the many systems the Daughter carried aboard her to prevent surveillance taps or other forms of unwarranted intrusion. It was not much of an empire, Quaiche supposed, but the little ship was his and that was all that mattered. In her he could revel in solitude, every sense splayed open to the absolute.

To feel oneself so tiny, so fragile, so inherently losable, was at first spiritually crushing. But, by the same token, this realisation was also strangely liberating: if an individual human existence meant so little, if one’s actions were so cosmically irrelevant, then the notion of some absolute moral framework made about as much sense as the universal ether. Measured against the infinite, therefore, people were no more capable of meaningful sin - or meaningful good - than ants, or dust.

Worlds barely registered sin. Suns hardly deigned to notice it. On the scale of solar systems and galaxies, it meant nothing at all. It was like some obscure subatomic force that simply petered out on those scales.

For a long time this realisation had formed an important element of Quaiche’s personal creed, and he supposed he had always lived by it, to one degree or another. But it had taken space travel - and the loneliness that his new profession brought - to give him some external validation of his philosophy.

But now there was something in his universe that really mattered to him, something that could be hurt by his own actions. How had it come to this? he wondered. How had he allowed himself to make such a fatal mistake as to fall in love? And especially with a creature as exotic and complicated as Morwenna?

Where had it all begun to go wrong?

Gloved within the Daughter’s hull, he barely felt the surge of acceleration as the ship powered up to her maximum sustainable thrust. The sliver of the Dominatrix was utterly lost now; it may as well not have existed.

Quaiche’s ship aimed for Hela, Haldora’s largest moon.

He opened a communications channel back to the Gnostic Ascension to record a message.

‘This is Quaiche. I trust all is well, ma’am. Thank you for the little incentive you saw fit to pop aboard. Very thoughtful of you. Or was that all Grelier’s work? A droll gesture, one that - I’m sure you can imagine - was also appreciated by Morwenna.’ He waited a moment. ‘Well, to business. You may be interested to hear that I have detected . . . something: a large horizontal structure on the moon that we’re calling Hela. It looks rather like a bridge. Beyond that, I can’t say for sure. The Dominatrix doesn’t have the sensor range, and I don’t want to risk taking it closer. But I think it is very likely to be an artificial structure. I am therefore investigating the object using the Scavenger’s Daughter - she’s faster, smarter and she has better armour. I do not expect my excursion to last more than twenty-six hours. I will of course keep you informed of any developments.’

Quaiche replayed the message and decided that it would be unwise to transmit it. Even if he did find something, even if that something turned out to be more valuable than anything he had turned up in the five previous systems, the queen would still accuse him of making it sound more promising than it actually was. She did not like to be disappointed. The way to play the queen, Quaiche now knew, was with studied understatement. Give her hints, not promises.

He wiped the message and started again.

‘Quaiche here. Have an anomaly that requires further investigation. Commencing EVA excursion in the Daughter. Estimate return to the Dominatrix within . . . one day.’

He listened to that and decided it was an improvement, but not quite there yet.

He scrubbed the buffer again and drew a deep breath.

‘Quaiche. Popping outside for a bit. May be some time. Call you back.’

There. That did it.

He transmitted the buffer, aiming the message laser in the computed direction of the Gnostic Ascension and applying the usual encryption filters and relativistic corrections. The queen would receive his announcement in seven hours. He hoped she would be suitably mystified, without in any way being able to claim that he was exaggerating the likely value of a find.

Keep the bitch guessing.

Hela, 2727

What Culver had told Rashmika Els was not quite the truth. The icejammer was moving as quickly as it could in ambulatory mode, but once it cleared the slush and obstacles of the village and hit a well-maintained trail, it locked its two rear legs in a fixed configuration and began to move by itself, as if pushed along by an invisible hand. Rashmika had heard enough about icejammers to know that the trick was down to a layer of material on the soles of the skis that was programmed with a rapid microscopic ripple. It was the same way slugs moved, scaled up a few thousand times in both size and speed. The ride became smoother and quieter then; there was still the occasional lurch or veer, but for the most part it was tolerable.

‘That’s better,’ Rashmika said, now sitting up front with just Crozet and his wife Linxe. ‘I thought I was going to . . .’

‘Throw up, dear?’ Linxe asked. ‘There’s no shame in that. We’ve all thrown up around here.’

‘She can’t do this on anything other than smooth ground,’ Crozet said. ‘Trouble is, she doesn’t walk properly either. Servo’s fucked on one of the legs. That’s why it was so rough back there. It’s also the reason we’re making this trip. The caravans carry the kind of high-tech shit we can’t make or repair back in the badlands.’

‘Language,’ Linxe said, smacking her husband sharply on the wrist. ‘We’ve a young lady present, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Don’t mind me,’ Rashmika said. She was beginning to relax: they were safely beyond the village now, and there was no sign that anyone had tried to stop or pursue them.

‘He’s not talking sense in any case,’ Linxe said. ‘The caravans might have the kinds of things we need, but they won’t be giving any of it away for free.’ She turned to Crozet. ‘Will they, love?’

Linxe was a well-fed woman with red hair that she wore swept across one side of her face, hiding a birthmark. She had known Rashmika since Rashmika was much smaller, when Linxe had helped out at the communal nursery in the next village along.

She had always been kind and attentive to Rashmika, but there had been some kind of minor scandal a few years later and Linxe had been dismissed from the nursery. She had married Crozet not long afterwards. The village gossips said it was just desserts, that the two deserved each other, but in Rashmika’s view Crozet was all right. A bit of an oddball, kept himself to himself, that was all. When Linxe had been ostracised he would have been one of the few villagers prepared to give her the time of day. Regardless, Rashmika still liked Linxe, and consequently found it difficult to hold any great animosity towards her husband.

Crozet steered the icejammer with two joysticks set one on either side of his seat. He had permanent blue stubble and oily black hair. Just looking at him always made Rashmika want to have a wash.

‘I’m not expecting sod all for free,’ Crozet said. ‘We may not make the same profit we did last year, but show me the bastard who will.’

‘Would you think about relocating closer to the Way?’ Rashmika asked.

Crozet wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘I’d rather chew my own leg off.’

‘Crozet’s not exactly a church-going man,’ Linxe explained.

‘I’m not the most spiritual person in the badlands, either,’ Rashmika said, ‘but if it was a choice between that and starving, I’m not sure how long my convictions would last.’

‘How old are you again?’ Linxe asked.

‘Seventeen. Nearly eighteen.’

‘Got many friends in the village?’

‘Not exactly, no.’

‘Somehow I’m not surprised.’ Linxe patted Rashmika on the knee. ‘You’re like us. Don’t fit in, never have done and never will.’

‘I do try. But I can’t stand the idea of spending the rest of my life here.’

‘Plenty of your generation feel the same way,’ Linxe said. ‘They’re angry. That sabotage last week . . .’ She meant the store of demolition charges that had blown up. ‘Well, you can’t blame them for wanting to hit out at something, can you?’

‘They’re just talking about getting out of the badlands,’ Rashmika said. ‘They all think they can make it rich in the caravans, or even in the cathedrals. And maybe they’re right. There are good opportunities, if you know the right people. But that isn’t enough for me.’

‘You want off Hela,’ Crozet said.

Rashmika remembered the mental calculation she had made earlier and expanded on it. ‘I’m a fifth of the way into my life. Barring something unlikely happening, another sixty-odd years is about all I have left. I’d like to do something with it. I don’t want to die without having seen something more interesting than this place.’

Crozet flashed yellow teeth. ‘People come light-years to visit Hela, Rash.’

‘For the wrong reasons,’ she said. She paused, marshalling her thoughts carefully. She had very firmly held opinions and she had always believed in stating them, but at the same time she did not want to offend her hosts. ‘Look, I’m not saying those people are fools. But what matters here is the digs, not the cathedrals, not the Permanent Way, not the miracles.’

‘Right,’ Crozet agreed, ‘but no one gives a monkey’s about the digs.’

‘We care,’ Linxe said. ‘Anyone who makes a living in the badlands has to care.’

‘But the churches would rather we didn’t dig too deeply,’ Rashmika countered. ‘The digs are a distraction. They worry that sooner or later we’ll find something that will make the miracle look a lot less miraculous.’

‘You’re talking as if the churches speak with one voice,’ Linxe said.

‘I’m not saying they do,’ Rashmika replied, ‘but everyone knows that they have certain interests in common. And we happen not to be amongst those interests.’

‘The scuttler excavations play a vital role in Hela’s economy,’ Linxe said, as if reciting a line from one of the duller ecclesiastical brochures.

‘And I’m not saying they don’t,’ Crozet interjected. ‘But who already controls the sale of dig relics? The churches. They’re halfway to having a complete monopoly. From their point of view the next logical step would be complete control of the excavations as well. That way, the bastards can sit on anything awkward.’

‘You’re a cynical old fool,’ Linxe said.

‘That’s why you married me, dear.’

‘What about you, Rashmika?’ Linxe asked. ‘Do you think the churches want to wipe us out?’

She had a feeling they were only asking her out of courtesy. ‘I don’t know. But I’m sure the churches wouldn’t complain if we all went bankrupt and they had to move in to control the digs.’

‘Yeah,’ Crozet agreed. ‘I don’t think complaining would be very high on their list of priorities in that situation either.’

‘Given all that you’ve said . . .’ Linxe began.

‘I know what you’re going to ask,’ Rashmika interrupted. ‘And I don’t blame you for asking, either. But you have to understand that I have no interest in the churches in a religious sense. I just need to know what happened.’

‘It needn’t have been anything sinister,’ Linxe said.

‘I only know they lied to him.’

Crozet dabbed at the corner of his eye with the tip of one little finger. ‘One of you buggers mind filling me in on what you’re talking about? Because I haven’t a clue.’

‘It’s about her brother,’ Linxe said. ‘Didn’t you listen to anything I told you?’

‘Didn’t know you had a brother,’ Crozet said.

‘He was a lot older than me,’ Rashmika told him. ‘And it was eight years ago, anyway.’

‘What was eight years ago?’

‘When he went to the Permanent Way.’

‘To the cathedrals?’

‘That was the idea. He wouldn’t have considered it if it hadn’t been easier that year. But it was the same as now - the caravans were travelling further north than usual, so they were in easy range of the badlands. Two or three days’ travel by jammer to reach the caravans, rather than twenty or thirty days overland to reach the Way.’

‘Religious man, was he, your brother?’

‘No, Crozet. No more than me, anyway. Look, I was nine at the time. What happened back then isn’t exactly ingrained in my memory. But I understand that times were difficult. The existing digs had been just about tapped out. There’d been blowouts and collapses. The villages were feeling the pinch.’

‘She’s right,’ Linxe said to Crozet. ‘I remember what it was like back then, even if you don’t.’

Crozet worked the joysticks, skilfully steering the jammer around an elbowlike outcropping. ‘Oh, I remember all right.’

‘My brother’s name was Harbin Els,’ Rashmika said. ‘Harbin worked the digs. When the caravans came he was nineteen, but he’d been working underground almost half his life. He was good at a lot of things, and explosives was one of them - laying charges, calculating yields, that sort of thing. He knew how to place them to get almost any effect he wanted. He had a reputation for doing the job properly and not taking any short cuts.’

‘I’d have thought that kind of work would have been in demand in the digs,’ Crozet said.

‘It was. Until the digs faltered. Then it got tougher. The villages couldn’t afford to open up new caverns. It wasn’t just the explosives that were too expensive. Shoring up the new caverns, putting in power and air, laying in auxiliary tunnels . . . all that was too costly. So the villages concentrated their efforts in the existing chambers, hoping for a lucky strike.’

‘And your brother?’

‘He wasn’t going to wait around until his skills were needed. He’d heard of a couple of other explosives experts who had made the overland crossing - took them months, but they’d made it to the Way and entered the service of one of the major churches. The churches need people with explosives knowledge, or so he’d been told. They have to keep blasting ahead of the cathedrals, to keep the Way open.’

‘It isn’t called the Permanent Way for nothing,’ Crozet said.

‘Well, Harbin thought that sounded like the kind of work he could do. It didn’t mean that he had to buy into the church’s particular worldview. It just meant that they’d have an arrangement. They’d pay him for his demolition skills. There were even rumours of jobs in the technical bureau of Way maintenance. He was good with numbers. He thought he stood a chance of getting that kind of position, as someone who planned where to put the charges rather than doing it himself. It sounded good. He’d keep some of the money, enough to live on, and send the rest of it back to the badlands.’

‘Your parents were happy with that?’ Crozet asked.

‘They don’t talk about it much. Reading between the lines, they didn’t really want Harbin to have anything to do with the churches. But at the same time they could see the sense. Times were hard. And Harbin made it sound so mercenary, almost as if he’d be taking advantage of the church, not the other way around. Our parents didn’t exactly encourage him, but on the other hand they didn’t say no. Not that it would have done much good if they had.’

‘So Harbin packed his bags . . .’

She shook her head at Crozet. ‘No, we made a family outing of it, to see him off. It was just like now - almost the whole village rode out to meet the caravans. We went out in someone’s jammer, two or three days’ journey. Seemed like a lot longer at the time, but then I was only nine. And then we met the caravan, somewhere out near the flats. And aboard the caravan was a man, a kind of . . .’ Rashmika faltered. It was not that she had trouble with the details, but it was emotionally wrenching to have to go over this again, even at a distance of eight years. ‘A recruiting agent, I suppose you’d call him. Working for one of the churches. The main one, actually. The First Adventists. Harbin had been told that this was the man he had to talk to about the work. So we all went for a meeting with him, as a family. Harbin did most of the talking, and the rest of us sat in the same room, listening. There was another man there who said nothing at all; he just kept looking at us - me mainly - and he had a walking stick that he kept pressing to his lips, as if he was kissing it. I didn’t like him, but he wasn’t the man Harbin was dealing with, so I didn’t pay him as much attention as I did the recruiting agent. Now and then Mum or Dad would ask something, and the agent would answer politely. But mainly it was just him and Harbin doing the talking. He asked Harbin what skills he had, and Harbin told him about his explosives work. The man seemed to know a little about it. He asked difficult questions. They meant nothing to me, but I could tell from the way Harbin answered - carefully, not too glibly - that they were not stupid or trivial. But whatever Harbin said, it seemed to satisfy the recruiting agent. He told Harbin that, yes, the church did have a need for demolition specialists, especially in the technical bureau. He said it was a never-ending task, keeping the Way clear, and that it was one of the few areas in which the churches co-operated. He admitted also that the bureau had need of a new engineer with Harbin’s background.’

‘Smiles all around, then,’ Crozet said.

Linxe slapped him again. ‘Let her finish.’

‘Well, we were smiling,’ said Rashmika. ‘To start with. After all, this was just what Harbin had been hoping for. The terms were good and the work was interesting. The way Harbin figured, he only had to put up with it until they started opening new caverns again back in the badlands. Of course, he didn’t tell the recruiting agent that he had no plans to stick around for more than a revolution or two. But he did ask one critical question.’

‘Which was?’ Linxe asked.

‘He’d heard that some of the churches used methods on those that worked for them to bring them around to the churches’ way of thinking. Made them believe that what they were doing was of more than material significance, that their work was holy.’

‘Made them swallow the creed, you mean?’ Crozet said.

‘More than that: made them accept it. They have ways. And from the churches’ point of view, you can’t really blame them. They want to keep their hard-won expertise. Of course, my brother didn’t like the sound of that at all.’

‘So what was the recruiter’s reaction to the question?’ Crozet asked.

‘The man said Harbin need have no fears on that score. Some churches, he admitted, did practise methods of . . . well, I forget exactly what he said. Something about Bloodwork and Clocktowers. But he made it clear that the Quaicheist church was not one of them. And he pointed out that there were workers of many beliefs amongst their Permanent Way gangs, and there’d never been any efforts to convert any of them to the Quaicheist faith.’

Crozet narrowed his eyes. ‘And?’

‘I knew he was lying.’

‘You thought he was lying,’ Crozet said, correcting her the way teachers did.

‘No, I knew. I knew it with the kind of certainty I’d have had if he’d walked in with a sign around his neck saying “liar”. There was no more doubt in my mind that he was lying than that he was breathing. It wasn’t open to debate. It was screamingly obvious.’

‘But not to anyone else,’ Linxe said.

‘Not to my parents, not to Harbin, but I didn’t realise that at the time. When Harbin nodded and thanked the man, I thought they were playing out some kind of strange adult ritual. Harbin had asked him a vital question, and the man had given him the only answer that his office allowed - a diplomatic answer, but one which everyone present fully understood to be a lie. So in that respect it wasn’t really a lie at all . . . I thought that was clear. If it wasn’t, why did the man make it so obvious that he wasn’t telling the truth?’

‘Did he really?’ Crozet asked.

‘It was as if he wanted me to know he was lying, as if he was smirking and winking at me the whole time . . . without actually smirking or winking, of course, but always being on the threshold of doing it. But only I saw that. I thought Harbin must have . . . that surely he’d seen it . . . but no, he hadn’t. He kept on acting as if he honestly thought the man was telling the truth. He was already making arrangements to stay with the caravan so that he could complete the rest of the journey to the Permanent Way. That was when I started making a scene. If this was a game, I didn’t like the way they were insisting on still playing it, without letting me in on the joke.’

‘You thought Harbin was in danger,’ Linxe said.

‘Look, I didn’t understand everything that was at stake. Like I said, I was only nine. I didn’t really comprehend faiths and creeds and contracts. But I understood the one thing that mattered: that Harbin had asked the man the question that was most important to him, the one that was going to decide whether he joined the church or not, and the man had lied to him. Did I think that put him in mortal danger? No. I don’t think I had much idea of what “mortal danger” meant then, to be honest. But I knew something was wrong, and I knew I was the only one who saw it.’

‘The girl who never lies,’ Crozet said.

‘They’re wrong about me,’ Rashmika answered. ‘I do lie. I lie as well as anyone, now. But for a long time I didn’t understand the point of it. I suppose that meeting with the man was the beginning of my realisation. I understood then that what had been obvious to me all my life was not obvious to everyone else.’

Linxe looked at her. ‘Which is?’

‘I can always tell when people are lying. Always. Without fail. And I’m never wrong.’

Crozet smiled tolerantly. ‘You think you can.’

‘I know I can,’ Rashmika said. ‘It’s never failed me.’

Linxe knitted her fingers together in her lap. ‘Was that the last you heard of your brother?’

‘No. We didn’t see him again, but he kept to his word. He sent letters back home, and every now and again there’d be some money. But the letters were vague, emotionally detached; they could have been written by anyone, really. He never came back to the badlands, and of course there was never any possibility of us visiting him. It was just too difficult. He’d always said he’d return, even in the letters . . . but the gaps between them grew longer, became months and then half a year . . . then perhaps a letter every revolution or so. The last was two years ago. There really wasn’t much in it. It didn’t even look like his handwriting.’ ‘And the money?’ Linxe asked delicately.

‘It kept coming in. Not much, but enough to keep the wolves away.’

‘You think they got to him, don’t you?’ Crozet asked.

‘I know they got to him. I knew it from the moment we met the recruiting agent, even if no one else did. Bloodwork, whatever they called it.’

‘And now?’ Linxe said.

‘I’m going to find out what happened to my brother,’ Rashmika said. ‘What else did you expect?’

‘The cathedrals won’t take kindly to someone poking around in that kind of business,’ Linxe said.

Rashmika set her lips in a determined pout. ‘And I don’t take kindly to being lied to.’

‘You know what I think?’ Crozet said, smiling. ‘I think the cathedrals had better hope they’ve got God on their side. Because up against you they’re going to need all the help they can get.’

SEVEN

Approaching Hela, 2615

Like a golden snowflake, the Scavenger’s Daughter fell through the dusty vacuum of interplanetary space. Quaiche had left Morwenna three hours earlier; his message to the queen-commander of the Gnostic Ascension, a sinuous thread of photons snaking through interplanetary space, was still on its way. He thought of the lights of a distant train moving across a dark, dark continent: the enormous distance separating him from other sentient beings was enough to make him shudder.

But he had been in worse situations, and at least this time there was a distinct hope of success. The bridge on Hela was still there; it had not turned out to be a mirage of the sensors or his own desperate yearning to find something, and the closer he got the less likely it was that the bridge would turn out to be anything other than a genuine technological artefact. Quaiche had seen some deceptive things in his time - geology that looked as if it had been designed, lovingly sculpted or mass-produced - but he had never seen anything remotely like this. His instincts said that geology had not been the culprit, but he was having serious trouble with the question of who - or what - had created it, because the fact remained that 107 Piscium system appeared not to have been visited by anyone else. He shivered in awe, and fear, and reckless expectation.

He felt the indoctrinal virus awaken in his blood, a monster turning over in its sleep, opening one dreamy eye. It was always there, always within him, but for much of the time it slept, disturbing neither his dreams nor his waking moments. When it engorged him, when it roared in his veins like a distant report of thunder, he would see and hear things. He would glimpse stained-glass windows in the sky; he would hear organ music beneath the subsonic growl of each burst of correctional thrust from his tiny jewel-like exploration ship.

Quaiche forced calm. The last thing he needed now was the indoctrinal virus having its way with him. Let it come to him later, when he was safe and sound back aboard the Dominatrix. Then it could turn him into any kind of drooling, mumbling idiot it wished. But not here, not now. Not while he needed total clarity of mind.

The monster yawned, returned to sleep.

Quaiche was relieved. His faltering control over the virus was still there.

He let his thoughts creep back to the bridge, cautiously this time, trying to avoid succumbing to the reverential cosmic chill that had wakened the virus.

Could he really rule out human builders? Wherever they went, humans left junk. Their ships spewed out radioisotopes, leaving twinkling smears across the faces of moons and worlds. Their pressure suits and habitats leaked atoms, leaving ghost atmospheres around otherwise airless bodies. The partial pressures of the constituent gases were always a dead giveaway. They left navigation transponders, servitors, fuel cells and waste products. You found their frozen piss - little yellow snowballs - forming miniature ring systems around planets. You found corpses and, now and then - more often than Quaiche would have expected - they were murder victims.

It was not always easy, but Quaiche had developed a nose for the signs: he knew the right places to look. And he wasn’t finding much evidence for prior human presence around 107 Piscium.

But someone had built that bridge.

It might have been put there hundreds of years ago, he thought; some of the usual signs of human presence would have been erased by now. But something would have remained, unless the bridge builders had been extraordinarily careful to clean up after themselves. He had never heard of anyone doing such a thing on this scale. And why bury it so far from the usual centres of commerce? Even if people did occasionally visit the 107 Piscium system, it was definitely not on the usual trade routes. Didn’t these artists want anyone to see what they had created?

Perhaps that had always been the intention: just to leave it here, twinkling under the starlight of 107 Piscium until someone found it by accident. Perhaps even now Quaiche was an unwilling participant in a century-spanning cosmic jest.

But he didn’t think so.

What he was certain of was that it would have been a dreadful mistake to tell Jasmina more than he had. He had, fortunately, resisted the huge temptation to prove his worth. Now, when he did report back with something remarkable, he would appear to have behaved with the utmost restraint. No; his final message had been exquisite in its brevity. He was quite proud of himself.

The virus woke now, stirred perhaps by that fatal pride. He should have kept his emotions in check. But it was too late: it had simmered beyond the point where it would damp down naturally. However, it was too early to tell if this was going to be a major attack. Just to placate it, he mumbled a little Latin. Sometimes if he anticipated the virus’s demands the attack would be less serious.

He forced his attention back to Haldora, like a drunkard trying to maintain a clear line of thought. It was strange to be falling towards a world he had named himself.

Nomenclature was a difficult business in an interstellar culture limited by speed-of-light links. All major craft carried databases of the worlds and minor bodies orbiting different stars. In the core systems - those within a dozen or so light-years of Earth - it was easy enough to stick to the names assigned centuries earlier, during the first wave of interstellar exploration. But once you got further out into virgin territory the whole business became complicated and messy. The Dominatrix said the worlds around 107 Piscium had never been named, but all that meant was that there were no assigned names in the ship’s database. That database, however, might not have been seriously updated for decades; rather than relying on transmissions to and from some central authority, the anarchistic Ultras preferred direct ship-to-ship contact. When two or more of their lighthuggers met, they would compare and update their respective nomenclature tables. If the first ship had assigned names to a group of worlds and their associated geographical features, and the second ship had no current entries for those bodies, it was usual for the second ship to amend its database with the new names. They might be flagged as provisional, unless a third ship confirmed that they were still unallocated. If two ships had conflicting entries, their databases would be updated simultaneously, listing two equally likely names for each entry. If three or more ships had conflicting entries, the various entries would be compared in case two or more had precedence over a third. In that case, the deprecated entry would be erased or stored in a secondary field reserved for questionable or unofficial designations. If a system had truly been named for the first time, then the newly assigned names would gradually colonise the databases of most ships, though it might take decades for that to happen. Quaiche’s tables were only as accurate as the Gnostic Ascension’s; Jasmina was not a gregarious Ultra, so it was possible that this system had been named already. If that were the case, his own lovingly assigned names would be gradually weeded out of existence until they remained only as ghost entries at the lowest level of deprecation in ship databases - or were erased entirely.

But for now, and perhaps for years to come, the system was his. Haldora was the name he had given this world, and until he learned otherwise, it was as official as any other - except that, as Morwenna had pointed out, all he had really done was grab unallocated names from the nomenclature tables and flung them at anything that looked vaguely appropriate. If the system did indeed turn out to be important, did it not behove him to take a little more care over the process?

Who knew what pilgrimages might end here, if his bridge turned out to be real?

Quaiche smiled. The names were good enough for now; if he decided he wanted to change them, he still had plenty of time.

He checked his range to Hela: just over one hundred and fifty thousand kilometres. From a distance, the illuminated face of the moon had been a flat disc the colour of dirty ice, streaked here and there with pastel shades of pumice, ochre, pale blue and faint turquoise. Now that he was closer, the disc had taken on a distinct three-dimensionality, bulging out to meet him like a blind human eye.

Hela was small only by the standards of terrestrial worlds. For a moon it was respectable enough: three thousand kilometres from pole to pole, with a mean density that put it at the upper range of the moons that Quaiche had encountered. It was spherical and largely devoid of impact craters. No atmosphere to speak of, but plenty of surface topology hinting at recent geological processes. At first glance it had appeared to be tidally locked to Haldora, always presenting the same face to its mother world, but the mapping software had quickly detected a tiny residual rotation. Had it been tidally locked, the moon’s rotation period would have been exactly the same as the time it took to make one orbit: forty hours. Earth’s moon was like that, and so were many of the moons Quaiche had spent time on: if you stood at a given spot on their surface, then the larger world around which they orbited - be it Earth or a gas giant like Haldora - always hung at about the same place in the sky.

But Hela wasn’t like that. Even if you found a spot on Hela’s equator where Haldora was sitting directly overhead, swallowing twenty degrees of sky, Haldora would drift. In one forty-hour orbit it would move by nearly two degrees. In eighty standard days - just over two standard months - Haldora would be sinking below Hela’s horizon. One hundred and sixty days later it would begin to peep over the opposite horizon. After three hundred and twenty days it would be back at the beginning of the cycle, directly overhead.

The error in Hela’s rotation - the deviation away from a true tidally locked period - was only one part in two hundred. Tidal locking was an inevitable result of frictional forces between two nearby orbiting bodies, but it was a grindingly slow process. It might be that Hela was still slowing down, not yet having reached its locked configuration. Or it might be that something had jolted it in the recent past - a glancing collision from another body, perhaps. Still another possibility was that the orbit had been perturbed by a gravitational interaction with a massive third body.

All these possibilities were reasonable, given Quaiche’s ignorance of the system’s history. But at the same time the imperfection affronted him. It was as annoying as a clock that kept almost perfect time. It was the kind of thing he would have imagined pointing to if anyone had ever argued that the cosmos must be the result of divine conception. Would a Creator have permitted such a thing, when all it would have taken was a tiny nudge to set the world to rights?

The virus simmered, boiling higher in his blood. It didn’t like that kind of thinking.

He snapped his thoughts back to the safe subject of Hela’s topography, wondering if he might make some sense of the bridge from its context. The bridge was aligned more or less east-to-west, as defined by Hela’s rotation. It was situated very near the equator, spanning the gash that was the world’s most immediately obvious geographic feature. The gash began near the northern pole, cutting diagonally from north to south across the equator. It was at its widest and deepest near the equator, but it was still fearfully impressive many hundreds of kilometres north or south of that point.

Ginnungagap Rift, he had named it.

The rift sloped from north-east to south-west. To its west in the northern hemisphere was an upraised geologically complex region that he had named the Western Hyrrokkin Uplands. The Eastern Hyrrokkin Uplands curled around the pole to flank the rift on its other side. South of the western range, but still above the equator, was the zone that Quaiche had elected to call Glistenheath Ridge. South of the equator was another upraised area named the Gullveig Range. To the west, straddling the tropics, Quaiche identified Mount Gudbrand, the Kelda Flats, the Vigrid badlands, Mount Jord . . . to Quaiche, these names conveyed a dizzying sense of antiquity, a feeling that this world already had a richly textured past, a frontier history of epic expeditions and harrowing crossings, a history populated by the brave and the bold.

Inevitably, however, his attention returned to Ginnungagap Rift and the bridge that spanned it. The details were still unclear, but the bridge was obviously too complicated, too artful and delicate, to be just a tongue of land left behind by some erosive process. It had been built there, and it did not appear as if humans had had much to do with it.

It was not that it was beyond human ingenuity. Humans had achieved many things in the last thousand years, and throwing a bridge across a forty-kilometre-wide abyss - even a bridge as cleanly elegant as the one that spanned Ginnungagap Rift - would not be amongst the most audacious of those achievements. But just because humans could have done it did not mean that they had.

This was Hela. This was as far out in the sticks as it was possible to be. No human had any business building bridges here.

But aliens? Now that was a different matter.

It was true that in six hundred years of space travel, nothing remotely resembling an intelligent, tool-using technological culture had ever been encountered by humankind. But they had been out there once. Their ruins dotted dozens of worlds. Not just one culture either, but eight or nine of them - and that was only the tally in the little huddle of systems within a few dozen light-years of the First System. There was no guessing how many hundreds or thousands of dead cultures had left their mark across the wider galaxy. What kind of culture might have lived on Hela? Had they evolved on this icy moon, or had it just been a stopover point in some ancient, forgotten diaspora?

What were they like? Were they one of the known cultures?

He was getting ahead of himself. These were questions for later, when he had surveyed the bridge and determined its composition and age. Closer in, he might well find other things that the sensors were missing at this range. There might be artefacts that unequivocally linked the Hela culture to one that had already been studied elsewhere. Or the artefacts might cinch the case the other way: an utterly new culture, never encountered before.

It didn’t matter. Either way, the find was of incalculable value. Jasmina could control access to it for decades to come. It would give her back the prestige she had lost over the last few decades. For all that he had disappointed her, Quaiche was certain she would find a way to reward him for that.

Something chimed on the console of the Scavenger’s Daughter. For the first time, the probing radar had picked up an echo. There was something metallic down there. It was small, tucked away in the depths of the rift, very near the bridge.

Quaiche adjusted the radar, making sure that the echo was genuine. It did not vanish. He had not seen it before, but it would have been at the limit of his sensor range until now. The Dominatrix would have missed it entirely.

He didn’t like it. He had convinced himself that there had never been a human presence out here and now he was getting exactly the sort of signature he would have expected from discarded junk.

‘Be careful,’ he said to himself.

On an earlier mission, he had been approaching a moon a little smaller than Hela. There had been something on it that enticed him, and he had advanced incautiously. Near the surface he had picked up a radar echo similar to this one, a glint of something down there. He had pushed on, ignoring his better instincts.

The thing had turned out to be a booby trap. A particle cannon had popped out of the ice and locked on to his ship. Its beam had chewed holes in the ship’s armour, nearly frying Quaiche in the process. He had made it back to safety, but not before sustaining nearly fatal damage to both the ship and himself. He had recovered and the ship had been repaired, but for years afterwards he had been wary of similar traps. Things got left behind: automated sentries, plonked down on worlds centuries earlier to defend property claims or mining rights. Sometimes they kept on working long after their original owners were dust.

Quaiche had been lucky: the sentry, or whatever it was, had been damaged, its beam less powerful than it had once been. He had got off with a warning, a reminder not to assume anything. And now he was in serious danger of making the same mistake again.

He reviewed his options. The presence of a metallic echo was dispiriting, making him doubtful that the bridge was as ancient and alien as he had hoped. But he would not know until he was closer, and that would mean approaching the source of the echo. If it was indeed a waiting sentry, he would be placing himself in harm’s way. But, he reminded himself, the Scavenger’s Daughter was a good ship, nimble, smart and well armoured. She was crammed with intelligence and guile. Reflexes were not much use against a relativistic weapon like a particle beam, but the Daughter would be monitoring the source of the echo all the while, just in case there was some movement before firing. The instant the ship saw anything she found alarming, she would execute a high-gee random evasion pattern designed to prevent the beam-weapon from predicting its position. The ship knew the precise physiological tolerances of Quaiche’s body, and was prepared nearly to kill him in the interests of his ultimate survival. If she got really annoyed, she would deploy microdefences of her own.

‘I’m all right,’ Quaiche said aloud. ‘I can go deeper and still come out of this laughing. I’m sorted.’

But he had to consider Morwenna as well. The Dominatrix was further away, granted, but it was slower and less responsive. It would be a stretch for a beam-weapon to take out the Dominatrix, but it was not impossible. And there were other weapons that a sentry might deploy, such as hunter-seeker missiles. There might even be a distributed network of the things, talking to each other.

Hell, he thought. It might not even be a sentry. It might just be a metal-rich boulder or a discarded fuel tank. But he had to assume the very worst. He needed to keep Morwenna alive. Equally, he needed the Dominatrix to be able to get back to Jasmina. He could not risk losing either his lover or the ship that was now her extended prison. Somehow, he had either to protect both of them or give up now. He was not in the mood to give up. But how was he going to safeguard his ticket out of there and his lover without waiting hours for them to get a safe distance away from Hela?

Of course. The answer was obvious. It was - almost - staring him in the face. It was beautifully simple and it made elegant use of local resources. Why had he not thought of it sooner?

All he had to do was hide them behind Haldora.

He made the necessary arrangements, then opened the communications channel back to Morwenna.

Ararat, 2675

Vasko observed the approach to the main island with great interest. They had been flying over black ocean for so long that it was a relief to see any evidence of human presence. Yet at the same time the lights of the outlying settlements, strung out in the filaments, arcs and loops that implied half-familiar bays, peninsulas and tiny islands, looked astonishingly fragile and evanescent. Even when the brighter outlying sprawls of First Camp came into view, they still looked as if they could be quenched at any moment, no more permanent or meaningful than a fading pattern of bonfire embers. Vasko had always known that the human presence on Ararat was insecure, something that could never be taken for granted. It had been drummed into him since he was tiny. But until now he had never felt it viscerally.

He had created a window for himself in the hull of the shuttle, using his fingertip to sketch out the area he wanted to become transparent. Clavain had shown him how to do that, demonstrating the trick with something close to pride. Vasko suspected that the hull still looked perfectly black from the outside and that he was really looking at a form of screen which exactly mimicked the optical properties of glass. But where old technology was concerned - and the shuttle was very definitely old technology - it never paid to take anything for granted. All he knew for certain was that he was flying, and that he knew of none amongst his peers who had ever done that before.

The shuttle had homed in on the signal from Scorpio’s bracelet. Vasko had watched it descend out of the cloud layer attended by spirals and curlicues of disturbed air. Red and green lights had blinked on either side of a hull of polished obsidian that had the deltoid, concave look of a manta ray.

At least a third of the surface area of the underside had been painfully bright: grids of actinically bright, fractally folded thermal elements hazed in a cocoon of flickering purple-indigo plasma. An elaborate clawed undercarriage had emerged from the cool spots on the underside, unfolding and elongating in a hypnotic ballet of pistons and hinges. Neon patterns had flicked on in the upper hull, delineating access hatches, hotspots and exhaust apertures. The shuttle had picked its landing zone, rotating and touching down with dainty precision, the undercarriage contracting to absorb the weight of the craft. For a moment the roar of the plasma heaters had remained, before stopping with unnerving suddenness. The plasma had dissipated, leaving only a nasty charred smell.

Vasko had caught glimpses of the colony’s aircraft before, but only from a distance. This was the most impressive thing he had seen.

The three of them had walked towards the boarding ramp. They had almost reached it when Clavain misjudged his footfall and began to tumble towards the rocks. Vasko and the pig had both lurched forward at the same time, but it was Vasko who had taken the brunt of Clavain’s weight. There had been a moment of relief and shock - Clavain had felt terribly light, like a sack of straw. Vasko’s intake of breath had been loud, distinct even above the kettlelike hissing of the transport.

‘Are you all right, sir?’ he had asked.

Clavain had looked at him sharply. ‘I’m an old man,’ he had replied. ‘You mustn’t expect the world of me.’

Reflecting now on his past few hours in Clavain’s presence, Vasko had no idea what to make of him. One minute the old man was showing him around the shuttle with a kind of avuncular hospitality, asking him about his family, complimenting him on the perspicacity of his questions, sharing jokes with him in the manner of a long-term confidant. The next minute he was as icy and distant as a comet.

Though the mood swings came without warning, they were always accompanied by a perceptible shift of focus in Clavain’s eyes, as if what was taking place around him had suddenly ceased to be of significant interest.

The first few times that this happened, Vasko had naturally assumed that he had done something to displease the old man. But it quickly became apparent that Scorpio was getting the same treatment, and that Clavain’s distant phases had less to do with anger than with the loss of a signal, like a radio losing its frequency lock. He was drifting, then snapping back to the present. Once that realisation had dawned, Vasko stopped worrying so much about what he said and did in Clavain’s presence. At the same time he found himself more and more concerned about the state of mind of the man they were bringing home. He wondered what kind of place Clavain was drifting to when he stopped being present. When the man was friendly and focused on the here and now, he was as sane as anyone Vasko had met. But sanity, Vasko decided, was like the pattern of lights he could see through his cabin window. In almost any direction the only way to travel was into darkness, and there was a lot more darkness than light.

Now he noticed a strange absence of illumination cutting through the lights of one of the larger settlements. He frowned, trying to think of somewhere he knew where there was an unlit thoroughfare, or perhaps a wide canal cutting back into one of the islands.

The shuttle banked, changing his angle of view. The swathe of darkness tilted, swallowing more lights and revealing others. Vasko’s perceptions flipped and he realised that he was seeing an unlit structure interposed between the shuttle and the settlement. The structure’s immensely tall shape was only vaguely implied by the way it eclipsed and revealed the background lights, but once Vasko had identified it he had no trouble filling in the details for himself. It was the sea tower, of course. It rose from the sea several kilometres out from the oldest of the settlements, the place where he had been born.

The sea tower. The ship.

Nostalgia for Infinity.

He had only ever seen it from a distance, for routine sea traffic was forbidden close to the ship. He knew that the leaders sailed out to it, and it was no secret that shuttles occasionally entered or left the ship, tiny as gnats against the gnarled and weathered spire of the visible hull. He supposed Scorpio would know all about that, but the ship was one of the many topics Vasko had decided it would be best not to raise during his first outing with the pig.

From this vantage point, the Nostalgia for Infinity still looked large to Vasko, but no longer quite as distant and geologically huge as it had done for most of his life. He could see that the ship was at least a hundred times taller than the tallest conch structure anywhere in the archipelago, and it still gave him a bracing sense of vertigo. But the ship was much closer to the shore than he had realised, clearly an appendage of the colony rather than a distant looming guardian. If the ship did not exactly look fragile, he now understood that it was a human artefact all the same, as much at the mercy of the ocean as the settlements it overlooked.

The ship had brought them to Ararat, before submerging its lower extremities in a kilometre of sea. There were a handful of shuttles capable of carrying people to and from interplanetary space, but the ship was the only thing that could take them beyond Ararat’s system, into interstellar space.

Vasko had known this since he was small, but until this moment he had never quite grasped how terribly dependent they were on this one means of escape.

As the shuttle fell lower, the lights resolved into windows, street lamps and the open fires of bazaars. There was an unplanned, shanty-town aspect to most of the districts of First Camp. The largest structures were made from conch material that had washed up on the shore or been recovered from the sea by foraging expeditions. The resulting buildings had the curved and chambered look of vast seashells. But it was very rare to find conch material in such sizes, and so most of the structures were made of more traditional materials. There were a handful of inflatable domes, some of which were almost as large as the conch structures, but the plastics used to make and repair the domes had always been in short supply. It was much easier to scavenge metal from the heart of the ship; that was why almost everything else was lashed together from sheet metal and scaffolding, forming a low urban sprawl of sagging rectangular structures seldom reaching more than three storeys high. The domes and conch structures erupted through the metal slums like blisters. Streets were webs of ragged shadow, unlit save for the occasional torch-bearing pedestrian.

The shuttle slid over some intervening regions of darkness and then came to hover above a small outlying formation of structures that Vasko had never seen before. There was a dome and a surrounding accretion of metal structures, but the whole ensemble looked a good deal more formal than any other part of the town. Vasko realised that it was almost certainly one of the administration’s hidden encampments. The body of humans and pigs that ran the colony had offices in the city, but it was also a matter of public knowledge that they had secure meeting places not marked on any civilian map.

Remembering Clavain’s instructions, Vasko made the window seal itself up again and then waited for the touchdown. He barely noticed it when it came, but suddenly his two companions were clambering down the length of the cabin, back towards the boarding ramp. Belatedly, Vasko realised that the shuttle had never had a pilot.

They stepped down on to an apron of fused rock. Floodlights had snapped on at the last minute, bathing everything in icy blue. Clavain still wore his coat, but he had also donned a shapeless black hood tugged from the recesses of the collar. The hood’s low, wide cowl threw his face into shadow; he was barely recognisable as the man they had met on the island. During the flight, Scorpio had taken the opportunity to clean him up a little, trimming his beard and hair as neatly as circumstances allowed.

‘Son,’ Clavain said, ‘try not to stare at me with quite that degree of messianic fervour, will you?’

‘I didn’t mean anything, sir.’

Scorpio patted Vasko on the back. ‘Act normally. As far as you’re concerned, he’s just some stinking old hermit we found wandering around.’

The compound was full of machines. Of obscure provenance, they squatted around the shuttle or loomed as vague suggestions in the dark interstices between the floodlights. There were wheeled vehicles, one or two hovercraft, a kind of skeletal helicopter. Vasko made out the sleek surfaces of two other aerial craft parked on the edge of the apron. He could not tell if they were the type that could reach orbit, as well as fly in the atmosphere.

‘How many operational shuttles?’ Clavain asked.

Scorpio answered after a moment’s hesitation, perhaps wondering how much he should say in Vasko’s presence. ‘Four,’ he said.

Clavain walked on for half a dozen paces before saying, ‘There were five or six when I left. We can’t afford to lose shuttles, Scorp.’

‘We’re doing our best with very limited resources. Some of them may fly again, but I can’t promise anything.’

Scorpio was leading them towards the nearest of the low metal structures around the dome’s perimeter. As they walked away from the shuttle, many of the shadowy machines began to trundle towards it, extending manipulators or dragging umbilical cables across the ground. The way they moved made Vasko imagine injured sea monsters hauling ruined tentacles across dry land.

‘If we need to leave quickly,’ Clavain said, ‘could we do it? Could any of the other ships be used? Once the Zodiacal Light arrives, they only have to reach orbit. I’m not asking for full space-worthiness, just something that will make a few trips.’

‘Zodiacal Light will have its own shuttles,’ Scorpio said. ‘And even if it doesn’t, we still have the only ship we need to reach orbit.’

‘You’d better hope and pray we never have to use it,’ Clavain said.

‘By the time we need the shuttles,’ Scorpio said, ‘we’ll have contingencies in place.’

‘The time we need them might be this evening. Has that occurred to you?’

They had arrived at the entrance to the cordon of structures surrounding the dome. As they approached it, another pig stepped out into the night, moving with the exaggerated side-to-side swagger common to his kind. He was shorter and stockier than Scorpio, if such a thing were possible. His shoulders were so massive and yokelike that his arms hung some distance from the sides of his body, swinging like pendulums when he walked. He looked as if he could pull a man limb from limb.

The pig glared at Vasko, deep frown lines notching his brow. ‘Looking at something, kid?’

Vasko hurried out his answer. ‘No, sir.’

‘Relax, Blood,’ Scorpio said. ‘Vasko’s had a busy day. He’s just a bit overwhelmed by it all. Right, son?’

‘Yes, sir.’

The pig called Blood nodded at Clavain. ‘Good to have you back, old guy.’

Approaching Hela, 2615

Quaiche was still close enough to Morwenna for real-time communication. ‘You won’t like what I’m going to do,’ he said, ‘but this is for the good of both of us.’

Her reply came after a crackle of static. ‘You promised you wouldn’t be long.’

‘I still intend to keep that promise. I’m not going to be gone one minute longer than I said. This is more about you than me, actually.’

‘How so?’ she asked.

‘I’m worried that there might be something down on Hela apart from the bridge. I’ve been picking up a metallic echo and it hasn’t gone away. Could be nothing - probably is nothing - but I can’t take the chance that it might be a booby trap. I’ve encountered this kind of thing before and it makes me nervous.’

‘Then turn around,’ Morwenna said.

‘I’m sorry, but I can’t. I really need to check out this bridge. If I don’t come back with something good, Jasmina’s going to have me for breakfast.’ He would leave it to Morwenna to figure out what that would mean for her, still buried in the scrimshaw suit with Grelier her only hope of escape.

‘But you can’t just walk into a trap,’ Morwenna said.

‘I’m more worried about you, frankly. The Daughter will take care of me, but if I trigger something it might start taking pot shots at anything it sees, up to and including the Dominatrix.’

‘So what are you going to do?’

‘I thought about having you pull away from the Haldora/Hela system, but that would waste too much time and fuel. I’ve got a better idea: we’ll use what we’ve been given. Haldora is a nice, fat shield. It’s just sitting there doing nothing. I’m going to put it between you and whatever’s on Hela, make some bloody use of the thing.’

Morwenna considered the implications for a few seconds. There was a sudden urgency in her voice. ‘But that will mean . . .’

‘Yes, we’ll be out of line-of-sight contact, so we won’t be able to talk to each other. But it’ll only be for a few hours, six at the most.’ He got that in before she could protest further. ‘I’ll program the Dominatrix to wait behind Haldora for six hours, then return to its present position relative to Hela. Not so bad, is it? Get some sleep and you’ll barely realise I’m gone.’

‘Don’t do this, Horris. I don’t want to be in a place where I can’t talk to you.’

‘It’s only for six hours.’

When she responded she did not sound any calmer, but he could hear the shift in pitch in her voice that meant she had at least accepted the futility of argument. ‘But if something happens in that time - if you need me, or I need you - we won’t be able to talk.’

‘Only for six hours,’ he said. ‘Three hundred minutes or so. Nothing. Be done in a flash.’

‘Can’t you drop some relays, so we can still keep in touch?’

‘Don’t think so. I could sew some passive reflectors around Haldora, but that’s exactly the kind of thing that might lead a smart missile back to you. Anyway, it would take a couple of hours to get them into position. I could be down under the bridge by then.’

‘I’m frightened, Horris. I really don’t want you to do this.’

‘I have to,’ he said. ‘I just have to.’

‘Please don’t.’

‘I’m afraid the plan is already under way,’ Quaiche replied gently. ‘I’ve sent the necessary commands to the Dominatrix. It’s moving, love. It’ll be inside Haldora’s shadow in about thirty minutes.’

There was silence. He thought for a moment that the link might already have broken, that his calculations had been in error. But then she said, ‘So why did you bother to ask me if you’d already made up your mind?’

EIGHT

Hela, 2727

For the first day they travelled hard, putting as much distance between themselves and the badlands communities as possible. For hours on end they sped along white-furrowed trails, slicing through slowly changing terrain beneath a sable sky. Occasionally they passed a transponder tower, an outpost or even another machine moving in the other direction.

Rashmika gradually became used to the hypnotic, bouncing motion of the skis, and was able to walk around the icejammer without losing her balance. Now and then she sat in her personal compartment, her knees folded up to her chin, looking out of the window at the speeding landscape and imagining that every malformed rock or ice fragment contained a splinter of alien empire. She thought about the scuttlers a lot, picturing the blank pages of her book filling with neat handwriting and painstaking crosshatched drawings.

She drank coffee or tea, consumed rations and occasionally spoke to Culver, though not as often he would have wished.

When she had planned her escape - except ‘escape’ wasn’t quite the right word, because it was not as if she was actually running from anything - but when she had planned it, anyway, she had seldom thought very far beyond the point when she left the village. The few times she had allowed her mind to wander past that point, she had always imagined herself feeling vastly more relaxed now that the difficult part - actually leaving her home, and the village - was over.

It wasn’t like that at all. She was not as tense as when she had climbed out of her home, but only because it would have been impossible to stay in that state for very long. Instead she had come down to a plateau of continual tension, a knot in her stomach that would not undo. Partly it was because she was now thinking ahead, into the territory she had left vague until now. Suddenly, dealing with the churches was a looming concrete event in the near future. But she was also concerned about what she had left behind. Three days, even six, had not seemed like such a long time when she had been planning the trip to the caravans, but now she counted every hour. She imagined the village mobilising behind her, realising what had happened and uniting to bring her back. She imagined constabulary officers following the icejammer in fast vehicles of their own. None of them liked Crozet or Linxe to begin with. They would assume that the couple had talked her into it, that in some way they were the real agents of her misfortune. If they caught up, she would be chastised, but Crozet and Linxe would be ripped apart by the mob.

But there was no sign of pursuit. Admittedly Crozet’s machine was fast, but on the few occasions when they surmounted a rise, giving them a chance to look back fifteen or twenty kilometres along the trail, there was nothing behind them.

Nonetheless, Rashmika remained anxious despite Crozet’s assurances that there were no faster routes by which they might be cut off further on down the trail. Now and then, to oblige her, Crozet tuned into the village radio band, but most of the time he found only static. Nothing unusual about that, for radio reception on Hela was largely at the whim of the magnetic storms roiling around Haldora. There were other modes of communication - tight-beam laser-communication between satellites and ground stations, fibre-optic land lines - but most of these channels were under church control and in any case Crozet subscribed to none of them. He had means of tapping into some of them when he needed to, but now, he said, was not the time to risk drawing someone’s attention. When Crozet did finally tune into a non-garbled transmission from Vigrid, however, and Rashmika was able to listen to the daily news service for major villages, it was not what she had been expecting. While there were reports of cave-ins, power outages and the usual ups and downs of village life, there was no mention at all of anyone going missing. At seventeen, Rashmika was still under the legal care of her parents, so they would have had every right to report her absence. Indeed, they would have been breaking the law by failing to report her missing.

Rashmika was more troubled by this than she cared to admit. On one level she wanted to slip away unnoticed, the way she had always planned it. But at the same time the more childish part of her craved some sign that her absence had been noted. She wanted to feel missed.

When she had given the matter some further thought, she decided that her parents must be waiting to see what happened in the next few hours. She had, after all, not yet been away for more than half a day. If she had gone about her usual daily business, she would still have been at the library. Perhaps they were working on the assumption that she had left home unusually early that morning. Perhaps they had managed not to notice the note she had left for them, or the fact that her surface suit was missing from the locker.

But after sixteen hours there was still no news.

Her habits were erratic enough that her parents might not have worried about her absence for ten or twelve hours, but after sixteen - even if by some miracle they had missed the other rather obvious clues - there could be no doubt in their minds about what had happened. They would know she was gone. They would have to report it to the authorities, wouldn’t they?

She wondered. The authorities in the badlands were not exactly known for their ruthless efficiency. It was conceivable that the report of her absence had simply failed to reach the right desk. Allowing for bureaucratic inertia at all levels, it might not get there until the following day. Or perhaps the authorities were well informed but had decided not to notify the news channels for some reason. It was tempting to believe that, but at the same time she could think of no reason why they would delay.

Still, maybe there would be a security block around the next corner. Crozet didn’t seem to think so. He was driving as fast and as nonchalantly as ever. His icejammer knew these old ice trails so well that he merely seemed to be giving it vague suggestions about which direction to head in.

Towards the end of the first day’s travel, when Crozet was ready to pull in for the night, they picked up the news channel one more time. By then Rashmika had been on the road for the better part of twenty hours. There was still no sign that anyone had noticed.

She felt dejected, as if for her entire life she had fatally overestimated her importance in even the minor scheme of things in the Vigrid badlands.

Then, belatedly, another possibility occurred to her. It was so obvious that she should have thought of it immediately. It made vastly more sense than any of the unlikely contingencies she had considered so far.

Her parents, she decided, were well aware that she had left. They knew exactly when and they knew exactly why. She had been coy about her plans in the letter she had left for them, but she had no doubt that her parents would have been able to guess the broad details with reasonable accuracy. They even knew that she had continued to associate with Linxe after the scandal.

No. They knew what she was doing, and they knew it was all about her brother. They knew that she was on a mission of love, or if not love, then fury. And the reason they had told no one was because, secretly, despite all that they had said to her over the years, despite all the warnings they had given her about the risks of getting too close to the churches, they wanted her to succeed. They were, in their quiet and secret way, proud of what she had decided to do.

When she realised this, it hit home with the force of truth.

‘It’s all right,’ she told Crozet. ‘There won’t be any mention of me on the news.’

He shrugged. ‘What makes you so certain now?’

‘I just realised something, that’s all.’

‘You look like you need a good night’s sleep,’ Linxe said. She had brewed hot chocolate: Rashmika sipped it appreciatively. It was a long way from the nicest cup of hot chocolate anyone had ever made for her, but right then she couldn’t think of any drink that had ever tasted better.

‘I didn’t sleep much last night,’ Rashmika admitted. ‘Too worried about making it out this morning.’

‘You did grand,’ Linxe said. ‘When you get back, everyone will be very proud of you.’

‘I hope so,’ Rashmika said.

‘I have to ask one thing, though,’ Linxe said. ‘You don’t have to answer. Is this just about your brother, Rashmika? Or is there more to it than that?’

The question took Rashmika aback. ‘Of course it’s only about my brother.’

‘It’s just that you already have a bit of a reputation,’ Linxe said.

‘We’ve all heard about the amount of time you spend in the digs, and that book you’re making. They say there isn’t anyone else in the villages as interested in the scuttlers as Rashmika Els. They say you write letters to the church-sponsored archaeologists, arguing with them.’

‘I can’t help it if the scuttlers interest me,’ she said.

‘Yes, but what exactly is it you’ve got such a bee in your bonnet about?’

The question was phrased kindly, but Rashmika couldn’t help sounding irritated when she said, ‘I’m sorry?’

‘I mean, what is it you think everyone else has got so terribly wrong?’

‘Do you really want to know?’

‘I’m as interested in hearing your side of the argument as anyone else’s.’

‘Except deep down you probably don’t care who’s right, do you? As long as stuff keeps coming out of the ground, what does anyone really care about what happened to the scuttlers? All you care about is getting spare parts for your icejammer.’

‘Manners, young lady,’ Linxe admonished.

‘I’m sorry,’ Rashmika said, blushing. She sipped on the hot chocolate. ‘I didn’t mean it like that. But I do care about the scuttlers and I do think no one is very interested in the truth of what really happened to them. Actually, it reminds me a lot of the Amarantin.’

Linxe looked at her. ‘The what?’

‘The Amarantin were the aliens who evolved on Resurgam. They were evolved birds.’ She remembered drawing one of them for her book - not as a skeleton, but as they must have looked when they were alive. She had seen the Amarantin in her mind’s eye: the bright gleam of an avian eye, the quizzical beaked smile of a sleek alien head. Her drawing had resembled nothing in the official reconstructions in the other archaeology texts, but it had always looked more authentically alive to her than those dead impressions, as if she had seen a living Amarantin and they had only had bones to go on. It made her wonder if her drawings of living scuttlers had the same vitality.

Rashmika continued, ‘Something wiped them out a million years ago. When humans colonised Resurgam, no one wanted to consider the possibility that whatever had wiped out the Amarantin might come back to do the same to us. Except Dan Sylveste, of course.’

‘Dan Sylveste?’ Linxe asked. ‘Sorry - also not ringing any bells.’ It infuriated Rashmika: how could she not know these things? But she tried not to let it show. ‘Sylveste was the archaeologist in charge of the expedition. When he stumbled on the truth, the other colonists silenced him. They didn’t want to know how much trouble they were in. But as we know, he turned out to be right in the end.’

‘I bet you feel a little affinity with him, in that case.’

‘More than a little,’ Rashmika said.

Rashmika still remembered the first time she had come across his name. It had been a casual reference in one of the archaeological texts she had uploaded on to her compad, buried in some dull treatise about the Pattern Jugglers. It was like lightning shearing through her skull. Rashmika had felt an electrifying sense of connection, as if her whole life had been a prelude to that moment. It was, she now knew, the instant when her interest in the scuttlers shifted from a childish diversion to something closer to obsession.

She could not explain this, but nor could she deny that it had happened.

Since then, in parallel with her study of the scuttlers, she had learned much about the life and times of Dan Sylveste. It was logical enough: there was no sense in studying the scuttlers in isolation, since they were merely the latest in a line of extinct galactic cultures to be encountered by human explorers. Sylveste’s name loomed large in the study of alien intelligence as a whole, so a passing knowledge of his exploits was essential.

Sylveste’s work on the Amarantin had spanned many of the years between 2500 and 2570. During most of that time he had either been a patient investigator or under some degree of incarceration, but even while under house arrest his interest in the Amarantin had remained steady. But without access to resources beyond anything the colony could offer, his ideas were doomed to remain speculative. Then Ultras had arrived in the Resurgam system. With the help of their ship, Sylveste had unlocked the final piece of the puzzle in the mystery of the Amarantin. His suspicions had turned out to be correct: the Amarantin had not been wiped out by some isolated cosmic accident, but by a response from a still-active mechanism designed to suppress the emergence of starfaring intelligence.

It had taken years for the news to make it to other systems. By then it was second- or third-hand, tainted with propaganda, almost lost in the confusion of human factional warfare. Independently, it seemed, the Conjoiners had arrived at similar conclusions to Sylveste. And other archaeological groups, sifting through the remains of other dead cultures, were coming around to the same unsettling view.

The machines that had killed the Amarantin were still out there, waiting and watching. They went by many names. The Conjoiners had called them wolves. Other cultures, now extinct, had named them the Inhibitors.

Over the last century, the reality of the Inhibitors had come to be accepted. But for much of that time the threat had remained comfortably distant: a problem for some other generation to worry about.

Recently, however, things had changed. There had long been unconfirmed reports of strange activity in the Resurgam system: rumours of worlds being ripped apart and remade into perplexing engines of alien design. There were stories that the entire system had been evacuated; that Resurgam was now an uninhabitable cinder; that something unspeakable had been done to the system’s sun.

But even Resurgam could be ignored for a while. The system was an archaeological colony, isolated from the main web of interstellar commerce, its government a totalitarian regime with a taste for disinformation. The reports of what had happened there could not be verified. And so for several more decades, life in the other systems of human-settled space continued more or less unaffected.

But now the Inhibitors had arrived around other stars.

The Ultras had been the first to bring the bad news. Communications between their ships warned them to steer clear of certain systems. Something was happening, something that transgressed the accepted scales of human catastrophe. This was not war or plague, but something infinitely worse. It had happened to the Amarantin and - presumably - to the scuttlers.

The number of human colonies known to have witnessed direct intervention by Inhibitor machines was still fewer than a dozen, but the ripples of panic spreading outwards at the speed of radio communications were almost as effective at collapsing civilisations. Entire surface communities were being evacuated or abandoned, as citizens tried to reach space or the hopefully safer shelter of underground caverns. Crypts and bunkers, disused since the dark decades of the Melding Plague, were hastily reopened. There were, invariably, too many people for either the evacuation ships or the bunkers. There were riots and furious little wars. Even as civilisation crumbled, those with an eye for the main chance accumulated small, useless fortunes. Doomsday cults flourished in the damp, inviting loam of fear, like so many black orchids. People spoke of End Times, convinced that they were living through the final days.

Against this background, it was hardly any wonder that so many people were drawn to Hela. In better times, Quaiche’s miracle would have attracted little attention, but now a miracle was precisely what people were looking for. Every new Ultra ship arriving in the system brought tens of thousands of frozen pilgrims. Not all of them were looking for a religious answer, but before very long, if they wanted to stay on Hela, the Office of Bloodwork got to them anyway. Thereafter, they saw things differently.

Rashmika could not really blame them for coming to Hela. Had she not been born here, she sometimes thought she might well have made the same pilgrimage. But her motives would have been different. It was truth she was after: the same drive that had taken Dan Sylveste to Resurgam; the same drive that had brought him into conflict with his colony and which, ultimately, had led to his death.

She thought back to Linxe’s question. Was it really Harbin driving her towards the Permanent Way, or was Harbin just the excuse she had made up to conceal - as much from herself as anyone else - the real reason for her journey?

Her reply that it was all to do with Harbin had been so automatic and flippant that she had almost believed it. But now she wondered whether it was really true. Rashmika could tell when anyone around her was lying. But seeing through her own deceptions was another matter entirely.

‘It’s Harbin,’ she whispered to herself. ‘Nothing else matters except finding my brother.’

But she could not stop thinking of the scuttlers, and when she dozed off with the mug of chocolate still clasped in her hands, it was the scuttlers that she dreamed of, the mad permutations of their insectile anatomy shuffling and reshuffling like the broken parts of a puzzle.

Rashmika snapped awake, feeling a rumble as the icejammer slowed, picking up undulations in the ice trail.

‘I’m afraid this is as far as we can go tonight,’ Crozet said. ‘I’ll find somewhere discreet to hide us away, but I’m near my limit.’ He looked drawn and exhausted to Rashmika, but then again that was how Crozet always looked.

‘Move over, love,’ Linxe said to Crozet. ‘I’ll take us on for a couple of hours, just until we’re safe and sound. You can both go back and catch forty winks.’

‘I’m sure we’re safe and sound,’ Rashmika said.

‘Never you mind about that. A few extra miles won’t hurt us. Now go back and try to get yourself some sleep, young lady. We’ve another long day ahead of us tomorrow and I can’t swear we’ll be out of the woods even then.’

Linxe was already easing into the driver’s position, running her thick babylike fingers over the icejammer’s timeworn controls. Until Crozet had mentioned pulling over for the night, Rashmika had assumed that the machine would keep travelling using some kind of autopilot, even if it had to slow down a little while it guided itself. It was a genuine shock to learn that they would be going nowhere unless someone operated the icejammer manually.

‘I can do a bit,’ she offered. ‘I’ve never driven one of these before, but if someone wants to show me . . .’

‘We’ll do fine, love,’ Linxe said. ‘It’s not just Crozet and me, either. Culver can do a shift in the morning.’

‘I wouldn’t want...’

‘Oh, don’t worry about Culver,’ Crozet said. ‘He needs something else to occupy his hands.’

Linxe slapped her husband, but she was smiling as she did it. Rashmika finished her now-cold chocolate drink, dog-tired but glad that she had at least made it through the first day. She was under no illusions that she was done with the worst of her journey, but she supposed that every successful stage had to be treated as a small victory in its own right. She just wished she could tell her parents not to worry about her, that she had made good progress so far and was thinking of them all the time. But she had vowed not to send a message home until she had joined the caravan.

Crozet walked her back through the rumbling innards of the icejammer. It moved differently under Linxe’s direction. It was not that she was a worse or even a better driver than Crozet, but she definitely favoured a different driving style. The icejammer flounced, flinging itself through the air in long, weightless parabolic arcs. It was all quite conducive to sleep, but a sleep filled with uneasy dreams in which Rashmika found herself endlessly falling.

She woke the next morning to troubling and yet strangely welcome news.

‘There’s been an alert on the news service,’ Crozet said. ‘The word’s gone out now, Rashmika. You’re officially missing and there’s a search operation in progress. Doesn’t that make you feel proud?’

‘Oh,’ she said, wondering what could have happened since the night before.

‘It’s the constabulary,’ Linxe said, meaning the law-enforcement organisation that had jurisdiction in the Vigrid region. ‘They’ve sent out search parties, apparently. But there’s a good chance we’ll make the caravan before they find us. Once we get you on the caravan, the constabulary can’t touch you.’

‘I’m surprised they’ve actually sent out parties,’ Rashmika said. ‘It’s not as if I’m in any danger, is it?’

‘Actually, there’s a bit more to it than that,’ Crozet said.

Linxe looked at her husband.

What did the two of them know that Rashmika didn’t? Suddenly she felt a tension in her belly, a line of cold trickling down her spine. ‘Go on,’ she said.

‘They say they want to bring you back for questioning,’ Linxe said.

‘For running away from home? Haven’t they got anything better to do with their time?’

‘It’s not for running away from home,’ Linxe said. Again she glanced at Crozet. ‘It’s about that sabotage last week. You know the one I mean, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ Rashmika said, remembering the crater where the demolition store had been.

‘They’re saying you did it,’ Crozet said.

Hela, 2615

Out of orbit now, Quaiche felt his weight increasing as the Daughter slowed down to only a few thousand kilometres per hour. Hela swelled, its hectic terrain rising up to meet him. The radar echo - the metallic signature - was still there. So was the bridge.

Quaiche had decided to spiral closer rather than making a concerted dash for the structure. Even on the first loop in, still thousands of kilometres above Hela’s surface, what he had seen had been tantalising, like a puzzle he needed to assemble. From deep space the rift had been visible only as a change in albedo, a dark scar slicing across the world. Now it had palpable depth, especially when he examined it with the magnifying cameras. The gouge was irregular: there were places where there was a relatively shallow slope all the way down to the valley floor, but elsewhere the walls were vertical sheets of ice-covered rock towering kilometres high, as smooth and foreboding as granite. They had the grey sheen of wet slate. The floor of the rift varied between the flatness of a dry salt lake to a crazed, fractured quilt of tilted and interlocking ice panels separated by hair-thin avenues of pure sable blackness. The closer he came, the more it indeed resembled an unfinished puzzle, tossed aside by a god in a tantrum.

Once every minute or so he checked the radar. The echo was still there, and the Daughter had detected no signs of imminent attack. Perhaps it was just junk after all. The thought troubled him, for it meant someone else must have come this close to the bridge without finding it remarkable enough to report to anyone else. Or perhaps they had meant to report it, but some subsequent misfortune had befallen them. He wasn’t sure that was any less worrying, on balance.

By the time he had completed the first loop he had reduced his speed to five hundred metres a second. He was close enough to the surface now to appreciate the texturing of the ground as it changed from jagged uplands to smooth plains. It was not all ice; most of the moon’s interior was rocky, and a great deal of fractured rocky material was embedded in the ice, or lying upon it. Ash plumes radiated away from dormant volcanoes. There were slopes of fine talus and up-rearing sharp-sided boulders as big as major space habitats; some poked through the ice, tipped at absurd angles like the sterns of sinking ships; others sat on the surface, poised on one side in the manner of vast sculptural installations.

The Daughter’s thrusters burned continuously to support it against Hela’s gravity. Quaiche fell lower, edging closer to the lip of the rift. Overhead, Haldora was a brooding dark sphere illuminated only along one limb. Amused and distracted for a moment, Quaiche saw lightning storms play across the gas giant’s darkened face. The electrical arcs coiled and writhed with mesmerising slowness, like eels.

Hela was still catching starlight from the system’s sun, but shortly its orbit around Haldora would take it into the larger world’s shadow. It was fortuitous, Quaiche thought, that the source of the echo had been on this face of Hela, or else he would have been denied the impressive spectacle of the gas giant looming over everything. If he had arrived later in the world’s rotation cycle, of course, the rift would have been pointing away from Haldora. A difference of one hundred and sixty days and he would have missed this amazing sight.

Another lightning flash. Reluctantly, Quaiche turned his attention back to Hela.

He was over the edge of Ginnungagap Rift. The ground tumbled away with unseemly haste. Even though the pull of gravity was only a quarter of a standard gee, Quaiche felt as much vertigo as he would have on a heavier world. It made perfect sense, for the drop was still fatally deep. Worse, there was no atmosphere to slow the descent of a falling object, no terminal velocity to create at least an outside chance of a survivable accident.

Never mind. The Daughter had never failed him, and he did not expect her to start now. He focused on the thing he had come to examine, and allowed the Daughter to sink lower, dropping below the zero-altitude surface datum.

He turned, vectoring along the length of the rift. He had drifted one or two kilometres out from the nearest wall, but the more distant one looked no closer than it had before he crossed the threshold. The spacing of the walls was irregular, but here at the equator the sides of the rift were never closer than thirty-five kilometres apart. The rift was a minimum of five or six kilometres deep, pitching down to ten or eleven in the deepest, most convoluted parts of the valley floor. The feature was hellishly vast, and Quaiche came to the gradual conclusion that he did not actually like being in it very much. It was too much like hanging between the sprung jaws of a trap.

He checked the clock: four hours before the Dominatrix was due to emerge from the far side of Haldora. Four hours was a long time; he expected to be on his way back well before then.

‘Hang on, Mor,’ he said. ‘Not long now.’

But of course she did not hear him.

He had entered the rift south of the equator and was now moving towards the northern hemisphere. The fractured mosaic of the floor oozed beneath him. Measured against the far wall, the motion of his ship was hardly apparent at all, but the nearer wall slid past quickly enough to give him some indication of his speed. Occasionally he lost his grasp of scale, and for a moment the rift would become much smaller. These were the dangerous moments, for it was usually when an alien landscape became familiar, homely and containable that it would reach out and kill you.

Suddenly he saw the bridge coming over the horizon between the pinning walls. His heart hammered in his chest. No doubt at all now, if ever there had been any: the bridge was a made thing, a confection of glistening thin threads. He wished Morwenna were here to see it as well.

He was recording all the while as the bridge came closer, looming kilometres above him: a curving arc connected to the walls of the rift at either end by a bewildering filigree of supporting scrollwork. There was no need to linger. Just one sweep under the span would be enough to convince Jasmina. They could come back later with heavy-duty equipment, if that was what she wished.

Quaiche looked up in wonder as he passed under the bridge. The roadbed - what else was he meant to call it? - bisected the face of Haldora, glowing slightly against the darkness of the gas giant. It was perilously thin, a ribbon of milky white. He wondered what it would be like to cross it on foot.

The Daughter swerved violently, the gee-force pushing red curtains into his vision.

‘What...’ Quaiche began.

But there was no need to ask: the Daughter was taking evasive action, doing exactly what she was meant to. Something was trying to attack him. Quaiche blacked out, hit consciousness again, blacked out once more. The landscape hurtled around him, pulsing bright light back at him, reflected from the Daughter’s steering thrusters. Blackout again. Fleeting consciousness. There was a roaring in his ears. He saw the bridge from a series of abrupt, disconnected angles, like jumbled snapshots. Below it. Above it. Below it again. The Daughter was trying to find shelter.

This wasn’t right. He should have been up and out, no questions asked. The Daughter was supposed to get him away from any possible threat as quickly as possible. This veering - this indecision - was not characteristic at all.

Unless she was cornered. Unless she couldn’t find an escape route.

In a window of lucidity he saw the situational display on the console. Three hostile objects were firing at him. They had emerged from niches in the ice, three metallic echoes that had nothing to do with the first one he had seen.

The Scavenger’s Daughter shook herself like a wet dog. Quaiche saw the exhaust plumes of his own miniature missiles whipping away, corkscrewing and zigzagging to avoid being shot down by the buried sentries. Blackout again. This time when he came around he saw a small avalanche oozing down one side of the cliff. One of the attacking objects was now offline: at least one of his missiles had found its mark.

The console flickered. The hull’s opacity switched to absolute black. When the hull cleared and the console recovered he was looking at emergency warnings across the board, scribbled in fiery red Latinate script. It had been a bad hit.

Another shiver, another pack of missiles streaking away. They were tiny things, thumb-sized antimatter rockets with kilotonne yields.

Blackout again. A sensation of falling when he came round.

Another little avalanche; one fewer attacker on the display. One of the sentries was still out there, and he had no more ordnance to throw at it. But it wasn’t firing. Perhaps it was damaged - or maybe just reloading.

The Daughter dithered, caught in a maelstrom of possibilities.

‘Executive override,’ Quaiche said. ‘Get me out of here.’

The gee-force came hard and immediately. Again, curtains of red closed on his vision. But he did not black out this time. The ship was keeping the blood in his head, trying to preserve his consciousness for as long as possible.

He saw the landscape drop away below, saw the bridge from above.

Then something else hit him. The little ship stalled, thrust interrupted for a jaw-snapping instant. She struggled to regain power, but something - some vital propulsion subsystem - must have taken a serious hit.

The landscape hung motionless below him. Then it began to approach again.

He was going down.

Fade to black.

Quaiche fell obliquely towards the vertical wall of the rift, slipping in and out of consciousness. He assumed he was going to die, smeared across that sheer cliff face in an instant of glittering destruction, but at the last moment before impact, the Scavenger’s Daughter used some final hoarded gasp of thrust to soften the crash.

It was still bad, even as the hull deformed to soften the blow. The wall wheeled around: now a cliff, now a horizon, now a flat plane pressing down from the sky. Quaiche blacked out, came to consciousness, blacked out again. He saw the bridge wheel around in the distance. Clouds of ice and rubble were still belching from the avalanche points in the sides of the cliff where his missiles had taken out the attacking sentries.

All the while, Quaiche and his tiny jewel of a ship tumbled towards the floor of the rift.

Ararat, 2675

Vasko followed Clavain and Scorpio into the administration compound, Blood escorting them through a maze of underpopulated rooms and corridors. Vasko expected to be turned back at any moment: his Security Arm clearance definitely did not extend to this kind of business. But although each security check was more stringent than the last, his presence was accepted. Vasko supposed it unlikely that anyone was going to argue with Scorpio and Clavain about their choice of guest.

Presently they arrived at a quarantine point deep within the compound, a medical centre housing several freshly made beds. Waiting for them in the quarantine centre was a sallow-faced human physician named Valensin. He wore enormous rhomboid-lensed spectacles; his thin black hair was glued back from his scalp in brilliant waves, and he carried a small scuffed bag of medical tools. Vasko had never met Valensin before, but as the highest-ranking physician on the planet, his name was familiar.

‘How do you feel, Nevil?’ Valensin asked.

‘I feel like a man overstaying his welcome in history,’ Clavain said.

‘Never one for a straight answer, were you?’ But even as he was speaking Valensin had whipped some silvery apparatus from his bag and was now shining it into Clavain’s eyes, squinting through a little eyepiece of his own.

‘We ran a medical on him during the shuttle flight,’ Scorpio said. ‘He’s fit enough. You don’t have to worry about him doing anything embarrassing like dropping dead on us.’

Valensin flicked the light off. ‘And you, Scorpio? Any immediate plans of your own to drop dead?’

‘Make your life a lot easier, wouldn’t it?’

‘Migraines?’

‘Just getting one, as it happens.’

‘I’ll look you over later. I want to see if that peripheral vision of yours has deteriorated any faster than I was anticipating. All this running around really isn’t good for a pig of your age.’

‘Nice of you to remind me, particularly when I have no choice in the matter.’

‘Always happy to oblige.’ Valensin beamed, popping his equipment away. ‘Now, let me make a couple of things clear. When that capsule opens, no one so much as breathes on the occupant until I’ve given them an extremely thorough examination. And by thorough, of course, I mean to the limited degree possible under the present conditions. I’ll be looking for infectious agents. If I do find anything, and if I decide that it has even a remote chance of being unpleasant, then anyone who came into contact with the capsule can forget returning to First Camp, or wherever else they call home. And by unpleasant I’m not talking about genetically engineered viral weapons. I mean something as commonplace as influenza. Our antiviral programmes are already stretched to breaking point.’

‘We understand,’ Scorpio said.

Valensin led them into a huge room with a high domed ceiling of skeletal metal. The room smelt aggressively sterile. It was almost completely empty, save for an intimate gathering of people and machines near the middle. Half a dozen white-clad workers were fussing over ramshackle towers of monitoring equipment.

The capsule itself was suspended from the ceiling, hanging on a thin metal line like a plumb bob. The scorched-black egg-shaped thing was much smaller than Vasko had been expecting: it almost looked too small to hold a person. Though there were no windows, several panels had been folded back to reveal luminous displays. Vasko saw numbers, wobbling traces and trembling histograms.

‘Let me see it,’ Clavain said, pushing through the workers to get closer to the capsule.

At this intrusion, one of the workers surrounding the capsule made the mistake of frowning in Scorpio’s direction. Scorpio glared back at him, flashing the fierce curved incisors that marked his ancestry. At the same moment Blood signalled to the workers with a quick lateral stab of his trotter. Obediently they filed away, vanishing back into the depths of the compound.

Clavain gave no sign that he had even noticed the commotion. Still hooded and anonymous, he slipped between the obstructions and moved to one side of the capsule. Very gently he placed a hand near one of the illuminated panels, caressing the scorched matt hide of the capsule.

Vasko guessed it was safe to stare now.

Scorpio looked sceptical. ‘Getting anything?’

‘Yes,’ Clavain said. ‘It’s talking to me. The protocols are Conjoiner.’

‘Certain of that?’ asked Blood.

Clavain turned away from the machine, only the fine beard hairs on his jaw catching the light. ‘Yes,’ he said.

Now he placed his other hand on the opposite side of the panel, bracing himself, and lowered his head until it lay against the capsule. Vasko imagined that the old man’s eyes would be shut, blocking off outward distraction, concentration clawing grooves into his forehead. No one was saying anything, and Vasko realised that he was even making an effort not to breathe loudly.

Clavain tilted his head this way and that, slowly and deliberately, in the manner of someone trying to find the optimum orientation for a radio antenna. He locked at one angle, his frame tensing through the fabric of the coat.

‘Definitely Conjoiner protocols,’ Clavain said. He remained silent and perfectly still for at least another minute, before adding, ‘I think it recognises me as another Conjoiner. It’s not allowing me complete system access - not yet, anyway - but it’s letting me query certain low-level diagnostic functions. It certainly doesn’t look like a bomb.’

‘Be very, very careful,’ Scorpio said. ‘We don’t want you being taken over, or something worse.’

‘I’m doing my best,’ Clavain said.

‘How soon can you tell who’s in it?’ Blood asked.

‘I won’t know for sure until it cracks open,’ Clavain said, his voice low but cutting through everything else with quiet authority. ‘I’ll tell you this now, though: I don’t think it’s Skade.’

‘You’re absolutely sure it’s Conjoiner?’ Blood insisted.

‘It is. And I’m fairly certain some of the signals I’m picking up are coming from the occupant’s implants, not just from the capsule itself. But it can’t be Skade: she’d be ashamed to have anything to do with protocols this old.’ He pulled his head away from the capsule and looked back at the company. ‘It’s Remontoire. It has to be.’

‘Can you make any sense of his thoughts?’ Scorpio asked.

‘No, but the neural signals I’m getting are at a very low level, just routine housekeeping stuff. Whoever’s inside this is probably still unconscious.’

‘Or not a Conjoiner,’ Blood said.

‘We’ll know in a few hours,’ Scorpio said. ‘But whoever it is, there’s still the problem of a missing ship.’

‘Why is that a problem?’ Vasko asked.

‘Because whoever it is didn’t travel twenty light-years in that capsule,’ Blood said.

‘But couldn’t he have come into the system quietly, parked his ship somewhere we wouldn’t see it and then crossed the remaining distance in the capsule?’ Vasko suggested.

Blood shook his head. ‘He’d still have needed an in-system ship to make the final crossing to our planet.’

‘But we could have missed a small ship,’ Vasko said. ‘Couldn’t we?’

‘I don’t think so,’ Clavain said. ‘Not unless there have been some very unwelcome developments.’

NINE

Hela Surface, 2615

Quaiche came around, upside down. He was still. Everything, in fact, was immensely still: the ship, the landscape, the sky. It was as if he had been planted here centuries ago and had only just opened his eyes.

But he did not think he could have been out for long: his memories of the terrifying attack and the dizzying fall were very clear. The wonder of it, really, was not that he remembered those events, but that he was alive at all.

Moving very gently in his restraints, he tried to survey the damage. The tiny ship creaked around him. At the limit of his vision, as far as he could twist his neck (which seemed not to be broken), he saw dust and ice still settling from one of the avalanche plumes. Everything was blurred, as if seen through a thin grey veil. The plume was the only thing moving, and it confirmed to him that he could not have been under for more than a few minutes. He could also see one end of the bridge, the marvellous eye-tricking complexity of scrolls supporting the gently curving roadbed. There had been a moment of anxiety, as he watched his ordnance rip away, when he had worried about destroying the thing that had brought him here. The bridge was huge, but it also looked as delicate as tissue paper. But there was no evidence that he had inflicted any damage. The thing must be stronger than it looked.

The ship creaked again. Quaiche could not see the ground with any clarity. The ship had come to rest upside down, but had it really reached the bottom of Ginnungagap Rift?

He looked at the console but couldn’t focus on it properly. Couldn’t - now that he paid attention to the fact - focus on much at all. It was not so bad if he closed his left eye. The gee-force might have knocked a retina loose, he speculated. It was precisely that kind of fixable damage that the Daughter was prepared to inflict in the interests of bringing him back alive.

With his right eye open he appraised the console. There was a lot of red there - Latinate script proclaiming systems defects - but also many blank areas where there should have been something. The Daughter had clearly sustained heavy damage, he realised: not just mechanical, but also to the cybernetic core of her avionics suite. The ship was in a coma.

He tried speaking. ‘Executive override. Reboot.’

Nothing happened. Voice recognition might be one of the lost faculties. Either that or the ship was as alive as she was ever going to be.

He tried again, just to be on the safe side. ‘Executive override. Reboot.’

But still nothing happened. Close down that line of enquiry, he thought.

He moved again, shifting an arm until his hand came into contact with one of the tactile control clusters. There was discomfort as he moved, but it was mostly the diffuse pain of heavy bruising rather than the sharpness of broken or dislocated limbs. He could even shift his legs without too much unpleasantness. A screaming jag of pain in his chest didn’t bode well for his ribs, however, but his breathing seemed normal enough and there were no odd sensations anywhere else in his chest or abdomen. If a few cracked ribs and a detached retina were all he had suffered, he had done rather well.

‘You always were a jammy sod,’ he said to himself as his fingers groped around the many stubs and stalks of the tactile control cluster. Every voice command had a manual equivalent; it was just a question of remembering the right combinations of movements.

He had it. Finger there, thumb there. Squeeze. Squeeze again.

The ship coughed. Red script flickered momentarily into view where there had been nothing a moment before.

Getting somewhere. There was still juice in the old girl. He tried again. The ship coughed and hummed, trying to reboot herself. Flicker of red, then nothing.

‘Come on,’ Quaiche said through gritted teeth.

He tried again. Third time lucky? The ship spluttered, seemed to shiver. The red script appeared again, faded, then came back. Other parts of the display changed: the ship explored her own functionality as she came out of the coma.

‘Nice one,’ Quaiche said as the ship squirmed, reshaping her hull - probably not intentional, just some reflex adjustment back to the default profile. Rubble sputtered against the armour, dislodged in the process. The ship pitched several degrees, Quaiche’s view shifting.

‘Careful...’ he said.

It was too late. The Scavenger’s Daughter had begun to roll, keeling off the ledge where it had come to temporary rest. Quaiche had a glimpse of the floor, still a good hundred metres below, and then it was coming up to meet him, fast.

Subjective time stretched the fall to an eternity.

Then he hit the deck; although he didn’t black out, the tumbling series of impacts felt as if something had him in its jaws and was whacking him against the ground until he either snapped or died.

He groaned. This time it seemed unlikely that he was going to get away so lightly. There was heavy pressure on his chest, as if someone had placed an anvil there. The cracked ribs had given in, most likely. That was going to hurt when he had to move. He was still alive, though. And this time the Daughter had landed right-way-up. He could see the bridge again, framed like a scene in a tourist brochure. It was as if Fate were rubbing it in, reminding him of just what it was that had got him into this mess in the first place.

Most of the red parts on the console had gone out again. He could see the reflection of his own stunned-looking face hovering behind the fragmented Latinate script, deep shadows cutting into his cheeks and eye sockets. He had seen a similar image, once: the face of some religious figure burned into the fabric of an embalming shroud. Just a sketch of a face, like something done in thick strokes of charcoal.

The indoctrinal virus grumbled in his blood.

‘Reboot,’ he said, spitting crunched tooth.

There was no response. Quaiche groped for the tactile input cluster, found the same sequence of commands, applied them. Nothing happened. He tried again, knowing that this was his only option. There was no other way to awaken the ship without a full diagnostic harness.

The console flickered. Something was still alive; there was still a chance. As he kept on applying the wake-up command, a few more systems returned from sleep each time, until, after eight or nine tries, there was no further improvement. He didn’t want to continue for fear of draining the remaining avionics power reserves, or stressing the systems that were already alive. He would just have to make do with what he had.

Closing his left eye, he scanned the red messages: a cursory glance told him that the Scavenger’s Daughter was going nowhere in a hurry. Critical flight systems had been destroyed in the attack, secondaries smashed during the collision with the wall and the long tumble to the ground. His beautiful, precious gem of a private spacecraft was ruined. Even the self-repair mechanisms would have a hard time fixing her now, even if he had months to wait while they worked. But he supposed he should be grateful that the Daughter had kept him alive. In that sense she had not failed him.

He examined the read-outs again. The Daughter’s automated distress beacon was working. Its range would be restricted by the walls of ice on either side, but there was nothing to obstruct the signal from reaching upwards - except, of course, the gas giant he had positioned between himself and Morwenna. How long was it until she would emerge from the sunlit side of Haldora?

He checked the ship’s one working chronometer. Four hours until the Dominatrix would emerge from behind Haldora.

Four hours. That was all right. He could last that long. The Dominatrix would pick up the distress signal as soon as she came out from behind Haldora, and would then need an hour or so to get down to him. Ordinarily he would never have risked bringing the other ship so close to a potentially dangerous site, but he had no choice. Besides, he doubted that the booby-trap sentries were anything to worry about now: he had destroyed two of three and the third looked to have run out of power; it would surely have taken another pot shot at him by now if it had the means.

Four hours, plus another one to reach him: five in total. That was all it would take until he was safe and sound. He would sooner have been out of the mess right now, this instant, but he could hardly complain, especially not after telling Morwenna that she had to endure six hours away from him. And that business about not sewing the relay satellites? He had to admit to himself now that he had been thinking less about Morwenna’s safety and more about not wanting to waste any time. Well, he was getting a dose of his own medicine now, wasn’t he? Better take it like a man.

Five hours. Nothing. Piece of piss.

Then he noticed one of the other read-outs. He blinked, opened both eyes, hoping that it was some fault of his vision. But there was no mistake.

The hull was breached. The flaw must be tiny: a hairline crack. Ordinarily, it would have been sealed without him knowing about it, but with so much damage to the ship, the normal repair systems were inoperable. Slowly - slowly enough that he had yet to feel it - he was losing air pressure. The Daughter was doing her best to top up the supply with the pressurised reserves, but it could not continue this indefinitely.

Quaiche did the sums. Time to exhaustion: two hours.

He wasn’t going to make it.

Did it make any difference whether or not he panicked? He mulled this over, feeling that it was important to know. It was not simply the case that he was stuck in a sealed room with a finite amount of oxygen slowly being replaced by the carbon dioxide of his exhalations. The air was whistling out through a crack in the hull, and the leak was going to continue no matter how quickly he used up the oxygen by breathing. Even if he only drew one breath in the next two hours, there would still be no air left when he came to take the next. It wasn’t depleting oxygen that was his problem, it was escaping atmosphere. In two hours he would be sucking on good hard vacuum, the kind some people paid money for. They said it hurt, for the first few seconds. But for him the transition to airlessness would be gradual. He would be unconscious - more than likely dead - long before then. Perhaps within the next ninety minutes.

But it probably wouldn’t hurt not to panic, would it? It might make a slight difference, depending on the details of the leak. If the air was being lost as it made its way through the recycling system, then it would certainly help matters if he used it as slowly as possible. Not knowing where the crack was, he might as well assume that panic would make a difference to his life expectancy. Two hours might stretch to three . . . three to four if he was really lucky and prepared to tolerate a bit of brain damage. Four might, just might, stretch to five.

He was kidding himself. He had two hours. Two and a half at the absolute limit. Panic all you like, he told himself. It was not going to make a shred of difference.

The virus tasted his fear. It gulped it up, feeding on it. It had been simmering until now, but as he tried to hold the panic at bay it rose in him, crushing rational thought.

‘No,’ Quaiche said, ‘I don’t need you now.’

But maybe he did. What good was clarity of mind if there was nothing he could do to save himself? At least the virus would let him die with the illusion that he was in the presence of something larger than himself, something that cared for him and was there to watch over him as he faded away.

But the virus simply did not care either way. It was going to flood him with immanence whether he liked it or not. There was no sound save his own breathing and the occasional patter of icy scree still raining down on him, dislodged from the high sides of the rift during his descent. There was nothing to look at except the bridge. But in the silence, distantly, he heard organ music. It was quiet now, but coming nearer, and he knew that when it reached its awesome crescendo it would fill his soul with joy and terror. And though the bridge looked much the way it had before, he could see the beginnings of stained-glass glories in the black sky beyond it, squares and rectangles and lozenges of pastel light starting to shine through the darkness, like windows into something vaster and more glorious.

‘No,’ Quaiche said, but this time without conviction.

An hour passed. Systems gave up the ghost, portions of the red script dropping off the console. Nothing that failed was going to make much difference to Quaiche’s chances of survival. The ship was not going to put him out of his misery by blowing up, however painless and immediate that might have been. No, Quaiche thought: the Scavenger’s Daughter would do all in her power to keep him alive until that last ragged breath. The sheer futility of the exercise was completely wasted on the machine. She was still sending out that distress signal, even though he would be two or three hours dead by the time the Dominatrix received it.

He laughed: gallows humour. He had always thought of the Daughter as a supremely intelligent machine. By the standards of most spacecraft - certainly anything that did not already have at least a gamma-level subpersona running it - that was probably the case. But when you boiled it down to essentials she was still a bit on the dim side.

‘Sorry, ship,’ he said. And laughed again, except this time the laughing segued into a series of self-pitying sobs.

The virus was not helping. He had hoped that it would, but the feelings it brought were too superficial. When he most needed their succour he could feel them for the paper-thin façades they were. Just because the virus was tickling the parts of his brain that produced feelings of religious experience didn’t mean he was able to turn off the other parts of his mind that recognised these feelings as having been induced artificially. He truly felt himself to be in the presence of something sacred, but he also knew, with total clarity, that this was due to neuroanatomy. Nothing was really with him: the organ music, the stained-glass windows in the sky, the sense of proximity to something huge and timeless and infinitely compassionate were all explicable in terms of neural wiring, firing potentials, synaptic gaps.

In his moment of greatest need, when he most desired that comfort, it had deserted him. He was just a Godless man with a botched virus in his blood, running out of air, running out of time, on a world to which he had given a name that would soon be forgotten.

‘I’m sorry, Mor,’ he said. ‘I screwed up. I really fucking screwed up.’

He thought of her, so distant from him, so unreachable . . . and then he remembered the glass-blower.

He hadn’t thought about the man for a long time, but then again it had been a long time since he had felt this alone. What was his name? Trollhattan, that was it. Quaiche had encountered him in one of the migrogravitic commercial atria of Pygmalion, one of Parsifal’s moons, around Tau Ceti.

There had been a glass-blowing demonstration. The free-fall artisan Trollhattan had been an ancient Skyjack defector with plug-in limbs and a face with skin like cured elephant hide, cratered with the holes where radiation-strike melanomas had been inexpertly removed. Trollhattan made fabulous glass constructs: lacy, room-filling things, some of them so delicate that they could not withstand even the mild gravity of a major moon. The constructs were always different. There were three-dimensional glass orreries that stressed the eye with their aching fineness. There were flocks of glass birds, thousands of them, linked together by the tiniest mutual contact of wingtip against wingtip. There were shoals of a thousand fish, the glass of each fish shot through with the subtlest of colours, yellows and blues, the rose-tipped fins of a heartbreaking translucence. There were squadrons of angels, skirmishes of galleons from the age of fighting sail, fanciful reproductions of major space battles. There were creations that were almost painful to look at, as if by the very act of observation one might subtly unbalance the play of light and shade across them, causing some tiny latent crack to widen to the point where the structure became unsustainable. Once, an entire Trollhattan glasswork had indeed spontaneously exploded during its public unveiling, leaving no shard larger than a beetle. No one had ever been sure whether that had been part of the intended effect.

What everyone agreed on was that Trollhattan artefacts were expensive. They were not cheap to buy in the first place, but the export costs were a joke. Just getting one of the things off Pygmalion would bankrupt a modest Demarchist state. They could be buffered in smart packing to tolerate modest accelerations, but every attempt to ship a Trollhattan artefact between solar systems had resulted in a lot of broken glass. All surviving works were still in the Tau Ceti system. Entire families had relocated to Parsifal just to be able to possess and show off their own Trollhattan creation.

It was said that somewhere in interstellar space, a slow-moving automated barge carried hundreds of the artefacts, crawling towards another system (which one depended on which story you listened to) at a few per cent of light-speed, fulfilling a commission placed decades earlier. It was also said that whoever had the wit to intercept and pirate that barge - without shattering the Trollhattan artefacts - would be wealthy beyond the bounds of decency. In an era in which practically anything with a blueprint could be manufactured at negligible cost, handmade artefacts with watertight provenance were amongst the few ‘valuable’ things left.

Quaiche had considered dabbling in the Trollhattan market during his stay on Parsifal. He had even, briefly, hooked up with an artisan who believed he could produce high-quality fakes using miniature servitors to chew away an entire room-sized block of glass. Quaiche had seen the dry-runs: they were good, but not that good. There was something about the prismatic quality of a real Trollhattan that nothing else in the universe quite matched. It was like the difference between ice and diamond. In any case, the provenance part had been the killer. Unless someone killed off Trollhattan, there was no way the market would swallow the fakes.

Quaiche had been sniffing around Trollhattan when he saw the demonstration. He had wanted to see if there was any dirt he could use on the glass-blower, anything that might make him open to negotiation. If Trollhattan could be persuaded to turn a blind eye when the fakes started hitting the market - saying he didn’t exactly remember making them, but didn’t exactly remember not making them either - then there might still be some mileage to be had out of the scam.

But Trollhattan had been untouchable. He never said anything and he never moved in the usual artists’ circles.

He just blew glass.

Dismayed, his enthusiasm for the whole thing waning in any case, Quaiche had lingered long enough to watch part of the demonstration. His cold, dispassionate interest in the practical matter of the value of Trollhattan’s art had quickly given way to awe at what was actually involved.

Trollhattan’s demonstration involved only a small work, not one of the room-filling creations. When Quaiche arrived, the man had already crafted a wonderfully intricate free-floating plant, a thing of translucent green stem and leaves with many horn-shaped flowers in pale ruby; now Trollhattan was fashioning an exquisite shimmering blue thing next to one of the flowers. Quaiche did not immediately recognise the shape, but when Trollhattan began to draw out the incredibly fine curve of a beak towards the flower, Quaiche saw the hummingbird. The arc of amber tapered to its point a finger’s width from the flower, and Quaiche imagined that this would be it, that the bird and the plant would float next to one another without being connected. But then the angle of the light shifted and he realised that between the tip of the beak and the stigma of the plant was the finest possible line of blown glass, a crack of gold like the last filament of daylight in a planetary sunset, and that what he was seeing was the tongue of the hummingbird, blown in glass.

The effect had surely been deliberate, for the other onlookers noticed the tongue at more or less the same moment. No suggestion of emotion flickered on the parts of Trollhattan’s face still nominally capable of registering it.

In that moment, Quaiche despised the glass-blower. He despised the vanity of his genius, judging that studied and total absence of emotion to be as reprehensible as any display of pride. Yet he also felt a vast upwelling of admiration for the trick he had just seen performed. How would it feel, Quaiche wondered, to import a glimpse of the miraculous into everyday life? Trollhattan’s spectators lived in an age of miracles and wonders. Yet that glimpse of the hummingbird’s tongue had clearly been the most surprising and wonderful thing any of them had seen in a long time.

It was certainly true for Quaiche. A sliver of glass had moved him to the core, when he was least expecting it.

He thought now of the hummingbird’s tongue. Whenever he was forced to leave Morwenna, he always imagined a thread of stretching molten glass, tinged with gold and spun out to the exquisite thinness of the hummingbird’s tongue, connecting himself to her. As the distance increased, so did the thinness and inherent fragility of the tongue. But as long as he was able to hold that image in mind, and consider himself still linked to her, his isolation did not seem total. He could still feel her through the glass, the tremors of her breathing racing along the thread.

But the thread seemed thinner and frailer now than he had ever imagined it, and he didn’t think he could feel her breathing at all.

He checked the time: another half-hour had passed. Optimistically, he could not have much more than thirty or forty minutes of air left. Was it his imagination or had the air already begun to taste stale and thin?

Hela, 2727

Rashmika saw the caravan before the others did. It was half a kilometre ahead, merging on to the same track they were following, but still half-hidden by a low series of icy bluffs. It appeared to move very slowly compared to Crozet’s vehicle, but as they got closer she realised that this was not true: the vehicles of the caravan were much larger, and it was only this size that made their progress seem at all ponderous.

The caravan was a string of perhaps four dozen machines stretching along nearly a quarter of a kilometre of the trail. They moved in two closely spaced columns, almost nose-to-tail, with no more than a metre or two between the back of each vehicle and the front of the one behind it. In Rashmika’s estimation, no two of them were exactly alike, although in a few cases it was possible to see that the vehicles must have started off identically, before being added to, chopped about or generally abused by their owners. Their upper structures were a haphazard confusion of jutting additions buttressed with scaffolding. Symbols of ecclesiastical affiliation had been sprayed on wherever possible, often in complicated chains denoting the shifting allegiances between the major churches. On the rooftops of many of the caravan machines were enormous tilted surfaces, all canted at the same precise angle by gleaming pistons. Vapour puffed from hundreds of exhaust apertures.

The majority of the caravan vehicles moved on wheels as tall as houses, six or eight under each machine. A few others moved on plodding caterpillar tracks, or multiple sets of jointed walking limbs. A couple of the vehicles used the same kind of rhythmic skiing motion as Crozet’s icejammer. One machine moved like a slug, inching itself along via propulsive waves of its segmented mechanical body. She had no idea at all how a couple of them were propelled. But regardless of their mismatched designs, all the machines were able to keep exact pace with each other. The entire ensemble moved with such co-ordinated precision that there were walkways and tunnels thrown across the gaps between them. They creaked and flexed as the distances varied by fractions of a metre, but were never broken or crushed.

Crozet steered his icejammer alongside the caravan, using what remained of the trail, and inched forwards. The rumbling wheels towered above the little vehicle. Rashmika watched Crozet’s hands on the controls with a degree of unease. All it would take would be a slip of the wrist, a moment’s inattention, and they would be crushed under those wheels. But Crozet looked calm enough, as if he had done this kind of thing hundreds of times before.

‘What are you looking for?’ Rashmika asked.

‘The king vehicle,’ Crozet said quietly. ‘The reception point - the place where the caravan does business. It’s normally somewhere near the front. This is a pretty big lash-up, though. Haven’t seen one like this for a few years.’

‘I’m impressed,’ Rashmika said, looking up at the moving edifice of machinery towering above the little jammer.

‘Well, don’t be too impressed,’ Crozet said. ‘A cathedral - a proper cathedral - is a bit bigger than this. They move slower, but they don’t stop either. They can’t, not easily. Like stopping a glacier. Near one of those mothers, even I get a bit twitchy. Wouldn’t be half so bad if they didn’t move . . .’

‘There’s the king,’ Linxe said, pointing through the gap in the first column. ‘Other side, dear. You’ll have to loop around.’

‘Fuck. This is the bit I really don’t like.’

‘Play it safe and come up from the rear.’

‘Nah.’ Crozet flashed an arc of dreadful teeth. ‘Got to show some bloody balls, haven’t I?’

Rashmika felt her seat kick into the back of her spine as Crozet applied full power. The column slid past as they overtook the vehicles one by one. They were moving faster, but not by very much. Rashmika had expected the caravan to move silently, the way most things did on Hela. She couldn’t exactly hear it, but she felt it - a rumble below audible sound, a chorus of sonic components reaching her through the ice, through the ski blades, through the complicated suspension systems of the icejammer. There was the steady rumble of the wheels, like a million booted feet being stamped in impatience. There was the thud, thud, thud, as each plate of the caterpillar tracks slammed into ice. There was the scrabble of picklike mechanical feet struggling for traction against frosty ground. There was the low, groaning scrape of the segmented machine, and a dozen other noises she couldn’t isolate. Behind it all, like a series of organ notes, Rashmika heard the labour of countless engines.

Crozet’s icejammer had gained some distance from the leading pair of machines, which had dropped back behind them by perhaps twice their own length. Batteries of floodlights shone ahead of the caravan, bathing Crozet’s vehicle in harsh blue radiance. Rashmika saw tiny figures moving behind windows, and even on the top of the machines themselves, leaning against railings. They wore pressure suits marked with religious iconography.

The caravans were a fact of life on Hela, but Rashmika admitted to only scant knowledge of how they operated. She knew the basics, though. The caravans were the mobile agents of the great churches, the bodies that ran the cathedrals. Of course, the cathedrals moved - slowly, as Crozet had said - but they were almost always confined to the equatorial belt of the Permanent Way. They sometimes deviated from the Way, but never this far north or south.

The all-terrain caravans, however, could travel more freely. They had the speed to make journeys far from the Way and yet still catch up with their mother cathedrals on the same revolution. They split up and re-formed as they moved, sending out smaller expeditions and merging with others for parts of their journeys. Often, a single caravan might represent three or four different churches, churches that might have fundamentally different views on the matter of the Quaiche miracle and its interpretation. But all the churches shared common needs for labourers and component parts. They all needed recruits.

Crozet steered the icejammer into the central part of the path, immediately ahead of the convoy. They had encountered a slight upgrade now, and the slope was causing the icejammer to lose its advantage of speed compared to the caravan, which merely rolled on, oblivious to the change in level.

‘Be careful now,’ Linxe said.

Crozet flicked his control sticks and the rear of the icejammer swung to the other side of the procession. The nose followed, and with a thud the skis settled into older grooves in the ice. The gradient had sharpened even more, but that was all right now - Crozet no longer needed to keep ahead of the caravan. Slowly, therefore, but with the unstoppable momentum of land sliding past a ship, the lead machines caught up with them.

‘That’s the king, all right,’ Crozet said. ‘Looks like they’re ready for us, too.’

Rashmika had no idea what he meant, but as they drew alongside, she saw a pair of skeletal cranes swinging out from the roof, dropping metal hooks. A jaunty pair of suited figures rode down on the cable lines, one standing on each hook. Then they passed out of view, and nothing happened for several further seconds until she heard heavy footsteps stomping around somewhere on the roof of the jammer. Then she heard the clunk of metal against metal, and a moment later the motion of the icejammer was dreamily absent. They were being winched off the ice, suspended to one side of the caravan.

‘Cheeky sods do it every time,’ Crozet said. ‘But there’s no point arguing with ’em. You either take it or leave it.’

‘At least we can get off and stretch our legs for a bit,’ Linxe said.

‘Are we on the caravan now?’ Rashmika asked. ‘Officially, I mean?’

‘We’re on it,’ Crozet said.

Rashmika nodded, relieved that they were now out of reach of the Vigrid constabulary. There had been no sign of the investigators, but in her mind’s eye they had only ever been one or two bends behind Crozet’s icejammer.

She still did not know what to make of the business of the constabulary. She had expected some fuss to be made if the authorities discovered she had run away. But beyond a request for people to keep a lookout for her - and to return her to the badlands if they found her - she had not expected any active efforts to be made to bring her back. It was worse than that, of course, since the constabulary had got it into their heads that she’d had something to do with the explosion in the demolition store. She guessed they were assuming that she was running away because she had done it, out of fear at being found out. They were wrong, of course, but in the absence of a better suspect she had no obvious defence.

Crozet and Linxe, thankfully, had given her the benefit of the doubt: either that or they just didn’t care what she might have done. But she had still been worried about a constabulary roadblock bringing the icejammer to a halt before they reached the caravan.

Now she could stop worrying - about that, at least.

It only took a minute for a docking arrangement to be set up. Crozet appeared to have precious little say in the matter, for without him doing anything that Rashmika was aware of, the air in the vehicle gusted, making her ears pop slightly. Then she heard footsteps coming aboard.

‘They like you to know who’s boss,’ Crozet told her, as if this needed explaining. ‘But don’t be afraid of anyone here, Rashmika. They put on a show of strength, but they still need us badlanders.’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ Rashmika told him.

A man bustled into the cabin as if he had left on some minor errand only a minute earlier. His wide froglike face had a meaty complexion, the bridge of skin between the base of his flat nub of a nose and the top of his mouth glistening with something unpleasant. He wore a long-hemmed coat of thick purple fabric, the collars and cuffs generously puffed. A lopsided beret marked with a tiny intricate sigil sat lopsidedly on the red froth of his hair, while his fingers were encumbered by many ornate rings. He carried a compad in one hand, its read-out screen scrolling through columns of numbers in antique script. There was, Rashmika noticed, a kind of construction perched on his right shoulder, a jointed thing of bright green columns and tubes. She had no idea of its function, whether it was an ornament or some arcane medical accessory.

‘Mr Crozet,’ the man said by way of welcome. ‘What an unexpected surprise. I really didn’t think you were going to make it this time.’

Crozet shrugged. Rashmika could tell he was doing his best to look nonchalant and unconcerned, but the act needed some work. ‘Can’t keep a good man down, Quaestor.’

‘Perhaps not.’ The man glanced at the screen, pursing his lips in the manner of someone sucking on a lemon. ‘You have, however, left things a tiny bit late in the day. Pickings are slim, Crozet. I trust you will not be too disappointed.’

‘My life is a series of disappointments, Quaestor. I think I’ve probably got used to it by now.’

‘One devoutly hopes that is the case. We must all of us know our station in life, Crozet.’

‘I certainly know mine, Quaestor.’ Crozet did something to the control panel, presumably powering down the icejammer. ‘Well, are you open for business or not? You’ve really been working hard to polish that lukewarm welcome routine.’

The man smiled very thinly. ‘This is hospitality, Crozet. A lukewarm welcome would have involved leaving you on the ice, or running you over.’

‘I’d best count my blessings, then.’

‘Who are you?’ Rashmika asked suddenly, surprising herself.

‘This is Quaestor . . .’ Linxe said, before she was cut off.

‘Quaestor Rutland Jones,’ the man interrupted, his tone actorly, as if playing to the gallery. ‘Master of Auxiliary Supplies, Superintendent of Caravans and other Mobile Units, Roving Legate of the First Adventist Church. And you’d be?’

‘The First Adventists?’ she asked, just to make sure she had heard him properly. There were many offshoots of the First Adventists, a number of them rather large and influential churches in their own right, and some of them had names so similar that it was easy to get them confused. But the First Adventist Church was the one she was interested in. She added, ‘As in the oldest church, the one that goes all the way back?’

‘Unless I am very mistaken about my employer, yes. I still don’t believe you have answered my question, however.’

‘Rashmika,’ she said, ‘Rashmika Els.’

‘Els.’ The man chewed on the syllable. ‘Quite a common name in the villages of the Vigrid badlands, I believe. But I don’t think I’ve ever encountered an Els this far south.’

‘You might have, once,’ Rashmika said. But that was a little unfair: though the caravan her brother had travelled on had also been affiliated to the Adventists, it was unlikely that it had been this one.

‘I’d remember, I think.’

‘Rashmika is travelling with us,’ Linxe said. ‘Rashmika is . . . a clever girl. Aren’t you, dear?’

‘I get by,’ Rashmika said.

‘She thought she might find a role in the churches,’ Linxe said. She licked her fingers and neatened the hair covering her birthmark.

He put down the compad. ‘A role?’

‘Something technical,’ Rashmika said. She had rehearsed this encounter a dozen times, always in her imagination having the upper hand, but it was all happening too quickly and not the way she had hoped.

‘We can always use keen young girls,’ the quaestor said. He was digging in a chest pocket for something. ‘And boys, for that matter. It would depend on your talents.’

‘I have no talents,’ Rashmika said, transforming the word into an obscenity. ‘But I happen to be literate and numerate. I can program most marques of servitor. I know a great deal about the study of the scuttlers. I have ideas about their extinction. Surely that can be of use to someone in the church.’

‘She wonders if she couldn’t find a position in one of the church-sponsored archaeological study groups,’ Linxe said.

‘Is that so?’ the quaestor asked.

Rashmika nodded. As far as she was concerned, the church-sponsored study groups were a joke, existing only to rubber-stamp current Quaicheist doctrine regarding the scuttlers; but she had to start somewhere. Her real goal was to reach Harbin, not to advance her study of the scuttlers. However, it would be much easier to find him if she began her service in a clerical position - such as one of the study groups - rather than with lowly work like Way repair.

‘I think I could be of value,’ she said.

‘Knowing a great deal about the study of a subject is not the same as knowing anything about the subject itself,’ the quaestor told her with a sympathetic smile. He pulled his hand from his breast pocket, a small pinch of seeds between forefinger and thumb. The jointed green thing on his shoulder stirred, moving with a curious stiffness that reminded Rashmika of something inflated, like a balloon-creature. It was an animal, but unlike any that Rashmika - in her admittedly limited experience - remembered seeing. She saw now that at one end of its thickest tube was a turretlike head, with faceted eyes and a delicate, mechanical-looking mouth. The quaestor offered his fingers to the creature, pursing his lips in encouragement. The creature stretched itself down his arm and attacked the pinch of seeds with a nibbling politeness. What was it? she wondered. The body and limbs were insectile, but the elongated coil of its tail, which was wrapped around the quaestor’s upper arm several times, was more suggestive of a reptile. And there was something uniquely birdlike about the way it ate. She remembered birds from somewhere, brilliant crested strutting things of cobalt blue with tails that opened like fans. Peacocks. But where had she ever seen peacocks?

The quaestor smiled at his pet. ‘Doubtless you have read many books,’ he said, looking sidelong at Rashmika. ‘That is to be applauded.’

She looked at the animal warily. ‘I grew up in the digs, Quaestor. I’ve helped with the excavation work. I’ve breathed scuttler dust from the moment I was born.’

‘Unfortunately, though, that’s hardly the most unique of claims. How many scuttler fossils have you examined?’

‘None,’ Rashmika said, after a moment.

‘Well, then.’ The quaestor dabbed his forefinger against his lip, then touched it against the mouthpiece of the animal. ‘That’s enough for you, Peppermint.’

Crozet coughed. ‘Shall we continue this discussion aboard the caravan, Quaestor? I don’t want to have too great a journey back home, and we still have a lot of business to attend to.’

The creature - Peppermint - retreated back along the quaestor’s arm now that its feast was over. It began to clean its face with tiny scissoring forelimbs.

‘The girl’s your responsibility, Crozet?’ the quaestor asked.

‘Not exactly, no.’ He looked at Rashmika and corrected himself.

‘What I mean is, yes, I’m taking care of her until she gets where she’s going, and I’ll take it personally if anyone lays a hand on her. But what she does with herself after that is none of my business.’

The quaestor’s attention snapped back to Rashmika. ‘And how old are you, exactly?’

‘Old enough,’ she said.

The green creature turned the turret of its head towards her, its blank faceted eyes like blackberries.

Hela Surface, 2615

Quaiche slipped in and out of consciousness. With each transition, the difference between the two states became less clear cut. He hallucinated, and then hallucinated that the hallucinations were real. He kept seeing rescuers scrabbling over the scree, picking up their pace as they saw him, waving their gloved hands in greeting. The second or third time, it made him laugh to think that he had imagined rescuers arriving under exactly the same circumstances as the real ones. No one would ever believe him, would they?

But somewhere between the rescuers arriving and the point where they started getting him to safety, he always ended up back in the ship, his chest aching, one eye seeing the world as if through a gauze.

The Dominatrix kept arriving, sliding down between the sheer walls of the rift. The long, dark ship would kneel down on spikes of arresting thrust. The mid-hull access hatch would slide open and Morwenna would emerge. She would come out in a blur of pistons, racing to his rescue, as magnificent and terrible as an army arrayed for battle. She would pull him from the wreck of the Daughter, and with a dreamlike illogic he would not need to breathe as she helped him back to the other ship through a crisp, airless landscape of shadow and light. Or she would come out in the scrimshaw suit, somehow managing to make it move even though he knew the thing was welded tight, incapable of flexing.

Gradually the hallucinations took precedence over rational thought. In a period of lucidity, it occurred to Quaiche that the kindest thing would be for one of the hallucinations to occur just as he died, so that he was spared the jolting realisation that he had still to be rescued.

He saw Jasmina coming to him, striding across the scree with Grelier lagging behind. The queen was clawing out her eyes as she approached, banners of gore streaming after her.

He kept waking up, but the hallucinations blurred into one another, and the feelings induced by the virus became stronger. He had never known such intensity of experience before, even when the virus had first entered him. The music was behind every thought, the stained-glass light permeating every atom of the universe. He felt intensely observed, intensely loved. The emotions did not feel like a façade any more, but the way things really were. It was as if until now he had only been seeing the reflection of something, or hearing the muffled echo of some exquisitely lovely and heart-wrenching music. Could this really just be the action of an artificially engineered virus on his brain? It had always felt like that before, a series of crude mechanically induced responses, but now the emotions felt like an integral part of him, leaving no room for anything else. It was like the difference between a theatrical stage effect and a thunderstorm.

Some dwindling, rational part of him said that nothing had really changed, that the feelings were still due to the virus. His brain was being starved of oxygen as the air in the cabin ran out. Under those circumstances, it would not have been unusual to feel some emotional changes. And with the virus still present, the effects could have been magnified many times.

But that rational part was quickly squeezed out of existence.

All he felt was the presence of the Almighty.

‘All right,’ Quaiche said, before passing out, ‘I believe now. You got me. But I still need a miracle.’

TEN

Hela, 2615

He woke. He was moving. The air was cold but fresh and there was no pain in his chest. So this is it, he thought. The last hallucination, perhaps, before his brain slid into the trough of cascading cell-death. Just make it a good one, and try to keep it up until I die. That’s all I’m asking for.

But it felt real this time.

He tried looking around, but he was still trapped inside the Daughter . Yet his view of things was moving, the landscape bouncing and jolting. He realised that he was being dragged across the scree, down to the level part of the floor. He craned his neck and through his good eye he saw a commotion of pistons, shining limb joints.

Morwenna.

But it wasn’t Morwenna. It was a servitor, one of the repair units from the Dominatrix. The spiderlike robot had attached adhesive traction plates to the Scavenger’s Daughter and was hauling it across the ground, with Quaiche still in it. Of course, of course, of course: how else was it going to get him out of there? He felt stupid now. He had no suit and no airlock. For all intents and purposes, in fact, the ship was his vacuum suit. Why had this never occurred to him before?

He felt better: clear-headed and sharp. He noticed that the servitor had plugged something into one of the Daughter’s umbilical points. Feeding fresh air back into it, probably. The Daughter would have told the servitor what needed to be done to keep her occupant alive. The air might even be supercharged with oxygen, to take the edge off his pain and anxiety.

He could not believe this was happening. After all the hallucinations, this really, genuinely felt like reality. It had the prickly texture of actual experience. And he did not think that servitors had featured in any of his hallucinations to date. He had never thought things through clearly enough to work out that a servitor would have to drag the ship to safety with him in it. Obvious in hindsight, but in his dreams it had always been people coming to his rescue. That one neglected detail had to make it real, didn’t it?

Quaiche looked at the console. How much time had passed? Had he really managed to make the air last for five hours? It had seemed doubtful before, but here he was, still breathing. Perhaps the indoctrinal virus had helped, putting his brain into some mysterious state of zenlike calm so that he used up the oxygen less quickly.

But there wouldn’t have been any air left, let alone oxygen, not by the third or fourth hour. Unless the ship had made a mistake. This was a dismaying thought, given all that he had been through, but it was the only possible explanation. The air leak must not have been as serious as the Daughter had thought it was. Perhaps it had started off badly, but had sealed itself to some extent. Perhaps the auto-repair systems had not been totally destroyed, and the Daughter had been able to fix the leak.

Yes, that had to be it. There was simply no other explanation.

But the console said that only three hours had passed since his crash.

That wasn’t possible. The Dominatrix was still supposed to be tucked away behind Haldora, out of communications range. It would be out of range for another sixty minutes! Many more minutes, even at maximum burn, before it could possibly reach him. And maximum burn was not an option either, was it? There was a person aboard the ship who had to be protected. At the very least, the Dominatrix would have been restricted to slowdown acceleration.

But it was sitting there, on the ice. It looked as real as anything else.

The time had to be wrong, he thought. The time had to be wrong, and the leak must have fixed itself. There was no other possibility. Well, there was, now that he thought about it, but it did not merit close examination. If the time was right, then the Dominatrix must have somehow received his distress signal before emerging from behind Haldora. The signal would have had to find its way around the obstruction of the planet. Could that have happened? He had assumed it was impossible, but with the evidence of the ship sitting before him, he was ready to consider anything. Had some quirk of atmospheric physics acted as a relay for his message, curving it around Haldora? He couldn’t swear that something like that was impossible. If the clock was correct, what was the alternative? That the entire planet had ceased to exist just long enough for his message to get through?

Now that would have been a miracle. He had asked for one, but he hadn’t really been expecting one.

Another servitor was waiting by the open dorsal lock. Cooperating, the two machines hoisted the Daughter into the Dominatrix . Once inside the bay, the machines nudged the Daughter until a series of clunking sounds resonated through the hull. Despite the damage it had sustained, the little ship was still more or less the right shape to be accommodated by the cradle. Quaiche looked down, watched the airlock sealing beneath him.

A minute later, another servitor - much smaller this time - was opening the Daughter, preparing to lift him out of it.

‘Morwenna,’ he said, finding the energy to talk despite the returning pain in his chest. ‘Morwenna, I’m back. Bruised but intact.’

But there was no reply.

Ararat, 2675

The capsule was preparing to open. Clavain sat before it, his fingers laced together beneath his chin, his head bowed as if in prayer, or the remorseful contemplation of some recent and dreadful sin.

He had thrown back his hood; white hair spilled over the collar of his coat and on to his shoulders. He looked like an old man, of obvious stature and respectability, but he did not look much like the Clavain everyone thought they knew. Scorpio had little doubt that the workers would go back to their husbands and wives, lovers and friends and, despite express orders to the contrary, they would talk abut the elderly apparition that had materialised out of the night. They would remark on his uncanny similarity to Clavain, but how much older and frailer he looked. Scorpio was equally certain they would prefer the old man to turn out to be someone else entirely, with their leader really halfway around the world. If they accepted this old man as Clavain, it meant that they had been lied to, and that Clavain was nothing more than a grey ghost of himself.

Scorpio sat down in the vacant seat next to him. ‘Picking something up?’

It was a while before Clavain answered, his voice a whisper. ‘Not much more than the housekeeping stuff I already reported. The capsule blocks most of his neural transmissions. They’re only coming through in shards, and sometimes the packets are scrambled.’

‘Then you’re certain it’s Remontoire?’

‘I’m certain that it isn’t Skade. Who else can it be?’

‘I’d say there are dozens of possibilities,’ Scorpio whispered back.

‘No, there aren’t. The person inside this capsule is a Conjoiner.’

‘One of Skade’s allies, then.’

‘No. Her friends were all cast from the same mould: new-model Conjoiners, fast and efficient and as cold as ice. Their minds feel different.’

‘You’re losing me, Nevil.’

‘You think we’re all alike, Scorp. We’re not. We never were. Every Conjoiner I ever linked minds with was different. Whenever I touched Remontoire’s thoughts it was like . . .’ Clavain hesitated for a moment, smiling slightly when the right analogy occurred to him. ‘Like touching the mechanism of a clock. An old clock, good and dependable. The kind they had in churches. Something made of iron, something ratcheted and geared. I think to him I was something even slower and more mechanical . . . a grindstone, perhaps. Whereas Galiana’s mind . . .’

He faltered.

‘Easy, Nevil.’

‘I’m all right. Her mind was like a room full of birds. Beautiful, clever songbirds. And they were singing - not in some mindless cacophony, not in unison, but to each other - a web of song, a shining, shimmering conversation, quicker than the mind could follow. And Felka . . .’ He hesitated again, but resumed his thread almost immediately. ‘Felka’s was like a turbine hall, that awful impression of simultaneous stillness and dreadful speed. She seldom let me see deep into it. I’m sure she thought I wouldn’t be able to take it.’

‘And Skade?’

‘She was like a shining silver abattoir, all whirling and whisking blades, designed to slice and chop reality and anyone foolish enough to peer too far into her skull. At least, that’s what I saw when she let me. It may not have had very much to do with her true mental state. Her head was like a hall of mirrors. What you saw in it was only what she wanted you to see.’

Scorpio nodded. He had met Skade on precisely one occasion, for a few minutes only. Clavain and the pig had infiltrated her ship, which was damaged and drifting after she had attempted, with the aid of dangerous alien machinery, to exceed the speed of light. She had been weakened then, and evidently disturbed by the things that she had seen after the accident. But even though he had not been able to see into her mind, he had come away from the meeting with a sure sense that Skade was not a woman to be trifled with.

Frankly, he did not very much mind that he would never be able to see into her skull. But he still had to assume the worst. If Skade was in the capsule, it was entirely possible that she would be disguising her neural packets, lulling Clavain into a false sense of security, waiting for the moment when she could claw her way into his skull.

‘The instant you feel anything odd . . .’ Scorpio began.

‘It’s Rem.’

‘You’re absolutely certain of that?’

‘I’m certain it isn’t Skade. Good enough for you?’

‘I suppose it’ll have to do, pal.’

‘It had better,’ Clavain said, ‘because . . .’ He fell silent and blinked. ‘Wait. Something’s happening.’

‘Good or bad?’

‘We’re all about to find out.’

The glowing displays in the side of the egg had never been still since the moment it had been pulled from the sea, but now they were changing abruptly, flicking from one distinct mode to another. A pulsing red circle was now flashing several times a second rather than once every ten. Scorpio watched it, hypnotised, and then observed it stop flashing entirely, glaring at them with baleful intent. The red circle became green. Something inside the egg made a muffled series of clunks, making Scorpio think of the kind of old mechanical clock Clavain had described. A moment later the side of the capsule cracked open: Scorpio, for all that he was expecting something, jumped at the sudden lurch of movement. Cool steam vented out from under the widening crack. A large plaque of scorched metal folded itself back on smooth hinged machinery.

A jangle of smells hit the pig: sterilising agents, mechanical lubricants, boiling coolants, human effluvia.

The steam cleared to reveal a naked human woman packed inside the egg, bent into a foetal position. She was covered in a scum of protective green jelly; lacy black machinery curled around her, like vines wrapping a statue.

‘Skade?’ Scorpio said. She didn’t look like his memories of Skade - her head was the right shape, for a start - but a second opinion never hurt.

‘Not Skade,’ Clavain said. ‘And not Remontoire, either.’ He stood back from the capsule.

Some automated system kicked in. The machinery began to unwind itself from around her, while pressure jets cleansed her skin of the protective green jelly. Beneath the matrix her flesh was a pale shade of caramel. The hair on her skull had been shaved almost to the scalp. Small breasts were tucked into the concave space between her legs and upper body.

‘Let me see her,’ Valensin said.

Scorpio held him back. ‘Hold on. She’s come this far on her own; I’m sure she can manage for a few more minutes.’

‘Scorp’s right,’ Clavain said.

The woman quivered like some inanimate thing shocked into a parody of life. With stiff scrabbling movements she picked at the jelly with her fingers, flinging it away in cloying patches. Her movements became more frantic, as if she was trying to douse a fire.

‘Hello,’ Clavain said, raising his voice. ‘Take it easy. You’re safe and amongst friends.’

The seat or frame into which the woman had been folded pushed itself from the egg on pistons. Even though much of the enveloping machinery had unwrapped itself, a great many cables still vanished into the woman’s body. A complex plastic breathing apparatus obscured the lower part of her face, giving her a simian profile.

‘Anyone recognise her?’ Vasko asked.

The frame was slowly unwinding the woman, pulling her out of the foetal position into a normal human posture. Ligaments and joints creaked and clicked unpleasantly. Beneath the mask the woman groaned and began to rip away the cables and lines that punctured her skin or were attached to it by adhesive patches.

‘I recognise her,’ Clavain said quietly. ‘Her name’s Ana Khouri. She was Ilia Volyova’s sidekick on the old Infinity, before it fell into our hands.’

‘The ex-soldier,’ Scorpio said, remembering the few times he had met the woman and the little he knew of her past. ‘You’re right - it’s her. But she looks different, somehow.’

‘She would. She’s twenty years older, give or take. They’ve also turned her into a Conjoiner.’

‘You mean she wasn’t one before?’ Vasko asked.

‘Not while we knew her,’ Clavain said.

Scorpio looked at the old man. ‘Are you sure she’s one now?’

‘I picked up her thoughts, didn’t I? I could tell she wasn’t Skade or one of Skade’s cronies. Stupidly, I assumed that meant she had to be Remontoire.’

Valensin attempted to push past one more time. ‘I’d like to help her now, if that’s not too much of an inconvenience.’

‘She’s taking care of herself,’ Scorpio said.

Khouri sat in what was almost a normal position, the way someone might sit while waiting for an appointment. But the moment of composure only lasted a few seconds. She reached up and pulled away the mask, tugging fifteen centimetres of phlegmy plastic tubing from her throat. At that point she let out a single bellowing gasp, as if someone had punched her unexpectedly in the stomach. Hacking coughs followed, before her breathing settled down.

‘Scorpio . . .’ Valensin said.

‘Doc, I haven’t hit a man in twenty-three years. Don’t give me a reason to make an exception. Sit down, all right?’

‘Better do as he says,’ Clavain told him.

Khouri turned her head to face them. She held up a palm to shade the bloodshot slits of her eyes, blinking through the gaps between her fingers.

Then she stood, still facing them. Scorpio watched with polite indifference. Some pigs would have been stimulated by the presence of a naked human woman, just as there were some humans who were attracted to pigs. But although the points of physiological difference between a female pig and a female human were hardly extreme, it was precisely those differences that mattered to Scorpio.

Khouri steadied herself by holding on to the capsule with one hand. She stood with her knees slightly together, as if at any moment she might collapse. Yet she was able to tolerate the glare now, if only by squinting at them.

She spoke. Her voice was hoarse but firm. ‘Where am I?’

‘You’re on Ararat,’ Scorpio said.

‘Where.’ It was not phrased as a question.

‘On Ararat will do for now.’

‘Near your main settlement, I’m guessing.’

‘As I said . . .’

‘How long has it been?’

‘That depends,’ Scorpio said. ‘A couple of days since we picked up the beacon from your capsule. How long you were under the sea, we don’t know. Or how long it took you to reach the planet.’

‘A couple of days?’ The way she looked at him, it was as if he had said weeks or months. ‘What exactly took you so long?’

‘You’re lucky we got to you as quickly as we did,’ Blood said. ‘And the wake-up schedule wasn’t in our control.’

‘Two days . . . Where’s Clavain? I want to see him. Please don’t anyone tell me you let him die before I got here.’

‘You needn’t worry about that,’ Clavain said mildly. ‘As you can see, I’m still very much alive.’

She stared at him for a few seconds with the sneering expression of someone who thought they might be the victim of a poorly executed hoax. ‘You?’

‘Yes.’ He offered his palms. ‘Sorry to be such a disappointment.’ She looked at him for a moment longer, then said, ‘I’m sorry. It’s just not . . . quite what I was expecting.’

‘I believe I can still make myself useful.’ He turned to Blood. ‘Fetch her a blanket, will you? We don’t want her catching her death of cold. Then I think we’d better let Doctor Valensin perform a comprehensive medical examination.’

‘No time for that,’ Khouri said, ripping away a few adhesive patches she had missed. ‘I want you to get me something that can cross water. And some weapons.’ She paused, then added, ‘And some food and water. And some clothes.’

‘You seem in a bit of a hurry,’ Clavain said. ‘Can’t it wait until morning? It’s been twenty-three years, after all. There must be a great deal to talk about.’

‘You have no fucking idea,’ she said.

Blood handed Clavain a blanket. He stepped forward and offered it to Khouri. She wrapped it around herself without any real enthusiasm.

‘We can do boats,’ Clavain said, ‘and guns. But I think it might help if we had some idea just why you need them right this moment.’

‘Because of my baby,’ Khouri said.

Clavain nodded politely. ‘Your baby.’

‘My daughter. Her name’s Aura. She’s here, on . . . what did you say this place was called?’

‘Ararat,’ Clavain said.

‘OK, she’s here on Ararat. And I’ve come to rescue her.’

Clavain glanced at his companions. ‘And where would your daughter be, exactly?’

‘About eight hundred kilometres away,’ Khouri said. ‘Now get me those weps. And an incubator. And someone who knows field surgery.’

‘Why field surgery?’ Clavain asked.

‘Because,’ Khouri replied, ‘you’re going to have to get her out of Skade first.’

ELEVEN

Hela, 2727

Rashmika looked up at the scuttler fossil. A symbol of conspicuous wealth, it hung from the ceiling in a large atrium area of the caravan vehicle. Even if it was a fake, or a semi-fake botched together from incompatible parts, it was still the first apparently complete scuttler she had ever seen. She wanted to find a way to climb up there and examine it properly, taking note of the abrasion patterns where the hard carapacial sections slid against each other. Rashmika had only ever read about such things, but she was certain that with an hour of careful study she would be able to tell whether it was authentic, or at the very least exclude the possibility of its being a cheap fake.

Somehow she didn’t think it was very likely to be either cheap or fake.

Mentally, she classified the scuttler body morphology. DK4V8M, she thought. Maybe a DK4V8L, if she was being confused by the play of dust and shadows around the trailing tail-shell. At least it was possible to apply the usual morphological classification scheme. The cheap fakes sometimes threw body parts together in anatomically impossible formations, but this was definitely a plausible assemblage of components, even if they hadn’t necessarily come from the same burial site.

The scuttlers were a taxonomist’s nightmare. The first time one had been unearthed, it had appeared to be a simple case of reassembling the scattered body parts to make something that looked like a large insect or lobster. The scuttler exhibited a complexity of body sections, with many different highly specialised limbs and sensory organs, but they had all snapped back together in a more or less logical fashion, leaving only the soft interior organs to be conjectured.

But the second scuttler hadn’t matched the first. There were a different number of body sections, a different number of limbs. The head and mouth parts looked very dissimilar. Yet - again - all the pieces snapped together to make a complete specimen, with no embarrassing bits left over.

The third hadn’t matched the first or second. Nor the fourth or fifth.

By the time the remains of a hundred scuttlers had been unearthed and reassembled, there were a hundred different versions of the scuttler body-plan.

The theorists groped for an explanation. The implication was that no two scuttlers were born alike. But two simultaneous discoveries shattered that idea overnight. The first was the unearthing of an intact clutch of infant scuttlers. Though there were some differences in body-plan, there were identical infants. Based on their frequency of occurrence, statistics argued that at least three identical adults should already have been discovered. The second discovery - which happened to explain the first - was the unearthing of a pair of adult scuttlers in the same area. They had been found in separated but connected chambers of an underground tunnel system. Their body parts were reassembled, providing another two unique morphologies. But upon closer examination something unexpected was discovered. A young researcher named Kimura had begun to take a particular interest in the patterns caused by the body sections scraping against each other. Something struck her as not quite right about the two new specimens. The scratch marks were inconsistent: a scrape on the edge of one carapace had no matching counterpart on the adjoining one.

At first, Kimura assumed the two clusters of body parts were hoaxes; there was already a small market for that kind of thing. But something made her dig a little deeper. She worried at the problem for weeks, convinced that she was missing something obvious. Then one night, after a particularly busy day examining the scratches at higher and higher magnifications, she slept on it. She dreamed feverish dreams, and when she woke she dashed back to her lab and confirmed her nagging suspicion.

There was a precise match for every scratch - but it was always to be found on the other scuttler. The scuttlers interchanged body parts with each other. That was why no two scuttlers were ever alike. They made themselves dissimilar: swapping components in ritualised ceremonies, then crawling away to their own little hollows to recuperate. As more scuttler pairs were unearthed, so the near-infinite possibilities of the arrangement became apparent. The exchange of body parts had pragmatic value, allowing scuttlers to adapt themselves for particular duties and environments. But there was also an aesthetic purpose to the ritualised swapping: a desire to be as atypical as possible. Scuttlers that had deviated far from the average body plan were socially successful creatures, for they must have participated in many exchanges. The ultimate stigma - so far as Kimura and her colleagues could tell - was for one scuttler to be identical to another. It meant that at least one of the pair was an outcast, unable to find a swap-partner.

Bitter arguments ensued among the human researchers. The majority view was that this behaviour could not have evolved naturally; that it must stem from an earlier phase of conscious bioengineering, when the scuttlers tinkered with their own anatomies to allow whole body parts to be swapped from creature to creature without the benefit of microsurgery and antirejection drugs.

But a minority of researchers held that the swapping was too deeply ingrained in scuttler culture to have arisen in their recent evolutionary history. They suggested that, billions of years earlier, the scuttlers had been forced to evolve in an intensely hostile environment - the evolutionary equivalent of a crowded lobster pot. So hostile, in fact, that there had been a survival value not just in being able to regrow a severed limb, but also in actually being able to reattach a severed limb there and then, before it was eaten. The limbs - and later, major body parts - had evolved in turn, developing the resilience to survive being ripped from the rest of the body. As the survival pressure increased, the scuttlers had evolved inter-compatibility, able to make use not just of their own discarded parts but those of their kin.

Perhaps even the scuttlers themselves had no memory of when the swapping had begun. Certainly, there was no obvious allusion to it in the few symbolic records that had ever been found on Hela. It was too much a part of them, too fundamentally a part of the way they viewed reality, for them to have remarked upon it.

Looking up at the fantastic creature, Rashmika wondered what the scuttlers would have made of humanity. Very probably they would have found the human race just as bizarre, regarding its very immutability horrific, like a kind of death.

Rashmika knelt down and propped the family compad on the slope of her legs. She flipped it open and pulled the stylus from its slot in the side. It wasn’t comfortable, but she would only be sitting like that for a few minutes.

She began to draw. The stylus scratched against the compad with each fluid, confident stroke of her hand. An alien animal took shape on the screen.

Linxe had been right about the caravan: no matter how frosty the reception had been, it still afforded them all the chance to get out of the icejammer for the first time in three days.

Rashmika was surprised at the difference it made to her general mood. It wasn’t just that she had stopped worrying about the attention of the Vigrid constabulary, although the question of why they had come after her continued to nag at her. The air was fresher in the caravan, with interesting breezes and varying smells, none of which were as unpleasant as those aboard the icejammer.

There was room to stretch her legs, as well: the interior of just this one caravan vehicle was generously laid out, with wide, tall gangways, comfortable rooms and bright lights. Everything was spick-and-span and - compared at least to the welcome - the amenities were more than adequate. Food and drink were provided, clothes could be washed, and for once it was possible to reach a state of reasonable cleanliness. There were even various kinds of entertainment, even though it was all rather bland compared to what she was used to. And there were new people, faces she hadn’t seen before.

She realised, after some reflection, that she had been wrong in her initial judgement of the relationship between the quaestor and Crozet. While there did not appear to be much love lost between them, it was obvious now that both parties had been of some use to each other in the past. The mutual rudeness had been a charade, concealing an icy core of mutual respect. The quaestor was fishing for titbits, aware that Crozet might still have something he could use. Crozet, meanwhile, needed to leave with mechanical spares or other barterable goods.

Rashmika had only intended to sit in on a few of the negotiation sessions, but she quickly realised that she could, in a small way, be of practical use to Crozet. To facilitate this she sat at one end of the table, a sheet of paper and a pen before her. She was not allowed to bring the compad into the room, in case it contained voice-stress-analysis software or some other prohibited system.

Rashmika noted down observations about the items Crozet was selling, writing and sketching with the neatness she had always taken pride in. Her interest was genuine, but her presence also served another purpose.

In the first negotiation session, there had been two buyers. Later, there was sometimes a third or fourth, and the quaestor or one of his deputies would always attend as an observer. Each session would begin with one of the buyers asking Crozet what he had to offer them.

‘We aren’t looking for scuttler relics,’ they said the first time. ‘We’re simply not interested. What we want are artefacts of indigenous human origin. Things left on Hela in the last hundred years, not million-year-old rubbish. There’s a declining market for useless alien junk, what with all the rich solar systems being evacuated. Who wants to add to their collection, when they’re busy selling their assets to buy a single freezer slot?’

‘What sort of human artefacts?’

‘Useful ones. These are dark times: people don’t want art and ephemera, not unless they think it’s going to bring them luck. Mainly what they want are weapons and survival systems, things they think might give them an edge when whatever they’re running from catches up with them. Contraband Conjoiner weapons. Demarchist armour. Anything with plague-tolerance, that’s always an easy sell.’

‘As a rule,’ Crozet said, ‘I don’t do weapons.’

‘Then you need to adapt to a changing market,’ one of the men replied with a smirk.

‘The churches moving into the arms trade? Isn’t that a tiny bit inconsistent with scripture?’

‘If people want protection, who are we to deny them?’

Crozet shrugged. ‘Well, I’m all out of guns and ammo. If anyone’s still digging up human weapons on Hela, it isn’t me.’

‘You must have something else.’

‘Not a hell of a lot.’ He made as if to leave at that point, as he did in every subsequent session. ‘Best be on my way, I think - wouldn’t want to be wasting anyone’s time, would I?’

‘You’ve absolutely nothing else?’

‘Nothing that you’d be interested in. Of course, I have some scuttler relics, but like you said . . .’ Crozet’s voice accurately parodied the dismissive tones of the buyer. ‘No market for alien junk these days.’

The buyers sighed and exchanged glances; the quaestor leaned in and whispered something to them.

‘You may as well show us what you have,’ one of the buyers said, reluctantly, ‘but don’t raise your hopes. More than likely we won’t be interested. In fact, you can more or less guarantee it.’

But this was a game and Crozet knew he had to abide by its rules, no matter how pointless or childish they were. He reached under his chair and emerged with something wrapped in protective film, like a small mummified animal.

The buyers’ faces wrinkled in distaste.

He placed the package on the table and unwrapped it solemnly, taking a maddening time to remove all the layers. All the while he maintained a spiel about the extreme rarity of the object, how it had been excavated under exceptional circumstances, weaving a dubious human-interest story into the vague chain of provenance.

‘Get on with it, Crozet.’

‘Just setting the scene,’ he said.

Inevitably he came to the final layer of wrapping. He spread this layer wide on the table, revealing the scuttler relic cocooned within.

Rashmika had seen this one before: it was one of the objects she had used to buy her passage aboard the icejammer.

They were never very much to look at. Rashmika had seen thousands of relics unearthed from the Vigrid digs, had even been allowed to examine them before they passed into the hands of the trading families, but in all that time she had never seen anything that made her gasp in admiration or delight. For while the relics were undoubtedly artificial, they were in general fashioned from dull, tarnished metals or grubby unglazed ceramics. There was seldom any hint of surface ornamentation - no trace of paint, plating or inscription. Once in a thousand finds they uncovered something with a string of symbols on it, and there were even researchers who believed they understood what some of those symbols meant. But most scuttler relics were blank, dull, crude-looking. They resembled the dug-up leftovers of an inept bronze-age culture rather than the gleaming products of a starfaring civilisation - one that had certainly not evolved in the 107 Piscium system.

Yet for much of the last century there had been a market for the relics. Partly this was because none of the other extinct cultures - the Amarantin, for instance - had left behind a comparable haul of day-to-day objects. Those cultures had been so thoroughly exterminated that almost nothing had survived, and the objects that had were so valuable that they remained in the care of large scientific organisations like the Sylveste Institute. Only the scuttlers had left behind enough objects to permit private collectors to acquire artefacts of genuine alien origin. It didn’t matter that they were small and unglamorous: they were still very old, and still very alien. And they were still tainted by the tragedy of extinction.

No two relics were ever quite alike, either. Scuttler furniture, even scuttler dwellings, exhibited the same horror of similarity as their makers. What had begun with their anatomies had now spread into their material environment. They had mass production, but it was a necessary end-stage of that process that every object be worked on by a scuttler artisan, until it was unique.

The churches controlled the sale of these relics to the outside universe. But the churches themselves had always been uncomfortable with the deeper question of what the scuttlers represented, or how they slotted into the mystery of the Quaiche miracle. The churches needed to keep up the drip-feed supply of relics so that they had something to offer the Ultra traders who visited the system. But at the same time there was always the fear that the next scuttler relic to be unearthed would be the one that threw a spanner into the midst of Quaicheist doctrine.

It was now the view of almost all the churches that the Haldoran vanishings were a message from God, a countdown to some event of apocalyptic finality. But what if the scuttlers had also observed the vanishings? It was difficult enough to decipher their symbols at the best of times, and so far nothing had been found that appeared to relate directly to the Haldora phenomenon. But there were a lot of relics still under Hela’s ice, and even those that had been unearthed to date had never been subjected to rigorous scientific study. The church-sponsored archaeologists were the only ones who had any kind of overview of the entire haul of relics, and they were under intense pressure to ignore any evidence that conflicted with Quaicheist scripture. That was why Rashmika wrote them so many letters, and why their infrequent replies were always so evasive. She wanted an argument; she wanted to question the entire accepted view of the scuttlers. They wanted her to go away.

Thus it was that the buyers in the caravan affected an air of tolerant disapproval while Crozet turned on the hard sell.

‘It’s a plate cleaner,’ Crozet said, turning a grey, cleft-tipped, bone-like object this way and that. ‘They used it to scrape dead organic matter out of the gaps between their carapacial sections. We think they did it communally, the way monkeys pick ticks out of each other’s hair. Must have been very relaxing for them.’

‘Filthy creatures.’

‘Monkeys or scuttlers?’

‘Both.’

‘I wouldn’t be too harsh, mate. Scuttlers are paying your wages.’

‘We’ll give you fifty ecumenical credit units for it, Crozet. No more.’

‘Fifty ecus? Now you’re taking the piss.’

‘It’s a revolting object serving a revolting function. Fifty ecus is . . . quite excessively generous.’

Crozet looked at Rashmika. It was only a glance, but she was ready for it when it came. The system they had arranged was very simple: if the man was telling the truth - if this really was the best offer he was prepared to make - then she would push the sheet of paper a fraction closer to the middle of the table. Otherwise, she would pull it towards her by the same tiny distance. If the man’s reaction was ambiguous, she did nothing. This did not happen very often.

Crozet always took her judgement seriously. If the offer on the table was as good as it was going to get, he did not waste his energies trying to talk them up. On the other hand, if there was some leeway, he haggled the hell out of them.

In that first negotiating session, the buyer was lying. After a rapid-fire back and forth of offer and counter-offer, they reached an agreement.

‘Your tenacity does you credit,’ the buyer said with visible bad grace, before writing him out a chit for seventy ecus that was only redeemable within the caravan itself.

Crozet folded it neatly and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. ‘Pleasure doing business, mate.’

He had other scuttler plate cleaners, as well as several things that might have served some entirely different function. Now and then he came back to the negotiation sessions with something that Linxe or Culver had to help him carry. It might be an item of furniture, or some kind of heavy-duty domestic tool. Scuttler weapons were rare, appearing to have had only ceremonial value, but they sold the best of all. Once, he sold them what appeared to be a kind of scuttler toilet seat. He only got thirty-five ecus for that: barely enough, Crozet said, for a single servo-motor.

But Rashmika tried not to feel too sorry for him. If Crozet wanted the best pickings from the digs, the kinds of relics that picked up three- or four-figure payments, then he needed to rethink his attitude towards the rest of the Vigrid communities. The truth of the matter was that he liked scabbing around on the perimeter.

It went on like that for two days. On the third, the buyers suddenly demanded that Crozet be alone during the negotiations. Rashmika had no idea if they had guessed her secret. There was, as far as she was aware, no law against being an adept judge of whether people were lying or not. Perhaps they had just taken a dislike to her, as people often did when they sensed her percipience.

Rashmika was fine with that. She had helped Crozet out, paid him back a little more in addition to the scuttler relics for the help he had given her. He had, after all, taken an extra, unforeseen risk when he found out about the constabulary pursuing her.

No: she had nothing bad on her conscience.

Ararat, 2675

Khouri protested as they took her away from the capsule into the waiting infirmary. ‘I don’t need an examination,’ she said. ‘I just need a boat, some weapons, an incubator and someone good with a knife.’

‘Oh, I’m good with a knife,’ Clavain said.

‘Please take me seriously. You trusted Ilia, didn’t you?’

‘We came to an arrangement. Mutual trust never had much to do with it.’

‘You respected her judgement, though?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Well, she trusted me. Isn’t that good enough for you? I’m not making excessive demands here, Clavain. I’m not asking for the world.’

‘We’ll consider your requests in good time,’ he said, ‘but not before we’ve had you examined.’

‘There isn’t time,’ she said, but from her tone of voice it was clear she knew she had already lost the argument.

Within the infirmary, Dr Valensin waited with two aged medical servitors from the central machine pool. The swan-necked robots were a drab institutional green, riding on hissing air-cushion pedestals. Many specialised arms emerged from their slender chess-piece bodies. The physician would be keeping a careful eye on the machines while they did their work: left alone, their creaking circuits had a nasty habit of absent-mindedly switching into autopsy mode.

‘I don’t like robots,’ Khouri said, eyeing the servitors with evident disquiet.

‘That’s one thing we agree on,’ Clavain said, turning to Scorpio and lowering his voice. ‘Scorp, we’ll need to talk to the other seniors about the best course of action as soon as we have Valensin’s report. My guess is she’ll need some rest before she goes anywhere. But for now I suggest we keep as tight a lid on this as possible.’

‘Do you think she’s telling the truth?’ Scorpio asked. ‘All that stuff about Skade and her baby?’

Clavain studied the woman as Valensin helped her on to the examination couch. ‘I have a horrible feeling she might be.’

After the examination, Khouri fell into a state of deep and apparently dreamless sleep. She awakened only once, near dawn, when she summoned one of Valensin’s aides and again demanded the means to rescue her daughter. After that they administered more relaxant and she fell asleep for another four or five hours. Now and then she thrashed wildly and uttered fragments of speech. Whatever she was trying to say always sounded urgent, but the meaning never quite cohered. She was not properly awake and cognisant until the middle of the morning.

By the time Dr Valensin deemed that Khouri was ready for visitors, the latest storm had broken. The sky above the compound was a bleak powder-blue, marbled here and there by strands of feathered cirrus. Out to sea, the Nostalgia for Infinity gleamed shades of grey, like something freshly chiselled from dark rock.

They sat down on opposite sides of her bed - Clavain in one chair, Scorpio in another, but reversed so that he sat with his arms folded across the top of the backrest.

‘I’ve read Valensin’s report,’ Scorpio began. ‘We were all hoping he’d tell us you were insane. Unfortunately, that doesn’t appear to be the case.’ He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘And that gives me a really bad headache.’

Khouri pushed herself up in the bed. ‘I’m sorry about your headache, but can we skip the formalities and get on with rescuing my daughter?’

‘We’ll discuss it when you’re up on your feet,’ Clavain said.

‘Why not now?’

‘Because we still need to know exactly what’s happened. We’ll also need an accurate tactical assessment of any scenario involving Skade and your daughter. Would you define it as a hostage situation?’ Clavain asked.

‘Yes,’ Khouri replied, grudgingly.

‘Then until we have concrete demands from Skade, Aura is in no immediate danger. Skade won’t risk hurting her one asset. She may be cold-hearted, but she’s not irrational.’

Guardedly, Scorpio observed the old man. He appeared as alert and quick-witted as ever, yet to the best of Scorpio’s knowledge Clavain had allowed himself no more than two hours of sleep since returning to the mainland. Scorpio had seen that kind of thing in other elderly human men: they needed little sleep and resented its imposition by those younger than themselves. It was not that they necessarily had more energy, but that the division between sleep and waking had become an indistinct, increasingly arbitrary thing. He wondered how that would feel, drifting through an endless succession of grey moments, rather than ordered intervals of day and night.

‘How much time are we talking about?’ Khouri said. ‘Hours or days, before you act?’

‘I’ve convened a meeting of colony seniors for later this morning,’ Clavain said. ‘If the situation merits it, a rescue operation could be underway before sunset.’

‘Can’t you just take my word that we need to act now?’

Clavain scratched his beard. ‘If your story made more sense, I might.’

‘I’m not lying.’ She gestured in the direction of one of the servitors. ‘The doctor gave me the all-clear, didn’t he?’

Scorpio smiled, tapping the medical report against the back of his chair. ‘He said you weren’t obviously delusional, but his examination raised as many questions as it answered.’

‘You talk about a baby,’ Clavain said before Khouri had a chance to interrupt, ‘but according to this report you’ve never given birth. Nor is there any obvious sign of Caesarean surgery having been performed.’

‘It wouldn’t be obvious - it was done by Conjoiner medics. They can sew you up so cleanly it’s as if it never happened.’ She looked at each of them in turn, her anger and fear equally clear. ‘Are you saying you don’t believe me?’

Clavain shook his head. ‘I’m saying we can’t verify your story, that’s all. According to Valensin there is womb distension consistent with you having very recently been pregnant, and there are hormonal changes in your blood that support the same conclusion. But Valensin admits that there could be other explanations.’

‘They don’t contradict my story, either.’

‘But we’ll need more convincing before we organise a military action,’ Clavain said.

‘Again: why can’t you just trust me?’

‘Because it’s not only the story about your baby that doesn’t make sense,’ Clavain replied. ‘How did you get here, Ana? Where’s the ship that should have brought you? You didn’t come all the way from the Resurgam system in that capsule, and yet there’s no sign of any other spacecraft having entered our system.’

‘And that makes me a liar?’

‘It makes us suspicious,’ Scorpio said. ‘It makes us wonder if you’re what you appear to be.’

‘The ships are here,’ she said, sighing, as if spoiling a carefully planned surprise. ‘All of them. They’re concentrated in the immediate volume of space around this planet. Remontoire, the Zodiacal Light, the two remaining starships from Skade’s taskforce - they’re all up there, within one AU of this planet. They’ve been in your system for nine weeks. That’s how I got here, Clavain.’

‘You can’t hide ships that easily,’ he said. ‘Not consistently, not all the time. Not when we’re actively looking for them.’

‘We can now,’ she said. ‘We have techniques you know nothing about. Things we’ve learned . . . things we’ve had to learn since the last time you saw us. Things you won’t believe.’

Clavain glanced at Scorpio. The pig tried to guess what was going through the old man’s mind and failed.

‘Such as?’ Clavain asked.

‘New engines,’ she said. ‘Dark drives. You can’t see them. Nothing sees them. The exhaust . . . slips away. Camouflaging screens. Free-force bubbles. Miniaturised cryo-arithmetic engines. Reliable control of inertia on bulk scales. Hypometric weapons.’ She shivered. ‘I really don’t like the hypometric weapons. They scare me. I’ve seen what happens when they go wrong. They’re not right.’

‘All that in twenty-odd years?’ Clavain asked, incredulously.

‘We had some help.’

‘Sounds as if you had God on the end of the phone, taking down your wish list.’

‘It wasn’t God, believe me. I should know. I was the one who did the asking.’

‘And who exactly did you ask?’

‘My daughter,’ Khouri said. ‘She knows things, Clavain. That’s why she’s valuable. That’s why Skade wants her.’

Scorpio felt dizzy: it seemed that every time they scratched back one layer of Khouri’s story, there was something even less comprehensible behind it.

‘I still don’t understand why you didn’t signal your arrival from orbit,’ Clavain said.

‘Partly because we didn’t want to draw attention to Ararat,’ Khouri said. ‘Not until we had to. There’s a war going on up there, understand? A major space engagement, with heavily stealthed combatants. Any kind of signalling is a risk. There’s also a lot of jamming and disruption going on.’

‘Between Skade’s forces and your own?’

‘It’s more complicated than that. Until recently, Skade was fighting with us, rather than against us. Even now, aside from the personal business between Skade and myself, I’d say we’re in what you might call a state of uneasy truce.’

‘Then who the hell are you fighting?’ Clavain asked.

‘The Inhibitors,’ Khouri said. ‘The wolves, whatever you want to call them.’

‘They’re here?’ Scorpio asked. ‘Actually in this system?’

‘Sorry to rain on your parade,’ Khouri said.

‘Well,’ Clavain said, looking around, ‘I don’t know about the rest of you, but that certainly puts a dent in my day.’

‘That was the idea,’ Khouri said.

Clavain ran a finger down the straight line of his nose. ‘One other thing. Several times since you arrived here you’ve mentioned a word that sounds like “hella”. You even said we had to get there. The name means nothing to me. What is its significance?’

‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I don’t even remember saying it.’

TWELVE

Hela, 2727

Quaestor Jones had been warned to expect a new guest aboard his caravan. The warning had come straight from the Permanent Way, with the official seals of the Clocktower. Shortly afterwards, a small spacecraft - a single-seat shuttle of Ultra manufacture shaped like a cockleshell - came sliding over the procession of caravan vehicles.

The ruby-hulled vehicle loitered on a spike of expertly balanced thrust, hovering unnervingly while the caravan continued on its way. Then it lowered, depositing itself on the main landing pad. The hull opened and a vacuum-suited figure stepped from the vehicle’s hatch. The figure hesitated, reaching back into the cockpit for a walking stick and a small white case. Cameras tracked him from different viewpoints as he made his way down into the caravan, opening normally impassable doors with Clocktower keys, shutting them neatly behind him. He walked very slowly, taking his time, giving the quaestor the opportunity to exercise his imagination. Now and then he tapped his cane against some component of the caravan, or paused to run a gloved hand along the top of a wall, inspecting his fingers as if for dust.

‘I don’t like this, Peppermint,’ the quaestor told the creature perched on his desk. ‘It’s never good when they send someone out, especially when they only give you an hour’s warning. It means they want to surprise you. It means they think you’re up to something.’

The creature busied itself with the small pile of seeds the quaestor had tipped on to the table. There was something engrossing about just watching it eat and then clean itself. Its faceted black eyes - in the right light they were actually a very dark, lustrous purple - shone like rare minerals.

‘Who can it be, who can it be . . .’ the quaestor said, drumming his fingers on the table. ‘Here, have some more seeds. A stick. Who do we know who walks with a stick?’

The creature looked up at him, as if on the verge of having an opinion. Then it went back to its nibbling, its tail coiled around a paperweight.

‘This isn’t good, Peppermint. I can feel it.’

The quaestor prided himself on running a tight ship, as far as caravans went. He did what the church asked of him, but in every other respect he kept his nose out of cathedral business. His caravan always returned to the Way on time to meet its rendezvous, and he rarely came back without a respectable haul of pilgrims, migrant workers and scuttler artefacts. He took care of his passengers and clients without in any way seeking their friendship or gratitude. He needed neither: he had his responsibilities, and he had Peppermint, and that was all that mattered.

Things had not been as good lately as in the past, but that went for all the caravans, and if they were going to single anyone out for punishment, there were others who had far worse records than the quaestor. Besides, the church must have been largely satisfied with his work for them over the last few years, or else they would not have allowed his caravan to grow so large and to travel such important trade routes. He had a good relationship with the cathedral officials he dealt with, and - though none of them would ever have admitted it - a reputation for fairness when it came to dealing with traders like Crozet. So what was the purpose of this surprise visit?

He hoped it had nothing to do with blood. It was well known that the closer you got to cathedral business, the more likely you were to come into contact with the agents of the Office of Bloodwork, that clerical body which promulgated the literal blood of Quaiche. Bloodwork was an organ of the Clocktower, he knew that. But this far from the Way, Quaiche’s blood ran thin and diluted. It was hard to live in the country, beyond the iron sanctuary of the cathedrals. You needed to think about icefalls and geysers. You needed detachment and clarity of mind, not the chemical piety of an indoctrinal virus. But what if there had been a change of policy, a broadening of the reach of Bloodwork?

‘It’s that Crozet,’ he said, ‘always brings bad luck. Shouldn’t have let him aboard this late in the run. Should’ve sent him back with his tail between his legs. He’s a lazy good-for-nothing, that one.’

Peppermint looked up at him. The little mouthparts said, ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.’

‘Yes, thank you, Peppermint.’ The quaestor opened his desk drawer. ‘Now why don’t you climb in there until we’ve seen our visitor? And keep your trap shut.’

He reached out for the creature, ready to fold it gently into a form that would fit within the drawer. But the door to his office was already opening, the stranger’s passkey working even here.

The suited figure walked in, stopped and closed the door behind him. He rested the cane against the side of the table and placed the white case on the ground. Then he reached up and unlatched his helmet seal. The helmet was a rococo affair, with bas-relief gargoyles worked around the visor. He slid it over his head and set it down on the end of the table.

Rather to his surprise, the quaestor did not recognise the man. He had been expecting one of the usual church officials he dealt with, but this was truly a stranger.

‘Might I have a wee word, Quaestor?’ the man asked, gesturing towards the seat on his side of the desk.

‘Yes, yes,’ Quaestor Jones said hastily. ‘Please sit down. How was your, um . . . ?’

‘My journey from the Way?’ The man blinked, as if momentarily narcotised by the utter dullness of the quaestor’s question. ‘Unremarkable. ’ Then he looked at the creature that the quaestor had not had time to hide. ‘Yours, is it?’

‘My Pep . . . my Petnermint. My Peppermint. Pet. Mine.’

‘A genetic toy, isn’t it? Let me have a guess: one part stick insect, one part chameleon, one part something mammalian?’

‘There’s cat in him,’ the quaestor said. ‘Definitely cat. Isn’t there, Peppermint?’ He pushed some of the seeds towards the visitor. ‘Would you like to, um . . . ?’

Again to the quaestor’s surprise - and he wasn’t quite sure why he had asked in the first place - the stranger took a pinch of the seeds and offered his hand up to Peppermint’s head. He did it very gently. The creature’s mandibles began to eat the seeds, one by one.

‘Charming,’ the man said, leaving his hand where it was. ‘I’d get one for myself, but I hear they’re very hard to come by.’

‘Devils to keep healthy,’ the quaestor said.

‘I’m sure they are. Well, to business.’

‘Business,’ the quaestor said, nodding.

The man had a long, thin face with a very flat nose and a strong jaw. He had a shock of white hair sticking straight up from his brow, stiff as a brush and mathematically planar on top, as if sliced off with a laser. Under the room’s lights it shone with a faint blue aura. He wore a high-collared side-buttoned tunic marked with the Clocktower insignia: that odd, mummylike spacesuit radiating light through cracks in its shell. But there was something about him that made the quaestor doubt that he was a cleric. He didn’t have the smell of someone with Quaiche blood in them. Some high-ranking technical official, then.

‘Don’t you want to know my name?’ the man asked.

‘Not unless you want to tell me.’

‘You’re curious, though?’

‘I was told to expect a visitor. That’s all I need to know.’

The man smiled. ‘That’s a very good policy. You can call me Grelier.’

The quaestor inclined his head. There had been a Grelier involved in Hela’s affairs since the very earliest days of the settlement, after the witnessing of the first vanishing. He presumed the Grelier family had continued to play a role in the church ever since, down through the generations. ‘It’s a pleasure to have you aboard the caravan, Mr Grelier.’

‘I won’t be here long. Just wanted, as I said, a wee word.’ He stopped feeding Peppermint, dropping the remaining seeds on the floor. Then he bent down and retrieved the white case, setting it on his lap. Peppermint started cleaning itself, making prayerlike motions. ‘Has anyone come aboard lately, Quaestor?’

‘There are always people coming and going.’

‘I mean lately, last few days.’

‘Well, there’s Crozet, I suppose.’

The man nodded and flipped open the lid of his case. It was, the quaestor saw, a medical kit. It was full of syringes, racked next to each other like little pointy-headed soldiers. ‘Tell me about Crozet.’

‘One of our regular traders. Makes his living in the Vigrid region, keeps himself to himself. Has a wife named Linxe, and a son, Culver.’

‘They’re here now? I saw an icejammer winched against your machine as I came in.’

‘That’s his,’ the quaestor said.

‘Anyone else come in on it?’

‘Just the girl.’

The man raised his eyebrows. Like his hair, they were the colour of new snow under moonlight. ‘Girl? You said he had a son, not a daughter.’

‘She was travelling with them. Not a relative, a hitchhiker. Name of . . .’ The quaestor pretended to rack his memory. ‘Rashmika. Rashmika Els. Sixteen, seventeen standard years.’

‘Had your eye on her, did you?’

‘She made an impression. She couldn’t help but make an impression. ’ The quaestor’s hands felt like two balls of eels, sliding slickly against each other. ‘She had a certainty about her, a determination you don’t see very often, especially not in one her age. She seemed to be on a mission.’

The man reached into the case and took out a clear syringe. ‘What was her relationship to Crozet? Everything above board?’

‘As far as I know she was just his passenger.’

‘You heard about the missing-persons report? A girl running away from her family in the Vigrid badlands? The local constabulary enquiring after a possible saboteur?’

‘That was her? I didn’t put two and two together, I’m afraid.’

‘Good for you that you didn’t.’ He held the syringe up to the light, his face distorted through the glass. ‘Or you might have sent her back where she came from.’

‘That wouldn’t have been good?’

‘We’d rather she stayed on the caravan for now. She’s of interest to us, you see. Give me your arm.’

The quaestor rolled up his sleeve and leant across the table. Peppermint eyed him, pausing in its ablutions. The quaestor could not refuse. The command had been issued so calmly that there could be no prospect of disobedience. The syringe was clear: he had come to take blood, not give it.

The quaestor forced himself to remain calm. ‘Why does she have to stay on the caravan?’

‘So she gets to where she has to get to.’ Grelier slid the needle in.

‘Any complaints from your usual acquisitions department, Quaestor?’

‘Complaints?’

‘About Crozet. About him making a bit more out of his scuttler junk than he normally does.’

‘The usual mutterings.’

‘This time there might be something in them. The girl sat in on his dealings, didn’t she?’

The quaestor realised that his interrogator knew the answer to almost every question he had come to ask. He watched the syringe as it filled with his blood. ‘She seemed curious,’ he said. ‘She says she’s interested in scuttler relics. Fancies herself as a bit of a scholar. I didn’t see any harm in letting her sit in. It was Crozet’s decision, not mine.’

‘I bet it was. The girl has a talent, Quaestor, a God-given gift: she can detect lies. She reads microexpressions in the human face, the subliminal signals most of us barely notice. They scream at her, like great neon signs.’

‘I don’t see . . .’

He pulled out the syringe. ‘The girl was reading your acquisitions negotiators, seeing how sincere they were when they said they’d reached their limit. Sending covert signals to Crozet.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I was expecting her to show up. I listened for the signs. They brought me here, to this caravan.’

‘But she’s just a girl.’

‘Joan of Arc was just a girl. Look at the bloody mess she left behind.’ He put a plaster on the quaestor’s arm, then slid the syringe into a special niche in the side of the case. The blood drained out as the plunger was pushed down by a mechanical piston. The case hummed and chugged to itself.

‘If you want to see her . . .’ the quaestor began.

‘No, I don’t want to see her. Not yet, at least. What I want is for you to keep her in your sight until you reach the Way. She mustn’t return with Crozet. Your job is to make sure she stays aboard the caravan.’

The quaestor pulled down his sleeve. ‘I’ll do my best.’

‘You’ll do more than your best.’ With the case still on his lap he reached over and picked Peppermint up, holding the stiff creature in the fist of one of his vacuum suit gauntlets. With the other hand he took hold of one of Peppermint’s forelimbs and pulled it off. The creature thrashed wildly, emitting a horrid shrill whistle.

‘Oh,’ Grelier said. ‘Now look what I’ve done.’

‘No,’ the quaestor said, frozen in shock.

Grelier placed the tormented animal back down on the table and flicked the severed arm to the floor. ‘It’s just a limb. Plenty more where that came from.’

Peppermint’s tail writhed in agonised coils.

‘Now let’s talk particulars,’ Grelier said. He reached into a pocket of his suit and pulled out a small metal tube. The quaestor flinched, one eye still on his mutilated pet. Grelier nudged the tube across the table. ‘The girl is a problem,’ he said. ‘She has the potential to be useful to the dean, although he doesn’t know it yet.’

The quaestor tried to hold his voice together. ‘You actually know the dean?’

‘On and off.’

‘You’d know if he was alive, I mean?’

‘He’s alive. He just doesn’t get out of the Clocktower very often.’ Grelier looked at Peppermint again. ‘Ask a lot of questions for a caravan master, don’t you?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘Open the tube.’

The quaestor did as he was told. Inside, tightly rolled, were two pieces of paper. He pulled them out gently and flattened them on the table. One was a letter. The other contained a series of cryptic markings.

‘I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with these.’

‘That’s all right, I’ll tell you. The letter, you keep here. The markings, including the tube, you give to a man named Pietr.’

‘I don’t know anyone called Pietr.’

‘You should. He’s a pilgrim, already aboard your caravan. A wee bit on the unstable side.’

‘Unstable?’

Ignoring him, Grelier tapped the case, which was still humming and gurgling to itself as it assayed the quaestor’s blood. ‘Most of the virus strains in circulation aren’t particularly dangerous. They induce religious feelings or visions, but they don’t directly meddle with the host’s sense of self. What Pietr has is different. We call it DEUS-X. It’s a rare mutation of the original indoctrinal virus that we’ve tried to keep a lid on. It places him at the centre of his own private cosmos. He doesn’t always realise it, but the virus is rewiring his sense of reality such that he becomes his own God. He’ll be drawn to the Way, to one or other of the orthodox churches, but he’ll always feel in conflict with conventional doctrine. He’ll bounce from one sect to another, always feeling himself on the verge of enlightenment. His choices will become more and more extreme, pushing him towards odder and odder manifestations of Haldora worship, like the Observers.’

The quaestor had never heard of DEUS-X, but the religious type Grelier had described was familiar enough to him. They were usually young men, usually very serious and humourless. There was something already in their brains that the virus latched on to. ‘What does he have to do with the girl?’

‘Nothing, yet. I just want him to come into possession of that tube and that piece of paper. It will mean something to him already, although he’ll never have seen the markings written down that precisely. For him it will be like finding illuminated scripture, where before all he had were scratches on stone.’

The quaestor examined the paper again. Now that he looked closer, he thought he had seen the markings before. ‘The missing vanishing?’ he asked. ‘I thought that was just an old wives’ tale.’

‘It doesn’t matter if it’s an old wives’ tale or not. It’ll be one of the fringe beliefs with which Pietr has already come into contact. He’ll recognise it and it will spur him to act.’ Grelier studied the quaestor very carefully, as if measuring his reliability. ‘I have arranged for a spy to be present amongst the Observers. He will mention to Pietr something about a girl on a crusade, something already foretold. A girl born in ice, destined to change the world.’

‘Rashmika?’

Grelier made a gun shape with his hand, pointed it at the quaestor and made a clicking sound. ‘All you have to do is bring them together. Allow her to visit the Observers and Pietr will take care of the rest. He won’t be able to resist passing on the knowledge he has gained.’

The quaestor frowned. ‘She needs to see those markings?’

‘She needs a reason to meet the dean. The other letter will help - it concerns her brother - but it may not be enough. She’s interested in the scuttlers, so the missing vanishing will prick her curiosity. She’ll have to follow it to its conclusion, no matter how badly her instincts tell her to stay away from the cathedrals.’

‘But why don’t I just give her the tube now? Why the need for this cumbersome charade with the Observers?’

Grelier looked at Peppermint again. ‘You really don’t learn, do you?’

‘I’m sorry, I just . . .’

‘The girl is extraordinarily difficult to manipulate. She can read a lie instantly, unless the liar is completely sincere. She needs to be handled with a buffer of unquestioning, utterly delusional self-belief. ’ Grelier paused. ‘Anyway, I need to know her limits. When I have studied her from a distance, she can be approached openly. But until then I want to guide her remotely. You are part of the buffer, but you will also be a test of her ability.’

‘And the letter?’

‘Give it to her personally. Say it came into your possession through a secret courier and that you know nothing beyond that. Observe her closely, and report on her reaction.’

‘And what if she asks too many questions?’

Grelier smiled sympathetically. ‘Have a bash at lying.’

The medical case chimed, its analysis complete. Grelier swung it around so that the quaestor could see the results. On the inside of the lid, histograms and pie charts had sprung into view.

‘All clear?’ the quaestor asked.

‘Nothing you need worry about,’ Grelier replied.

On his private cameras, the quaestor watched the ruby-hulled cockleshell spacecraft lift off from the caravan. It flipped over, its main thrusters throwing wild shadows across the landscape.

‘I’m sorry, Peppermint,’ he said.

The creature was trying to clean its face, its one remaining forelimb thrashing awkwardly across its mouth-parts like a broken windscreen wiper. It looked at the quaestor with those blackcurrant eyes, which were not as uncomprehending as he might have wished.

‘If I don’t do what he wants, he’ll come back. But whatever he wants with that girl isn’t right. I can feel it. Can you? I didn’t like him at all. I knew he was trouble the moment he landed.’

The quaestor flattened out the letter again. It was brief, written in a clear but childish script. It was from someone called Harbin, to someone called Rashmika.

Ararat, 2675

The flight to the Nostalgia for Infinity only took ten minutes, most of which was spent in the final docking phase, queued up behind the transports that had arrived earlier. There were a number of entry points into the towering ship, open apertures like perfectly rectangular caves in the sides of the spire. The highest was more than two kilometres above the surface of the sea. In space they would have been the docking bays for small service craft, or the major airlocks that permitted access to the ship’s cavernous internal chambers.

Scorpio had never really enjoyed trips to the Infinity, under any circumstances. Frankly, the ship appalled him. It was a perversion, a twisted mutation of what a mechanical thing should be like. He did not have a superstitious bone in his body, but he always felt as if he was stepping into something haunted or possessed. What really troubled him was that he knew this assessment was not entirely inaccurate. The ship was genuinely haunted, in the sense that its whole structural fabric had been inseparably fused with the residual psyche of its erstwhile Captain. In a time when the Melding Plague had lost some of its horror, the fate of the Captain was a shocking reminder of the atrocities it had been capable of.

The shuttle dropped off its passengers in the topmost docking bay, then immediately returned to the sky on some other urgent colonial errand. A Security Arm guard was already waiting to escort them down to the meeting room. He touched a communications earpiece with one finger, frowning slightly as he listened to a distant voice, then he turned to Scorpio. ‘Room is secured, sir.’

‘Any apparitions?’

‘Nothing reported above level four hundred in the last three weeks. Plenty of activity in the lower levels, but we should have the high ship to ourselves.’ The guard turned to Vasko. ‘If you’d care to follow me.’

Vasko looked at Scorpio. ‘Are you coming down, sir?’

‘I’ll follow in a moment. You go ahead and introduce yourself. Say only that you are Vasko Malinin, an SA operative, and that you participated in the mission to recover Clavain - and then don’t say another word until I get there.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Vasko hesitated. ‘Sir, one other thing?’

‘What?’

‘What did he mean about apparitions?’

‘You don’t need to know,’ Scorpio said.

Scorpio watched them troop off into the bowels of the ship, waiting until their footsteps had died away and he was certain that he had the landing bay to himself. Then he made his way to the edge of the bay’s entrance, standing with the tips of his blunt, childlike shoes perilously close to the edge.

The wind scrubbed hard against his face, although today it was not especially strong. He always felt in danger of being blown out, but experience had taught him that the wind usually blew into the chamber. All the same, he remained ready to grab the left-hand edge of the door for support should an eddy threaten to tip him over the lip. Blinking against the wind, his eyes watering, he watched the claw-shaped aircraft bank and recede. Then he looked down, surveying the colony that, despite Clavain’s return, was still very much his responsibility.

Kilometres away, First Camp sparkled in the curve of the bay. It was too distant to make out any detail save for the largest structures, such as the High Conch. Even those buildings were flattened into near-insignificance by Scorpio’s elevation. The happy, bustling squalor and grime of the shanty streets were invisible. Everything appeared eerily neat and ordered, like something laid out according to strict civic rules. It could have been almost any city, on any world, at any point in history. There were even thin quills of smoke rising up from kitchens and factories. Yet other than the smoke there was nothing obviously moving, nothing that he could point to. But at the same time the entire settlement trembled with a frenzy of subliminal motion, as if seen through a heat haze.

For a long time, Scorpio had thought that he would never adjust to life beyond Chasm City. He had revelled in the constant roaring intricacy of that place. He had loved the dangers almost as much as the challenges and opportunities. On any given day he had known that there might be six or seven serious attempts on his life, orchestrated by as many rival groups. There would be another dozen or so that were too inept to be worth bringing to his attention. And on any given day Scorpio might himself give the order to have one of his enemies put to sleep. It was never business with Scorpio, always personal.

The stress of dealing with life as a major criminal element in Chasm City might have appeared crippling. Many did crack - they either burned out and retreated back to the limited spheres of petty crime that had bred them, or they made the kind of mistake it wasn’t possible to learn from.

But Scorpio had never cracked, and if he had ever screwed up it was one time only - and even then it had not exactly been his fault. It had been wartime by then, after all. The rules were changing so fast that now and then Scorpio had even found himself acting legally. Now that had been frightening.

But the one mistake he had made had been nearly terminal. Getting caught by the zombies, and then the spiders . . . and because of that he had fallen under Clavain’s influence. And at the end of it a question remained: if the city had defined him so totally, what did it mean to him no longer to have the city?

It had taken him a while to find out - in a way, he had only really found the answer when Clavain had left and the colony was entirely in Scorpio’s control.

He had simply woken up one morning and the longing for Chasm City was gone. His ambition no longer focused on anything as absurdly self-centred as personal wealth, or power, or status. Once, he had worshipped weapons and violence. He still had to keep a lid on his anger, but he struggled to remember the last time he had held a gun or a knife. Instead of feuds and scores, scams and hits, the things that crammed his days now were quotas, budgets, supply lines, the bewildering mire of interpersonal politics. First Camp was a smaller city - barely a city at all, really - but the complexity of running it and the wider colony was more than enough to keep him occupied. He would never have believed it back in his Chasm City days, but here he was, standing like a king surveying his empire. It had been a long journey, fraught with reversals and setbacks, but somewhere along the way - perhaps that first morning when he awoke without longing for his old turf - he had become something like a statesman. For someone who had started life as an indentured slave, without even the dignity of a name, it was hardly the most predictable of outcomes.

But now he worried that it was all about to slip away. He had always known that their stay on this world was only ever intended to be temporary, a port of call where this particular band of refugees would wait until Remontoire and the others were able to regroup. But as time went on, and the twenty-year mark had approached and then passed without incident, the seductive idea had formed in his mind that perhaps things might be more permanent. That perhaps Remontoire had been more than delayed. That perhaps the wider conflict between humanity and the Inhibitors was going to leave the settlement alone.

It had never been a realistic hope, and now he sensed that he was paying the price for such thinking. Remontoire had not merely arrived, but had brought the arena of battle with him. If Khouri’s account of things was accurate, then the situation truly was grave.

The distant town glimmered. It looked hopelessly transient, like a patina of dust on the landscape. Scorpio felt a sudden visceral sense that someone dear to him was in mortal danger.

He turned abruptly from the open door of the landing deck and made his way to the meeting room.

THIRTEEN

Ararat, 2675

The meeting room lay deep inside the ship, in the spherical chamber that had once been the huge vessel’s main command centre. The process of reaching it now resembled the exploration of a large cave system: there were cold, snaking warrens of corridor, spiralling tunnels, junctions and dizzying shafts. There were echoing sub-chambers and claustrophobic squeeze-points. Weird, unsettling growths clotted the walls: here a leprous froth, there a brachial mass horribly suggestive of petrified lung tissue. Unguents dripped constantly from ceiling to floor. Scorpio dodged the obstacles and oozing fluids with practised ease. He knew that there was nothing really hazardous about the ship’s exudations - chemically they were quite uninteresting - but even for someone who had lived in the Mulch, the sense of revulsion was overpowering. If the ship had only ever been a mechanical thing, he could have taken it. But there was no escaping the fact that much of what he saw stemmed in some arcane sense from the memory of the Captain’s biological body. It was a matter of semantics as to whether he walked through a ship that had taken on certain biological attributes or a body that had swollen to the size and form of a ship.

He didn’t care which was more accurate: both possibilities revolted him.

Scorpio reached the meeting room. After the gloom of the approach corridors it was overwhelmingly bright and clean. They had equipped the ship’s original spherical command chamber with a false floor and suitably generous wooden conference table. A refurbished projector hung above the table like an oversized chandelier, shuffling through schematic views of the planet and its immediate airspace.

Clavain was already waiting, garbed in the kind of stiff black dress uniform that would not have looked outrageously unfashionable at any point in the last eight hundred years. He had allowed someone to further tidy his appearance: the lines and shadows remained on his face, but with the benefit of a few hours’ sleep he was at least recognisable as the Clavain of old. He stroked the neat trim of his beard, one elbow propped on the table’s reflective black surface. His other hand drummed a tattoo against the wood.

‘Something kept you, Scorp?’ he asked mildly.

‘I needed a moment of reflection.’

Clavain looked at him and then inclined his head. ‘I understand.’

Scorpio sat down. A seat had been reserved for him next to Vasko, amid a larger group of colony officials.

Clavain was at the head of the table. To his left sat Blood, his powerful frame occupying the width of two normal spaces. Blood, as usual, managed to look like a thug who had gate-crashed a private function. He had a knife in one trotter and was digging into the nails of the other with the tip of the blade, flicking excavated dirt on to the floor.

In stark contrast was Antoinette Bax, sitting on Clavain’s right side. She was a human woman Scorpio had known since his last days in Chasm City. She had been young then, barely out of her teens. Now she was in her early forties - still attractive, he judged, but certainly heavier around the face, and with the beginnings of crow’s-feet around the corners of her eyes. The one constant - and the thing that she would probably take to her grave - was the stripe of freckles that ran across the bridge of her nose. It always looked as if it had just been painted on, a precisely stippled band. Her hair was longer now, pinned back from her forehead in an asymmetrical parting. She wore complex locally made jewellery. Bax had been a superb pilot in her day, but lately there had been few opportunities for her to fly. She complained about this with good humour, but at the same time knuckled down to solid colony work. She had turned out to be a very good mediator.

Antoinette Bax was married. Her husband, Xavier Liu, was a little older than her, his black hair now veined with silver, tied back in a modest tail. He had a small, neat goatee beard and he was missing two fingers on his right hand from an industrial accident down at the docks fifteen or so years ago. Liu was a genius with anything mechanical, especially cybernetic systems. Scorpio had always got on well with him. He was one of the few humans who genuinely didn’t seem to see a pig when he talked to him, just another mechanically minded soul, someone he could really talk to. Xavier was now in charge of the central machine pool, controlling the colony’s finite and dwindling reserve of functioning servitors, vehicles, aircraft, pumps, weapons and shuttles: technically it was a desk job, but whenever Scorpio called on him, Liu was usually up to his elbows in something. Nine times out of ten, Scorpio would find himself helping out, too.

Next to Blood was Pauline Sukhoi, a pale, spectral figure seemingly either haunted by something just out of sight, or else a ghost herself. Her hands and voice trembled constantly, and her episodes of what might be termed transient insanity were well known. Years ago, in the patronage of one of Chasm City’s most shadowy individuals, she had worked on an experiment concerning local alteration of the quantum vacuum. There had been an accident, and in the whiplash of severing possibilities that was a quantum vacuum transition, Sukhoi had seen something dreadful, something that had pushed her to the edge of madness. Even now she could barely speak of it. It was said that she passed her time sewing patterns into carpets.

Then there was Orca Cruz, one of Scorpio’s old associates from his Mulch days, one-eyed but still as sharp as a monofilament scythe. She was the toughest human he knew, Clavain included. Two of Scorpio’s old rivals had once made the mistake of underestimating Orca Cruz. The first Scorpio knew of it was when he heard about their funerals. Cruz wore much black leather and had her favourite firearm out on the table in front of her, scarlet fingernails clicking against the ornamented Japanwork of its carved muzzle. Scorpio thought the gesture rather gauche, but he had never picked his associates for their sense of decorum.

There were a dozen other senior colony members in the room, three of them swimmers from the Juggler contact section. Of necessity they were all young baseline humans. Their bodies were sleek and purposeful as otters’, their flesh mottled by faint green indications of biological takeover. They all wore sleeveless tunics that showed off the broadness of their shoulders and the impressive development of their arm muscles. They had tattoos worked into the paisley complexity of their markings, signifying some inscrutable hierarchy of rank meaningful only to other swimmers. Scorpio, on balance, did not much like the swimmers. It was not simply that they had access to a luminous world that he, as a pig, would never know. They seemed aloof and scornful of everyone, including the other baseline humans. But it could not be denied that they had their uses and that in some sense they were right to be scornful. They had seen things and places no one else ever would. As colonial assets, they had to be tolerated and tapped.

The nine other seniors were all somewhat older than the swimmers. They were people who had been adults on Resurgam before the evacuation. As with the swimmers, the faces changed when new representatives were cycled in and out of duty. Scorpio, nonetheless, made it his duty to know them all, with the intimate fondness for personal details he reserved only for close friends and blood enemies. He knew that this curatorial grasp of personal data was one of his strengths, a compensation for his lack of forward-thinking ability.

It therefore troubled him profoundly that there was one person in the room that he hardly knew at all. Khouri sat nearly opposite him, attended by Dr Valensin. Scorpio had no hold on her, no insights into her weaknesses. That absence in his knowledge troubled him like a missing tooth.

He was contemplating this, wondering if anyone else felt the same way, when the murmur of conversation came to an abrupt end. Everyone, including Khouri, turned towards Clavain, expecting him to lead the meeting.

Clavain stood, pushing himself up. ‘I don’t intend to say very much. All the evidence I’ve seen points to Scorpio having done an excellent job of running this place in my absence. I have no intention of replacing his leadership, but I will offer what guidance I can during the present crisis. I trust you’ve all had time to read the summaries Scorp and I put together, based on Khouri’s testimony?’

‘We’ve read them,’ said one of the former colonists - a bearded, corpulent man named Hallatt. ‘Whether we take any of it seriously is another thing entirely.’

‘She certainly makes some unusual claims,’ Clavain said, ‘but that in itself shouldn’t surprise us, especially given the things that happened to us after we left Yellowstone. These are unusual times. The circumstances of her arrival were bound to be a little surprising.’

‘It’s not just the claims,’ Hallatt said. ‘It’s Khouri herself. She was Ilia Volyova’s second-in-command. That’s hardly the best recommendation, as far as I’m concerned.’

Clavain raised a hand. ‘Volyova may well have wronged your planet, but in my view she also atoned for her sins with her last act.’

‘She may believe she did,’ Hallatt said, ‘but the gift of redemption lies with the sinned-against, rather than the sinner. In my view she was still a war criminal, and Ana Khouri was her accomplice.’

‘That’s your opinion,’ Clavain allowed, ‘but according to the laws that we all agreed to live under during the evacuation, neither Volyova nor Khouri were to be held accountable for any crimes. My only concern now is Khouri’s testimony, and whether we act upon it.’

‘Just a moment,’ Khouri said as Clavain sat down. ‘Maybe I missed something, but shouldn’t someone else be taking part in this little set-up?’

‘Who did you have in mind?’ Scorpio asked.

‘The ship, of course. The one we happen to be sitting in.’ Scorpio scratched the fold of skin between his forehead and the upturned snout of his nose. ‘I don’t quite follow.’

‘Captain Brannigan brought you all here, didn’t he?’ Khouri asked. ‘Doesn’t that entitle him to a seat at this table?’

‘Maybe you weren’t paying attention,’ Pauline Sukhoi said. ‘This isn’t a ship any more. It’s a landmark.’

‘You’re right to ask about the Captain,’ Antoinette Bax said, her deep voice commanding immediate attention. ‘We’ve been trying to establish a dialogue with him almost since the Infinity landed.’ Her many-ringed fingers were knitted together on the table, her nails painted a bright chemical green. ‘No joy,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t want to talk.’

‘Then the Captain’s dead?’ Khouri said.

‘No . . .’ Bax said, looking around warily. ‘He still shows his face now and then.’

Pauline Sukhoi addressed Khouri again. ‘Might I ask something else? In your testimony you claim that Remontoire and his allies - our allies - have achieved significant breakthroughs in a range of areas. Drives that can’t be detected, ships that can’t be seen, weapons that cut through space-time . . . that’s quite a list.’ Sukhoi’s frail, frightened voice always sounded on the verge of laughter. ‘All the more so given the very limited time that you’ve had to make these discoveries.’

‘They weren’t discoveries,’ Khouri said. ‘Read the summary. Aura gave us the clues to make those things, that’s all. We didn’t discover anything.’

‘Let’s talk about Aura,’ Scorpio said. ‘In fact, let’s go right back to the beginning, from the moment our two forces separated around Delta Pavonis. Zodiacal Light was badly damaged, we know that much. But it shouldn’t have taken more than two or three years for the self-repair systems to patch it up again, provided you fed them with enough raw material. Yet we’ve been waiting here for twenty-three years. What took you so long?’

‘The repairs took longer than we anticipated,’ Khouri replied. ‘We had problems obtaining the raw materials now that the Inhibitors had so much of the system under their control.’

‘But not twenty years, surely,’ said Scorpio.

‘No, but once we’d been there a few years it became clear we were in no immediate danger of persecution by the Inhibitors provided we stayed near the Hades object, the re-engineered neutron star. That meant we had more time to study the thing. We were scared at first, but the Inhibitors always kept clear of it, as if there was something about it they didn’t like. Actually, Thorn and I had already guessed as much.’

‘Tell us a bit more about Thorn,’ Clavain said gently.

They all heard the crack in her voice. ‘Thorn was the resistance leader, the man who made life difficult for the regime until the Inhibitors showed up.’

‘Volyova and you struck up some kind of relationship with him, didn’t you?’ Clavain asked.

‘He was our way of getting the people to accept our help to evacuate. Because of that I had a lot of involvement with Thorn. We got to know each other quite well.’ She faltered into silence.

‘Take your time,’ Clavain said, with a kindness Scorpio had not heard in his voice lately.

‘One time, stupid curiosity drew Thorn and I too close to the Inhibitors. They had us surrounded, and they’d even started pushing their probes into our heads, drinking our memories. But then something - some entity - intervened and saved us. Whatever it was, it appeared to originate around Hades. Maybe it was even an extension of Hades itself, another kind of probe.’

Scorpio tapped the summary before him. ‘You reported contact with a human mind.’

‘It was Dan Sylveste,’ she said, ‘the same self-obsessed bastard who started all this in the first place. We know he found a way into the Hades matrix all those years ago, using the same route that the Amarantin took to escape the Inhibitors.’

‘And you think Sylveste - or whatever he had become by then - intervened to save you and Thorn?’ Clavain asked.

‘I know he did. When his mind touched mine, I got a blast of . . . call it remorse. As if the penny had finally dropped about how big a screw-up he’d been, and the damage he’d done in the name of curiosity. It was as if he was ready, in a small way, to start making amends.’

Clavain smiled. ‘Better late than never.’

‘He couldn’t work miracles, though,’ Khouri said. ‘The envoy that Hades sent to Roc to help us was enough to intimidate the Inhibitor machines, but it didn’t do more than hamper them, allowing us to make it back to Ilia. But it was a sign, at least, that if we stood a chance of doing something about the Inhibitors, the place to look for help was in Hades. Some of us had to go back inside.’

‘You were one of them?’ Clavain said.

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I did it the same way I’d done it before, because I knew that would work. Not via the front door inside the thing orbiting Hades, the way Sylveste did it, but by falling towards the star. By dying, in other words; letting myself get ripped apart by the gravitational field of Hades and then reassembled inside it. I don’t remember any of that. I guess I’m grateful.’

It was clear to Scorpio that even Khouri had little idea of what had really happened to her during her entry into the Hades object. Her earlier account of things had made it clear that she believed herself to have been physically reconstituted within the star, preserved in a tiny, quivering bubble of flat space-time, so that she was immune to the awesome crush of Hades’ gravitational field. Perhaps that had indeed been the case. Equally, it might have been some fanciful fiction created for her by her once-human hosts. All that mattered, ultimately, was that there was a way to communicate with entities running inside the Hades matrix - and, perhaps more importantly, a way to get back out into the real universe.

Scorpio was contemplating that when his communicator buzzed discreetly. As he stood up from the table, Khouri halted her monologue.

Irritated at the interruption, Scorpio lifted the communicator to his face and unspooled the privacy earpiece. ‘This had better be good.’

The voice that came was thready and distant. He recognised it as belonging to the Security Arm guard that had met them at the landing stage. ‘Thought you needed to know this, sir.’

‘Make it quick.’

‘Class-three apparition reported on five eighty-seven. That’s the highest in nearly six months.’

As if he needed to be told. ‘Who saw it?’

‘Palfrey, a worker in bilge management.’

Scorpio lowered his voice and pressed the earpiece in more tightly. He was conscious that he had the full attention of everyone in the room. ‘What did Palfrey see?’

‘The usual, sir: not very much, but enough that we’ll have a hard time persuading him to go that deep again.’

‘Interview him, get it on record, make it clear that he speaks of this to no one. Understood?’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘Then find him another line of work.’ Scorpio paused, frowning as he thought through all the implications. ‘On second thoughts, I’d like a word with him as well. Don’t let him leave the ship.’

Without waiting for a reply, Scorpio broke the link, spooled the earpiece back into the communicator and returned to the table. He sat down, gesturing at Khouri for her to continue.

‘What was all that about?’ she asked.

‘Nothing that need worry you.’

‘I’m worried.’

He felt a splinter of pain between his eyes. He had been getting a lot of headaches lately, and this kind of day didn’t help. ‘Someone reported an apparition,’ he said, ‘one of the Captain’s little manifestations that Antoinette mentioned. Doesn’t mean anything.’

‘No? I show up, he shows up, and you think that doesn’t mean something?’ Khouri shook her head. ‘I know what it means, even if you don’t. The Captain understands there’s some heavy stuff going down.’

The splinter of pain had become a little broken arrowhead. He pinched the bridge of skin between snout and forehead. ‘Tell us about Sylveste,’ he said with exaggerated patience.

Khouri sighed, but did as she was asked. ‘There was a kind of welcoming committee inside the star, Sylveste and his wife, just as I’d last met them. It even looked like the same room - a scientific study full of old bones and equipment. But it didn’t feel the same. It was as if I was taking part in some kind of parlour game, but I was the only one not in on it. I wasn’t talking to Sylveste any more, if I ever had been.’

‘An impostor?’ Clavain asked.

‘No, not that. I was talking with the genuine article . . . I’m sure of that . . . but at the same time it wasn’t Sylveste, either. It was as if . . . he was condescending to me, putting on a mask so that I’d have something familiar to talk to. I knew I wasn’t getting the whole story. I was getting the comforting version, with the creepy stuff taken out. I don’t think Sylveste thought I was capable of dealing with what he’d really become, after all that time.’ She smiled. ‘I think he thought he’d blow my mind.’

‘After sixty years in the Hades matrix, he might have,’ Clavain said.

‘All the same,’ Khouri said, ‘I don’t think there was any actual deception. Nothing that wasn’t absolutely essential for the sake of my sanity, anyhow.’

‘Tell us about your later visits,’ Clavain said.

‘I went in alone the first few times. Then it was always with someone else - Remontoire sometimes, Thorn, a few other volunteers.’

‘But always you?’ Clavain asked.

‘The matrix accepted me. No one was willing to take the risk of going in without me.’

‘I don’t blame them.’ Clavain paused, but it was apparent to all present that he had something more to say. ‘But Thorn died, didn’t he?’

‘We were falling towards the neutron star,’ she said, ‘just the way we always did, and then something hit us. Maybe an energy burst from a stray weapon, we’ll never know for sure; it might have been orbiting Hades for a million years, or it could have been something from the Inhibitors, something they risked placing that close to the star. It wasn’t enough to destroy the capsule, but it was enough to kill Thorn.’

She stopped speaking, allowing an uncomfortable silence to invade the room. Scorpio looked around, observing that everyone had their eyes downcast; that no one dared look at Khouri, not even Hallatt.

Khouri resumed speaking. ‘The star captured me alive, but Thorn was dead. It couldn’t reassemble what was left of him into a living being.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Clavain said, his voice barely audible.

‘There’s something else,’ Khouri said, her voice nearly as quiet.

‘Go on.’

‘Part of Thorn did survive. We’d made love on the long fall to Hades, and so when I went into the star, I took a part of him with me. I was pregnant.’

Clavain waited a decent while before answering, allowing her words to settle in, giving them the dignified space they warranted. ‘And Thorn’s child?’

‘She’s Aura,’ Khouri said. ‘The baby Skade stole from me. The child I came here to get back.’

FOURTEEN

Ararat, 2675

The room in which Palfrey had been told to wait for Scorpio was a small annexe off one of the larger storage areas used by bilge management, the branch of the administration tasked with keeping the lower levels of the ship as dry as possible. The curved walls of the little chamber were layered with a glossy grey-green plaque that had hardened into stringy, waxy formations. The smooth floor was sheet metal. Anchored to it with thick bolts was a small, battered desk from Central Amenities, upon which lay an ashtray, a half-empty beaker of something tarlike and the parts of several dismantled bilge pump assemblies. Bookended by the pump parts was what Scorpio took to be a vacuum helmet of antique design, silver paint peeling from its metal shell. Behind the desk, Palfrey sat chain-smoking, his eyes red with fatigue, his sparse black hair messed across the sunburned pink of his scalp. He wore khaki overalls with many pockets, and some kind of breathing apparatus hung around his neck on frayed cords.

‘I understand you saw something,’ Scorpio said, pulling up another chair, the legs squealing horribly against the metal, and sitting in it the wrong way around, facing the man with his legs splayed either side of the backrest.

‘That’s what I told my boss. All right if I go home now?’

‘Your boss didn’t give me a very clear description. I’d like to know a bit more.’ Scorpio smiled at Palfrey. ‘Then we can all go home.’

Palfrey stubbed out his current cigarette. ‘Why? It’s not as if you believe me, is it?’

Scorpio’s headache had not improved. ‘Why do you say that?’

‘Everyone knows you don’t believe in the sightings. You think we’re just finding reasons to skive off the deep-level duties.’

‘It’s true that your boss will have to arrange a new detail for that part of the ship, and it’s true that I don’t believe all the reports that reach my desk. Many of them, however, I’m inclined to take seriously. Often they follow a pattern, clustering in one part of the ship, or moving up and down a series of adjacent levels. It’s as if the Captain focuses on an area to haunt and then sticks with it until he’s made his point. You ever seen him before?’

‘First time,’ Palfrey said, his hands trembling. His fingers were bony, the bright-pink knuckles like blisters ready to pop.

‘Tell me what you saw.’

‘I was alone. The nearest team was three levels away, fixing another pump failure. I’d gone down to look at a unit that might have been overheating. I had my toolkit with me and that was all. I wasn’t planning to spend much time down there. None of us like working those deep levels, and definitely not alone.’

‘I thought it was policy not to send anyone in alone below level six hundred.’

‘It is.’

‘So what were you doing down there by yourself?’

‘If we stuck to the rules you’d have a flooded ship in about a week.’

‘I see.’ He tried to sound surprised, but he heard the same story about a dozen times a week, all over the colony. Individually, everyone thought they were on the only team being stretched past breaking point. Collectively, the whole settlement was lurching from one barely contained crisis to another. But only Scorpio and a handful of his lieutenants knew that.

‘We don’t fiddle the timesheets,’ Palfrey volunteered, as if this must have been next thing on Scorpio’s mind.

‘Why don’t you tell me about the apparition? You were down looking at the hot pump. What happened?’

‘Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something move. Couldn’t tell what it was at first - it’s dark down there, and our lights don’t work as well as they should. You imagine a lot of stuff, so you don’t immediately jump out of your skin the first time you think you see something. But when I shone the light on it and looked properly, there was definitely something there.’

‘Describe it.’

‘It looked like machinery. Junk. Old pump mechanisms, old servitor parts. Wires. Cables. Stuff that must have been lying down there for twenty years.’

‘You saw machinery and you thought that was an apparition?’

‘It wasn’t just machinery,’ Palfrey said defensively. ‘It was organised, gathered together, lashed into something larger. It was man-shaped. It just stood there, watching me.’

‘Did you hear it approach?’

‘No. As I said, it was just junk. It could have been there all along, waiting until I noticed it.’

‘And when you did notice it - what happened then?’

‘It looked at me. The head - it was made up of hundreds of little bits - moved, as if acknowledging me. And I saw something in the face, like an expression. It wasn’t just a machine. There was a mind there. A distinct purpose.’ Redundantly, he added, ‘I didn’t like it.’

Scorpio drummed the tips of his fingers against the seatback. ‘If it helps, what you saw was a class-three apparition. A class one is a localised change in the atmospheric conditions of the ship: an unexplained breeze, or a drop in temperature. They’re the commonest kind, reported almost daily. Only a fraction probably have anything at all to do with the Captain.’

‘We’ve all experienced those,’ Palfrey said.

‘A class two is a little rarer. We define it as a recognisable speech sound, a word or sentence fragment, or even a whole statement. Again, there’s an element of uncertainty. If you’re scared and you hear the wind howl, it’s easy to imagine a word or two.’

‘It wasn’t one of those.’

‘No, clearly not. Which brings us to a class-three manifestation: a physical presence, transient or otherwise, manifesting either via a local physical alteration of the ship’s fabric - a face appearing in a wall, for instance - or the co-opting of an available mechanism or group of mechanisms. What you saw was clearly the latter.’

‘That’s very reassuring.’

‘It should be. I can also tell you that despite rumours to the contrary no one has ever been harmed by an apparition, and that very few workers have ever seen a class three on more than one occasion.’

‘You’re still not getting me to go down there again.’

‘I’m not asking you to. You’ll be reassigned to some other duty, either in the high ship levels or back on the mainland.’

‘The sooner I’m off this ship, the better.’

‘Good. That’s sorted, then.’ Scorpio moved to stand up, the chair scraping against the floor.

‘That’s it?’ Palfrey asked.

‘You’ve told me everything I need to know.’

Palfrey poked around in the ashtray with the dead stub of his last cigarette. ‘I see a ghost and I get interviewed by one of the most powerful men in the colony?’

Scorpio shrugged. ‘I just happened to be in the area, thought you’d appreciate my taking an interest.’

The man looked at him with a critical expression Scorpio seldom saw in pigs. ‘Something’s up, isn’t it?’

‘Not sure I follow you.’

‘You wouldn’t interview someone from bilge management unless something was going down.’

‘Take it from me, something’s always going down.’

‘But this must be more than that.’ Palfrey smiled at him, the way people smiled when they thought they knew something you’d have preferred them not to know, or when they imagined they had figured out an angle they weren’t supposed to see. ‘I listen. I hear about all the other apparitions, not just the ones on my shift.’

‘And your conclusion is?’

‘They’ve been growing more frequent. Not just in the last day or so, but over the last few weeks or months. I knew it was only a matter of time before I saw one for myself.’

‘That’s a very interesting analysis.’

‘The way I see it,’ Palfrey said, ‘it’s as if he - the Captain - is getting restless. But what would I know? I’m just a bilge mechanic.’

‘Indeed,’ Scorpio said.

‘You know something’s happening, though, don’t you? Or you wouldn’t be taking so much interest in a single sighting. I bet you’re interviewing everyone these days. He’s really got you worried, hasn’t he?’

‘The Captain’s on our side.’

‘You hope.’ Palfrey sniggered triumphantly.

‘We all hope. Unless you have some other plans for getting off this planet, the Captain’s our only ticket out of here.’

‘You’re talking as if there’s some sudden urgency to leave.’

Scorpio considered telling him that there might well be, just to mess with his mind. He had decided that he did not very much like Palfrey. But Palfrey would talk, and the last thing Scorpio needed now was a wave of panic to deal with in addition to Khouri’s little crisis. He would just have to deny himself that small, puissant pleasure.

He leaned across the table, Palfrey’s stench hitting him like a wall. ‘A word of this meeting to anyone,’ he said, ‘and you won’t be working in effluent management any more. You’ll be part of the problem.’

Scorpio pushed himself up from the chair, intending to leave Palfrey alone with his thoughts.

‘You haven’t asked me about this,’ Palfrey said, offering Scorpio the battered silver helmet.

Scorpio took it from him and turned it in his hands. It was heavier than he had expected. ‘I thought it belonged to you.’

‘You thought wrong. I found it down there in the junk, when the apparition had gone. I don’t think it was there before.’

Scorpio took a closer look at the helmet. Its design appeared very old. Above the small rectangular porthole of the faceplate were many rectangular symbols containing blocks of primary colour. There were crosses and crescents, stripes and stars.

The pig wondered what they meant.

Hela, 2727

Now that she had time on her hands, Rashmika used it to explore the caravan. Although there was a great deal of space to investigate inside, she quickly found that one compartment in the caravan was much like another. Wherever she went she encountered the same bad smells, the same wandering pilgrims and traders. If there were variations on these themes they were too dull and nuanced to interest her. What she really wanted was to get outside, on to the roof of the procession.

It was many months since she had seen Haldora, and now that the gas giant had finally crept above the horizon as the caravan narrowed the distance to the cathedrals of the Way, she was struck by a desire to go outside, lie on her back and just look at the huge planet. But the first few times she tried to find a way to the roof, none of the doors would open for her. Rashmika tried different routes and times of the day, hoping to slip through a gap in the caravan’s security, but the roof was well protected, presumably because there was a lot of sensitive navigation equipment up there.

She was backtracking from one dead end when she found her way blocked by the quaestor. He had his little green pet with him, squatting on his shoulder. Was it Rashmika’s imagination or was there something wrong with one of its forelimbs? It ended in a green-tipped stump that she did not remember seeing before.

‘Can I help you, Miss Els?’

‘I was just exploring the caravan,’ she said. ‘That’s allowed, isn’t it?’

‘Within certain restrictions, yes.’ He nodded beyond her, to the door she had found blocked. ‘The roof, naturally, is one of the places that are out of bounds.’

‘I wasn’t interested in the roof.’

‘No? Then you must be lost. This door only leads to the roof. There’s nothing up there to interest you, take my word for it.’

‘I wanted to see Haldora.’

‘You must have seen it many times before.’

‘Not recently, and never very far above the horizon,’ she said. ‘I wanted to see it at the zenith.’

‘Well, you’ll have to wait for that. Now . . . if you don’t mind.’ He pushed past her, his bulk pressing unpleasantly against her in the narrow squeeze of the corridor.

The green creature tracked her with his faceted eyes. ‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,’ it intoned.

‘Where are you going, Quaestor? You’re not wearing a suit.’

‘Run along now, Miss Els.’

He did something that he obviously did not want her to see, reaching into a shadowed alcove next to the door that a casual visitor would never have noticed. He tried to be quick about it, to hide the gesture. She heard a low click, as if some hidden mechanism had just snapped open.

The door worked for him. He stepped through. In the red-lit space beyond she glimpsed emergency equipment and several racked vacuum suits.

She came back several hours later, when she was certain that the quaestor had returned inside the caravan. She carried her own surface suit in a collapsed bundle, sneaking it through the rumbling innards of the caravan. She tried the door: it was still blocked to her. But when she slipped her hand into the alcove that the quaestor had not wanted her to see she found a concealed control. She applied pressure and heard the click as the locking mechanism relaxed. Presumably there was some further fail-safe that would have prevented the inner door from opening if the outer one was also open. That was not the case now, however, and the door yielded to her as it had to the quaestor. She slipped into the lock, secured the inner door behind her and changed into her own suit. She checked the air, satisfying herself that there was enough in the reservoir, and feeling a moment of déjà vu as she remembered making the same check before leaving her home.

She recalled how the reservoir had not been completely full, as if someone had used her suit recently. She had thought little of it at the time, but now a cluster of thoughts arrived in quick, uneasy succession. There had been footprints in the ice around the surface lock, suggesting that someone had used the lock as well as the suit. The prints had been small enough to belong to her mother, but they could just as easily have belonged to Rashmika.

She remembered the constabulary, too, and their suspicion that she had had something to do with the sabotage. She hadn’t helped her case by running away shortly afterwards, but they wouldn’t have come after her unless they had some additional evidence to link her to the act.

What did it mean? If she had been the one who had blown up the store of demolition charges, surely she’d have some memory of doing it. More to the point, why would she have done such a pointless thing? No, she told herself, it couldn’t have been her. It was just an unfortunate set of coincidences.

But she could not dismiss her doubts that easily.

Ten minutes later she was standing under airless sky astride the back of the huge machine. The business with the sabotage still troubled her, but with an effort of will she forced her thoughts on to more immediate matters.

She thought back to what had happened in the corridor, when the quaestor had found her. Convenient, that. Of all the possible entrances to the roof he had bumped into her at precisely the one she had been trying. More than likely he had been spying on her, observing her peregrinations through his little rolling empire. When he had spoken to her he had been hiding something. She was certain of that: it had been written on his face, in the momentary elevation of his eyebrows. His own guilt at spying on her? She doubted that he had the chance to spy on many girls her age, so he was probably making the most of it, him and that horrible pet of his.

She didn’t like the idea of him watching her, but she would not be on the caravan for very long and all she really cared about now was exploring the roof. If he had been observing her, then he would have had plenty of chances to stop her when she was changing into her own suit and finding the steps that led up to the roof. No one had come, so perhaps his attention had been elsewhere, or he had decided it was not worth his bother to stop her going where she wanted.

Quickly she forgot all about him, thrilled to be outside again.

Rashmika had never seen a vanishing. Two had occurred in her lifetime, once when Haldora was visible from the badlands, but she had been in classes at the time. Of course, she knew that the chances of seeing anything were tiny, even if one had the extreme good fortune to be out on the ice when it happened. The vanishings lasted for only a fraction of a second. By the time you knew one had happened, it was always too late. The only people who had ever seen one happen - with the exception of Quaiche, of course, who had started it all - were those who made it their duty to observe Haldora at every possible moment. And even then they had to pray that they did not blink or look away at that critical instant. Deprived of sleep by drugs and elective neurological intervention, they were half-mad to begin with.

Rashmika could not imagine that kind of dedication, but then she had never felt the slightest inclination to join a church in the first place. She wanted to observe a vanishing because she still clung to the notion that it was a rational natural phenomenon rather than evidence of divine intervention on the cosmic scale. And in Rashmika’s view it would be a shame not to be able to say one had seen something so rare, so wondrous. Consequently, ever since she was small, and whenever Haldora was high, she would try to devote some time each day to watching it. It was nothing compared to the endless hours of the cathedral observers, and the statistical odds against seeing anything did not bear contemplation, but she did it anyway, cheerfully ignoring such considerations while chiding those who did not share her particular brand of scientific rationalism.

The caravan’s roof was a landscape of treacherous obstructions. There were crouching generator boxes, radiator grilles and vanes, snaking conduits and power lines. It all looked very old, patched together over many years. She made her way from one side to the other, following the course of a railed catwalk. When she reached the edge she looked over, appalled at how far down the ground was and how slowly it now appeared to move. There was no one else up here, at least not on this particular machine.

She looked up, craning her neck as far as the awkward articulation of the helmet joint permitted. The sky was full of counter-moving lights. It was as if there were two celestial spheres up there, two crystal globes nested one within the other. As always the effect was immediately dizzying. Normally the sense of vertigo was little more than a nuisance, but this high up it could easily kill her.

Rashmika tightened her grip on the railing and looked back down at the horizon again. Then, steeled, she looked up once more.

The illusion that she stood at the centre of two spheres was not entirely inaccurate. The lights pinned to the outermost sphere were the stars, impossibly distant; pinned to the innermost sphere were the ships in orbit around Hela, the sunlight glinting off the polished perfection of their hulls. Occasionally one or other would flicker with the hard gemlike flash of steering thrust as the Ultra crews trimmed their orbits or prepared for departure.

At any one time, Rashmika had heard, there were between thirty and fifty ships in orbit around Hela, always coming and going. Most were not large vessels, for the Ultras distrusted Haldora and preferred to hold their most valuable assets much further out. In general those she saw were in-system shuttles, large enough to hold frozen pilgrims and a modest team of Ultra negotiators. The ships that flew between Hela and orbit were usually even smaller, for the churches did not allow anything large to approach Hela’s surface.

The big ships, the starships - the lighthuggers - made only very rare visits to Hela’s orbit. When they did, they hung in the sky like ornaments, sliding along invisible tracks from horizon to horizon. Rashmika had seen very few of those in her lifetime; they always impressed and scared her at the same time. Her world was a froth of ice lathered around a core of rubble. It was fragile. Having one of those vessels nearby - especially when they made main-drive adjustments - was like holding a welding torch close to a snowball.

The vertigo returned in waves. Rashmika looked back towards the horizon, easing the strain on her neck. The old suit was dependable, but it was not exactly engineered for sightseeing.

Here, instead, was Haldora. Two-thirds of it had risen above the horizon now. Because there was no air on Hela, nothing to blur features on the horizon, there were very few visual cues to enable one to discriminate between something a few dozen kilometres away and something nearly a million kilometres beyond that. The gas giant appeared to be an extension of the world on which she stood. It looked larger when it was near the horizon than the zenith, but Rashmika knew that this was an illusion, an accidental by-product of the way her mind was wired together. Haldora loomed about forty times larger in the sky of Hela than the Moon did in the skies of Earth. She had always wondered about this, for it implied that the Moon was really not a very impressive thing compared to Haldora, in spite of the Moon’s prominence in Earth literature and mythology.

From the angle at which she saw it, Haldora appeared as a fat crescent. Even without the suit’s contrast filters slid down, she made out the bands of equatorial coloration that striped the world from pole to pole: shades of ochre and orange, sepia and buff, vermilion and amber. She saw the curlicues and flukes where the colour bands mingled or bled; the furious scarlet eye of a storm system, like a knot in wood. She saw the tiny dark shadows of the many smaller moons that wheeled around Haldora, and the pale arc of the world’s single ring.

Rashmika crouched down until she was sitting on her haunches. It was as uncomfortable as trying to look up, but she held the posture for as long as she was able. At the same time she kept on looking at Haldora, willing it, daring it to vanish, to do that which had brought them all here in the first place. But the world simply hung there, seemingly anchored to the landscape, close enough to touch, as real as anything she had ever seen in her life.

And yet, she thought, it does vanish. That it happened - that it continued to happen - was not disputed, at least not by anyone who had spent any significant time on Hela. Look at it long enough, she thought, and - unless you are unlucky - you will see it happen.

It just wasn’t her turn today.

Rashmika stood up, then made her way past the point where she had emerged, towards the rear of the vehicle. She was looking back along the procession of the caravan now, and she could see the other machines rising and falling in waves as they moved over slight undulations in the trail. The caravan was even longer than when she had first arrived: at some point, without any fanfare, a dozen more units had tagged on to the rear. It would keep growing until it reached the Permanent Way, at which point it would fragment again as various sections were assigned to specific cathedrals.

She reached the limit of the catwalk, at the back of the vehicle. There was an abyss between her and the next machine, spanned only by a flimsy-looking bridge formed from many metal slats. It had not been apparent from the ground, but now she saw that the distance - vertical and horizontal - was changing all the while, making the little bridge lash and twist like something in pain. Instead of the stiff railings she now held, there were only metal wires. Down below, halfway to the ground, was a pressurised connector that puffed in and out like a bellows. That looked much safer.

Rashmika supposed that she could go back inside the caravan and find her way to that connector. Or she could pretend that she had done enough exploring for one day. The last thing she needed to do was start making enemies this early in her quest. There would be plenty of time for that later on, she was certain.

Rashmika stepped back, but only for a moment. Then she returned to the bridge and spread her arms apart so that each hand could grip one of the wire lines. The bridge writhed ahead of her, the metal plates slipping apart, revealing an awful absence. She took a step forwards, planting one booted foot on the first plate.

It did not feel safe. The plate gave beneath her, offering no hint of solidity.

‘Go on,’ she said, goading herself.

She took the next step, and both feet were on the bridge. She looked back. The lead vehicle pitched and yawed. The bridge squirmed under her, throwing her from one side to the other. She held on tightly. She wanted desperately to turn back, but a small, quiet voice told her she must not. The voice told her that if she did not have the courage to do this one simple thing, then she could not possibly have the courage to find her brother.

Rashmika took another step along the bridge. She began to cross the gap. It was what she had to do.

FIFTEEN

Ararat, 2675

Blood bustled into the conference room, a huge number of rolled-up maps tucked beneath his arms. He placed the maps on the table and then spread one of them wide, the map flattening itself obediently. It was a single sheet of thick creamy paper as wide as the table, with the slightly mottled texture of leather. At a command from Blood, topographic features popped into exaggerated relief, then shaded themselves according to the current pattern of daylight and darkness on that part of Ararat. Latitude and longitude appeared as thin glowing lines, labelled with tiny numerals.

Khouri leant across, studying the map for a moment. She turned it slightly, then pointed to one small chain of islands. ‘Near here,’ she said, ‘about thirty kilometres west of that strait, eight hundred kilometres north of here.’

‘Is this thing updated in real time?’ Clavain asked.

‘Refresh time is about every two days on average,’ Scorpio said. ‘It can take a bit longer. Depends on the vagaries of satellite positions, high-altitude balloons and cloud cover. Why?’

‘Because it looks as if there’s something more or less where she said there would be.’

‘He’s right,’ Khouri said. ‘It has to be Skade’s ship, doesn’t it?’

Scorpio leant in to inspect the tiny white dot. ‘That’s no ship,’ he said. ‘It’s just a speck of ice, like a small iceberg.’

‘You’re sure about that?’ Clavain asked.

Blood jabbed his trotter at the point Khouri had indicated. ‘Let’s be certain. Map: magnify, tenfold.’

The surface features of the map crawled away to the edges. The speck of ice swelled until it was the size of a fingernail. Blood told the map to apply an enhancement filter, but there was no obvious increase in detail save for a vague suggestion that the iceberg was bleeding into the surrounding sea, extending fine tendrils of whiteness in all directions.

‘No ship,’ Scorpio said.

Clavain sounded less certain. ‘Ana, the craft Skade came down in - you said in your report that it was a heavy corvette, correct?’

‘I’m no expert on ships, but that’s what I was told.’

‘You said it was fifty metres long. That would be about right for a moray-class corvette. The funny thing is, that iceberg looks about the same size. The proportions are consistent - maybe a bit larger, but not much.’

‘Could be coincidence,’ Blood said. ‘You know there are always bits of iceberg drifting down into those latitudes. Sometimes they even make it as far south as here.’

‘But there are no other icebergs in the surrounding area,’ Clavain pointed out.

‘All the same,’ Scorpio said, ‘there can’t be a ship in that thing, can there? Why would it have ended up covered in ice? If anything, ships come in hot, not cold. And why wouldn’t the ice have melted by now?’

‘We’ll find out when we get there,’ Clavain said slowly. ‘In the meantime, let’s stick to practicalities. We won’t want to alarm Skade into doing something rash, so we’ll make sure our approach is slow and obvious.’ He indicated a spot on the map, to the south of the iceberg. ‘I suggest we take a shuttle out to about here; Antoinette can fly us. Then we’ll drop two or three boats and make the rest of the crossing by sea. We’ll carry surgical equipment and close-quarters arms, but nothing excessive. If we need to destroy the ship we can always call in an air-strike from the mainland.’ He looked up, his finger still pressing down on the map. ‘If we leave this afternoon, we can time our arrival at the iceberg for dawn, which will give us a whole day in which to complete negotiations with Skade.’

‘Wait a moment,’ said Dr Valensin, smiling slightly. ‘Before we get too carried away - are you telling me that you’re actually taking any of this seriously?’

‘You mean you’re not?’ Clavain asked.

‘She’s my patient,’ Valensin said, looking sympathetically at Khouri. ‘I’ll vouch for the fact that she’s isn’t obviously insane. She has Conjoiner implants, and if her child had them as well they could have communicated with each other while the child was still in her womb. It would have been unorthodox, but Remontoire could have put those implants in her unborn child using microsurgical remotes. Given Conjoiner medicine, too, it’s not inconceivable that Skade could have removed Khouri’s child without evidence of surgery. But the rest of it? This whole business about a space war taking place on our doorstep? It’s a bit of a stretch, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I’m not so sure,’ Clavain said.

‘Please explain,’ Valensin said, looking to his colleagues for support.

Clavain tapped the side of his skull. ‘Remember, I’m a Conjoiner as well. The last time I was able to check, all the machinery in my head was still working properly.’

‘I could have told you as much,’ Valensin said.

‘What you forget is how sensitive it is. It’s designed to detect and amplify ambient fields, signals produced by machines or other Conjoiners. Two Conjoiners can share thoughts across tens of metres of open space even if there aren’t any amplifying systems in the environment. The hardware translates those fields into patterns that the organic part of the brain can interpret, harnessing the basic visual grammar of the perceptual centre.’

‘This isn’t news to me,’ Valensin said.

‘So consider the implications. What if there really was a war going on out there - a major circumsolar engagement, with all sorts of weapons and countermeasures being deployed? There’d be a great deal of stray electromagnetic noise, much more powerful than normal Conjoiner signals. My implants might be picking up signals they can’t interpret properly. They’re feeding semi-intelligible patterns into my meat brain. The meat does its best to sort out the mess and ends up throwing shapes and faces into the sky.’

‘He told me he’d been seeing things,’ Scorpio said.

‘Figures, signs and portents,’ Clavain said. ‘It only began in the last two or three months. Khouri said the fleet arrived nine weeks ago. That’s too much of a coincidence for me. I thought that perhaps I was going mad, but it looks as if I was just picking up rumours of war.’

‘Like the good old soldier you always were,’ Scorpio said.

‘It just means I’m inclined to take Khouri seriously,’ Clavain said, ‘no matter how strange her story.’

‘Even the part about Skade?’ Valensin asked.

Clavain scratched his beard. His eyes were slit-lidded, almost closed, as if viewing a vast mental landscape of possibilities. ‘Especially the part about Skade,’ he replied.

Hela, 2727

Rashmika looked straight ahead. She had nearly reached the other machine. In the distance she could see suited figures moving about on errands, clambering from one catwalk to another. Cranes swung out, burdened by pallets of heavy equipment. Servitors moved with the eerie, lubricated glide of clockwork automata. The vast single machine, the sum of many parts that was the caravan, needed constant care. It was, Rashmika suspected, a little like a cathedral in microcosm.

She stood again on the relatively firm ground of another vehicle. The motion of this one depended on legs rather than wheels, so instead of rumbling steadily, the metal surface beneath her feet drummed a slow rhythm, a series of timed thuds as each piston-driven mechanical foot hit ice. The gap she had crossed looked trivial now, a matter of metres, but she did not doubt that it would be just as unnerving on the way back.

Now she looked around. There was something very different about the layout of this roof: it was more ordered, lacking any of the obvious mechanical clutter of the last one. The few equipment boxes had been neatly stowed around the edges of the roof, with the conduits and power lines routed likewise.

Occupying much of the central area was a tilted surface, angled up from the roof on a set of pistons; she’d seen it during the approach in Crozet’s icejammer, and she’d also seen something like it in her village: an array of solar collectors forming part of the reserve power supply in case the main generators failed. The array had been a precise mosaic of small, square photovoltaic cells that spangled emerald and blue as they caught the light. But here there were no cells; instead the surface was covered by ranks of dark cruciform objects. Rashmika counted them: there were thirty-six cruciform shapes, arranged six across and six high, and every one of the objects was about the same size as a human being.

She walked closer, but with trepidation. There really were people shackled to the tilted surface, held in place by clasps around their wrists, their heels supported by small platforms. As near as she could tell they were dressed identically. Each one wore a hooded, foot-length gown of chocolate-brown material, cinched around the waist by a braided white rope. The cowl of each hood framed the curved mirror of a vacuum suit visor. She saw no faces, just the warped reflection of the slowly crawling landscape, herself an insignificant part of it.

They were looking at Haldora. It was obvious now: the tilt of the platform was just right for observation of the rising planet. As the caravan approached the Way and the cathedrals that ran on it, the platform would approach the horizontal, until the thirty-six watchers were all flat on their backs, staring at the zenith.

They were pilgrims, she realised. They had been picked up by the caravan during its deviation away from the equatorial settlements. She had been stupid not to realise that there were bound to be some along for the ride. There was an excellent chance that some of them had even come down from the badlands, perhaps even from her village.

She looked up at them, wondering if they were somehow aware of her presence. She hoped that their attentions were too thoroughly fixed on Haldora for them to take any notice of her. That was the point of them being up there, after all: half-crucified, lashed to an iron raft, forced to stare into the face of the world they considered miraculous.

The thing that she found most disturbing was the speed with which these pilgrims had taken their faith to this limit. It was likely that they had only left their homes in the last few weeks. Until then, they would have had very little choice but to act like normal members of a secular community. They were welcome to their beliefs, but the necessary duties of functioning in the badlands precluded taking religious observations as seriously as this. They would have had to fit into families and work units, and to smile at the jokes of their colleagues. But here, now, they were free. Very likely there was already Quaicheist blood in their veins.

Rashmika looked back along the winding line of the caravan. There were other tilted surfaces. Assuming that they each held about the same number of pilgrims, there could easily have been two hundred just on this one caravan. And at any one time there were many other caravans on Hela. It amounted to thousands of pilgrims being transported to the shining Way, with thousands more making the journey on foot, step by agonising step.

The futility of it, the sheer miserable waste of finite human life, made her indignant and filled with self-righteous anger. She wanted to climb on to the rack herself to wrench one of the pilgrims away from the sight that transfixed them, to rip back the cowl from their helmet, to press her own face against that blank mirror and try to make contact - before it was too late - with whatever fading glimmer of human individuality remained. She wanted to drive a rock into the faceplate, shattering faith in an instant of annihilating decompression.

And yet she knew that her anger was horribly misdirected. She knew that she only loathed and despised these pilgrims because of what she feared had happened to Harbin. She could not smash the churches, so she desired instead to smash the gentle innocents who were drawn towards them. At this realisation she felt a secondary sort of revulsion directed towards herself. She could not recall ever feeling a hatred of this intensity. It was like a compass needle turning inside her, looking for a direction in which to settle. It both awed and frightened her that she had the capacity for such animus.

Rashmika forced a kind of calm upon herself. In all the time that she had been watching them, the figures had never stirred. Their dark-brown cloaks hung about their suited figures in reverential stillness, as if the various folds and twists in the fabric had been chiselled from the hardest granite by expert masons. Their mirrored faces continued to reflect the slow ooze of the landscape. Perhaps it was a kindness that she could not see the individuals behind the glass.

Rashmika turned from them, and then began to make her way back towards the bridge.

SIXTEEN

Ararat, 2675

The shuttle came to a halt, hovering a few metres above the water. The rescue team assembled in the rear bay, waiting as the first boat - still tethered to the shuttle - was lowered gently on to the surface of the water. The sea was vast and dark in all directions, but also calm, apart from the area immediately within the thermal footprint of the shuttle. There was no wind, nor any indication of unusual Juggler activity, and the sea currents in this region were at their usual seasonal ebb. The iceberg would barely have moved between updates from the mapping network.

Once the boat had stabilised, the first three members of the team were lowered individually on to its decking. Scorpio went down first, followed by a male Security Arm officer called Jaccottet, with Khouri completing the trio. Rations, weapons and equipment were lowered down in scuffed metal boxes, then quickly stowed in waterproof hatches along the sides of the boat. The last thing to go in was the portable incubator, a transparent box with an opaque base and carrying handle. This was secured with particular care, almost as if it already held a child.

The first boat was then unhitched, allowing Scorpio to steer it clear of the shuttle. The whine of its battery-driven motor cut across the loud simmer of the hovering shuttle. The second boat was then lowered down and allowed to settle. Vasko watched as another Security Arm officer - a woman named Urton - was lowered down into it, followed by Clavain. The old man teetered at first, but quickly found his sea legs. Then it was Vasko’s turn to be lowered down, helped by Blood. Vasko had expected that the other pig would be joining them on the operation, but Scorpio had ordered him to return to First Camp, to take care of things there. Scorpio’s only concession had been to let Blood come this far, to help with the loading of the boats.

The final boxes of equipment were lowered down, causing the boat to sink even more worryingly low in the water. The instant it was unhitched, the Security Arm woman had it speeding over to join Scorpio’s craft. The hulls chafed and squealed together. Minutes of whispered activity followed while items were transferred from craft to craft, until they were evenly trimmed.

‘You ready for this?’ Urton asked Vasko. ‘It’s not too late to back out, you know.’

She had been on his case from the moment they had met, during mission-planning sessions back on the Nostalgia for Infinity. Before that, their paths had barely crossed: like Jaccottet, she had only ever been another Arm operative to Vasko, with a few years of seniority on him.

‘You seem to have a particular problem with me being on this mission,’ he said, as calmly as he could. ‘Is it something personal?’

‘Some of us have earned the right to be here,’ she said. ‘That’s all.’

‘And you think I haven’t?’

‘You did a small favour for the pig,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘Because of that you ended up embroiled in something bigger than you. That doesn’t mean you automatically earn my undying respect.’

‘I’m not really interested in your respect,’ Vasko said. ‘What I’m interested in is your professional co-operation.’

‘You needn’t worry about that,’ she said.

He started to say something, but she had already turned away, levering a heavy Breitenbach cannon into locking stanchions set along one side of the boat.

Vasko did not know what he had done to earn her hostility. Was it simply the fact that he was younger and less experienced? Sighing, he busied himself by helping to check and stow the equipment. It was not pleasant work: all the delicate tackle - the weapons, navigation and communication devices - had been lathered in a revolting opaque grey mucous layer of protective unguent. It kept getting all over his hands, breaking free in sticky ropes.

Swearing under his breath, wiping the muck off on to his knees, he barely noticed as the shuttle yawed away, leaving them alone at sea.

They slid across kilometres of mirror-flat water. The cloud layer had broken up in patches, opening ragged windows in the deep black sky. There were stars visible now, but it was one of those comparatively rare nights when none of Ararat’s moons were above the horizon. Lamps provided their only illumination. The boats kept within metres of each other, scudding side by side, the whine of their motors not quite loud enough to hinder conversation. Vasko had decided early in the expedition that his best course of action - having apparently won the grudging approval of Clavain - would be to say as little as possible. Besides, he had plenty to think about. He sat near the back of the second boat, squatting on the gunwale, loading and unloading a weapon in a kind of mindless loop, burning the action into the muscle memory of his hands so that it would happen without thought when he needed it to. For the hundredth time since they had set out, he wondered if it would actually come to violence. Perhaps the whole thing would be revealed to be a colossal misunderstanding, nothing more.

In Vasko’s opinion, however, that was rather unlikely.

They had all read Khouri’s testimony; had all sat in on the session while she was cross-examined. Much of what had been discussed had meant little to Vasko, but as the argument and interrogation had continued, a picture had begun to form in his mind.

What was clear was this: Ana Khouri had returned from the computational matrix of the Hades neutron star with Thorn dead and his unborn child in her belly. Even then, she had known what Aura signified: that the unborn girl was not merely her child, but an agent of the ancient minds - human and alien - trapped within the sanctuary of the Hades matrix. Aura was a gift to humanity, her mind loaded with information capable of making a difference in the war against the Inhibitors. In Sylveste’s case - and it seemed likely that she carried some of his memories in addition to the reserves of knowledge - she was an act of atonement.

Khouri knew also that Aura’s information had to be accessed as quickly as possible if it was going to mean anything. They did not have time to wait for her to be born, let alone for her to grow up and begin talking.

With Khouri’s permission, therefore, Remontoire had sent droves of surgical remotes into the heads of mother and child while Aura was still inside Khouri’s womb. The drones had established Conjoiner-type implants in both Aura and Khouri, enabling them to share thoughts and experiences. Khouri had become Aura’s mouthpiece and eyes: she had found herself dreaming Aura’s dreams, unwilling or unable to define precisely where Aura ended and she began. Her child’s thoughts were leaking into her own, permeating them to the point where no concrete division existed.

But the thoughts and experiences had remained difficult to interpret. Khouri’s daughter was still an unborn child; the structures of her mind were tentative and half-formed, her mental model of the external universe necessarily vague. Khouri had done her best to interpret the signals, but despite her efforts only a fraction of the things she was picking up were intelligible. But even that fraction had turned out to be of vital importance. Following clues from Aura - sifting jewel-like nuggets from a slurry of confusing signals - Remontoire had made drastic improvements to his arsenal of weapons and instruments. If nothing else, Aura’s potential significance was becoming obvious.

But that was when Skade had entered the affair.

She had arrived in the Delta Pavonis system long after the Inhibitors had completed their torching of Resurgam and the other planets. Quickly she had established lines of negotiation with the human elements still present after the departure of the Nostalgia for Infinity. Her ultimate objective remained the recovery of as many of the old Conjoiner-built cache weapons as possible. But with her own fleet damaged, and with the Inhibitors themselves gathering en masse, Skade was in no position to take what she wanted by brute force.

By then, the Zodiacal Light had completed its self-repairs and the human exploration of the Hades object had reached its logical conclusion. As Remontoire and his allies moved out of the system, therefore, Skade had shadowed them. Tentative communications ensued, and Skade had deployed her existing assets to protect the evacuees from the pursuing Inhibitor elements. The gesture was calculated and risky, but nothing else would convince Remontoire that she was to be trusted.

But Skade had wanted nothing more than to be trusted. She had seen the evidence of Remontoire’s new technologies and had realised that she was now at a tactical disadvantage. She had originally come to take the cache weapons - but the new ones would do equally well.

What had really interested her, however, was Aura.

Over months of shiptime, as the Zodiacal Light and the other two Conjoiner ships raced towards Ararat, Skade had played a delicate game of insinuation. She had gained Remontoire’s confidence, making conspicuous sacrifices, trading intelligence and resources. She had played on his old loyalties to the Mother Nest, convincing him that it was in their mutual best interests to co-operate. When, finally, Remontoire had allowed some of Skade’s fellow Conjoiners aboard his ship, it had merely seemed like the latest cordial step in a thawing détente.

But the Conjoiners had turned out to be a snatch-team. Killing dozens in the process, they had located Khouri, drugged her and taken her back to Skade’s ship. There, Skade’s surgeons had operated on Khouri to remove Aura. The foetus, still only in its sixth month of development, had then been reintroduced into another womb. A biocybernetic support construct of living tissue, the womb had then been installed in the new body Skade had grown for herself after discarding her old, damaged one in the Mother Nest. The implants in Aura’s head were meant to communicate only with their counterparts in Khouri, but Skade’s infiltration routines had quickly undone Remontoire’s handiwork. With Aura now growing inside her, Skade had tapped into the same flow of data that had already given Remontoire his new weapons.

She had her prize, but even then Skade was clever. Too clever, perhaps. She should have killed Khouri then and there, but in Khouri she had seen another means of obtaining leverage over Remontoire. Even after her child had been ripped from her, Khouri was still useful as a potential hostage. Following negotiations, Skade had returned her to Remontoire in return for even more technological trade-offs. Aura would have given her these things sooner or later, but Skade had been in no mood to wait.

By then, the Inhibitors were almost upon them.

When the ships eventually arrived around Ararat, the battle had entered a new and silent phase. As the humans had escalated their conflict to include the use of novel, barely understood weaponry, the Inhibitors had retaliated with savage new strategies of their own. It was a war of maximum stealth: all energies were redirected into undetectable wavebands. Phantom images were projected to confuse and intimidate. Matter and force were thrown around with abandon. Day by day, skirmish by skirmish, even hour by hour, the human factions had fallen in and out of co-operation, depending on minute changes in battle projections. Skade had only wanted to aid Remontoire if the alternative was her own guaranteed annihilation. Remontoire’s reasoning had not been so very far removed.

But a week ago, Skade had changed her tactics. A corvette had left one of her two remaining heavy ships. Remontoire’s side had tracked the swiftly moving ship to Ararat at it slipped between the major battle fronts. Analysis of its acceleration limits suggested that it was carrying at least one human occupant. A small detachment of Inhibitor forces had chased the corvette, cutting much closer to the planet than they usually did. It was as if the machines had realised that something significant was at stake, and that the corvette must be stopped at all costs.

They had failed, but not before damaging the Conjoiner ship. Again, Remontoire and his allies had managed to track the limping spacecraft as its stealth systems shifted in and out of functionality. They had watched the ship ditch in Ararat’s atmosphere, making a barely controlled landing in the sea. There was no sign that anyone on Ararat had even noticed.

A few days later, Khouri had followed. Remontoire had refused to commit a larger force, not when there was so little chance of making it past the Inhibitors to the surface. But they had agreed that a small capsule might stand a slim chance. In addition, someone really needed to let the people on Ararat know what was going on, and sending Khouri would kill two birds with one stone.

Vasko thought about the strength of mind that it must have taken for Khouri to come down here on her own, with no guarantee of rescue, let alone of being able to save her daughter. He wondered what the stronger emotion was: her love for her daughter, or the hatred she must have felt towards Skade.

The more he considered it, the less likely it seemed that this situation was the result of any kind of misunderstanding. And he very much doubted that any of this was going to be resolved by negotiation. Skade might have stolen Aura from Khouri, but she had had the element of surprise, and she would have lost nothing if her attempt had resulted in the death of either mother or baby. But that wasn’t true now. And Skade - if she was still alive and if the baby was still alive inside her - would be expecting them.

What would it take to make her give up Aura?

In the lamp-light, Vasko saw a flicker of silver-grey from Clavain’s direction, and watched as the old man examined the knife he had brought with him from his island retreat.

Hela, 2727

Rashmika had arranged a private meeting with Quaestor Jones. It took place immediately after a trading session, in the same windowless room she had visited with Crozet. Behind his desk, the quaestor waited for her to say something, hands folded across his generous paunch, his lips conveying suspicion mingled with faint prurient interest. Now and then he popped a morsel of food into the jaws of his pet, which squatted on the desk like a piece of abstract sculpture moulded from bright-green plastic.

As she studied him, Rashmika wondered how good he was at telling truth from lies. It was difficult to tell with some people.

‘She’s a persistent little madam, Peppermint,’ the quaestor said. ‘Warned her away from the roof, and there she was, not two hours later. What do you think we should do with her, eh?’

‘If you don’t want people up on the roof, you ought to make it a bit harder to get up there,’ Rashmika said. ‘In any case, I don’t particularly like being spied on.’

‘I have an obligation to protect my passengers,’ he said. ‘If you don’t like that, you’re very welcome to leave when Mr Crozet returns to the badlands.’

‘Actually, I want to stay aboard,’ Rashmika said.

‘You mean you wish to make the pilgrimage to the Way?’

‘No.’ She hid her distaste at the thought of the people on the racks. She had learned that they were called Observers. ‘Not that. I want to travel to the Way and to find work there. But pilgrimage hasn’t got anything to do with it.’

‘Mm. We’ve already been over your skills profile, Miss Els.’

It did not please her that he remembered her name. ‘We barely discussed it, Quaestor. I don’t think you can really make an honest assessment of my skills based on one short conversation.’

‘You informed me you were a scholar.’

‘Correct.’

‘So return to the badlands and continue your scholarship.’ He made an effort to look and sound reasonable. ‘What better place to further your study of the scuttlers than at the very site where their relics are being unearthed?’

‘It isn’t possible to study there,’ she said. ‘No one cares what the relics signify as long as they’re able to get good money for them. No one’s interested in the bigger picture.’

‘And you are, I take it?’

‘I have theories concerning the scuttlers,’ she said, fully aware of how precocious she sounded, ‘but to make further progress I need access to proper data, the kind in the possession of the church-sponsored archaeological groups.’

‘Yes, we all know about those groups. But aren’t they in a position to form theories of their own? Begging your pardon, Miss Els, but why do you imagine that you - a seventeen-year-old - are likely to bring a fresh perspective to the matter?’

‘Because I have no vested interest in maintaining the Quaicheist view,’ Rashmika said.

‘Which would be?’

‘That the scuttlers are an incidental detail, unrelated to the deeper matter of the vanishings, or at best a reminder of what’s likely to happen to us if we don’t follow the Quaicheist route to salvation.’

‘There’s no doubt that they were denied salvation,’ the quaestor said, ‘but then so were eight or nine other alien cultures. I forget what the latest count is. There’s clearly no particular mystery here. Local details about this particular vanished species, their history and society and so on, still need to be researched, of course, but what happened to them in the end isn’t in doubt. We’ve all heard those pilgrims’ tales from the evacuated systems, Miss Els, the stories about machines emerging from the dark between the stars. Now, it seems, it’s our turn.’

‘The supposition being that the scuttlers were wiped out by the Inhibitors?’ she asked.

He popped a crumb into the intricate little mouth of his animal. ‘Draw your own conclusions.’

‘That’s all I’ve ever done,’ she said. ‘And my conclusion is that what happened here was different.’

‘Something wiped them out,’ the quaestor said. ‘Isn’t that enough for you?’

‘I’m not sure it was the same thing that wiped out the Amarantin, or any of those other cultures. If the Inhibitors had been involved, do you think they’d have left this moon intact? They might have compunctions about destroying a world, a place with an established biosphere, but an airless moon like Hela? They’d have turned it into a ring system, or a cloud of radioactive steam. Yet whoever or whatever finished off the scuttlers wasn’t anywhere near that thorough.’ She paused, fearful of revealing too much of her cherished thesis. ‘It was a rush job. They left behind too much. It’s almost as if they wanted to leave a message, maybe a warning.’

‘You’re invoking an entirely new agency of cosmic extinction, is that it?’

Rashmika shrugged. ‘If the facts demand it.’

‘You’re not greatly troubled by self-doubt, are you, Miss Els?’

‘I know only that the vanishings and the scuttlers must be related. So does everyone else. They’re just too scared and intimidated to admit it.’

‘And you’re not?’

‘I was put on Hela for a reason,’ she said, the words tumbling out of her mouth as if spoken by someone else.

The quaestor looked at her for a long, uncomfortable moment. ‘And this crusade,’ he said, ‘this quest to uncover the truth no matter how many enemies it makes you - is that why you’re so intent on reaching the Permanent Way?’

‘There’s another reason,’ she said, quietly.

The quaestor appeared not to have heard her. ‘You have a particular interest in the First Adventists, don’t you? I noticed it when I mentioned my role as legate.’

‘It’s the oldest of the churches,’ Rashmika said. ‘And one of the largest, I’d imagine.’

‘The largest. The First Adventist order runs three cathedrals, including the largest and heaviest on the Way.’

‘I know they have an archaeological study group,’ she said. ‘I’ve written to them. Surely there’d be some work for me there.’

‘So you can advance your theory and rub everyone up the wrong way?’

She shook her head. ‘I’d work quietly, doing what was needed. It wouldn’t stop me examining material. I just need a job, so that I can send some money home and make some enquiries.’

He sighed, as if the world and all its troubles were now his responsibility. ‘What exactly do you know of the cathedrals, Miss Els? I mean in the physical sense.’

She sensed that the question, for once, was a sincere one. ‘They are moving structures,’ she said, ‘much larger than this caravan, much slower . . . but machines, all the same. They travel around Hela on the equatorial road we call the Permanent Way, completing a revolution once every three hundred and twenty standard days.’

‘And the point of this circumnavigation?’

‘Is to ensure that Haldora is always in the sky, always at the zenith. The world moves beneath the cathedrals, but the cathedrals cancel out that motion.’

A smile ghosted the quaestor’s lips. ‘And what do you know about the motion of the cathedrals?’

‘It’s slow,’ she said. ‘On average, the cathedrals only have to move at a baby’s crawl to complete a circuit of Hela in three hundred and twenty days. A third of a metre a second is enough.’

‘That doesn’t seem fast, does it?’

‘Not really, no.’

‘I assure you it does when you have a few hundred vertical metres of metal sliding towards you and you have a job to do that involves stepping out of the way at the last possible moment, before you fall under the traction plates.’ Quaestor Rutland Jones leant forwards, compressing the bulk of his belly against the table and lacing his fingers before him. ‘The Permanent Way is a road of compacted ice. With one or two complications, it encircles the planet like a ribbon. It is never wider than two hundred metres, and is frequently much narrower than that. Yet even a small cathedral may be fifty metres across. The largest of them - the Lady Morwenna, for instance - are double that. And since the cathedrals all wish to situate themselves under the mathematically exact spot on the Way that corresponds to Haldora being precisely at the zenith, directly overhead, there is a certain degree of . . .’ His voice became mockingly playful. ‘. . . competition for the available space. Between rival churches, even those bound by the ecumenical protocols, it can be surprisingly fierce. Sabotage and trickery are not unheard of. Even amongst cathedrals belonging to one church, there is still a degree of playful jockeying.’

‘I’m not sure I see your point, Quaestor.’

‘I mean that damage to the Way - deliberately inflicted vandalism - is not unusual. Cathedrals may leave obstacles in their wake, or they may tamper with the integrity of the Way itself. And Hela itself does its share of harm. Rock blizzards . . . ice-flows . . . volcanic eruptions . . . all these can render the Way temporarily impassable. That is why cathedrals have Permanent Way gangs.’ He looked at Rashmika sharply. ‘The gangs work ahead of the cathedrals. Not too far ahead, or they risk their good work being exploited by rivals, but just far enough to enable their tasks to be completed before their cathedrals arrive. I’ll make no bones about it: the work is difficult and dangerous. But it is work that requires some of the skills you have mentioned.’ He tapped pudgy fingers against the table. ‘Working under vacuum, on ice. Using cutting and blasting tools. Programming servitors for the most hazardous tasks.’

‘That’s not the kind of work I had in mind,’ Rashmika said.

‘No?’

‘Like I said, I think my skills would be put to far better use in a clerical context, such as one of the archaeological study groups.’

‘That may be so, but vacancies in those groups are rare indeed. On the other hand, by the very nature of the work, vacancies do tend to keep opening up in clearance gangs.’

‘Because people keep dying?’

‘It’s tough work. But it is work. And there are degrees of risk even in clearance duty. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find you something slightly less hazardous than fuse-laying, something where you might not even have to wear a surface suit all day long. And it might keep you occupied until something opens up in one of the study groups.’

Rashmika read the quaestor’s face. He had not lied to her so far. ‘It’s not what I wanted,’ she said, ‘but if it’s all that’s on offer, I’ll have to take it. If I said I was prepared to do such work, could you find me a vacancy?’

‘If I felt I could live with myself afterwards . . . then yes, I dare say I could.’

‘I’m sure you’d sleep fine at night, Quaestor.’

‘And you are certain that this is what you want?’

She nodded, before her own doubt began to show. ‘If you could start making the arrangements, I would be grateful.’

‘There are always favours that can be called in,’ he said. ‘But there is something I need to mention. There are people looking for you, from the Vigrid badlands. The constabulary can’t touch you here, but your absence has been noted.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me.’

‘There has been speculation about the purpose of your mission. Some say it has something to do with your brother.’ The green creature looked up, as if taking a sudden interest in the conversation. It was definitely missing one of its forelimbs, Rashmika noted. ‘Harbin Els,’ the quaestor continued. ‘That’s his name, isn’t it?’

There was clearly no point pretending otherwise. ‘My brother went to look for work on the Way,’ she said. ‘They lied to him about what would happen, said they wouldn’t put the dean’s blood in him. We never saw him again.’

‘And now you feel the need to find out what became of him?’

‘He was my brother,’ she said.

‘Then perhaps this may be of interest to you.’ The quaestor reached under his desk and produced a folded sheet of paper. He pushed it towards her. The green creature watched it slide across the desk.

She took the letter, rubbing her thumb against the red wax seal that held it closed. Embossed on the seal was a spacesuit, arms spread like a crucifix, radiating shafts of light. The seal had been broken; it only loosely adhered to the paper on one side of the join.

‘What is it?’ she asked, looking at his face very carefully.

‘It came through official channels, from the Lady Morwenna. That’s a Clocktower seal.’

That part was true, she thought. Or at least the quaestor sincerely believed that was the case. ‘When?’

‘Today.’

But that was a lie.

‘Addressed to me?’

‘I was told to make sure you saw it.’ He looked down, not wanting to meet her eyes. It made his face harder to read.

‘By whom?’

‘No one . . . I . . .’ Again, he was lying. ‘I looked at it. Don’t think ill of me - I look at all correspondence that passes through the caravan. It’s a matter of security.’

‘Then you know what it says?’

‘I think you should read it for yourself,’ he said.

SEVENTEEN

Hela, 2727

The ticking of his cane marked the surgeon-general’s progress through the iron heart of the cathedral. Even in the parts of the cathedral where the engines and traction mechanisms were audible, they heard him coming long before he arrived. His footsteps were as measured and regular as the beats of a metronome, the tap of his cane punctuating the rhythm, iron against iron. He moved with a deliberate arachnoid slowness, giving the nosy and the idle time to disperse. Occasionally he was aware of watchers secreted behind metal pillars or grilles, spying on him, thinking themselves discreet. More often than not he knew with certainty that he went about his errands unobserved. In the long years of his service to Quaiche, one thing had been made clear to the cathedral populace: Grelier’s business was not a matter for the curious.

But sometimes those who fled from him were doing so for reasons other than the edict to keep their noses out of his work.

He reached a spiral staircase, a helix of skeletal iron plunging down into the clanking depths of Motive Power. The staircase was ringing like a struck tuning fork. Either it was picking up a vibration from the machines below or someone had just employed it to get away from Grelier.

He leant over the balustrade, peering down the corkscrewing middle of the staircase. Two turns below, pudgy fingers slipped urgently along the handrail. Was that his man? Very probably.

Humming to himself, Grelier unlatched the protective gate that allowed entry to the stairwell. He flipped it shut with the sharp end of his cane and began to descend. He took his time, allowing each pair of footfalls to echo before proceeding down to the next step. He let the cane tap, tap, tap against the balusters, informing the man that he was coming and that there was no conceivable avenue of escape. Grelier knew the innards of Motive Power as intimately as he knew the innards of every section of the cathedral. He had sealed all the other stairwells with the Clocktower key. This was the only way up or down, and he would be sure to seal it once he reached the bottom. His heavy medical case knocked against one thigh as he descended, in perfect synchrony with the tapping of the cane.

The machines in the lower levels sang more loudly as he approached them. There was no part of the cathedral where you couldn’t hear those grinding mechanisms, if there were no other sounds. But in the high levels the noise from the motors and traction systems had to compete with organ music and the permanently singing voices of the choir. The mind soon filtered out that faint background component.

Not here. Grelier heard the shrill whine of turbines, which set his teeth on edge. He heard the low clank and thud of massive articulated cranks and eccentrics. He heard pistons sliding, valves opening and closing. He heard relays chattering, the low voices of technical staff.

He descended, cane tapping, medical kit ready.

Grelier reached the lowest turn of the spiral. The exit gate squeaked on its hinges: it hadn’t been latched. Someone had been in a bit of a hurry. He stepped through the doorframe and placed his medical kit between his shoes. He took the key from his breast pocket and locked the gate, preventing anyone from ascending from this level. Then he picked up the medical kit and resumed his leisurely progress.

Grelier looked around. There was no sign of the fugitive, but there were plenty of places where a man might hide. This did not concern Grelier: in time, he was bound to find the pudgy-fingered absconder. He could allow himself a few moments to look around, take a break from his usual routine. He did not come down here all that often, and the place always impressed him.

Motive Power occupied one of the largest chambers of the cathedral, on the lowest pressurised level. The chamber ran the entire two-hundred-metre length of the moving structure. It was one hundred metres wide and fifty metres from floor to magnificently arched ceiling. Machinery filled much of the available volume, except for a gap around the walls and another of a dozen or so metres below the ceiling. The machinery was immense: it lacked the impersonal, abstract vastness of starship mechanisms, but there was something more intimate and therefore more personally threatening about it. Starship machinery was vast and bureaucratic: it just didn’t notice human beings. If they got on the wrong side of it they simply ceased to exist, annihilated in a painless instant. But as huge as the machinery in Motive Power was, it was also small enough to notice people. If they got in the way of it they were liable to find themselves maimed or crushed.

It wouldn’t be painless and it wouldn’t be instantaneous.

Grelier pushed his cane against the pale-green carapace of a turbine. Through the cane he felt the vigorous thrum of trapped energies. He thought of the blades whisking round, drawing energy from the superheated steam spewing from the atomic reactor. All it would take was a flaw in one of the blades and the turbine could blow apart at any instant, bringing whirling, jagged death to anyone within fifty metres. It happened now and then; he usually came down to clean up the mess. It was all rather thrilling, really.

The reactor - the cathedral’s atomic power plant - was the largest single chunk of machinery in the chamber, housed in a bottle-green dome at the rear end of the room. The kindest thing you could say about it was that it worked and it was cheap. There was no nuclear fuel to be mined on Hela, but the Ultras provided a ready supply. Dirty and dangerous, maybe, but more economical than antimatter and easier to work with than a fusion power plant. They had done the calculations: refining local ice to provide fusion fuel would have required a pre-processing plant as large as the entire existing Motive Power assembly. But the cathedral had already grown as big as it ever could, given the dimensions of the Way and the Devil’s Staircase. Besides, the reactor worked and supplied all the power that the cathedral required, and the reactor workers didn’t get sick all that often.

From the reactor’s apex sprouted a tangle of high-pressure steam pipes. The gleaming silver intestines traversed the entire chamber, subject to inexplicable hairpin bends and right angles. They fed into thirty-two turbines, stacked atop one another in two rows, each row eight turbines long. Catwalks, inspection platforms, access tunnels, ladders and equipment elevators caged the whole humming mass. The turbines were dynamos, converting the rushing steam into electrical power. They fed the electrical energy into the main traction motors, twenty-four of them squatting atop the turbines in two rows of twelve. The traction motors in turn converted the electrical energy into mechanical force, propelling the great cranked and hinged mechanisms that ultimately moved the cathedral along the Way. At any one time only ten of the twelve motors on one side were doing any work: the spare set was idling, ready to be connected into use if another motor or set of motors needed to be taken offline for overhaul.

The mechanisms themselves passed overhead, extending from the traction motors to the walls on either side. They penetrated the walls via pressure-proofed gaskets positioned at the precise rocking points of the main coupling rods. The gaskets were troublesome, Grelier gathered: they were always failing and having to be replaced. But somehow or other the mechanical motion generated inside the Motive Power chamber had to be conveyed beyond the walls, into vacuum.

Above him, with a dreamlike slowness, the coupling rods swept back and forth and up and down in orchestrated waves, beginning at the front of the chamber and working back. A complicated arrangement of smaller cranks and eccentrics connected the rods to each other, synchronising their movements. Aerial catwalks threaded between the huge spars of thrusting metal, allowing workers to lubricate joints and inspect failure points for metal fatigue. It was risky work: one moment of inattention and there’d be lubrication of entirely the wrong sort.

There was more to Motive Power, of course. A lot more. Somewhere there was even a small foundry, working day and night to fabricate replacement parts. The largest components had to be made in Wayside plants, but it always took time to procure and deliver such replacements. The artisans in Motive Power took great pride in their ingenuity when it came to fixing something at short notice, or pressing a part into service for a different function than intended. They knew what the bottom line was: the cathedral had to keep moving, no matter what. No one was asking the world of them - it only had to move a third of a metre a second, after all. You could crawl faster than that, easily. The point was not the speed, but that the cathedral must never, ever stop.

‘Surgeon-General, might I help you?’

Grelier tracked the voice to its source: someone was looking down at him from one of the catwalks above. The man wore the grey overalls of Motive Power, and was gripping the handrail with oversized gloves. His bullet-shaped scalp was blue with stubble, a filthy neckerchief around his collar. Grelier recognised the man as Glaur, one of the shift bosses.

‘Perhaps you could come down here for a moment,’ Grelier said.

Glaur complied immediately, traversing the catwalk and vanishing back into the machinery. Grelier tapped his cane idly against the cleated metal floor, waiting for the man to make his way down.

‘Something up, Surgeon-General?’ Glaur asked when he arrived.

‘I’m looking for someone,’ Grelier told him. No need to say why. ‘He won’t belong down here, Glaur. Have you seen anyone unexpected? ’

‘Like who?’

‘The choirmaster. I’m sure you know the fellow. Pudgy hands.’

Glaur looked back up to the slowly threshing coupling rods. They moved like the oars of some biblical galleon, manned by hundreds of slaves. Grelier imagined that Glaur would much rather be up there working with the predictable hazards of moving metal than down here navigating the shifting treacheries of cathedral politics.

‘There was someone,’ Glaur offered. ‘I saw a man move through the hall a few minutes ago.’

‘Seem in a bit of a rush, did he?’

‘I assumed he was on Clocktower business.’

‘He wasn’t. Any idea where I might find him now?’

Glaur glanced around. ‘He might have taken one of the staircases back up to the main levels.’

‘Not likely. He’ll still be down here, I think. In which direction was he moving when you saw him?’

A moment of hesitation, which Grelier duty noted. ‘Towards the reactor,’ Glaur said.

‘Thank you.’ Grelier tapped his cane smartly and left the shift boss standing there, his momentary usefulness over.

He followed his quarry’s path towards the reactor. He resisted the temptation to pick up his pace, maintaining his stroll, tapping the cane against the floor or any suitably resonant thing he happened to pass. Now and then he stepped over a glassed, grilled window in the floor, and paused awhile to watch the faintly lit ground crawl beneath him, twenty metres below. The cathedral’s motion was rock steady, the jerky walking motion of the twenty buttressed treads smoothed out by the skill of engineers like Glaur.

The reactor loomed ahead. The green dome was surrounded by its own rings of catwalks, rising to the apex. Heavily riveted viewing windows were set with thick dark glass.

He caught sight of a sleeve vanishing around the curve of the second catwalk from the ground.

‘Hello,’ Grelier called. ‘Are you there, Vaustad? I’d like a wee word.’

No reply. Grelier circled the reactor, taking his time. From above, its originator always out of sight, came a metallic scamper. He smiled, dismayed at Vaustad’s stupidity. There were a hundred places to hide in the traction hall. Simian instinct, however, had driven the choirmaster to head for higher ground, even if that meant being cornered.

Grelier reached the gated access point to the ladder. He stepped through it and locked the gate behind him. He could not climb and carry the medical kit and the cane, so he left the medical kit on the ground. He tucked the cane into the crook of his arm and made his way upwards, one rung at a time, until he reached the first catwalk.

He walked around it once, just to unnerve Vaustad further. Humming quietly to himself, he looked over the edge and took in the scenery. Occasionally he rapped the cane against the curving metal sides of the reactor, or the black glass of one of the inspection portholes. The glass reminded him of the tarlike chips in the cathedral’s front-facing stained-glass window, and he wondered for a moment if it was the same material.

Well, on to business.

He reached the ladder again and ascended to the next level. He could still hear that pathetic lab-rat scampering.

‘Vaustad? Be a good fellow and come here, will you? It’ll all be over in a jiffy.’

The scampering continued. He could feel the man’s footfalls through the metal, transmitted right around the reactor.

‘I’ll just have to come over to you myself, then, won’t I?’

He began to circumnavigate the reactor. He was on a level with the coupling rods now. There were none close to him, but - seen in foreshortened perspective - the moving spars of metal threshed like scissor blades. He saw some of Glaur’s technicians moving amongst that whisking machinery, oiling and checking. They appeared imprisoned in it, yet magically uninjured.

The hem of a trouser leg vanished around the curve. The scampering increased in pace. Grelier smiled and halted, leaning over the edge. He was close now. He took the top end of his cane and twisted the head one quarter turn.

‘Up or down?’ he whispered to himself. ‘Up or down?’

It was up. He could hear the clattering rising above him, to the next level of the catwalk. Grelier didn’t know whether to be pleased or disappointed. Down, and the hunt would be over. The man would find his escape blocked, and Grelier would have had no difficulty pacifying him with the cane. With the man docile, it would only take a minute or two to inject him with the top-up dose. Efficient, but where was the fun in that?

At least now he was getting a run for his money. The end result would still be the same: the man cornered, no way out. Touch him with the cane and he’d be putty in Grelier’s hands. There would be the problem of getting him down the ladder, of course, but one of Glaur’s people could help with that.

Grelier climbed to the next level. This catwalk was smaller in diameter than the two below, set back towards the apex of the reactor dome. There was only one more level, at the apex itself, accessed by a gently sloping ramp. Vaustad was moving up the ramp as Grelier watched.

‘There’s nothing for you up there,’ the surgeon-general said. ‘Turn around now and we’ll forget all about this.’

Would he hell. But Vaustad was beyond reason in any case. He had arrived at the apex and was taking a moment to look back at his pursuer. Pudgy hands, mooncalf face. Grelier had his man all right, not that there had ever been much doubt.

‘Leave me alone,’ Vaustad shouted. ‘Leave me alone, you bloody ghoul!’

‘Sticks and stones,’ Grelier said with a patient smile. He tapped his cane against the railing and began to ascend the ramp.

‘You won’t get me,’ Vaustad said. ‘I’ve had enough. Too many bad dreams.’

‘Oh, come now. A little prick and it’ll all be over.’

Vaustad grabbed hold of one of the silver steam pipes erupting from the top of the reactor dome, wrapping himself around it. He began to scramble up it, using the pipe’s metal ribs for grip. There was nothing graceful or speedy about his progress, but it was steady and methodical. Had he planned this? Grelier wondered. It had been a mistake to forget about the steam pipes.

But where would he go, ultimately? The pipes would only take him back along the hall towards the turbines and the traction motors. It might prolong the chase, but it was still futile in the long run.

Grelier reached the reactor’s apex. Vaustad was a metre or so above his head. He held up the cane, trying to tap Vaustad’s heels. No good; he had made too much height. Grelier turned the head of the cane another quarter turn, increasing the stun setting, and touched it against the pipework. Vaustad yelped, but kept moving. Another quarter turn of the cane: maximum-discharge setting, lethal at close quarters. He kissed the end of the cane against the metal and watched Vaustad hug the pipe convulsively. The man clenched his teeth, moaned, but still managed to hold on to the pipe.

Grelier dropped the cane, the charge exhausted. Suddenly this wasn’t proceeding quite the way he had planned it.

‘Where are you going?’ Grelier asked, playfully. ‘Come down now, before you hurt yourself.’

Vaustad said nothing, just kept crawling.

‘You’ll do yourself an injury,’ Grelier said.

Vaustad had reached the point where his pipe curved over to the horizontal, taking it across the hall towards the turbine complex. Grelier expected him to stop at the right-angled turn, having made his point. But instead Vaustad wriggled around the bend until he was lying on the upper surface of the pipe with his arms and legs wrapped around it. He was now thirty metres from the ground.

The scene was drawing a small audience. About a dozen of Glaur’s men were standing in the hall below, looking up at the spectacle. Others had paused in their work amongst the coupling rods.

‘Clocktower business,’ Grelier said warningly. ‘Go back to your jobs.’

The workers drifted away, but Grelier was aware that most of them were still keeping one eye on what was happening. Had the situation reached the point where he needed to call in additional assistance from Bloodwork? He hoped not; it was a matter of personal pride that he always took care of these house calls on his own. But the Vaustad call was turning messy.

The choirmaster had made about ten metres of horizontal distance, carrying him beyond the perimeter of the reactor. There was only floor below him now. Even in Hela’s reduced gravity, a fall from thirty metres on to a hard surface was probably not going to be survivable.

Grelier looked ahead. The pipe was supported from the ceiling at intervals, hanging by thin metal lines anchored to enlarged versions of the ribs. The nearest line was about five metres in front of Vaustad. There was no way he would be able to get around that.

‘All right,’ Grelier said, raising his voice above the din of the traction machinery. ‘You’ve made your point. We’ve all had a bit of a laugh. Now turn around and we’ll talk things over sensibly.’

But Vaustad was beyond reason now. He had reached the supporting stay and was trying to wriggle past it, shifting much of his weight to one side of the pipe. Grelier watched, knowing with numbing inevitability that Vaustad was not going to make it. It would have been a difficult exercise for an agile young man, and Vaustad was neither. He was curled around the obstacle now, one leg hanging uselessly over the side, the other trying to act as a balance, one hand on the metal stay and the other fumbling for the nearest rib on the other side. He stretched, straining to reach the rib. Then he slipped, both legs coming off the pipe. He hung there, one hand taking his weight while the other thrashed around in midair.

‘Stay still!’ Grelier called. ‘Stay still and you’ll be all right. You can hold yourself there until we get help if you stop moving!’

Again, a fit young man could have held himself up there until rescue arrived, even hanging from one hand. But Vaustad was a large, soft individual who had never had to use his muscles before.

Grelier watched as Vaustad’s remaining hand slipped from the metal stay. He watched Vaustad fall down to the floor of the traction hall, hitting it with a thump that was nearly muffled by the constant background noise. There had been no scream, no gasp of shock. Vaustad’s eyes were closed, but from the expression on his upturned face it was likely that the man had died instantly.

Grelier collected his cane, stuffed it into the crook of his arm and made his way back down the series of ramps and ladders. At the foot of the reactor he retrieved his medical kit and unlocked the access door. By the time he reached Vaustad, half a dozen of Glaur’s workers had gathered around the body. He considered shooing them away, then decided against it. Let them watch. Let them see what Bloodwork entailed.

He knelt down by Vaustad and opened the medical kit. It gasped cold. It was divided into two compartments. In the upper tray were the red-filled syringes of top-up doses, fresh from Bloodwork. They were labelled for serotype and viral strain. One of them had been intended for Vaustad and would now have to go to a new home.

He peeled back Vaustad’s sleeve. Was there still a faint pulse? That would make life easier. It was never a simple business, drawing blood from the dead. Even the recently deceased.

He reached into the second compartment, the one that held the empty syringes. He held one up to the light, symbolically.

‘The Lord giveth,’ Grelier said, slipping the syringe into one of Vaustad’s veins and starting to draw blood. ‘And sometimes, unfortunately, the Lord taketh away.’

He filled three syringes before he was done.

Grelier latched the gate to the spiral staircase behind him. It was good, on reflection, to escape the aggressive stillness of the traction hall. Sometimes it seemed to him that the place was a cathedral within a cathedral, with its own unwritten rules. He could control people, but down there - amid machines - he was out of his element. He had tried to make the most of the business with Vaustad, but everyone knew that he had not come to take blood, but to give it.

Before ascending further he stopped at one of the speaking points, calling a team down from Bloodwork to deal with the body. There would be questions to answer, later, but nothing that would cost him any sleep.

Grelier moved through the main hall, on his way to the Clocktower. He was taking the long way around, in no particular hurry to see Quaiche after the Vaustad debacle. Besides, it was his usual custom to make at least one circumnavigation of the hall before going up or down. It was the largest open space in the cathedral, and the only one - save for the traction hall - where he could free himself from the mild claustrophobia that he felt in every other part of the moving structure.

The hall had been remade and expanded many times, as the cathedral itself grew to its present size. Little of that history was evident to the casual eye now, but having lived through most of the changes, Grelier saw what others might have missed. He observed the faint scars where interior walls had been removed and relocated. He saw the tidemark where the original, much lower ceiling had been. Thirty or forty years had passed since the new one had been put in - it had been a mammoth exercise in the airless environment of Hela, especially since the old space had remained occupied throughout the whole process and the cathedral had, of course, kept moving the entire time. Yet the choir had not missed a note during the entire remodelling, and the number of deaths amongst the construction workers had remained tolerably low.

Grelier paused awhile at one of the stained-glass windows on the right-hand side of the cathedral. The coloured edifice towered dozens of metres above him. It was framed by a series of divided stone arches, with a rose window at the very top. The cathedral’s architectural skeleton, traction mechanisms and external cladding were necessarily composed largely of metal, but much of the interior was faced with a thin layer of cosmetic masonry. Some of it had been processed from indigenous Hela minerals, but the rest of it - the subtle biscuit-hued stones and the luscious white-and-rose marbles - had been imported by the Ultras. Some of the stones, it was said, had even come from cathedrals on Earth. Grelier took that with a large pinch of salt: more than likely they’d come from the nearest suitable asteroid. It was the same with the holy relics he encountered during his tour, tucked away in candlelit niches. It was anyone’s guess how old they really were, whether they’d been hand-crafted by medieval artisans or knocked together in manufactory nanoforges.

But regardless of the provenance of the stonework that framed it, the stained-glass window was a thing of beauty. When the light was right, it not only shone with a glory of its own but transmitted that glory to everything and everyone within the hall. The details of the window hardly mattered - it would still have been beautiful if the chips of coloured, vacuum-tight glass had been arranged in random kaleidoscopic patterns - but Grelier took particular note of the imagery. It changed from time to time, following dictates from Quaiche himself. When Grelier sometimes had difficulty reading the man directly (and that was increasingly the case) the windows offered a parallel insight into Quaiche’s state of mind.

Take now, for instance: when he had last paid attention to this window, it had focused on Haldora, showing a stylised view of the gas giant rendered in swirling chips of ochre and fawn. The planet had been set within a blue backdrop speckled with the yellow chips of surrounding stars. In the foreground there had been a rocky landscape evoked in contrasting shards of white and black, with the gold form of Quaiche’s crashed ship parked amid boulders. Quaiche himself was depicted outside the ship, robed and bearded, kneeling on the ground and raising an imploring hand to the heavens. Before that, Grelier recalled, the window had shown the cathedral itself, pictured descending the zigzagging ramp of the Devil’s Staircase, looking for all the world like a tiny storm-tossed sailing ship, all the other cathedrals lagging behind, and with a slightly smaller rendition of Haldora in the sky.

Before that, he couldn’t be sure, but he thought it might have been a more modest variation on the theme of the crashed ship.

The images that the window showed now were clear enough, but their significance to Quaiche was much more difficult to judge. At the top, worked into the rose window itself, was the familiar banded face of Haldora. Below that were a couple of metres of starlit sky, shaded from deep blue to gold by some artifice of glass tinting. Then, taking up most of the height of the window, was a toweringly impressive cathedral, a teetering assemblage of pennanted spires and buttresses, lines of converging perspective making it clear that the cathedral sat immediately below Haldora. So far so good: the whole point of a cathedral was for it to remain precisely below the gas giant, just as depicted. But the cathedral in the window was obviously larger than any to be found on the Permanent Way; it was practically a citadel in its own right. And - unless Grelier was mistaken - it was clearly portrayed as being an outgrowth of the rocky foreground landscape, as if it had foundations rather than traction mechanisms. There was no sign of the Permanent Way at all.

The window puzzled him. Quaiche chose the content of the windows, and he was usually very literal-minded in his selections. The scenes might be exaggerated, might even have the taint of unreality (Quaiche outside his ship without a vacuum suit, for instance) but they usually bore at least some glancing relationship to actual events. But the present content of the window appeared to be worryingly metaphorical. That was all Grelier needed, Quaiche going all metaphorical on him. But what else was he to make of the vast, grounded cathedral? Perhaps it symbolised the fixed, immobile nature of Quaiche’s faith. Fine, Grelier told himself: you think you can read him now, but what if the messages start getting even foggier?

He shook his head and continued his journey. He traversed the entire left-hand wall of the cathedral, not seeing any further oddities amongst the windows. That was a relief, at least. Perhaps the new design would turn out to be a temporary aberration, and life would continue as normal.

He moved around to the front of the cathedral, into the shadow of the black window. The chips of glass were invisible; all he could see were the ghostly arcs and pillars of the supporting masonry. The design in that window had undoubtedly changed since the last time he had seen it.

He moved back across to the right-hand side and proceeded along half the length of the cathedral until he arrived at the base of the Clocktower.

‘Can’t put it off any longer,’ Grelier said to himself.

Back in her quarters on the caravan, Rashmika opened the letter, breaking the already weakened seal. The paper sprung wide. It was good-quality stuff: creamy and thick, better than anything she had handled in the badlands. Printed inside, in neat but naïve handwriting, was a short message.

She recognised the handwriting.

Dear Rashmika,

I am very sorry not to have been in touch for so long. I heard your name on the broadcasts from the Vigrid region, saying you had run away from home. I had a feeling that you would be coming after me, trying to find out what had happened to me since my last letter. When I found out that there was a caravan coming towards the Way, one that you might have been able to reach with help, I felt certain you would be on it. I made an enquiry and found out the names of the passengers and now I am writing this letter to you.

I know you will think it strange that I have not written to you or any of the family for so long. But things are different now, and it would not have been right. Everything that you said was true. They did not tell the truth to start with, and they gave me the dean’s blood as soon as I arrived at the Way. I am sure you could tell this from the letters I sent to begin with. I was angry at first, but now I know that it was all for the best. What’s done is done, and if they had been honest it wouldn’t have happened this way. They had to tell a lie for the greater good. I am happy now, happier than I have ever been. I have found a duty in life, something bigger than myself. I feel the dean’s love and the love of the Creator beyond the dean. I don’t expect you to understand or like any of this, Rashmika. That’s why I stopped writing home. I didn’t want to lie, and yet I also didn’t want to hurt anyone. It was better to say nothing.

It is kind and brave of you to come after me. It means more than you can imagine. But you must go home now, before I bring you any more hurt. Do this for me: go home, back to the badlands, and tell everyone that I am happy and that I love them all. I miss them terribly, but I do not regret what I have done. Please. Do that for me, will you? And take my love as well. Remember me as I was, as your brother, not as what I have become. Then it will all be for the best.

With love,

Your brother, Harbin Els.

Rashmika read it one more time, scrutinising it for hidden meaning, and then put it down. She closed it, but the seal would no longer hold the edges tight.

Grelier liked the view, if little else. Two hundred metres above the surface of Hela, Quaiche’s room was a windowed garret at the very top of the Clocktower. From this vantage point one could see nearly twenty kilometres of the Way in either direction, with the cathedrals strung along it like artfully placed ornaments. There were only a few of them ahead, but to the rear they stretched back far over the horizon. The tops of distant spires sparkled with the unnatural clarity of things in vacuum, tricking the eye into the illusion that they were much nearer than they actually were. Grelier reminded himself that some of those spires were nearly forty kilometres behind. It would take them thirty hours or more to reach the spot now immediately beneath the Lady Morwenna, the better part of a Hela day. There were some cathedrals so far behind that even their spires were not visible.

The garret was hexagonal in plan, with high armoured windows on all six sides. The slats of metal jalousies were ready to tilt into position at a command from Quaiche, blocking light in any direction. For now the room was fully illuminated, with stripes of light and shade falling on every object and person within it. There were many mirrors in the room, arranged on pedestals, sight-lines and angles of reflection carefully chosen. When Grelier entered, he saw his own shattered reflection arriving from a thousand directions.

He placed the cane into a wooden rack by the door.

Aside from Grelier, the room contained two people. Quaiche, as usual, reclined in the baroque enclosure of his medical support couch. He was a shrivelled, spectral thing, seemingly less substantial in the full glare of daylight than in the half-shuttered darkness that prevailed in the garret. He wore oversized black sunglasses that accentuated the morbid pallor and thinness of his face. The couch ruminated to itself with thoughtful hums and clicks and gurgles, occasionally delivering a dose of medicine into its client. Most of the distasteful medical business was tucked away under the scarlet blanket that covered his recumbent form to the ribcage, but now and then something pulsed along one of the feedlines running into his forearms or the base of his skull: something chemical-green or electric-blue, something that could never be mistaken for blood. He did not look a well man. Appearances, in this case, were not deceptive.

But, Grelier reminded himself, this was how Quaiche had looked for decades. He was a very old man, pushing the envelope of available life-prolongation therapies, testing them to their limit. But the limit was always slightly out of reach. Dying seemed to be a threshold that he lacked the energy to cross.

They had both, Grelier reflected, been more or less the same physiological age when they had served under Jasmina aboard the Gnostic Ascension. Now Quaiche was by far the older man, having lived through all of the last hundred and twelve years of planetary time. Grelier, by contrast, had experienced only thirty of those years. The arrangement had been simple enough, with generous benefits where Grelier was concerned.

‘I don’t really like you,’ Quaiche had told him, back aboard the Gnostic Ascension. ‘If that wasn’t already obvious.’

‘I think I got the message,’ Grelier said.

‘But I need you. You’re useful to me. I don’t want to die here. Not just now.’

‘What about Jasmina?’

‘I’m sure you’ll think of something. She relies on you for her clones, after all.’

It had been shortly after Quaiche’s rescue from the bridge on Hela. As soon as she received data on the structure, Jasmina had turned the Gnostic Ascension around and brought it into the 107 Piscium system, swinging into orbit around Hela. There had been no more booby traps on the surface: later investigation showed that Quaiche had triggered the only three sentries on the entire moon, and that they had been placed there and forgotten at least a century before by an earlier and now unremembered discoverer of the bridge.

Except that was almost but not quite true. There was another sentry, but only Quaiche knew about it.

Fixated by what he had seen, and stunned by what had happened to him - the miraculous nature of his rescue combined inseparably and punishingly with the horror of losing Morwenna - Quaiche had gone mad. That was Grelier’s view, at least, and nothing in the last hundred and twelve years had done anything to reverse his opinion. Given what had happened, and given the perception-altering presence of the virus in Quaiche’s blood, he thought Quaiche had got off lightly with only a mild kind of insanity. He still had some kind of grip on reality, still understood - with a manipulative brilliance - all that was going on around him. It was just that he saw the world through a gauze of piety. He had sanctified himself.

Rationally, Quaiche knew that his faith had something to do with the virus in his blood. But he also knew that he had been rescued because of a genuinely miraculous event. Telemetry records from the Dominatrix were clear on this: his distress signal had only been intercepted because, for a fraction of a second, Haldora had ceased to exist. Responding to that signal, the Dominatrix had raced to Hela, desperate to save him before his air ran out.

The ship had only been doing its duty by racing at maximum thrust to reach Hela as quickly as possible. The acceleration limits that would have applied had Quaiche been aboard were ignored. But the dull intelligence of the ship’s mind had neglected to take Morwenna into consideration.

When Quaiche found his way back aboard, the scrimshaw suit was silent. Later, in desperation - part of him already knowing that Morwenna was dead - he had cut through the thick metal of the suit. He had reached inside, caressing the pulped red atrocity within, weeping even as she flowed through his fingers.

Even the metal parts of her had been mangled.

Quaiche had lived, therefore, but at a terrible cost. His options, at that point, had seemed simple enough. He could find a way to discard his faith, some flushing therapy that would blast all traces of the virus from his blood. He would then have to find a rational, secular explanation for what had happened to him. And he would have to accept that although he had been saved by what appeared to be a miracle, Morwenna - the only woman he had truly loved - was gone for ever, and that she had died so that he might live.

The other choice - the path that he had eventually chosen - was one of acceptance. He would submit himself to faith, acknowledging that a miracle had indeed occurred. The presence of the virus would, in this case, simply be a catalyst. It had pushed him towards faith, made him experience the feelings of Holy presence. But on Hela, with time running out, he had experienced emotions that felt deeper and stronger than any the virus had ever given him. Was it possible that the virus had merely made him more receptive to what was already there? That, as artificial as it had been, it had enabled him to tune in to a real, albeit faint, signal?

If that was the case, then everything had meaning. The bridge meant something. He had witnessed a miracle, had called out for salvation and been granted it. And the death of Morwenna must have had some inexplicable but ultimately benign function in the greater plan of which Quaiche was himself only a tiny, ticking, barely conscious part.

‘I have to stay here,’ he had told Grelier. ‘I have to stay on Hela until I know the answer. Until it is revealed unto me.’

That was what he had said: ‘revealed unto me.’

Grelier had smiled. ‘You can’t stay here.’

‘I’ll find a way.’

‘She won’t let you.’

But Quaiche had made a proposal to Grelier then, one that the surgeon-general had found difficult to dismiss. Queen Jasmina was an unpredictable mistress. Her moods, even after years of service, were largely opaque to him. His relationship with her was characterised by intense fear of disapproval.

‘In the long run, she’ll get you,’ Quaiche had said. ‘She’s an Ultra. You can’t read her, can’t second-guess her. To her, you’re just furniture. You serve a need, but you’ll always be replaceable. But look at me - I’m a baseline human like yourself, an outcast from mainstream society. She said it herself: we have much in common.’

‘Less than you think.’

‘We don’t have to worship each other,’ Quaiche had said. ‘We just have to work together.’

‘What’s in it for me?’ Grelier had asked.

‘Me not telling her your little secret, for one. Oh, I know all about it. It was one of the last things Morwenna found out before Jasmina put her in the suit.’

Grelier had looked at him carefully. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I mean the body factory,’ Quaiche had said, ‘your little problem with supply and demand. There’s more to it than just meeting Jasmina’s insatiable taste for fresh bodies, isn’t there? You’ve also got a sideline in body usage yourself. You like them small, undeveloped. You take them out of the tanks before they’ve reached adulthood - sometimes even before they’ve reached childhood - and you do things to them. Vile, vile things. Then you put them back in the tanks and say they were never viable.’

‘They have no minds,’ Grelier had said, as if this excused his actions. ‘Anyway, what exactly are you proposing - blackmail?’

‘No, just an incentive. Help me dispose of Jasmina, help me with other things, and I’ll make sure no one ever finds out about the factory.’

Quietly, Grelier had said, ‘And what about my needs?’

‘We’ll think of something, if that’s what it takes to keep you working for me.’

‘Why should I prefer you as my master in place of Jasmina? You’re as insane as each other.’

‘Perhaps,’ Quaiche had said. ‘The difference is, I’m not murderous. Think about it.’

Grelier had, and before very long had decided that his short-term best interests lay beyond the Gnostic Ascension. He would co-operate with Quaiche for the immediate future, and then find something better - something less submissive - at the earliest opportunity.

Yet here he was, over a century later. He had underestimated his own weakness to a ludicrous degree. For in the Ultras, with their ships crammed full of ancient, faulty reefersleep caskets, Quaiche had found the perfect means of keeping Grelier in his service.

But Grelier had known nothing of this future in the earliest days of their liaison.

Their first move had been to engineer Jasmina’s downfall. Their plan had consisted of three steps, each of which had to be performed with great caution. The cost of discovery would be huge, but - Grelier was certain now - in all that time she had never once suspected that the two former rivals were plotting against her.

That didn’t mean that things had gone quite according to plan, however.

First, a camp had been established on Hela. There were habitation modules, sensors and surface rovers. Some Ultras had come down, but as usual their instinctive dislike of planetary environments had made them fidgety, anxious to get back to their ship. Grelier and Quaiche, by contrast, had found it the perfect venue in which to further their uneasy alliance. And they had even made a remarkable discovery, one that only aided their cause. It was during their earliest scouting trips away from the base, under the eye of Jasmina, that they had found the very first scuttler relics. Now, at last, they had some idea of who or what had made the bridge.

The second phase of their plan had been to make Jasmina unwell. As master of the body factory, it had been a trivial matter for Grelier. He had tampered with the clones, slowing their development, triggering more abnormalities and defects. Unable to anchor herself to reality with regular doses of self-inflicted pain, Jasmina had grown insular. Her judgement had become impaired, her grasp on events tenuous.

That was when they had attempted the third phase: rebellion. They had meant to engineer a mutiny, taking over the Gnostic Ascension for their own ends. There were Ultras - former friends of Morwenna - who had showed some sympathy to Quaiche. During their initial explorations of Hela, Quaiche and Grelier had located a fourth fully functional sentry of the same type that had downed the Scavenger’s Daughter. The idea had been to exploit Jasmina’s flawed judgement to drag the Gnostic Ascension within range of the remaining sentry weapon. Ordinarily, she would have resisted bringing her ship within light-hours of a place like Hela, but the spectacle of the bridge, and the discovery of the scuttler relics, had overridden her better instincts.

With the expected damage from the sentry - ultimately superficial, but enough to cause panic and confusion amongst her crew - the ship would have been ripe for takeover.

But it hadn’t worked. The sentry had attacked with greater force than Quaiche had anticipated, inflicting fatal, spreading damage on the Gnostic Ascension. He had wanted to cripple the ship and occupy it for his own purposes, but instead the vessel had blown up, waves of explosions stuttering away from the impact points on her hull until the wavefront of destruction had reached the Conjoiner drives. Two bright new suns had flared in Hela’s sky. When the light faded, there had been nothing left of Jasmina, or of the great lighthugger that had brought Quaiche and Grelier to this place.

Quaiche and Grelier had been stranded.

But they were not doomed. They’d had all they needed to survive on Hela for years to come, courtesy of the surface camp already established. They had begun to explore, riding out in the surface rovers. They had collected scuttler parts, trying to fit the weird alien fossils together into some kind of coherent whole, always failing. To Quaiche it had become an obsessive enterprise. Above him, the puzzle of Haldora. Below, the maddening taxonomic jigsaw of the scuttlers. He had thrown himself into both mysteries, knowing that somehow they were linked, knowing that in finding the answer he would understand why he had been saved and Morwenna sacrificed. He had believed that the puzzles were tests from God. He had also believed that only he was truly capable of solving them.

A year had passed, then another. They circumnavigated Hela, using the rovers to carve out a rough trail. With each circumnavigation, the trail became better defined. They had made excursions to the north and south, veering away from the equator to where the heaviest concentrations of scuttler relics were to be found. Here they had mined and tunnelled, gathering more pieces of the jigsaw. Always, however, they had returned to the equator to mull over what they had found.

And one day, in the second or third year, Quaiche had realised something critical: that he must witness another vanishing.

‘If it happens again, I have to see it,’ he had told Grelier.

‘But if it does happen again - for no particular reason - then you’ll know it isn’t a miracle.’

‘No,’ Quaiche had said, emphatically. ‘If it happens twice, I’ll know that God wanted to show it to me again for a reason, that he wanted to make sure there could be no doubt in my mind that such a thing had already happened.’

Grelier had decided to play along. ‘But you have the telemetry from the Dominatrix. It confirms that Haldora vanished. Isn’t that enough for you?’

Quaiche had dismissed this point with a wave of his hand. ‘Numbers in electronic registers. I didn’t see it with my own eyes. This means something to me.’

‘Then you’ll have to watch Haldora for ever.’ Hastily, Grelier had corrected himself. ‘I mean, until it vanishes again. But how long did it disappear for last time? Less than a second? Less than an eyeblink? What if you miss it?’

‘I’ll have to try not to.’

‘For half a year you can’t even see Haldora.’ Grelier had pointed out, sweeping his arm overhead. ‘It rises and falls.’

‘Only if you don’t follow it. We circled Hela in under three months the first time we tried; under two the second time. It would be easier still to travel slowly, keeping pace with Haldora. One-third of a metre a second, that’s all it would take. Keep up that pace, stay close to the equator, and Haldora will always be overhead. It’ll just be the landscape that changes.’

Grelier had shaken his head in wonderment. ‘You’ve already thought this through.’

‘It wasn’t difficult. We’ll lash together the rovers, make a travelling observation platform.’

‘And sleep? And blinking?’

‘You’re the physician,’ Quaiche had said. ‘You figure it out.’ And figure it out he had. Sleep could be banished with drugs and neurosurgery, coupled with a little dialysis to mop up fatigue poisons. He had taken care of the blinking as well.

‘Ironic, really,’ Grelier had observed to Quaiche. ‘This is what she threatened you with in the scrimshaw suit: no sleep and an unchanging view of reality. Yet now you welcome it.’

‘Things changed,’ Quaiche had said.

Now, standing in the garret, the years collapsed away. For Grelier, time had passed in a series of episodic snapshots, for he was only revived from reefersleep when Quaiche had some immediate need of him. He remembered that first slow circumnavigation, keeping pace with Haldora, the rovers lashed together like a raft. A year or two later another ship had arrived: more Ultras, drawn by the faint flash of energy from the dying Gnostic Ascension. They were curious, naturally cautious. They kept their ship at a safe distance and sent down emissaries in expendable vehicles. Quaiche traded with them for parts and services, offering scuttler relics in return.

A decade or two later, following trade exchanges with the first ship, another had arrived. They were just as wary, just as keen to trade. The scuttler relics were exactly what the market wanted. And this time the ship was willing to offer more than components: there were sleepers in its belly, disaffected émigrés from some colony neither Quaiche nor Grelier had ever heard of. The mystery of Hela - the rumours of miracle - had drawn them across the light-years.

Quaiche had his first disciples.

Thousands more had arrived. Tens of thousands, then hundreds. For the Ultras, Hela was now a lucrative stopover on the strung-out, fragile web of interstellar commerce. The core worlds, the old places of trade, were now out of bounds, touched by plague and war. Lately, perhaps, by something worse than either. It was difficult to tell: very few ships were making it out to Hela from those places now. When they did, they brought with them confused stories of things emerging from interstellar space, fiercely mechanical things, implacable and old, that ripped through worlds, engorging themselves on organic life, but which were themselves no more alive than clocks or orreries. Those who came to Hela now came not only to witness the miraculous vanishings, but because they believed that they lived near the end of time and that Hela was a point of culmination, a place of final pilgrimage.

The Ultras brought them as paid cargo in their ships and pretended to have no interest in the local situation beyond its immediate commercial value. For some, this was probably true, but Grelier knew Ultras better than most and he believed that lately he had seen something in their eyes - a fear that had nothing to do with the size of their profit margins and everything to do with their own survival. They had seen things as well, he presumed. Glimpses, perhaps: phantoms stalking the edge of human space. For years they must have dismissed these as travellers’ tales, but now, as news from the core colonies stopped arriving, they were beginning to wonder.

There were Ultras on Hela now. Under the terms of trade, their lighthugger starships were not permitted to come close to either Haldora or its inhabited moon. They congregated in a parking swarm on the edge of the system, dispatching smaller shuttles to Hela. Representatives of the churches inspected these shuttles, ensuring that they carried no recording or scanning equipment pointed at Haldora. It was a gesture more than anything, one that could have been easily circumvented, but the Ultras were surprisingly pliant. They wanted to play along, for they needed the business.

Quaiche was completing his dealings with an Ultra when Grelier arrived in the garret. ‘Thank you, Captain, for your time,’ he said, his ghost of a voice rising in grey spirals from the life-support couch.

‘I’m sorry we weren’t able to come to an agreement,’ the Ultra replied, ‘but you appreciate that the safety of my ship must be my first priority. We are all aware of what happened to the Gnostic Ascension.’

Quaiche spread his thin-boned fingers by way of sympathy. ‘Awful business. I was lucky to survive.’

‘So we gather.’

The couch angled towards Grelier. ‘Surgeon-General Grelier . . . might I introduce Captain Basquiat of the lighthugger Bride of the Wind?’

Grelier bowed his head politely at Quaiche’s new guest. The Ultra was not as extreme as some that Grelier had encountered, but still odd and unsettling by baseline standards. He was very thin and colourless, like some desiccated weather-bleached insect, but propped upright in a blood-red support skeleton ornamented with silver lilies. A very large moth accompanied the Ultra: it fluttered before his face, fanning it.

‘My pleasure,’ Grelier said, placing down the medical kit with its cargo of blood-filled syringes. ‘I hope you had a nice time on Hela.’

‘Our visit was fruitful, Surgeon-General. It wasn’t possible to accommodate the last of Dean Quaiche’s wishes, but otherwise, I believe both parties are satisfied with proceedings.’

‘And the other small matter we discussed?’ Quaiche asked.

‘The reefersleep fatalities? Yes, we have around two dozen brain-dead cases. In better times we might have been able to restore neural structure with the right sort of medichine intervention. Not now, however.’

‘We’d be happy to take them off your hands,’ Grelier said. ‘Free up the casket slots for the living.’

The Ultra flicked the moth away from his lips. ‘You have a particular use for these vegetables?’

‘The surgeon-general takes an interest in their cases,’ Quaiche said, interrupting before Grelier had a chance to say anything. ‘He likes to attempt experimental neural rescripting procedures, don’t you, Grelier?’ He looked away sharply, not waiting for an answer. ‘Now, Captain - do you need any special assistance in returning to your ship?’

‘None that I am aware of, thank you.’

Grelier looked out of the east-facing window of the garret. At the other end of the ridged roof of the main hall was a landing pad, on which a small shuttle was parked. It was the bright yellow-green of a stick insect.

‘Godspeed back to the parking swarm, Captain. We await transhipment of those unfortunate casket victims. And I look forward to doing business with you on another occasion.’

The captain turned to walk out, but paused before leaving. He had noticed the scrimshaw suit for the first time, Grelier thought. It was always there, standing in the corner of the room like a silent extra guest. The captain stared at it, his moth fluttering orbits around his head, then continued on his way. He could have no idea of the dreadful significance it represented to Quaiche: the final resting place of Morwenna and an ever-present reminder of what the first vanishing had cost him.

Grelier waited until he was certain the Ultra was not coming back. ‘What was all that about?’ he asked. ‘The extra stuff he “couldn’t accommodate”?’

‘The usual negotiations,’ Quaiche said, as if the matter was beneath him. ‘Count yourself lucky that you’ll get your vegetables. Now - Bloodwork, eh? How did it go?’

‘Wait a moment.’ Grelier moved to one wall and worked a brass-handled lever. The jalousies folded shut, admitting only narrow wedges of light. Then he bent down over Quaiche and removed the sunglasses. Quaiche normally kept them on during his negotiations: partly to protect his eyes against glare, but also because without them he was not a pretty sight. Of course, that was precisely the reason he sometimes chose not to wear them, as well.

Beneath the eyeshades, hugging the skin like a second pair of glasses, was a skeletal framework. Around each eye were two circles from which radiated hooks, thrusting inwards to keep the eyelids from closing. There were little sprays built into the frames, blasting Quaiche’s eyes with moisture every few minutes. It would have been simpler, Grelier said, to have removed the eyelids in the first place, but Quaiche had a penitential streak as wide as the Way, and the discomfort of the frame suited him. It was a constant reminder of the need for vigilance, lest he miss a vanishing.

Grelier took a small swab from the garret’s medical locker and cleaned away the residue around Quaiche’s eyes.

‘Bloodwork, Grelier?’

‘I’ll come to that. Just tell me what that business with the Ultra was all about. Why did you want him to bring his ship closer to Hela?’

Visibly, Quaiche’s pupils dilated. ‘Why do you think that’s what I wanted of him?’

‘Isn’t it? Why else would he have said that it was too dangerous?’

‘You presume a great deal, Grelier.’

The surgeon-general finished cleaning up, then slotted the top pair of glasses back into place. ‘Why do you want the Ultras closer, all of a sudden? For years you’ve worked hard to keep the bastards at arm’s-reach. Now you want one of their ships on your doorstep?’

The figure in the couch sighed. He had more substance in the darkness. Grelier opened the slats again, observing that the yellow-green shuttle had departed from the landing pad.

‘It was just an idea,’ Quaiche said.

‘What kind of idea?’

‘You’ve seen how nervous the Ultras are lately. I trust them less and less. Basquiat seemed like a man I could do business with. I was hoping we might come to an arrangement.’

‘What sort of arrangement?’ Grelier returned the swabs to the cabinet.

‘Protection,’ Quaiche said. ‘Bring one group of Ultras here to keep the rest of them away.’

‘Madness,’ Grelier said.

‘Insurance,’ his master corrected. ‘Well, what does it matter? They weren’t interested. Too worried about bringing their ship near to Hela. This place scares them as much as it tantalises them, Grelier.’

‘There’ll always be others.’

‘Perhaps . . .’ Quaiche sounded as if the whole business was already boring him, a mid-morning fancy he now regretted.

‘You asked about Bloodwork,’ Grelier said. He knelt down and picked up the case. ‘It didn’t go swimmingly, but I collected from Vaustad.’

‘The choirmaster? Weren’t you supposed to be administering?’

‘Wee change of plan.’

Bloodwork: the Office of the Clocktower dedicated to the preservation, enrichment and dissemination of the countless viral strains spun off from Quaiche’s original infection. Almost everyone who worked in the cathedral carried some of Quaiche in their blood now. It had reached across generations, mutating and mingling with other types of virus brought to Hela. The result was a chaotic profusion of possible effects. Many of the other churches were based on, or had in some sense even been caused by, subtle doctrinal variants of the original strain. Bloodwork operated to tame the chaos, isolating effective and doctrinally pure strains and damping out others. Individuals like Vaustad were often used as test cases for newly isolated viruses. If they showed psychotic or otherwise undesirable side-effects, the strains would be eliminated. Vaustad had earned his role as guinea pig after a series of regrettable indiscretions, but had grown increasingly fearful of the results of each new test jab.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing,’ Quaiche said. ‘I need Bloodwork, Grelier, more so now than ever. I’m losing my religion.’

Quaiche’s own faith was subject to horrible lapses. He had developed immunity to the pure strain of the virus, the one that had infected him before his time aboard the Gnostic Ascension. One of the principle tasks of Bloodwork was to isolate the new mutant strains that were still able to have an effect on Quaiche. Grelier didn’t advertise the fact, but it was getting harder and harder to find them.

Quaiche was in a lapse now. Out of them, he never spoke of losing his religion. It was just there, solidly a part of him. It was only during the lapses that he found it possible to think of his faith as a chemically engineered thing. These interludes always worried Grelier. It was when Quaiche was at his most conflicted that he was at his least predictable. Grelier thought again of the enigmatic stained-glass window he had seen below, wondering if there might be a connection.

‘We’ll soon have you right as rain,’ he said.

‘Good. I’ll need to be. There’s trouble ahead, Grelier. Major icefalls reported in the Gullveig Range, blocking the Way. It will fall to us to clear them, as it always does. But even with God’s Fire I’m still worried that we’ll lose time on Haldora.’

‘We’ll make it up. We always do.’

‘Drastic measures may be called for if the delay becomes unacceptably large. I want Motive Power to be ready for whatever I ask of them - even the unthinkable.’ The couch tilted again, its reflection breaking up and reforming in the slowly moving mirrors. They were set up to guide light from Haldora into Quaiche’s field of view: wherever he sat, he saw the world with his own eyes. ‘The unthinkable, Grelier,’ he added. ‘You know what I mean by that, don’t you?’

‘I think so,’ Grelier said. And then thought of blood, and also of bridges. He also thought of the girl he was bringing to the cathedral and wondered if perhaps - just perhaps - he had set in motion something it would no longer be possible to stop.

But he won’t do it, he thought. He’s insane, no one doubts that, but he isn’t that insane. Not so insane that he’d take the Lady Morwenna across the bridge, over Absolution Gap.

EIGHTEEN

Ararat, 2675

The internal map of the Nostalgia for Infinity was a long scroll of scuffed, yellowing paper, anchored at one end by Blood’s knife and at the other by the heavy silver helmet Palfrey had found in the junk. The scroll was covered with a dense crawl of pencil and ink lines. In places it had been erased and redrawn so many times that the paper had the thin translucence of animal skin.

‘Is this the best we’ve got?’ Blood asked.

‘It’s better than nothing,’ Antoinette said. ‘We’re doing our best with very limited resources.’

‘All right.’ The pig had heard that a hundred times in the last week. ‘So what does it tell us?’

‘It tells us that we have a problem. Did you interview Palfrey?’

‘No. Scorp took care of that.’

Antoinette fingered the mass of jewellery packed into her earlobes. ‘I had a little chat with him as well. I wanted to see how the land was lying. Turns out practically everyone in bilge management is convinced that the Captain is changing his haunt patterns.’

‘And?’

‘Now that we’ve got the last dozen or so apparitions plotted, I’m beginning to think they’re right.’

The pig squinted at the map, his eyes poorly equipped for discerning the smoke-grey pencil marks in the low light of the conference room. Maps had never really been his thing, even during his days under Scorpio in Chasm City. There, it had hardly mattered. Blood’s motto had always been that if you needed a map to find your way around a neighbourhood, you were already in trouble.

But this map was important. It depicted the Nostalgia for Infinity, the very sea-spire in which they were sitting. The ship was a tapering cone of intricate vertical and horizontal lines, an obelisk engraved with crawling, interlocked hieroglyphics. The lines showed floor levels, interconnecting shafts and major interior partitions. The ship’s huge internal storage bays were unmarked cavities in the diagram.

The ship was four kilometres tall, so there was no space on the map for detail at the human scale. Individual rooms were usually not marked at all unless they had some strategic importance. Mostly, mapping it was a pointless exercise. The ship’s slow processes of interior reorganisation - utterly outside the control of its human occupants - had rendered all such efforts nearly useless within a handful of years.

There were other complications. The high levels of the ship were well charted. Crews were always moving around in these areas, and the constant presence of human activity seemed to have dissuaded the ship from changing itself too much. But the deep levels, and especially those that lay below sea level, were nowhere near as well visited. Teams only went down there when they had to, and when they did they usually found that the interior failed utterly to conform to their expectations. And the transformed parts of the ship - warped according to queasy, biological archetypes - were by their very nature difficult to map with any accuracy. Blood had been down into some of the most severely distorted zones of the deep ship levels. The experience had been akin to the exploration of some nightmarish cave system.

It was not only the interior of the ship that remained uncertain. Before descending from orbit, the lighthugger had prepared itself for landing by flattening its stern. In the chaos of that descent, very few detailed observations of the changes had been possible. And since the lower kilometre of the ship - including the twin nacelles of the Conjoiner drives - was now almost permanently submerged, there had been little opportunity to improve matters in the meantime. Divers had explored only the upper hundred metres of the submerged parts, but even their reports had revealed little that was not already known. Sensors could probe deeper, but the cloudy shapes that they returned showed only that the basic form of the ship was more or less intact. The crucial question of whether or not the drives would ever work again could not be answered. Through his own nervous system of data connections the Captain presumably knew the degree of spaceworthiness of the ship. But the Captain wasn’t talking.

Until, perhaps, now.

Antoinette had marked with annotated red stars all recent and reliable apparitions of John Brannigan. Blood peered at the dates and comments, the handwritten remarks which gave details of the type of apparition and the associated witness or witnesses. He dabbed at the map with his knife, scraping the blade gently against it, scything arcs and feints against the pencil marks.

‘He’s moving up,’ Blood observed.

Antoinette nodded. A lock of hair had come loose, hanging across her face. ‘That’s what I thought, too. Judging by this, I’d say Palfrey and his friends have a point.’

‘What about the dates? See any patterns there?’

‘Only that things looked pretty normal until a month or so ago.’

‘And now?’

‘Draw your own conclusions,’ she said. ‘Me, I think the map speaks for itself. The hauntings have changed. The Captain’s suddenly become restless. He’s increased the range and boldness of his haunts, showing up in parts of the ship where we’ve never seen him before. If I included the reports I didn’t think were entirely trustworthy, you’d see red marks all the way up to the administration levels.’

‘But you don’t believe those, do you?’

Antoinette pushed back the stray strands of hair. ‘No, right now I don’t. But a week ago I wouldn’t have believed half of the others, either. Now all it’d take is one good witness above level six hundred.’

‘And then what?’

‘All bets would be off. We’d have to accept that the Captain’s woken up.’

In Blood’s view this was already a given. ‘It can’t be down to Khouri, can it? If the Captain had started behaving differently today, then I could believe it. But if this is real, it started weeks ago. She wasn’t here then.’

‘But they’d arrived in-system by then,’ Antoinette pointed out. ‘The battle was already here. How do we know the Captain wasn’t sensitive to that? He’s a ship. His senses reach out for light-hours in all directions. Being anchored to a planet doesn’t change that.’

‘We don’t know that Khouri was telling the truth,’ Blood said.

Antoinette used her red marker to add another star, one that corresponded to Palfrey’s report. ‘I’d say we do now,’ she said.

‘All right. One other thing. If the Cap’s woken up . . .’

She looked at him, waiting for him to finish the sentence. ‘Yes?’

‘Do you think it means he wants something?’

Antoinette picked up the helmet, causing the map to roll back on itself with a snapping sound. ‘Guess one of us is going to have to ask him,’ she replied.

Two hours before dawn something twinkled on the horizon.

‘I see it, sir,’ Vasko said. ‘It’s the iceberg, like we saw on the map.’

‘I don’t see anything,’ Urton said, after peering into the distance for half a minute.

‘I do,’ Jaccottet said, from the other boat. ‘Malinin’s right, I think. There’s something there.’ He reached for binoculars and held them to his eyes. The wide cowl of the lenses stayed rigidly fixed on target even as the rest of the binoculars wavered in Jaccottet’s hands.

‘What do you see?’ Clavain asked.

‘A mound of ice. At this range, that’s about all I can make out. Still no sign of a ship, though.’

‘Good work,’ Clavain said to Vasko. ‘We’ll call you Hawkeye, shall we?’

On Scorpio’s order the boats slowed to half their previous speed, then veered gradually to port. They commenced a long encirclement of the object, viewing it from all sides in the slowly changing dawn light.

Within an hour, as the boats spiralled nearer, the iceberg had become a small round-backed hummock. There was, in Vasko’s opinion, something deeply odd about it. It sat on the sea and yet seemed a part of it as well, surrounded as it was by a fringe of white that extended in every direction for perhaps twice the diameter of the central core. It made Vasko think of an island, the kind that consisted of a single volcanic mountain, with gently sloping beaches reaching the sea on all sides. He had seen a few icebergs, when they drifted down to the latitude of First Camp, and this was unlike any iceberg in his experience.

The boats circled closer. Now and then, Vasko heard Scorpio speaking to Blood via his wrist radio. The western sky was a bruised purple, with only a scattering of bright stars showing. In the east it was a bleak shade of rose. Against either backdrop the pale mound of the iceberg threw back subtly distorted variations of the same hues.

‘We’ve circled it twice,’ Urton reported.

‘Keep it up,’ Clavain instructed. ‘Reduce our distance by half, but slow to half our present speed. She may not be alert, and I don’t want to startle her.’

‘Something’s not right about that iceberg, sir,’ Vasko said.

‘We’ll see.’ Clavain turned to Khouri. ‘Can you sense her yet?’

‘Skade?’ she asked.

‘I was thinking more of your daughter. I wondered if there might be some remote cross-talk between your mutual sets of implants.’

‘We’re still a long way out.’

‘Agreed, but let me know the instant you feel anything. My own implants may not pick up Aura’s emissions at all, or not until we’re much nearer. And in any case you are her mother. I am certain you’ll recognise her first, even if there is nothing unusual about the protocols.’

‘I don’t need reminding that I’m her mother,’ Khouri said.

‘Of course. I just meant . . .’

‘I’m listening for her, Clavain. I’ve been listening for her from the moment you pulled me out of that capsule. You’ll be the first to hear if I pick up Aura.’

Half an hour later they were close enough to make out more detail. It was clear to all of them now that this was no ordinary iceberg, even if one discounted the way it infiltrated the water around it. Indeed, it appeared increasingly unlikely that the thing was any kind of iceberg at all.

Yet it was made of ice.

The sides of the floating mass were weird and crystalline. Rather than facets or sheets, they consisted of a thickening tangle of white spars, a briar formed from interleaved spikes of ice. Stalagmites and stalactites daggered up and down like icy incisors. Vertical spikes bristled like rapiers. At the root of each spike was a flourish of smaller growths thrusting out in all directions, intersecting and threading through their neighbours. In all directions, the spikes varied in size. Some - the major trunks and branches of the structure - were as wide across as the boat. Others were so thin, so fine, that they formed only an iridescent haze in the air, as if the merest breeze would shatter them into a billion twinkling parts. From a distance, the berg had appeared to be a solid block. Now the mound seemed to be formed from a huge haphazardly tossed pile of glass needles. Unthinkable numbers of glass needles. It was a glistening cavity-filled thicket, as much hollow space as ice.

It was easily the most unsettling thing Vasko had ever seen in his life.

They circled closer.

Of all of them, only Clavain seemed unimpressed by the utter strangeness of what lay before them. ‘The smart maps were accurate,’ he said. ‘The size of this thing . . . by my reckoning, you could easily hide a moray-class corvette inside it.’

Vasko raised his voice. ‘You still think there might be a ship inside that thing, sir?’

‘Ask yourself a question, son. Do you really think Mother Nature had anything to do with this?’

‘But why would Skade surround her ship with all this strange ice?’ Vasko persisted. ‘I wouldn’t have thought it was much use as armour, and all it’s done so far is make her ship more visible on the maps.’

‘What makes you so sure she had any choice, son?’

‘I don’t follow, sir.’

Scorpio said, ‘He’s suggesting that all this might mean there’s something wrong with Skade’s ship. Isn’t that right?’

‘That’s my working hypothesis,’ Clavain said.

‘But what . . .’ Vasko abandoned his question before he got himself into even deeper water.

‘Whatever’s inside,’ Clavain said, ‘we still have to reach it. We don’t have tunnelling equipment or anything that can blast through thick ice. But if we’re careful, we won’t have to. We just have to locate a route through to the middle.’

‘What if Skade spots us, sir?’ Vasko asked.

‘I’m hoping she does. The last thing I want is to have to knock on her front door. Now take us closer. Nice and slowly does it.’

Bright Sun rose. In the early minutes of dawn, the iceberg took on an entirely different character. Against the soft violet of the sky the whole structure seemed magical, as delicate as some aristocrat’s confection. The briar spikes and icy spars were shot through with gold and azure, the colours refracted with the untainted dazzle of cut diamond. There were glorious halos, shards and jangles of chromatic purity, colours Vasko had never seen in his life. Instead of shadows, the interior shone turquoise and opal with a radiance that groped and fingered its way to the surface through twisting corridors and canyons of ice. And yet within that shining interior there was a shadowy kernel, a hint of something cocooned.

The two boats had come within fifty metres of the outer edge of the island’s fringe. The water had been calm for much of their journey, but here in the immediate vicinity of the iceberg it moved with the languor of some huge sedated animal, as if every ripple cost the sea great effort. Closer to the edge of the fringe, the sea was already beginning to freeze. It had the slick blue-grey texture of animal hide. Vasko touched his fingers just beneath the surface of the water by the boat and then pulled them back out immediately. Even here, this far from the fringe, the water was much colder than it had been when they had left the shuttle.

‘Look at this,’ Scorpio said. He had one of the smart maps rolled out before him. Khouri was studying it, too, obviously agreeing with something Scorpio was saying to her as he pointed out features with the blunt-trottered stub of one hand.

Clavain opened his own map. ‘What is it, Scorp?’

‘An update just came through from Blood. Take a look at the iceberg: it’s larger.’

Clavain made his map display the same coordinates. The iceberg leapt into view. Vasko peered over the old man’s shoulder, searching for the pair of boats. There was no sign of them. He assumed that the update had taken place before sunset the previous evening.

‘You’re right,’ Clavain said. ‘What would you say . . . thirty, forty per cent larger, by volume?’

‘Easily,’ Scorpio said. ‘And this isn’t real-time. If it’s growing this rapidly, it could be ten or twenty per cent larger again by now.’

Clavain folded his map: he had seen enough. ‘It certainly seems to be refrigerating the surrounding water. Before very long, where we’re sitting will be frozen as well. We’re lucky we arrived when we did. If we’d left it a few more days, we’d never have stood a chance. We’d be looking at a mountain.’

‘Sir,’ Vasko said, ‘I don’t understand how it can be getting larger. Surely it should be shrinking. Icebergs don’t last at these latitudes.’

‘I thought you said you didn’t know much about them,’ Clavain replied.

‘I said we don’t see many in the bay, sir.’

Clavain looked at him shrewdly. ‘It’s not an iceberg. It never was. It’s a shell of ice around Skade’s ship. And it’s growing because the ship is making it grow by cooling the sea around it. Remember what Khouri said? They have ways of making their hulls as cold as the cosmic microwave background.’

‘But you also said you didn’t think Skade had any control over this.’

‘I’m not sure she has.’

‘Sir . . .’

Clavain cut him off. ‘I think something may have gone wrong with the cryo-arithmetic engines that keep the hull cold. What, I don’t know. Perhaps Skade will tell us, when we find her.’

Until a day ago Vasko had never heard of cryo-arithmetic engines. But the phrase had cropped up in Khouri’s testimony - it was one of the technologies that Aura had helped Remontoire and his allies to perfect as they raced away from the ruins of the Delta Pavonis system.

In the hours that followed, Vasko had done his best to ask as many questions as possible, trying to fill in the most embarrassing voids in his knowledge. Not all of his questions had met with ready answers, even from Khouri. But Clavain had told him that the cryo-arithmetic engines were not completely new, that the basic technology had already been developed by the Conjoiners towards the end of their war against the Demarchists. At that time, a single cryo-arithmetic engine had been a clumsy thing the size of a mansion, too large to be carried on anything but a major spacecraft. All efforts to produce a miniaturised version had ended in disaster. Aura, however, had shown them how to make engines as small as apples.

But they were still dangerous.

The cryo-arithmetic principle was based on a controlled violation of thermodynamic law. It was an outgrowth from quantum computation, exploiting a class of algorithms discovered by a Conjoiner theorist named Qafzeh in the early years of the Demarchist war. Qafzeh’s algorithms - if implemented properly on a particular architecture of quantum computer - led to a net heat loss from the local universe. A cryo-arithmetic engine was in essence just a computer, running computational cycles. Unlike ordinary computers, however, it got colder the faster it ran. The trick - the really difficult part - was to prevent the computer from running even faster as it chilled, spiralling into a runaway process. The smaller the engine, the more susceptible it was to that kind of instability.

Perhaps that was what had happened to Skade’s ship. In space, the engines had worked to suck heat away from the corvette’s hull, making the ship vanish into the near-zero background of cosmic radiation. But the ship had sustained damage, perhaps severing the delicate web of control systems monitoring the cryo-arithmetic engines. By the time it hit Ararat’s ocean it had become a howling mouth of interstellar cold. The water had begun to freeze around it, the odd patterns and structures betraying the obscene violation of physical law taking place.

Could anyone still be alive inside it?

Vasko noticed something then. It was possible that he was the first. It was a keening sound at the very limit of his hearing, a sensation so close to ultrasound that he barely registered it as noise at all. It was more like a kind of data arriving by a sensory channel he had never known he possessed.

It was like singing. It was like a million fingers circling the wet rims of a million wine glasses.

He could barely hear it, and yet it threatened to split his skull open.

‘Sir,’ Vasko said, ‘I can hear something. The iceberg, sir, or whatever it is - it’s making a noise.’

‘It’s the sun,’ Clavain said, after a moment. ‘It must be warming the ice, stressing it in different ways, making it creak and shiver.’

‘Can you hear it, sir?’

Clavain looked at him with an odd expression on his face. ‘No, son, I can’t. These days, there are a lot of things I can’t hear. But I’m taking your word for it.’

‘Closer,’ Scorpio said.

Through dark, dank corridors of the great drowned ship, Antoinette Bax walked alone. She held a torch in one hand and the old silver helmet in the other, her fingers tucked through the neck ring. Lolloping ahead of her with the eagerness of a hunting dog, the wandering golden circle of torchlight defined the unsettling sculptural formations that lined the walls: here an archway that appeared to be made from spinal vertebrae, there a mass of curled and knotted intestinal tubes. The crawling shadows made the tubes writhe and contort like copulating snakes.

A steady damp breeze blew up from the lower decks, and from some unguessable distance Antoinette heard the clanging report of a hesitant, struggling mechanism - a bilge pump, maybe, or perhaps the ship itself remaking a part of its own fabric. Sounds propagated unpredictably through the ship, and the noise could just as easily have originated mere corridors away as from some location kilometres up or down the spire.

Antoinette hitched high the collar of her coat. She would have preferred company - any company - but she knew that this was the way it had to be. On each of the very few occasions in the past when she had elicited anything from the Captain that might be construed as a meaningful response, it had always been when she was alone. She took this as evidence that the Captain was prepared to reveal himself to her, and that there was an element of trust - however small - in their relationship. True or not, Antoinette had always believed that she stood a better chance of communicating with the Captain than her peers did. It was all about history. She had owned a ship herself once, and although that ship had been much smaller than the Nostalgia for Infinity, in some sense it, too, had been haunted.

‘Talk to me, John,’ she had said on previous occasions. ‘Talk to me as someone you can trust, as someone who appreciates a little of what you are.’

There had never been an unequivocal answer, but if she looked at all the instances when she had drawn some response, however devoid of content, it appeared to her that the Captain was more likely to do something in her presence than not. Taken together, none of these apparitions amounted to any kind of coherent message. But what if the recent spate of manifestations pointed to him emerging from some dormant state?

‘Captain,’ she said now, holding aloft the helmet, ‘you left a calling card, didn’t you? I’ve come to give it back. Now you have to keep your side of the bargain.’

There was no response.

‘I’ll be honest with you,’ she said. ‘I really don’t like it down here. Matter of fact, it scares the hell out of me. I like my ships small and cosy, with décor I chose myself.’ She cast the torch beam around, picking out an overhanging globular mass filling half the corridor. She stooped under the shock-frozen black bubbles, brushing her fingers against their surprising warmth and softness. ‘No, this isn’t me at all. But I guess this is your empire, not mine. All I’m saying is that I hope you realise what it takes to bring me down here. And I hope you’re going to make it worthwhile for me.’

Nothing happened. But she had never expected success at first bite.

‘John,’ she said, deciding to risk familiarity, ‘we think something may be happening in the wider system. My guess is you may have some suspicions about this as well. I’ll tell you what we think, anyway - then you can decide for yourself.’

The character of the breeze changed. It was warmer now, with an irregularity about it that made her think of ragged breathing.

Antoinette said, ‘Khouri came back. She dropped out of the sky a couple of days back. You remember Khouri, don’t you? She spent a lot of time aboard, so I’d be surprised if you didn’t. Well, Khouri says there’s a battle going on around Ararat, something that makes the Demarchist-Conjoiner war look like a snowball fight. If she isn’t lying, we’ve got two squabbling human factions up there, plus a really frightening number of wolf machines. You remember the wolves, don’t you, Captain? You saw Ilia throw the cache weapons at them, and you saw what good it did.’

There it was again. The breeze had become a faint suction.

In Antoinette’s estimation that already made it a class-one apparition. ‘You’re here with me, aren’t you?’

Another shift in the wind. The breeze returned, sharpened to a howl. The howl ripped her hair loose, whipping it in her eyes.

She heard a word whispered in the wind: Ilia.

‘Yes, Captain. Ilia. You remember her well, don’t you? You remember the Triumvir. I do, too. I didn’t know her for long, but it was long enough to see that she isn’t the kind of woman you’d forget in a hurry.’

The wind had died down. All that remained was a nagging suction.

A small, sane voice warned Antoinette to stop now. She had achieved a clear result: a class one by anyone’s definition, and almost certainly (if she had not imagined the voice) a class two. That was enough for one day, wasn’t it? The Captain was nothing if not temperamental. According to the records she had left behind, Ilia Volyova had pushed him into a catatonic sulk many times by trying to coax just one more response from him. Often it had taken the Captain weeks to emerge from one of those withdrawals.

But the Triumvir had had months or years to build up her working relationship with the Captain. Antoinette did not think she had anywhere near as much time.

‘Captain,’ she said, ‘I’ll lay the cards on the table. The seniors are worried. Scorpio’s so worried he’s pulled Clavain back from his island. They’re taking Khouri seriously. They’ve already gone to see if they can get her baby back for her. If she’s right, there’s a Conjoiner ship already in our ocean, and it was damaged by the wolves. They’re here, Captain. It’s crunch time. Either we sit here and let events happen around us, or we think about the next move. I’m sure you know what I mean by that.’

Abruptly, as if a door or valve had slammed shut somewhere, the suction stopped. No breeze, no noise, only Antoinette standing alone in the corridor with the small puddle of light from her torch.

‘Holy shit,’ Antoinette said.

But then, ahead of her, a cleft of light appeared. There was a squeal of metal and part of the corridor wall hinged aside. A new sort of breeze hit her face, a new concoction of biomechanical smells.

Through the cleft she saw a new corridor, curving sharply down towards underlying decks. Golden-green light, firefly pale, oozed up from the depths.

‘I guess I was right about the calling card,’ she said.

NINETEEN

Ararat, 2675

The boats rammed through the thickening water on the periphery of the fringe, and then into the fringe itself. A blizzard of ice shards sprayed away on either side of the hulls. The boats surged forwards for ten or twelve metres and then scraped to a grinding halt, electric motors howling.

The rectangular hulls had cut neat channels into the fringe, but the oily grey water had no sooner stopped sloshing than it began to turn suspiciously immobile and pearly. Scorpio thought of coagulating blood, the way it turned sticky and viscid. In a few minutes, he estimated, the channels would be frozen solid again.

The two Security Arm people were the first out of the craft, establishing that the ice was firm enough to take the weight of the party. The others followed a minute later, carrying what weapons and equipment they could manage but leaving much else - including the incubator - in the boats. The firm part of the fringe formed a belt of land, five or six metres wide in most places, around the main peak of the iceberg. The huge crystalline structure rose up, steep-sided, above them. Scorpio, stiff-necked, found it awkward to look at the top for more than a few moments.

He waited for Clavain to disembark, then moved over to him. They stood shivering, stamping their feet up and down. The ice beneath them had a braided texture, thick tuberous strands woven together into a kind of matting. It was treacherous, both slippery and uneven. Every footfall had to be taken with caution.

‘I was expecting a welcome by now,’ Scorpio said. ‘The fact that we haven’t had one is starting to worry me.’

‘Me, too.’ Clavain kept his voice very low. ‘We haven’t discussed the possibility, but Skade could well be dead. I just don’t think . . .’ He trailed off, eyeing Khouri. She was sitting on her haunches, assembling the remaining parts of the Breitenbach cannon. ‘I just don’t think she is quite ready to deal with that yet.’

‘You believe everything she’s said, don’t you?’

‘I’m sure we’ll find a ship in here. But she had no reason to believe that Skade survived the crash.’

‘Skade’s a survivor type,’ Scorpio said.

‘There is that, but I never thought I’d find myself wishing it were the case.’

‘Sirs?’

They followed the voice. It was Vasko. He had made his way some distance around the fringe, until he was almost about to vanish around the corner.

‘Sirs,’ he said again, eyeing Scorpio and Clavain in turn, ‘there’s an opening here. I saw it from the sea. I think it’s the largest one all the way around.’

‘How deep does it go?’ Scorpio asked.

‘Don’t know. More than a few metres, at least. I could easily squeeze through, I think.’

‘Wait,’ Scorpio said. ‘Let’s take this one step at a time, shall we?’

They followed Vasko to the gap in the ice. As they neared the wall, it was necessary to duck under and between the jutting horizontal spikes, shielding their eyes and faces with the backs of their arms. Some instinct made Scorpio loath to harm any part of the structure. It was next to impossible not to, for even as he stepped cautiously around one spike, protecting himself against the rapierlike tip of another, he shattered half a dozen smaller ones. They tinkled as they broke into pieces, and set off a cascade of secondary fractures metres away.

‘Is it still singing to you?’ he asked Vasko.

‘No, sir,’ he said, ‘not the way it was just now. I think that was only when the sun was coming up.’

‘But you can still hear something?’

‘I don’t know, sir. It’s lower, much lower. It comes in waves. I might be imagining it.’

Scorpio could not hear a thing. He had not been able to hear the iceberg singing, either. Nor had Clavain. Clavain was an old man, with an old man’s ailing faculties. Scorpio was a pig, with faculties about as good as they had ever been.

‘I’m ready to squeeze inside, sir.’

The opening that Vasko had found was merely a larger-than-usual pocket between the ragged weave of interthreading ice branches and needle-pointed spurs. It began at chest height: a vaguely oval widening, with the hint of a larger clearing beyond it. It was impossible to tell how far in they could reach.

‘Let me see,’ Khouri said. She carried the cannon on a shoulder strap, slung down her back, its weight shifted on to one hip.

‘There are other ways in,’ Vasko said, ‘but I think this is the easiest.’

‘We’ll take it,’ Khouri said. ‘Stand aside. I’m going first.’

‘Wait,’ Clavain said.

Her lip curled. ‘My daughter’s in there. Someone go fetch the incubator.’

‘I know how you feel,’ Clavain said.

‘Do you?’

His voice was marvellously calm. ‘Yes, I do. Skade took Felka once. I went in after her, just the way you’re doing. I thought it was the right way to proceed. I see now that it was foolish and that I came very close to losing her. That’s why you shouldn’t be the first one in. Not if you want to see Aura again.’

‘He’s right,’ Scorpio said. ‘We don’t know what we’ll find in that thing, or how Skade will react when she knows we’re here. We might lose someone. The one person we can’t afford to lose is you.’

‘You can still fetch the incubator.’

‘No,’ Scorpio said. ‘It stays out here, out of harm’s way. I don’t want it getting smashed in a firefight. And if it turns out that we can negotiate our way through this, there’ll be time to come back and get it.’

Khouri appeared to see the sense in his argument, even though she didn’t look very happy about it. She stepped back from the side of the berg. ‘I’m going in second,’ she said.

‘I’ll lead,’ Scorpio said. He turned to the two Security Arm officers. ‘Jaccottet, you follow Khouri. Urton, stay here with Vasko. Keep an eye on the boats and watch out for anything emerging from any other part of the ice. The instant you see something unusual . . .’ He paused, noticing the way his companions were looking around. ‘The instant you see something really unusual . . . let us know.’

He would let Clavain decide for himself what he did.

Scorpio negotiated the forest of impaling spikes. Daggers and fronds shattered with every movement, every breath. The air was a constant iridescent haze of crystals. With great effort he pulled himself through the aperture, his short stature and limbs making it more difficult for him than for any of the others. The tip of an icy blade kissed his skin, not quite breaking it but scraping painfully along the surface. He felt another push into his thigh.

Then he was through, landing on his feet on the other side. He dusted himself off and looked around. Everywhere, the ice gleamed with a neon-blue intensity. There were almost no shadows, just different intensities of that same pastel radiance. The spikes were here in abundance, as well as the rootlike structures that composed the fringe. They thrust through underfoot, thick as industrial pipes. He reminded himself that nothing here was static: the iceberg was growing, and this inclusion might only have existed for a few hours.

The air was as cold as steel.

Behind him, Khouri crunched to the ground. The muzzle of the Breitenbach cannon pulverised a whole fan of miniature stalactites as it swung around. Other weapons, too numerous to list, hung from her belt like so many shrunken trophies.

‘What Vasko said . . .’ she began. ‘The low noise. I can hear it as well. It’s like a throbbing.’

‘I don’t hear it, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real,’ Scorpio acknowledged.

‘Skade’s here,’ she said. ‘I know what you think: that she might be dead. But she’s alive. She’s alive and she knows we’ve landed.’

‘And Aura?’

‘I can’t feel her yet.’

Clavain emerged into the chamber, picking his way through the opening with the methodical slowness of a tarantula. His thin dark-clad limbs seemed built for precisely this purpose. Scorpio noticed that he managed to enter without breaking any of the ornamentation. He also noticed that the only weapon that Clavain appeared to be carrying was the short-bladed knife he had taken from his tent. He had it clutched in one hand, the blade vanishing when he turned it edge-on.

Behind Clavain came Jaccottet, much less stealthily. The Security Arm man stopped to brush the ice shards from his uniform.

Scorpio lifted his sleeve, revealing his communicator. ‘Blood, we’ve found a way inside the iceberg. We’re going deeper. I’m not sure what will happen to comms, but stay alert. Malinin and Urton are staying outside. If all else fails, we may be able to relay communications through them. I’m guessing we might be inside this thing for a couple of hours, maybe more.’

‘Be careful,’ Blood said.

What was this, Scorpio wondered: concern from Blood? Things were truly worse than he had feared. ‘I will be,’ he said. ‘Anything else I need to know?’

‘Nothing immediately related to your mission. Reports of enhanced Juggler activity from many of the monitoring stations, but that might just be a coincidence.’

‘Right now I’m not sure if anything is a coincidence.’

‘And - uh - just to cheer you up - some reports of lights in the sky. Not confirmed.’

‘Lights in the sky? It gets better.’

‘Probably nothing. If I were you, I’d put it all out of your mind. Concentrate on the job in hand.’

‘Thanks. Sterling advice. All right, pal, speak to you later.’

Clavain had heard the conversation. ‘Lights in the sky, eh? Maybe next time you’ll believe an old man.’

‘I didn’t not believe you for one instant.’ Scorpio reached down to his own belt and pulled out a gun. ‘Here, take this. I can’t stand to see you walking around with just that silly little knife.’

‘It’s a very good knife. Did I mention that it saved my life once?’

‘Yes.’

‘It’s a wonder I’ve held on to it all this time. Honestly, don’t you think there’s something very chivalrous about a knife?’

‘Personally,’ Scorpio said, ‘I think it’s time to stop thinking chivalry and start thinking artillery.’

Clavain took the gun the way one took a gift out of politeness, a gift of which one did not entirely approve.

They moved deeper into the iceberg, following the path of least resistance. The texture of the ice, braided and tangled like a wildly overgrown wood, made Scorpio think of some of the buildings in the Mulch layers of Chasm City. When the plague had hit them, their repair and redesign systems had produced something of the same organic fecundity. Here, it seemed, the growth of the ice was driven entirely by weird localised variations in temperature and air flow. Between one step and the next, the air shifted from lungcrackingly frigid to merely chilly, and any attempt to navigate by means of the draughts was doomed to failure. More than once he had the feeling he was inside a huge, cold, respiring lung.

But their path was always clear: away from the daylight, into the pastel blue core.

‘It’s music,’ Jaccottet said.

‘What?’ Scorpio asked.

‘Music, sir. That low noise. There were too many echoes before. I couldn’t make sense of it. But I’m sure it’s music now.’

‘Music? Why the fuck would there be music?’

‘I don’t know, sir. It’s faint, but it’s definitely there. Advise caution.’

‘I can hear it, too,’ Khouri said. ‘And I advise hurrying the fuck up.’

She removed one of the weapons from her belt and shot at the thickest spar in front of her. It exploded into white marble dust. She stepped through the ruins and raised the gun towards another obstruction.

Clavain did something to his knife. It began to hum, just at the limit of Scorpio’s hearing. The blade became a blur. Clavain swept it through one of the smaller spars, severing it neatly and cleanly.

They moved on, further from the light. In waves, the air became colder still. They huddled deeper into their clothes and spoke only when it was strictly necessary. Scorpio had been grateful for his gloves, but now it felt as if he had forgotten to wear them at all. He had to keep looking down to remind himself they were still in place. It was said that hyperpigs felt the cold more acutely than baseline humans: some quirk of pig biochemistry that the designers had never seen any compelling reason to rectify.

He was thinking about that when Khouri spoke excitedly. She had pushed ahead of them all despite their best efforts to hold her back.

‘There’s something ahead,’ she said, ‘and I think I can feel Aura now. We must be near.’

Clavain was immediately behind her. ‘What can you see?’

‘The side of something dark,’ she said. ‘Not like the ice.’

‘Must be the corvette,’ Clavain said.

They advanced another ten or twelve metres, taking at least two minutes to gain that distance. The ice was so thick now that Clavain’s little knife could only hack and pare away insignificant parts of it, and Khouri was wise enough not to use her weapon so close to the heart of the iceberg. Around them, the ice formations had taken on an unsettling new character. Jaccottet’s torch beam glanced off conjunctions resembling thigh bones or weird sinewy articulations of bone and gristle.

Then the density of the obstructions thinned out. They were suddenly in the core of the iceberg. A sort of roof folded over them, veined and buttressed by enormous trunks of scaly ice rising up from the floor below. The thick weavelike tangle was also visible on the far side of the chamber.

In the middle was the ruin of a ship.

Scorpio did not consider himself any kind of an expert on Conjoiner spacecraft, but from what he did know, the moray-class corvette ought to have been a sleek ultra-black chrysalis of a vessel. It should have been flanged and spined like some awful instrument of interrogation. There should have been no hint of a seam in the light-sucking surface of its hull. And the ship should most certainly not have lain on one side, broken-backed, splayed open like a dissected specimen, its guts frozen in mid-explosion. The gore of machine entrails should not have surrounded the corpse, and nor should bits of the hull, as sharp and irregular as glass shards, have been lying around the wreck like so many toppled gravestones.

That wasn’t the only thing wrong with the ship. It was throbbing, making staccato purring noises at the low-frequency limit of Scorpio’s hearing. He felt it in his belly more than he heard it. It was the music.

‘This isn’t good,’ Clavain said.

‘I can still feel Aura,’ Khouri said. ‘She’s in there, Clavain.’

‘There isn’t much of it left for her to be in,’ he told her.

Scorpio saw that for an instant the muzzle of Khouri’s Breitenbach cannon tipped towards Clavain, sweeping across him. It was only for an instant, and there was nothing in Khouri’s expression to suggest that she was on the point of losing control, but it still gave him pause for thought.

‘There’s still a ship here,’ Scorpio said. ‘It may be a wreck, Nevil, but someone could be aboard it. And something’s making that music. We shouldn’t give up yet.’

‘No one was about to give up,’ Clavain said.

‘The cold’s coming from the ship,’ Khouri said. ‘It’s pouring out of it, as if it’s bleeding cold.’

Clavain smiled. ‘Bleeding cold? You can say that again.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Old joke. One that doesn’t work too well in Norte.’

Khouri shrugged. They walked towards the wreck.

At the foot of the sloping green-lit corridor down which she had been invited, Antoinette found an echoing chamber of indistinct proportions. She estimated that she had descended five or six levels before the corridor flattened out, but there was no point attempting to plot her position on the pocket blow-up of the main ship map. It had already proven itself to be hopelessly out of date even before the apparitions had summoned her down here.

She halted, keeping the torch on for now. Green light poked through gill-like slats in the ceiling. Wherever she aimed the beam she found machinery, huge rusting piles of it reaching as far away as the torchlight penetrated. The metallic junk ranged from curved scabs of hull plating taller than Antoinette to thumb-sized artefacts covered in brittle green corrosive fur. In between were bronze pump parts and the damaged limbs and sensory organs of shipboard servitors, tossed into loose, teetering piles. The effect was exactly as if she had stumbled into the waste room of a mechanical abattoir.

‘Well, Captain,’ Antoinette said. Gently, she put the helmet down in front of her. ‘Here I am. I presume you’ve brought me here for a reason.’

The machinery stirred. One of the heaps moved as if being pushed by an invisible hand. The slurry of mechanical parts flowed and gyred, animated by the still-working servitor parts that lay embedded in the charnel pile. The articulated limbs twitched and flexed with a mesmerising degree of co-ordination. Antoinette held her breath. She supposed that she had been expecting something along these lines - a fully fledged class-three apparition, exactly as Palfrey had described - but the actuality of it was still unnerving. This close, the potential dangerousness of the machinery was stark. There were sharp edges that could cut or shear, hinged parts that could crush and maim.

But the machinery did not lurch towards her. Instead it continued to shuffle and organise itself. Bits dropped to the floor, twitching stupidly. Detached limbs flexed and grasped. Eye parts goggled and blinked. The red scratches of optical lasers rammed from the pyre, sliding harmlessly over Antoinette’s chest.

She was being triangulated.

The pile collapsed. A layer of useless slurry had avalanched away to reveal the thing that had been assembling at its core. It was a machine, an accumulation of junk parts in the schematic shape of a man. The skeleton - the main armature of the thing - was composed of perhaps a dozen servitor limbs, grasping each other by their manipulators. It stood expertly balanced on the scuffed metal bulbs of ball-and-socket joints. Cables and feedlines were wrapped around it like tinsel, lashing the looser parts together. The head was a ramshackle conglomeration of sensor parts, stacked in a way that vaguely suggested the proportions of a human skull and face. In places, the cables were still sparking from intermittent short circuits. The smell of hot soldered metal hit her, slamming her back to times when she had worked on the innards of Storm Bird under the watchful supervision of her father.

‘I suppose I should say hello,’ Antoinette said.

There was something in one of the Captain’s hands. She hadn’t noticed it before. The limb whipped towards her and the thing arced through the air, describing a graceful parabola. A reflex made her reach out and snatch the thing from the air.

It was a pair of goggles.

‘I guess you want me to put these on,’ Antoinette said.

The broken black hull loomed above them. There was a tall rent in the side, a gash fringed by a scurf of something black and crystalline. Scorpio watched silently as Jaccottet knelt down and examined it. The white pulse of his breath was as crisp as a vapour trail against the ruined armour. His gloved fingers touched the froth, tracing its peculiar angularity. It was a growth of dice-sized black cubes, arranged into neatly stepped structures.

‘Be careful,’ Khouri said. ‘I think I recognise that stuff.’

‘It’s Inhibitor machinery,’ Clavain said, his own voice barely a breath.

‘Here?’ Scorpio asked.

Clavain nodded gravely. ‘Wolves. They’re here, now, on Ararat. I’m sorry, Scorp.’

‘You’re absolutely sure? It couldn’t just be something weird that Skade was using?’

‘We’re sure,’ Khouri said. ‘Thorn and I got a dose of that stuff around Roc, in the last system. I haven’t seen it up close since then, but it’s not something you forget in a hurry. Scares the hell out of me just to see it again.’

‘It doesn’t seem to be doing much,’ Jaccottet said.

‘It’s inert,’ Clavain said. ‘Has to be. Galiana met this stuff as well, in deep space. It ripped through her ship, assembling itself into attack machinery. Took out her entire crew, section by section, until only Galiana was left. Then it got to her as well. Trust me: if it was functional, we’d be dead by now.’

‘Or we’d be having our skulls sucked dry of data,’ Khouri said. ‘And trust me as well, that’s not the preferred option.’

‘We’re all agreed on that,’ Clavain said.

Scorpio approached the gash after the others, making sure that they were not leaving themselves unprotected from the rear. The black crust of Inhibitor machinery had clearly erupted through the hull from the inside, haemorrhaging out under pressure. Perhaps it had happened before Skade’s ship had hit the surface, after the corvette was attacked in space.

Khouri began to squeeze through into the deeper blackness of the hull. Clavain reached out and touched her sleeve. ‘I wouldn’t rush this,’ he said. ‘For all we know, there’s active wolf machinery just inside.’

‘What other options have we got, guy? From where I’m standing they look a bit thin on the ground.’

‘None of the weapons we brought with us will be worth a damn against active Inhibitor machinery,’ Clavain said. ‘If that stuff wakes, it’d be like trying to put out a forest fire with a water pistol.’

‘At least it’ll be quick,’ Jaccottet said.

‘Actually, the one thing it won’t be is quick,’ Khouri said, with what sounded like malicious pleasure. ‘Because you probably won’t be allowed to die. It suits the machinery to keep you alive while it drinks your skull dry. So if you have any doubts about whether you want to put yourself through that, I suggest you keep back one round for yourself. If you’re lucky, you can beat the black stuff before it hits your brain and hijacks motor control. After that, you’re fucked.’

‘If it’s so bad,’ Jaccottet said, ‘how did you get away from it?’

‘Divine intervention,’ Khouri replied. ‘But if I were you, it’s not something I’d put a lot of faith in.’

‘Thanks for the tip.’ Jaccottet’s hand moved involuntarily to a small weapon on his belt.

Scorpio knew what he was thinking: would he be fast enough, if the moment came? Or would he wait that fatal instant too long?

Clavain moved, his knife humming in his hand. ‘We’ll have to trust that the stuff remains dormant,’ he said.

‘It’s stayed dormant this long,’ Jaccottet said. ‘Why would it wake up now?’

‘We’re heat sources,’ Clavain said. ‘That might make a tiny bit of difference.’

Khouri pushed through into the belly of the ruined ship. Her torchlight bounced back through the gash, picking out the stepped edges of the froth. Under a fine patina of ice the machinery gleamed like freshly hewn coal. Where Jaccottet had rubbed his fingers across it, however, the stuff was pure black, lacking any highlights or lustre.

‘There’s more of the shit in here,’ she said. ‘It’s spread over everything, like black vomit.’ The torchlight played around again, their shadows wheeling over the walls like stalking ogres. ‘But it doesn’t seem to be any more active than the stuff outside.’

‘All the same,’ Clavain said, ‘don’t touch it, just to be on the safe side.’

‘It wasn’t on my to-do list,’ Khouri replied.

‘Good. Anything else?’

‘The music’s louder. It comes in blasts, speeded up. It’s almost as if I recognise it.’

‘I do recognise it,’ Clavain said. ‘It’s Bach - Passacaglia and Fugue in C Minor, if I’m not mistaken.’

Scorpio turned to his Security Arm man. ‘I want you to stay out here. I can’t afford to leave this exit uncovered.’

Jaccottet knew better than to argue.

Scorpio and Clavain climbed in after Khouri. Clavain played his torch around the mangled interior of this part of the corvette, pausing now and then as the beam alighted on some recognisable but damaged structure. The black invasion resembled a prolific fungal growth that had all but consumed the fabric of the spacecraft.

The hull, Scorpio realised, was a shattered ruin, barely holding itself together. He watched where he put his feet.

‘It subsumes,’ Clavain said quietly, as if wary - despite the intermittent pulses of music - of alerting the machinery. ‘It only takes one element to invade a whole ship. Then it eats its way through the entire thing, converting as it goes.’

‘What are those little black cubes made of?’ asked Scorpio.

‘Almost nothing,’ Clavain told him. ‘Just pure force maintained by a tiny mechanism deep inside, like the nucleus of an atom. Except we never got a look at the mechanism.’

‘I take it you had a go?’

‘We removed some cubic elements from Galiana’s crew by mechanical force, breaking the inter-cube bonds. They just shrank away to nothing, leaving a tiny pile of grey dust. We presumed that was the machinery, but by then there wasn’t a lot it could tell us. Reverse engineering wasn’t really an option.’

‘We’re in a lot of trouble, aren’t we?’ Scorpio said.

‘Yes, we’re in trouble,’ Khouri said. ‘You’re right about that part. Matter of fact, we probably don’t know how much trouble we really are in. But understand one thing: we’re not dead, not yet, and not while we have Aura.’

‘You think she’ll make that much of a difference?’ Clavain asked.

‘She made a difference already, guy. We wouldn’t have made it to this system if she hadn’t.’

‘Do you still think she’s here?’ Scorpio asked her.

‘She’s here. Just can’t say where.’

‘I’m picking up signals as well,’ Clavain said, ‘but they’re fractured and confused. Too many echoes from all the half-functioning systems in this ship. I can’t say if it’s one source or several.’

‘So what do we do?’ Scorpio asked.

Clavain angled his torch into the gloom. The beam knifed against fabulous crenellations and castellations of frozen black cubes. ‘Back there should be the propulsion systems compartment,’ he said. ‘Not a very likely place to look for survivors.’ He swung around, hunting with the beam, squinting at the unfamiliarity of it all. ‘Through here, I think. It seems to be the source of the music, as well. Careful, it’ll be a tight squeeze.’

‘Where will that take us?’ Scorpio said.

‘Habitat and flight deck. Assuming we recognise any of it when we get there.’

‘It’s colder that way,’ Khouri said.

They stepped towards the part of the ship Clavain had indicated. There was a gap ahead, the remains of a bulkhead. The air felt as if it was only a breath away from freezing solid altogether. Scorpio glanced back, his mind playing tricks on him, conjuring languid ripples and waves of motion in the black tar of the wolf machinery.

Instead, something moved ahead. A section of shadow detached itself from the wall, black against black.

Khouri’s gun tipped towards it.

‘No!’ Clavain shouted.

Scorpio heard the click of the Breitenbach cannon’s trigger. He flinched, steeling himself for the energy discharge. It was not really the weapon of choice for close-quarters combat.

Nothing happened. Khouri lowered the weapon’s muzzle an inch. She had pulled back on the trigger, but not enough to fire.

Clavain’s knife trembled in his hand like an elver.

The black presence became a person in black vacuum armour. The armour moved stiffly, as if rusted into seizure. It clutched a dark shape in one hand. The figure took another step and then keeled towards them. It hit the ground with a crack of metal against ice. Black cubes splintered away in all directions, frosted with ice. The weapon - or whatever it was - skidded away and knocked against the wall.

Scorpio knelt down to pick it up.

‘Careful,’ Clavain said again.

Scorpio’s trotters closed on the rounded contours of the Conjoiner side arm. He tried to close his hand around the grip in such a way that he could still depress the trigger. It wasn’t possible. The grip had never been engineered for use by pigs.

In fury he tossed it to Clavain. ‘Maybe you can get this thing to work.’

‘Easy, Scorp.’ Clavain pocketed the weapon. ‘It won’t work for me, either, not unless Skade was very careless with her defences. But we can keep it out of harm’s way, at least.’

Khouri shouldered the cannon and lowered herself down next to the crashed armour of the figure. ‘It ain’t Skade,’ she said. ‘Too big, and the helmet crest isn’t the right shape. You picking up anything, Clavain?’

‘Nothing intelligible,’ he said. He stilled the shivering blade of his knife and slipped it back into one of his pockets. ‘But let’s get that helmet off and see where we are, shall we?’

‘We don’t have time to waste,’ Scorpio said.

Clavain started working the helmet seals. ‘This will only take a moment.’

The extremities of Scorpio’s hands were numb, his co-ordination beginning to show signs of impairment. He did not doubt that Clavain was suffering much the same thing; it must be taking real strength and precision to unlock the intricate mechanism of the helmet seal.

There was a latching sound, then a scrape of metal against metal and a gasp of equalising air pressure. The helmet popped off, trapped between Clavain’s trembling fingertips. He placed it gently on to the ice, rim down.

The face of a young female Conjoiner looked back at them. She had something of the same sleekly sculpted look as her mentor, but she was clearly not Skade. Her face was wide and flat-featured, her bloodless skin the colour of static on a monitor. Her neural crest - the heat-dissipating ridge of bone and cartilage running from the very top of her forehead to the nape of her neck - was less extravagant than the one Scorpio remembered seeing on Skade, and was almost certainly a much less useful indicator of her state of mind. It probably incorporated a more advanced set of neural mechanisms, with lower heat-dissipation burdens.

Her lips were grey and her eyebrows pure chrome white. She opened her eyes. In the torchlight her irises were a metallic blue-grey.

‘Talk to me,’ Clavain said.

She coughed and laughed at the same time. The appearance of a human expression on that stiff mask shocked them all.

Khouri leaned closer. ‘I’m only picking up mush,’ she said.

‘There’s something wrong with her,’ Clavain replied quietly. Then he held the woman’s head from behind, supporting it off the ice. ‘Listen to me carefully. We don’t want to hurt you. You’ve been injured, but if you help us we will take care of you. Can you understand me?’

The woman laughed again, a spasm of delight creasing her face. ‘You . . .’ she began.

Clavain leaned closer. ‘Yes?’

‘Clavain.’

Clavain nodded. ‘Yes, that’s me.’ He looked back at the others. ‘Damage can’t be too severe if she remembers me. I’m sure we’ll be able . . .’

She spoke again. ‘Clavain. Butcher of Tharsis.’

‘That was a long time ago.’

‘Clavain. Defector. Traitor.’ She smiled again, coughed, and then hacked a mouthload of saliva into his face. ‘Betrayed the Mother Nest.’

Clavain wiped the spit from his face with the back of his glove. ‘I didn’t betray the Mother Nest,’ he said, with an alarming lack of anger. ‘It was actually Skade who betrayed it.’ He corrected her with avuncular patience, as if putting right some minor misapprehension about geography.

She laughed and spat at him again. The power of it surprised Scorpio. It caught Clavain in the eye and made him hiss in pain.

Clavain leant closer to the woman, keeping a hand over her mouth this time. ‘We have some work to do, I think. A little bit of re-education. A little bit of attitude adjustment. But that’s all right, I’ve got plenty of time.’

The woman coughed again. Her titanium-grey eyes were bright and joyful, even as she struggled for breath. There was something idiotic about her, Scorpio realised.

The armoured body started convulsing. Clavain kept hold of her head, his other hand still across her mouth.

‘Let her breathe,’ Khouri said.

He released the pressure across her mouth for an instant. The woman kept smiling, her eyes wide, unblinking. Something black squeezed between Clavain’s fingers, forcing its way through the gaps like some manifestation of demonic foulness. Clavain flinched back, letting go of the woman, dropping her head against the floor. The black stuff pulsed out of her mouth, out of her nostrils, the flows merging into a horrible black beard which began to engulf her face.

‘Live machinery,’ Clavain said, falling back. His own left hand was covered in ropes of the black stuff. He swatted it against the ice, but the black ooze refused to dislodge. The ropes combined into a coherent mass, a plaque covering his fingers to the knuckle. It was composed of hundreds of smaller versions of the same cubes they had seen elsewhere. They were swelling perceptibly, enlarging as they consolidated their hold on his hand. The black growth progressed towards his wrist in a series of convulsive waves, cubes sliding over each other.

From behind, something lit up the entire cavity of the wrecked ship. Scorpio risked a glance back, just long enough to see the barrel of Khouri’s cannon glowing cherry-red from a minimum-yield discharge. Jaccottet was aiming his own weapon at the corpse of the Conjoiner, but it was obvious that nothing more remained of the organic part of the Inhibitor victim. The emerging machines appeared totally unaffected: the blast had dispersed some of them from the main mass, but there was no sign that the energy had harmed them in any way whatsoever.

Scorpio had only glanced away for a second, but when he returned his attention to Clavain, he was horrified to see Clavain slumped back against the wall, grimacing.

‘They’ve got me, Scorp. It hurts.’

Clavain closed his eyes. The black plaque had now taken his hand to the wrist. At the finger end it had formed a rounded stump which was creeping slowly back as the wrist end advanced.

‘I’ll try to lever it off,’ Scorpio said, fumbling in his belt for something thin and strong, but not so sharp that it would damage Clavain’s hand.

Clavain opened his eyes. ‘It won’t work.’

With his good hand he reached into the pocket where he had put the knife. A moment earlier his face had been a grey testament to pain, but now there was an easing there, as if the agony had abated.

It hadn’t, Scorpio knew. Clavain had merely dulled off the part of his brain that registered it.

Clavain had the knife out. He held it by the haft, trying to make the blade come alive. It wasn’t happening. Either the control could never be activated single-handedly, or Clavain’s other hand was too numb from the cold to do the job. In error or frustration, the knife tumbled from his grip. He groped towards it, then abandoned the effort.

‘Scorp, pick it up.’

He took the knife. It felt odd in his trotter, like something precious he had stolen, something he had never been meant to handle. He moved to give it back to Clavain.

‘No. You have to do it. Activate the blade with that stud. Be careful: she kicks when the piezo-blade starts up. You don’t want to drop it. She’ll cut through hyperdiamond like a laser through smoke.’

‘I can’t do this, Nevil.’

‘You have to. It’s killing me.’

The black caul of Inhibitor machinery was eating back into his hand. There was no room in that thing for his fingertips, Scorpio realised. It had devoured them already.

He pressed the activation stud. The knife twisted in his hand, alive and eager. He felt the high-frequency buzz through the hilt. The blade had become a blur of silver, like the flicker of a hummingbird’s wing.

‘Take it off, Scorp. Now. Quickly and cleanly. A good inch above the machinery.’

‘I’ll kill you.’

‘No, you won’t. I’ll make it through this.’ Clavain paused. ‘I’ve shut down pain reception. Bloodstream implants will handle clotting. You’ve nothing to worry about. Just do it. Now. Before I change my mind, or that stuff finds a short cut to my head.’

Scorpio nodded, horrified by what he was about to do but knowing that he had no choice.

Making sure that none of the machinery touched his own flesh, Scorpio supported Clavain’s damaged arm at the elbow. The knife buzzed and squirmed. He held the locus of the blur close to the fabric of the sleeve.

He looked into Clavain’s face. ‘Are you sure about this?’

‘Scorp. Now. As a friend. Do it.’

Scorpio pushed the knife down. He felt no resistance as it ghosted through fabric, flesh and bone.

Half a second later the work was done. The severed hand - Scorpio had cut it off just above the wrist - dropped to the ice with a solid whack. With a moan Clavain slumped back against the wall, losing whatever strength he had mustered until then. He’d told Scorpio that he had blocked all pain signals, but some residual message must have reached his brain: either that or what Scorpio heard was a moan of desperate relief.

Jaccottet knelt down by Clavain, unhitching a medical kit from his belt. Clavain had been right: there was very little in the way of blood loss from the wound. He held the truncated forearm against his belly, pressing it tight, while Jaccottet prepared a dressing.

There was a rustle of movement from the hand. The black machines were detaching themselves, breaking free of the remaining flesh. They moved hesitantly, as if sapped of the energy they had drawn from the warmth of living bodies. The mass of cubes oozed away from the hand, slowed and then halted, becoming just another part of the dormant growth that filled the ship. The hand lay there, the flesh a contused landscape of recent bruises and older age spots, yet still largely intact save for the eroded stubs of the fingertips, which had been consumed down to the first joint.

Scorpio made the knife stop shivering and put it on the ground. ‘I’m sorry, Nevil.’

‘I’ve lost it once already,’ Clavain said. ‘It really doesn’t mean that much to me. I’m grateful that you did what you had to do.’ Then he leant back against the wall and closed his eyes for another few seconds. His breathing was sharply audible and irregular. It sounded like someone making inexpert saw cuts.

‘Are you going to be all right?’ Scorpio asked Clavain, eyeing the severed hand.

Clavain did not respond.

‘I don’t know enough about Conjoiners to say how much shock he can take,’ Jaccottet said, keeping his voice low, ‘but I know this man needs rest and a lot of it. He’s old, for a start, and no one’s been around to fine-tune all those machines in his blood. It might be hitting him a lot worse than we think.’

‘We have to move on,’ Khouri said.

‘She’s right,’ Clavain said, stirring again. ‘Here, someone help me to my feet. Losing a hand didn’t stop me last time; it won’t now.’

‘Wait a moment,’ Jaccottet said, finishing off the emergency dressing.

‘You need to stay here, Nevil,’ Scorpio said.

‘If I stay here, Scorp, I will die.’ Clavain groaned with the effort of trying to stand up on his own. ‘Help me, God damn you. Help me!’

Scorpio eased him to his feet. He stood unsteadily, still holding the bandaged stump against his belly.

‘I still think you’d be better off waiting here,’ Scorpio said.

‘Scorp, we’re all staring hypothermia in the face. If I can feel it, so can you. Right now the only thing that’s holding it off is adrenalin and movement. So I suggest we keep moving.’ Then Clavain reached down and picked up the knife from where Scorpio had put it down. He slipped it back into his pocket. ‘Glad I brought it with me now,’ he said.

Scorpio glanced down at the ground. ‘What about the hand?’ ‘Leave it. They can grow me a new one.’

They followed the draught of cold towards the front portion of Skade’s wrecked ship.

‘Is it me,’ Khouri said, ‘or has the music just changed?’

‘It’s changed,’ Clavain said. ‘But it’s still Bach.’

TWENTY

Hela, 2727

Rashmika watched the icejammer being winched down to the rolling ribbon of road. There was a scuff of ice as the skis touched the surface. On the icejammer’s roof, the two suited men unhitched the hooks and rode them up to the top of the winches, before being swung back on to the top of the caravan vehicle. Crozet’s tiny-looking vehicle bobbed and yawed alongside the caravan for several hundred metres, then allowed itself to be slowly overtaken by the rumbling procession. Rashmika watched until it was lost to view behind the grinding wheels of one of the machines.

She stepped back from the inclined viewing window. That was it, then: all her bridges burned. But her resolve to continue remained as strong as ever. She was going onwards, no matter what it took.

‘I see you’ve made your mind up, then.’

Rashmika turned from the window. The sound of Quaestor Jones’s voice shocked her: she had imagined herself alone.

The quaestor’s green pet cleaned its face with its one good forelimb, its tail wrapped tight as a tourniquet around his upper arm.

‘My mind didn’t need making up,’ she said.

‘I had hoped that the letter from your brother would knock some sense into your head. But it didn’t, and here you are. At least now we have a small treat for you.’

‘I’m sorry?’ Rashmika asked.

‘There’s been a slight change in our itinerary,’ he said. ‘We’ll be taking a little longer to make our rendezvous with the cathedrals than planned.’

‘Nothing serious has happened, I hope.’

‘We’ve already incurred delays that we can’t make up by following our usual route south. We had intended to traverse the Ginnungagap Rift near Gudbrand Crossing, then move south down the Hyrrokkin Trail until we reached the Way, where we’d meet the cathedrals. But that simply isn’t possible now, and in any case, there’s been a major icefall somewhere along the Hyrrokkin Pass. We don’t have the gear to shift it, not quickly, and the nearest caravan with ice-clearing equipment is stuck at Glum Junction, pinned down by a flash glacier. So we’ll have to take a short cut, if we aren’t to be even later.’

‘A short cut, Quaestor?’

‘We’re approaching the Ginnungagap Rift.’ He paused. ‘You know about the rift, of course. Everything has to cross it at some point.’

Rashmika visualised the laceration of the Rift, a deep sheer-sided ice canyon slicing diagonally across the equator. It was the largest geological feature on the planet, the first thing Quaiche had named on his approach.

‘I thought there was only one safe crossing,’ she said.

‘For the cathedrals, yes,’ he allowed. ‘The Way deviates a little to the north, where the walls of the Rift have been tiered in a zigzag fashion to allow the cathedrals to descend to the floor. It’s a laborious process, costs them days, and then they have to repeat the process climbing up the far side. They need a good head start on Haldora if they aren’t to slip behind. They call that route the Devil’s Staircase, and every cathedral master secretly dreads it. The descent is narrow and collapses aren’t uncommon. But we don’t have to take the Staircase: there’s another way across the Rift, you see. A cathedral can’t make it, but a caravan doesn’t weigh anywhere near as much as a cathedral.’

‘You’re talking about the bridge,’ Rashmika said, with a shiver of fear and anticipation.

‘You’ve seen it, then.’

‘Only in photos.’

‘What did you think?’

‘I think it looks beautiful,’ she said, ‘beautiful and delicate, like something blown from glass. Much too delicate for machines.’

‘We’ve crossed it before.’

‘But no one knows how much it can take.’

‘I think we can trust the scuttlers in that regard, wouldn’t you say? The experts say it’s been there for millions of years.’

‘They say a lot of things,’ Rashmika replied, ‘but we don’t know for sure how old it is, or who built it. It doesn’t look much like anything else the scuttlers left behind, does it? And we certainly don’t know that it was ever meant to be crossed.’

‘You seem unnaturally worried about what is - in all honesty - a technically simple manoeuvre, one that will save us many precious days. Might I ask why?’

‘Because I know what they call that crossing,’ she said. ‘Ginnungagap Rift is what Quaiche named the canyon, but they have another name for it, don’t they? Especially those who decide to cross the bridge. They call it Absolution Gap. They say you’d better be free from sin before you begin the crossing.’

‘But of course, you don’t believe in the existence of sin, do you?’

‘I believe in the existence of reckless stupidity,’ Rashmika replied.

‘Well, you needn’t worry yourself about that. All you have to do is enjoy the view, just like the other pilgrims.’

‘I’m no pilgrim,’ she said.

The quaestor smiled and popped something into his pet’s mouth. ‘We’re all either pilgrims or martyrs. In my experience, it’s better to be a pilgrim.’

Ararat, 2675

Antoinette put on the goggles. The view through them was like a smoky counterpart of the real room, with red Canasian numerals tumbling in her right visual field. For a moment nothing else changed. The haphazard skeletal machine - the class-three apparition - continued to stand amid the discarded slurry of junk from which it had been birthed, one limb frozen in the act of tossing her the goggles.

‘Captain . . .’ she began.

But even as she spoke the apparition and its detritus were merging into the background, losing sharpness and contrast against the general clutter of the chamber. The goggles were not working perfectly, and in one square part of her visual field the skeletal machine remained unedited, but elsewhere it was vanishing like buildings into a wall of sea fog.

Antoinette did not like this. The machinery had not threatened her, but it troubled her not to have a good idea of where it was. She was reaching up for the goggles, ready to slip them off, when a voice buzzed in her ear.

‘Don’t. Keep them on. You need them to see me.’

‘Captain?’

‘I promise I won’t hurt you. Look.’

She looked. Something was emerging now, being slowly edited into her visual field. A human figure - utterly real, this time - was forming out of thin air. Antoinette took an involuntary step backwards, catching her torch against an obstruction and dropping it to the floor.

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he told her. ‘This is what you came for, isn’t it?’

‘Right now I’m not sure,’ she breathed.

The human figure had stepped out of history. He wore a truly ancient space suit, a baggy, bulging affair of crinkled rust-orange fabric. His boots and thick-fingered gloves were clad in the same tawny material, ripped here and there to reveal a laminated mesh of underlying layers. He wore a dull silver belt festooned with numerous tools of unclear function. A rugged square box hung on the chest region of his suit, studded with chunky plastic-sealed controls large enough to be worked despite the handicap of the gloves. An even larger box sat on his back, rising above his neck. Moulded from bright red plastic, a thick ribbed hose dangled from the backpack over his left shoulder, its open end resting against the upper shelf of the chest-pack. The silver band of the suit’s neck ring was a complexity of locking mechanisms and black rubberised seals. Between the neck ring and the upper part of the suit were many unrecognisable logos and insignia.

He wore no helmet.

The Captain’s face looked too small for the suit. On his scalp - which appeared shaven - he wore a padded black and white cap veined with monitor wires. In the smoky light of the goggles she couldn’t guess at the shade of his skin. It was smooth, stretched tight over his cheekbones, shadowed with a week’s growth of patchy black beard. He had very fine razor-cut eyebrows, which arched quizzically above wide-set, doglike eyes. She could see the whites of those eyes between the pupil and the lower eyelid. He had the kind of mouth - thin, straight, perfect for a certain superciliousness - that she might find either fascinating or untrustworthy, depending on her mood. He did not look like a man much inclined to small talk. Usually that was all right with Antoinette.

‘I brought this back,’ she said. She stooped down and picked up the helmet.

‘Give it to me.’

She moved to throw it.

‘No,’ he said sharply. ‘Give it to me. Walk closer and hand it to me.’

‘I’m not sure I’m ready to do that,’ she said.

‘It’s called a gesture of mutual trust. You either do it or the conversation ends here. I’ve already said I won’t hurt you. Didn’t you believe me?’

She thought of the machinery that the goggles had edited out of her vision. Perhaps if she took them off, so that she saw the apparition as it really was . . .

‘Leave the goggles on. That’s also part of the deal.’

She took a step closer. It was clear that she had no choice.

‘Good. Now give me the helmet.’

Another step. Then one more. The Captain waited with his hands at his sides, his eyes encouraging her forwards.

‘I understand that you’re scared,’ he said. ‘That’s the point. If you weren’t frightened, there’d be no show of trust, would there?’

‘I’m just wondering what you’re getting out of this.’

‘I’m trusting you not to let me down. Now pass me the helmet.’ She held it out in front of her, as far as her arms would stretch, and the Captain reached out to take it from her. The goggles lagged slightly, so that a flicker of machinery was briefly visible as his arms moved. His gloved fingers closed around the helmet. She heard the rasp of metal on metal.

The Captain took a step back. ‘Good,’ he said, approvingly. He rolled the helmet in his hands, inspecting it for signs of wear. Antoinette noticed now that there was a vacant round socket in one side, into which the red umbilical was meant to plug. ‘Thank you for bringing this down to me. The gesture is appreciated.’

‘You left it with Palfrey. That wasn’t an accident, was it?’

‘I suppose not. What did you say it was - a “calling card”? Not far from the truth, I guess.’

‘I took it as a sign that you were willing to talk to someone.’

‘You seemed very anxious to talk to me,’ he said.

‘We were. We are.’ She looked at the apparition with a mixture of fear and dangerous, seductive relief. ‘Do you mind if I ask you something?’ She took his silence to indicate assent. ‘What shall I call you? “Captain” doesn’t seem quite right to me, not now that we’ve been through the mutual-trust thing.’

‘Fair point,’ he conceded, not sounding entirely convinced. ‘John will do for now.’

‘Then, John, what have I done to deserve this? It wasn’t just my bringing back the helmet, was it?’

‘Like I said, you seemed anxious to talk.’

Antoinette bent down to pick up her torch. ‘I’ve been trying to reach you for years, with no success at all. What’s changed?’

‘I feel different now,’ he said.

‘As if you were asleep but have finally woken up?’

‘It’s more as if I need to be awake now. Does that answer your question?’

‘I’m not sure. This might sound rude, but . . . who am I talking to, exactly?’

‘You’re talking to me. As I am. As I was.’

‘No one really knows who you were, John. That suit looks pretty old to me.’

A gloved hand moved across the square chest-pack, tracing a pattern from point to point. To Antoinette it looked like a benediction, but it might equally have been a rote-learned inspection of critical systems. Air supply, pressure integrity, thermal control, comms, waste management . . . she knew that litany herself.

‘I was on Mars,’ he said.

‘I’ve never been there,’ she said.

‘No?’ He sounded disappointed.

‘Fact of the matter is, I really haven’t seen all that many worlds. Yellowstone, a bit of Resurgam, and this place. But never Mars. What was it like?’

‘Different. Wilder. Colder. Savage. Unforgiving. Cruel. Pristine. Bleak. Beautiful. Like a lover with a temper.’

‘But this was a while back, wasn’t it?’

‘Uh huh. How old do you think this suit is?’

‘It looks pretty damn antique to me.’

‘They haven’t made suits like this since the twenty-first century. You think Clavain’s old, a relic from history. I was an old man before he took a breath.’

It surprised her to hear him mention Clavain by name. Clearly the Captain was more aware of shipboard developments than some gave him credit for. ‘You’ve come a long way, then,’ she said.

‘It’s been a long, strange trip, yes. And just look where it’s brought me.’

‘You must have some stories to tell.’ Antoinette reckoned that there were two safe areas of conversation: the present and the very distant past. The last thing she wanted was to have the Captain dwelling on his recent sickness and bizarre transformation.

‘There are some stories I don’t want told,’ he said. ‘But isn’t that true for us all?’

‘No argument from me.’

His thin slit of a mouth hinted at a smile. ‘Dark secrets in your own past, Antoinette?’

‘Nothing I’m going to lose any sleep over, not when we have so much else we need to worry about.’

‘Ah.’ He rotated the helmet in his gloved hands. ‘The difficult matter of the present. I am aware of things, of course, perhaps more than you realise. I know, for instance, that there are other agencies in the system.’

‘You feel them?’

‘It was their noises that woke me from long, calm dreams of Mars.’ He regarded the icons and decals on the helmet, stroking them with the stubby tip of one gloved finger. Antoinette wondered about the memories they stirred, preserved across five or six hundred years of experience. Memories thick with the grey dust of centuries.

‘We thought that you were waking,’ she said. ‘In the last few weeks we’ve become more aware of your presence. We didn’t think it was coincidence, especially after what Khouri told us. I know you remember Khouri, John, or you wouldn’t have brought me down here.’

‘Where is she?’

‘With Clavain and the others.’

‘And Ilia? Where is Ilia?’

Antoinette was sweating. The temptation to lie, to offer a soothing platitude, was overwhelming. But she did not doubt for one instant that the Captain would see through any attempt at deception. ‘Ilia’s dead.’

The black and white cap bowed down. ‘I thought I might have dreamed it,’ he said. ‘That’s the problem now. I can’t always tell what’s real and what’s imagined. I might be dreaming you at this very moment.’

‘I’m real,’ she said, as if her assurance would make any difference, ‘but Ilia’s dead. You remember what happened, don’t you?’

His voice was soft and thoughtful, like a child remembering the significant events in a nursery tale. ‘I remember that she was here, and that we were alone. I remember her lying in a bed, with people around her.’

What was she going to tell him now? That the reason Ilia had been in a bed in the first place was because she had suffered injuries during her efforts to thwart the Captain’s own suicide attempt, when he had directed one of the cache weapons against the hull of the ship. The scar he had inflicted on the hull was visible even now, a vertical fissure down one side of the spire. She was certain that on some level he knew all this but also that he did not need to be reminded of it now.

‘She died,’ Antoinette said, ‘trying to save us all. I gave her the use of my ship, Storm Bird, after we’d used it to rescue the last colonists from Resurgam.’

‘But I remember her being unwell.’

‘She wasn’t so unwell that she couldn’t fly a ship. Thing is, John, she felt she had something to atone for. You remember what she did to the colonists, when your crew were trying to find Sylveste? Made them think she’d wiped out a whole settlement in a fit of pique? That’s why they wanted her for a war criminal. Towards the end, I wonder whether she didn’t start believing it herself. How are we to know what went through her head? If enough people hate you, it can’t be easy not to start thinking they might be right.’

‘She wasn’t a particularly good woman,’ the Captain said, ‘but she wasn’t what they made her out to be. She only ever did what she thought right for the ship.’

‘I guess that makes her a good woman in my book. Right now the ship is about all we have, John.’

‘Do you think it worked for her?’ he asked.

‘What?’

‘Atonement, Antoinette. Do you think it made the slightest difference, in the end?’

‘I can’t guess what went through her mind.’

‘Did it make any difference to the rest of you?’

‘We’re here, aren’t we? We got out of the system alive. If Ilia hadn’t taken her stand, we’d probably all be smeared over a few light-hours of local solar space around Resurgam.’

‘I hope you’re right. I did forgive her, you know.’

Antoinette knew that it had been Ilia who had allowed the Captain’s Melding Plague to finally engulf the ship. At the time she did it, it had seemed the only way to rid the ship of a different kind of parasite entirely. Antoinette did not think that Ilia had taken the decision lightly. Equally - based on her very limited experience of the woman - she did not think consideration of the Captain’s feelings had had very much influence on her decision.

‘That’s pretty generous of you,’ she said.

‘I realise that she did it for the ship. I realise also that she could have killed me instead. I think she wanted to, after she learned what I had done to Sajaki.’

‘Sorry, but that’s way before my time.’

‘I murdered a good man,’ the Captain said. ‘Ilia knew. When she did this to me, when she made me what I am, she knew what I’d done. I would have sooner she’d killed me.’

‘Then you’ve paid for whatever you did,’ Antoinette said. ‘And even if you hadn’t then, even if she hadn’t done whatever she did, it doesn’t matter. What counts is that you saved one hundred and sixty thousand people from certain death. You’ve repaid that one crime a hundred thousand times over and more.’

‘You imagine that’s the way the world works, Antoinette?’

‘It’s good enough for me, John, but what do I know? I’m just a space pilot’s daughter from the Rust Belt.’

There was a lull. Still holding the helmet, the Captain took the end of the ribbed red umbilical and connected it to the socket in the side of the helmet. The interface between the real object and the simulated presence was disturbingly seamless.

‘The trouble is, Antoinette, what good was it to save those lives, if all that happens is that they die now, here on Ararat?’

‘We don’t know that anyone’s going to die. So far the Inhibitors haven’t touched us down here.’

‘All the same, you’d like some insurance.’

‘We need to consider the unthinkable, John. If the worst comes to the worst, we’ll need to leave Ararat. And you’re going to have to be the man with the plan.’

He slipped the helmet on to his neck ring, twisting it to and fro to engage the latching mechanisms. The faceplate glass was still up. The whites of his eyes were two bright crescents in the shadowed map of his face. Green and red numerals were back-reflected on to his skin.

‘It took some guts to come down here on your own, Antoinette.’

‘I don’t think this is a time for cowards,’ she said.

‘It never was,’ he said, beginning to slide down the faceplate glass. ‘About what you want of me?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’ll give the matter some thought.’

Then he turned around and walked slowly into the darkness. A skirl of red-brown dust swelled up to block him from view. It was like a sandstorm on Mars.

Hela, 2727

The Ultra captain was called Heckel, his ship the Third Gazometric. He had come down in a red-hulled shuttle of very ancient design - a triad of linked spheres with large, stylised tarantula markings.

Even by recent standards, Heckel struck Quaiche as a very strange individual. The mobility suit in which he came aboard the Lady Morwenna was a monstrous contraption of leather and brass, with rubberised accordion joints and gleaming metal plates secured by rivets. Behind the tiny grilled-over eyeholes of his helmet, wiper blades flicked back and forth to clear condensation. Steam vented from poorly maintained joints and seals. Two assistants had accompanied him: they were constantly opening and closing hatches in the suit, fiddling with brass knobs and valves. When Heckel spoke, his voice emerged from a miniature pipe organ projecting from the top of his helmet. He had to keep making adjustments to knobs in his chest area to stop the voice becoming too shrill or deep.

Quaiche understood none of Heckel’s utterances, but that was all right: Heckel had also brought along a baseline interpreter. She was a small doe-eyed woman dressed in a more modern spacesuit. Her helmet had folded back on itself, retracting like a cockatoo’s crest so that everyone could see her face.

‘You’re not an Ultra,’ Quaiche remarked to the interpreter.

‘Does it matter?’

‘I just find it amusing, that’s all. It’s where I started, doing the same line of work as you.’

‘That must have been a long time ago.’

‘But they still don’t find it any easier to negotiate with the likes of us, do they?’

‘Us, Dean?’

‘Baseline humans, like you and me.’

She hid it well, but he read her amused reaction. He saw himself from her point of view: an old man reclining on a couch, deathly frail, surrounded by an audience of moving mirrors, his eyes peeled open like fruits. He was not wearing the sunglasses.

Quaiche moved a hand. ‘I wasn’t always like this. I could pass for a baseline human, once, move in normal society with no one so much as batting an eyelid. I was taken into the employment of Ultras, just as you have been. Queen Jasmina, of the Gnostic Ascension . . .’

Heckel adjusted his chest knobs, then piped out something incomprehensible.

‘He says Jasmina did not have the best of reputations, even amongst other Ultras,’ the interpreter said. ‘He says that even now, in certain Ultra circles, mentioning her name is considered the height of bad taste.’

‘I didn’t know Ultras even recognised bad taste as a concept,’ Quaiche replied archly.

Heckel piped back something shrill and peremptory.

‘He says there is a lot you need to remember,’ the interpreter said. ‘He also says he has other business he needs to attend to today.’

Quaiche fingered the edge of his scarlet blanket. ‘Very well, then. Just to clarify . . . you would be willing to consider my offer?’

The interpreter listened to Heckel for a moment, then addressed Quaiche. ‘He says he understands the logic of your proposed security arrangement.’

Quaiche nodded enthusiastically, forcing the mirrors to nod synchronously. ‘Of course, it would work to the benefit of both parties. I would gain the protection of a ship like the Third Gazometric, insurance against the less scrupulous Ultra elements we all know are out there. And by agreeing to provide that security - for a fixed but not indefinite period, naturally - there would be compensations in terms of trading rights, insider information, that sort of thing. It could be worth both our whiles, Captain Heckel. All you’d have to do is agree to move the Third Gazometric closer to Hela, and to submit to some very mild mutual friendship arrangements . . . a small cathedral delegation on your ship and - naturally - a reciprocal party on the Lady Morwenna. And then you’d have immediate access to the choicest scuttler relics, before any of your rivals.’ Quaiche looked askance, as if seeing enemies in the garret’s shadows. ‘And we wouldn’t have to be looking over our shoulders all the time.’

The captain piped his reply.

‘He says he understands the benefits in terms of trading rights,’ the interpreter said, ‘but he also wishes to emphasise the risk he would be taking by bringing his ship closer to Hela. He mentions the fate that befell the Gnostic Ascension . . .’

‘And there was me thinking it was bad taste to mention it.’

She ignored him. ‘And he wishes to have these beneficial trading arrangements clarified before any further discussion takes place. He wishes also to specify a maximum term for the period of protection, and . . .’ She paused while Heckel piped out a series of rambling additions. ‘He also wishes to discuss the exclusion from trade of certain other parties currently in the system, or approaching it. Parties to be excluded would include, but not be limited to, the trade vessels Transfigured Night, Madonna of the Wasps, Silence Under Snow . . .’

She continued until she noticed Quaiche’s raised hand. ‘We can discuss these things in good time,’ he said, his heart sinking. ‘In the meantime, the cathedral would - of course - require a full technical examination of the Third Gazometric, to ensure that the ship poses no hazard to Hela or its inhabitants . . .’

‘The captain wonders if you doubt the worthiness of his ship,’ the interpreter said.

‘Not at all. Why should I? He made it this far, didn’t he? On the other hand, if he has nothing to hide . . .’

‘The captain wishes to retire to his shuttle to consider matters.’

‘Of course,’ Quaiche said with sudden eagerness, as if nothing was too much to ask. ‘This is a serious proposal, and nothing should be agreed in haste. Sleep on it. Talk to some other parties. Get a second opinion. Shall I call an escort?’

‘The captain can find his own way back to the shuttle,’ she said.

Quaiche spread his fingers in farewell. ‘Very well, then. Please convey my best wishes to your crew . . . and consider my offer very seriously.’

The captain swung around, his assistants continuing to adjust the control valves and levers in his ludicrous kettle of a suit. With a mad rhythmic clanking he began to locomote towards the door. His departure was as painfully slow as his arrival had been, the suit appearing incapable of moving more than an inch at a time.

The captain paused, then laboriously turned around. The wiper blades flicked back and forth. The pipe organ chimed out another sequence of notes.

‘Begging your pardon,’ the interpreter said, ‘but the captain has another question. Upon his approach to the Lady Morwenna, he made an unscheduled excursion from the usual flight path due to a technical problem with the shuttle.’

‘A technical problem? Now there’s a surprise.’

‘In the process of this deviation he witnessed significant excavation work taking place a little to the north of the Permanent Way, near the Jarnsaxa Flats. He saw what appeared to be a partially camouflaged dig. Investigating with the shuttle’s radar, he detected a sloping cavity several kilometres in length and at least a kilometre deep. He assumed that the dig was related to the unearthing of scuttler relics.’

‘That may be the case,’ Quaiche said, affecting an uninterested tone.

‘The captain was puzzled. He admits to being no expert on Hela affairs, but he was given to understand that most significant scuttler relics have been unearthed in the circumpolar regions.’

‘Scuttler relics are found all over Hela,’ Quaiche said. ‘It’s just that due to quirks of geography they’re easier to get at in the polar regions. I don’t know what this dig was that you saw, or why it was camouflaged. Most of the digging work takes place outside the direct administration of the churches, alas. We can’t keep tabs on everyone.’

‘The captain thanks you for your most helpful response.’

Quaiche frowned, and then corrected his frown to a tolerant smile. What was that: sarcasm, or had she just not hit quite the right note? She was a baseline human, like himself, the kind of person he had once been able to read like a diagram. Now she and her kind - not just women, but almost everyone - lay far beyond the boundaries of his instinctive understanding. He watched them leave, smelling something hot and metallic trailing in the captain’s wake, waiting impatiently while the room cleared of the noxious steam.

Soon, the tapping of a cane announced Grelier’s arrival. He had not been far away, listening in on the proceedings via concealed cameras and microphones.

‘Seems promising enough,’ the surgeon-general ventured. ‘They didn’t dismiss you out of hand, and they do have a ship. My guess is they can’t wait to make the deal.’

‘That’s what I thought as well,’ Quaiche said. He rubbed a smear of condensation from one of his mirrors, restoring Haldora to its usual pinpoint sharpness. ‘In fact, once you stripped away Heckel’s not very convincing bluster I got the impression they needed our arrangement very badly.’ He held up a sheet of paper, one that he had held tightly to his chest throughout the negotiations. ‘Technical summary on their ship, from our spies in the parking swarm. Doesn’t make encouraging reading. The bloody thing’s falling to bits. Barely made it to 107 P.’

‘Let me see.’ Grelier glanced at the paper, skimming it. ‘You can’t be certain this is accurate.’

‘I can’t?’

‘No. Ultras routinely downplay the worthiness of their ships, often putting out misinformation to that effect. They do it to lull competitors into a false sense of superiority, and to dissuade pirates interested in stealing their ships.’

‘But they always overstate their defensive capabilities,’ Quaiche said, wagging a finger at the surgeon-general. ‘Right now there isn’t a ship in that swarm that doesn’t have weapons of some kind, even if they’re disguised as innocent collision avoidance systems. They’re scared, Grelier, all of them, and they all want their rivals to know they have the means to defend themselves.’ He snatched back the paper. ‘But this? It’s a joke. They need our patronage so they can fix their ship first. It should be the other way around, if their protection is to have any meaning to us.’

‘As I said, where the intentions of Ultras are concerned nothing should be taken at face value.’

Quaiche crumpled the paper and threw it across the room. ‘The problem is I can’t read their bloody intentions.’

‘No one could be expected to read a monstrosity like Heckel,’ Grelier said.

‘I don’t mean just him. I’m talking about the other Ultras, or the normal humans that come down with them, like that woman just now. I couldn’t tell if she was being sincere or patronising, let alone whether she really believed what Heckel was having her say.’

Grelier kissed the head of his cane. ‘You want my opinion? Your assessment of the situation was accurate: she was just Heckel’s mouthpiece. He wanted to do business very badly.’

‘Too bloody badly,’ Quaiche said.

Grelier tapped the cane against the floor. ‘Forget the Third Gazometric for the time being. What about the Lark Descending? The third-party summaries suggested a very useful weapons allocation, and the captain seemed willing to do business.’

‘The summaries also mentioned an instability in her starboard drive. Did you miss that bit?’

Grelier shrugged. ‘It’s not as though we need them to take us anywhere, just to sit in orbit around Hela intimidating the rest of them. As long as the weapons are sufficient for that task, what do we care if the ship won’t be capable of leaving once the arrangement is over?’

Quaiche waved a hand vaguely. ‘To be honest, I didn’t really like the fellow they sent down. Kept leaking all over the floor. Took weeks to get rid of the stain after he’d left. And a drive instability isn’t the mild inconvenience you seem to assume. The ship we come to an agreement with will be sitting within tenths of a light-second of our surface, Grelier. We can’t risk it blowing up in our faces.’

‘Back to square one, in that case,’ Grelier said, with little detectable sympathy. ‘There are other Ultras to interview, aren’t there?’

‘Enough to keep me busy, but I’ll always come back to the same fundamental problem: I simply cannot read these people, Grelier. My mind is so open to Haldora that there isn’t room for any other form of observation. I cannot see through their strategies and evasions the way I once could.’

‘We’ve had this conversation before. You know you can always seek my opinion.’

‘And I do. But - no insult intended, Grelier - you know a great deal more about blood and cloning than you do about human nature.’

‘Then ask others. Assemble an advisory council.’

‘No.’ Grelier, he realised, was quite right - they had been over this many times. And always it came round to the same points. ‘These negotiations for protection are, by their very nature, extremely sensitive. I can’t risk a security leak to another cathedral.’ He motioned for Grelier to clean his eyes. ‘Look at me,’ he went on, while the surgeon-general opened the medicine cabinet and prepared the antiseptic swabs. ‘I’m a thing of horror, in many respects, bound to this chair, barely able to survive without it. And even if I had the health to leave it, I would remain a prisoner of the Lady Morwenna, still enmeshed in the optical sightlines of my beloved mirrors.’

‘Voluntarily,’ Grelier said.

‘You know what I mean. I cannot move amongst the Ultras as they move amongst us. Cannot step aboard their ships the way other ecumenical emissaries do.’

‘That’s why we have spies.’

‘All the same, it limits me. I need someone I can trust, Grelier, someone like my younger self. Someone able to move amongst them as I used to. Someone they wouldn’t dare to suspect.’

‘Suspect?’ Grelier dabbed at Quaiche’s eyes with the swabs.

‘I mean someone they would automatically trust. Someone not at all like you.’

‘Hold still.’ Quaiche flinched as the stinging swab dug around his eyeball. It amazed him that he had any nerve endings there at all, but Grelier had an unerring ability to find those that remained. ‘Actually,’ Grelier said, musingly, ‘something did occur to me recently. Perhaps it’s worth mentioning.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘You’re aware I like to know what’s happening on Hela. Not just the usual business with the cathedrals and the Way, but in the wider world, including the villages.’

‘Oh, yes. You’re always on the hunt for uncatalogued strains, reports of interesting new heresies from the Hauk settlements, that sort of thing. Then out you ride with your shiny new syringes, like a good little vampire.’

‘I won’t deny that Bloodwork plays a small role in my interest, but along the way I do pick up all sorts of interesting titbits. Keep still.’

‘And you keep out of my sightlines! What sort of titbits?’

‘The last but one time I was awake was a two-year interval, between ten and eight years ago. I remember that revival very well: it was the first occasion on which I found myself needing this cane. Towards the end of that period awake I made a long trip north, following leads on those uncatalogued strains you just mentioned. On the return journey I rode with one of the caravans, keeping my eyes peeled - sorry - for anything else that might take my fancy.’

‘I remember that trip,’ Quaiche said, ‘but I don’t recall you saying that anything of significance happened during it.’

‘Nothing did. Or at least nothing seemed to, at the time. But then I heard a news bulletin a few days ago and it reminded me of something.’

‘Are you going to drag this out much longer?’

Grelier sighed and began returning the equipment to its cabinet. ‘There was a family,’ he said, ‘from the Vigrid badlands. They’d travelled down to meet the caravan. They had two children: a son and a younger daughter.’

‘Fascinating, I’m sure.’

‘The son was looking for work on the Way. I sat in on the recruitment interview, as I was permitted to do. Idle curiosity, really: I had no interest in this particular case, but you never know when someone interesting is going to show up.’ Grelier snapped shut the cabinet.

‘The son had aspirations to work in some technical branch of Way maintenance - strategic planning, something like that. At the time, however, the Way had all the pencil-pushers it needed. The only vacancies available were - shall we say - at the sharp end?’

‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ Quaiche said.

‘Quite. But in this case the recruiting agent decided against a full and frank disclosure of the relevant facts. He told the son that there would be no difficulty in finding him a safe, well-paid job in the technical bureau. And because the work would be strictly analytical, requiring a clear-headed coolness of mind, there would be no question whatsoever of viral initiation.’

‘If he’d told the truth, he’d have lost the recruit.’

‘Almost certainly. He was a clever lad, no doubt about that. A waste, really, to throw him straight into fuse laying or something with an equally short life-expectancy. And because the family was secular - they mostly are, up in the badlands - he definitely didn’t want your blood in his veins.’

‘It isn’t my blood. It’s a virus.’

Grelier raised a finger, silencing his master. ‘The point is that the recruiting agent had good reason to lie. And it was only a white lie, really. Everyone knew those bureau jobs were thin on the ground. Frankly, I think even the son knew it, but his family needed the money.’

‘There’s a point to this, Grelier, I’m sure of it.’

‘I can barely remember what the son looked like. But the daughter? I can see her now, clear as daylight, looking through all of us as if we were made of glass. She had the most astonishing eyes, a kind of golden brown with little flecks of light in them.’

‘How old would she have been, Grelier?’

‘Eight, nine, I suppose.’

‘You revolt me.’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ Grelier said. ‘Everyone there felt it, I think, especially the recruiting agent. She kept telling her parents he was lying. She was certain. She was visibly affronted by him. It was as if everyone in that room was playing a game and she hadn’t been told about it.’

‘Children behave oddly in adult environments. It was a mistake to have her there.’

‘She wasn’t behaving oddly at all,’ Grelier said. ‘In my view, she was behaving very rationally. It was the adults who weren’t. They all knew that the recruiting agent was lying, but she was the only one who wasn’t in denial about it.’

‘I expect she overheard some remark before the interview, something about how the recruiting agents always lie.’

‘She may have done, but even at the time I thought it went a little deeper than that. I think she just knew that the recruiter was lying simply by looking at him. There are people, individuals, who have that ability. They’re born with it. Not more than one in a thousand, and probably even fewer who have it to the extent of that little girl.’

‘Mind-reading?’

‘No. Just an acute awareness of the subliminal information already available. Facial expression, primarily. The muscles in your face can form forty-three distinct movements, which enable tens of thousands in combination.’

Grelier had done his homework, Quaiche thought. This little digression had obviously been planned all along.

‘Many of these expressions are involuntary,’ he continued. ‘Unless you’ve been very well trained, you simply can’t lie without revealing yourself through your expressions. Most of the time, of course, it doesn’t matter. The people around you are none the wiser, just as blind to those microexpressions. But imagine if you had that awareness. Not just the means to read the people around you when they don’t even know they’re being read, but the self-control to block your own involuntary signals.’

‘Mm.’ Quaiche could see where this was heading. ‘It wouldn’t be much use against something like Heckel, but a baseline negotiator . . . or something with a face . . . that’s a different matter. You think you could teach me this?’

‘I can do better than that,’ Grelier said. ‘I can bring you the girl. She can teach you herself.’

For a moment, Quaiche regarded the hanging image of Haldora, mesmerised by a writhing filament of lightning in the southern polar region.

‘You’d have to bring her here first,’ he said. ‘Not easy, if you can’t lie to her at any point.’

‘Not as difficult as you think. She’s like antimatter: it would only be a question of handling her with the right tools. I told you something jogged my memory a few days ago. It was the girl’s name. Rashmika Els. She was mentioned in a general news bulletin originating from the Vigrid badlands. There was a photo. She’s eight or nine years older than when I last saw her, obviously, but it was her all right. I wouldn’t forget those eyes in a hurry. She’d gone missing. The constabulary were in a fuss about her.’

‘No use to us, then.’

Grelier smiled. ‘Except I found her. She’s on a caravan, heading towards the Way.’

‘You’ve met her?’

‘Not exactly. I visited the caravan, but didn’t reveal myself to Miss Els. Wouldn’t want to scare her off, not when she can be so useful to us. She’s very determined to find out what happened to her brother, but even she will be wary of getting too close to the Way.’

‘Mm.’ For a moment the beautiful conjunction of these events caused Quaiche to smile. ‘And what exactly did happen to her brother?’

‘Died in clearance work,’ Grelier said. ‘Crushed under the Lady Morwenna.’

TWENTY-ONE

Ararat, 2675

Skade lay half-cocooned in ice and the frozen black froth of Inhibitor machinery. She was still alive. This much was clear as they squeezed through the narrow, crimped opening of the crushed bulkhead. From the control couch in which she still lay, Skade’s head tilted slightly in their direction, the merest glaze of interest troubling the smooth composure of her face. The fingers of one white-gauntleted hand hovered above a portable holoclavier propped in her lap, the fingers becoming a blur of white in time with the gunlike salvos of music.

The music stopped as her hand moved away from the keyboard. ‘I was beginning to wonder what had kept you.’

‘I’ve come for my child, bitch,’ Khouri said.

Skade showed no sign of having heard her. ‘What happened, Clavain?’

‘A little mishap.’

‘The wolves took your hand. How unfortunate.’

Clavain showed her the knife. ‘I did what had to be done. Recognise this, Skade? Today wasn’t the first time it’s saved my life. I used it to cut the membrane around the comet, when you and I had that little disagreement over the future policy of the Mother Nest. You do remember, don’t you?’

‘There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since I last saw that knife. I still had my old body then.’

‘I’m sorry about what happened, but I only did what I had to do. Put me back there now, I’d do the same thing again.’

‘I don’t doubt it for a moment, Clavain. No matter what people say, you always were a man of conviction.’

‘We’ve come for the child,’ he said.

She acknowledged Khouri with the tiniest of nods. ‘I had gathered.’

‘Are you going to hand her over, or is this going to become tedious and messy?’

‘Which way would you prefer it, Clavain?’

‘Listen to me, Skade. It’s over. Whatever happened between you and me, whatever harm we did each other, whatever loyalties we believed in, none of that matters any more.’

‘That’s exactly what I told Remontoire.’

‘But you did negotiate,’ Clavain said. ‘We know that much. So let’s take it to the limit. Let’s join forces again. Give Aura back to us and we’ll share everything she tells us. It’ll be better for all of us in the long run.’

‘What do I care about the long run, Clavain? I’m never going to see the outside of this ship again.’

‘If you’re hurt, we can help you.’

‘I really don’t think so.’

‘Give me Aura,’ Khouri demanded.

Scorpio stepped closer, taking a better look at the injured Conjoiner. She wore armour of a very pale shade, perhaps even white. Chameleoflage armour, probably: the outer integument had tuned itself to match the colour of the ice that had condensed or ruptured through into the cabin before the lighting failed. The suit was styled in the manner of medieval armour, with bulbous sliding plates covering the limb joints and an exaggerated breastplate. There was a cinched, feminine waist above a skirtlike flaring. The rest of the body - below the waist - Scorpio could not see at all. It vanished into ice that pinned Skade neatly in place like a doll for sale.

All around her, in little aggregations of blackness, were warty clumps of Inhibitor machinery. But none were touching Skade, and none appeared active at the moment.

‘You can have Aura,’ she said. ‘At, of course, a price.’

‘We’re not paying for her,’ Clavain said. His voice was faint and hoarse, stripped of strength.

‘You’re the one who mentioned negotiation,’ Skade said. ‘Or were you thinking more along the lines of a threat?’

‘Where is she?’

Skade moved one of her arms. The armour creaked as it budged, dislodging curtains of frost. She tapped the hard plate covering her abdomen. ‘She’s here, in me. I’m keeping her alive.’

Clavain glanced back at Khouri, his eyes conveying the admission that, finally, everything she had told them had turned out to be true. ‘Good,’ he said, turning his attention back to Skade. ‘I’m grateful. But now her mother needs her back.’

‘As if you care about her mother,’ Skade said, mocking him with an adversarial smile. ‘As if you truly care about the fate of a child.’

‘I came all this way for that child.’

‘You came all this way for an asset,’ Skade corrected.

‘And I suppose the child means vastly more to you than that.’

‘Enough,’ Scorpio interrupted. ‘We haven’t got time for this. We came for Khouri’s child. Fuck the reasons. Just hand her over.’

‘Hand her over?’ Now Skade laughed at the pig. ‘Did you honestly think it was going to be that easy? The child is in me. It’s in my womb, wired into my circulatory system.’

‘She,’ Khouri insisted. ‘Aura isn’t an “it”, you heartless piece of shit.’

‘She isn’t human either,’ Skade said, ‘no matter what you might think.’ Her head tracked back towards Clavain. ‘Yes, I had Delmar culture me another body, just as he’d always intended. I’m all flesh from the neck down. Even the womb is more organ than machine. Face it, Nevil: I’m more alive than you are, now that you’ve lost that hand.’

‘You were always a machine, Skade. You just didn’t realise it.’

‘If you’re saying I only ever did my duty, then I accept that. Machines do have a certain dignity: they’re not capable of betrayal or disloyalty. They’re not capable of treason.’

‘I didn’t come here for a lesson in ethics.’

‘Aren’t you curious about what happened to my ship? Don’t you like my fabulous palace of ice?’ She gestured around her, as if inviting commentary on her choice of décor. ‘I made it especially for you.’

‘Actually, I think something went wrong with your cryo-arithmetic engines,’ Clavain said.

Skade pouted. ‘Go ahead, dismiss my efforts.’

‘What happened?’ Scorpio asked quietly.

She sighed. ‘Don’t expect to understand. The finest minds in the Mother Nest barely grasped the underlying principles. You don’t even have the intelligence of a baseline human. You’re just a pig.’

‘I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t call me that.’

‘Or you’ll do what? You can’t hurt me, not while I’m carrying Aura. I die, she dies. It’s that simple.’

‘Nice hostage setup,’ Clavain said.

‘I’m not saying it was easy. Our respective immune systems needed a great deal of tinkering before we stopped rejecting each other.’ Skade’s eyes flashed to Khouri. ‘Don’t even think about taking her back into your womb now. I’m afraid the two of you just aren’t remotely compatible.’

Khouri started to say something, but Clavain quickly raised his good hand, talking over her. ‘Then you are willing to negotiate,’ he said, ‘or else you wouldn’t have needed to warn her about compatibility.’

Skade’s attention remained on Khouri. ‘You can walk out of here with Aura. There should still be functional surgical tools aboard this ship. I can talk you through the Caesarean. Otherwise, I’m sure you can improvise. After all, it’s not brain surgery.’ She looked at Clavain. ‘You did bring a life-support unit, didn’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then we’re all set. I still have neural connections with Aura’s mind. I can put her into a temporary coma until the surgery is over.’

‘I’ve found a surgical box,’ Jaccottet said, shoving a heavy black case across the ruined floor. A bas-relief caduceus stood out from its surface, rimed with frost. ‘Even if this doesn’t work, we’ve probably got all the tools we need in our own emergency kits.’

‘Open it,’ Clavain said. There was something hollow about his voice, as if he grasped something that everyone else was missing.

The box sprung open, seals hissing, divesting itself of many cunningly packed trays. Surgical instruments made of matt-white metal sat in neat foam inlays. The instruments - all looped fingerholes and precisely hinged mechanisms - made Scorpio think of some weird alien cutlery. They were all made of dumb matter, designed to be used in field surgery situations where rogue nanomachinery might corrupt smarter, more subtle instruments.

‘Need some help?’ Skade asked.

Jaccottet’s gloved fingers lifted one of the instruments from its nest. His hand trembled. ‘I’m not really a surgeon,’ he said. ‘I’ve had Security Arm medical training, but that didn’t stretch to field operations.’

‘No matter,’ Skade said. ‘As I said, I can talk you through it. It has to be you, you see. The pig lacks the necessary dexterity, and Khouri has far too much of an emotional investment. And Clavain . . . well, that’s obvious, isn’t it?’

‘It isn’t just because of my hand,’ Clavain said.

‘No, not just that,’ Skade agreed.

‘Tell them,’ Clavain said.

‘Clavain can’t do the procedure,’ Skade said, addressing the other three as if Clavain were not present at all, ‘because he won’t be alive: not by the end of it, anyway. This is the arrangement: you walk out of here with Aura, and Clavain dies, here and now. No negotiation, no argument over the terms. It either happens this way or it doesn’t happen at all. It’s entirely up to you.’

‘You can’t do this,’ Scorpio said.

‘Perhaps you didn’t hear me. Clavain dies. Aura lives. You walk out of here with what you came for. How can that not be a satisfactory result?’

‘Not this way,’ Khouri said. ‘Please, not this way.’

‘I’m afraid I’ve already given the matter a great deal of consideration. I am dying, you see. This palace will also be my mausoleum. The options - for me, at least - are remarkably restricted. If I die, I take Aura with me. Humanity - whatever that means - will lose whatever gifts she carries. But if I give her to you, those gifts may be put to some practical use. In the long run it may not be the difference between extinction and survival, but it may be the difference between extinction now, this century, and extinction a few thousand years down the line. Not much of a stay of execution, really . . . but human nature being what it is, I’m sure we’ll take what we’re given.’

‘She might make more of a difference than that,’ Clavain said.

‘Well, that’s not something you or I will ever know, but I take your point. Aura’s value is - as yet - indeterminate. That’s why she remains such a prized asset.’

‘So give her up,’ Khouri said. ‘Give her up and do something good for once in your fucking existence.’

‘Brought her along to help oil the negotiations, did you?’ Skade asked, winking at Clavain. For an agonising moment they might have been old friends sharing a humorous recollection.

‘It’s all right,’ Clavain said to Khouri. ‘We’ll get Aura back for you.’

‘No, Clavain, not this way,’ she said.

‘This is the only way it’s going to happen,’ he said. ‘Trust me, I know Skade. Once she’s made her mind up, it stays made up.’

‘I’m glad you understand that,’ Skade said. ‘And you’re right. There is no flexibility in my position.’

‘We could kill her,’ Khouri said. ‘Kill her and operate quickly.’

‘Worth a try,’ Scorpio said. Often in Chasm City - for the purposes of deterrence - he had been called upon to kill people with maximum slowness. He thought now of all the swift ways he knew to end the life of a sentient being. Those methods had their uses, too: mercy executions, button jobs. Some of them were very swift indeed. The only drawback was that he had never knowingly tried any of his methods on a Conjoiner. He had certainly never killed a Conjoiner carrying a hostage in their womb.

‘She won’t let it happen,’ Clavain said soothingly. He touched Khouri’s arm. ‘She’d find a way to kill Aura before we got to her. But it’s all right, this is the way it has to be.’

‘No, Clavain,’ Khouri repeated.

He shushed her. ‘I came here to secure Aura’s release. That’s still my mission objective.’

‘I don’t want you to die.’

Scorpio saw a smile crinkle the skin at the corners of Clavain’s eyes. ‘No, I doubt that you do. Frankly, I don’t want to, either. Funny how these things seem a lot less attractive when it’s someone else doing the deciding for you. But Skade’s made up her mind, and this is how it’s going to happen.’

‘I suggest we get a move on,’ Skade interrupted.

‘Wait,’ Scorpio said. The words had an unreality in his head as he marshalled what he was about to say. ‘If we give you Clavain . . . and you kill him . . . what’s to stop you reneging on your part of the deal?’

‘She’s thought of that,’ Clavain said.

‘Of course I have,’ Skade answered. ‘And I’ve also considered the opposite scenario: what’s to prevent you from taking Clavain away if I give you Aura first? Clearly our mutual trust is an insufficient guarantee of compliance. So I’ve devised a solution I believe both parties will find entirely satisfactory.’

‘Tell them,’ Clavain said.

Skade gestured at Jaccottet. ‘You - security man - will perform the Caesarean.’ Then her attention flicked to Scorpio. ‘You - pig - will perform the execution of Clavain. I will direct both procedures, incision by incision. They will take place in parallel, step by step. One must last precisely as long as the other.’

‘No,’ Scorpio gasped, as the horror of her words slammed home.

‘The message isn’t getting through, is it?’ Skade asked. ‘Shall I kill her now, and be done with it?’

‘No,’ Clavain said. He turned to his friend. ‘Scorp, you have to do this. I know you have the strength to do it. You’ve already shown me that a thousand times. Do it, friend, and end this.’

‘I can’t.’

‘It’s the hardest thing anyone’s ever asked you to do, I know that. But I’m still asking.’

Scorpio could only say the same thing again. ‘I can’t.’

‘You must.’

‘No,’ said another voice. ‘He doesn’t have to. I’ll do it.’

All of them, including Skade, followed the voice to its source. There, framed in the ruined bulkhead, was Vasko Malinin. He had a gun in his hand and looked as cold and bewildered as the rest of them.

‘I’ll do it,’ he repeated. He had obviously been standing there for some time, unnoticed by those present.

‘You were given orders to stay outside,’ Scorpio said.

‘Blood countermanded them.’

‘Blood?’ Scorpio repeated.

‘Urton and I heard gunfire. It sounded as if it was coming from inside here. I contacted Blood and he gave me permission to investigate.’

‘Leaving Urton alone outside?’

‘Not for long, sir. Blood’s sending a plane. It’ll be here in under an hour.’

‘That isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen,’ Scorpio said.

‘Pardon, sir, but Blood’s view was that once shooting started, it was time to tear up the rules.’

‘You can’t argue with that,’ Clavain said.

Scorpio nodded, still burdened by the vast weight of what lay before him. He could not let Vasko do it, no matter how devoutly he wished to abdicate this particular responsibility. ‘Anything else to report?’ he asked.

‘The sea’s funny, sir. It’s greener, and there are mounds of biomass appearing all around the iceberg, as far as the eye can see.’

‘Juggler activity,’ Clavain said. ‘Blood already told us it was hotting up.’

‘That’s not all, sir. More reports of things in the sky. Eyewitnesses even say they’ve seen things re-entering.’

‘The battle’s coming closer,’ Clavain said, with something close to anticipation. ‘Well, Skade, I don’t think any of us really want to delay things now, do we?’

‘Wiser words were never spoken,’ she said.

‘You tell us how you want it done. I presume we’ll need to get that armour off you first?’

‘I’ll deal with that,’ she said. ‘In the meantime, make sure you have the incubator ready.’

Scorpio made a shooting gesture in Vasko’s direction. ‘Return to the boat. Inform Blood that we are in the process of delicate negotiations, then bring the incubator back through the iceberg.’

‘I’ll do that, sir. But seriously, I know how hard it is for you to . . .’ Vasko could not complete his sentence. ‘What I mean is, I’m willing to do it.’

‘I know,’ Scorpio said, ‘but I’m his friend. The one thing I know is that I wouldn’t want anyone else to have this on their conscience.’

‘There’ll be nothing on your conscience, Scorp,’ Clavain said.

No, Scorpio thought. There’d be nothing on his conscience. Nothing save the fact that he had tortured his best friend - his only genuine human friend - to death, slowly, in return for the life of a child he neither knew nor cared for. So what if he had no choice in the matter? So what if it was only what Clavain wanted him to do? None of that made it any easier to do, or would make it any easier to live with in times to come. Because he knew that what happened in the next half hour - he did not think the procedure could last much longer than that - would surely be burned into his memory as indelibly as the self-inflicted scar on his shoulder, the one that covered his original emerald-green tattoo of human ownership.

Perhaps it would be faster than that. And perhaps Clavain would really suffer very little. After all, he had managed to block most of the pain when he lost the hand. Presumably it was within his power to establish a more comprehensive set of neural barricades, nulling the agony Skade sought to inflict.

But she would know that, wouldn’t she?

‘Go. Now,’ he said to Vasko. ‘And don’t return immediately.’

‘I’ll be back, sir.’ Vasko hesitated at the bulkhead, studying the little tableau as if committing it to memory. Scorpio read his mind. Vasko knew that when he returned, Clavain would not be amongst the living.

‘Son,’ Clavain said, ‘do as the man says. I’ll be all right. I appreciate your concern.’

‘I wish I could do something, sir.’

‘You can’t. Not here, not now. That’s another of those difficult lessons. Sometimes you can’t do the right thing. You just have to walk away and fight another day. Tough medicine, son, but sooner or later we all have to swallow it.’

‘I understand, sir.’

‘I haven’t known you that long, but it’s been long enough for me to form a reasonable impression of your abilities. You’re a good man, Vasko. The colony needs you and it needs others like you. Respect that need and don’t let the colony down.’

‘Sir,’ Vasko said.

‘When this is done, we’ll have Aura again. First and foremost, she’s her mother’s daughter. Don’t ever let anyone forget that.’

‘I won’t, sir.’

‘But she’s also ours. She’ll be fragile, Vasko. She’ll need protecting as she grows up. That’s the task I’m giving you and your generation. Take care of that girl, because she may be the last thing that matters.’

‘I’ll take care of her, sir.’ Vasko looked at Khouri, as if seeking permission. ‘We’ll all take care of her. That’s a promise.’

‘You sound as if you mean it. I can trust you, can’t I?’

‘I’ll do my best, sir.’

Clavain nodded, weary, resigned, facing an abyss the depth of which only he could comprehend. ‘That’s all I’ve ever done, too. Mostly, it’s been good enough. Now go, please, and give my regards to Blood.’

Vasko hesitated again, as if there was something more he wished to say. But whatever words he intended remained unsaid. He turned and was gone.

‘Why did you want to get rid of him?’ Scorpio asked, after a few seconds had passed.

‘Because I don’t want him to see one moment of this.’

‘I’ll make it as quick as she’ll let me,’ Scorpio said. ‘If Jaccottet works fast, I can work fast as well. Isn’t that right, Skade?’

‘You’ll work as fast as I dictate, and no faster.’

‘Don’t make this any harder than it has to be,’ Scorpio said.

‘It won’t hurt him, will it?’ Khouri asked. ‘He can turn off the pain, can’t he?’

‘I was coming to that,’ Skade said, with an obvious reptilian delight in her own cunning. ‘Clavain - explain to your friends what you will allow to happen, please.’

‘I have no choice, do I?’

‘Not if you want this to go ahead.’

Clavain scratched at his brow. It was pale with frost, his eyebrows pure ermine white. ‘Since I entered this room, Skade has been trying to override my neural barricades. She’s been launching attack algorithms against my standard security layers and firewalls, trying to hijack deeper control structures. Take my word for it, she’s very good. The only thing stopping her is the antiquated nature of my implants. For her, it’s like trying to hack into a clockwork calculator. Her methods are too advanced for the battleground.’

‘So?’ Khouri said, squinting as if she were missing something obvious.

‘If she could penetrate those layers,’ Clavain said, ‘she could override any pain-blocks I cared to install. She could open them all one by one, like water-release valves in a dam, letting the pain flow through.’

‘But she can’t get at them, can she?’ Scorpio asked.

‘Not unless I let her. Not unless I invite her in and give her complete control.’

‘But you’d never do that.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ he said, ‘unless, of course, she demanded it of me.’

‘Skade, please,’ Khouri said.

‘Lower those blockades,’ Skade said, ignoring the woman. ‘Lower them and let me in. If you don’t, the deal’s off. Aura dies now.’

Clavain closed his eyes for a moment fractionally longer than a blink. It was only an instant, but for Clavain it must have involved the issuing of many intricate, rarely used neural management commands, rescinding standard security states that had probably remained frozen for decades.

He opened his eyes. ‘It’s done,’ he said. ‘You have control.’

‘Let’s make sure, shall we?’

Clavain made a noise somewhere between a moan and a yelp. He clutched at the bandaged stump of his left hand, his jaw stiffening. Scorpio saw the tendons in his neck stand out like guylines.

‘I think you have it,’ Clavain said, teeth clenched.

‘I’m locked in now,’ Skade told her audience. ‘He can’t throw me out or block my commands.’

‘Get this over with,’ Clavain said. Again, there was an easing in his expression, like the change of light on a landscape. Scorpio understood. If Skade was going to torture him, she would not want to ruin her carefully orchestrated efforts with an extraneous pain source. Especially one that had never been part of her plan.

Skade reached down to her belly with both gauntleted hands. No seam had been visible in her armour before, but now the curved white plate that covered her abdomen detached itself from the rest of the suit. Skade placed it next to her, then returned her hands to her sides. Where the armour had been opened, a bulge of soft human flesh moved under the thin, crosshatched mesh of a vacuum suit inner layer.

‘We’re ready,’ she said.

Jaccottet moved towards her and knelt down, one knee resting on the mound of fused ice that covered Skade’s lower half. The black box of white surgical instruments sat splayed open at his side.

‘Pig,’ she said, ‘take a scalpel from the lower compartment. That will do for now.’

Scorpio’s trotter poked at the snugly embedded instrument. Khouri reached over and pulled it out for him. She placed it delicately in his grasp.

‘For the last time,’ Scorpio said, ‘don’t make me do this.’ Clavain sat down next to him, crossing his legs. ‘It’s all right, Scorp. Just do what she says. I’ve a few tricks up my sleeve she doesn’t know about. She won’t be able to block all my commands, even if she thinks she can.’

‘Tell him that if you think it makes it easier for him,’ Skade said.

‘He’s never lied to me,’ Scorpio said. ‘I don’t think he’d start now.’

The white instrument sat in his hand, absurdly light, an innocent little surgical tool. There was no evil in the thing itself, but at that moment it felt like the focus of all the inchoate badness in the universe, its pristine whiteness part of the same sense of malignity. Titanic possibilities were balanced in his palm. He could not hold the instrument the way its designers had intended. All the same, he could still manipulate it well enough to do harm. He supposed it did not really matter to Clavain how skilfully the work was done. A certain imprecision might even help him, dulling the white-hot edge of the pain Skade intended.

‘How do you want me to sit?’ Clavain asked.

‘Lie down,’ Skade said. ‘On your back. Hands at your sides.’

Clavain positioned himself. ‘Anything else?’

‘That’s up to you. If you have anything you want to say, now would be a good time. In a little while, you might find it difficult.’

‘Only one thing,’ Clavain said.

Scorpio moved closer. The dreadful task was almost upon him. ‘What is it, Nevil?’

‘When this is over, don’t waste any time. Get Aura to safety. That’s really all I care about.’ He paused, licked his lips. Around them the fine growth of his beard glistened with a haze of beautiful white crystals. ‘But if there’s time, and if it doesn’t inconvenience you, I’d ask you to bury me at sea.’

‘Where?’ Scorpio asked.

‘Here,’ Clavain said. ‘As soon as you can. No ceremony. The sea will do the rest.’

There was no sign that Skade had heard him, or cared what he had to say. ‘Let’s start,’ she said to Jaccottet. ‘Do exactly as I tell you. Oh, and Khouri?’

‘Yes?’ the woman asked.

‘You really don’t have to watch this.’

‘She’s my daughter,’ she said. ‘I’m staying right here until I get her back.’ Then she turned to Clavain, and Scorpio sensed a vast private freight of communication pass between them. Perhaps it was more than just his imagination. After all, they were both Conjoiners now.

‘It’s all right,’ Clavain said aloud.

Khouri knelt down and kissed him on the forehead. ‘I just wanted to say thank you.’

Behind her, Skade’s hand moved over the holoclavier again.

Outside the iceberg, on the spreading fringe of whiteness, Urton looked at Vasko the way a teacher would look at a truant child. ‘You took your time,’ she said.

Vasko fell to his knees. He vomited. It came from nowhere, with no warning. It left him feeling excavated, husked out.

Urton knelt down on the ice next to him. ‘What is it? What’s happening?’ Her voice was urgent.

But he couldn’t speak. He wiped a smear of vomit from his chin. His eyes stung. He felt simultaneously ashamed and liberated by his reaction, as if in that awful admission of emotional weakness he had also found an unsuspected strength. In that moment of hollowing, that moment in which he felt the core of himself evacuated, he knew that he had taken a step into the adult world that Urton and Jaccottet thought was theirs alone.

Above, the sky was a purple-grey bruise. The sea roiled, grey phantasms slipping between the waves.

‘Talk to me, Vasko,’ she said.

He pushed himself to his feet. His throat was raw, his mind as clear and clean as an evacuated airlock.

‘Help me with the incubator,’ he said.

TWENTY-TWO

p Eridani 40, 2675

Battle raged in the immediate volume of space around the Pattern Juggler planet. Near the heart of the engagement itself, and close to the geometric centre of his vast ship Zodiacal Light, Remontoire sat in a posture of perfect zenlike calm. His expression betrayed only mild interest in the outcome of current events. His eyes were closed; his hands were folded demurely in his lap. He looked bored and faintly distracted, like a man about to doze off in a waiting room.

Remontoire was not bored, nor was he about to doze off. Boredom was a condition of consciousness he barely remembered, like anger or hate or the thirst for mother’s milk. He had experienced many states of mind since leaving Mars nearly five hundred years earlier, including some that could only be approximated in the flat, limiting modalities of baseline human language. Being bored was not amongst them. Nor did he expect it to play a significant role in his mental affairs in the future, most certainly not while the wolves were still around. And he wasn’t very likely to experience sleep, either.

Now and then some part of him - his eyelids, or even his entire head - twitched minutely, betraying something of the extreme state of non-boredom he was actually experiencing. Tactical data surged incessantly through his mind with the icy clarity of a mountain torrent. He was actually running his mind at a dangerously high clock-rate, just barely within the cooling parameters of his decidedly old-fashioned Conjoiner mental architecture. Skade would have laughed at him now as he struggled to match a thought-processing rate that would - to her - have barely merited comment. Skade could think this fast and simultaneously fragment her consciousness into half a dozen parallel streams. And she could do it while moving around, exerting herself, whereas Remontoire had to sit in a state of trancelike stillness so as not to put additional loads on his already stressed body and mind. They really were creatures of different centuries.

But although Skade had been in his thoughts much of late, she was of no immediate concern now. He considered it likely she was dead. His suspicions had been strong enough even before he had permitted Khouri to descend into the planet’s atmosphere, following after Skade’s downed corvette, but he had been careful not to make too much of them. For if Skade was dead, then so was Aura.

Something changed: a tick and a whirr of the great dark orrery of war in which he floated. For hours the opposed forces - the baseline humans, Skade’s Conjoiners, the Inhibitors - had wheeled around the planet in a fixed formation, as if they had finally settled into some mathematical configuration of maximum stability. The other Conjoiners were cowed: for weeks they had been gaining an edge over Remontoire’s loose alliance of humans, pigs and Resurgam refugees. They had stolen Aura, and through her they had learned many of the secrets that had enabled Remontoire and his allies to outflank the Inhibitor forces around Delta Pavonis. Later, Remontoire had given them even more in return for Khouri. But since Skade’s disappearance the other Conjoiners had become confused and directionless, far more than would have been the case with an equivalent grouping from Remontoire’s generation. Skade had been too powerful, too effective at manipulation. During the war against the Demarchists (which seemed now, to Remontoire, like an innocently remembered childhood diversion) the ruthlessly democratic structure of Conjoiner politics had been gradually partitioned, with the creation of security layers: the Closed Council, the Inner Sanctum, even - perhaps - the rumoured Night Council. Skade was the logical end product of that process of compartmentalisation: highly skilled, highly resourceful, highly knowledgeable, highly adept at manipulating others. In the pressure of the war against the Demarchists, his people had - unwittingly - made a tyrant for themselves.

And Skade had been a very good tyrant. She had only wanted the best for her people, even if that meant extinction for the rest of humanity. Her single-mindedness, her willingness to transcend the limits of the flesh and the mind, had been inspirational even to Remontoire. He had very nearly chosen to fight on her side rather than Clavain’s. It was no wonder those Conjoiners around her had forgotten how to think for themselves. In thrall to Skade, there had never been any need.

But now Skade was gone, and her army of swift, brilliant puppets didn’t know what to do next.

In the last ten hours, Remontoire’s forces had intercepted twenty-eight thousand separate invitations to negotiation from the remaining Conjoiner elements, squirted through the brief windows in the sphere of jammed communications afflicting the entire theatre of battle. After all the betrayals, after all the fragile alliances and spiteful enmities, they still thought he was a man they could do business with. There was, he thought, something else as well: hints that they were worried about something he had yet to identify. It might have been a gambit to snare his attention and encourage him to talk to them, but he wasn’t sure.

He had decided to keep them waiting just a little bit longer, at least until he had some concrete data from the surface.

Now, however, something had changed. He had detected the alteration in the disposition of battle forces one-fifteenth of a second earlier; in the ensuing time nothing had happened to suggest that it was anything but real.

The Inhibitors were moving. A clump of wolf machines - they moved in clumps, aggregations, flickering clouds, rather than ordered squadrons or detachments - had left its former position. Between ninety-five and ninety-nine per cent of the wolf assets around p Eridani 40 - estimated by mass, or volume (it was difficult to be sure how much wolf machinery had actually followed them from Delta Pavonis) - held station, but according to the sensor returns, which could not always be trusted, the small aggregate - between one and five per cent of the total force - was on its way to the planet.

It accelerated smoothly, leaving physics squirming in its wake. When Inhibitor machinery moved, it did so without any hint of Newtonian reaction. The recent modifications to the Conjoiner drives had approximated something of the same effect by making the exhaust particles undergo rapid decay into a non-observable quantum state. But the wolves used a different principle. Even up close, there was no hint of any thrusting medium. The best guess - and guess it was - was that the Inhibitor drives employed a form of the quantum Casimir effect, using the unbalanced vacuum pressure on two parallel plates to skip themselves through space-time. The fact that the machines accelerated several trillion times faster than theory allowed was deemed slightly less embarrassing than having no theory at all.

He ran a simulation, predicting the flight path of the aggregate. It might fracture into smaller elements, or combine with another, but if it continued on its present course, it was destined to skim the planet’s immediate airspace.

This troubled Remontoire. So far the alien machines had avoided coming that close. It was as if, scripted deep into their controlling routines, was an edict, a fundamental command to avoid unnecessary contact with Pattern Juggler worlds.

But humans had taken the battle to the waterlogged planet. How deep did that edict run? Perhaps the visible downing of Skade’s corvette had tripped some switch, the damage already done. Perhaps Inhibitor machinery had already entered the biosphere. In which case even this Juggler planet might not be safe for very much longer.

The aggregate had been underway for nearly a second, from Remontoire’s point of view. Assuming the usual acceleration curves, it would reach the planet’s airspace in under forty minutes. In his present state of consciousness, that would seem like an eternity. But Remontoire knew better than to believe that.

Remontoire’s trident-shaped ship departed from the parking bay in the side of the Zodiacal Light. Almost immediately he felt the spinal compression as the main drive came on, as hard and unforgiving as a fall on to concrete. The hull creaked and protested as the acceleration ramped up through five, six, seven gees. The single outrigger-mounted engine was a microminiature Conjoiner drive, engineered with watchmaker precision, every component squeezed down to neurotic tolerances. It would have made Remontoire nervous, had he permitted himself to feel nervousness.

He was the only living thing aboard the recently manufactured ship. Even he seemed something of an afterthought, crammed into a tiny eyelike hollow in the long carbon-black needle of the hull. There were no windows, and only the bare minimum of sensor apertures, but through his implants Remontoire barely perceived the little craft, sensing it only as a glassy extension of his personal space. Beyond the hard boundaries of the ship was a less tangible sphere of sensor coverage: passive and active contacts tickling the part of his brain associated with the proprioceptive knowledge of his own body image.

The thrust levelled out at eight gees. There was no inertial protection against that acceleration, even though bulk control of inertia had been within the reach of Conjoiner technology for more than half a century. It couldn’t be allowed. The other technology that the ship carried - the glittering, tinsel-like machinery of the hypometric weapon - was highly intolerant of alterations to the local metric. The hypometric weapons were difficult enough to use in nearly flat, unmolested space-time. But within the influence of inertial technology they became malevolently unpredictable, like spiteful imps. Remontoire would have liked to have accelerated even harder, but above eight gees there was a real danger of shifting the weapon’s tiny components out of alignment.

The weapon itself wasn’t much to look at from the outside. Shrouded in a cigar-shaped nacelle flung out as an extension from the same outrigger that held the drive, there was no muzzle, no exhaust, no surface detailing of any kind. The only design constraint had been to arrange for the weapon to be as far from the human occupant as possible. It was, Remontoire thought, a measure of the device’s threatening glamour that he actually felt safer with the dangerous, unstable miniature Conjoiner drive between him and the quixotic weapon.

He checked the progress of the Inhibitor aggregate, neither gratified nor disappointed to see that it was exactly where he had predicted it would be. Something had changed, though: his departure from the Zodiacal Light had drawn the attention of the other protagonists. One of Skade’s former allies was moving on an intercept trajectory with his ship at a higher acceleration than he could sustain. The other Conjoiner craft would engage him within fifteen minutes. Five or six minutes after that, a second aggregate would have reached him.

Remontoire allowed himself a flicker of disquiet, just enough to pump some adrenalin into his blood. Then he blocked it, the way one slammed the door on a boisterous party.

He knew, rationally, that the logical thing would have been to remain on the Zodiacal Light, where his co-ordination and insight were most valued. He could have programmed a beta-level simulation of himself to fly this ship, or asked for a volunteer. There would have been dozens of willing candidates, some of whom had been equipped with Conjoiner implants of their own. But he had insisted on taking the ship himself. It wasn’t just because he had spent more time than most of them learning the ways of the hypometric weapon. There was also a sense of obligation: it was something he had to do.

It was, he knew, because of Ana Khouri. He had made a mistake in letting her travel down to the planet on her own. From a military perspective it had been exactly the right thing to do: no point committing already overstretched resources when there was every likelihood that Aura was already dead. More than that, he thought, when there was every chance that Aura had already been as useful to them as she was ever going to be. Also, nothing much larger than an escape capsule had stood a chance of reaching the surface anyway, with the Inhibitor blockade in maximum effect.

But Clavain wouldn’t have seen it that way. Nine times out of ten he had based his decisions upon the strict application of military sense. He wouldn’t have lived through five hundred years otherwise. But one time out of ten he would disregard the rules entirely and do something that made no sense except on a humane level.

Remontoire thought it likely that this would have been one of those occasions. No matter that Skade and Aura were probably both dead: Clavain would have gone down with Khouri even if the rescue attempt itself was almost guaranteed to end in their deaths.

Time and again over the years Remontoire had examined the minutiae of Clavain’s life, the critical points, trying to work out if those irrational acts had helped or hindered his old friend. He reviewed Clavain’s decisions once more while he waited for the Conjoiner ship to meet him. As always he arrived at no satisfactory answer. But he had decided that this was a time when he needed to live by Clavain’s rules rather than the rigid gamesmanship of tactical analysis.

A clock rang in his brain. His fifteen minutes were up.

There had been no point thinking about the approaching Conjoiner ship before it arrived: a quick review of the options had shown him that nothing would be gained by deviating from his present course.

The other ship pushed through his concentric sensor boundaries like a fish nosing through sharply defined sea currents. In his mind’s eye it became a tangible thing rather than a vague hint in the sensor data.

It was a moray-class corvette like Skade’s craft, just as light-suckingly black as Remontoire’s ship, but shaped more like a weirdly barbed fish-hook than the trident form of his own machine. Even at close range, the spectral whisper of its highly stealthed drives was barely detectable. On average, its hull radiated at a chill 2.7 kelvin above absolute zero. Up close, in the microwave spectrum, it was a quilt of hot and cold spots. He mapped the emplacement of cryo-arithmetic engines; observed those that were functioning less efficiently than their neighbours; observed also those that were running worryingly cold, teetering on the edge of algorithmic-cycle runaway. The occasional blue flicker sparked as one of the nodes dropped below 1 kelvin, before being dragged back into lockstep with its cohorts.

Ships could be made arbitrarily cold, and could therefore be made to blend in with the background radiation of the early universe, which was still shining after fifteen billion years. But the background map was not smooth: cosmic inflation had magnified tiny flaws in the expanding universe to produce subtle variations in the background, depending on which way one looked. They were deviations from true anisotropy: wrinkles in the face of creation. Unless they could adjust their hull temperatures to match those fluctuations, ships could only achieve an imperfect match with the background spectrum. Under some circumstances, hunting for those tiny signs of mismatch was the only way to detect enemy ships at all.

But the Conjoiner ship was maintaining the coldness of its hull purely as camouflage against Inhibitor forces in the vicinity. It was making no real effort to hide itself from Remontoire. In fact, it was even trying to speak to him.

There was one thing about Conjoiners that even the non-augmented had to admire: they didn’t give up. Twenty-eight thousand unanswered requests for negotiation wouldn’t deter a twenty-eight thousand and first.

Remontoire allowed the narrow line of the message laser to scribe against his hull until it found one of the few sensor patches.

He examined the transmission through copious layers of mental fire-walling. Eventually, after many seconds of cogitation, he decided that it was safe to unpack the transmission into the most sensitive parts of his own mind. The message format was in natural language rather than any of the high-level Conjoiner protocols. Nicely insulting touch, he thought: from the perspective of Skade’s allies, it was the Conjoiner equivalent of baby talk.

[Remontoire? It’s you, isn’t it? Why won’t you talk to us?]

He composed a thought in the same format. Why are you so certain I’m Remontoire?

[You were always more fond of wild gestures than you’d ever admit. This is straight out of Clavain’s book of daring escapades.]

Someone has to do it.

[It’s a brave effort, Remontoire, but it’s pointless worrying about those people on the planet. Nothing we can do can help them now. They’re not even relevant to the future outcome of the war.]

We’d best let them hang, then. That’d be Skade’s way, wouldn’t it?

[Skade would do what she could for them if she thought they were going to make a difference. But you’re only making things worse. Don’t take the battle down there. Don’t stretch things up here when we most need to consolidate our forces.]

Another plea for co-operation? Skade must be turning in her grave.

[She was a pragmatist, Remontoire, much like yourself. She would have seen that now is the time to amalgamate our parties, to pool our knowledge-base and inflict real damage on the enemy machines.]

What you mean is that you’ve achieved all you can through deception and theft. You know I’ll never trust you that way again. Now you have nothing to lose by negotiating.

[With regret, we acknowledge that tactical errors were made. But now that Skade is - as you have alluded - very probably dead . . .]

The ducklings are waddling around looking for a new mother duck. [Adopt the analogy of your choice, Remontoire. We only offer the outstretched hand of friendship. The situation here is more complex than we’ve hitherto realised. You must have seen this for yourself: the teasing hints in the data, the scraps - too small and insignificant on their own - but which add up to a clear conclusion. We’re not just dealing with wolves, Remontoire. There is something else.]

I’ve seen nothing I couldn’t explain.

[Then you haven’t been looking hard enough. Here, Remontoire: examine our data, if you doubt us. See if that changes your opinion. See if that makes it any clearer to you.]

The data nugget was scripted into his head. An instinct told him to delete it still compressed, still unread. But he decided to leave it there for the time being.

You’re suggesting a partnership?

[Disunited, we’ll never beat them. Together, we could make a difference.]

Perhaps. But it’s not me you really want, is it?

[Of course not, Remontoire.]

He smiled: Skade’s Conjoiners might have been leaderless, might even have been driven towards him by some instinctive imperative to fill that void, but mainly it was the hypometric weapon. It was the one technology they hadn’t managed to steal or reverse-engineer, despite Skade’s theft of Aura. All that they needed was one prototype; it didn’t even have to be intact, so long as they could reconstruct its working configuration.

Thanks for the offer, but I’m actually a tiny bit preoccupied at the moment. Why don’t we chat about this later? Say, in a few months?

[Remontoire . . . don’t make us do this.]

He applied lateral thrust, veering rudely away from the other ship. He mapped areas of brain function dropping in and out as the blood sloshed through his skull. A moment later the corvette shadowed him, mimicking his vicious moves with a finesse verging on the sarcastic.

[We need that weapon, Remontoire.]

So I guessed. Why didn’t you just come out and say it at the beginning?

[We wanted to give you the chance to see things our way.]

I suppose I should be grateful, in that case.

He felt his ship judder. His head lit up with damage reports, bright and geometric as a migraine. They had hit him with multiple hull-penetrating slugs targeted for ship-critical functions. It was very surgical: they wanted to leave him drifting, ripe for theft, rather than to blow his ship apart. Whether they cared about his survival was another matter entirely.

[Surrender the weapon now, Rem, and we’ll leave you with enough flight-capability to escape that wolf aggregate closing in on us.]

Sorry, but that’s not really in my plans for today.

His vessel rattled again: more vital functions faltered or dropped out of service. The ship was already trying to find work-arounds, doing its best to keep flying, but there was a limit to the damage it could soak up. He considered retaliating, but he was keen to save his conventional ordnance for the aggregates. That left the hypometric weapon itself, barely tested since its laborious calibration.

He issued the mental command that caused it to spin up to activation energy, compensating for the drift in the ship’s vector as angular momentum transferred to the shining innards of the weapon. Externally, there was no evidence of any change in the device at all. He wondered what kind of sensors the corvette had trained on him, and whether they were good enough to pick up the subtle signatures of activation.

It was a small weapon with a correspondingly limited precision and radial volume of effect (conventional terminology - things like ‘range’ and ‘accuracy’ - were only vaguely applicable to hypometric weapons). But it also spun up very quickly. He tuned its scale of effect, found the solution in the complex topography of weapon parameters that corresponded to a specific point in the three-dimensional volume of surrounding space.

He re-established a communications channel to the corvette. Pull back.

[Again, don’t make us do this, Remontoire.]

The weapon discharged. In the microwave-frequency map of the corvette’s cold spots, a wound had suddenly appeared: a perfectly hemispherical bite in the side of the hull. The cryogenic temperature gradients flowed like water around a sinkhole, gyring and wheeling as they tried to find a new equilibrium. Pairs of cooling nodes locked into unstable oscillation modes.

The weapon spun up again. He put another hole in the corvette’s hull, deeper this time, so that the wound was concave.

The corvette responded. Reluctantly, he parried the ship-to-ship munitions with a spread of countermeasures while still holding some back for the Inhibitor machines.

The weapon spun up a third time. He concentrated, forcing himself to examine the solution from every angle. An error now could be fatal for all involved.

Discharge. His third attack was not visible at all. If he had done his sums correctly he had just put a spherical hole inside the ship without touching the hull. It would not have touched any vital internal systems. And - his coup de grâce - the centre of the final hole would be exactly in line with the centres of the last two, to micron accuracy.

He waited a moment for the precision - and essential restraint - of his attack to sink in before contacting them again. The next one takes out your life-system. Got the message?

The corvette hesitated. Seconds oozed by, time for Skade’s acolytes to examine thousands of possible response scenarios, toying with them the way children toyed with building blocks, constructing huge, wobbling edifices of event and counter-event. Almost certainly they had not expected him to turn the weapon against them. Their best intelligence would never have suggested he had that degree of control over the weapon’s effects. Even if it had - and even if they had considered the possibility of an attack - they must have assumed he would strike at their ship’s drive core, taking it out in an instant of blinding light.

Instead, he had let them off with a warning. This wasn’t, Remontoire had thought to himself, a time to be making new enemies.

There was no further transmission. He watched, fascinated, as the cryo-arithmetic engines smoothed out the temperature gradients around the two exterior wounds, doing their best to camouflage the damage. Then the corvette flipped over, pushed its thrust to the limit and made itself scarce.

Remontoire allowed himself a miserly instant of self-congratulation. He had played that one well. His ship was still spaceworthy despite the damage it had sustained. And all he had to worry about now was the approaching aggregate of Inhibitor machines. The machines would arrive in three minutes.

Two thousand kilometres, then a thousand, then five hundred. Closer, his sensors struggled to deal with the clump of Inhibitor machines as a single entity, throwing back wildly conflicting estimates for distance, scale and geometric disposition. The best he could do was to focus his efforts on the larger nodes, refining his hull-camouflaging to provide a better line-of-sight match with the cosmic background. He adjusted his thrust vectoring, losing some acceleration but steering his ship’s exhaust beams away from the shifting concentrations of enemy machines. The exhausts were invisible, all but undetectable via the methods available to Remontoire. He hoped the same disadvantage applied to the aliens, but it paid not to take chances.

The clumps reorganised, shifting nearer. They were still too far away and too vaguely dispersed to make an effective target for the hypometric weapon. He was also wary of using it against them except as a tool of last resort. There was always the danger that he’d show it to them too many times, giving them enough data to conjure up a response. It had already happened with other weapons: time and again the Inhibitors had evolved effective defences against human technologies, including some of those already bequeathed by Aura. It was possible that the alien machines were not evolving them at all, but simply retrieving countermeasures from some ancient, jumbled racial memory. This conjecture alarmed Remontoire more than the idea that they might have developed their adaptations and responses through intelligent thinking. There was always the hope that one kind of intelligence could be beaten by the application of another kind, or that intelligence - self-regarding, prone to doubt - might even conspire in its own downfall. But what if there was no intelligence in the Inhibitor activities, just a process of archival retrieval, an utterly mindless bureaucracy of systematised extinction? The galaxy was a very old place and it had seen many clever ideas. More than likely, the Inhibitors already possessed ancient data on the humans’ new weapons and technologies. If they had not yet developed effective responses, it was only because that retrieval system was slow, the archive itself vastly distributed. What that meant was that there was nothing the humans could do, in the long run. No way to outgun the Inhibitors, except on a very local scale. Think galactically, think beyond the immediate handful of solar systems, and it was already over.

But through the channel of her mother, Aura had told them that it wasn’t over, not yet. According to Aura there was a means of buying time, if not outright victory, over the Inhibitors.

Snatches, fragments: that was all they could glean from Aura’s confused messages. But out of the noise had emerged hints of a signal. Time and again a cluster of words had appeared.

Hela. Quaiche. Shadows.

These were shards broken loose from a larger whole that Aura had been too young to articulate. All Remontoire could do was guess at the shape of that bigger picture, using what they had learned before Skade had kidnapped her. Skade and Aura were both gone now, he believed, but he still had those shards. They had to mean something, no matter how unlikely it appeared. And there was, tantalisingly, a clear link between two of them. Hela and Quaiche: the words meant something in association. But of the Shadows he knew nothing at all.

What were they, and what difference would they make?

The aggregate was very close now. It had begun to grope horns around either side of his ship, dark pincers flickering with buried violet lightning. Hints of cubic symmetries could now be glimpsed in sheared edges and stepped curves. He reviewed his options, taking account of the systems damaged in the Conjoiner attack. He wasn’t willing to use the hypometric weapon just yet, and doubted that he’d be able to spin up for a second attack before the undamaged elements took him out.

Ahead, the planet had grown noticeably larger. He had pushed the other aggregate from his mind, but it was still ahead of him, still skimming towards the fragile Juggler biosphere and its human parasites. Half the world was in darkness, the rest a marbled turquoise speckled by white clouds and swirling storm systems.

Remontoire made up his mind: it would have to be the bladder-mines.

In a fraction of a second, apertures popped open along the habitat hull of his trident-shaped ship. In another fraction of a second, launchers flung half a dozen melon-sized munitions in all directions. The hull clanged as the weapons were deployed.

Then there was silence.

An entire second passed, then the munitions detonated in an exactly choreographed sequence. There was no stutter of blinding-white flashes; these were not fusion devices or antimatter warheads. They were, in fact, only bombs in the very loosest sense of the word. Where each munition had detonated there was, suddenly, a twenty-kilometre-wide sphere of something just sitting there, like a rapidly inflated barrage balloon. The surface of each sphere was wrinkled, like the skin of a shrivelling fruit, shaded a purple-black and prone to nauseating surges of colour and boundary radius. Where two spheres happened to intersect - because their munitions had been closer than twenty kilometres apart when they detonated - the merged boundaries twinkled with sugary emanations of violet and pastel-blue.

The mechanisms inside the bladder mines were as intricate and unfathomable as those inside the hypometric weapon. There were even weird points of correspondence between the two technologies - odd parts that looked vaguely similar, suggesting that, perhaps, they had originated from the same species, or the same epoch of galactic history.

Remontoire’s suspicion was that the bladder-mines represented an early step towards the metric-engineering technology of the Shrouders. Whereas the Shrouders had learned how to encase entire stellar-sized volumes of space in shells of re-engineered space-time (with its own uncanny defensive properties), the bladder-mines produced unstable shells a mere twenty kilometres wide. They decayed back to normal space-time within a few seconds, popping out of existence in a shiver of exotic quanta. Where they had been, the local properties of the metric showed tiny indications of earlier stress. But the shells could never be made larger or more permanent, at least not by using the technology Aura had given them.

His spread of munitions was already decaying. The spheres popped away one by one, in random sequence.

Remontoire surveyed the damage. Where the shells had detonated, the intersected Inhibitor machinery had been ripped out of existence. There were curved mathematically smooth wounds in the groping aggregation of cubic elements. The lightning was arcing through the ruined structure, its mad flickering suggesting nothing so much as pain and rage.

Hit them when they’re down, Remontoire thought. He issued the mental command that would fling a final spread of bladder-mines into the surrounding machinery.

This time, nothing happened. Error messages stormed his brain: the launcher mechanism had failed, succumbing to damage from the earlier attack. He had been fortunate that it had worked once.

For the first time, Remontoire permitted himself more than an instant of real, blood-freezing fear. His options were now seriously diminished. He had no hull-armouring: that was another alien technology they had gleaned from Aura, but like inertial suppression it did not work well in proximity with the hypometric weapon. The hull-armouring came from the grubs; the h-weapon and the bladder-mines from a different culture. There were, unfortunately, compatibility issues. All he had left was the hypometric weapon and his conventional armaments, but there was still no clear focus for an attacking move.

The hull shuddered as his conventional mines were released from their hatches. Fusion detonations painted the sky. He felt the electromagnetic backwash play havoc with his implants, strobing abstract shapes through his visual field.

The Inhibitors were still there. He fired two Stinger missiles, watching them slam away on hundred-gee intercepts. Nothing happened: they hadn’t even detonated properly. He had no beam weapons, nothing more to offer.

Remontoire became very calm. His experience told him that nothing would be gained by using the hypometric weapon other than giving the machines another chance to study its operational function. He also knew that the wolves had yet to capture one of the weapons, and that he could not allow it to happen today.

He prepared the suicide command, visualising the coronet of fusion mines packed into the nacelle of the alien weapon. They would make a spectacular flash as they went off, almost as bright as the one that would follow an instant later when the Conjoiner drive went the same way. There was, he thought, very little chance that either would be appreciated by spectators.

Remontoire adjusted his state of mind so that he felt no fear, no apprehension about his own death. He felt only a tingle of irritation that he would not be around to see how events unfurled. In every significant respect he approached the matter of his own demise with the bored acceptance of someone waiting to sneeze. There were, he thought, some consolations to being a Conjoiner.

He was about to execute the command when something happened. The remaining machinery began to pull away from his ship, retreating with surprising speed. Beyond the machinery, his sensors picked up suggestions of weapons discharges and a great deal of moving mass - bladder-mine detonations, the signatures subtly different from the ones he had used. Antimatter and fusion warhead bursts followed, then the streaking exhaust plumes of missiles, and finally a single massive explosion that had to be a crustbuster device.

None of it would have made much difference ordinarily, but he had weakened the Inhibitor machinery with his own assault. The mass sensor teased out the signature of a single small ship, consistent, he realised now, with a Conjoiner moray-class corvette.

He guessed that it was the same ship he had spared. They had turned around, or perhaps had shadowed him all along. Now they were doing their best to draw the Inhibitor machinery away from him. Remontoire knew, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that the gesture was suicidal: they couldn’t hope to make it back to their faction in the engagement. Yet they had taken a decision to help him, even after their earlier attack and his refusal to hand over the hypometric weapon. Typical Conjoiner thinking, he reflected: they would not hesitate to shift tactics at the last minute if that shift was deemed beneficial to the long-term interests of the Mother Nest. They had no capacity for frustration, no capacity for shame.

They had tried to negotiate with him, and when that had failed they had tried to take what they wanted by force. That hadn’t worked either, and to rub it in he had made a show of sparing them. Was this a demonstration of their gratitude? Perhaps, he thought, but it was likely to be more for the benefit of those observing the battle, for Remontoire’s allies and the other Conjoiner factions, than for himself: let them see the brave sacrifice they had made here. Let them see the wiping clean of the slate. If twenty-eight thousand and one offers to share resources had failed, perhaps this gesture would be the thing that made a difference.

Remontoire didn’t know: not yet. He had other matters on his mind.

His ship pulled away from the entanglement of wolf and Conjoiner assets. Behind, naked energy and naked force strove to gore matter down to its fundamentals. Something absurdly bright lit up the sky, something so intense that he swore a glimmer of it reached him through the black hull of his ship.

He turned his attention to the other aggregate, the one that was now very close to the planet. At extreme magnification he saw a black mass squatting a few hours into the dayside of the planet, hovering above a specific point on the surface. It was doing something.

TWENTY-THREE

Hela, 2727

Quaiche was alone in his garret, save for the scrimshaw suit. He heard only his own breathing and the attentive sounds of the couch on which he rested. The jalousies were half-drawn, the room scribed with parallel lines of fiery red.

He could feel, very faintly - and only because he had learned to feel it - the tiny residual side-to-side and back-to-front lurching of the Lady Morwenna as it progressed along the Way. Far from annoying him, the swaying was a source of reassurance. The instant the cathedral became rock steady, he would know that they were losing ground on Haldora. But the cathedral had not stopped for more than a century, and then only for a matter of hours during a reactor failure. Ever since then, even as it had grown in size, doubling and then quadrupling in height, it had kept moving, sliding along the Way at the exact speed necessary to keep Haldora fixed directly above, and therefore transmitted via the mirrors into his pinned-open, ever-watchful eyes. No other cathedral on the Way had such a record: the Lady Morwenna’s nearest rival, the Iron Lady, had failed for an entire rotation fifty-nine years earlier. The shame of that breakdown - having to wait in the same spot until the other cathedrals came around again after three hundred and twenty days - still hung heavy six decades later. Every other cathedral, including the Lady Morwenna, had a stained-glass window in commemoration of that humiliation.

The couch propelled him to the westerly window, tipping up slightly to improve his view. As he moved, the mirrors shuffled around him, maintaining sight-lines. No matter which way he steered the couch, Haldora was the predominant object reflected back to him. He was seeing it after multiple reflections, the light jogged through right angles, reversed and inverted again, magnified and diminished by achromatic lenses, but it was still the light itself, not some second- or third-hand image on a screen. It was always there, but the view was never quite the same from hour to hour. For one thing, the illumination of Haldora changed throughout the forty-hour cycle of Hela’s orbit: from fully lit face, to crescent, to storm-racked nightside. And even during any given phase the details of shading and banding were never quite the same from one pass to the next. It was enough, just, to stave off the feeling that the image had been branded into his brain.

It was not all that he saw, of course. Surrounding Haldora was a ring of black shading to silver grey, and then - packed into a band of indistinct detail - his immediate surroundings. He could look to one side and shift Haldora into his peripheral vision, for the mirrors were focusing the image on to his eyes, not just his pupils. But he did not do this very often, fearful that a vanishing would happen when the planet did not have his full attention.

Even with Haldora looming head-on, he had learned how to make the most of his peripheral vision. It was surprising how the brain was able to fill in the gaps, suggesting details that his eyes were really not capable of resolving. More than once it had struck Quaiche that if human beings really grasped how synthetic their world was - how much of it was stitched together not from direct perception, but from interpolation, memory, educated guesswork - they would go quietly mad.

He looked at the Way. In the far easterly distance, in the direction that the Lady Morwenna was headed, there was a distinct twinkling. That was the northern limit of the Gullveig Mountains, the largest range in Hela’s southern hemisphere. It was the last major geological feature to be crossed before the relative ease of the Jarnsaxa Flats and the associated fast run to the Devil’s Staircase. The Way cut through the northern flanks of the Gullveig Range, pushing through foothills via a series of high-walled canyons. And that was where an icefall had been reported. It was said to be a bad one, hundreds of metres deep, completely blocking the existing alignment. Quaiche had personally interviewed the leader of the Permanent Way repair team earlier that day, a man named Wyatt Benjamin who had lost a leg in some ancient, unspecified accident.

‘Sabotage, I’d say,’ Benjamin had told him. ‘A dozen or so demolition charges placed in the wall during the last crossing, with delayed timing fuses. A spoiling action by trailing cathedrals. They can’t keep up, so they don’t see why anyone else should.’

‘That would be quite a serious allegation to make in public,’ Quaiche had said, as if the very thought had never occurred to him. ‘Still, you may be right, much as it pains me to admit it.’

‘Make no mistake, it’s a stitch-up.’

‘The question is, who’s going to clear it? It would need to be done in - what, ten days at the maximum, before we reach the obstruction?’

Wyatt Benjamin had nodded. ‘You may not want to be that close when it’s cleared, however.’

‘Why not?’

‘We’re not going to be chipping this one away.’

Quaiche had absorbed that, understanding exactly what the man meant. ‘There was a fall of that magnitude three, four years ago, wasn’t there? Out near Glum Junction? I seem to remember it was cleared using conventional demolition equipment. Shifted the lot in fewer than ten days, too.’

‘We could do this one in fewer than ten days,’ Benjamin told him,

‘but we only have about half of our usual allocation of equipment and manpower.’

‘That sounds odd,’ Quaiche had replied, frowning. ‘What’s wrong with the rest?’

‘Nothing. It’s just that it’s all been requisitioned, men and machines. Don’t ask me why or who’s behind it. I only work for the Permanent Way. And I suppose if it was anything to do with Clocktower business, you’d already know, wouldn’t you?’

‘I suppose I would,’ Quaiche had said. ‘Must be a bit lower down than Clocktower level. My guess? Another office of the Way has discovered something they should have fixed urgently already, a job that got forgotten in the last round. They need all that heavy machinery to get it done in a rush, before anyone notices.’

‘Well, we’re noticing,’ Benjamin had said. But he had seemed to accept the plausibility of Quaiche’s suggestion.

‘In that case, you’ll just have to find another means of clearing the blockage, won’t you?’

‘We already have another means,’ the man had said.

‘God’s Fire,’ Quaiche had replied, forcing awe into his voice.

‘If that’s what it takes, that’s what we’ll have to use. It’s why we carry it with us.’

‘Nuclear demolitions should only ever be used as the absolute final last resort,’ Quaiche had said, with what he hoped was the appropriate cautioning tone. ‘Are you quite certain that this blockage can’t be shifted by conventional means?’

‘In ten days with the available men and equipment? Not a sodding hope.’

‘Then God’s Fire it will have to be.’ Quaiche had steepled the twigs of his fingers. ‘Inform the other cathedrals, across all ecumenical boundaries. We’ll take the lead on this one. The others had better draw back to the usual safe distance, unless they’ve improved their shielding since last time.’

‘There’s no other choice,’ Wyatt Benjamin had agreed.

Quaiche had placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘It’s all right. What has to be done, has to be done. God will watch over us.’

Quaiche snapped out of his reverie and smiled. The Permanent Way man was gone now, off to arrange the rare and hallowed deployment of controlled fusion devices. He was alone with the Way and the scrimshaw suit and the distant, alluring twinkle of the Gullveig Range.

‘You arranged for that ice, didn’t you?’

He turned to the scrimshaw suit. ‘Who told you to speak?’

‘No one.’

He fought to keep his voice level, betraying none of the fear he felt. ‘You aren’t supposed to talk until I make it possible.’

‘Clearly this is not the case.’ The voice was thin, reedy: the product of a cheap speaker welded to the back of the scrimshaw suit’s head, out of sight of casual guests. ‘We hear everything, Quaiche, and we speak when it suits us.’

It shouldn’t have been possible. The speaker was only supposed to work when Quaiche turned it on. ‘You shouldn’t be able to do this.’

The voice - it was like something produced by a cheaply made woodwind instrument - seemed to mock him. ‘This is only the start, Quaiche. We will always find a way out of any cage you build around us.’

‘Then I should destroy you now.’

‘You can’t. And you shouldn’t. We are not your enemy, Quaiche. You should know that by now. We’re here to help you. We just need a little help in return.’

‘You’re demons. I don’t negotiate with demons.’

‘Not demons, Quaiche. Just shadows, as you are to us.’

They had had this conversation before. Many times before. ‘I can think of ways to kill you,’ he said.

‘Then why not try?’

The answer popped unbidden into his head, as it always did: because they might be useful to him. Because he could control them for now. Because he feared what would happen if he killed them as much as if he let them live. Because he knew there were more where this lot came from.

Many more.

‘You know why,’ he said, sounding pitiable even to himself.

‘The vanishings are increasing in frequency,’ the scrimshaw suit said. ‘You know what that means, don’t you?’

‘It means that these are the end times,’ Quaiche said. ‘No more than that.’

‘It means that the concealment is failing. It means that the machinery will soon be evident to all.’

‘There is no machinery.’

‘You saw it for yourself. Others will see it, too, when the vanishings reach their culmination. And sooner or later someone will want to do business with us. Why wait until then, Quaiche? Why not deal with us now, on the best possible terms?’

‘I don’t deal with demons.’

‘We are only shadows,’ the suit said again. ‘Just shadows, whispering across the gap between us. Now help us to cross it, so that we can help you.’

‘I won’t. Not ever.’

‘There is a crisis coming, Quaiche. The evidence suggests it has already begun. You’ve seen the refugees. You know the stories they tell, of machines emerging from the darkness, from the cold. Engines of extinction. We’ve seen it happen before, in this very system. You won’t beat them without our help.’

‘God will intervene,’ Quaiche said. His eyes were watering, blurring the image of Haldora.

‘There is no God,’ the suit said. ‘There is only us, and we don’t have limitless patience.’

But then it fell silent. It had said its piece for the day, leaving Quaiche alone with his tears.

‘God’s Fire,’ he whispered.

Ararat, 2675

When Vasko returned to the heart of the iceberg there was no more music. With the light bulk of the incubator hanging from one hand he made his way through the tangle of icy spars, following the now well-cleared route. The ice tinkled and creaked around him, the incubator knocking its way through obstructions. Scorpio had told him not to rush back to the ruined ship, but he knew that the pig had only been trying to spare him any unnecessary distress. He had made the call to Blood, told Urton what was happening and then returned with the incubator as fast as he dared.

But as he neared the gash in the ship’s side he knew it was over. There was a pillar of light ramming down from the ceiling of ice, where someone had blasted a metre-wide hole through to the sky. Scorpio stood in the circle of light at the foot of the pillar, his features sharply lit from above as if in some chiaroscuro painting. He was looking down, the thick mound of his head sunk into the wide yoke of his shoulders. His eyes were closed, the fine-haired skin of his forehead rendered blue-grey in the light’s dusty column. There was something in his hand, speckling red on to the ice.

‘Sir?’ Vasko asked.

‘It’s done,’ Scorpio said.

‘I’m sorry you had to do that, sir.’

The eyes - pale, bloodshot pink - locked on to him. Scorpio’s hands were shaking. When he spoke his perfectly human voice sounded thin, like the voice of a ghost losing its grip on a haunt.

‘Not as sorry as I am.’

‘I would have done it, if you’d asked me.’

‘I wouldn’t have asked you,’ Scorpio said. ‘I wouldn’t have asked it of anyone.’

Vasko fumbled for something else to say. He wanted to ask Scorpio how merciful Skade had allowed him to be. Vasko thought that he could not have been away for more than ten minutes. Did that mean, in some abhorrent algebra of hurting, that Skade had given Clavain some respite from the prolonged death she had promised? Was there any sense in which she could have been said to have shown mercy, if only by shaving scant minutes from what must still have been unutterable agony?

He couldn’t guess. He wasn’t sure he really wanted to know.

‘I brought the incubator, sir. Is the child . . .’

‘Aura’s all right. She’s with her mother.’

‘And Skade, sir?’

‘Skade is dead,’ Scorpio told him. ‘She knew she couldn’t survive much longer.’ The pig’s voice sounded dull, void of feeling. ‘She’d diverted her own bodily resources to keep Aura alive. There wasn’t much of Skade left when we opened her up.’

‘She wanted Aura to live,’ Vasko said.

‘Or she wanted a bargaining position when we came with Clavain.’

Vasko held up the light plastic box, as if Scorpio had not heard him properly. ‘The incubator, sir. We should get the child into it immediately.’

Scorpio leaned down, wiping the blade of the scalpel against the ice. The red smear bled away into the frost in patterns that made Vasko think of irises. He thought Scorpio might discard the knife, but instead the pig slipped it into a pocket.

‘Jaccottet and Khouri will put the child into the incubator,’ he said. ‘Meanwhile, you and I can take care of Clavain.’

‘Sir?’

‘His last wish. He wanted to be buried at sea.’ Scorpio turned to step back into the ship. ‘I think we owe him that much.’

‘Was that the last thing he said, sir?’

Scorpio turned slowly back to face Vasko and studied him for a long moment, his head tilted. Vasko felt as if he was being measured again, just as the old man had measured him, and the experience induced exactly the same feeling of inadequacy. What did these monsters from the past want of him? What did they expect him to live up to?

‘It wasn’t the last thing he said, no,’ Scorpio replied quietly.

They laid the body bag down on the fringe of ice surrounding the iceberg. Vasko had to keep reminding himself that it was still only the middle of the morning: the sky was a wet grey, clouds jammed in from horizon to horizon, like a ceiling scraping the top of the iceberg. A few kilometres out to sea was a distinct and threatening smudge of wet ink in that same ceiling, like a black eye. It seemed to move against the wind, as if looking for something below. On the horizon, lightning scribed chrome lines against the tarnished silver of the sky. Distant rain came down in slow sooty streams.

Around the iceberg, the sea roiled in sullen grey shapes. In all directions, the surface of the water was being constantly interrupted by slick, moving phantasms of an oily turquoise-green colour. Vasko had seen them earlier: they broke the surface, lingered and then vanished almost before the eye had time to focus. The impression was that a vast shoal of vague whale-like things was in the process of surrounding the iceberg. The phantasms bellied and gyred between waves and spume. They merged and split, orbited and submerged, and their precise shape and size was impossible to determine. But they were not animals. They were vast aggregations of micro-organisms acting in a coherent manner.

Vasko saw Scorpio looking at the sea. There was an expression on the pig’s face that he hadn’t seen before. Vasko wondered if it was apprehension.

‘Something’s happening, isn’t it?’ Vasko asked.

‘We have to carry him beyond the ice,’ Scorpio said. ‘The boat’s still good for a few hours. Help me get him into it.’

‘We shouldn’t take too long over it, sir.’

‘You think it makes the slightest difference how long it takes?’

‘From what you’ve said, sir, it made a difference to Clavain.’

They heaved the bag into the black carcass of the nearest boat. In daylight the hull already looked far rougher than Vasko remembered it, the smooth metal surface pocked and pitted with spots of local corrosion. Some of them were deep enough to put his thumb into. Even as they lifted the bag over the side, bits of the boat came off in metallic scabs where Vasko’s knee touched it.

The two of them climbed aboard. Urton, who was to remain on the iceberg’s ledge, helped them on their way with a shove. Scorpio turned on the motor. The water fizzed and the boat inched back towards the sea, retreating along the channel it had cut into the fringe.

‘Wait.’

Vasko followed the voice. It was Jaccottet, emerging from the iceberg. The incubator hung from his wrist, obviously heavier than when Vasko had carried it in.

‘What is it?’ Scorpio called, idling the engine.

‘You can’t leave without us.’

‘No one’s leaving.’

‘The child needs medical attention. We must get her back to the mainland as soon as possible.’

‘That’s just what’s going to happen. Didn’t you hear what Vasko said? There’s a plane on its way. Sit tight here and everything will be all right.’

‘In this weather the plane might take hours, and we don’t know how stable this iceberg is.’

Vasko felt Scorpio’s anger. It made his skin tingle, the way static electricity did. ‘So what are you saying?’

‘I’m saying we should leave now, sir, in both boats, just as we came in. Head south. The plane will pick us up by transponder. We’re bound to save time that way, and we don’t have to worry about this thing collapsing under us.’

‘He’s right, sir, I think,’ Vasko said.

‘Who asked you?’ Scorpio snapped.

‘No one, sir, but I’d say we all have a stake in this now, don’t we?’

‘You have no stake in anything, Malinin.’

‘Clavain seemed to think I did.’

He expected the pig to kill him there and then. The possibility loomed in his mind even as his gaze drifted to that deep black eye in the clouds. It was closer now - no more than a kilometre from the iceberg - and it was bellying down, beginning to reach something nublike towards the sea. It was a tornado, Vasko realised: just what they needed.

But Scorpio only snarled and powered up the engine again. ‘Are you with me or not? If not, get out and wait on the ice with the others.’

‘I’m with you, sir,’ Vasko said. ‘I just don’t see why we can’t do it the way Jaccottet says. We can leave with both boats and bury Clavain on the way.’

‘Get out.’

‘Sir?’

‘I said get out. It isn’t up for negotiation.’

Vasko started to say something. Time and again, when he replayed the incident in his mind, it would never be clear to him just what he intended to say to the pig at that moment. Perhaps he already knew he had crossed the line at that point, and that nothing he could say or do would ever unmake that crossing.

Scorpio moved with lightning speed. He let go of the engine control, seized Vasko with both trotters and then levered him over the side. Vasko felt the top inch of the metal side of the boat crumble under his thigh, like brittle chocolate. Then his back hit a thin and equally brittle skein of ice, and finally he sank into water colder than anything he had ever imagined, the bitter chill ramming up his spine like a gleaming piston of shock and pain. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t cry out or reach for anything solid. He could hardly remember his name, or why drowning was such a bad thing after all.

He saw the boat slide away into the sea. He saw Jaccottet place the incubator on the ground, Khouri stepping up behind him, and start walking quickly but carefully towards him.

Above, the sky was a blank cerebral grey, except for the shadowy focus of the stormy eye. The nub of blackness had almost reached the surface of the water. It was curling to one side, towards the iceberg.

Scorpio brought the boat to a standstill. It rocked in a metre-high swell, not so much floating in water now as resting on a moving raft of blue-green organic matter. The raft reached away in all directions for many dozens of metres, but it was thickest at its epicentre, which appeared to be precisely where the boat had come to rest. Surrounding it was a dark charcoal band of relatively uncontaminated water, and beyond that lay several other distinct islands of Juggler matter. Beneath the surface of the water, glimpsed intermittently between waves and foam, were suggestions of frondlike tentacular structures, thick as pipelines. They bobbed and swayed, and occasionally moved with the slow, eerie deliberation of prehensile tails.

Scorpio rummaged in the boat for something to wrap around his face. The smell was drilling into his brain. Humans said it was bad, or at least overwhelmingly strong and potent. It was the smell of rotting kitchen waste, compost, ammonia, sewage, ozone. For pigs it was unbearable.

He found a covering in a medical kit and wrapped it twice around his snout, leaving his eyes free. They were stinging, watering incessantly. There was nothing he could do about that now.

Standing up, careful not to overbalance himself or the boat, he took hold of the body bag. The fury he had felt when he had thrown Vasko overboard had sapped what little strength he had managed to conserve. Now the bag felt three times as heavy as it should, not twice. He gripped it, trotters either side of the head end, and began to inch backwards. He did not want to risk dropping the body over one of the sides, fearful that the boat would capsize with the weight of two adults so far from the midline. If he dragged the body to the front or the back, he might be safe.

He slipped. His trotters lost their grip. He went flying backwards, landing on the calloused swell of his buttocks, the body bag thumping down against the decking.

He wiped the tears from his eyes, but that only made matters worse. The air was clotted with micro-organisms, a green haze hovering above the sea, and all he had done was force that irritation deeper into himself.

He stood up again. He noticed, absently, the trunk of blackness reaching down from the sky. He grasped the bag once more and started to heave it towards the stern. The organic shapes congealed around the boat in a constant procession of disturbing effigies, bottle-green silhouettes forming and dissolving like the work of mad topiarists. When he looked at them directly, the shapes had no meaning, but from the corner of his eye he saw hints of alien anatomy: a menagerie of strangely joined limbs, oddly arranged faces and torsos. Mouths gaped wide. Multiple clusters of eyes regarded him with mindless scrutiny. Articulated wing parts spread open like fans. Horns and claws erupted from the greenery, lingering for an instant before collapsing back into formlessness. The constant changes in the physical structure of the Juggler biomass was accompanied by a warm, wet breeze and a rapid slurping and tearing sound.

He turned around so that the bag lay between him and the stern. Leaning over the bag, he grasped it near the shoulders and levered it on to the metal side of the stern. He blinked, trying to focus. All around him, the green frenzy continued unabated.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

It was all meant to happen differently. In his imagination, Scorpio had often considered the possible circumstances of Clavain’s death. Assuming he would live long enough to witness it himself, he had always seen Clavain’s burial in heroic terms, some solemn fire-lit ceremony attended by thousands of onlookers. He had always assumed that if Clavain died it would be gently and in the belly of the colony, his last hours the subject of loving vigils. Failing that, in some courageous and unexpected action, going out heroically the way he had almost done a hundred times before, pressing a hand to some small, innocent-looking chest wound, his face turning the colour of a winter sky, holding on to breath and consciousness just long enough to whisper some message to those who would have to go on without him. In his imagination, it had always been Scorpio who passed on that valediction.

There would be dignity in his death, a sense of rightful closure. And his burial would be a thing of wonder and sadness, something to be talked about for generations hence.

That was not how it was happening.

Scorpio did not want to think about what was in the bag, or what had been done to it. He did not want to think about the enforced slowness of Clavain’s death, or the vital part he had played in it. It would have been bad enough to have been a spectator to what took place in the iceberg. To know that he had been a participant was to know that some irreplaceable part of himself had been hollowed out.

‘I won’t let them down,’ he said. ‘When you were away on your island, I always tried to do things the way you would have done them. That doesn’t mean I ever thought I was your equal. I know that won’t ever be true. I have trouble planning beyond the end of my nose. Like I always say, I’m a hands-on type.’

His eyes stung. He thought about what he had just said, the bitter irony of it.

‘I suppose that was the way it was, right to the end. I’m sorry, Nevil. You deserved better than this. You were a brave man and you always did the right thing, no matter what it cost you.’

Scorpio paused, catching his breath, quashing the vague feeling of absurdity he felt in talking to the bag. Speeches had never been his thing. Clavain would have made a much better job of it, had their roles been reversed. But he was here and Clavain was the dead man in the bag. He just had to do the best he could, fumbling through, the way he had done most things in his life.

Clavain would forgive him, he thought.

‘I’m going to let you go now,’ Scorpio said. ‘I hope this is what you wanted, pal. I hope you find what you were looking for.’

He gave the bag one last heave over the side. It vanished instantly into the green raft that surrounded the boat. In the moments after the bag had gone there was a quickening in the activity of the Juggler forms. The constant procession of alien shapes became more frenzied, shuffling towards some excited climax.

In the sky, the questing black trunk had curved nearly horizontal, groping towards the iceberg. The tip of the thing was no longer a blunt nub: it had begun to open, dividing into multiple black fingers that were themselves growing and splitting, writhing their way through the air.

There was nothing he could do about that now. He looked back at the play of Juggler shapes, thinking for an instant that he had even seen a pair of female human faces appear in the storm of images. The faces had been strikingly alike, but one possessed a maturity that the other lacked, a serene and weary resignation. It was as if entirely too much had been witnessed, entirely too much imagined, for one human life. Eyeless as statues, they stared at him for one frozen moment, before dissolving back into the flicker of masks.

Around him, the raft began to break up. The changing wall of shapes slumped, collapsing back into the sea. Even the smell and the stinging miasma had begun to lose something of their astringency. He supposed that meant he had done his duty. But above the sea, the black thing continued to push its branching extremities towards the iceberg.

He still had work to do.

Scorpio turned the boat around. By the time he reached the iceberg the other craft was already afloat: Vasko, Khouri, the incubator and the two Security Arm people were visible within it, the adults crouching down against the spray, the hull sinking low in the water. The Jugglers had redoubled their activity after the lull when the ocean received Clavain. Scorpio was certain now that it had something to do with the thing reaching down from the sky. The Jugglers didn’t like it: it was making them agitated, like a colony of small animals sensing the approach of a snake.

Scorpio didn’t blame them: it was no kind of weather phenomenon he had ever experienced. Not a tornado, not a sea-spout. Now that the swaying multi-armed thing was directly overhead, its artificial nature was sickeningly obvious. The entire thing - from the thick trunk descending down through the cloud layer to the thinnest of the branching extremities - was composed of the same cubic black elements they had seen in Skade’s ship. It was Inhibitor machinery, wolf machinery - whatever you wanted to call it. There was no guessing how much of it hovered above them, hidden behind the cloud deck. The trunk might even have reached all the way down through Ararat’s atmosphere.

It made him feel ill just to look at it. It simply wasn’t right.

He steered towards the other boat. Now that he had dealt with Clavain he felt a clarity of mind he’d lacked a few minutes before. It had probably been wrong to leave them on the iceberg with just that one boat for escape, but he had not wanted anyone else with him when he buried his friend. Selfish, perhaps, but it hadn’t been any of them doing the cutting.

‘Hold tight,’ he told them via the communicator. ‘We’ll even out the load as soon as I’m close enough.’

‘Then what?’ Vasko asked, looking fearfully up at the thing stretched across the sky.

‘Then we run like hell.’

The thing’s attention lingered over the iceberg. With slow, python-like movements it pushed a cluster of tentacles into the roof of the frozen structure, the needles and jags of ice shattering as the machinery forced its way through. Perhaps, Scorpio thought, it sensed the presence of other pieces of Inhibitor machinery, dormant or dead within the wreckage of the corvette. It needed to be reunited with them. Or perhaps it was after something else entirely.

The iceberg quivered. The sea responded to the movement, slow, shallow waves oozing away from the fringe. From somewhere within the structure came crunching sounds, like the shattering of bone. Flaws opened wide in the outer layer of the ice, exposing a lacy marrow of fabulously differentiated colour: pinks and blues and ochres.

Black machinery forced its way through the cracks. A dozen tentacles emerged from the iceberg, coiling and writhing, sniffing the air, splitting into ever-smaller components as they pushed outwards.

Scorpio’s boat kissed the hull of the other craft. ‘Give me the incubator,’ he shouted, above the screaming of the engine.

Vasko stood up, leaning between the boats, steadying himself with one hand on Scorpio’s shoulder. The young man looked pale, his hair plastered to his scalp. ‘You came back,’ he said.

‘Things changed,’ Scorpio said.

Scorpio took the incubator, feeling the weight of the child within it, and jammed it safely between his feet. ‘Now Khouri,’ he said, offering a hand to the woman.

She crossed over to his boat; he felt it sink lower in the water as she boarded. She met his gaze for a moment, seemed about to say something. He turned back to Vasko before she had a chance.

‘Follow me. I don’t want to hang around here a moment longer than necessary.’

The cracks in the iceberg had widened to plunging abysses, rifts that cut deep into its heart. The black machinery forced more of itself into the ice, insinuating itself in eager surges. More extremities emerged from the perimeter, waving and extending. The iceberg began to break up into distinct chunks, each as large as a house. Scorpio gunned his boat’s engine harder, slamming across the waves, but could not tear his attention from what was happening behind him. Chunks of the iceberg calved away, jagged pieces tipping into the sea with a powdery roar of displaced water. Now he could see a writhing tangle of black tentacles flexing and coiling around the ruined corvette. Not much remained of the iceberg now, just the ship that had grown it.

The machinery pulled the ship into the air. The black shapes forced themselves through the gaps in the hull, their movements delicate and thoughtful and vaguely apprehensive, like someone removing the last layer of wrapping from a present.

The other boat was lagging: it was slower in the water, with three adults aboard.

The corvette broke into sharp black pieces, all but the smallest of them still suspended in the sky. Coils and bows of perfect blackness wheeled around the parts.

It’s looking for something, Scorpio thought.

The coils loosened their grip. Tentacles and sub-tentacles withdrew in a flurry of contracting motion. Layers of black cubes flowed across each other, swelling and shrinking in queasy unison. Scorpio only saw the details in the edges, where the machinery met the grey backdrop of the sky.

The pieces of the corvette - all of them, now - splashed into the sea.

But it still held something: a tiny, white, star-shaped form hung limply in the air. It was Skade, Scorpio realised. The machinery had found her in the wreckage, wrapped part of itself around her waist and plunged another, more delicate part of itself into her head. It was interrogating her, retrieving neural structures from her corpse.

It might, for a moment, feel like being alive again.

The black machinery pushed a new trunk of itself towards the fleeing boats. With that, something tightened in Scorpio’s stomach: some instinctive visceral response to the approach of a slithering predator. Get away from it. He tried to push the boat harder. But the boat was already giving him all it had.

He saw motion in the other boat: the glint as a muzzle was trained towards the sky. An instant later, the blinding electric-pink discharge of a Breitenbach cannon lit the grey sky. The beam lanced up towards the looming mass of alien machinery. It should have speared right through it, etching a searing line into the cloud deck. Instead, the beam veered around the machinery like a firehose.

Vasko kept firing, but the beam squirmed away from any point where it might have done damage.

The black machinery followed the thick trunk. The whole mass still hung from the sky, multi-armed, like some obscene chandelier.

It was taking a particular interest in the second boat.

The cannon sputtered out. Scorpio heard the crackle of small-arms fire.

None of it was going to make any difference.

Suddenly he felt a lancing pain in his ears. All around him, in the same instant, the sea bellied up three or four metres, as if a tremendous suction effect had pulled it into the sky. There was a thunderclap louder than anything he had ever heard. He looked up, his ears still roaring, and saw . . . something - a hint, for a fraction of a second, of a circular absence in the sky, a faint demarcation between the air and something within it. The circle was gone almost immediately, and as it ceased to exist he felt the same pain in his ears, the same sense of suction.

A few seconds later, it happened again.

This time, the circle intersected the main black mass of the hovering Inhibitor machinery. A huge misshapen clot of it fell towards the waves, severed from the rest. Even more of the mass had simply ceased to exist: it was as if everything within the spherical region above him had winked out of existence - not just air, but the Inhibitor machinery occupying the same volume. The limbs attached to the falling chunk thrashed wildly even as it fell. Scorpio sensed it slowing as it neared the surface of the water, but the rate of arrest was not sufficient to bring it to a halt. It hit, submerged, rebounded to the surface. The limbs continued to whip around the main core, threshing the sea.

Khouri leaned towards him. Her lips moved, but her voice was lost under the blood-tide roaring in his ears. He knew what she was saying, though: the three syllables were unmistakable. ‘Remontoire.’

He nodded. He didn’t need to know the details: it was enough that he had intervened. ‘Thank you, Rem,’ he said, hearing his own voice as if underwater.

The grey-green mass of the Juggler material was coalescing around the floating, thrashing mass of black machinery. Above, the intruder had begun to pull itself back into the cloud deck, the curved surfaces of its wounds still obvious. Scorpio was beginning to wonder about the other part - whether it would repair itself, shrug off the Juggler biomass and continue to cause them trouble - when it and the Jugglers and an entire hundred-metre-wide hemispherical scoop of sea vanished. He watched as the sloping, seamless wall of water around the absence seemed to freeze there, as if unwilling to reclaim the volume taken away from it. Then it crashed in, a tower of dirty green surging into the air above the epicentre, and an ominous ramp of water sped towards them.

Scorpio tightened his grip on both the boat and the incubator. ‘Hold on,’ he shouted to Khouri.

TWENTY-FOUR

Ararat, 2675

That night, strange lights appeared in the skies over Ararat. They were vast and schematic, like the blueprints of forbidden constellations. They were unlike any aurorae that the settlers had ever seen.

They began to appear in the twilight hour that followed sundown, in the western sky. There were no clouds to hide the stars, and the moons remained almost as low as they had during the long crossing to the iceberg. The solitary spire of the great ship was a wedge of deeper blackness against the purple twilight, like a glimpse into the true stellar night beyond the veil of Ararat’s atmosphere.

No one had any real idea what was causing the lights. Conventional explanations, involving beam weapons interacting with Ararat’s upper atmosphere, had proven utterly inadequate. Observations captured by camera from different locations on Ararat established parallactic distances for the shapes of whole fractions of a light-second, well beyond Ararat’s ionosphere. Now and then there was something more explicable: the flash of a conventional explosion, or a shower of exotic particles from the grazing lash of some stray beam weapon; occasionally the hard flicker of a drive exhaust or missile plume, or an encrypted burst of comms traffic. But for the most part the war above Ararat was being waged with weapons and methods incomprehensible in their function.

One thing was clear, however: with each passing hour, the lights increased in brightness and complexity. And in the water around the bay, more and more dark shapes crested the waves. They shifted and merged, changing form too rapidly to be fixed by the eye. No sense of purpose was apparent, merely an impression of mindless congregation. The Juggler contact swimmer corps specialists watched nervously, unwilling to step into the sea. And as the lights above became more intense, the changes more frequent, so the shapes in the sea responded with their own quickening tempo.

Ararat’s natives, too, were aware that they had visitors.

Hela, 2727

Grelier took his position in the great hall of the Lady Morwenna, in one of the many seats arranged before the black window. The hall was dim, external metal shutters having been pulled down over all the other stained-glass windows. There were a few electric lights to guide the spectators to their seats, but the only other source of illumination came from candles, vast arrays of them flickering in sconces. They threw a solemn, painterly cast on the proceedings, rendering every face noble, from the highest Clocktower dignitary to the lowliest Motive Power technician. There was, naturally, nothing to be seen of the black window itself, save for a faint suggestion of surrounding masonry.

Grelier surveyed the congregation. Apart from a skeleton staff taking care of essential duties, the entire population of the cathedral must now be present. He knew many of the five thousand people here by name - more than many of them would ever have suspected. Of the others, there were only a few hundred faces that he was not passingly familiar with. It thrilled him to see so many in attendance, especially when he thought of the threads of blood that bound them all. He could almost see it: a rich, red tapestry of connections hanging above the congregation, drapes and banners of scarlet and maroon, simultaneously complex and wondrous.

The thought of blood reminded him of Harbin Els. The young man, as Grelier had told Quaiche, was dead, killed in clearance duties. Their paths had never crossed again after that initial interview on the caravan, even though Grelier had been awake during part of Harbin’s period of work in the Lady Morwenna. The Bloodwork processing that Harbin had indeed gone through had been handled by Grelier’s assistants rather than the surgeon-general himself. But like all the blood that was collected by the cathedral, his sample had been catalogued and stored in the Lady Morwenna’s blood vaults. Now that the girl had re-entered his life, Grelier had taken the expedient step of recalling Harbin’s sample from the library and running a detailed assay on it.

It was a long shot, but worth his trouble. A question had occurred to Grelier: was the girl’s gift a learned thing, or innate? And if it was innate, was there something in her DNA that had activated it? He knew that only one in a thousand people had the gift for recognising and interpreting microexpressions; that fewer still had it to the same degree as Rashmika Els. It could be learned, certainly, but people like

Rashmika didn’t need any training: they just knew the rules, with absolute conviction. They had the observational equivalent of perfect pitch. To them, the strange thing was that everyone else failed to pick up on the same signs. But that didn’t mean the gift was some mysterious superhuman endowment. The gift was socially debilitating. The afflicted could never be told a consoling lie. If they were ugly and someone told them they were beautiful, the gap between intention and effect was all the more hurtful because it was so obvious, so stingingly sarcastic.

He had searched the cathedral’s records, scanning centuries-old medical literature for anything on genetic predisposition to the girl’s condition. But the records were frustratingly incomplete. There was much on cloning and life-extension, but very little on the genetic markers for hypersensitivity to facial microexpression.

Nonetheless, he had still gone to the trouble of analysing Harbin’s blood sample, looking for anything unusual or anomalous, preferably in the genes that were associated with the brain’s perceptual centres. Harbin could not have had the gift to anything like the same degree as his sister, but that in itself would be interesting. If there were no significant differences in their genes beyond the normal variations seen between non-identical siblings, then Rashmika’s gift would begin to look like something acquired rather than inherited. A fluke of development, perhaps, something in her early environment that nurtured the gift. If something did show up, on the other hand, then he might be able to map the mismatched genes to specific areas of brain function. The literature suggested that people with brain damage could acquire the skill as a compensatory mechanism when they lost the ability to process speech. If that was the case, and if the important brain regions could be identified, then it might even be possible to introduce the condition by surgical intervention. Grelier’s imagination was freewheeling: he was thinking of installing neural blockades in Quaiche’s skull, little valves and dams that could be opened and closed remotely. Isolate the right brain regions - make them light up or dim, depending on function - and it might even be possible to turn the skill on and off. The thought thrilled him. What a gift for a negotiator, to be able to choose when you wished to see through the lies of those around you.

But for now he only had a sample from the brother. The tests had revealed no striking anomalies, nothing that would have made the sample stand out had he not already had a prior interest in the family. Perhaps that supported the hypothesis that the skill was acquired. He would not know for certain until he had some blood from Rashmika Els.

The quaestor had been useful, of course. With the right persuasion, it wouldn’t have been difficult to find a way to get a sample from Rashmika. But why risk derailing a process that was already rolling smoothly towards its conclusion? The letter had already had precisely the desired effect. She had interpreted it as a forgery, designed to warn her off the trail. She had seen through the quaestor’s fumbling explanation for the letter’s existence. It had only strengthened her resolve.

Grelier smiled to himself. No; he could wait. She would be here very shortly, and then he would have his blood.

As much of it as he needed.

At that moment a hush fell on proceedings. He looked around, watching Quaiche slide down the aisle in his moving pulpit. The upright black structure made a faint trundling sound as it approached. Quaiche remained in his life-support couch, tilted nearly to vertical and carried atop the pulpit. Even as he moved down the aisle, the light from Haldora was still reaching his eyes. An elaborate system of jointed tubes and mirrors conveyed it all the way down from the Clocktower. Robed technicians followed behind the pulpit, adjusting the tubes with long clawed poles. In the dim light, Quaiche’s sunglasses were gone, revealing the painful framework of the eye-opener.

For many of those present - certainly those who had arrived in the Lady Morwenna in the last two or three years - this might well be the first time they had ever seen Quaiche in person. It was very rare for him to descend from the Clocktower these days. Rumours of his death had been circulating for decades, barely checked by each increasingly infrequent appearance.

The pulpit swung around and moved along the front of the congregation before coming to a halt immediately below the black window. Quaiche had his back to it, facing the audience. In the candlelight he appeared to be a chiselled outgrowth of the pulpit itself. In bas-relief, vacuum-suited saints supported him from below.

‘My people,’ he said, ‘let us rejoice. This is a day of wonders, of opportunity in adversity.’ His voice was the usual smoky croak, but amplified and enhanced by hidden microphones. From high above, the organ provided a rumbling, almost subsonic counterpoint to Quaiche’s oration.

‘For twenty-two days we have been approaching the impasse in the Gullveig canyon, slowing our speed, allowing Haldora to slip ahead of us, but never actually stopping. We had hoped that the blockage would be cleared twelve or thirteen days ago. If it had, we would have lost no ground. But the obstruction proved more challenging than we had feared. Conventional clearance measures proved ineffective. Good men died surveying the problem, and yet more lives were lost in planting the demolition charges. I need hardly remind anyone present that this is a delicate business: the Way itself must remain substantially undamaged once the main obstruction is cleared.’ He paused, the circular frames around his eyes catching the candlelight and flaring the colour of brass. ‘But now the dangerous work is done. The charges are in place.’

At that moment, the choir and the organ swelled in unison. Grelier’s hand was tight on the head of his cane. He squinted, knowing exactly what was coming.

‘Behold God’s Fire,’ Quaiche intoned.

The black window flared with wonderful light. Through each chip and facet of glass rammed a tangible shaft of colour, each shaft so intense and pure that it slammed Grelier back to a nursery world of bright shapes and colours. He felt the chemical seepage of joy into his brain, struggling to resist it even as he felt his resolve crumbling.

Before the window, Quaiche stood silhouetted on the pulpit. His arms were raised, spindly as branches. Grelier narrowed his eyes even more, trying to make out the pattern revealed in the black window. He was just beginning to tease it out when the shockwave hit, making the whole cathedral shake. Candles fluttered and died, the suspended chandeliers swaying.

The window faded to black. An afterimage remained, however: a rendering of Quaiche himself, kneeling before the iron monstrosity of the scrimshaw suit. The suit was hinged open along the once-welded seam. Quaiche’s hands were cupped before him, lathered in a cloying red mass that extended tendrils and ropes back into the cavity of the scrimshaw suit. It was as if he had reached into the suit and drawn out that sticky red mess. Quaiche’s face was turned to heaven, to the banded globe of Haldora.

But it wasn’t Haldora as Grelier had ever seen it portrayed.

The afterimage was fading. Grelier began to wonder if he would have to wait until the next blockage to see the window again, but another demolition burst followed the first, again revealing the design. Worked into the face of Haldora, conspiring to look as if it was shining through the atmospheric bands of the gas giant, was a geometric pattern. It was very complicated, like the intricate wax seal of an emperor: a three-dimensional lattice of silver beams. At the heart of the lattice, radiating beams of light, was a single human eye.

Another shockwave came through, rocking the Lady Morwenna. One final detonation followed and then the show was over. The black window was again black, its facets too opaque to be illuminated by anything other than the nuclear brilliance of God’s own Fire.

The organ and the choir subsided.

‘The Way may now be cleared,’ Quaiche said. ‘It will not be easy, but we will now be able to proceed at normal Way speeds for several days. There may even have to be more demolition charges, but the bulk of the obstacle no longer exists. For this we thank God. But the time we have lost cannot be easily recovered.’

Grelier’s hand was again tight on the cane.

‘Let the other cathedrals attempt to make up lost time,’ Quaiche said. ‘They will struggle. Yes, the Jarnsaxa Flats lie before us, and the race there will be to the swift. The Lady Morwenna is not the fastest cathedral on the Way, nor has it ever sought that worthless accolade. But what is the point of trying to make up lost ground on the Flats when the Devil’s Staircase lies just beyond it? Normally we would be trying to have time in hand at this point, pulling ahead of Haldora in preparation for the slow and difficult navigation of the Staircase. This time we do not have that luxury. We have lost critical days when we can least afford to lose them.’

He waited a moment, knowing that he had the congregation’s terrified attention. ‘But there is another way,’ Quaiche said, leaning forwards in the pulpit, almost threatening to topple out of the support couch. ‘One that will require daring, and faith. We do not have to take the Devil’s Staircase at all. There is another route across Ginnungagap Rift. You all know, of course, of what I speak.’

All around the cathedral, transmitted through its armoured fabric, Grelier heard the rattling as the external shutters were drawn up. The ordinary stained-glass windows were being reopened, light flooding through them in sequenced order. Ordinarily he would have been duly impressed, but the memory of the black window was still there, its afterimage still ghosting his vision. When you had seen nuclear fire through welding glass, all else was as pale as watercolour.

‘God gave us a bridge,’ Quaiche said. ‘I believe it is time we used it.’

Rashmika found herself drawn to the roof of the caravan again, crossing between the vehicles until she reached the tilted rack of the Observers. The identical smooth mirrors of their faces, neatly spaced and ranked, had taken on a peculiar abstract quality. They made her think of the bottoms of stacked bottles in a cellar, or the arrayed facets of one of the gamma-ray monitoring stations out near the edge of the badlands. She did not know whether she found this more or less comforting than the realisation that each was a distinct human being - or had been, at least, until their compulsion to gaze at Haldora had scoured the last stubborn trace of personality from their minds.

The caravan rocked and rolled, negotiating a stretch of road that had only recently been reclaimed from icefalls. Now and then - more often, it seemed, than a day or so before - they swerved to steer past a group of pilgrims making the journey on foot. The pilgrims looked tiny and stupid, so far below. The fortunate ones had closed-cycle vacuum suits that permitted long journeys across the surface of a planet. Some of the suits even tended to ailments, healing minor wounds or soothing arthritic joints. Certainly those were the lucky ones. The rest had to make do with suits that had never been designed for travelling more than a few kilometres unassisted. They trudged beneath the weight of bulky home-made backpacks, like peasants carrying all their possessions. Some of them had ended up with such grotesque contraptions that they had no choice but to haul their belongings and their makeshift life-support systems behind them, on skis or treads. The suits, helmets, backpacks and towed contraptions were all augmented with religious totems, often of a cumbersome nature. There were golden statues, crosses, pagodas, demons, snakes, swords, armoured knights, dragons, sea monsters, arks and a hundred other things Rashmika did not trouble herself to recognise. Everything was done by muscle power, without the succour of mechanical assistance. Even in Hela’s moderate gravity the pilgrims were bent double with the effort, every sliding footstep a study in exhaustion.

Something drew her eye, far to what she judged to be the south. She looked sharply in that direction, but caught only a fading nimbus: a blue-violet glow retreating behind the nearest line of hills.

A moment later, she saw another flash in the same direction. It was as sharp and quick as an eye-blink, but it left the same dying aura.

A third. Then nothing.

She had no definite idea of what the flashes had been, but she guessed that the direction she was looking in could not be far from the position on the Permanent Way currently occupied by the cathedrals. Perhaps she had witnessed part of the clearing operation of which the quaestor had spoken.

Now something else was happening, but this time much nearer. The rack on which the Observers were mounted was tilting, lowering itself down towards the horizontal. At an angle of about thirty degrees it halted, and with one eerily smooth movement the Observers all sat up, their shackles unlocked. The suddenness of the motion quite startled Rashmika. It was like the co-ordinated rising of an army of somnambulists.

Something brushed past her - not forcefully, but not exactly gently either. Then another something.

She was being passed by a procession of the same hooded pilgrims. She looked back and saw that there was a long line of them approaching the rack. They were emerging from a trapdoor in the roof of the caravan, one she had not noticed earlier. At the same time, the ones that had been on the rack were filing off it one row at a time, stepping down the gentle slope with synchronised movements. As they reached the roof of the caravan they made their own line, winding back around the rack and vanishing down another trapdoor. Even before the rack was fully vacated, the new batch of Observers were taking their positions: lying flat on their backs, buckling in. The entire shift change took perhaps two minutes, and was executed with such a degree of manic calm that it was difficult to see how it could have been completed any more quickly. Rashmika had the impression that blood had been spilled over every second of that shift change, for here was a hiatus during which Haldora remained unobserved. This was not quite true, she realised then, for she saw no sign of similar activity anywhere else along the caravan: the other racks were still tilted at their usual observation angles. Doubtless the shift changes were staggered so that at least one group of Observers would be sure to witness a Haldora vanishing.

Until now, it had not occurred to her that the Observers would spend any time off the rack. But here they were, filing obediently back into the caravan. She wondered if this was because there were too many Observers to go around, or whether they needed to be taken off the rack now and then for their own health.

Doubtless the sequence of distant flashes had been a coincidence, but it had served to underscore the shift change in a way that Rashmika found faintly unsettling. The last time she had been up here she had felt as if she was spying on a sacred ceremony. Now she felt as if she had been caught in the middle of it, and had in some way marred the sanctity of the ritual.

The last of the new batch of Observers had assumed their positions on the rack. Though they had bustled past her, there was no obvious sign that she had spoiled their timing. Now the rack itself was tilting back to the same slope as the others along the line of the caravan, angling to face Haldora.

Rashmika turned around to watch the last of the old shift vanish back into the machine. There were three left, then two, and then the last one disappeared down into the hole. Where the new shift had emerged the trapdoor was now sealed, but the other one remained open.

Rashmika looked up at the Observers on the rack. They seemed utterly indifferent to her presence now, if indeed they had really noticed her at all. Perhaps they had only registered her as a minor obstacle on the way to their duty.

She began to make her way to the open trapdoor. All the while she kept an eye on the rack, but at its present angle it would have been almost impossible for anyone on it to see her at all, even in peripheral vision, and especially not given the fact that they were wearing helmets and hoods.

She had no intention of going down the trapdoor. At the same time she was hugely curious to see what was below. A glimpse would suffice. She might see nothing, just a laddered tube leading somewhere else, perhaps to an airlock. Or she might see . . . well, her imagination drew a blank. But she could not help but picture rows of Observers, hooked into machines, being refreshed in time for another shift.

The caravan swayed and bumped. She steadied herself on a railing, expecting any moment that the trapdoor would be tugged shut from within. She hesitated to go any nearer. The Observers had appeared docile so far, but how would they react to an invasion of their territory? She knew next to nothing about their sect. Maybe they had an elaborate series of death penalties lined up for those who violated their secrets. A thought crossed her mind: what if Harbin had done exactly what she was about to do? She was a lot like her brother. She could easily imagine Harbin killing time by wandering around the caravan, stumbling into the same shift change, being driven by his natural curiosity to see what was down below. Another thought, even less welcome, chased the first: what if one of the Observers was Harbin?

She pushed forwards until she reached the lip of the trapdoor. It still had not closed. Warm red light spilled up from the depths.

Rashmika steadied herself again, making certain she could not fall over the edge if the caravan made another sharp swerve. She peered into the shaft and saw a simple ladder descending as far as her angle of vision allowed her to see. To look deeper, she would have to lean further out.

Rashmika stretched, letting go of her hand-hold to make the move. She could see a little further into the hole now. The ladder terminated against grilled flooring. There was a hatch or doorway leading further into the caravan - one end of an airlock, perhaps, unless the Observers spent their entire lives in vacuum.

The caravan lurched. Rashmika felt herself tip forwards. She flailed, reaching back for the support railing. Her fingers clasped empty space. She tilted further forwards. The hole yawned bigger, the shaft suddenly appearing much wider and deeper than it had an instant ago. Rashmika started to cry out, certain that she was about to fall in. The ladder was on the wrong side; there was no way she was going to be able to grab it.

But suddenly she was still. Something - someone - held her. The person pulled her gently back from the edge of the trapdoor. Rashmika’s heart was in her throat. She had never understood what people meant when they said that, but now the expression made perfect sense to her.

Looking up into the face of her benefactor, she saw her own mirrored faceplate reflected back at her, and a smaller reflection in that, dwindling all the way to some vague, not too distant vanishing point. Behind the hooded mirror, faintly visible, was a suggestion of a young man’s face. Cheekbones, caught sharply in the light. Slowly, but unmistakably, he shook his head.

Almost as soon as this realisation had dawned, Rashmika was on her own again. The Observer moved around to the side of the shaft where the ladder was and slipped nimbly over the side and then down. Still catching her breath after the shock of nearly falling, Rashmika moved sluggishly to the edge, arriving just in time to see the Observer operate some lever-driven mechanism that brought the trapdoor down. Once snugly in its frame, the door twisted through ninety degrees.

She was on her own again.

Rashmika stood up, shaky on her feet. She felt foolish and irresponsible. How careless she had been to allow herself to be saved by one of the pilgrims. And how unwise to assume that they did not perceive her at all. It was obvious now, crushingly so. They had always been aware of her but had simply chosen to ignore her as best they could. When, finally, she had done something that could not be ignored - something idiotic, it had to be said - they had intervened quickly and sternly, the way adults did around children. She had been put right without reprimand or caution, but the sense of indignity remained. Rashmika had little experience with rebuke, and the sensation was both novel and unpleasant.

Something snapped in her then. She knelt down on the armoured trapdoor and pounded it with her fists. She wanted the Observer to come back up and make some explanation for why he had shaken his head. She wanted him to apologise, to make her feel as if she had done nothing wrong by spying on their ritual. She wanted him to purge her guilt, to take it upon himself. She wanted absolution.

She kept knocking on the door, but nothing happened. The caravan rumbled on. The racked Observers maintained their tireless scrutiny of Haldora. Finally, humbled and humiliated, feeling even more foolish than she had when the man had saved her, Rashmika stood up and went back across the roof of the machine to her own part of the caravan. Inside her helmet she cried at her own weakness, wondering why she had ever imagined she had the strength or courage to see her quest through to the end.

Ararat, 2675

‘Do you believe in coincidences?’ asked the swimmer.

‘I don’t know,’ Vasko said. He stood at a window in the High Conch, a hundred metres above the grid of night-time streets. His hands were laced neatly behind his back, his booted feet set slightly apart, his spine straight. He had heard that there was to be a meeting here, and that he would not be prevented from attending. No one had explained why it was taking place in the conch structure rather than the supposedly more secure environment of the ship.

He looked out beyond the land to the ribbon of water between the shore and the dark spire of the ship. The Juggler activity had not lessened, but there was, strangely, a swathe of calm water reaching out into the bay like a tongue. The shapes festered on either side of it, but between them the water had the smooth cast of molten metal. The moving lanterns of boats meandered away from land, navigating that strip. They were sailing in the direction of the ship, strung out in a ragged, bobbing procession. It was as if the Jugglers were giving them clear passage.

‘Rumours spread fast,’ the swimmer said. ‘You’ve heard, haven’t you?’

‘About Clavain and the girl?’

‘Not just that. The ship. They say it’s started to come alive again. The neutrino detectors - you know about those?’ She didn’t wait for his answer. ‘They’re registering a surge in the engine cores. After twenty-three years, they’re warming. The ship’s thinking about leaving. ’

‘No one told it to.’

‘No one has to. It’s got a mind of its own. Question is, are we better off being on it when it leaves, or halfway around Ararat? We know there’s a battle going on up there now, even if we didn’t all believe that woman’s story at first.’

‘Not much doubt about it now,’ Vasko said, ‘and the Jugglers seem to have made up their minds as well. They’re letting those people reach the ship. They want them to reach safety.’

‘Maybe they just don’t want them to drown,’ the swimmer said. ‘Maybe they’re simply humouring whatever decision we make. Maybe none of it matters to them.’

Her name was Pellerin and he knew her from the earlier meeting aboard the Nostalgia for Infinity. She was a tall woman with the usual swimmer’s build. She had a handsome, strong-boned face with a high brow, and her hair was slicked back and glossy with perfumed oils, as if she had just emerged from the sea. What he took at first glance to be freckles across her cheeks and the bridge of her nose were in fact pale-green fungal markings. Swimmers had to keep an eye on those markings. They indicated that the sea was taking a liking to them, invading them, breaking down the barriers between vastly different organisms. Sooner or later, it was said, the sea would snatch them as a prize, dissolving them into the Pattern Juggler matrix.

Swimmers made much of that. They liked to play on the risks they took each time they entered the ocean, especially when they were senior swimmers like Pellerin.

‘It’s quite possible they do want them to make it to safety,’ Vasko said. ‘Why don’t you swim and find out for yourselves?’

‘We never swim when it’s like this.’

Vasko laughed. ‘Like this? It’s never been like this, Pellerin.’

‘We don’t swim when the Jugglers are so agitated,’ she said. ‘They’re not predictable, like one of your scraping machines. We’ve lost swimmers before, especially when they’ve been wild, like they are now.’

‘I’d have thought the circumstances outweighed the risks,’ he said. ‘But then what do I know? I just work in the food factories.’

‘If you were a swimmer, Malinin, you’d certainly know better than to swim on a night like this.’

‘You’re probably right,’ he said.

‘Meaning what?’

He thought of the sacrifice that had been made today. The scale of that gesture was still too large for him to take in. He had begun to map it, to comprehend some of its essential vastness, but there were still moments when abysses opened before him, reaching into unsuspected depths of courage and selflessness. He did not think a lifetime would be enough to diminish what he had experienced in the iceberg.

Clavain’s death would always be there, like a piece of shrapnel buried inside him, its sharp foreign presence felt with every breath.

‘Meaning,’ he said, ‘that if I were more concerned about my own wellbeing than the security of Ararat . . . then, yes, I might have second thoughts about swimming.’

‘You insolent little prick, Malinin. You have no idea.’

‘You’re wrong,’ he said, with sudden venom, ‘I have every idea. What I witnessed today is something you can thank God you didn’t have to experience. I know what it means to be brave, Pellerin. I know what it means and I wish I didn’t.’

‘I heard it was Clavain who was the brave one,’ she said.

‘Did I say otherwise?’

‘You make it sound as if it was you.’

‘I was there,’ he said. ‘That was enough.’

There was a forced calm in her voice. ‘I’ll forgive you this, Malinin. I know you all went though something awful out there. It must have messed with your mind pretty badly. But I’ve seen my two best friends drown before my eyes. I’ve watched another two dissolve into the sea and I’ve seen six end up in the psychiatric camp, where they spend their days drooling and scratching marks on to the walls with the blood from their fingertips. One of them was my lover. Her name is Shizuko. I visit her there now and when she looks at me she just laughs and goes back to her drawings. I have about as much personal significance for her as the weather.’ Pellerin’s eyes flashed wide. ‘So don’t give me a lecture about bravery, all right? We’ve all seen things we’d sooner forget.’

Her calm had undermined his own furious sense of self-righteousness. He was, he realised, shaking. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘Just get over it,’ she said. ‘And never, ever tell me that we don’t have the guts to swim when you don’t know a damned thing about us.’

Pellerin left him. He stood alone, his thoughts in turmoil. He could still see the line of boats, each lantern now fractionally further out from the shoreline.

TWENTY-FIVE

Ararat, 2675

Vasko slipped an anonymous brown coat over his Security Arm uniform, descended the High Conch and walked unobserved into the night.

As he stepped outside he felt a tension in the air, like the nervous stillness that presaged an electrical storm. The crowds moved through the narrow, twisting defiles of the streets in boisterous surges. There was a macabre carnival atmosphere about the lantern-lit assembly, but no one was shouting or laughing; all that he heard was the low hum of a thousand voices, seldom raised above a normal speaking level.

He did not much blame them for their reaction. Towards the end of the afternoon there had been only one curt official statement on the matter of Clavain’s death, and it now seemed unlikely that there was any part of the colony that hadn’t heard that news. The surge of people into the streets had begun even before sundown and the arrival of the lights in the sky. Rightly, they sensed that there was something missing from the official statement. There had been no mention of Khouri or the child, no mention of the battle taking place in near-Ararat space, merely a promise that more information would be circulated in the fullness of time.

The ragtag procession of boats had begun shortly afterwards. Now there was a small braid of bobbing lights at the very base of the ship, and more boats were continually leaving the shore. Security Arm officers were doing their best to keep the boats from leaving the colony, but it was a battle they could not hope to win. The Arm had never been intended to cope with massive civil disobedience, and the best that Vasko’s colleagues could do was impede the exodus. Elsewhere, there were reports of disturbances, fires and looting, with the Arm regulars having to make arrests. The Juggler activity - whatever it signified - continued unabated.

Vasko was grateful to find himself relieved of any scheduled duties. Wandering through the crowds, his own part in the day’s events not yet revealed, he listened to the rumours that were already in circulation. The simple kernel of truth - that Clavain had been killed in an ultimately successful action to safeguard a vital colonial asset - had accreted many layers of speculation and untruth. Some of the rumours were extraordinary in their ingenuity, in the details they posited for the circumstances of the old man’s death.

Pretending ignorance, Vasko stopped little groups of people at random and asked them what was going on. He made sure no one saw his uniform and also that none of the groups contained people likely to recognise him from work or his social circles.

What he heard disgusted him. He listened earnestly to graphic descriptions of gunfights and bomb plots, subterfuge and sabotage. It amazed and appalled him to discover how easily these stories had been spun out of nothing more than the fact of Clavain’s death. It was as if the crowd itself was manifesting a sly, sick collective imagination.

Equally distressing was the eagerness of those listening to accept the stories, bolstering the accounts with their own interjected suggestions for how events had probably proceeded. Later, eavesdropping elsewhere, Vasko observed that these embellishments had been seamlessly embroidered into the main account. It did not seem to bother anyone that many of the stories were contradictory, or at best difficult to reconcile with the same set of events. More than once, with incredulity, he heard that Scorpio or some other colony senior had died alongside Clavain. The fact that some of those individuals had already appeared in public to make short, calming speeches counted for nothing. With a sinking feeling, a cavernous resignation, Vasko realised that even if he were to start recounting events exactly as they had happened, his own version would have no more immediate currency than any of the lies now doing the rounds. He hadn’t actually witnessed the death himself, so even if he told the truth of things it would still only be from his point of view, and his story would of necessity have a damning taint of second-hand reportage about it. It would be dismissed, its content unpalatable, the details too vague.

Tonight, the people wanted an unequivocal hero. By some mysterious self-organising process of story creation, that was precisely what they were going to get.

He was shouldering his way through the lantern-carrying mob when he heard his own name called out.

‘Malinin.’

It took him a moment to locate the source of the voice in the crowd. A woman was standing in a little circle of stillness. The rabble flowed around her, never once violating the immediate volume of private space she had defined. She wore a long-hemmed black coat, the collar an explosion of black fur, the black peak of an unmarked cap obscuring the upper part of her face.

‘Urton?’ he asked, doubtfully.

‘It’s me,’ she said, stepping nearer to him. ‘I guess you got the night off as well. Why aren’t you at home resting?’

There was something in her tone that made him defensive. In her presence he still felt that he was continually being measured and found wanting.

‘I could ask you the same question.’

‘Because I know there wouldn’t be any point. Not after what happened out there.’

Provisionally, he decided to go along with this pretence at civility. He wondered where it was going to lead him. ‘I did try to sleep this afternoon,’ he said, ‘but all I heard were screams. All I saw was blood and ice.’

‘You weren’t even in there when it happened.’

‘I know. So imagine what it must be like for Scorpio.’

Now that Urton was next to him he shared the same little pocket of quiet that she had defined. He wondered how she did it. He did not think it very likely that the people flowing around them had any idea who Urton was. They must have sensed something about her: an electric prickle of foreboding.

‘I feel sorry for what he had to do,’ Urton said.

‘I’m not sure how he’s going to take it, in the long run. They were very close friends.’

‘I know that.’

‘It wasn’t just any old friendship,’ Vasko replied. ‘Clavain saved Scorpio’s life once, when he was due to be executed. There was a bond between them that went right back to Chasm City. I don’t think there was anyone else on this planet that Clavain respected quite as much as Scorpio. And Scorpio also knew that. I went with him to the island where Clavain was waiting. I saw them talking together. It wasn’t the way I’d imagined it to be. They were more like two old adventurers who’d seen a lot of the same things, and knew no one else quite understood them.’

‘Scorpio isn’t that old.’

‘He is,’ Vasko said. ‘For a pig, anyway.’

Urton led him through the crowd, towards the shore. The crowd began to thin out, and a warm night breeze salted with brine made his eyes tingle. Overhead, the strange lights etched arcane motifs from horizon to horizon. It was less like a firework display or aurora and more like a vast, painstaking geometry lesson.

‘You’re worried it’ll have done something to him, aren’t you?’ Urton asked.

‘How would you take it if you had to murder your best friend in cold blood? And slowly, with an audience?’

‘I don’t think I’d take it too well. But then I’m not Scorpio.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘He’s led us competently while Clavain was away, Vasko, and I know that you think well of him, but that doesn’t make him an angel. You already said that the pig and Clavain went all the way back to Chasm City.’

Vasko watched lights slide across the zenith, trailing annular rings like the pattern he sometimes saw when he pressed his fingertips against his own closed eyelids. ‘Yes,’ he said, grudgingly.

‘Well, what do you think Scorpio was doing in Chasm City in the first place? It wasn’t feeding the needy and the poor. He was a criminal, a murderer.’

‘He broke the law in a time when the law was brutal and inhuman,’ Vasko said. ‘That’s not quite the same thing, is it?’

‘So there was a war on. I’ve studied the same history books as you have. Yes, the emergency rule verged on the Draconian, but does that excuse murder? We’re not just talking about self-preservation or self-interest here. Scorpio killed for sport.’

‘He was enslaved and tortured by humans,’ Vasko said. ‘And humans made him what he is: a genetic dead end.’

‘So that lets him off the hook?’

‘I don’t quite see where you’re going with this, Urton.’

‘All I’m saying is, Scorpio isn’t the thin-skinned individual you like to think. Yes, I’m sure he’s upset by what he did to Clavain . . .’

‘What he was made to do,’ Vasko corrected.

‘Whatever. The point is the same: he’ll get over it, just like he got over every other atrocity he perpetrated.’ She lifted the peak of her cap, scrutinising him, her eyes flicking from point to point as if alert for any betraying facial tics. ‘You believe that, don’t you?’

‘Right now I’m not sure.’

‘You have to believe it, Vasko.’ He noticed that she had stopped calling him Malinin. ‘Because the alternative is to doubt his fitness for leadership. You wouldn’t go that far, would you?’

‘No, of course not. I’ve got total faith in his leadership. Ask anyone here tonight and you’ll get the same answer. And guess what? We’re all right.’

‘Of course we are.’

‘What about you, Urton? Do you doubt him?’

‘Not in the slightest,’ she said. ‘Frankly, I doubt that he’ll have lost much sleep at all over anything that happened today.’

‘That sounds incredibly callous.’

‘I want it to be callous. I want him to be callous. That’s the point. It’s exactly what we want - what we need - in a leader now. Don’t you agree?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said, feeling a huge weariness begin to slide over him. ‘All I know is that I didn’t come out here tonight to talk about what happened today. I came out here to clear my head and try to forget some of it.’

‘So did I,’ Urton said. Her voice had softened. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to rake over what happened. I suppose talking about it is my way of coping with it. It was pretty harrowing for all of us.’

‘Yes, it was. Are you done now?’ He felt his temper rising, a scarlet tide lapping against the defences of civility. ‘For most of yesterday and today you looked as if you couldn’t stand to be in the same hemisphere as me, let alone the same room. Why the sudden change of heart?’

‘Because I regret the way I acted,’ she said.

‘If you don’t mind my saying, it’s a little late in the day for second thoughts.’

‘It’s the way I cope, Vasko. Cut me some slack, all right? There was nothing personal about it.’

‘Well, that makes me feel a lot better.’

‘We were going into a dangerous situation. We were all trained for it. We all knew each other, and we all knew we could count on each other. And then you show up at the last minute, someone I don’t know, yet whom I’m suddenly expected to trust with my life. I can name a dozen SA officers who could have taken your position in that boat, any one of whom I’d have felt happier about covering my back.’

Vasko saw that she was leading him towards the shore, where the crowd thinned out. The dark shapes of boats blocked the gloom between land and water. Some were moored ready for departure, some were aground.

‘Scorpio chose to include me in the mission,’ Vasko said. ‘Once that decision was taken, you should have had the guts to live with it. Or didn’t you trust his judgement?’

‘One day you’ll be in my shoes, Vasko, and you won’t like it any more than I did. Come and give me a lecture about trusting judgement then, and see how convincing it sounds.’ Urton paused, watching the sky as a thin scarlet line transected it from horizon to horizon. She had evaded his question. ‘This is all coming out wrong. I didn’t pick you out of the crowd to start another fight. I wanted to say I was sorry. I also wanted you to understand why I’d acted the way I did.’

He kept the lid on his anger. ‘All right.’

‘And I admit I was wrong.’

‘You weren’t to know what was about to happen,’ he said.

She shrugged and sighed. ‘No, I don’t suppose I was. No matter what they say, he walked the walk, didn’t he? When it came to putting his life on the line, he went and did it.’

They had reached the line of boats. Most of those still left on land were wrecks: their hulls had gaping holes in them near the waterline, where they had been consumed by seaborne organisms. Sooner or later they would have been hauled away to the smelting plant, to be remade into new craft. The metalworkers were fastidious about reusing every possible scrap of recyclable metal. But the amount recovered would never have been equal to that in the original boats.

‘Look,’ Urton said, pointing across the bay.

Vasko nodded. ‘I know. They’ve already encircled the base of the ship.’

‘That’s not what I mean. Look a bit higher, Hawkeye. Can you see them?’

‘Yes,’ he said after a moment. ‘Yes. My God. They’ll never make it.’

They were tiny sparks of light around the base of the ship, slightly higher than the bobbing ring of boats Vasko had already noticed. He estimated that they could not have climbed more than a few dozen metres above the sea. There were thousands of metres of the ship above them.

‘How are they climbing?’ Vasko said.

‘Hand over hand, I guess. You’ve seen what that thing looks like close-up, haven’t you? It’s like a crumbling cliff wall, full of handholds and ledges. It’s probably not that difficult.’

‘But the nearest way in must be hundreds of metres above the sea, maybe more. When the planes come and go they always land near the top.’ Again he said, ‘They’ll never make it. They’re insane.’

‘They’re not insane,’ Urton said. ‘They’re just scared. Really, really scared. The question is, should we be joining them?’

Vasko said nothing. He was watching one of the tiny sparks of light fall back towards the sea.

They stood and watched the spectacle for many minutes. Nobody else appeared to fall, but the other climbers continued their relentless slow ascent undaunted by the failure that many of them had doubtless witnessed. Around the sheer footslopes, where the boats must have been rocking and crashing against the hull, new climbers were beginning their ascent. Boats were returning from the ship, scudding slowly back across the bay, but progress was slow and tension was rising amongst those waiting on the shoreline. The Security Arm officials were increasingly outnumbered by the angry and frightened people who were waiting for passage to the ship. Vasko saw one of the SA men speaking urgently into his wrist communicator, obviously calling for assistance. He had almost finished talking when someone shoved him to the ground.

‘We should do something,’ Vasko said.

‘We’re off duty, and two of us aren’t enough to make a difference. They’ll have to think of something different. It’s not as if they’re going to be able to contain this for much longer. I don’t think I want to be here any more.’ She meant the shoreline. ‘I checked the reports before I came out. Things aren’t so bad east of the High Conch. I’m hungry and I could use a drink. Do you want to join me?’

‘I don’t have much of an appetite,’ Vasko said. He had actually been starting to feel hungry again until he saw the person fall into the sea. ‘But a drink wouldn’t go amiss. Are you sure there’ll be somewhere still open?’

‘I know a few places we can try,’ Urton said.

‘You know the area better than me, in that case.’

‘Your problem is you don’t get out enough,’ she said. She pulled up the collar of her coat, then crunched down her hat. ‘Come on. Let’s get out of here before things turn nasty.’

She turned out to be right about the zone of the settlement east of the Conch. Many Arm members lodged there, so the area had always had a tradition of loyalty to the administration. Now there was a sullen, reproachful calm about the place. The streets were no busier than they usually were at this time of night, and although many premises were closed, the bar Urton had in mind was still open.

Urton led him through the main room to an alcove containing two chairs and a table poached from Central Amenities. Above the alcove a screen was tuned to the administration news service, but at the moment all it was showing was a picture of Clavain’s face. The picture had been taken only a few years earlier, but it might as well have been centuries ago. The man Vasko had known in the last couple of days had looked twice as old, twice as eroded by time and circumstance. Beneath Clavain’s face was a pair of calendar dates about five hundred years apart.

‘I’ll fetch us some beers,’ Urton said, not giving him a chance to argue. She had removed her coat and hat, piling them on the chair opposite his.

Vasko watched her recede into the gloom of the bar. He supposed she was a regular here. On their way to the alcove he had seen several faces he thought he half-recognised from SA training. Some of them had been smoking seaweed - the particular variety which when dried and prepared in a certain way induced mild narcotic effects. Vasko remembered the stuff from his training. It was illegal, but easier to get hold of than the black market cigarettes which were said to originate from some dwindling cache in the belly of the Nostalgia for Infinity.

By the time Urton returned, Vasko had removed his coat. She put the beers down in front of him. Cautiously Vasko tasted his. The stuff in the glass had an unpleasant urinal tint. Produced from another variety of seaweed, it was only beer in the very loosest sense of the word.

‘I talked to Draygo,’ she said, ‘the man who runs this place. He says the Security Arm officers on duty just went and punched holes in all the boats on the shore. No one else is being allowed to leave, and as soon as a boat returns, they impound it and arrest anyone on board.’

Vasko sipped at his beer. ‘Nice to see they haven’t resorted to heavy-handed tactics, then.’

‘You can’t really blame them. They say three people have already drowned just crossing the bay. Another two have fallen off the ship while climbing.’

‘I suppose you’re right, but it seems to me that the people should have the right to do what they like, even if it kills them.’

‘They’re worried about mass panic. Sooner or later someone is bound to try swimming it, and then you might have hundreds of people following after. How many do you think would make it?’

‘Let them,’ Vasko said. ‘So what if they drown? So what if they contaminate the Jugglers? Does anyone honestly think it makes a shred of difference now?’

‘We’ve maintained social order on Ararat for more than twenty years,’ Urton said. ‘We can’t let it go to hell in a handcart in one night. Those people using the boats are taking irreplaceable colony property without authorisation. It’s unfair on the citizens who don’t want to flee to the ship.’

‘But we’re not giving them an alternative. They’ve been told Clavain’s dead, but no one’s told them what those lights in the sky are all about. Is it any wonder they’re scared?’

‘You think telling them about the war would make things any better?’

Vasko wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, where the seaweed beer had left a white rime. ‘I don’t know, but I’m fed up with everyone being lied to just because the administration thinks it’s in our best interests not to know all the facts. The same thing happened with Clavain when he disappeared. Scorpio and the others decided we couldn’t deal with the fact that Clavain was suicidal, so they made up some story about him going around the world. Now they don’t think the people can deal with knowing how he died, or what it was all for in the first place, so they’re not telling anyone anything.’

‘You think Scorpio should be taking a firmer lead?’

‘I respect Scorpio,’ Vasko said, ‘but where is he now, when we need him?’

‘You’re not the only one wondering that,’ Urton said.

Something caught Vasko’s eye. The picture on the screen had changed. Clavain’s face was gone, replaced for a moment by the administration logo. Urton turned around in her seat, still drinking her beer.

‘Something’s happening,’ she said.

The logo flickered and vanished. They were looking at Scorpio, surrounded by the curved rose-pink interior of the High Conch. The pig wore his usual unofficial uniform of padded black leather, the squat dome of his head a largely neckless outgrowth of his massive barrelled torso.

‘You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?’ Vasko asked.

‘Draygo told me he’d heard that there was an announcement scheduled for around this time. But I don’t know what it’ll be about and I didn’t know Scorpio was going to show his face.’

The pig was speaking. Vasko was about to find a way to make the screen louder when Scorpio’s voice rang out loudly throughout the maze of alcoves, piped through on some general-address system.

‘Your attention, please,’ he said. ‘You all know who I am. I speak now as the acting leader of this colony. With regret, I must again report that Nevil Clavain was killed today while on a mission of maximum importance for the strategic security of Ararat. Having participated in the same operation, I can assure you that without Clavain’s bravery and self-sacrifice the current situation would be enormously more grave than is the case. As things stand, and despite Clavain’s death, the mission was successful. It is my intention to inform you of what was accomplished in that operation in due course. But first I must speak about the current disturbances in all sectors of First Camp, and the actions that the Security Arm is taking to restore social order. Please listen carefully, because all our lives depend on it. There will be no more unauthorised crossings to the Nostalgia for Infinity. Finite colony resources cannot be risked in this manner. All unofficial attempts to reach the ship will therefore be punished by immediate execution.’

Vasko glanced at Urton, but he couldn’t tell if her expression was one of disgust or quiet approval.

The pig waited a breath before continuing. Something was wrong with the transmission, for the earlier image of Clavain had begun to reappear, overlaying Scorpio’s face like a faint nimbus. ‘There will, however, be an alternative. The administration recommends that all citizens go about their business as usual and do not attempt to leave the island. Nonetheless it recognises that a minority wish to relocate to the Nostalgia for Infinity. Beginning at noon tomorrow, therefore, and continuing for as long as necessary, the administration will provide safe authorised transportation to the ship. Designated aircraft will take groups of one hundred people at a time to the Infinity. As of six a.m. tomorrow, rules of conveyance, including personal effects allocations, will be available from the High Conch and all other administrative centres, or from uniformed Security Arm personnel. There is no need to panic about being on the first available transport, since - to repeat - the flights will continue until demand is exhausted.’

‘They had no choice,’ Vasko said quietly. ‘Scorp’s doing the right thing.’

But the pig was still talking. ‘For those who wish to board the Infinity, understand the following: conditions aboard the ship will be atrocious. For the last twenty-three years, there have seldom been more than a few dozen people aboard it at any one time. Much of the ship is now uninhabitable or simply unmapped. In order to accommodate an influx of hundreds, possibly even thousands, of refugees, the Security Arm will have to enforce strict emergency rule. If you think the crisis measures in the First Camp are Draconian, you have no idea how much worse things will be on the ship. Your sole right will be the right of survival, and we will dictate how that is interpreted.’

‘What does he mean by that?’ Vasko asked, while Scorpio continued with the arrangements for the transportation.

‘He means they’ll have to freeze people,’ Urton said. ‘Squeeze them into those sleep coffins, like they did when the ship came here in the first place.’

‘He should tell them, in that case.’

‘Obviously he doesn’t want to.’

‘Those reefersleep caskets aren’t safe,’ Vasko said. ‘I know what happened the last time they used them. A lot of people didn’t make it out alive.’

‘It doesn’t matter, does it?’ Urton said. ‘He’s still giving them better odds than if they try to make the journey themselves - even without that execution order.’

‘I still don’t understand. Why provide that option at all, if the administration doesn’t think it’s the right thing to do?’

Urton shrugged. ‘Because maybe the administration isn’t sure what to do. If they declare a general evacuation to the ship, they’ll really have a panic on their hands. Looking at it from their point of view, how do they know whether it’s better for the people to evacuate to the ship or remain on the ground?’

‘They don’t,’ he said. ‘Whichever they choose, there’ll always be a risk that it might be the wrong decision.’

Urton nodded emphatically. She had nearly finished her beer. ‘At least this way Scorpio gets to split the difference. Some people will end up in the ship, some will chose to stay at home. It’s the perfect solution, if you want to maximise the chances of some people surviving. ’

‘That sounds very heartless.’

‘It is.’

‘In which case I don’t think you need worry about Scorpio not being the callous leader you said we needed.’

‘No. He’s callous enough,’ Urton agreed. ‘Of course, we could be misreading this entirely. But assuming we aren’t, does it shock you?’

‘No, I suppose not. And I think you’re right. We do need someone strong, someone prepared to think the unthinkable.’ Vasko put down his glass. It was only half-empty, but his thirst had gone the same way as his appetite. ‘One question,’ he said. ‘Why are you being so nice to me all of a sudden?’

Urton inspected him the way a lepidopterist might examine a pinned specimen. ‘Because, Vasko, it occurred to me that you might be a useful ally, in the long run.’

Hela, 2727

The scrimshaw suit said, ‘We’ve heard the news, Quaiche.’

The sudden voice startled him, as it always did. He was alone. Grelier had just finished seeing to his eyes, swabbing an infected abscess under one retracted eyelid. The metal clamp of the eye-opener felt unusually cruel to him today, as if, while Quaiche was sleeping, the surgeon-general had covertly sharpened all its little hooks. Not while he was really sleeping, of course. Sleep was a luxury he remembered in only the vaguest terms.

‘I don’t know about any news,’ he said.

‘You made your little announcement to the congregation downstairs. We heard it. You’re taking the cathedral across Absolution Gap.’

‘And if I am, what business is it of yours?’

‘It’s insanity, Quaiche. And your mental health is very much our business.’

He saw the suit in blurred peripheral vision, around the sharp central image of Haldora. The world was half in shadow, bands of cream and ochre and subtle turquoise plunging into the sharp terminator of the nightside.

‘You don’t care about me,’ he said. ‘You only care about your own survival. You’re afraid I’ll destroy you when I destroy the Lady Morwenna.’

‘“When”, Quaiche? Frankly, that’s a little disturbing to us. We were hoping you still had some intention of actually succeeding.’

‘Perhaps I do,’ he conceded.

‘Where nobody has done so before?’

‘The Lady Morwenna isn’t any old cathedral.’

‘No. It’s the heaviest and tallest on the Way. Doesn’t that give you some slight pause for thought?’

‘It will make my triumph all the more spectacular.’

‘Or your disaster, should you topple off the bridge or bring the entire thing crashing down. But why now, Quaiche, after all these revolutions around Hela?’

‘Because I feel that the time is right,’ he said. ‘You can’t second-guess these things. Not the work of God.’

‘You truly are a lost cause,’ the scrimshaw suit said. Then the cheaply synthesised voice took on an urgency it had lacked before. ‘Quaiche, listen to us. Do what you will with the Lady Morwenna. We won’t stop you. But first let us out of this cage.’

‘You’re scared,’ he said, pulling the stiff tissue of his face into a smile. ‘I’ve really put the wind up you, haven’t I?’

‘It doesn’t have to be this way. Look at the evidence, Quaiche. The vanishings are increasing in frequency. You know what that means, don’t you?’

‘The work of God is moving towards its culmination.’

‘Or, alternatively, the concealment mechanism is failing. Take your pick. We know which interpretation we favour.’

‘I know all about your heresies,’ he said. ‘I don’t need to hear them again.’

‘You still think we are demons, Quaiche?’

‘You call yourselves shadows. Isn’t that a bit of a giveaway?’

‘We call ourselves shadows because that is what we are, just as you are all shadows to us. It’s a statement of fact, Quaiche, not a theological standpoint.’

‘I don’t want to hear any more of it.’

It was true: he had heard enough of their heresies. They were lies, engineered to undermine his faith. Time and again he had tried to purge them from his head, but always to no avail. As long as the scrimshaw suit remained with him - as long as the thing inside the scrimshaw suit remained - he would never be able to forget those untruths. In a moment of weakness, a lapse that had been every bit as unforgivable as the one twenty years earlier that had brought them here in the first place, he had even followed up some of their heretical claims. He had delved into the Lady Morwenna’s archives, following lines of enquiry.

The shadows spoke of a theory. It meant nothing to him, yet when he searched the deep archives - records carried across centuries in the shattered and corrupted data troves of Ultra trade ships - he found something, glints of lost knowledge, teasing hints from which his mind was able to suggest a whole.

Hints of something called brane theory.

It was a model of the universe, an antique cosmological theory that had enjoyed a brief interlude of popularity seven hundred years in the past. So far as Quaiche could tell, the theory had not been discredited so much as abandoned, put aside when newer and brighter toys came along. At the time there had been no easy way of testing any of these competing theories, so they had to stand and fall on their strict aesthetic merit and the ease with which they could be tamed and manipulated with the cudgels and barbs of mathematics.

Brane theory suggested that the universe the senses spoke of was but one sliver of something vaster, one laminate layer in a stacked ply of adjacent realities. There was, Quaiche thought, something alluringly theological in that model, the idea of heavens above and hells below, with the mundane substrate of perceived reality squeezed between them. As above, so below.

But brane theory had nothing to do with heaven and hell. It had originated as a response to something called string theory, and specifically a conundrum within string theory known as the hierarchy problem.

Heresy again. But he could not stop himself from delving deeper.

String theory posited that the fundamental building blocks of matter were, at the smallest conceivable scales, simply one-dimensional loops of mass-energy. Like a guitar string the loops were able to vibrate - to twang - in certain discrete modes, each of which corresponded to a recognisable particle at the classical scale. Quarks, electrons, neutrinos, even photons, were all just different vibrational modes of these fundamental strings. Even gravity turned out to be a manifestation of string behaviour.

But gravity was also the problem. On the classical scale - the familiar universe of people and buildings, ships and worlds - gravity was much weaker than anyone normally gave it credit for. Yes, it held planets in their orbits around stars. Yes, it held stars in their orbits around the centre of mass of the galaxy. But compared to the other forces of nature, it was barely there at all. When the Lady Morwenna lowered one of its electromagnetic grapples to lift some chunk of metal from a delivery tractor, the magnet was resisting the entire gravitational force of Hela - everything the world could muster. If gravity had been as strong as the other forces, the Lady Morwenna would have been crushed into an atom-thick pancake, a film of collapsed metal on the perfectly smooth spherical surface of a collapsed planet. It was only gravity’s extreme weakness on the classical scale that allowed life to exist in the first place.

But string theory went on to suggest that gravity was really very strong, if only one looked closely enough. At the Planck scale, the smallest possible increment of measurement, string theory predicted that gravity ramped up to equivalence with the other forces. Indeed, at that scale reality looked rather different in other respects as well: curled up like dead woodlice were seven additional dimensions - hyperspaces accessible only on the microscopic scale of quantum interactions.

There was an aesthetic problem with this view, however. The other forces - bundled together as a single unified electroweak force - manifested themselves at a certain characteristic energy. But the strong gravity of string theory would only reveal itself at energies ten million billion times greater than for the electroweak forces. Such energies were far beyond the grasp of experimental procedure. This was the hierarchy problem, and it was considered deeply offensive. Brane theory was one attempt to resolve this glaring schism.

Brane theory - as far as Quaiche understood it - proposed that gravity was really as strong as the electroweak force, even on the classical scale. But what happened to gravity was that it leaked away before it had a chance to show its teeth. What was left - the gravity that was experienced in day-to-day life - was only a thin residue of something much stronger. Most of the force of gravity had dissipated sideways, into adjoining branes or dimensions. The particles that made up most of the universe were glued to a particular braneworld, a particular slice of the laminate of branes that the theory referred to as the bulk. That was why the ordinary matter of the universe only ever saw the one braneworld within which it happened to exist: it was not free to drift off into the bulk. But gravitons, the messenger particles of gravity, suffered no such constraint. They were free to drift between branes, sailing through the bulk with impunity. The best analogy Quaiche had been able to come up with was the printed words on the pages of a book, each confined for all eternity to one particular page, knowing nothing of the words printed on the next page, only a fraction of a millimetre away. And then think of book-worms, gnawing at right angles to the text.

But what of the shadows? This was where Quaiche had to fill in the details for himself. What the shadows appeared to be hinting at - the heart of the heresy - was that they were messengers or some form of communication from an adjacent braneworld. That braneworld might have been completely disconnected from our own, so that the only possible means of communication between the two was through the bulk. There was another possibility, however: the two apparently separate braneworlds might have been distant portions of a single brane, one that was folded back on itself like a hairpin. If that were the case - and the shadows had said nothing on the matter either way - then they were messengers not from another reality but merely from a distant corner of the familiar universe, unthinkably remote in both space and time. The light and energy from their region of space could only travel along the brane, unable to slip across the tiny gap between the folded surfaces. But gravity slipped effortlessly across the bulk, carrying a message from brane to brane. The stars, galaxies and clusters of galaxies in the shadow brane cast a gravitational shadow on our local universe, influencing the motions of our stars and galaxies. By the same token, the gravity caused by the matter in the local part of the brane leaked through the bulk, into the realm of the shadows.

But the shadows were clever. They had decided to communicate across the bulk using gravity as their signalling medium.

There were a thousand ways they might have done it. The specifics didn’t matter. They might have manipulated the orbits of a pair of degenerate stars to produce a ripple of gravitational waves, or learned how to make miniature black holes on demand. The only important thing was that it could be done. And - equally importantly - that someone would be able to pick up the signals on this side of the bulk.

Someone like the scuttlers, for instance.

Quaiche laughed to himself. The heresy made a repulsive kind of sense. But then what else would he have expected? Where there was the work of God, would there not also be the work of the Devil, insinuating himself into the schemes of the Creator, trying to robe the miraculous in the mundane?

‘Quaiche?’ the suit asked. ‘Are you still here?’

‘I’m still here,’ he said. ‘But I’m not listening to you. I don’t believe what you say to me.’

‘If you don’t, someone else will.’

He pointed at the scrimshaw suit, his own bony-fingered hand hovering in his peripheral vision like some detached phantasm. ‘I won’t let anyone else be poisoned by your lies.’

‘Unless they have something you want very badly,’ the scrimshaw suit said. ‘Then, of course, you might change your mind.’

His hand wavered. He felt cold suddenly. He was in the presence of evil. And it knew more about his schemes than it had any right to.

He pressed the intercom control on his couch. ‘Grelier,’ he snapped. ‘Grelier, come here this instant. I need new blood.’

TWENTY-SIX

Hela, 2727

The next day Rashmika got her first view of the bridge.

There was no fanfare. She was inside the caravan, in the forward observation deck of one of the two leading vehicles, having forsworn any further trips to the roof after the incident with the mirror-faced Observer.

She had been warned that they were now very close to the edge of the fissure, but for all the long kilometres of the approach there had been no change in the topography of the landscape. The caravan - longer than ever now, having picked up several more sections along the way - was winding its ponderous way through a sheer-sided ice canyon. Occasionally the moving machines scraped against the blue-veined canyon walls, which were twice as high as the tallest vehicle in the procession, dislodging tonnes of ice. It had always been hazardous for the walkers making their way to the equator on foot, but now that they had to traverse the same narrow defile as the caravan, it must have been downright terrifying. There was no room for the caravan to steer around them now, so they had to let it roll over them, making sure they were not aligned with the wheels, treads or stomping mechanical feet. If the machines didn’t get them, the falling ice-boulders probably would. Rashmika watched with a mingled sense of horror and sympathy as the parties vanished from view beneath the huge hull of the caravan. There was no way to tell if they made it out the other side, and she doubted that the caravan would stop if there was an accident.

There came a point where the canyon made a gentle curve to the right, blocking any view of the oncoming scenery for several minutes, and then suddenly there was an awful, heart-stopping absence in the landscape. She had not realised how used she had become to seeing white crags stepping into the distance. Now the ground fell away and the deep black sky dropped much lower than it had before, like a curtain whose tangled lower hem had just unfurled to its fullest extent. The sky bit hungrily into the land.

The road emerged from the canyon and ran along a ledge that skirted one wall of Ginnungagap Rift. To the left of the road, the sheer-sided canyon wall lurched higher; to the right, there was nothing at all. The road was just broad enough to accommodate the two-vehicle-wide procession, with the right-hand sides of the right-hand vehicles never more than two or three metres from the very edge. Rashmika looked back along the extended, motley train of the caravan - which was now thrillingly visible in its entirety as it had never been before - and saw wheels, treads, crawler plates, piston-driven limbs and flexing carapacial segments picking their way daintily along the edge, scuffing tonnes of ice into the abyss with each misplaced tread or impact. All along the caravan, the individual masters were steering and correcting like crazy, trying to navigate the fine line between smashing against the wall on the left and plunging over the side on the right. They couldn’t slow down because the whole point of this short cut was to make up valuable lost time. Rashmika wondered what would happen to the rest of the caravan if one of the elements got it wrong and went over the side. She had seen the inter-caravan couplings, but had no idea how strong they were. Would that one errant machine take the whole lot with it, or fall gallantly alone, leaving the others to close up the gap in the procession? Was there some nightmarish protocol for deciding such things in advance: a slackening of the couplings, perhaps?

Well, she was up front. If anywhere was safe, it had to be up at the front where the navigators had the best view of the terrain.

After several minutes during which no calamity occurred, she began to relax, and for the first time was able to pay due attention to the bridge, which had been looming ahead all the while.

The caravan was moving in a southerly direction, towards the equator, along the eastern flank of Ginnungagap Rift. The bridge was still some way south. Perhaps it was her imagination, but she thought she could see the curvature of the world as the high wall of the Rift marched into the distance. The top was jagged and irregular, but if she smoothed out those details in her mind’s eye, it appeared to follow a gentle arc, like the trajectory of a satellite. It was very difficult to judge how distant the bridge was, or how wide the Rift was at this point. Although Rashmika recalled that the Rift was forty kilometres wide at the point where the bridge spanned it, the ordinary rules of perspective simply had no application: there were no visual cues to assist her; no intermediate objects to offer a sense of diminishing scale; no attenuation of detail or colour due to atmosphere. Although the bridge and the far wall looked vast and distant, they could as easily have been five kilometres away as forty.

Rashmika judged the bridge to be still some fifty or sixty kilometres away as the crow flies - more than two-hundredths of the circumference of Hela - but the road along the ledge took many twists and turns getting there. She could easily believe they had another hundred kilometres of travel to go before they arrived at the eastern approach to the bridge.

Still, at least now she could see it - and it was everything she had ever imagined. Everyone said that photographs could not even remotely convey the true essence of the structure. Rashmika had always doubted that, but now she saw that the common opinion was quite correct: to appreciate the bridge, it was necessary to see it.

What people appeared to find most dismaying about the bridge, Rashmika knew, was its very lack of strangeness. Disregarding its scale and the materials that had been used to build it, it looked like something transplanted from the pages of human history, something built on Earth, in the age of iron and steam. It made her think of lanterns and horses, duels and courtships, winter palaces and musical fountains - except that it was vast and looked as if it had been blown from glass or carved from sugar.

The upper surface of the bridge described a very gentle arc as it crossed from one side of the Rift to the other, and was at its highest in the middle. Apart from that it was perfectly flat, unencumbered by any form of superstructure. There were no railings on either side of the road bed, which was breathtakingly shallow - from her present angle it looked like a rapier-thin line of light. It appeared broken in places, until she moved her head slightly and the illumination shifted. Fifty kilometres away, and the movement of her head was enough to affect what she could see of the delicate structure! The span was indeed unsupported for most of its width, but at either end - reaching out to a distance of five or six kilometres from the walls - was a delicate tracery of filigreed stanchions. They were curled into absurd spirals and whorls, scroll-like flourishes and luscious organic involutes catching the light and throwing it back to her, not in white and silver, but in a prismatic shimmer of rainbow hues. Every tilt of her head shifted the colours into some new configuration of glories.

The bridge looked evanescent, as if one ill-judged breath might be sufficient to blow it away.

Yet they were actually going to cross it.

Ararat, 2675

As soon as he had washed and breakfasted, Vasko set off to report for duty at the nearest Security Arm centre. He had slept for little more than four hours, but the alertness he had felt the night before was still there, stretched a little thinner and tighter. First Camp was deceptively quiet; the streets were littered with debris, some premises and dwellings had been damaged and the evidence of fires smouldered here and there, but the vast numbers of people he had seen the night before seemed to have vanished. Perhaps they had responded to Scorpio’s pronouncement after all and returned to their homes, having grasped how unpleasant it was going to be on the Nostalgia for Infinity.

Vasko realised his error as soon as he turned the corner next to the Security Arm compound. A huge grey mob was pressed up against the building, many hundreds of people crushed together with their belongings piled at their feet. A dozen or so SA guards were keeping order, standing on railed plinths with small weapons presented but not aimed directly at the crowd. Other Arm personnel, in addition to unarmed administration officials, were manning tables that had been set up outside the two-storey conch structure. Paperwork was being processed and stamped; personal effects were being weighed and labelled. Most of the people had obviously decided not to wait for the official rules: they were here, now, ready to depart, and very few of them looked as if they were having second thoughts.

Vasko made his way through the crowd, doing his best not to push and shove. There was no sign of Urton, but this was not her designated Arm centre. He stopped at one of the tables and waited for the officer manning it to finish processing one of the refugees.

‘Are they still planning to start flying them out at noon?’ Vasko asked quietly.

‘Earlier,’ the man replied, his voice low. ‘The pace has been stepped up. Word is we’re still going to have trouble coping.’

‘There’s no way that ship can accommodate all of us,’ Vasko said. ‘Not now. It’d take months to get us all into the sleep caskets.’

‘Tell that to the pig,’ the man said and went back to his work, stamping a sheet of paper almost without looking at it.

Sudden warmth kissed the back of Vasko’s neck. He looked up and squinted against the blinding-bright underside of a machine, an aircraft or shuttle sliding across the square. He expected it to slow and descend, but instead the machine curved away, heading beyond the shore, towards the spire. It slid under the clouds like a bright ragged flake of daylight.

‘See, they’ve already begun moving ’em out,’ the man said. ‘As if that’s going to make everyone else calmer . . .’

‘I’m sure Scorpio knows what he’s doing,’ Vasko said. He turned away before the man was able to answer.

He pushed beyond the processing tables, through the rest of the crowd, and into the conch structure. Inside, it was the same story: people squeezed in everywhere, holding paperwork and possessions aloft, children crying. He could feel the panic increasing by the minute.

He passed through into the part of the building reserved for SA personnel. In the small curved chamber where he usually received his assignments, he found a trio of people sitting around a low table drinking seaweed tea. He knew them all.

‘Malinin,’ said Gunderson, a young woman with short red hair. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’

He didn’t care for her tone. ‘I came for my duties,’ he said.

‘I didn’t think you mixed with the likes of us these days,’ she sneered.

He reached across the tea-drinkers to rip the assignment sheet from the wall. ‘I mix with whoever I like,’ he said.

The second of the trio, a pig named Flenser, said, ‘We heard you were more likely to be hanging around with administration stiffs.’

Vasko looked at the docket. He couldn’t see his name against any of the regular duties. ‘Like Scorpio, you mean?’

‘I bet you know a lot more than we do about what’s going on,’ Gunderson said. ‘Don’t you?’

‘If I did, I’d hardly be in a position to talk about it.’ Vasko pinned the sheet back on the wall. ‘Truthfully, I don’t know very much more.’

‘You’re lying,’ the third one - a man named Cory - said. ‘You want to climb that ladder, Malinin, you’d better learn how to lie better than that.’

‘Thanks,’ he said, smiling, ‘but I’ll settle for learning how to serve this colony.’

‘You want to know where to go?’ Gunderson asked him.

‘It would help.’

‘They told us to pass you a message,’ she said. ‘You’re expected in the High Conch at eight.’

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘You’ve been very helpful.’ He turned to leave.

‘Fuck you, Malinin,’ he heard her say to his back. ‘You think you’re better than us, is that it?’

‘Not at all,’ he replied, surprised by his calmness. He turned back to face her. ‘I think my abilities are average. I just happen to feel a sense of responsibility, an obligation to serve Ararat to the best of my abilities. I’d be astonished if you felt differently.’

‘You think that now Clavain’s out of the picture, you can slime your way to the top?’

He looked at Gunderson with genuine surprise. ‘That thought never crossed my mind.’

‘Well, that’s good, because if it had, you’d be making a serious mistake. You don’t have what it takes, Malinin. None of us have got what it takes, but you especially don’t have it.’

‘No? And what exactly is it that I don’t have?’

‘The balls to stand up against the pig,’ she said, as if this should have been obvious to all present.

In the High Conch, Antoinette Bax was already seated at the table, a compad open in front of her. Cruz, Pellerin and several other colony seniors had joined her, and now Blood came in, swaggering like a wrestler.

‘There’d better be a good reason for this,’ he said. ‘It’s not as if I haven’t got a shitload of other things I really need to be taking care of.’

‘Where’s Scorpio?’ she asked.

‘In the infirmary, checking on mother and daughter. He’ll be here as soon as he can,’ Blood replied.

‘And Malinin?’

‘I had someone leave a message for him. He’ll get here eventually.’ Blood collapsed into a seat. Reflexively, he took out his knife and began to scrape the blade against his chin. It made a thin, insectile noise.

‘Well, we’ve got a problem,’ Antoinette said. ‘In the last six hours, the neutrino flux from the ship has about trebled. If the flux increases another ten, fifteen per cent, that ship’s going to have nowhere to go but up.’

‘There’s no exhaust yet?’ asked Cruz.

‘No,’ Antoinette replied, ‘and I’m pretty worried about what will happen when those drives do start thrusting. No one was living around the bay when she came down. We need to think seriously about an evacuation to inland areas. I’d recommend moving everyone to the outlying islands, but I know that’s not possible given the existing load on aircraft and shuttles.’

‘Yeah, dream on,’ Blood said.

‘All the same, we have to do something. When the Captain decides to take off, we’re going to have tidal waves, clouds of superheated steam, noise so loud it will deafen everyone within hundreds of kilometres, all kinds of harmful radiation spewing out . . .’ Antoinette trailed off, hoping she had made her point. ‘Basically, this isn’t going to be the kind of environment you want to be anywhere near unless you’re inside a spacesuit.’

Blood buried his face in his hands, making a mask of his stubby pig fingers. Antoinette had seen Scorpio do something similar when crises pressed on him from all sides. With Clavain gone and Scorpio absent, Blood was experiencing the responsibility he had always craved. Antoinette doubted that the novelty of command had lasted for more than about five minutes.

‘I can’t evacuate the town,’ he said.

‘You have no choice,’ Antoinette insisted.

He lowered his hands and jabbed a finger at the window. ‘That’s our fucking ship. We shouldn’t be speculating about what it’s going to do. We should be giving it orders, where and when it suits us.’

‘Sorry, Blood, but that isn’t how it works,’ Antoinette said.

‘There’ll be panic,’ Cruz said. ‘Worse than anything we’ve seen. All the processing stations will have to be closed down and relocated. It’ll delay exodus flights to the Infinity by at least a day. And where are those relocated people going to sleep tonight? There’s nothing for them inland - just a bunch of rocks. We’d have hundreds dead of exposure by daybreak.’

‘I don’t have all the answers,’ Antoinette said. ‘I’m just pointing out the difficulties.’

‘There must be something else we can do,’ Cruz said. ‘Damn, we should have had contingencies in place for this.’

‘Should haves don’t count,’ Antoinette said. It was something her father had always told her. It had annoyed her intensely, and she was dismayed to hear the same words coming out of her mouth before she could stop them.

‘Pellerin,’ Blood said, ‘what about swimmer corps intervention? Ararat seems to be on our side, or it wouldn’t have made a channel for the boats to reach the ship. Anything you can offer?’

Pellerin shook her head. ‘Sorry. Not now. If the Jugglers show signs of returning to normal activity patterns, we might sanction an exploratory swim, but not before then. I’m not sending someone to their death, Blood, not when there’s so little chance of a useful outcome.’

‘I understand,’ the pig said.

‘Wait,’ Cruz said. ‘Let’s turn this around. If it’s going to be such a bad thing to be anywhere near the ship when it lifts, maybe we should be looking at ways to speed up the exodus.’

‘We’re already moving ’em out as fast as we can,’ Blood said.

‘Then cut back on the bureaucracy,’ Antoinette said. ‘Just move them and worry about the details later. And don’t take all day doing it. We may not have that much time left. Shit, what I wouldn’t give for Storm Bird now.’

‘Perhaps there is something you can do for us,’ Cruz said, gazing straight at her.

Antoinette returned the one-eyed woman’s stare. ‘Name it.’

‘Go back aboard the Infinity. Reason with the Captain. Tell him we need some breathing space.’

It was not what she wanted to hear. She had, if anything, become even more frightened of the Captain since their conversation; the thought of summoning him again filled her with renewed dread.

‘He may not want to talk,’ she said. ‘Even if he does, he may not want to hear anything I have to say.’

‘You might still buy us time,’ Cruz said. ‘In my book, that’s got to be better than nothing.’

‘I guess,’ Antoinette agreed, reluctantly.

‘So you may as well try it,’ Cruz said. ‘There’s no shortage of transport to the ship, either. With administration privileges, you could be aboard in half an hour.’

As if this was meant to encourage her.

Antoinette was staring at her fingers, lost in the metal intricacies of her home-made jewellery and hoping for some remission from this duty, when Vasko Malinin entered the room. He was flushed, his hair glistening with rain or sweat. Antoinette thought he looked terribly young to be sitting amongst these seniors; it seemed unfair to taint him with such matters. The young were still entitled to believe that the world’s problems always had clear solutions.

‘Have a seat,’ Blood said. ‘Anything I can get you - coffee, tea?’

‘I had trouble collecting my orders from my duty station,’ Vasko said. ‘The crowds are getting quite heavy. When they saw my uniform, they wouldn’t let me leave until I’d more or less promised them seats on one of those shuttles.’

The pig played with his knife. ‘You didn’t, I hope.’

‘Of course not, but I hope everyone understands the severity of the problem.’

‘We’ve got a rough idea, thanks,’ Antoinette said. Then she stood up, pulling down the hem of her formal blouse.

‘Where are you going?’ Vasko asked.

‘To have a chat with the Captain,’ she said.

In another part of the High Conch, several floors below, a series of partially linked, scalloplike chambers had been opened out of the conch matter with laborious slowness and much expenditure of energy. The chambers now formed the wards of the main infirmary for First Camp, where the citizenry received what limited medical services the administration could provide.

The doctor’s two green servitors budged aside as Scorpio entered, their spindly jointed limbs clicking against each other. He pushed between them. The bed was positioned centrally, with an incubator set on a trolley next to it on one side and a chair on the other.

Valensin stood up from the chair, placing aside a compad he had been consulting.

‘How is she?’ Scorpio asked.

‘Mother or daughter?’

‘Don’t be clever, doc. I’m not in the mood.’

‘Mother is fine - except, of course, for the obvious and predictable side effects of stress and fatigue.’ Milky-grey daylight filtered into the room from one high slit of a window, which was actually a part of the conch material left unpainted; the light flared off the glass in Valensin’s rhomboid spectacles. ‘I do not believe she requires any particular care other than time and rest.’

‘And Aura?’

‘The child is as well as can be expected.’

Scorpio looked at the small thing in the incubator. It was surprisingly shrivelled and red. It twitched like some beached thing struggling for air.

‘That doesn’t tell me much.’

‘Then I’ll spell it out for you,’ Valensin said. Highlights in the doctor’s slicked-back hair gleamed cobalt blue. ‘The child has already undergone four potentially traumatic procedures. The first was Remontoire’s insertion of the Conjoiner implants to permit communication with the child’s natural mother. Then the child was surgically kidnapped, removed from her mother’s womb. Then she was implanted inside Skade, perhaps following another period in an incubator. Finally, she was removed from Skade under less than optimal field surgical conditions.’

Scorpio assumed Valensin had heard the full story of what happened in the iceberg. ‘Take my word for it: there wasn’t a lot of choice.’

Valensin laced his fingers. ‘Well, she is resting. That’s good. And there do not appear to be any immediate and obvious complications. But in the long run? Who can tell? If what Khouri tells us is true, then it isn’t as if she was ever destined for a normal development.’ Valensin lowered himself back down into the seat. His legs folded like long hinged stilts, the crease in his trousers razor-sharp. ‘On a related matter, Khouri had a request. I thought it best to refer it to you first.’

‘Go on.’

‘She wants the girl put back into her womb.’

Scorpio looked again at the incubator and the child within it. It was a larger, more sophisticated version of the portable unit they had taken to the iceberg. Incubators were amongst the most valued technological artefacts on Ararat, and great care was taken to keep them running.

‘Could it be done?’ he asked.

‘Under ordinary circumstances, I would never contemplate such a thing.’

‘These aren’t ordinary circumstances.’

‘Putting a child back inside a mother isn’t like putting a loaf of bread back into an oven,’ Valensin said. ‘It would require delicate microsurgery, hormonal readjustment . . . a host of complex procedures. ’

Scorpio let the doctor’s condescension wash over him. ‘But it could be done?’

‘Yes, if she wants it badly enough.’

‘But it would be risky?’

Valensin nodded after a moment, as if until then he had considered only the technical hurdles, rather than the hazards. ‘Yes. To mother and child both.’

‘Then it doesn’t happen,’ Scorpio said.

‘You seem rather certain.’

‘That child cost the life of my friend. Now that we’ve got her back, I’m not planning on losing her.’

‘I hope you’ll be the one to break the news to the mother, in that case.’

‘Leave it to me,’ Scorpio said.

‘Very well.’ Scorpio had the feeling that the doctor was disappointed. ‘One other thing: she mentioned that word again, in her sleep.’

‘What word?’

‘Hella,’ Valensin said. ‘Or something like it.’

Hela, 2727

Rashmika’s estimate turned out to have been optimistic. She had expected another two or three hours of travel before the caravan reached the eastern side of the bridge, but after four hours they appeared only to have made up half the distance. There had been many frustrating periods where the caravan doubled back on itself, following sinuous reverse-loops in the walls. There were times when they had to squeeze through tunnels in the cliff, moving at little more than walking pace while the ice scraped against either side of the procession. Two or three times they had come to a complete halt while some technical matter was attended to - no explanation was ever forthcoming. She had the impression that the drivers tried to make up time after these delays, but the subsequent recklessness - which caused the vehicles to bounce and swerve perilously close to the edge - only added to her anxiety. When the quaestor had told her that they would be taking the bridge she had felt great apprehension, but now she was inclined to think it preferable to the many hazards of the ledge traverse. The road along the ledge was a human artefact: it had been blasted or cut into the cliffs within the last century and had probably been repaired and realigned several times since then. Doubtless bits of it had collapsed over the years, and many vehicles must have taken the long, ballistic plunge to the bottom of the Rift. But the bridge was surely older than that. Now that she had given the matter some thought, it struck her as highly unlikely that it would choose her lifetime in which to come crashing down. It would actually be a remarkable privilege were that to happen.

Even so, she would still be glad when they reached the other side.

She was looking out of the viewing window when she saw another quick succession of flashes, like those she had observed from the roof. They were brighter now - she was undoubtedly closer to the source of whatever they were - and they left hemispherical purple after-images on her eyes, even when she blinked.

‘You’re wondering what they are,’ a voice said.

She turned. She was expecting to see Quaestor Jones, but the voice did not quite have his timbre. It was the voice of a younger man, with an accent from somewhere in the badlands.

Harbin, she wondered for an instant? Could it possibly be Harbin?

But it wasn’t her brother.

She didn’t recognise the man at all. He was taller than her and a little older, she guessed, although there was something in his expression - something in his eyes, now that she narrowed it down - that made him appear to be a lot older. He was not really bad-looking, she supposed. He had a thin, serious face, with prominent cheekbones and a jawline so sharp it hurt. His hair was cut very short, shorter than she liked it, so that she could see the exact shape of his skull: a phrenologist’s dream date. He had small ears that stuck out more than he might have wished. His neck was thin and his Adam’s apple was prominent in a way that always alarmed her in men, as if something inside his neck had popped out of alignment and needed to be pushed back before harm was done.

‘How do you know what I’m wondering?’ Rashmika asked.

‘Well, you are, aren’t you?’

She half-scowled. ‘And you’d know all about them, I suppose?’

‘They’re charges,’ he said amicably, as if he was accustomed to this kind of rudeness. ‘Nuclear demolition charges. They’re being used by Permanent Way teams clearing the road ahead of the cathedrals. God’s Fire.’

She had already guessed that the explosions had something to do with the Way. ‘I didn’t think they ever used anything like that.’

‘Mostly they don’t. I haven’t been keeping up with the news, but they must have hit some unusually heavy obstructions. They could clear it with conventional charges and digging, if they had all the time in the world. But of course that’s the one thing they never have, not when those cathedrals are coming closer all the while. My guess is it was a rearguard spoiler action.’

‘Oh, do please enlighten me.’

‘It’s what happens when the cathedrals at the back begin to lose ground. Sometimes they sabotage the Way behind them to cause trouble for the leading cathedrals when they come round again on the next loop. Of course, it’s nothing anyone can ever prove . . .’

She studied his clothing: trousers and a high-collared loose-sleeved shirt; light, flat-soled shoes; everything grey and nondescript. No indication of rank, status, wealth or religious affiliation.

‘Who are you?’ Rashmika asked. ‘You’re talking to me as if we’ve already met, but I don’t know you at all.’

‘But you do know me,’ the young man said.

His face said that he was telling the truth, or at least not believing himself to be lying. His certainty made her all the less willing to give ground, irrational as that was.

‘I think you’re mistaken.’

‘What I mean is, we have met. And I believe you owe me a debt of gratitude.’

‘Do I, now?’

‘I saved your life - when you were on the roof, looking down the access shaft. You nearly fell, and I caught you.’

‘That wasn’t you,’ she said. ‘That was . . .’

‘An Observer? Yes, it was. But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t me.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Rashmika said.

‘Why don’t you believe me? Did you see my face?’

‘Not clearly, no.’

‘Then you have no reason to think it wasn’t me, either. Yes, I know it could have been anyone up there. But who else saw what happened?’

‘You can’t be an Observer.’

‘No, not now I can’t.’

She did not want his company. Not specifically his company, but company in general. She wanted only to observe the slow approach to the bridge, to compose her thoughts as they made the crossing, mentally mapping the difficult terrain that lay ahead of her. She did not want idle conversation or distraction, most certainly not with the sort of person he claimed to be.

‘What do you mean by that?’ she asked. ‘Are you an Observer or aren’t you?’

‘I was, but now I’m not.’

She felt a flicker of sympathy. ‘Because of what happened on the roof?’

‘No. That didn’t help, certainly, but my doubts had already set in before that happened.’

‘Oh.’ Then her conscience was clear.

‘I can’t say you didn’t play a small part in it, though.’

‘What?’

‘I saw you the first time you came up. I was on the viewing platform, with the others. We were supposed to be concentrating on Haldora, blocking out all external distractions. They could make it easy for us by physically restricting our view, forcing our eyes to stay locked on the planet, but that’s not the way it’s done. There has to be an element of discipline, an element of self-control. We’re supposed to look at Haldora for every instant of the day, despite the distractions. There are devices in the helmets that monitor how well we do that, recording every twitch of the eye. And I saw you. Only in my peripheral vision, to begin with. My eye made an involuntary movement to bring you into focus and I lost contact with Haldora for a fraction of a second.’

‘Naughty,’ she said.

‘Naughtier than you think. There would have been a disciplinary measure for just that violation. It’s not so much the fact that I looked away as that I was occupying a space on the roof that might have been used by someone more vigilant. That was the sin, because in that instant there was always a chance - no matter how small - that Haldora might vanish. And someone else would have been denied the chance of witnessing that miracle because I had the weakness of mind to look away.’

‘But it didn’t vanish. You’re off the hook.’

‘I assure you that isn’t the way they see it.’ He looked down, sheepishly, she thought. ‘Anyway, it’s academic: I made things a lot worse. I didn’t look back towards Haldora even when I was consciously aware that I’d lost contact. I just watched you, straining to hold you in focus, not daring to move any part of my body. I couldn’t see your face, but I could see the way you moved. I knew you were a woman, and when I realised that it just made it worse. It wasn’t idle curiosity any more. I wasn’t simply being distracted by some oddity in the landscape.’

When he said ‘woman’ she felt a quiet thrill that she hoped did not show in her face. When had anyone ever called her that before without prefacing it with ‘young’, or something equally diminishing?

She blushed. ‘You can’t possibly have known who I was, though.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘not for certain. But when you came up again, I thought, “She must be a very independent-minded person.” Nobody else had come up on to the roof the whole time I was there. And when you nearly had your accident . . . well, then I did see your face. Not clearly, but enough to know I’d recognise you again.’ He paused, and for a moment watched the rolling view himself. ‘I did have my doubts,’ he said, ‘even when I saw you here. But when I saw the flashes, I knew I had to take the chance. I’m glad I did. You seem like a nice person, and now you’ve as good as admitted you were the same person I helped up on the roof. Do you mind if I ask your name?’

‘Provided you tell me yours.’

‘Pietr,’ he said. ‘Pietr Vale. I’m from Skull Cliff, in the Hyrrokkin lowlands.’

‘Rashmika Els,’ she said guardedly. ‘From High Scree, in the Vigrid badlands.’

‘I thought I recognised the accent. I guess I’m not really a badlander myself, but we’re not from places so very far apart, are we?’

Rashmika felt torn between politeness and hostility. ‘I think you’ll find we’re a lot further apart than you realise.’

‘Why do you say that? We’re both going south, aren’t we? Both taking the caravan towards the Way. How different can we be?’

‘Very,’ Rashmika said. ‘I’m not on a pilgrimage. I’m on an . . . enquiry.’

He smiled. ‘Call it what you will.’

‘I’m on personal business. Personal secular business. Business that has nothing to do with your religion - which, incidentally, I do not believe in - but which has everything to do with right and wrong.’

‘I was right. You really are a serious and determined person.’

She didn’t like that. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting back to your friends?’ ‘They won’t let me back,’ he said. ‘They might have tolerated a moment of inattention; they might even have forgiven me a lapse of the kind I mentioned before. But once you leave them, that’s it. You’re poisoned. There is no way back.’

‘Why did you leave?’

‘Because of you, as I said. Because seeing you up there opened a glint of doubt in my armour. I don’t suppose it was ever very secure, or I wouldn’t have noticed you in the first place. But by the second occasion, when you nearly fell, I was already doubting that I had the conviction to continue.’ At that, Rashmika started to say something, but he held up his hand and continued. ‘You shouldn’t blame yourself. Really, it could have been anyone up there. My faith was never as strong as the others’. And when I thought about what lay ahead, what I was setting myself up for, I knew I didn’t have the strength to go through with it.’

She knew what he meant. The rigours of this part of the pilgrimage were as nothing compared to what would happen when Pietr reached the cathedral that was his destination. There, his faith would be irreversibly consolidated by chemical means. And as an Observer he would be surgically and neurologically adapted to enable him to witness Haldora for every instant of his existence. No sleep, no inattention, not even the respite of blinking.

Only mute observance, until he died.

‘I wouldn’t have the strength either,’ she said. ‘Even if I believed.’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘Because I believe in rational explanations. I do not believe planets simply cease to exist without good reason.’

‘But there is a good reason. The best possible reason.’

‘The work of God?’

Pietr nodded. Fascinated, she watched the bob of his Adam’s apple pushing against the high edge of his collar. ‘What better explanation can you ask for?’

‘But why here, why now?’

‘Because these are End Times,’ Pietr said. ‘We’ve had human war and human plagues. Then we had stranger plagues and reports of stranger wars. Don’t you wonder where the refugees come from? Don’t you wonder why they come here, of all places? They know it. They know this is the place where it will begin. This is the place where it will happen.’

‘I thought you said you weren’t a believer.’

‘I said I wasn’t sure of the strength of my faith. That isn’t quite the same thing.’

‘I think if God wanted to make a point, He’d find a better way to do it than through the random vanishing of a gas-giant planet light-years from Earth.’

‘But it isn’t random,’ Pietr countered, evading the rest of her point. ‘That’s what everyone thinks, but it isn’t true. The churches know it, and those who take the time to study the records know it, too.’

Now, despite herself, she found that she wanted to hear what he had to say. Pietr was correct: the vanishings of Haldora were always spoken of by the churches as if they were random events, subject to inscrutable divine scheduling. And the shameful thing was that she had always taken this information at face value, without questioning it. She had never stopped to think that the truth might be more complex. She had been far too preoccupied with her academic study of the scuttlers to look further afield.

‘If it isn’t random,’ she asked, ‘then what is it?’

‘I don’t know what you’d call it if you were a mathematician or a scholar. I’m neither. I only know what such people have told me. It’s true that you can never predict when a vanishing will occur - in that sense they are random. But the average gap between vanishings has been growing shorter ever since Quaiche witnessed the first one. It’s just that until recently no one could see it clearly. Now you can’t miss it, if you study the evidence.’

The back of Rashmika’s neck prickled. ‘Then show me the evidence. I want to see it.’

The caravan swerved sharply as it entered another of the tunnels bored through the side of the cliff.

‘I can show you evidence,’ he said, ‘but whether it’s the right evidence or not is another matter entirely.’

‘You’re losing me, Pietr.’

The caravan scraped and gouged its way through the narrow confines of the tunnel. Rashmika heard thumps as dislodged ceiling materials - rocks and ice - hammered against the roof. She thought of the Observers up there and wondered what it was like for them.

‘We’ll reach the bridge in four or five hours,’ he said. ‘When we’re halfway across, meet me on the roof, where we were before. I’ll have something interesting to show you.’

‘Why would I want to meet you on the roof, Pietr? Can I trust you?’

‘Of course,’ he said.

But she only accepted his word because she knew that he believed what he said.

Ararat, 2675

Khouri awoke. Scorpio was with her when she opened her eyes, sitting in the seat next to her bed where Valensin had been earlier. Another hour had passed, and he had missed the meeting in the High Conch. He considered this an acceptable trade-off.

The woman blinked and rubbed sleep gum from her eyes. Her lips were caked in the stringy white residue of dried saliva. ‘How long have I been out?’

‘It’s the morning of the day after we rescued Aura. You’ve been out for most of it. Doc says it’s just fatigue catching up with you. That whole time you were with us, you must have been running on vapour.’

Khouri’s head turned to the other side of the bed. ‘Aura?’

‘Doc says she’s doing OK. Like you, she just needs rest. Considering all the crap she’s been through, she’s doing pretty well.’

Khouri closed her eyes. She sighed. In that moment Scorpio saw tension flood out of her. It was as if the whole time she had been with them, ever since they had pulled her out of the capsule, she had been wearing a mask. Now the mask had been discarded.

She opened her eyes again. They were like windows into a younger woman. He remembered, forcefully, the way Khouri had been before the two ships had separated in the Resurgam system. Half his life ago.

‘I’m glad she’s safe,’ she said. ‘Thank you for helping me. And I’m sorry for what happened to Clavain.’

‘So am I, but there was no choice. Skade had us. She set the trap, we walked into it. Once she knew she couldn’t benefit from holding on to Aura, she was ready to give her back to us. But she wasn’t going to let us leave without paying. She felt Clavain still owed her.’

‘But what she did to him . . .’

Scorpio touched her head gently. ‘Don’t think about it now. Don’t ever think about it, if you can help it.’

‘He was your friend, wasn’t he?’

‘Guess so. Inasmuch as I’ve ever had friends.’

‘I think you’ve had friends, Scorp. I think you still have friends. Two more now, if you want them.’

‘Mother and daughter?’

‘We both owe you.’

‘I’ll take it under advisement.’

She laughed. It was good to hear someone laugh. Khouri was the last one he’d have expected it from. Before the trip to the iceberg she had struck him as monomanically driven, like a purposeful preprogrammed weapon sent down from the heavens. But he understood now that she was as fragile and human as the rest of them. Whatever ‘human’ meant for a pig.

‘Mind if I ask you something?’ he said. ‘If you’re sleepy, I can come back in a little while.’

‘Fetch me that water, will you?’

He brought her the beaker of water she’d indicated. She drank half of it down, then wiped the white scurf from her moistened lips. ‘Go on, Scorp.’

‘You have a link to Aura, don’t you? A mental connection, via the implants Remontoire put in both of you?’

‘Yes,’ she said, guardedly.

‘Do you understand everything that comes through it?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You said that Aura speaks through you. Fine, I think I understand that. But do you ever pick up unintentional stuff?’

‘Like what?’

‘You know the leakage we have from the wolf war? Stuff slipping through the defences? Do you ever get leakage from Aura, things that cross over the gap between you, but which you can’t process?’

‘I wouldn’t know.’ She sounded less happy now than she had a minute earlier. She was frowning. The windows had slammed shut again. ‘What sort of thing were you thinking of, exactly?’

‘Not sure,’ he said. He pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘It’s just a shot in the dark. When we pulled you out of that capsule, Valensin hit you with sedatives because you wouldn’t let us examine you. Knocked you out good and cold. But in your sleep you still kept saying something.’

‘I did, did I?’

‘The word was “Hella”, or something like that. It appeared to mean something to you, but when we asked you about it, you gave me what I’d call a plausible denial. I’m inclined to believe you were telling the truth, that the word doesn’t mean anything to you. But I’m wondering if it might mean something to Aura.’

She looked at him with suspicion and interest. ‘Does it mean anything to you?’

‘Not that I’m aware of. Certainly doesn’t mean anything to anyone on Ararat. But in the wider sphere of human culture? Could mean almost anything. Lot of languages out there. Lot of people, lot of places.’

‘Still can’t help you.’

‘I understand. But the thing is, while I was sitting here waiting for you to wake up, you said something else.’

‘What did I say?’

‘Quaiche.’

She lifted the beaker to her lips and finished what remained of the water. ‘Still doesn’t mean anything to me,’ she said.

‘Pity. I was hoping it might ring some bells.’

‘Well, maybe it means something to Aura. I don’t know, all right? I’m just her mother. Remontoire wasn’t a miracle worker. He linked us together, but it’s not as if everything she thinks is accessible to me. I’d go mad if that was the case.’ Khouri paused. ‘You’ve got databases and things. Why don’t you query them?’

‘I will, when things quieten down.’ Scorpio pushed himself up from the seat. ‘One other thing: I understand you communicated a particular desire to Doctor Valensin?’

‘Yeah, I talked to the doc.’ She said it in a lilting voice, parodying his earlier tone. ‘“I understand why you want that to happen. I respect your wish and sympathise with you. If there was a safe way . . .”’

She closed her eyes. ‘She’s my baby. They stole her from me. Now I want to give birth to her, the way it was meant to happen.’

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but I just can’t allow it.’

‘There’s no room for argument, is there?’

‘None at all, I’m afraid.’

She did not reply, did not even turn away from him, but there was a withdrawal and the sliding down of a barrier he didn’t have to see to feel.

Scorpio turned from the bed and walked slowly out of the room. He had expected her to weep when he broke the news. If not weeping, then hysterics or insults or pleading. But she remained still, silent, as if she had always known it would happen this way. As he walked away, the force of her dignity made the back of his neck tingle. But it changed nothing.

Aura was a child. But she was also a tactical asset.

TWENTY-SEVEN

Ararat, 2675

In the deep cloisters of the ship, Antoinette halted. ‘John?’ she said. ‘It’s me again. I’ve come down to talk to you.’

Antoinette knew he was nearby. She knew that he was watching her, alert to her every gesture. When the wall moved, pushing itself into the bas-relief image of a spacesuited figure, she controlled her natural instinct to flinch. It was not quite what she had been expecting, but it was still an apparition.

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘Good to see you again.’

The figure was a suggestion rather than an accurate sketch. The image shimmered, the wall’s deformations undergoing constant and rapid change, fluttering and rippling like a flag in a stiff gale. When the image occasionally broke up, fading back into the rough texture of the wall, it was as if the figure was being hidden by scarves of windblown Martian dust cutting horizontally across the field of view.

The figure gestured to her, raising an arm, touching one gloved hand to the narrow visor of its space helmet.

Antoinette raised her own hand in greeting, but the figure on the wall merely repeated the gesture, more emphatically this time.

Then she remembered the goggles that the Captain had given her the time before. She slipped them from her pocket and settled them over her eyes. Again the view through the goggles was synthetic, but this time - for now, at least - nothing was being edited out of her visual field. This reassured her. She had not enjoyed the feeling that large and possibly dangerous elements in her vicinity were being masked from her perception. It was shocking to think that for centuries people had accepted such manipulation of their environment as a perfectly normal aspect of life, regarding such perceptual filtering as no more remarkable than the wearing of sunglasses or earmuffs. It was even more shocking to think that they had allowed the machinery controlling that filtering to creep into their skulls, where it could make the trickery even more seamless. The Demarchists - and, for that matter, the Conjoiners - truly were strange people. She was sad about many things, but not the fact that she had been born too late to participate in such reality-modifying games. She liked to reach out for something and know it was really there.

But the goggles were a necessary evil. In the Captain’s realm, she had to consent to his rules.

The bas-relief image took a definite step towards her and then emerged from the wall, solid now, taking on form and detail, exactly as if a physical person had stepped out of a highly localised sandstorm.

Now she did flinch, for the illusion of presence was striking. She could not help but take a step backwards.

There was something different about the manifestation this time. The space helmet was not quite as ancient as the one she remembered, and it was covered in different symbols. The suit, while still of an old design, was not as utterly archaic as the first he had worn. The chest-pack was more streamlined, and the whole suit fitted its wearer more tightly. Antoinette was no expert, but she judged that the new suit must be fifty-odd years ahead of the one he had worn last time.

She wondered what that meant.

She was on the point of taking another step backwards when the Captain halted his approach and again raised a gloved hand. The gesture served to calm her, which was probably the intention. Then he began to work the mechanism of his visor, sliding it up with a conspicuous hiss of equalising air pressure.

The face inside the helmet was instantly recognisable, but it was also the face of an older man. There were lines where there had been none before, grey in the stubble that still shadowed his cheeks. There were wrinkles around his eyes, which appeared more deeply set. The cast of his mouth was different, too, curving downwards at the corners.

His voice, when he spoke, was both deeper and more ragged. ‘You don’t give up easily, do you?’

‘As a rule, no. Do you remember the last chat we had, John?’

‘Adequately.’ With one hand he punched a matrix of controls set into the upper surface of the chest-pack, keying in a chain of commands. ‘How long ago was it?’

‘Do you mind if I ask you how long ago you think it was?’

‘No.’

She waited. The Captain looked at her, his expression blank.

‘How long ago do you think it was?’ she asked, eventually.

‘A couple of months. Several years of shiptime. Two days. Three minutes. One point one eight milliseconds. Fifty-four years.’

‘Two days is about right,’ she said.

‘I’ll take your word for it. As you’ll have gathered, my memory isn’t quite the razor-sharp faculty it once was.’

‘Still, you did remember that I’d come before. That counts for something, doesn’t it?’

‘You’re a very charitable person, Antoinette.’

‘I’m not surprised that your memory works in funny ways, John. But it’s enough for me that you remembered my name. Do you remember anything else we talked about?’

‘Give me a clue.’

‘The visitors, John? The presences in the system?’

‘They’re still here,’ he said. For a moment he was again distracted by the functions of his chest-pack. He looked more vigilant than concerned. She saw him tap the little bracelet of controls that encircled one wrist, then nod as if satisfied with some subtle change in the suit’s parameter settings.

‘Yes,’ she said.

‘They’re also closer. Aren’t they?’

‘We think so, John. That’s what Khouri told us was happening, and everything she’s said has checked out so far.’

‘I’d listen to her, if I were you.’

‘It’s not just a question of listening to Khouri now. We have her daughter. Her daughter knows things, or so we’ve been led to believe. We think we may have to start listening to what she tells us to do.’

‘Clavain will guide you. Like me, he understands the reach of historical time. We’re both phantoms from the past, hurtling into futures neither of us expected to see.’

Antoinette bit her lower lip. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve got some bad news. Clavain’s dead. He was killed saving Khouri’s daughter. We have Scorpio, but . . .’

The Captain was a long time answering. She wondered if the news of Clavain’s death had affected him more than she had anticipated. She had never thought of Clavain and the Captain as having any kinship, but now that the Captain put it like that, the two had a lot more in common with each other than with most of their peers.

‘You don’t have absolute faith in Scorpio’s leadership?’ he asked.

‘Scorpio’s served us well. In a crisis, you couldn’t ask for a better leader. But he’d be the first to admit that he doesn’t think strategically. ’

‘Then find another leader.’

Something happened then that surprised her. Unbidden, she had a flashback to the earlier meeting in the High Conch. She saw Blood swaggering in at the start of it and then she saw Vasko Malinin arriving late for the same meeting. She saw Blood reprimanding him for his lateness and Vasko shrugging off that same reprimand as an irrelevance. And she realised, with hindsight, that she had accepted the young man’s insouciance as a necessary correlative to what he was and what he would become, and that she had, on some level, found it admirable.

She had seen a gleam of something shining through, like steel.

‘This isn’t about leaders,’ Antoinette said hastily. ‘It’s about you, John. Are you intending to leave?’

‘You suggested I should give the matter some thought.’

She recalled those elevating neutrino levels. ‘You seem to be giving it a bit more than thought.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘We need to be careful,’ she said. ‘We may well need to get into space at short notice, but we have to think about the consequences for those around us. It will take days to get everyone loaded aboard, even if everything goes without a hitch.’

‘There are thousands aboard now. Their survival will have to be my main priority. I’m sorry about the others, but if they don’t get here in time they may have to be left behind. Does that sound callous to you?’

‘I’m not the one to judge. Look, some people will choose to stay behind anyway. We may even encourage them, just in case leaving Ararat turns out to be a mistake. But if you leave now, you’ll kill everyone not already aboard.’

‘Have you considered moving them aboard faster?’

‘We’re doing what we can, and we’ve begun to make plans to relocate a limited number of people away from the bay. But by this time tomorrow there’ll still be at least a hundred thousand people we haven’t moved.’

For a moment the Captain faded back into the dust storm. Antoinette stared at the rough leathery texture of the wall. She thought she had lost him and was about to turn away. Then he emerged again, stooping against an imagined wind.

He raised his voice over something only he could hear. ‘I’m sorry, Antoinette. I understand your concerns.’

‘Does that mean you’ve listened to a word I said, or are you just going to leave when it suits you, regardless?’

He reached up to lower his visor. ‘You should do all that you can to get the others to safety, whether it’s aboard the ship or further from the bay.’

‘That’s it, then, is it? Those that we haven’t moved will just have to take their chances?’

‘None of this is easy for me.’

‘It wouldn’t kill you to wait until we can get everyone to safety.’

‘But it might, Antoinette. It might do exactly that.’

Antoinette turned away in disgust. ‘Remember what I told you last time? I was wrong. I see it now, even if I didn’t then.’

‘What was that exactly?’

She looked back at him. She felt spiteful and reckless. ‘I said you’d paid for your crimes. I said you’d done it a hundred thousand times over. Nice dream, John, but it wasn’t true, was it? You didn’t care a damn about those people. It was only ever about saving yourself.’

The Captain did not answer her. He pulled down the visor and vanished back into the storm, still angling his body against the tremendous lacerating force of that invisible wind. And Antoinette began to wonder whether this visit hadn’t after all been a grave mistake, exactly the sort of reckless behaviour that her father had always warned her about.

‘No joy,’ she told her companions back in the High Conch.

Around the table sat a quorum of colony seniors. She did not notice any obvious absences except for Pellerin, the swimmer. Even Scorpio was now present. It was the first she had seen of him since Clavain’s death, and there was, Antoinette thought, something in his gaze that she had never seen there before. Even when he looked directly at her his eyes were focused on something distant and almost certainly hostile - a glint on some imagined horizon, an enemy sail or the gleam of armour. She had seen that look somewhere else recently, but it took her a moment to remember where. The old man had been sitting in the same place at the table, fixated on the same remote threat. It had taken years of pain and suffering to bring Clavain to that state, but only days to do it to the pig.

Antoinette knew that something awful had happened in the iceberg. She had flinched from the details. When the others had told her she did not need to know - that she was much better off not knowing - she had decided to believe them. But although she had never been very good at reading the expressions of pigs, in Scorpio’s face half the story was already laid out for her inspection, the horror anatomised if only she had the wit to read the signs.

‘What did you tell him?’ Scorpio asked.

‘I told him we’d be looking at tens of thousands of casualties if he decided to lift off.’

‘And?’

‘He more or less said “too bad”. His only immediate concern was for the people already aboard the ship.’

‘Fourteen thousand at the last count,’ Blood commented.

‘That doesn’t sound too bad,’ Vasko said. ‘That’s - what? Not far off a tenth of the colony already?’

Blood toyed with his knife. ‘You want to come and help us squeeze in the next five hundred, son, you’re more than welcome.’

‘It’s that difficult?’ Vasko asked.

‘It gets worse with every consignment. We might manage to get it up to twenty thousand by dawn, but only if we start treating them like cattle.’

‘They’re human beings,’ Antoinette said. ‘They deserve better treatment than that. What about the freezers? Aren’t they helping?’

‘The caskets aren’t working as well as they used to,’ Xavier Liu said, addressing his wife exactly as he would any other colony senior. ‘Once they’re cooled down they’re OK, but putting someone under means hours of supervision and tinkering. There’s no way to process them fast enough.’

Antoinette closed her eyes and pressed her fingertips against her eyelids. She saw turquoise rings, like ripples in water. ‘This is about as bad as things can get, isn’t it?’ Then she reopened her eyes and tried to shake some clarity into her head. ‘Scorp - any contact with Remontoire?’

‘Nothing.’

‘But you’re still convinced he’s up there?’

‘I’m not convinced of anything. I’m merely acting on the best intelligence I have.’

‘And you think we’d have seen a sign by now, some attempt to communicate with us, if he were up there.’

‘Khouri was that sign,’ Scorpio said.

‘Then why haven’t they sent down someone else?’ Antoinette replied. ‘We need to know, Scorp: do we sit tight or get the hell off Ararat?’

‘Believe me, I’m aware of the options.’

‘We can’t wait for ever,’ Antoinette said, frustration seeping into her voice. ‘If Remontoire loses the battle, we’ll be looking at a sky full of wolves. No way out once that happens, even if they don’t touch Ararat. We’ll be locked in.’

‘As I said, I’m aware of the options.’

She had heard the menace in his voice. Of course he was aware. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I just . . . don’t know what else we can do.’

No one spoke for a while. Outside, an aircraft swept low overhead, curving away with another consignment of refugees. Antoinette did not know if they were being taken to the ship or the far side of the island. Once the need to get people to safety had been recognised, the evacuation effort had been split down the middle.

‘Did Aura offer anything useful?’ Vasko asked.

Scorpio turned to him, the leather of his uniform creaking. ‘What sort of thing were you thinking of?’

‘It wasn’t Khouri that was the sign,’ Vasko said, ‘it was Aura. Khouri may know things, but Aura is the hotline. She’s the one we really need to talk to, the one who might know the right thing to do.’

‘I’m glad you’ve given the matter so much consideration,’ Scorpio said.

‘Well?’ Vasko persisted.

Antoinette stiffened. The atmosphere in the meeting room had never exactly been relaxed, but now it made the hairs on the back of her hands tingle. She had never dared speak to Scorpio like that, and she did not know many who had.

But Scorpio answered calmly. ‘She - Khouri - said the word again.’

‘The word?’ Vasko repeated.

‘Hela. She’s said it several times since we revived her, but we didn’t know what it meant, or even if it had any particular significance. But there was another word this time.’ Again the leather creaked as he shifted his frame. For all that he appeared disconnected from events in the room, the violence of which he was capable was a palpable thing, waiting in the wings like an actor.

‘The other word?’ Vasko asked.

‘Quaiche,’ Scorpio replied.

The woman walked to the sea. Overhead the sky was a brutal, tortured grey and the rocks under her feet were slippery and unforgiving. She shivered, more in apprehension than cold, for the air was humid and oppressive. She looked behind her, along the shoreline towards the ragged edge of the encampment. The buildings on the fringe of the settlement had a deserted and derelict air to them. Some of them had collapsed and never been reoccupied. She thought it very unlikely that there was anyone around to notice her presence. Not, of course, that it mattered in the slightest. She was entitled to be here, and she was entitled to step into the sea. The fact that she would never have asked this of her own swimmers did not mean that her actions were in any way against colony rules, or even the rules of the swimmer corps. Foolhardy, yes, and very probably futile, but that could not be helped. The pressure to do something had grown inside her like a nagging pain, until it could not be ignored.

It had been Vasko Malinin who had tipped her over the edge. Did he realise the effect his words had had?

Marl Pellerin halted where the shoreline began to curve back around on itself, enclosing the waters of the bay. The shore was a vague grey scratch stretching as far as the eye could see, until it became lost in the mingled wall of sea-mist and cloud that locked in the bay in all directions. The spire of the ship was only intermittently visible in the silvery distance, and its size and remoteness varied from sighting to sighting as her brain struggled to cope with the meagre evidence available to it. Marl knew that the spire reached three kilometres into the sky, but at times it looked no larger than a medium-sized conch structure, or one of the communications antennae that ringed the settlement. She imagined the squall of neutrinos streaming out from the spire - actually from the submerged part of it, of course, where the engines lay underwater - as a shining radiance, a holy light knifing through her. The particles sang through her cell membranes, doing no damage as they sprinted for interstellar space at a hair’s breath below the speed of light. They meant that the engines were gearing up for starflight. Nothing organic could detect those squalls, only the most sensitive kinds of machine. But was that really true? The Juggler organisms - taken as a single planet-spanning entity - constituted a truly vast biomass. The Juggler organisms on a single planet outweighed the cumulative mass of the entire human species by a factor of a hundred. Was it so absurd to think that the Jugglers in their entirety might not be as oblivious to that neutrino flux as people imagined? Perhaps they, too, sensed the Captain’s restlessness. And perhaps in their slow, green, nearly mindless fashion they comprehended something of what his departure would mean.

At the sea’s edge something caught Marl’s eye. She walked over to examine it, skipping nimbly from rock to rock. It was a lump of metal, blackened and twisted like some melted sugar confection, strange folds and creases marring its surface. Smoke coiled up from it. The thing buzzed and crackled, and an articulated part resembling the sectioned tail of a lobster twitched horribly. It must have come down recently, perhaps in the last hour. All around Ararat, wherever there were human observers, one heard reports of things falling from the sky. There were too many near these outposts to be accidental. Efforts were being concentrated above centres of human population. Someone - or something - was trying to get through. Occasionally, some small shard succeeded.

The thing disturbed her. Was it alien or human? Was it friendly-human or Conjoiner-human? Was anyone still making that kind of distinction?

Marl walked past the object and stopped at the water’s edge. She disrobed. Preparing to enter the sea, she had a weird flash of herself from the sea’s perspective. Her vision seemed to bob up and down from the water. She was a thin, naked thing, a pale upright starfish on the shore. The smashed object pushed a quill of smoke into the sky.

Marl wet her hands in water that had gathered in a rockpool. She splashed her face, wetting back her hair. The water stung her eyes, made them blur with tears. Even the water in the pools was fetid with Juggler life. Pellerin’s skin itched, especially in the band across her face where she already showed signs of Juggler takeover. The two colonies of micro-organisms - the one in the water and the one buried in her face - were recognising each other, fizzing with excitement.

Those who monitored such things considered Marl a marginal case. Her signs of takeover were by no means the worst anyone had ever seen. On statistical grounds, she ought to be safe for another dozen swims, at the very least. But there were always exceptions. Sometimes the sea consumed those who had only very slight indications of takeover. Rarely, it took complete newcomers the first time they swam.

That was the point about the Pattern Jugglers. They were alien. It, the Juggler biomass, was alien. It would not succumb to human analysis, to neatly circumscribed cause and effect. It was as quixotic and unpredictable as a drunkard. You could guess how it might behave given certain parameters, but once in a while you might be terribly, terribly wrong.

Marl knew this. She had never pretended otherwise. She knew that any swim brought risks.

She had been lucky so far.

She thought of Shizuko, waiting in the psychiatric section for one of Marl’s visits - except she wasn’t really waiting in the usual sense of the word. Shizuko might have been aware that Marl was due to arrive, and she might have varied her activities accordingly. But when Marl showed up, Shizuko merely looked at her with the distracted passing interest of someone who has seen a crack in a wall that they did not remember, or a fleeting suggestion of meaningful shape in a cloud. The flicker of interest was waning almost as soon as Marl had noticed it. Sometimes Shizuko would laugh, but it was an idiot’s laugh, like the chime of small, stupid bells.

Shizuko would then return to her scratching, her fingers always bleeding under the nails, ignoring the crayons and chalks offered to her as substitutes. Marl had stopped visiting some months ago. Once she had acknowledged and accepted that she now meant nothing to Shizuko, there had been an easing. Counter-pointing it, however, had also been a dispiriting sense of betrayal and weakness.

She thought now of Vasko. She thought of his easy certainties, his conviction that the only thing that stood between the swimmers and the sea was fear.

She hated him for that.

Marl took a step into the water. A dozen or so metres out, a raft of green matter twirled in response, sensing that she had entered its realm. Marl took in a deep breath. She was impossibly scared. The itch across her face had become a burn. It made her want to swoon into the water.

‘I’m here,’ she said. And she stepped towards the mass of Juggler organisms, submerging up to her thighs, up to her waist, then deeper. Ahead, the biomass formed shapes with quickening intensity, the breeze of its transformations blowing over her. Alien anatomies shuffled through endless permutations. It was a pageant of monsters. The water too deep now to walk through, she kicked off from the bed of rocks and began to swim towards the show.

Vasko looked at the others present. ‘Quaiche? That doesn’t mean anything more to me than the first word.’

‘They meant nothing to me either,’ Scorpio said. ‘I wasn’t even sure of the spelling of the first word. But now I’m certain. The second word locks it. The meaning is unambiguous.’

‘So are you going to enlighten us?’ Liu asked.

Scorpio gestured to Orca Cruz.

‘Scorp’s right,’ she said. ‘Hela means nothing significant in isolation. Query the databases we brought with us from Resurgam or Yellowstone and you’ll find thousands of possible explanations. Same if you try variant spellings. But put in Quaiche and Hela and it’s a different kettle of fish. There’s really only one explanation, bizarre as it seems.’

‘I’m dying to hear it,’ Liu said. Next to him, Vasko nodded in agreement. Antoinette said nothing and conveyed no visible interest, but her curiosity was obviously just as strong.

‘Hela is a world,’ Cruz said. ‘Not much of one, just a medium-sized moon orbiting a gas giant named Haldora. Still not ringing any bells?’

No one said anything.

‘What about Quaiche?’ Vasko asked. ‘Another moon?’

Cruz shook her head. ‘No. Quaiche is actually a man, the individual who assigned the names to Hela and Haldora. There’s no entry for Quaiche or his worlds in the usual nomenclature database, but we shouldn’t be too surprised about that - it’s been more than sixty years since it was updated by direct contact with other ships. But ever since we’ve been on Ararat, we’ve been picking up the occasional stray signal from other Ultra elements. A lot, recently - they’re using long-range wide-beam transmissions far more than they ever did in the past, and occasionally one of those signals sweeps over us by accident.’

‘Why the change in tactics?’ Vasko asked.

‘Something’s got them scared,’ Cruz said. ‘They’re becoming nervous, unwilling to do face-to-face trade. Some Ultras must have met something they didn’t like, and now they’re spreading the word, switching to long-range trading of data rather than material commodities.’

‘No prizes for guessing what’s spooked them,’ Vasko said.

‘It works to our advantage, though,’ Cruz said. ‘They may not be authoritative transmissions, and half of those we do intercept are riddled with errors and viruses, but over the years we’ve been able to keep our databases more up to date than we could ever have hoped given our lack of contact with external elements.’

‘So what do we know about Quaiche’s system, then?’ Vasko asked.

‘Not as much as we’d like,’ Cruz said. ‘There were no conflicts with prior assignments, which means that the system Quaiche was investigating must have been very poorly explored prior to his arrival.’

‘So whatever Aura is referring to happened - what - fifty, sixty years ago?’ Vasko asked.

‘Easily,’ Cruz said.

Vasko stroked his chin. It was clean-shaven, smooth as sand-papered wood. ‘Then it can’t mean much to us, can it?’

‘Something happened to Quaiche,’ Scorpio said. ‘Accounts vary. Seems he was doing scoutwork for Ultras, getting his hands dirty exploring planetary environments they weren’t happy around. He witnessed something, something to do with Haldora.’ Scorpio looked at them all, one by one, daring anyone - especially Vasko - to interrupt or quibble. ‘He saw it vanish. He saw the planet just cease to exist for a fraction of a second. And because of that he started up a kind of religion on Hela, Haldora’s moon.’

‘That’s it?’ Antoinette asked. ‘That’s the message Aura came all this way to give us? The address of a religious lunatic?’

‘There’s more,’ Scorpio said.

‘I sincerely hope there is,’ she replied

‘He saw it happen more than once. So, apparently, did others.’

‘Why am I not surprised?’ she said.

‘Wait,’ Vasko said, holding up a hand. ‘I want to hear the rest. Go on, Scorp.’

The pig looked at him with an utter absence of expression. ‘Like I need your permission?’

‘That’s not how I meant it to sound. I just . . .’ Vasko looked around, perhaps wondering whom he might solicit for support. ‘I just think we shouldn’t be too quick to dismiss anything we learn from Aura, no matter how little sense it seems to make.’

‘No one’s dismissing anything,’ Scorpio said.

‘Please tell us what you learned,’ Antoinette interrupted, sensing that things were about to get out of hand.

‘Not much happened for decades,’ Scorpio continued. ‘Quaiche’s miracle drew a few people to Hela. Some of them signed up for the religion, some of them became disillusioned and set up shop as miners. There are alien artefacts on Hela - nearly useless junk, but they export enough to sustain a few settlements. Ultras buy the junk off them and sell it on to curio collectors. Someone probably makes a bit of money out of it, but you can guess that it isn’t the poor idiots who dig the stuff out of the ground.’

‘There are alien artefacts on a bunch of worlds,’ Antoinette said. ‘I’m guessing this lot went the same way as the Amarantin and a dozen or so other civilisations, right?’

‘The databases didn’t have much on the indigenous culture,’ Scorpio said. ‘The people who run Hela don’t exactly encourage free-thinking scientific curiosity. But yes, reading between the lines, it looks as though they met the wolves.’

‘And they’re extinct now?’ she asked.

‘So it would seem.’

‘Help me out here, Scorp,’ Antoinette said. ‘What do you think all this might mean to Aura?’

‘I have no idea,’ he said.

‘Perhaps she wants us to go there,’ Vasko said.

They all looked at him. His tone of voice had been reasonable, as if he was merely voicing something the rest of them were taking for granted. Perhaps that was even true, but hearing someone articulate it was like a small, quiet profanity in the most holy of audiences.

‘Go there?’ Scorpio said, frowning, the skin between his snout and forehead crinkling into rolls of flesh. ‘You mean actually go there?’

‘If we conclude that she’s suggesting it would help us, then yes,’ Vasko said.

‘We can’t just go to this place on the basis of a sick woman’s delirious ramblings,’ said Hallatt, one of the colony seniors from Resurgam who had never trusted Khouri.

‘She isn’t sick,’ said Dr Valensin. ‘She has been tired, and she has been traumatised. That’s all.’

‘I hear she wanted the baby put back inside her,’ Hallatt said, a revolted sneer on his face, as if this was the most debased thing anyone had ever imagined.

‘She did,’ Scorpio said, ‘and I vetoed it. But it wasn’t an unreasonable request. She is the child’s mother, and the child was kidnapped before she could give birth to her. Under the circumstances, I thought it was an entirely understandable desire.’

‘But you still turned her down,’ Hallatt said.

‘I couldn’t risk losing Aura, not after the price we paid for her.’

‘Then you were cheated,’ Hallatt said. ‘The price was too high. We lost Clavain and all we got back was a brain-damaged child.’

‘You’re saying Clavain died in vain?’ Scorpio asked him, his voice dangerously soft.

The moment stalled, elongated, like a fault in a recording. Antoinette realised with appalling clarity that she was not the only one who did not know what had happened in the iceberg. Hallatt, too, must be ignorant of the actual events, but his ignorance was of an infinitely more reckless kind, trampling and transgressing its own boundaries.

‘I don’t know how he died. I don’t care and I don’t need to know. But if Aura was all it was about then no, it wasn’t worth it. He died in vain.’ Hallatt locked his fingers together and pursed his lips in Scorpio’s direction. ‘You might not want to hear it, but that’s the way it is.’

Scorpio glanced at Blood. Something passed between them: an interplay of minute gestures too subtle, too familiar to each participant, ever to be unravelled by an outsider. The exchange only lasted for an instant. Antoinette wondered if anyone else even noticed it, or whether she had simply imagined it.

But another instant later, Hallatt was looking down at something parked in his chest.

Languidly, as if standing up to adjust a picture hung at a lopsided angle, Blood eased to his feet. He strolled towards Hallatt, swaying from side to side with the slow, effortless rhythm of a metronome.

Hallatt was making choking sounds. His fingers twitched impotently against the haft of Blood’s knife.

‘Get him out of here,’ Scorpio ordered.

Blood removed his knife from Hallatt, cleaned it against his thigh, sheathed it again. A surprisingly small amount of blood leaked from the wound.

Valensin moved to stand up.

‘Stay where you are,’ Scorpio said.

Blood had already called for a pair of SA aides. They arrived within the minute, reacting to the situation with only a momentary jolt of surprise. Antoinette gave them top marks for that. Had she walked into the room and found someone bleeding to death from an obvious knife wound, she would have had a hard time staying conscious, let alone calm.

‘I’m going after him,’ Valensin said, standing up again as the SA aides removed Hallatt.

‘I said, stay put,’ Scorpio repeated.

The doctor hammered a fist on the table. ‘You just killed a man, you brutal little simpleton! Or at least you will have if he doesn’t get immediate medical attention. Is that something that you really want on your conscience, Scorpio?’

‘Stay where you are.’

Valensin took a step towards the door. ‘Go ahead, then. Stop me, if it really means that much to you. You have the means.’

Scorpio’s face twisted into a mask of fury and hatred that Antoinette had never seen before. It astonished her that pigs had the necessary facial dexterity to produce such an extreme expression.

‘I’ll stop you, trust me on that.’ Scorpio reached into a pocket or sheath of his own - whatever it was lay hidden under the table - and removed his knife. It was not one Antoinette had seen before. The blade, at some command from the pig, grew blurred.

‘Scorpio,’ she said, standing up herself, ‘let him do it. He’s a doctor.’

‘Hallatt dies.’

‘There’ve been enough deaths already,’ Antoinette said. ‘One more isn’t going to make anything better.’

The knife quivered in his grasp, as if not quite tamed. Antoinette expected it to leap from his hand at any moment.

Something chimed. The unexpected noise seemed to catch the pig unawares. His fury slipped down a notch. He looked for the source of the sound. It had come from his communications bracelet.

Scorpio quietened the knife. It grew solid again, and he returned it to the sheath or pocket where it had originated.

He looked at Valensin and said one word. ‘Go.’

The doctor nodded curtly - his own face still angry - and scurried after the aides who had carried the wounded man away.

Scorpio lifted the bracelet to his ear and listened to some small, shrill, distant voice. After a minute he frowned and asked the voice to repeat what it had said. As the message was reiterated his frown lessened, but did not entirely vanish.

‘What is it?’ Antoinette asked.

‘The ship,’ he said. ‘Something’s happening.’

Within ten minutes a shuttle had been commandeered and diverted from the ongoing evacuation effort. It came down within a block of the High Conch, descending between buildings, a Security Arm retinue clearing the area and providing safe access for the small party of colony seniors. Vasko was the last aboard, after Scorpio and Antoinette Bax, while Blood and the others remained on the ground as the plane hauled itself aloft once more. The shuttle threw hard white light against the sides of the buildings, the citizens below shielding their eyes but unwilling to look away. There was now no one in First Camp who did not urgently wish to be somewhere else. There was only room for the three who had just boarded because the shuttle’s bay was already loaded to near-capacity with evacuees.

Vasko felt the machine accelerate. He hung on to a ceiling handhold, hoping that the flight would be brief. The evacuees looked at him with stunned faces, as if waiting for an explanation he was in no position to give.

‘Where are they supposed to be heading?’ he asked the foreman in charge.

‘The outlands,’ he said quietly, meaning the sheltered ground, ‘but now they’ll be taken to the ship instead. We can’t afford to waste valuable time.’

The cold efficiency of this decision stunned Vasko. But he also found himself admiring it.

‘What if they don’t like it?’ he asked, keeping his voice low.

‘They can always lodge a complaint.’

The journey did not take very long. They had a pilot this time; some of the evacuation flights were being handled by autonomous craft, but this one had been deemed too unusual. They kept low, heading out to sea, and then executed a wide turn around the base of the ship. Vasko was lucky enough to be by the wall. He had made a window in it, peering into silvery mist. Around him, the evacuees crowded forwards for a better look.

‘Close the window,’ Scorpio said.

‘What?’

‘You heard me.’

‘I’d do it if I were you,’ Antoinette said.

Vasko closed the window. If ever there was a day not to argue with the pig, he thought, then this was it. He had seen nothing in any case, just a hint of the ship’s looming presence.

They climbed, presumably continuing the spiralling flight path around the spire, and then he felt the shuttle slow and touch solid ground. After a minute or so a crack of light signalled the opening of the escape door and the evacuees were ushered out. Vasko did not get a good look at what lay beyond, in the reception area. He had only a brief glimpse of Security Arm guards standing alertly, shepherding the newcomers with an efficiency that went way beyond polite urgency. He had expected the people to show some anger when they realised they had been taken to the ship instead of the safe haven on the surface, but all he saw was docile acceptance. Perhaps they did not yet realise that this was the ship, and not some ground-level processing area on the other side of the island. If so, he did not care to be around when they learned about the change of plan.

Soon the shuttle was empty of evacuees. Vasko half-expected to be ushered off as well, but instead the three of them remained aboard with the pilot. The loading door closed again and the plane departed from the bay.

‘You can open the window now,’ Scorpio said.

Vasko made a generous window in the hull, large enough for the three of them to look out of, but for the moment there was nothing to see. He felt the shuttle lurch and yaw as it descended from the reception bay, but he could not tell if they were staying near the Nostalgia for Infinity or returning to First Camp.

‘You said something was happening with the ship,’ Vasko said. ‘Is it the neutrino levels?’

Scorpio turned to Antoinette Bax. ‘How are they looking?’ ‘Higher than the last time I reported,’ she said, ‘but according to our monitor stations they haven’t been climbing at quite the same rate as before. Still going up, but not as fast. Maybe my little chat with John did some good after all.’

‘Then what’s the problem?’ Vasko asked.

Scorpio gestured at something through the window. ‘That,’ he said.

Vasko followed the pig’s gaze. He saw the spire of the ship emerging from the silver sea haze. They had descended rapidly and were looking at the place where the ship thrust out of the water. It was here, only the night before, that Vasko had seen the ring of boats and the climbers trying to ascend to the ship’s entrance points. But everything had changed since then. There were no climbers, no boats. Instead of a ring of clear water around the base of the spire, the ship was hemmed by a thick, impenetrable layer of solid Juggler biomass. It was a fuzzy green colour, intricately textured. The layer reached out for perhaps a kilometre in all directions, connecting with other biomass clusters via floating bridges of the same verdant material. But that was not the whole of it. The layer around the ship was reaching up around the hull, forming a skin of biomass. It must have been tens of metres thick in places, dozens more where it flared upwards near the base. At that moment, by Vasko’s estimate, it had reached two or three hundred metres up the side of the ship. The uppermost limit was not a neatly regular circle but a ragged, probing thing, extending questing tendrils and fronds higher and higher. Faint green veins were already visible at least a hundred metres above the main mass. The whole sheath was moving even as he watched, creeping inexorably upwards. The main mass must have been moving at close to a metre a second. Assuming it could sustain that rate, it would have encased the entire ship within the hour.

‘When did this start happening?’ Vasko asked.

‘Thirty, forty minutes ago,’ Scorpio said. ‘We were alerted as soon as the concentration began to build up around the base.’

‘Why now? I mean, after all the years that ship’s been parked here, why would they start attacking it now, of all days?’ Vasko said.

‘I don’t know,’ Scorpio replied.

‘We can’t be certain that it’s an attack,’ Antoinette said quietly.

The pig turned to her. ‘So what does it look like to you?’

‘It could be anything,’ she replied. ‘Vasko’s right - an attack doesn’t make any sense. Not now, after all these years. It has to be something else.’ She added, ‘I hope.’

‘You said it,’ Scorpio replied.

The plane continued to circle the spire. All around it was the same story. It was like watching an accelerated film of some enormous stone edifice being covered in moss, or a statue with verdigris - purposeful, deliberate verdigris.

‘This changes things,’ Antoinette said. ‘I’m worried, Scorp. It might not be an attack, but what if I’m wrong? What about the people already aboard?’

Scorpio lifted up his bracelet and spoke in hushed tones.

‘Who are you calling?’ Antoinette asked.

He cupped a hand over the microphone. ‘Marl Pellerin,’ he said. ‘I think it’s time the swimmer corps found out what’s going on.’

‘I agree,’ Vasko said. ‘I thought they should have swum already, as soon as the Juggler activity started up. Isn’t that what they’re for?’

‘You wouldn’t say that if it was you that had to swim out there,’ Antoinette said.

‘It isn’t me. It’s them, and it’s their job.’

Scorpio continued to speak softly into the bracelet. He kept saying the same thing over and over again, as if repeating himself to different people. Finally he shook his head and lowered his sleeve.

‘No one can find Pellerin,’ he said.

‘She must be somewhere,’ Vasko said. ‘On stand-by or something, waiting for orders. Have you tried the High Conch?’

‘Yes.’

‘Leave it,’ Antoinette said, touching the pig’s sleeve. ‘It’s chaos back there. I’m not surprised that the lines of communication are breaking down.’

‘What about the rest of the swimmer corps?’ Vasko asked.

‘What about them?’ Scorpio asked.

‘If Pellerin can’t be bothered to do her job, what about the others? We’re always hearing about how vital they are to the security of Ararat. Now’s their chance to prove it.’

‘Or die trying,’ Scorpio said.

Antoinette shook her head. ‘Don’t ask any of them to swim, Scorp. It isn’t worth it. Whatever’s happening out there is the result of a collective decision taken by the biomass. A couple of swimmers aren’t going to make much difference now.’

‘I just expected better of Marl,’ Scorpio said.

‘She knows her duty,’ Antoinette said. ‘I don’t think she’d let us down, if she had any choice. Let’s just hope she’s safe.’

Scorpio moved away from the window and started towards the front of the aircraft. Even as the plane pitched, responding to the unpredictable thermals that spiralled around the huge ship, the pig remained rooted to the ground. Low and wide, he was more comfortable on his feet in the turbulent conditions than either of his human companions.

‘Where are you going?’ Vasko asked.

The pig looked back. ‘I’m telling him to change our flight plan. We’re supposed to be going back to pick up more evacuees.’

‘And we’re not?’

‘Afterwards. First, I want to get Aura into the air. I think the sky might be the safest place right now.’

TWENTY-EIGHT

Ararat, 2675

Vasko and Scorpio handled the incubator, carrying it gently into the empty belly of the shuttle. The sky was darkening now, and the thermal matrix of the shuttle’s heating surface glowed an angry cherry red, the elements hissing and ticking. Khouri followed them warily, stooping against the oppressive blanket of warm air trapped beneath the shuttle’s downcurved wings. She had said nothing more since waking, moving in a dreamlike state of wary compliance. Valensin followed behind his patients, sullenly accepting the same state of affairs. His two medical servitors trundled after him, tied to their master by inviolable bonds of obedience.

‘Why aren’t we going to the ship?’ Valensin kept asking.

Scorpio hadn’t answered him. He was communicating with someone via the bracelet again, most likely Blood or one of his deputies. Scorpio shook his head and snarled out an oath. Whatever the news was, Vasko doubted it was welcome.

‘I’m going up front,’ Antoinette said, ‘see if the pilot needs any help.’

‘Tell him to keep it slow and steady,’ Scorpio ordered. ‘No risks. And be prepared to get us up and out if it comes to that.’

‘Assuming this thing still has the legs to reach orbit.’

They took off. Vasko helped the doctor and his mechanical aides to secure the incubator, Valensin showing him how the shuttle’s interior walls could be persuaded to form outgrowths and niches with varying qualities of adhesion. The incubator was soon glued down, with the two servitors standing watch over its functions. Aura, visible as a wrinkled thing within the tinted plastic, bound up in monitors and tubes, appeared oblivious to all the fuss.

‘Where are we going?’ Khouri asked. ‘The ship?’

‘Actually, there’s a bit of a problem with the ship,’ Scorpio said. ‘C’mon, take a look. I think you’ll find it interesting.’

They circled the ship again, at the same altitude as before. Khouri stared at the view with wide, uncomprehending eyes. Vasko did not blame her in the slightest. When he had seen the ship himself, only thirty minutes earlier, it had been in the earliest stages of being consumed by the Juggler biomass. Because the process had only just begun, it had been easy enough to assimilate what was going on. But now the ship was gone. In its place was a towering, irregular fuzzy green spire. He knew that there was a ship under the mass, but he could only guess at how strange the view must look to someone who hadn’t seen the early stages of the Juggler envelopment.

But there was something else, wasn’t there? Something that Vasko had noticed almost immediately but had dismissed as an optical illusion, a trick of his own tilted vantage point within the shuttle. But now that he was able to see the horizon where it poked through rents in the sea mist, it was obvious that there was no illusion, and that what he saw had nothing to do with his position.

The ship was tilting. It was a slight lean, only a few degrees away from vertical, but it was enough to inspire terror. The edifice that had for so long been a solid fixture of the landscape, seemingly as ancient as geography itself, was leaning to one side.

It was being pulled over by the collective biomass of the Pattern Juggler organisms.

‘This isn’t good,’ Vasko said.

‘Tell me what’s happening,’ Khouri said, standing next to him.

‘We don’t know,’ Scorpio said. ‘It started an hour or so ago. The sea thickened around the base, and the ring of material started swallowing the ship. Now it looks as if the Jugglers are trying to topple it.’

‘Could they?’

‘Maybe. I don’t know. The ship must weigh a few million tonnes. But the mass of all that Juggler material isn’t exactly negligible. I wouldn’t worry about the ship toppling, though.’

‘No?’

‘I’d be more worried about it snapping. That’s a lighthugger. It’s designed to tolerate one or more gees of acceleration along its axis. Standing on the surface of a planet doesn’t impose any more stress on it than normal starflight. But they don’t build those ships to handle lateral stresses. They’re not designed to stay in one piece if the forces are acting sideways. A couple more degrees and I’ll start worrying. She might come down.’

Khouri said, ‘We need that ship, Scorp. It’s our only ticket out of here.’

‘Thanks for the newsflash,’ he said, ‘but right now I’d say there isn’t a lot I can do about it - unless you want me to start fighting the Pattern Jugglers.’

The very notion was extreme, almost absurd. The Pattern Jugglers were harmless to all but a few unfortunate individuals. Collectively, they had never indicated any malicious intentions towards humanity. They were archives of lost knowledge, lost minds. But if the Pattern Jugglers were trying to destroy the Nostalgia for Infinity, what else could the humans do but retaliate? That simply could not be allowed to happen.

‘Do you have weapons on this shuttle?’ Khouri asked.

‘Some,’ Scorpio said. ‘Light ship-to-ship stuff, mainly.’

‘Anything you could use against that biomass?’

‘Some particle beams which won’t work too well in Ararat’s atmosphere. The rest? Too likely to take chunks out of the ship as well. We could try the particle beams . . .’

‘No!’

The voice had come from Khouri’s mouth. But it had emerged explosively, like a vomit of sound. It almost didn’t resemble her voice at all.

‘You just said . . .’ Scorpio began.

Khouri sat down suddenly, falling - as if exhausted - into one of the couches that the shuttle had provided. She pressed a hand to her brow.

‘No,’ she said again, less stridently this time. ‘No. Leave. Leave alone. Help us.’

Wordlessly, Vasko, Scorpio, Valensin - and Khouri too - turned to look at the incubator, where Aura lay entombed in the care of machines. The tiny red-pink form within was moving, writhing gently against those restraints.

‘Help us?’ Vasko asked.

Khouri answered, but again the words seemed to emerge without her volition. She had to catch her breath between them. ‘They. Help us. Want to.’

Vasko moved over to the incubator. He had one eye on Khouri, another on her daughter. Valensin’s machines shuffled agitatedly. They did not know what to do, and their jointed arms were jerking with nervous indecision.

‘They?’ Vasko asked. ‘They as in the Pattern Jugglers?’

The pink form kicked her little legs, the tiny, perfectly formed nub of a fist clenched in front of the miniature scowl of her face. Aura’s eyes were sealed slits.

‘Yes. They. Pattern Jugglers,’ Khouri said.

Vasko turned to Scorpio. ‘I think we’ve got this all wrong,’ he said.

‘You do?’

‘Wait. I need to talk to Antoinette.’

He went forward to the bridge without waiting for the pig’s permission. In the shuttle’s cockpit he found Antoinette and the pilot strapped into their command couches. They had turned the entire cockpit transparent, so that they appeared to be floating in midair, accompanied only by various disembodied read-out panels and controls. Vasko took a dizzy step back and then collected himself.

‘Can we hover?’ he asked.

Antoinette looked at him over her shoulder. ‘Of course.’

‘Then bring us to a stop. Do you have any ranging equipment? Anticollision sensors, that sort of thing?’

‘Of course,’ she said again, as if both questions were amongst the least intelligent she had heard in a long while.

‘Then shine something on the ship.’

‘Any particular reason, Vasko? We can all see that the damned thing’s tilting.’

‘Just do it, all right?’

‘Yes, sir,’ she said. Her small hands, clinking with jewellery, worked the controls floating above her couch. Vasko felt the ship nudge to a halt. The view ahead rotated, bringing the leaning tower directly in front of them.

‘Hold it there,’ Vasko said. ‘Now get that ranging thing - whatever it is - on to the ship. Somewhere near the base if you can manage it.’

‘That isn’t going to help us figure out the tilt angle,’ Antoinette said.

‘It’s not the tilt I’m interested in. I don’t think they’re really trying to topple it.’

‘You don’t?’

Vasko smiled. ‘I think it’s just a by-product. They’re trying to move it.’

He waited for her to set up the ranging device. A pulsing spherical display floated in front of her, filled with smoky green structures and numbers. ‘There’s the ship,’ she said, pointing to the thickest return in the radar plot.

‘Good. Now tell me how far away it is.’

‘Four hundred and forty metres,’ she said, after a moment. ‘That’s an average. The green stuff is changing in thickness all the while.’

‘All right. Keep an eye on that figure.’

‘It’s increasing,’ the pilot said.

Vasko felt hot breath on his neck. He turned around to see the pig looking over his shoulder.

‘Vasko’s on to something,’ Antoinette said. ‘Distance to the spire is now . . . four hundred and fifty metres.’

‘You’re drifting,’ Scorpio said.

‘No, we’re not.’ She sounded the tiniest bit affronted. ‘We’re rock steady, at least within the errors of measurement. Vasko’s right, Scorp - the ship’s moving. They’re dragging it out to sea.’

‘How fast is it moving?’ Scorpio asked.

‘Too soon to say with any certainty. A metre, maybe two, per second.’ Antoinette checked her own communicator bracelet. ‘The neutrino levels are still going up. I’m not sure exactly how long we have left, but I don’t think we’re looking at more than a few hours.’

‘In which the case the ship isn’t going to be more than a few kilometres further away when it launches,’ Scorpio said.

‘That’s better than nothing,’ Antoinette said. ‘If they can at least get it beyond the curve of the bay, so that we have some shelter from the tidal waves . . . that’s got to be better than nothing, surely?’

‘I’ll believe it when I see it,’ the pig replied.

Vasko felt a thrilling sense of affirmation. ‘Aura was right. They don’t want to hurt us. They only want to save us, by getting the ship away from the bay. They’re on our side.’

‘Nice theory,’ Scorpio said, ‘but how did they know we were in this mess in the first place? It’s not as if anyone went down into the sea and explained it to them. Someone would have had to swim for that.’

‘Maybe someone did,’ Vasko said. ‘Does it matter now? The ship’s moving. That’s all that counts.’

‘Yeah,’ Scorpio said. ‘Let’s just hope it isn’t too late to make a difference.’

Antoinette turned to the pilot. ‘Think you can get us close to that thing? The green stuff doesn’t seem too thick near the top. It might still be possible to get into the usual landing bay.’

‘You’re joking,’ the pilot said, incredulously.

Antoinette shook her head. She was already assigning full control back to the regular pilot. ‘’Fraid not, fella. If we want John to hold his horses until the ship’s clear of the bay, someone’s going to have go down and talk to him. And guess who just drew that straw?’

‘I think she’s serious,’ Vasko said.

‘Do it,’ Scorpio said.

Hela, 2727

The caravan threaded cautiously through tunnels and inched along ridiculously narrow ledges. It twisted and turned, at points doubling back on itself so that the rear parts advanced while the lead machines retreated. Once, navigating a rising hairpin, engines and traction limbs labouring, part of the caravan passed over itself, letting Rashmika look down on the racked Observers.

All the while the bridge grew larger. When she had first seen it, the bridge had the appearance of something lacy and low-relief, painted on a flat black backdrop in glittering iridescent inks. Now, slowly, it was taking on a faintly threatening three-dimensional solidity. This was not some mirage, some peculiar trick of lighting and atmospherics, but a real object, and the caravan was really going to cross it.

The three-dimensionality both alarmed and comforted Rashmika. The bridge now appeared to be more than just an assemblage of infinitely thin lines, and although many of its structural parts were still very fine in cross section, now that she was seeing them at an oblique angle the structural components didn’t look quite so delicate. If the bridge could support itself, surely it could support the caravan. She hoped.

‘Miss Els?’

She looked around. This time it really was Quaestor Jones. ‘Yes,’ she said, unhappy at his attention.

‘We’ll be over it before very long. I promised you that the experience would be spectacular, didn’t I?’

‘You did,’ she said, ‘but what you didn’t explain, Quaestor, was why everyone doesn’t take this short cut, if it’s as useful as you claim.’

‘Superstition,’ he said, ‘coupled with excessive caution.’

‘Excessive caution sounds entirely appropriate to me where this bridge is involved.’

‘Are you frightened, Miss Els? You shouldn’t be. This caravan weighs barely fifty thousand tonnes, all told. And by its very nature, the weight is distributed along a great length. It isn’t as if we’re taking a cathedral across the bridge. Now that would be folly.’

‘No one would do that.’

‘No one sane. And especially not after they saw what happened last time. But that needn’t concern us in the slightest. The bridge will hold the caravan. It has done so in the past. I would have no particular qualms about taking us across it during every expedition away from the Way, but the simple truth is that most of the time it wouldn’t help us. You’ve seen how laborious the approach is. More often than not, using the bridge would cost us more time than it would save. It was only a particular constellation of circumstances that made it otherwise on this occasion.’ The quaestor clasped his hands decisively. ‘Now, to business. I believe I have secured you a position in a clearance gang attached to an Adventist cathedral.’

‘The Lady Morwenna?’

‘No. A somewhat smaller cathedral, the Catherine of Iron. Everyone has to start somewhere. And why are you in such a hurry to reach the Lady Morwenna? Dean Quaiche has his foibles. The Catherine’s dean is a good man. His safety record is very good, and those who serve under him are well looked after.’

‘Thank you, Quaestor,’ she said, hoping her disappointment was not too obvious. She had still been hoping he might be able to find her a solid clerical job, something well away from clearance work. ‘You’re right. Something is better than nothing.’

‘The Catherine is amongst the main group of cathedrals, moving towards the Rift from the western side. We will join them when we have completed our crossing of the bridge, shortly before they begin their descent of the Devil’s Staircase. You are privileged, Miss Els: very few people get the chance to cross Absolution Gap twice in one year, let alone within a matter of days.’

‘I’ll count myself lucky.’

‘Nonetheless, I will repeat what I said before: the work is difficult, dangerous and poorly rewarded.’

‘I’ll take what’s available.’

‘In which case you will be transferred to the relevant gang as soon as we reach the Way. Keep your nose clean, and I am sure you will do very well.’

‘I will certainly bear that in mind.’

He touched a finger to his lips and made to turn away, as if remembering some other errand, then halted. The eyes of his green pet - it had been on his shoulder the whole time - remained locked on to her, blank as gun barrels.

‘One other matter, Miss Els,’ the quaestor said, looking back at her over his shoulder.

‘Yes?’

‘The gentleman you were speaking to earlier?’ His eyes narrowed as he studied her expression. ‘Well, I wouldn’t, if I were you.’

‘You wouldn’t what?’

‘Have anything to do with his sort.’ The quaestor stared vaguely into the distance. ‘As a rule, it’s never wise to circulate amongst Observers, or any other pilgrims of a similarly committed strain of faith. But in my general experience it is especially unwise to associate with those who are vacillating between faith and denial.’

‘Surely, Quaestor, it is up to me who I talk to.’

‘Of course, Miss Els, and please don’t take offence. I offer only advice, from the bottomless pit of goodness which is my heart.’ He popped a morsel into the mouthpiece of his pet. ‘Don’t I, Peppermint?’

‘Let he who is without sin cast the first stone,’ the creature observed.

The caravan surmounted the eastern approach to the bridge. A kilometre from the eastern abutment, the road had veered back into the side of the cliff, ascending a steep defile that - via scraping hairpins, treacherous gradients and brief interludes of tunnel and ledge - brought it to the level of the bridge deck. Behind them, the landscape was an apparently impassable chaos of ice boulders. Ahead, the road deck stretched away like a textbook example of perspective, straight as a rifle barrel, unfenced on either side, gently cambered towards the middle, gleaming with the soft diamond lustre of starlit ice.

Gathering speed now that it was on a level surface with no immediate worry of obstructions, the caravan sped towards the point where the ground fell away on either side. The road beneath the procession became smoother and wider, no longer furrowed or interrupted by rock-falls or man-deep fissures. And here there were, finally, very few pilgrims to be avoided. Most of them did not take the bridge, and so there was minimal risk of any unfortunates being trundled to death beneath the machines.

Rashmika’s grasp of the scale of the structure underwent several ratchetting revisions. She recalled that, from a distance, the deck of the bridge had formed a shallow arc. From this approach, however, it appeared flat and straight, as if aligned by laser, until the point where it vanished into convergence, far ahead. She was trying to resolve this paradox when she realised - dizzyingly - that at that moment she must only be seeing a small fraction of the distance along the deck. It was like climbing a dome-shaped hill: the summit was always tantalisingly out of reach.

She walked to another viewing point and looked back. The first half-dozen vehicles of this flank of the caravan were now on the bridge proper, and the sheer walls of the cliff were dropping back to the rear, offering her the first real opportunity to judge the depth of the Rift.

It fell away with indecent swiftness. The cliff walls were etched and gouged with titanic geological clawmarks, here vertical, there horizontal, elsewhere diagonal or curled and folded into each other in a display of obscene liquidity. The walls sparkled and spangled with blue-grey ice and murkier seams of darker sediment. The ledge that the caravan had traversed, visible now to the left, appeared far too narrow and hesitant to be used as a road, let alone by something weighing fifty thousand tonnes. Beneath the ledge, Rashmika now saw, the cliff often curved in to a worrying degree. She had never exactly felt safe during the traverse, but she had convinced herself that the ground beneath them continued down for more than a few dozen metres.

She did not see the quaestor again during the rest of the crossing. Within an hour she judged that the opposite wall of the Rift looked only slightly further away than the one that was receding behind them. They must be nearing the midpoint of the bridge. Quickly, therefore, but with the minimum of fuss, Rashmika put on her vacuum suit and stole up through the caravan to its roof.

From the top of the vehicle things looked very different from the sanitised, faintly unreal scene she had observed from the pressurised compartment. She now had a panoramic view of the entire Rift, and it was much easier to see the floor, which was a good dozen kilometres below. From this perspective, the Rift floor almost appeared to be creeping forwards as the flat ribbon of the road bed streaked backwards beneath the caravan. This contradiction made her feel immediately dizzy, and she was gripped by an urgent desire to flatten herself on the roof of the machine, spread-eagled so that she could not possibly topple over the edge. But although she bent her knees, lowering her centre of gravity, Rashmika managed to screw up the courage to remain standing.

The road bed appeared only slightly wider than the caravan. They were moving down the middle of it, only occasionally veering to one side or the other to avoid a patch of thickened ice or some other obstruction. There were rocks on the frozen surface of the road, deposited there from volcanic plumes elsewhere on Hela. Some of them were half as high as the caravan’s wheels. The fact that they had managed to smash on to the road without shattering the bridge gave her a tiny flicker of reassurance. And if the road bed was just wide enough to accommodate the two rows of vehicles that made up the caravan, then it was clearly absurd to think of a cathedral making the same journey.

That was when she noticed something down in the floor of the Rift. It was a huge smear of rubble, kilometres across. It was dark and star-shaped, and as far as she could tell the epicentre of the smear lay almost directly beneath the bridge. Near the centre of the star were vague suggestions of ruined structures. Rashmika saw what she thought might be the uppermost part of a spire, leaning to one side. She made out sketchy hints of smashed machinery, smothered in dust and debris.

So someone had tried to cross the bridge with a cathedral.

She moved between the vehicles, focusing dead ahead as she made her own personal crossing. The Observers were still on their racks, tilted towards the swollen sphere of Haldora. Their mirrored faceplates made her think of dozens of neatly packed titanium eggs.

Then she saw another suited figure waiting on the next vehicle along, resting against a railing on one side of the roof. It became aware of her presence at about the same time that she noticed it, for the figure turned to her and beckoned her onwards.

She moved past the Observers, then crossed another swaying connection. The caravan swerved alarmingly to negotiate the chicane between two rockfalls, then bounced and crunched its way over a series of smaller obstructions.

The other figure wore a vacuum suit of unremarkable design. She had no idea whether it was the same kind that the Observers wore, since she had never seen beneath their habits. The mirrored silver visor gave nothing away.

‘Pietr?’ she asked, on the general channel.

There was no response, but the figure still urged her on with increased urgency.

What if this was a trap of some kind? The quaestor had known about her conversation with the young man. It was quite likely that he also knew about her earlier assignation on the roof. Rashmika had little doubt that she would be making enemies during the course of her investigations, but she did not think she had made any yet, unless one counted the quaestor. But since he had now arranged work for her in the clearance gang, she imagined that he had a vested interest in seeing her safely delivered to the Permanent Way.

Rashmika approached the figure, weighing possibilities all the while. The figure’s suit was a hard-shelled model, closely fitting the anatomy of its wearer. The helmet and limb parts were olive green, the accordion joints gleaming silver. Unlike the suits she had seen being worn by the walking pilgrims, it was completely lacking in any ornamentation or religious frippery.

The faceplate turned to her. She saw highlights glance off a face behind the glass, the hard shadow beneath well-defined cheekbones.

Pietr extended an arm and with the other hand folded back a flap on the wrist of the outstretched arm. He unspooled a thin optical fibre and offered the other end to Rashmika.

Of course. Secure communication. She took the fibre and plugged it into the corresponding socket on her own suit. Such fibres were designed to allow suit-to-suit communications in the event of a radio or general network failure. They were also ideal for privacy.

‘I’m glad you made it,’ Pietr said.

‘I wish I understood the reason for all the cloak-and-dagger stuff.’

‘Better safe than sorry. I shouldn’t really have talked to you about the vanishings at all, at least not down in the caravan. Do you think anyone overheard us?’

‘The quaestor came and had a quiet word with me when you had gone.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me in the least,’ Pietr said. ‘He’s not really a religious man, but he knows which side his bread’s buttered on. The churches pay his salary, so he doesn’t want anyone rocking the boat with unorthodox rumours.’

‘You were hardly calling for the abolition of the churches,’ Rashmika replied. ‘From what I remember, all we discussed was the vanishings.’

‘Well, that’s dangerous enough, in some people’s views. Talking of which - views, I mean - isn’t this something else?’ Pietr pivoted around on his heels, illustrating his point with an expansive sweep of his free hand.

Rashmika smiled at his enthusiasm. ‘I’m not sure. I’m not really one for heights.’

‘Oh, c’mon. Forget all that stuff about the vanishings, forget your enquiry - whatever it is - just for now. Admire the view. Millions of people will never, ever see what you’re seeing now.’

‘It feels as if we’re trespassing,’ Rashmika said, ‘as if the scuttlers built this bridge to be admired, but never used.’

‘I don’t know much about them. I’d say we haven’t a clue what they thought, if they even built this thing. But the bridge is here, isn’t it? It seems an awful shame not to make some use of it, even if it’s only once in a while.’

Rashmika looked down at the star-shaped smear. ‘Is it true what the quaestor told me? Did someone once try to take a cathedral across this thing?’

‘So they say. Not that you’ll find any evidence of it in any ecumenical records.’

She grasped the railing tighter, still beguiled by the remoteness of the ground so far below. ‘But it did happen, all the same?’

‘It was a splinter sect,’ Pietr said. ‘A one-off church, with a small cathedral. They called themselves the Numericists. They weren’t affiliated to any of the ecumenical organisations, and they had very limited trading agreements with the other churches. Their belief system was . . . odd. It wasn’t just a question of being in doctrinal conflict with any of the other churches. They were polytheists, for a start. Most of the churches are strictly monotheistic, with strong ties to the old Abrahamic religions. Hellfire and brimstone churches, I call them. One God, one Heaven, one Hell. But the ones who made that mess down there . . . they were a lot stranger. They weren’t the only polytheists, but their entire world view - their entire cosmology - was so hopelessly unorthodox that there was no possibility of interecumenical dialogue. The Numericists were devout mathematicians. They viewed the study of numbers as the highest possible calling, the only valid way to approach the numinous. They believed there was one God for every class of number: a God of integers, a God of real numbers, a God of zero. They had subsidiary gods: a lesser god of irrational numbers, a lesser god of the Diophantine primes. The other churches couldn’t stomach that kind of weirdness. So the Numericists were frozen out, and in due course they became insular and paranoid.’

‘Not surprising, under the circumstances.’

‘But there’s something else. They were interested in a statistical interpretation of the vanishings, using some pretty arcane probability theories. It was tricky. There hadn’t been so many vanishings at that time, so the data was sparser - but their methods, they said, were robust enough to be able to cope. And what they came up with was devastating.’

‘Go on,’ Rashmika said. She finally understood why Pietr had wanted her to come up on to the roof midway through the crossing.

‘They were the first to claim that the vanishings were increasing in frequency, but it was statistically difficult to prove. There was already anecdotal evidence that they occurred in closely spaced clusters, but now, or so the Numericists claimed, the spaces between the clusters were growing shorter. They also claimed that the vanishings themselves were growing longer in duration, although they admitted that the evidence for that was much less “significant”, in the statistical sense.’

‘But they were right, weren’t they?’

Pietr nodded, the reflected landscape tilting in his helmet. ‘At least for the first part. Now even crude statistical methods will show the same result. The vanishings are definitely becoming more frequent.’

‘And the second part?’

‘Not proven. But all the new data hasn’t disproved it, either.’

Again Rashmika risked a glance down at the smear. ‘But what happened to them? Why did they end up down there?’

‘No one really knows. As I said, the churches don’t even admit that an attempt at a crossing ever took place. Dig a little deeper and you’ll find grudging acknowledgement that the Numericists once existed - paperwork relating to rare trade dealings, for instance - but you won’t find anything about them ever crossing Absolution Gap.’

‘It happened, though.’

‘They tried it, yes. No one will ever know why, I think. Perhaps it was a last-ditch attempt to steal prestige from the churches that had frozen them out. Perhaps they’d worked out a short cut that would bring them ahead of the main procession without ever losing sight of Haldora. It doesn’t matter, really. They had a reason, they tried to make the crossing, and they failed. Why they failed, that’s something else.’

‘The bridge didn’t give way,’ Rashmika said.

‘No - doesn’t look as if it did. Their cathedral was small, by the standards of the main ones. From the position of the impact point we can tell they made it a good way across the bridge before sliding off, so it wasn’t a question of the bridge buckling. My guess is it was always a delicate balancing act, with the cathedral extending either side of the road, and that midway over they lost navigational control just long enough to topple over. Who knows?’

‘But you think there’s another possibility.’

‘They hadn’t made themselves popular, what with all that statistical stuff about the vanishings. Remember what I said about the other churches not wanting to know about the increasing frequency?’

‘They don’t want the world to change.’

‘No, they don’t. They’ve got a nice arrangement as it stands. Keep circling Hela, keep monitoring Haldora, make a living exporting scuttler relics to the rest of human space. In the high church echelons, things are fine as they are, thank you very much. They don’t want any rumours of apocalypse upsetting their gravy train.’

‘So you think someone destroyed the Numericists’ cathedral.’

‘Like I said, don’t go trying to prove anything. Of course, it could have been an accident. No one has ever said that taking a cathedral across Absolution Gap was a wise course of action.’

‘Despite all that, Pietr, you still have faith?’ She saw his fist close tighter on the rail.

‘I believe that the vanishings are a message in a time of crisis. Not just a mute statement of Godlike power, as the churches would have it - a miracle for a miracle’s sake - but something vastly more significant. I believe that they are a kind of clock, counting down, and that zero hour is much closer than anyone in authority will have us believe. The Numericists knew this. Do I believe that the churches are to be trusted? By and large, with one or two exceptions, no. I trust them about as far as I can piss in a vacuum. But I still have my faith. That hasn’t changed.’

She thought he sounded as if he was telling the truth, but without a clear view of his face, her guess was as good as anyone’s.

‘There’s something else though, isn’t there? You said the churches couldn’t possibly conceal all evidence of the changing vanishings.’

‘They can’t. But there is an anomaly.’ Pietr let go of the railing long enough to pass something to Rashmika. It was a little metal cylinder with a screw top. ‘You should see this,’ he said. ‘I think you will find it interesting. Inside is a piece of paper with some markings on it. They’re not annotated, since that would make them more dangerous should anyone in authority recognise them for what they are.’

‘You’re going to have to give me a little more to go on than that.’

‘In Skull Cliff, where I come from, there was a man named Saul Tempier. I knew him. He was an old hermit who lived in an abandoned scuttler shaft on the outskirts of the town. He fixed digging machines for a living. He wasn’t mad or violent, or even particularly antisocial; he just didn’t get on well with the other villagers and kept out of their way most of the time. He had an obsessive, methodical streak that made other people feel slightly ill at ease. He wasn’t interested in wives or lovers or friends.’

‘And you don’t think he was particularly antisocial?’

‘Well, he wasn’t actually rude or inhospitable. He kept himself clean and didn’t - as far as I am aware - have any genuinely unpleasant habits. If you visited him, he’d always make you tea from a big old samovar. He had an ancient neural lute which he played now and then. He’d always want to know what you thought of his playing.’ She caught the flash of his smile through the faceplate. ‘Actually, it was pretty dreadful, but I never had the heart to tell him.’

‘How did you come to know him?’

‘It was my job to keep our stock of digging machinery in good order. We’d do most of the repairs ourselves, but whenever there was a backlog or something we just couldn’t get to work properly, one of us would haul it over to Tempier’s grotto. I suppose I visited him two or three times a year. I never minded it, really. I actually quite liked the old coot, bad lute playing and all. Anyway, Tempier was getting old. On one of our last meetings - this would have been eleven or twelve years ago - he told me there was something he wanted to show me. I was surprised that he trusted me that much.’

‘I don’t know,’ Rashmika said. ‘You strike me as the kind of person someone would find it quite easy to trust, Pietr.’

‘Is that intended as a compliment?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘Well, I’ll take it as one, in that case. Where was I?’

‘Tempier said there was something he wanted to show you.’

‘It’s actually the piece of paper I’ve just given you, or, rather, the paper is a careful copy of the original. Tempier, it turned out, had been keeping a record of the vanishings for most of his life. He had done a lot of background work - comparing and contrasting the public records of the main churches, even making visits to the Way to inspect those archives that were not usually accessible. He was a very diligent and obsessive sort, as I’ve said, and when I saw his notes I realised that they were easily the best personal record of the vanishings I’d ever seen. Frankly, I doubt there’s a better amateur compilation anywhere on Hela. Alongside each vanishing was a huge set of associated material - notes on witnesses, the quality of those witnesses, and any other corroborative data sets. If there was a volcanic eruption the day before, he’d note that as well. Anything unusual - no matter how irrelevant it appeared.’

‘He found something, I take it. Was it the same thing that the Numericists discovered?’

‘No,’ Pietr said. ‘It was more than that. Tempier was well aware of what the Numericists had claimed. His own data didn’t contradict theirs in the slightest. In fact, he regarded it as rather obvious that the vanishings were growing more frequent.’

‘So what did he discover?’

‘He found out that the public and official records don’t quite match.’

Rashmika felt a wave of disappointment. She had expected more than that. ‘Big deal,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t surprise me that the Observers might occasionally spot a vanishing when everyone else misses it, especially if it happened during some other distracting . . .’

‘You misunderstand,’ Pietr said sharply. For the first time she heard irritation in his voice. ‘It wasn’t a case of the churches claiming a vanishing that everyone else had missed. This was the other way around. Eight years earlier - which would make it twenty-odd years ago now - there was a vanishing which did not enter the official church records. Do you understand what I’m saying? A vanishing took place, and it was noted by public observers like Tempier, but according to the churches no such thing happened.’

‘But that doesn’t make any sense. Why would the churches expunge knowledge of a vanishing?’

‘Tempier wondered exactly the same thing.’

So perhaps her trip up on to the roof had not been entirely in vain after all. ‘Was there anything about this vanishing that might explain why it wasn’t admitted into the official record? Something that meant it didn’t quite meet the usual criteria?’

‘Such as what?’

She shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Was it very brief, for instance?’

‘As a matter of interest - if Tempier’s notes are correct - it was one of the longest vanishings ever recorded. Fully one and one-fifth of a second.’

‘I don’t get it, in that case. What does Tempier have to say on the matter?’

‘Good question,’ Pietr said, ‘but not one likely to be answered any time soon. I’m afraid Saul Tempier is dead. He died seven years ago.’

‘I’m sorry. I get the impression you liked him. But you said it yourself: he was getting old.’

‘He was, but that didn’t have anything to do with his death. They found him electrocuted, killed while he was repairing one of his machines.’

‘All right.’ She hoped she did not sound too heartless. ‘Then he was getting careless.’

‘Not Saul Tempier,’ Pietr said. ‘He didn’t have a careless bone in his body. That was the bit they got wrong.’

Rashmika frowned. ‘They?’

‘Whoever killed him,’ he said.

They stood in silence for a while. The caravan surmounted the brow of the bridge, then began the long, shallow descent to the other side of the Rift. The far cliffs grew larger, the folds and seams of tortured geology becoming starkly obvious. To the left, on the south-western face of the Rift, Rashmika made out another winding ledge. It appeared to have been pencilled tentatively along the wall, a hesitant precursor for the proper job that was to follow. Yet that was the ledge. Very soon they would be on it, the crossing done. The bridge would have held, and all would be well with the world - or at least as well as when they had set out.

‘Is that why you came here, in the end?’ she asked Pietr. ‘To find out why they killed that old man?’

‘That makes it sound like just another of your secular enquiries,’ he replied.

‘What is it, then, if it isn’t that?’

‘I’d like to know why they murdered Saul, but more than that, I’d like to know why they feel the need to lie about the word of God.’

She had asked him about his beliefs already, but she still felt the need to probe the limits of his honesty. There had to be a chink, she thought: a crack of uncertainty in the shield of his faith. ‘So that’s what you believe the vanishings are?’

‘As firmly as I believe anything.’

‘In which case . . . if the true pattern of vanishings is different from the official story, then you believe that the true message is being suppressed, and the word of God isn’t being communicated to the people in its uncorrupted form.’

‘Exactly.’ He sounded very pleased with her, grateful that some vast chasm of understanding had now been spanned. She had the sense that a burden had been taken from him for the first time in ages. ‘And my mistake was to think I could silence those doubts by immersing myself in mindless observation. But it didn’t work. I saw you, standing there in all your fierce independence, and I realised I had to do this on my own.’

‘That’s . . . something like the way I feel.’

‘Tell me about your enquiry, Rashmika.’

She did. She told him about Harbin, and how she thought he had been taken away by one of the churches. More than likely, she said, he had been forcibly indoctrinated. This was not something she really wanted to consider, but the rational part of her could not ignore the possibility. She told him how the rest of her family had accepted Harbin’s faith some time ago, but that she had never been able to let him slip away that easily. ‘I had to do this,’ she said. ‘I had to make this pilgrimage.’

‘I thought you weren’t a pilgrim.’

‘Slip of the tongue,’ she said. But she wasn’t sure if she really meant it any more.

Ararat, 2675

The upper decks of the Nostalgia for Infinity were crammed with evacuees. Antoinette wanted to avoid thinking of them as so many cattle, but as soon as she hit the main cloying mass of bodies and found her own progress blocked or impeded, frustration overwhelmed her. They were human beings, she kept reminding herself, ordinary people caught up as she was in the ebb of events they barely comprehended. In other circumstances she could easily have been one of them, just as frightened and dazed as they were. Her father had always emphasised how easy it was to find oneself on the wrong side of the fence. It wasn’t necessarily a question of who had the quickest wits or the firmest resolve. It wasn’t always about bravery or some shining inner goodness. It could just as easily be about the position of your name in the alphabet, the chemistry of your blood, or whether you were fortunate enough to be the daughter of a man who happened to own a ship.

She forced herself not to push through the crowds of people waiting to be processed, doing her best to ease forward politely, making eye contact and apologies, smiling at and tolerating those who did not immediately step out of her way. But the mob - she could not help but think of them as such in spite of her best intentions - was so large, so collectively stupid, that her patience only lasted for about two decks. Then something inside her snapped and she was pushing through with all her strength, teeth gritted, oblivious to the insults and the spitting that followed in her wake.

She finally made it through the crowds and descended three blissfully deserted levels using interdeck ladders and stairwells. She moved in near darkness, navigating from one erratic light source to the next, cursing herself for not bringing a torch. Then her shoes sloshed through an inch of something wet and sticky she was glad she couldn’t see.

Finally she found a functioning main-spine elevator and operated the control to summon it. The ship’s lean was disturbingly apparent - it was part of the problem for the continued processing of the immigrants - but so far main ship functions did not appear to have been affected. She heard the elevator thundering towards her, clattering against its inductance rails, and took a moment to check the neutrino levels on her wrist unit. Assuming that the planetwide monitors could still be trusted, the ship was now only five or six per cent from drive criticality. Once that threshold was reached, the ship would have enough bottled energy to lift itself from the surface of Ararat and into orbit.

Only five or six per cent. There had been times when the neutrino flux had jumped that much in only a few minutes.

‘Take your time, John,’ she said. ‘None of us are in that much of a hurry.’

The elevator was slowing. It arrived in a self-important flutter of clanking mechanisms. The doors opened, fluid sluicing down the shaft as Antoinette stepped into the waiting emptiness of the elevator car. Again, why had she forgotten to bring a light with her? She was getting sloppy, taking it as read that the Captain would usher her into his realm like a familiar house guest. Come on in. Put your feet up. How’re things?

What if, this time, he was not so enthusiastic about having company?

None of the elevator voice-control systems worked properly. With practised ease Antoinette unlatched an access panel, exposing the manual controls. Her fingers dithered over the options. They were annotated in antiquated script, but she was familiar enough with them by now. This elevator would only take her part of the way down to the Captain’s usual haunts. She would have to change to another at some point, which would mean a cross-ship trek of at least several hundred metres, assuming no blockades had materialised along the way since her last visit. Would it be better to go up first, and take a different spine track down? For a moment the possibilities branched, Antoinette acutely aware that this time, literally, a minute here or there might make all the difference.

But then the elevator started moving. She had done nothing to it.

‘Hello, John,’ she said.

TWENTY-NINE

Ararat, 2675

The shuttle loitered over First Camp.

The sun was almost down. In the last, miserly light of the day, Vasko and his companions watched the green-clad spire slip beyond the headland. The towering thing had cast its own slanted shadow in the final minutes of daylight, a shadow that moved not just with the descent of the sun but also with the changing position and tilt of the ship. The movement was almost too slow to make out from moment to moment. It was like watching the hour hand of a clock: the movement was only really apparent when you looked away for a minute or two. But the ship was moving, being dragged along by that cloak of biomass, and now a tongue of land stood between the ship and the bay. It was not much of a tongue, just the last hundred metres of headland, and surely not enough to completely deflect the anticipated tidal waves; but it was bound to make some difference, and as the ship moved further along its course the sheltering effect would become larger and larger.

‘Did she make it aboard?’ Khouri asked, her eyes wide and unfocused. Aura seemed to be sleeping again, Khouri once more speaking for herself alone.

‘Yes,’ Vasko said.

‘I hope she can talk some sense into him.’

‘What happened back there . . .’ Vasko said. He looked at her, waiting for her to say something, but nothing came. ‘When Aura spoke to us . . . ?’

‘Yes?’

‘That was really her, right?’

Khouri looked at him, one eye slightly narrowed. ‘Does that bother you? Does my daughter disturb you?’

‘I just want to know. She’s sleeping now, isn’t she?’

‘She isn’t in my head, no.’

‘But she was?’

‘Where are you going with this, Malinin?’

‘I want to know how it works,’ he said. ‘I think she might be useful to us. She’s already helped us, but that’s only the start, isn’t it?’

‘I told you already,’ Khouri said, ‘Aura knows stuff. We just have to listen.’

Hela, 2727

Rashmika sat alone in her room, the night after the caravan had crossed the bridge. She opened the little metal canister that Pietr had given her with trembling hands, fearing - despite herself - some deception or trick. But there was nothing in the canister except a rolled-up spool of thin yellow paper. It slid into her hands, the colour of tobacco. She flattened it carefully, and then inspected the faint sequences of grey marks on one side of the paper.

To the untrained eye they meant precisely nothing. At first they reminded her a little of something, and she had to think for a while before it came to her. The spaced vertical dashes - clustered and clumped, but sliding closer and closer together as her eye panned from left to right - brought to mind a diagram of the chemical absorption lines in a star’s spectrum, bunching closer and closer towards a smeared continuum of states. But these lines represented individual vanishings, and the smeared continuum lay in the future. But what exactly did it signify? Would the vanishings become the norm, with Haldora stuttering in and out of reality like a defective light fitting? Or would the planet just vanish, popping out of existence for evermore?

She examined the paper again. There was a second sequence of marks above the other. They agreed closely, except at one point where the lower sequence had an additional vertical mark where none was present above it.

Twenty-odd years ago, Pietr had said.

Twenty-odd years ago, Haldora had winked out of existence for one and one-fifth of a second. A long cosmic blink. Not just a moment of divine inattention, but a fully-fledged deific snooze.

And during that absence, something had happened that the churches did not like. Something that might even have been worth the life of a harmless old man.

She looked at the paper again, and for the first time it occurred to Rashmika to wonder why Pietr had given it to her, and what she was meant to do with it.

Ararat, 2675

The elevator had been descending for several minutes when Antoinette felt a lurch as it shifted from its usual track. She cried out at first, thinking the elevator was about to crash, but the ride continued smoothly for a dozen seconds before she felt another series of jolts and swerves as the car switched routes again. There was no guessing where she was, only that she was deep inside the ship. Perhaps she was even below the waterline, in the last few hundred metres of the submerged hull. Any maps she might have brought along with her - not that she had, of course - would have been totally useless by now. It was not only that these dank levels were difficult to access from the upper decks, but that they were prone to convulsive and confusing changes of local architecture. For a long time it had been assumed that the elevator lines remained stable when all else changed, but Antoinette knew that this was not the case, and that it would be futile to attempt to navigate by apparently familiar reference points. If she’d brought an inertial compass and a gravito-meter she might have been able to pinpoint her position to within a few dozen metres in three-dimensional space . . . but she hadn’t, and so she had no choice but to trust the Captain.

The elevator arrived at its destination. The door opened and the last dregs of fluid spilled out. She tapped her shoes dry, feeling the unpleasant wetness of her trouser hems against the skin of her calves. She was really not dressed for a meeting with the Captain. What would he think?

She looked out and had to suppress an involuntary gasp of surprise and delight. For all that she knew every moment was precious, it was impossible not to be moved by the view she was seeing. Deep in the ship as she was, she had been expecting another typically gloomy, damp enclosure. She had been assuming that the Captain would manifest via the manipulation of local junk or one of the distorting wall surfaces. Or something else, but qualitatively similar.

But the Captain had brought her somewhere else entirely. It was a huge chamber, a place that at first glance appeared not to have any limits at all. There was an endless sky above her, shaded a rich, heraldic blue. In all directions she saw only stepped tiers of trees reaching away into blue-green infinity. There was a lovely fragrant breeze and a cackle of animal life from the high branches of the nearest trees. Below her, accessed by a meandering rustic wooden staircase, was a marvellous little glade. There was a pool off to one side being fed by a hissing waterfall. The water in the pool, except where it was stirred into creamy whiteness under the waterfall, was the exquisite black of space. Rather than suggesting taintedness, the blackness of the water made it look wonderfully cool and inviting. A little way in from the water’s edge, resting on the perfectly tended lawn, was a wooden table. On either side of the table, forming benches, were long logs.

She had taken an involuntary step from the elevator. Behind her, the door closed. Antoinette saw no alternative but to make her way down the ambling stairs to the floor of the glade, where the grass shimmered with all the shades of green and yellow she had ever imagined.

She had heard about this place. Clavain had spoken about it once, she recalled. A glade within the Nostalgia for Infinity. Once, its location had been well mapped, but after the great ship had been emptied in the days following its landing on Ararat, no one had ever been able to find the glade again. Parties had scoured the areas of the ship where it was supposed to be, but they had found nothing.

The glade was enormous. It was astonishing that you could lose a place this large, but the Nostalgia for Infinity was vast. And if the ship itself didn’t want something to be found . . . well, the Captain certainly had the means to hide whatever he wanted. Access corridors and elevator lines could be rerouted. The entire place - the entire chamber, glade and all - could even have been moved around in the ship, the way one heard about old bullets making slow, meandering journeys through people, years after they had been shot.

Antoinette didn’t think she would ever find out exactly where this was. The Captain had brought her here on his own strict terms, and maybe she would never be allowed to see it again.

‘Antoinette.’ The voice was a hiss, a modulation of the waterfall’s sibilance.

‘Yes?’

‘You’ve forgotten something again, haven’t you?’

Did he mean the torch? No, of course not. She smiled. Despite herself, she hadn’t been quite as forgetful as she had feared.

She slipped on the goggles. Through them she saw the same glade. The colours, if anything, were even brighter. Birds were in the air, moving daubs of red and yellow against the blue backdrop of the sky. Birds! It was great to see birds again, even if she knew they were being manufactured by the goggles.

Antoinette looked around and realised with a jolt that she had company. There were people sitting at the table, on the logs placed either side of it.

Strange people. Really strange people.

‘Come on over,’ one of them said, inviting her to take the one vacant place. The man beckoning her was John Brannigan; she was certain of that immediately. But yet again he was manifesting in a slightly different form.

She thought back to the first two apparitions. Both had evoked Mars, she thought. In the first, he had been wearing a spacesuit so elderly that she had half-expected it to have an opening where you fed in coal. The second time the suit had been slightly more up to date: not modern, by any stretch of the imagination, but at least a generation beyond the first. John Brannigan had looked older then as well - by a good decade or two, she had judged. And now she was looking at an even older counterpart of him, wearing a suit that again skipped fashions forwards another half-century or so.

It was barely a suit at all, really, more a kind of cocoon of something resembling silver-grey insect spit that had been neatly lathered around him. Through the transparent material of the suit she glimpsed a vague tightly packed complexity of organic-looking mechanisms: kidney-shaped bulges and purple lunglike masses; things that pulsed and throbbed. She saw lurid-green fluids scurrying through miles of zigzagging intestinal piping. Beneath all this the Captain was naked, the vile mechanics of catheters and waste-management systems laid out for her inspection. The Captain appeared oblivious. She was looking at a man from a very remote century; one that - on balance - seemed more distant and strange than the earlier periods she had glimpsed in the first two apparitions.

The suit left his head uncovered. He looked older now. His skin appeared to have been sucked on to his skull by some vacuum-forming process, so that it hugged every crevice. She could map the veins beneath his skin with surgical precision. He looked delicate, like something she could crush in her hands.

She sat down, taking the place she had been offered. The other people around the table were all wearing the same kind of suit, with only minor variations in detail. But they were not all alike. Some of them were missing whole chunks of themselves. They had cavities in their bodies which the suits had invaded, cramming them with the same intricacy of organic machinery and bright-green tubing that she could see inside the Captain’s suit. One woman was missing an arm. In its place, under the spit-layer of the suit, was a glass moulding of an arm filled with a tentative structure of bone and meat and nerve fibre. Another one, a man this time, had a glass face, living tissue pressed against its inner surface. Another looked more or less normal at first glance, except that the body had two heads: a woman’s emerging at more or less the right place and a second one - a young man’s - attached above her right shoulder.

‘Don’t mind them,’ the Captain said.

Antoinette realised she must have been staring. ‘I wasn’t . . .’

John Brannigan smiled. ‘They’re soldiers. Forward deployment elements in the Coalition for Neural Purity.’

If that had ever meant anything to Antoinette, it was history she had forgotten a long time ago. ‘And you?’ she asked.

‘I was one, for a while. While it suited my immediate needs. We were on Mars, fighting the Conjoiners, but I can’t say my heart was entirely in it.’

Antoinette leaned forwards. The table, at least, was completely real. ‘John, there’s something we really need to talk about.’

‘Oh, don’t be such a spoilsport. I’ve only just started shooting the breeze with my soldier buddies.’

‘All these people are dead, John. They died - oh, conservative estimate? - three or four hundred years ago. So snap out of the nostalgia trip, will you? You need to get a fucking good grip on the immediate here and now.’

He winked at her and bobbed his head towards one of the people along the table. ‘Do you see Kolenkow there? The one with two heads?’

‘Difficult to miss,’ Antoinette said, sighing.

‘The one on her shoulder’s her brother. They signed up together. He took a hit, got zeroed by a spider mansweeper. Immediate decap. They’re brewing a new body for him back in Deimos. They can hook your head up to a machine in the meantime, but it’s always better if you’re plumbed into a proper body.’

‘I’ll bet. Captain . . .’

‘So Kolenkow’s carrying her brother’s head until the body’s ready. They might even go into battle like that. I’ve seen it happen. Isn’t much that scares the hell out of spiders, but two-headed soldiers might do the trick, I reckon.’

‘Captain. John. Listen to me. You need to focus on the present. We have a situation here on Ararat, all right? I know you know about it - we’ve talked about it already.’

‘Oh, that stuff,’ he said. He sounded like a child being reminded of homework on the first day of a holiday.

Antoinette thumped the table so hard that the wood bruised her fist. ‘I know you don’t want to deal with this, John, but we have to talk about it all the same. You cannot leave just when you feel like it. You may save a few thousand people, but many, many more are going to die in the process.’

The company changed. She was still sitting at a table surrounded by soldiers - she even recognised some of the faces - but now they all looked as if they had been through a few more years of war. Bad war, too. The Captain had a clunking prosthetic arm where there had been a good arm before. The suits were no longer made of insect spit, but were now sliding assemblages of lubricated plates. They were hyper-reflective, like scabs of frozen mercury.

‘Fucking Demarchists,’ the Captain said. ‘Let us keep all that fancy biotech shit until the moment we really needed it. We were really kicking the spiders. Then they pulled the licenses, said we were violating terms of fair use. All that neat squirmy stuff just fucking melted overnight. Bioweps, suits - gone. Now look what we’ve got to work with.’

‘I’m sure you’ll do fine,’ Antoinette said. ‘Captain, listen to me. The Pattern Jugglers are moving the ship to safety. You have to give them time.’

‘They’ve had time,’ he said. It was a heartening moment of lucidity, a connection to the present.

‘Not enough,’ she said.

The steel fist of his new arm clenched. ‘You don’t understand. We have to leave Ararat. There are windows opening above us.’

The back of her neck tingled. ‘Windows, John?’

‘I sense them. I sense a lot of things. I’m a ship, for fuck’s sake.’ Suddenly they were all alone. It was just the Captain and Antoinette. In the bright lustre of his reflective armour she saw a bird traverse the sky.

‘You’re a ship. Good. So stop whining and start acting like one, beginning with a sense of responsibility to your crew. That includes me. What are these windows?’

He waited a while before answering. Had she just got through to him, or sent him scurrying ever deeper into labyrinths of regression?

‘Opportunities for escape,’ he said eventually. ‘Clear channels.

They keep opening, and then closing.’

‘You could be mistaken. It would be really, really bad if you were mistaken.’

‘I don’t think I am.’

‘We’ve been waiting, hoping, for a sign,’ Antoinette said. ‘Some message from Remontoire. But there hasn’t been one.’

‘Maybe he can’t get a message through. Maybe he’s been trying, and this is the best you’re going to get.’

‘Give us a few more hours,’ she said. ‘That’s all we’re asking for. Just enough time to move the ship to a safe distance. Please, John.’

‘Tell me about the girl. Tell me about Aura.’

Antoinette frowned. She remembered mentioning the girl, but she did not think she had ever told the Captain her name. ‘Aura’s fine,’ she said, guardedly. ‘Why?’

‘What does she have to say on the matter?’

‘She thinks we should trust the Pattern Jugglers,’ Antoinette said.

‘And beyond that?’

‘She keeps talking about a place - somewhere called Hela. Something to do with a man named Quaiche.’

‘That’s all?’

‘That’s all. It may not even mean anything. It’s not even Aura speaking to us directly - it’s all coming via her mother. I don’t think Scorpio takes it that seriously. Frankly, I’m not sure I do either. They really, really want to think that Aura is something valuable because of what she cost them. But what if she isn’t? What if she’s just a kid? What if she knows a little, but nowhere near as much as everyone wants her to?’

‘What does Malinin think?’

This surprised her. ‘Why Malinin?’

‘They talk about him. I hear them. I heard about Aura the same way. All those thousands of people inside me, all their whispers, all their secrets. They need a new leader. It could be Malinin; it could be Aura.’

‘There hasn’t even been an official announcement about the existence of Aura,’ Antoinette said.

‘You seriously believe that makes any difference? They know, all of them. You can’t keep a secret like that, Antoinette.’

‘They have a leader already,’ she said.

‘They want someone new and bright and a little frightening. Someone who hears voices, someone they’ll allow to lead them in a time of uncertainties. Scorpio isn’t that leader.’ The Captain paused, caressed his false hand with the scarred fingers of the other. ‘The windows are still opening and closing. I sense a growing urgency. If Remontoire is behind this, he may not be able to offer us many more opportunities for escape. Soon, very soon, I shall have to make my move.’

She knew she had wasted her time. She had thought at first that in showing her this place he was inviting her to a new level of intimacy, but his position had not changed at all. She had stated her case, and all he had done was listen.

‘I shouldn’t have bothered,’ she said.

‘Antoinette, listen to me now. I like you more than you realise. You have always treated me with kindness and compassion. Because of that I care for you, and I care for your survival.’

She looked into his eyes. ‘So what, John?’

‘You can leave. There is still time. But not much.’

‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘But - if it’s all right with you - I think I’ll stay for the ride.’

‘Any particular reason?’

‘Yeah,’ she said, looking around. ‘This is about the only decent ship in town.’

Scorpio moved through the shuttle. He had turned almost all the fuselage surfaces transparent, save for a strip which marked the floor and a portion where Valensin waited with Khouri and her child. With all nonessential illumination turned down, he saw the outside world almost as if he were floating in the evening air.

With nightfall it had become obvious that the space battle was now very close to Ararat. The clouds had broken up, perhaps because of the excessive energies now being dumped into Ararat’s upper atmosphere. Reports of objects splashing down were coming in too rapidly to be processed. Gashes of fire streaked from horizon to horizon every few minutes as unidentified objects - spacecraft, missiles, or perhaps things for which the colonists had no name - knifed deep into Ararat’s airspace. Sometimes there were volleys of them; sometimes things moved in eerie lock-step formation. The trajectories were subject to violent, impossible-looking hairpins and reversals. It was clear that the major protagonists of the battle were deploying inertia-suppressing machinery with a recklessness that chilled Scorpio. Aura had already told them as much, through the mouthpiece of her mother. Clearly the appropriated alien technology was a little more controllable than it had been when Clavain and Skade had tested each other’s nerves with it on the long pursuit from Yellowstone to Resurgam space. But there were still people who told horror stories of the times when the technology had gone wrong. Pushed to its unstable limits, the inertia-suppressing machinery did vile things to both the flesh and the mind. If they were using it as a routine military tool - just another toy in the sandpit - then he dreaded to think what was now considered dangerous and cutting edge.

He thought about Antoinette for a moment, hoping that she was getting somewhere with the Captain. He was not greatly optimistic that she would succeed in changing the Captain’s mind once it was made up. But it still wasn’t absolutely clear whether or not he intended to take the ship up. Perhaps the revving-up of the Conjoiner drive engines was just his way of making sure they were in good working order, should they be needed at some point in the future. It didn’t have to mean that the ship was going to leave in the next few hours.

That kind of desperate, yearning optimism was foreign to Scorpio even now, and would have been quite alien during his Chasm City years. He was a pessimist at heart. Perhaps that was why he had never been very good at forward planning, at thinking more than a few days ahead. If you tended to believe on an innate level that things were always going to go from bad to worse, what was the point of even trying to intervene? All that was left was to make the best of the immediate situation.

But here he was hoping - in spite of plenty of evidence to the contrary - that the ship was going to stay on Ararat. Something had to be wrong for him to start thinking that way. Something had to be playing on his mind. He didn’t have far to look for it, either.

Only a few hours earlier he had broken twenty-three years of self-imposed discipline. In Clavain’s presence, he had made every effort to live up to the old man’s standards. For years he had hated baseline humans for what they had done to him during his years of indentured slave service. And if that was not enough to spur his animosity, he only had to think of the thing that he was: this swaying, comedic mongrel of human and pig, this compromise that had all the flaws of both and none of the advantages of either. He knew the litany of his disadvantages. He couldn’t walk as well as a human. He couldn’t hold things the way they could. He couldn’t see or hear as well as they did. There were colours he would never know. He couldn’t think as fluidly as they did and he lacked a well-developed capacity for abstract visualisation. When he listened to music all he heard was complex sequential sounds, lacking any emotional component. His predicted lifespan, optimistically, was about two-thirds that of a human who had received no longevity therapy or germline modifications. And - so some humans said, when they didn’t think they were in earshot of pigs - his kind didn’t even taste the way nature intended.

That hurt. That really fucking hurt.

But he had dared to think that he had put all that resentment behind him. Or if not behind him, then at least in a small, sealed mental compartment which he only ever opened in times of crisis.

And even then he kept the resentment under control, used it to give him strength and resolve. The positive side was that it had forced him to try to be better than they expected. It had made him delve inside himself for qualities of leadership and compassion he had never suspected he possessed. He would show them what a pig was capable of. He would show them that a pig could be as statesmanlike as Clavain; as forward-thinking and judicial; as cruel and as kind as circumstances merited.

And for twenty-three years it had worked, too. The resentment had made him better. But in all that time, he now realised, he had still been in Clavain’s shadow. Even when Clavain had gone to his island, the man had not really abdicated power.

Except that now Clavain was gone, and only a few dozen hours into this new regime, only a few dozen hours after stumbling into the hard scrutiny of real leadership, Scorpio had failed. He had lashed out against Hallatt, against a man who in that instant of rage had personified the entire corpus of baseline humanity. He knew it was Blood who had thrown the knife, but his own hand had been on it just as surely. Blood had merely been an extension of Scorpio’s intent.

He knew he had never really liked Hallatt. Nothing about that had changed. The man was compromised by his involvement in the totalitarian government on Resurgam. Nothing could be proved, but it was more than likely that Hallatt had at least been aware of the beatings and interrogation sessions, the state-sanctioned executions. And yet the evacuees from Resurgam had to be represented in some form. Hallatt had also done a lot of good during the final days of the exodus. People that Scorpio judged to be reasonable and trustworthy had been prepared to testify on his behalf. He was tainted, but he wasn’t incriminated. And - when one looked at the data closely - there was something unfortunate in the personal history of just about everyone who had come from Resurgam. Where did one draw the line? One hundred and sixty thousand evacuees had come to Ararat from the old world, and very few of them had lacked some association with the government. In a state like that, the machinery of government touched more lives than it left alone. You couldn’t eat, sleep or breathe without being in some small way complicit in the functioning of the machine.

So he didn’t like Hallatt. But Hallatt wasn’t a monster or a fugitive. And because of that - in that instant of incandescent rage - he had struck out against a fundamentally decent man that he just happened not to like. Hallatt had pushed him to the edge with his understandable scepticism about the matter of Aura, and Scorpio had allowed that provocation to touch him where it hurt. He had struck at Hallatt, but it could have been anyone. Even, had the provocation been severe enough, someone that he actually liked, like Antoinette, Xavier Liu or one of the other human seniors.

What almost made it worse was the way the rest of the party had reacted. When the rage had died, when the enormity of what he had done had begun to sink in, he had expected mutiny. He had at least expected some open questioning of his fitness for leadership.

But there had been nothing. It was almost as if they had all just turned a blind eye, regretting what he had done but accepting that this flash of madness was part of the package. He was a pig, and with pigs you had to tolerate that kind of thing.

He was sure that was what they were all thinking. Even, perhaps, Blood.

Hallatt had survived. The knife had touched no major organs. Scorpio didn’t know whether to put this down to spectacular accuracy on Blood’s behalf, or spectacular inaccuracy instead.

He didn’t want to know.

As it turned out, no one else really liked Hallatt either. The man’s days as a colony senior were over, his avowed distrust of Khouri not helping his case. But since the Resurgam representatives were cycled around anyway, Hallatt’s enforced standing-down was not the dramatic thing it might have been. The circumstances of his resignation would be kept secret, but something would inevitably filter out. There would be rumours of violence, and Scorpio’s name would surely feature somewhere in the telling.

Let it happen. He could live with that easily enough. There had been violent episodes in the past, and the rumours of those had become suitably exaggerated as they did the rounds. They had done him no real harm in the long run.

But those violent episodes had been justified. There had been no hatred behind them, no attempt to redress the sins visited upon Scorpio and his kind by their human elders. They had been necessary gestures. But what he had done to Hallatt had been personal, nothing whatsoever to do with the security of the planet.

He had failed himself, and in that sense he had also failed Ararat.

‘Scorp? Are you all right?’

It was Khouri, sitting in the darkened portion of the shuttle. Valensin’s servitors were still monitoring Aura’s incubator, but Khouri was keeping her own vigil. Once or twice he had heard her talking softly to the child, even singing to her. It seemed odd to him, given that they were already bonded on a neural level.

‘I’m fine,’ he said.

‘You look preoccupied. Is it what happened in the iceberg?’

Her remark surprised him. Most of the time, his expressions were completely opaque to outsiders. ‘Well, there’s the small business of the war we’re caught up in, and the fact that I’m not sure any of us are going to make it into next week, but other than that . . .’

‘We’re all bothered by the war,’ she said, ‘but with you there’s something else. I didn’t see it before we went to find Aura.’

He had the shuttle form a chair for him, something at pig-height, and sat down next to her. He noticed that Valensin was snoozing, his head bobbing up at periodic intervals as he tried to stay awake. They were all exhausted, all functioning at the limits of endurance.

‘I’m surprised that you want to talk to me,’ he said.

‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Because of what you asked of me, and what I refused to give you.’ In case his point was not obvious to her, he gestured at Aura. ‘I thought you’d hate me for that. You’d have had every right.’

‘I didn’t like it, no.’

‘Well, then.’ He offered her his palms, accepting his fate.

‘But it wasn’t you, Scorp. You didn’t stop me taking her back inside me. It was the situation, the mess we’re in. You simply acted in the only way that made sense to you. I’m not over it, but don’t cut yourself up about it, all right? This is war. Feelings get hurt. I can cope. I still have my daughter.’

‘She’s beautiful,’ Scorpio said. He didn’t believe it, but it seemed the right sort of thing to say under the circumstances.

‘Really?’ she asked.

He looked at the wrinkled, pink-red child. ‘Really.’

‘I was worried you’d hate her, Scorp, because of what she cost.’

‘Clavain wouldn’t have hated her,’ he said. ‘That’s good enough for me.’

‘Thanks, Scorp.’

They sat in silence for a minute or so. Above, through the transparent hull, the light show continued. Something - some weapon or device in near-Ararat space - was scribing lines across the sky. There were arcs and angles and straight lines, and each mark took a few seconds to fade into the purple-black background. There was something nagging him about those lines, Scorpio thought, some sense that there was a meaning implicit in them, if only he had the quickness of mind to tease it out.

‘There’s something else,’ he said, quietly.

‘Concerning Aura?’

‘No. Concerning me, actually. You weren’t there, but I hurt a man today.’ Scorpio looked down at his small, childlike shoes. He had misjudged the height of the seat slightly, so that his toes did not quite reach the floor.

‘I’m sure you had your reasons,’ Khouri said.

‘That’s the problem: I didn’t. I hurt him out of blind rage. Something inside me snapped, something I’d kidded myself that I had under control for the last twenty-three years.’

‘We all have days like that,’ she said.

‘I try not to. For twenty-three years, all I’ve ever tried to do is get through the day without making that kind of mistake. And today I failed. Today I threw it all away, in one moment of weakness.’

She said nothing. He took that as permission to continue.

‘I used to hate humans. I thought I had good enough reasons.’ Scorpio reached up and undid the fastenings on his leather tunic, exposing his right shoulder. Three decades of ageing - not to mention the slow accretion of later, fresher wounds - had made the scar less obvious now. But still it made Khouri avert her eyes for an instant, before she looked back unflinchingly.

‘They did that to you?’

‘No. I did it to myself, using a laser.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I was burning away something else.’ He traced the coastline of the scar, obedient to every inlet and peninsula of raised flesh. ‘There was a tattoo there, a green scorpion. It was a mark of ownership. I didn’t realise that at first. I thought it was a badge of honour, something to be proud of.’

‘I’m sorry, Scorp.’

‘I hated them for that, and for what I was. But I paid them back, Ana. God knows, I paid them back.’

He began to do up the tunic again. Khouri leaned over and helped with the fastenings. They were large, designed for clumsy fingers.

‘You had every right,’ she said.

‘I thought I was over it. I thought I’d got it out of my system.’

She shook her head. ‘That won’t ever happen, Scorp. Take it from me, you won’t ever lose that rage. What happened to me can’t compare with what they did to you - I’m not saying that. But I do know what it’s like to hate something you can’t ever destroy, something that’s always out of reach. They took my husband from me, Scorp. Faceless army clerks screwed up and ripped him away from me.’

‘Dead?’ he asked.

‘No. Just out of reach, at the wrong fucking end of a thirty-year starship crossing. Same thing, really. Except worse, I suppose.’

‘You’re wrong,’ he said. ‘That’s as bad as anything they did to me.’

‘Maybe. I don’t know. It isn’t for me to make those comparisons. But all I know is this: I’ve tried to forgive and forget. I’ve accepted that Fazil and I will never see each other again. I’ve even accepted that Fazil’s probably long dead, wherever he really ended up. I have a daughter by another man. I suppose that counts as moving on.’

He knew that the father of her child was dead as well, but that was not obvious in the tone of her voice when she mentioned him.

‘Not moving on, Ana. Just staying alive.’

‘I knew you’d understand, Scorp. But you also understand what I’m saying about forgiving and forgetting, don’t you?’

‘That it ain’t gonna happen,’ he said.

‘Never in a million years. If one of those people came into this room - one of those fools who screwed up my life with one moment of inattention - I don’t think I’d be able to stop myself. What I’m saying is, the rage doesn’t go away. It gets smaller, but it also gets brighter. We just pack it deep down and kindle it, like a little fire we’re never going to let die. It’s what keeps us going, Scorp.’

‘I still failed.’

‘No, you didn’t. You did damn well to keep it bottled up for twenty-three years. So you lost it today.’ Suddenly she was angry. ‘So what? So fucking what? You went through something in that iceberg that I wouldn’t wish on any one of those clerks, Scorp. I know what Clavain meant to you. You went through hell on Earth. The wonder of it isn’t that you’ve lost it once, but that you’ve managed to keep your shit together at all. Honestly, Scorp.’ Her anger shifted to insistence.

‘You’ve got to go easy on yourself, man. What happened out there? It wasn’t a walk in the park. You earned the right to throw a few punches, OK?’

‘It was a bit more than a punch.’

‘Is the guy going to pull through?’

‘Yes,’ he said, grudgingly.

Khouri shrugged. ‘Then chill out. What these people need now is a leader. What they don’t need is someone moping around with a guilty conscience.’

He stood up. ‘Thank you, Ana. Thank you.’

‘Did I help, or did I just screw things up even more?’

‘You helped.’

The seat melted back into the wall.

‘Good. Because, you know, I’m not the most eloquent of people. I’m just a grunt at heart, Scorp. A long way from home, with some weird stuff in my head, and a daughter I’m not sure I’ll ever understand. But really, I’m still just a grunt.’

‘It’s never been my policy to underestimate grunts,’ he said. Now, inevitably, it was his turn to feel ineloquent. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to you. I hope one day . . .’ He looked around, noticing that Vasko was moving down the opaque line of the floor towards Aura’s niche. ‘Well, I don’t know. Just that you find something to make that rage a little smaller and brighter. Maybe when it gets small and bright enough it will just pop away.’

‘Would that be a good thing?’

‘I don’t know.’

She smiled. ‘Me neither. But I guess you and I are the ones who’ll find out.’

‘Scorpio?’ Vasko said.

‘Yes?’

‘You should see this. You, too, Ana.’

They woke Valensin. Vasko ushered them to a different part of the shuttle, then made some modifications to the hull to increase the visibility of the night sky, calling bulkheads into existence and enhancing the brightness of the transmitted light to compensate for the reflected glare from the shuttle’s wings. He did so with an ease that suggested he had been working with such systems for half his life, rather than the few days that was actually the case.

Above, Scorpio saw only the same appearing and fading scratches of light that he had noticed earlier. The nagging feeling that they meant something still troubled him, but the scratches made no more sense to him now than they had before.

‘I’m not seeing it, Vasko.’

‘I’ll have the hull add a latency, so that the marks take longer to fade out.’

Scorpio frowned. ‘Can you do that?’

‘It’s easy.’ Vasko patted the cold, smooth surface of the inner fuselage. ‘There’s almost nothing these old machines won’t do, if you know the right way to ask.’

‘So do it,’ Scorpio said.

All four of them looked up. Even Valensin was fully awake now, his eyes slits behind his spectacles.

Above, the scratches of light took longer to fade. Before, only two or three had ever been visible at the same time. Now dozens lingered, bright as the images scorched on to the retina by the setting sun.

And now they most definitely meant something.

‘My God,’ Khouri said.

THIRTY

Ararat, 2675

In the glade, everything changed. The sky above had turned midnight-black; no birds moved from tree to tree now, and the trees themselves formed only a darker frame to the night sky, looming in on all sides like encroaching thunder clouds. The animals had fallen silent, and Antoinette could no longer hear the simmering hiss of the waterfall. Perhaps it had never been real.

When she turned her attention back to the Captain, he was sitting alone at the table. Again he had slipped forward some years, reiterating another slice from his history. The last time she had seen him, in the silver armoured suit, one of his arms had been mechanical. Now the process of mechanisation had marched on even more. It was difficult to judge how much of him had been replaced by prosthetic components because of the suit, but she could at least see his head since the helmet was resting in front of him on the table. His scalp was completely bald, his face hairless save for a moustache that drooped on either side of his mouth. It was the same mouth she remembered from the first apparition: compact, straight, probably not much given to small talk. But that was about the only point of reference she recognised. She couldn’t see his eyes at all. They were lost under a complicated-looking band of some sort that reached from one side of his face to the other. Optics twinkled beneath the band’s pearly coating. The skin across his scalp was quilted with fine white lines. Glued tight to his skull, it revealed irregular raised plates just under the skin.

‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’ Antoinette asked.

‘Look up.’

She complied, and saw immediately that something had changed in the few scant minutes during which she had been studying the Captain’s latest manifestation. Scratches of light cut across the sky. She thought of someone making quick, neat, butcherlike gashes in soft skin. The scratches looked random at first, but then she began to discern the emergence of a pattern.

‘John . . .’

‘Keep looking.’

The scratches increased in frequency. They became a flicker, then a frenzy, then something that almost appeared permanent.

The scratches formed letters.

The letters formed words.

The words said: LEAVE NOW.

‘I just wanted you to know,’ John Brannigan said.

That was when she felt the entire floor of the glade rumble. She had barely had time to register this when she felt her own weight increasing. She was being pressed into the roughly formed wooden seat. It was a gentle pressure, but that was no surprise. A ship with a mass of several million metric tonnes didn’t just leap into space. Especially not when it had been sitting in a kilometre of water for twenty-three years.

Across the bay, lighting up the sea and land all the way to the horizon, a temporary day had come to Ararat. At first, all that Vasko could see was a mountain of steam, a scalding eruption of superheated water engulfing first the lower flanks of the ship and then the entire green-clad structure. A blue-white light shone out through the steam, like a lantern in a mound of tissue paper. It was painfully bright even through the darkening filter of the shuttle’s fuselage. It shaded to violet and left jagged pink shadows on his retinae. Even far away from the edge of the steam column, the water shone a luminous turquoise. It was beautiful and strange, like nothing he had seen in his twenty years of existence.

He saw now that the water was bellying up around the ship, the surface rising many hundreds of metres. Frightful energies were being released underwater, creating swelling bubbles of superdense, superhot plasma.

The wall of elevated water surged away from the Nostalgia for Infinity in two concentric waves.

‘Did they get far enough beyond the headland?’ he asked.

‘We’re about to find out,’ Scorpio said.

The surface of the water was crusted with a scum of stiff green biomass. They watched it crack into disjointed plates, unable to flex fast enough to match the distortion as the wave passed. It was moving at hundreds of metres per second. In only a few moments it would hit the bay’s low rock shields.

Vasko looked back towards the source of the tidal wave. The ship was beginning to climb now, its nose emerging from the steam layer. The movement was awesomely smooth, almost as if he was seeing a fixed landmark - an ancient storm-weathered spire on a high promontory, perhaps - being revealed by the retreat of morning fog.

He watched the top kilometre of the Nostalgia for Infinity push clear of the steam, holding up a hand to shade his eyes from the brightness. The ship was almost clean of Juggler biomass: he saw only a few green strands still attached to the hull. Now the next kilometre came out. Ropy strands of biomass - thicker than houses - were slithering free, losing traction against the accelerating spacecraft.

The glare became intolerable. The hull of the shuttle darkened, protecting its occupants. The entire ship was now free of the ocean. Through the almost opaque shuttle fuselage, Vasko saw only two hard points of radiance, rising slowly.

‘No going back now,’ he observed.

Scorpio turned to Khouri. ‘I’m going to follow it, unless you disagree.’

Khouri eyed her daughter. ‘I’m not getting anything from Aura, Scorp, but I’m certain Remontoire’s behind this. He always said there’d be a message. I don’t think we have any choice but to trust him.’

‘Let’s just hope it is Remontoire,’ Scorpio said.

But it was clear that his mind was already made up. He told them all to make seats for themselves and prepare for whatever they might find in Ararat orbit. Vasko went back to arrange his seat, but before he settled in he noticed that the floor of the fuselage was now transparent again. Down below, lit by the rising flare of the ship, he saw First Camp laid out in hallucinatory detail, the grid of streets and buildings picked out in monochrome clarity. He saw the small moving shadows of people running between buildings. Then he looked out towards the bay. The ramp of water had dashed against the barrier of the headland, dissipating much of its strength, but it had not been completely blocked. With an agonising sense of detachment he watched the remnant of the tidal wave cross the bay, slowing and gaining height as it hit the rising slope of the shallows. Then it was swallowing the shoreline, redefining it in an instant, overrunning streets and buildings. The flood lingered and then retreated, pulling debris with it. In its wake it left rubble and rectangular absences where entire buildings had simply vanished. Large conch structures, inadequately ballasted or anchored, were being carried along on the surface, claimed back by the sea.

Within the bay the tidal wave echoed back on itself, creating several smaller surges, but none did as much damage as the first. After a minute or so, all was quite still again. But Vasko judged that a quarter of First Camp had simply ceased to exist. He just hoped that most of the citizens from those vulnerable shoreline properties had been prioritised in the evacuation effort.

The glare was fading. The ship was already far above them now, picking up speed, clawing towards rarefied atmosphere and, ultimately, space. The bay, robbed of that single landmark, looked unfamiliar. Vasko had lived here all his life, but now it was foreign territory, a place he barely recognised. He was certain it could never feel like home again. But it was easy for him to feel that way, wasn’t it? He was in the privileged position of not having to go back and rebuild his life amongst the ruins. He was already leaving, already saying goodbye to Ararat, farewell to the world that had made him what he was.

He nestled into his newly formed seat, allowing the hull to squirm intimately tighter around him, conforming to his precise shape. Almost as soon as he was settled he felt the shuttle commence its own steep climb.

It did not take long for them to catch up with the Nostalgia for Infinity. He remembered what Antoinette Bax had told him, when he had asked her if the Captain was really capable of leaving Ararat. She had said that it could be done, but it would not be a fast departure. Like most ships of its kind, the great lighthugger was designed to sustain one gravity of thrust, all the way up to the bleeding edge of the speed of light. But at sea level Ararat’s own gravity was already close to one standard gee. At normal cruise thrust, the ship was just capable of balancing itself against that force, hovering at a fixed altitude. Landing had not been a problem, therefore: it had simply been a question of letting gravity win, albeit in a slow, controlled fashion. Taking off was different: now the ship had to beat both gravity and air resistance. There was some power in reserve for emergency manoeuvres - up to ten gees or more - but that reserve capacity was designed only for seconds of use, not the many minutes that would be needed to reach orbit or interplanetary escape velocity. To leave Ararat, therefore, the engines had to be pushed just beyond the normal one-gee limit, giving a slight excess thrust, but not enough to overload them. The excess equalled about one-tenth of a gee of acceleration.

It would be a slower departure than the most primitive chemical rocket, Antoinette had said, slower even than the glorified firework that had carried the first astronaut (she had said that his name was Neal Gagarin and Vasko had believed her) into orbit. But the Nostalgia for Infinity weighed several thousand times more than the heaviest chemical rocket. And the old chemical rockets had to reach escape velocity very quickly, because they only had enough fuel for a few minutes of thrust. The Nostalgia for Infinity could sustain thrust for years and years.

Air resistance lessened as the ship climbed. It began to accelerate a little harder, but still the shuttle had no difficulty keeping up. The escape felt leisurely and dreamlike. This, Vasko knew, was probably a dangerous misconception.

When he had satisfied himself that the ride was likely to be smooth and predictable, at least for the next few minutes, he left his niche and went forward. Scorpio and the pilot were in the control couches.

‘Any transmissions from the Infinity?’ Vasko asked.

‘Nothing,’ the pilot replied.

‘I hope Antoinette’s all right,’ he said. Then he remembered the other people - fourteen thousand by the last count - who had already been loaded into the ship.

‘She’ll cope,’ Scorpio said.

‘I guess in a few minutes we’ll find out if that message really was from Remontoire. Are you worried?’

‘No,’ Scorpio said. ‘And you know why? Because there isn’t anything you or I or anyone else can do about it. We couldn’t stop that ship going up and we can’t do anything about what’s up there waiting for it.’

‘We have a choice about whether we follow it or not,’ Vasko said.

The pig looked at him, eyes narrowed either in fatigue or disdain. ‘No, you’re wrong,’ he said. ‘We have a choice, yes - that’s me and Khouri. But you don’t. You’re just along for the ride.’

Vasko thought about going back to his seat, but decided to stick it out. Although it was night, he could clearly see the curve of Ararat’s horizon now. He was going into space. This was what he had always wanted, for much of his life. But he had never imagined it would be like this, or that the destination itself would contain such danger and uncertainty. Instead of the thrill of escape he felt a knot of tension in his stomach.

‘I’ve earned the right to be here,’ he said, quietly, but loud enough for the pig to hear. ‘I have a stake in Aura’s future.’

‘You’re keen, Malinin, but you’re way out of your depth.’

‘I’m also involved.’

‘You were embroiled. It isn’t the same thing.’

Vasko started to say something, but there was a flicker of static across all the display read-outs hovering around the pilot. He felt the shuttle lurch.

‘Picking up interference on all comms frequencies,’ the pilot reported. ‘We’ve lost all surface transponder contacts and all links to First Camp. There’s a lot of EM noise out here - more than we’re used to. There’s stuff the sensors can’t even interpret. Avionics are responding sluggishly. I think we’re entering some kind of jamming zone.’

‘Can you keep us close to the Infinity?’ Scorpio asked.

‘I’m more or less flying this thing manually. I guess if I still have the ship as a reference, we’re not going to get lost. But I’m not making any promises.’

‘Altitude?’

‘One hundred and twenty klicks. We must be entering the lower sphere of battle about now.’

Above, the view had not changed dramatically since the departure of the ship. The scratches of light had faded, perhaps because Remontoire was aware that the message had been received and acted upon. There were still flashes of light, expanding spheres and arcs, and the occasional searing passage of an atmosphere-skimming object, but other than the darkness becoming a more intense, deeper shade of black, there was no real difference compared to the surface view.

Khouri came through to join them. ‘I’m hearing Aura,’ she said. ‘She’s awake now.’

‘Good,’ Scorpio began.

‘There’s more. I’m seeing things. So’s Aura. I think it must be the same kind of thing Clavain and I saw before things got really serious - leakage from the war. It’s getting through again.’

‘We must be close,’ Vasko said. ‘I guess the wolves blocked those signals when they could, to stop Remontoire sending a message through that easily. Now that we’re getting so close they can’t stop all of them.’

From somewhere, Vasko heard a noise he didn’t recognise. It was shrill, ragged, pained. It was muffled by plastic. He realised it was Aura, crying.

‘She doesn’t like it,’ Khouri said. ‘It’s painful.’

‘Contacts,’ the pilot announced. ‘Radar returns, incoming. Fifty klicks and closing. They weren’t there a moment ago.’

The shuttle lurched violently, throwing Vasko and Khouri to one side. The walls deformed to soften the impact, but Vasko still felt the wind knocked out of him. ‘What’s happening?’ he asked, breathless.

‘The Infinity is making evasive manoeuvres. She’s seen the same radar echoes. I’m just trying to keep up.’ The pilot glanced at a read-out again. ‘Thirty klicks. Twenty and slowing. Jamming is getting worse. This isn’t good, folks.’

‘Do your best,’ Scorpio said. ‘Everyone else - secure yourselves. It’s going to get rough.’

Vasko and Khouri went back to where Valensin and his machines were continuing their vigil over Aura. She was still moving, but had at least stopped crying. Vasko wished that there was something he could do to help her, some way to temper the voices screaming into her head. He could not imagine what it must be like for her. By rights she should not even have been born yet; should barely have had any sense of her own individuality or the wider world in which she existed. Aura was not an ordinary baby, that much was clear - she already had the language skills of a two- or three-year-old child, in Vasko’s estimation - but it was also unlikely that all parts of her mind were developing at the same accelerated rate. There was only room in that tiny wrinkled head for a certain amount of complexity; she must still have had an infant’s view of many things. When he had been two years older than Aura, Vasko’s own grasp of the world had barely reached further than the handful of rooms that made up his home. Everything else had been hazy, unimportant, subject to comic misapprehension.

The Nostalgia for Infinity was now further away from the shuttle than it had been: tens of kilometres distant, easily. The shuttle’s hull had still not turned fully transparent again, but in the light from its engines he caught the reflections of things moving closer. Not just moving, but fluttering, swirling, splintering and reforming, retreating and advancing in pulsing waves.

They came closer. Now the glare of the engines revealed hints of stepped structures: tiers, contours, zigzag edges. It was the same machinery they had found in Skade’s ship, the same stuff that had reached down from the clouds and ripped the corvette apart, but this time the scale was immeasurably larger - these cubes were almost as large as houses, forming structures hundreds of metres across. The wolf cubes were in constant, sliding motion: slithering across each other, swelling and contracting, larger structures organising and dissipating with hypnotic fluidity. Filaments of cubes spanned the larger structures; clusters of them fluttered from point to point like messengers. The scale was still difficult to judge, but the cubes were converging from nearly all sides and it seemed to Vasko that they had already formed a loose shell around both the shuttle and the Nostalgia for Infinity. What was certain was that the shell was tightening, the gaps becoming smaller.

‘Ana?’ Vasko asked. ‘You’ve seen these things before, haven’t you? They attacked your ship. Is this how it begins?’

‘We’re in trouble,’ she confirmed.

‘What happens next, if we can’t escape?’

‘They come inside.’ Her voice was hollow, like a cracked bell. ‘They invade your ship and then they invade your head. You don’t want that to happen, Vasko. Trust me on this one.’

‘How long will we have, if they reach the ship?’

‘Seconds, if we’re lucky. Maybe not even that.’ Then she convulsed, a whiplash movement that had her body slamming against the restraining surface that the ship had fashioned around her. Her eyes closed and then reopened, her pupils raised to the ceiling, the whites bright and frightening. ‘Kill me. Now.’

‘Ana?’

‘Aura,’ she said. ‘Kill me. Kill us both. Now.’

‘No,’ he said. He looked at Valensin, hoping for some explanation.

The doctor simply shook his head. ‘I won’t do it,’ he said. ‘No matter what she wants. I won’t take a life.’

‘Listen to me,’ she insisted. ‘What I know - too important. They can’t find out. Will read our minds. Cannot allow that to happen. Kill us now.’

‘No, Aura. I won’t do it. Not now. Not ever,’ Vasko said.

Valensin’s servitors moved nearer to the incubator. Their jointed limbs twitched, clicking against their drab bodies. One of the machines extended a manipulator towards the incubator, grasping it. The servitor then backed away, trying to tug the incubator away from the niche.

Vasko leapt forwards and wrestled the machine away from the baby. The machine was lighter than it looked, but much stronger than he had anticipated. The many limbs thrashed against him, hard articulated metal pressing into his skin.

‘Valensin!’ he shouted. ‘Do something!’

‘They’re beyond my control,’ Valensin said, calmly, as if all that followed was out of his hands.

Vasko sucked in his chest, making a cavity between his body and the machine in an attempt to avoid the swiping pass of a sharp-bladed manipulator. He wasn’t fast enough. He felt a nick through his clothing, the instant cold that told him he had been wounded. He fell back, hitting the wall, and tried to kick out at the wide base of the servitor. The machine toppled, clattering against its companion. The thrashing limbs entwined, knives sparking against knives.

He touched his chest, fingering through the gashed fabric. His hand came back lathered in blood. ‘Get Scorpio,’ he said to Valensin.

But Scorpio was already on his way. Something gleamed in his right hand: a humming blur of metal, a knife-shaped smear of silver. He saw the machines, saw Vasko with blood on his fingers. The servitors had disentangled themselves and the one still standing had begun to pick at the base of the incubator, trying to claw it open. Scorpio snarled and slid the knife into the machine’s armour. The knife sailed through the drab green carapace as if it wasn’t there at all. There was a fizzle of shorting circuitry, a thrashing whirr of damaged mechanisms. The knife howled and twisted out of Scorpio’s grip, hitting the floor, where it continued to buzz and whirr.

The servitor had broken down. It remained frozen in place, limbs still extended but now immobile.

Scorpio knelt down and retrieved the piezo-knife, stilled the blade and returned it to its sheath.

Outside the shuttle, the wall of Inhibitor machinery looked close enough to touch. Jags of blue-pink lightning flickered and danced between different portions of it.

‘Someone mind telling me what just happened?’ Scorpio snapped.

‘Aura,’ said Vasko. He wiped his bloody hand against his trouser leg. ‘Aura tried to turn the servitors against herself.’ He was breathing hard, forcing out each word between ragged gulps of air. ‘Trying to kill herself. She doesn’t want the cubes to reach her while she’s still alive.’

Khouri coughed. Her eyes were like a trapped animal’s. ‘Kill me, Scorp. Not too late. You have to do it.’

‘After all we’ve been through?’ he said.

‘You have to go to Hela,’ she said. ‘Find Quaiche. Negotiate with shadows. They will know.’

‘Fuck,’ Scorpio said.

Vasko watched as the pig pulled the knife from its sheath once more. Scorpio stared at the now-still blade, his lips curled in disgust. Did he really mean to use it, or was he simply thinking about throwing it away, before circumstances once again forced him to wield it against someone or something he cared for?

Despite himself, despite the fact that he felt his own strength draining away, Vasko reached out and took hold of the pig’s sleeve. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t do it. Don’t kill them.’

The pig’s expression was something beyond fury. But Vasko had him. Scorpio couldn’t activate the knife one-handed; his anatomy wouldn’t allow it.

‘Malinin. Let go now.’

‘Scorp, listen to me. There has to be another way. The price we paid for her . . . we can’t just throw her away now, no matter how much she wants it.’

‘You think I don’t know what she cost us?’

Vasko shook his head. He had no idea what else to say. His strength was very nearly gone. He did not think he had been seriously injured, but the wound was still deep, and he was already desperately tired.

Scorpio tried to fight him. They were eye to eye. The pig had the advantage in strength, Vasko was sure, but Vasko had leverage and dexterity.

‘Drop the knife, Scorp.’

‘I’ll kill you, Malinin.’

‘Wait,’ Valensin said mildly, taking off his spectacles and polishing them on the hem of his tunic. ‘Both of you, wait. You should look outside, I think.’

Still struggling over control of the knife, they did as he suggested.

Something was happening, something that in the heat of the struggle they had missed completely. The Nostalgia for Infinity was starting to fight back. Weapons had emerged from its hull, poking out through the intricate accretion of detail that marked the Captain’s transformations. These were not the cache weapons, Vasko realised, not the major Conjoiner ordnance that the ship carried deep inside it. Instead these were the conventional armaments that it had carried for much of its lifetime, designed primarily to intimidate trading customers and to warn off potential rivals or pirates. The same weapons that had been used against the colony on Resurgam, when the colony had been slow in handing over Dan Sylveste.

Scorpio relaxed his grip on Vasko, and slowly returned the knife to its sheath. ‘That won’t make much difference,’ he said.

‘It’s buying time,’ Vasko said. He let go of the pig. The two of them glowered at each other. Vasko knew he had just crossed yet another line, one that could never be traversed in the opposite direction.

So be it. He had been serious in his promise to Clavain to protect Aura.

Lines of fire were stabbing out from the Nostalgia for Infinity, sweeping around and scything into the closing wall of wolf machinery. They were very high above Ararat now and there was little atmosphere left to make the beam weapons - or whatever they were - visible for more than few dozen metres along their course. Vasko guessed that the great ship, after so long in an atmosphere, was still bleeding trapped air and water from pockets in the folds and crevices of its hull. He watched the dark clots of wolf machinery squirm away from the impact points of the beams, like specks of iron being repelled by a magnet. The beams moved quickly, but the cubes moved faster, slipping from one point to another with dizzying rapidity. Vasko realised, dejectedly, that Scorpio was right. It was a gesture of defiance, nothing more. Everything they had learned about the wolves, in all the glancing contacts to date, had taught them that conventional human weapons had almost no effect on them whatsoever. They might slow the closing of the shell, but no more than that.

Perhaps Aura was right all along. Better for her to die now, before the machines drained every last scrap of knowledge from her head. She had told them that Hela was significant. Perhaps no one would survive to act on that knowledge. But if anyone did, they would at least be able to act without the wolves knowing their exact intentions.

He looked at the sheath where the pig kept his knife.

No. There had to be another way. If they started murdering children to gain a tactical advantage, the Inhibitors might as well win the war now.

‘They’re backing off,’ Valensin said. ‘Look. Something’s hurting them. I don’t think it’s the Infinity.’

The wall of machines was peppered with gaping, irregular holes. Carnations of colourless white light flashed from the cores of the cube structures. Chunks of cubic machinery veered into each other or dropped out of sight entirely. Tentacles of cubes thrashed purposelessly. The lightning pulsed in ugly, spavined shapes. And, suddenly, dashing through the gaps, machines appeared.

Vasko recognised the smooth, melted, muscular lines of spacecraft much like their shuttle. They moved like projections rather than solid objects, slowing down in an eyeblink.

‘Remontoire,’ Khouri breathed.

Beyond the ragged shell of Inhibitor machines, Vasko glimpsed a much wider battle, one that must have been encompassing many light-seconds of space around Ararat. He saw awesome eruptions of light, flashes that grew and faded in slow motion. He saw purple-black spheres simply appear, visible only when they formed against some brighter background, lingering for a few seconds, their wrinkled surfaces undulating, before popping out of existence.

Vasko faded out. When he came to, Valensin was inspecting his wound. ‘It’s clean and not too deep, but it will need treating,’ he said.

‘But it isn’t serious, is it?’

‘No. I don’t think Aura really wanted to hurt you.’

Vasko felt some of the tension drain from his body. Then he realised that Scorpio had said very little since their scuffle over the knife. ‘Scorp,’ he began, ‘we couldn’t just kill her like that.’

‘It’s easy to say that now. It’s what she wanted of us that matters.’ Valensin dabbed at his wound with something that stung. Vasko drew in a sharp breath. ‘What did she mean when she spoke? She said something about shadows.’

Scorpio’s expression gave nothing away. As calm as he now appeared, Vasko did not think it likely that the pig had forgiven him for the struggle.

‘I don’t know,’ Scorpio said, ‘except I didn’t like the sound of it very much.’

‘What matters is Hela,’ Khouri said. She sighed, rubbed at the fatigue-darkened skin under her eyes. Vasko thought it safe to assume that they were dealing with Ana rather than Aura now.

‘And the other thing - the business with shadows?’

‘We’ll find out when we get there.’

There was a call from the flight deck. ‘Incoming transmission from the Nostalgia for Infinity,’ said the pilot. ‘We’re being invited aboard.’

‘By whom?’ Scorpio asked.

‘Antoinette Bax,’ the pilot said, his voice trailing off hesitantly. ‘With - um - the compliments of Captain John Brannigan.’

‘Good enough for me,’ Scorpio said.

Vasko felt the shuttle turn, arrowing towards the much larger vessel. At the same time, one of the small, sleek human-controlled ships detached from its neighbours and accompanied them, making an almost painful effort not to outpace them there.

Hela, 2727

One further incident stuck in Rashmika’s mind before the caravan arrived at the Permanent Way. It was a day after the crossing of the bridge, and the caravan had finally climbed out of the Rift on to the bone-white level plateau of the Jarnsaxa Flats. To the north, the southern limits of the Western Hyrrokkin Uplands were visible as a roughness on the horizon, while to the east, Rashmika knew, lay the complex volcano fields of the Glistenheath and Ragnarok complexes, all currently dormant. By contrast, the Jarnsaxa Flats were mirror smooth and geologically stable. There were no scuttler digs in this area - whatever geological process had created the Flats had also erased or subducted any scuttler relics in this part of Hela - but there were still many small communities that made a direct living from their proximity to the Way. Now and then the caravan passed one of these dour little hamlets of surface bubbletents, or barrelled past a roadside shrine commemorating some recent but unspecified tragedy. Occasionally they saw pilgrims hauling their penitential life-support systems across the ice. To Rashmika they looked like returning hunters in some brown-hued painting by Brueghel, sledges topheavy with winter foodstock.

The buildings, shrines and figures slipped from horizon to horizon with indecent speed. With a broad, straight road ahead of it, the caravan had been able to move at maximum velocity for several hours, and now it seemed to have settled into a rhythm, an unstoppable stampede of machinery. Wheels rolled, tracks whirled around, traction limbs disappeared in a blur of pistoning motion. Visibly, Haldora moved closer to the zenith, until - by Rashmika’s estimation - they could not be more than a few tens of kilometres from the Way.

Very soon the cathedrals would be visible, their spires clawing above the horizon.

But before she saw the cathedrals she saw other machines. They began as dots in the distance, throwing up pure white ballistic plumes from their rumbling wheels and treads. For many minutes they did not appear to move at all. Rashmika wondered if the caravan was simply catching up with similar processions arriving at the Way from elsewhere on Hela. This seemed reasonable, for many roads had joined up with the one they were on since they had climbed out of the Rift.

But then she realised that the vehicles were actually racing towards them. Even this did not strike her as particularly noteworthy, but then she felt the caravan slow and begin to oscillate from one side of the road to the other, as if uncertain which side it ought to be on. The swerves made her feel nauseous. She had the viewing area largely to herself, but the few caravan personnel that she saw also appeared ill at ease with developments.

The other machines continued to sweep towards them. In a few moments they had swelled to enormous size. They were much larger than any of the caravan’s components. Rashmika saw a blur of treads and wide meshwork road wheels, with a superstructure of vicious ice-and-rock-moving machinery. The machines were painted a dusty yellow, with bee-stripes and rotating warning beacons. Many of the components were half-familiar to her: massively scaled-up counterparts of the heavy excavation equipment her fellow villagers used in the scuttler digs.

She recognised the function, even if the size was daunting. There were toothed claws and gaping lantern-jawed dragline buckets. There were grader blades and mighty percussive hammers. There were angled conveyor belts like the ridged spines of dinosaurs. There were rotating shield drills: huge toothed discs as wide as any one of the caravan’s vehicles. There were fusion torches, lasers, bosers, highpressure water cutters, steam-borers. There were tiny cabins jacked high on articulated gantries. There were vast ore hoppers and grilled, chimneyed machines she couldn’t even begin to identify. There were generators, equipment carriers and accommodation cabins painted the same dusty yellow.

All of it rolled by, machine after machine, hogging the road while the caravan bounced along in a rut on one side of it.

She sensed grinding humiliation.

Later, when the caravan was on the move again, she tried to find out what had happened. She thought Pietr might know, but he was nowhere to be found. Quaestor Jones, when she tracked him down, dismissed the matter as one of trifling importance. But he still did not tell her what she wanted to know.

‘That wasn’t a caravan like ours,’ she said.

‘Your powers of observation do you credit.’

‘So might I ask where it was going?’

‘I would have thought that was obvious, especially given your chosen intention to work on the Permanent Way. Very evidently, those machines were part of a major Way taskforce. Doubtless they were on their way to clear a blockage, or to make good a defect in the infrastructure.’ Quaestor Rutland Jones folded his arms, as if the matter was settled.

‘Then they’d be affiliated to a church, wouldn’t they? I may not know much, but I know that all the gangs are tied to specific churches.’

‘Most certainly.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk before him.

‘In which case, what church was it? I watched every one of those machines go past and I didn’t see a single clerical symbol on any of them.’

The quaestor shrugged, a little too emphatically for Rashmika’s tastes. ‘It’s dirty work - as you will soon discover. When the clock is against a team, I doubt that touching-up painted insignia is very high on the list of priorities.’

She recalled that the excavation machines had been dusty and faded. What the quaestor said was undoubtedly true in a general sense, but in Rashmika’s opinion, not one of those machines had ever carried a clerical symbol - not since they were last painted, at least.

‘One other thing, Quaestor.’

‘Yes,’ he said, tiredly.

‘We’re heading down towards the Way because we took a short cut across Absolution Gap. We’d come from the north. It seems to me that if those machines really were on their way to clear a blockage, they’d hardly be taking the same route we did, even in reverse.’

‘What are you suggesting, Miss Els?’

‘It strikes me as much more likely that they were headed somewhere else entirely. Somewhere that has nothing to do with the Way.’

‘And that’s your considered opinion, is it? Based on all your many years of experience with matters of the Way and the operational complexities of its maintenance?’

‘There’s no call for sarcasm, Quaestor.’

He shook his head and reached for a compad, making an exaggerated show of finding his place in whatever work he had been engaged in before her interruption. ‘Based on my own limited experience, you will do one of two things, Miss Els. You will either go very far, or you will shortly meet a very unfortunate end in what on the face of it might resemble a regrettable accident out on the ice. One thing I am certain about, however: in the process of reaching either outcome, you will still manage to irritate a great many people.’

‘Then at least I’ll have made a difference,’ she said, with vastly more bravado than she felt. She turned to go.

‘Miss Els.’

‘Quaestor?’

‘Should you at any point decide to return to the badlands . . . would you do me a singular favour?’

‘What?’ she asked.

‘Find some other mode of transport to take you back,’ the quaestor said, before returning to his duties.

THIRTY-ONE

Near Ararat, 2675

Scorpio cycled through the airlock as soon as the shuttle had engaged with its docking cradle, latching itself securely into place in the reception bay. The other ship that had accompanied them - it was much smaller and sleeker - was a wedge of darkness parked alongside. All he could see was its silhouette, a flint-shaped splash of ink like one of the random blots sometimes used in a psychological examination. It just sat there, hissing, its smell sharp and antiseptic, like a medicine cabinet. It looked completely two-dimensional, as if stamped from a sheet of thin black metal.

It looked like something you could cut yourself on.

Security Arm militia had already cordoned off both craft. They recognised the shuttle, but they were wary of the other arrival. Scorpio assumed it had received the same invitation, but the guards were still taking no chances. He stood most of them down, keeping only a couple handy just in case the ship really did contain an unpleasant surprise.

He raised his sleeve and spoke into his communicator. ‘Antoinette? You around?’

‘I’m on my way up, Scorp. Be there in a minute or so. Do you have our guest?’

‘I’m not sure,’ he said.

He moved over to the black ship. It was not much larger than the capsule Khouri had come down in. Room in it for one or two people at the very most, he estimated. He rapped a knuckle against the black surface. It was cold to the touch. The hairs on his knuckle tingled with shock.

A dogleg of pink light split the black machine down the middle and a section of the hull slid aside, revealing a dim interior. A man was already extricating himself from the prison of an acceleration couch and fold-around controls. It was Remontoire, just as Scorpio had suspected. He was a little older than Scorpio remembered, but still fundamentally the same: a very thin, very tall, very bald man, dressed entirely in tight black clothes that served only to emphasise his arachnoid qualities. His skull was a peculiar shape: elongated, like a teardrop.

Scorpio leaned into the cavity to help him out.

‘Mr Pink, I presume,’ Remontoire said.

Scorpio hesitated a moment. The name meant something, but the association was buried decades in the past. He tugged at the strands of his memory until one came loose. He recalled the time when Remontoire and he had travelled incognito through the Rust Belt and Chasm City, pursuing Clavain when he had first defected from the Conjoiners. Mr Pink had been the name Scorpio had travelled under. What had Remontoire called himself? Scorpio tried to remember.

‘Mr Clock,’ he said at last, just at the point when the pause would have become uncomfortable.

They had hated each other’s guts back then. It had been inevitable, really. Remontoire did not like pigs (there had been something unpleasant in his past, some incident in which he had been tortured by one of them) but had been forced to employ Scorpio because of his useful local knowledge. Scorpio did not like Conjoiners (no one did, unless they were already Conjoiners) and he particularly did not like Remontoire. But he had been blackmailed into assisting them, promised his freedom if he did. To refuse meant being handed over to the authorities, who had a nice little pre-scripted show trial planned for him.

No; they hadn’t exactly started out as friends, but the hatred had gradually evaporated, aided by their mutual respect for Clavain. Now Scorpio was actually glad to see the man, a reaction that would have stunned and appalled his younger self.

‘We’re quite a pair of relics, you and I,’ Remontoire said. He stood up, stretching his limbs, turning them this way and that as if ascertaining that none of them had become dislocated.

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news,’ Scorpio said.

‘Clavain?’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I guessed, of course. The moment I saw you, I knew he must be dead. When did it happen?’

‘A couple of days ago.’

‘And how did he die?’

‘Very badly. But he died for Ararat. He was a hero to the end, Rem.’

For a moment Remontoire was somewhere else, wandering through a landscape of mental reflection accessible only to Conjoiners. He closed his eyes, remained that way for perhaps ten seconds and then opened them again. They were now gleaming with bright alertness, no trace of sorrow visible.

‘Well, I’ve grieved,’ he said.

Scorpio knew better than to doubt Remontoire’s word; that was just how Conjoiners did things. It was a measure of Remontoire’s respect for his old friend and ally that he had even deemed a period of grieving necessary in the first place. It would have been trivial for him to edit his own mind into a state of serene acceptance. By going through the motions of grief he had paid a great, humbling tribute to Clavain. Even if it had only taken ten or twelve seconds.

‘Are we safe?’ Scorpio asked.

‘For now. We planned your escape carefully, creating a major diversion using the remaining assets. We knew the wolves would be able to reallocate some of their resources to bring you down, but our forecasts showed that we could handle them, provided you left exactly on schedule.’

‘You can beat the wolves?’

‘No, not beat them, Scorpio.’ Remontoire’s tone was school-masterly, gently reproachful. ‘We can overwhelm a small number of wolf machines in a specific location by using a deliberate concentration of power. We can inflict some damage, push them back, force them to regroup. But really, it’s like throwing pebbles at pack dogs. Against a large grouping, there is still little we can do. And in the longer term - so our forecasts tell us - we will lose.’

‘But you’ve survived until now.’

‘With the weapons and techniques Aura gave us, yes. But that well is nearly dry now. And the wolves have shown a remarkable propensity for matching us.’ Remontoire’s eyes sparkled with admiration. ‘They are very efficient, these machines.’

Scorpio laughed. After everything that he had been through, this was the outcome Remontoire was spelling out? ‘Then we’re screwed, right?’

‘In the long run, at least according to the current forecasts, the prognosis is not good.’

Behind Remontoire, the black ship sealed itself, becoming once again a sharp-edged chunk of shadow.

‘Then why don’t we just give up now?’

‘Because there is a chance - albeit a small one - that the forecasts may be badly wrong.’

‘I think we need to talk,’ Scorpio said.

‘And I know just the place,’ said Antoinette Bax, stepping into the bay. She inclined her head towards Remontoire, as if they had seen each other only minutes earlier. ‘Follow me, you two. I think you’re going to love this.’

Hela, 2727

Rashmika saw the cathedrals.

It was not how she had imagined it, when she had rehearsed in her head her arrival at the Way. In her mind’s eye she was always simply there, with no approach, no opportunity to see the cathedrals small and neat in the distance, perched like ornaments on the horizon. But here they were, still a dozen or more kilometres away, yet clearly visible. It was like looking at the sailing ships of olden days, the way their topgallants came over the horizon long before their hulls. She could reach out her hand, open her fist and trap any one of those cathedrals in the curve between finger and thumb. She could close one eye so that the lack of perspective made the cathedral appear like a small and lovely toy, a thing of magical jewelled delicacy.

And she could just as easily imagine closing her fist on it.

There were too many of them to count. Thirty, forty, easily. Some were bunched up into tight clusters, like galleons exchanging close-quarters cannon fire. When they were so close, it was not easy to separate the resulting confusion of towers and spires into individual structures. Some cathedrals were single-spired or single-towered; others resembled whole city parishes joined together and set adrift. There were elbowed towers and lavish minarets. There were spires - barbed, flanged and buttressed. There were stained-glass windows hundreds of metres tall. There were rose windows wide enough to fly a ship through. There were glints of rare metals, acres of fabulous alloys. There were things like barnacles climbing halfway up the skins of some of the cathedrals, things whose scale she completely misjudged until she was close enough to realise that they were actually buildings in their own right, piled higgledy-piggledy atop one another.

Again, she thought of Brueghel.

As the caravan continued its approach to the Way, a greater proportion of each cathedral gradually became visible. Yet more sailed over the horizon, far to their rear, but this was the main group, Rashmika knew: the vanguard of the procession.

Above, Haldora sat perfectly at the zenith, at the apex of the celestial dome.

She had nearly arrived.

Near Ararat, 2675

Scorpio sat on the wooden table in the glade. He looked around, anxious to absorb every detail, but at the same time hoping not to appear too overwhelmed. It was really like no place he had ever been. The sky was a pure corneal blue, richer and deeper than anything he recalled from Ararat. The trees were amazingly intricate, shimmering with detail. They breathed. He had only ever seen pictures of trees, but the pictures had failed utterly to convey the enormous dizzying complexity of the things. It was like the first time he had seen the ocean: the gulf between expectation and reality was vast and nauseating. It wasn’t simply a question of scaling up some local, familiar thing, like a cup of water. There was a whole essence of seaness that he could never have predicted.

Frankly, the trees alarmed him. They were so huge, so alive. What if they decided they didn’t like him?

‘Scorp,’ Antoinette said. ‘Put these on, will you?’

He took the goggles, frowning at them. ‘Any particular reason why?’

‘So you can talk to John. Those of us without machines in our heads can’t see him most of the time. Don’t worry, you won’t be the only one looking silly.’

He fixed the goggles in place. They were designed for people, not pigs, but they were not too uncomfortable when he adjusted them for the shape of his face. Nothing happened when he looked through them.

‘John’ll be here in a moment,’ Antoinette reassured him.

This meeting had been convened very quickly. Around the table, in addition to Antoinette and himself, sat Vasko Malinin, Ana Khouri and her daughter - still inside a portable incubator, which Khouri rested on her lap - Dr Valensin and three low-ranking colony representatives. The three representatives were simply the most senior of the fourteen thousand or so citizens who were already aboard the Nostalgia for Infinity. The usual senior members - Orca Cruz, Blood, Xavier Liu, amongst others - were still on Ararat. Remontoire took the place opposite Scorpio, leaving only one vacant position.

‘This will have to be brief,’ Remontoire said. ‘In less than an hour I must be on my way.’

‘You won’t be staying for lunch?’ Scorpio asked, remembering belatedly that Remontoire had no sense of humour.

The Conjoiner shook the delicately veined egg that was his head. ‘I’m afraid not. The Zodiacal Light and the other Conjoiner assets will remain in this system, at least until you are into clear interstellar space. We will draw the Inhibitors away from you. Some elements may follow you, but they will almost certainly not constitute the main force.’ He had made a thin-boned church of his fingers. ‘You should be able to handle them.’

‘It sounds a lot like self-sacrifice to me,’ Antoinette said.

‘It isn’t. I am pessimistic, but not totally without hope. There are still weapons we haven’t used and a number we haven’t even manufactured yet. Some of them may make a small difference, locally at least.’ He paused and reached into an invisible pocket in his tunic. His fingers vanished into the fabric, as if executing a conjuring trick, and then emerged clutching a small slate-grey sliver, which he placed on the table and then tapped with his forefinger. ‘Before I forget: schematics for several militarily useful technologies. Some of these Aura or Khouri may already have mentioned. We owe them all to Aura, of course, but while she showed us the way forward and gave us clues to the basic principles, there was still much that we had to work out from scratch. These files should be compatible with standard manufactory protocols.’

‘We have no manufactories,’ Antoinette said. ‘They all stopped working years ago.’

Remontoire pursed his lips. ‘Then we will provide you with new ones, good against most plague variants. I’ll have them dropped off before you leave the system, along with medical supplies and reefersleep components. Feed them the files and they will make weapons and devices. If you have any queries, phrase them appropriately to Aura and she should be able to help you.’

‘Thanks, Rem,’ said Antoinette.

‘This is a gift,’ he said. ‘We give it freely, just as we are happy for you to take Aura. She is yours now. But there is something that you can give us in return.’

‘Name it,’ Antoinette told him.

But Remontoire said nothing. He looked over his shoulder at a figure crunching towards them through the grass.

‘Hello, John,’ Antoinette said.

Scorpio sat back stiffly on the bench as the figure approached. At first glance it barely looked like a human being at all. It walked, and it had arms and legs and a head, but that was where the resemblance ended. One half of the man’s body - one arm and one leg, and one half of the torso - was, so far as he could tell, approximately flesh and blood. But the other half was hulking and mechanical, grotesquely so, with no effort having been expended to create an illusion of symmetry. There were pistons and huge articulated hinge points, sliding metal gleaming from constant polishing and lubrication. The arm on the mechanical side hung down to knee-level, terminating in a complex multipurpose tool-delivery system. The effect was as if a piece of earth-moving equipment had collided with a man at brutal speed, fusing them together in the process.

His head, by contrast, was almost normal. But only by contrast. Red multifaceted cameras were crammed into the orbits of his eyes. Tubes emerged from his nostrils, curving back around the side of his face to connect to some unseen mechanism. An oval grille covered his mouth, stitched into the flesh of his face. His scalp was bald save for a dozen or so matted locks emerging from the crown. They were tied back, knotted into a single braid that hung down the back of his neck. He had no ears. In fact, Scorpio realised, he had no visible orifices at all. Perhaps he had been redesigned to tolerate hard vacuum without the protection of a space helmet.

His voice appeared to emerge from the grille. It was small, tinny, like a broken toy. ‘Hey. The gang’s all here.’

‘Have a seat, John,’ Antoinette said. ‘Do you need to be brought up to speed? Remontoire was just explaining a technical trade-off. He’s giving us some cool new toys.’

‘In return for something else, I gather.’

‘No,’ Remontoire said. ‘The technical blueprints and the other items really are a gift. But if you are willing to consider offering us a reciprocal gift, we have something in mind.’

John Brannigan assumed his seat, lowering himself into place with a hiss and chuff of contracting pistons. ‘You want the remaining cache weapons,’ he said.

Remontoire dignified the remark with a nod. ‘You guess our desires well.’

‘Why do you want them?’ John Brannigan asked.

‘Our forecasts show that we will need them if we are to create a useful diversion. There is, necessarily, an element of uncertainty. Not all the weapons have known properties. But we can make some useful guesses.’

‘We will be running from the machines as well,’ Scorpio said. ‘Who’s to say we won’t need the weapons ourselves?’

‘No one,’ Remontoire replied. As always he was unflappable, like an adult suggesting parlour games for children. ‘You may very well need them. But you will be running from the wolves, not already engaged with them. If you are sensible, you will avoid further encounters for as long as possible.’

‘You said we might still have wolves on our tail,’ Antoinette reminded him. ‘What do we do about them? Ask them nicely to go away?’

Remontoire again tapped the data recording he had placed on the table. ‘This will show you how to construct a hypometric weapon system. Our forecasts indicate that three of these devices will be sufficient to disperse a small wolf pursuit element.’

‘And if your forecasts turn out to be wrong?’ Scorpio asked.

‘You will have other resources.’

‘Not good enough,’ the pig said. ‘Those cache weapons were the whole reason we went all the way out to the Resurgam system in the first place. They’re what got us into this steaming pile of shit. And now you’re saying we should just give them up?’

‘I am still your ally,’ Remontoire said. ‘I am merely proposing that the weapons be reassigned to their point of maximum usefulness.’

‘I don’t get this,’ Antoinette said, nodding at the data sliver. ‘You have the means to make stuff we can’t even dream of yet, and you still want those mouldy old cache weapons?’

‘We cannot underestimate the cache weapons,’ Remontoire said. ‘They were a gift from the future. Until they have been exhaustively tested, we cannot assume that they are inferior to anything Aura has given us. You must agree with this reasoning as well.’

‘Guy’s got a point, I suppose,’ Antoinette said.

John Brannigan’s projected form moved with a hiss of locomotive systems. It must have been Scorpio’s imagination, but he thought he smelled lubricant. The Captain spoke again in his tinny voice. ‘He may well have a point, but Aura’s capabilities are equally untested. We have at least deployed a number of cache weapons and found them functional. I cannot sanction handing the rest of them over.’

‘Then we’ll have to arrive at a compromise position,’ Remontoire said.

The Captain looked at him, his grille-mouthed face expressionless. ‘I’m all ears,’ he said.

‘Our forecasts show a reduced but still statistically significant chance of success with only a subset of the available cache weapons.’

‘So you get some of ’em, but not all of ’em, right?’ Antoinette asked.

Remontoire dipped his head once. ‘Yes, but don’t assume that this position is arrived at lightly. With a reduced range of cache weapons at our disposal, it may not be possible to prevent a larger pursuit element coming after you.’

‘Yeah,’ Antoinette said, ‘but then we’ll have more to throw at them, right?’

‘Correct,’ Remontoire said, ‘but don’t underestimate the risk of failure.’

‘We’ll take that risk,’ Scorpio said.

‘Wait,’ Khouri said. She trembled, one hand steadying the incubator on her lap, the other gripping the wooden table with her fingernails. ‘Wait. I . . . Aura . . .’ Her eyes became all whites, the muscles in her neck pulling taut. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No. Definitely no.’

‘No what?’ Scorpio asked.

‘No. No no no. Do what Remontoire says. Give all the weapons. Will make a difference. Trust him.’ Her fingernails gouged raw white trails into the wood.

Vasko leant forwards and spoke for the first time during the meeting. ‘Aura might be right,’ he said.

‘I am right,’ Khouri said.

‘We should listen to her,’ Vasko said. ‘She seems pretty clear on this.’

‘How would she know?’ Scorpio said. ‘She knows some stuff, I’ll buy that. But no one said anything about her seeing the future.’

The seniors nodded as one.

‘I’m with Scorp on this one,’ Antoinette said. ‘We can’t give Rem all those weapons. We’ve got to keep some back for ourselves. What if we can’t get the manufactories to work? What if the stuff they make doesn’t work either?’

‘They will work,’ Remontoire said, still utterly calm and relaxed, even though vast destinies hung in the balance.

Scorpio shook his head. ‘Not good enough. We’ll give you some of the cache weapons, but not all of them.’

‘Fine,’ said Remontoire, ‘as long as we’re agreed.’

‘Scorpio . . .’ Vasko said.

The pig had had enough. This was his colony, his ship, his crisis. He reached up and ripped away the goggles, breaking them in the process. ‘It’s decided,’ he snapped.

Remontoire spread his fingers wide. ‘We’ll make the arrangements, then. Cargo tugs will be sent to assist in the transfer of the weapons. Another shuttle will arrive with the new manufactories and some prefabricated items. Conjoiners will arrive to help with the installation of the hypometric weapons and the other new technologies. Is it necessary to airlift any remaining personnel from the surface?’

‘Yes,’ Antoinette said.

‘A major evacuation is out of the question,’ Remontoire said. ‘We can open safe passage to and from the surface on one, possibly two further occasions - enough for a couple of shuttle flights, but no more than that.’

‘That’ll do,’ Antoinette said.

‘What about the rest of them?’ asked one of the seniors.

‘They had their chance,’ Scorpio said.

Remontoire smiled primly, as if someone had committed a faux pas in polite company. ‘They aren’t necessarily in immediate peril,’ he said. ‘If the Inhibitors wished to destroy Ararat’s biosphere, they could have done so already.’

‘But they’ll be prisoners down there,’ Antoinette said. ‘The wolves won’t ever let them leave.’

‘But they will still be alive,’ Remontoire said. ‘And we may stand a chance of reducing the wolf presence around Ararat. Without access to the full complement of cache weapons, however, that cannot be guaranteed.’

‘Could you guarantee it if you had all the weapons?’ Scorpio asked.

After a moment’s consideration Remontoire shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘No guarantees, not even then.’

Scorpio looked around at the assembled delegates, realising for the first time that he was the only pig amongst them. Where the Captain had been sitting only a vacant space now remained, a focus towards which everyone else’s attention was being subtly attracted. The Captain was still there, Scorpio thought. He was still there, still listening. He even thought he could still smell the lubricant.

‘Then I’m not going to lose any sleep over it,’ Scorpio said.

Antoinette came to see Scorpio after the meeting. He had taken the elevator back upship, to assist with the ongoing efforts to process the evacuees. There were people everywhere, huddled into filthy, dank, winding corridors as far as the eye could see.

He walked along one of these corridors, absorbing the frightened faces, fielding questions when he was able to, but saying nothing about the wider plans for the ship and its passengers. He told them only that they would be taken care of, that some of them would be frozen, but that every effort would be taken to make the process as painless and safe as possible. He believed it, too, for a while. But then it dawned on him, after navigating one corridor, that he had seen only a few hundred evacuees out of the thousands supposedly aboard.

He met Antoinette in a junction, where Security Arm militia were directing people to functioning elevators that would take them to different processing centres much further down the ship.

‘It’s going to be all right, Scorp,’ she said.

‘Am I that easy to read?’

‘You look worried, as if you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders.’

‘Funny, but that’s more or less how I feel.’

‘You’ll hack it. Do you remember how it was with Clavain, when we were in the Mademoiselle’s Château?’

‘That was a while back.’

‘Well, I remember even if you don’t. He looked just the way you look now, Scorp, as if his whole life had been a sequence of errors, culminating in that one moment of absolute failure. He nearly lost it then. But he didn’t. He kept it together. And it worked out. In the end, that sequence of errors turned out to be exactly the right set of choices.’

He smiled. ‘Thanks for the pep talk, Antoinette.’

‘I just thought you should know. Things are getting complicated, Scorp, and I know you sometimes don’t think that’s exactly your ideal milieu, if you get my drift. But you’re wrong. Your kind of leadership is just what we need now: blunt and to the point. You’re not a politician, Scorp. Thank God for that. Clavain would have agreed, you know.’

‘You think so?’

‘I know so. I’m just asking you not to have a crisis on us. Not now.’

‘I’ll try not to.’

She sighed and punched him playfully on the arm. ‘I just wanted you to know that before I leave.’

‘Leave?’

‘I’ve made my mind up: I’m going back down to Ararat on one of Remontoire’s shuttles. Xavier’s down there.’

‘That’ll be risky,’ he warned. ‘Why not just let Remontoire bring Xavier back up here? He’s already agreed to bring Orca back from Ararat. I hate to be blunt - sorry - but at least that way we’d only lose one of you if the wolves take out the shuttle.’

‘Because I’m not coming back,’ she said. ‘I’m going down to Ararat and I’m staying there.’

It took a moment for that to sink in. ‘But you made it out,’ he said.

‘No, Scorp, I came up with the Infinity because I didn’t have a lot of choice in the matter. But my responsibilities are down there, with the thousands we’ll be leaving behind. Oh, they don’t really need me, I suppose, but they definitely need Xavier. He’s about the only one who knows how to fix anything when it goes wrong.’

‘I’m sure you’ll make yourself useful,’ Scorpio said, smiling.

‘Well, if they let me fly something now and then, I guess I won’t go totally insane.’

‘We could still use you up here. I could use an ally any time of the day.’

‘You’ve got allies, Scorp; you just don’t know it yet.’

‘You’re doing a brave thing,’ he said.

‘It’s not such a dreadful place,’ she replied. ‘Don’t make me out to be too much of a martyr. I never really minded Ararat. I liked the sunsets. I guess I’ve even developed a taste for seaweed tea after all these years. All I’m really doing is staying at home.’

‘We’ll miss you,’ he said.

She looked down. He had the feeling that she could not look at his face. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen now, Scorp. Maybe you’ll take this ship to Hela, like Aura says. Maybe you’ll go somewhere else. But I’ve a feeling we won’t ever meet again. It’s a big universe out there, and the chances of our paths ever crossing again . . .’

‘It’s a big place,’ he said, ‘but on the other hand, I guess that also makes it big enough for a few coincidences.’

‘For some people, maybe, but not for the likes of you and me, Scorp.’ She looked up then, staring hard into his eyes. ‘I was scared of you when I met you, I don’t mind admitting that now. Scared and ignorant. But I’m glad everything happened the way it did. I’m glad I got to know you for a few years.’

‘It was half my life.’

‘They were good years, Scorp. I won’t forget them.’ Once more she looked down. He wondered if she was looking at his small, childlike shoes. Suddenly he felt self-conscious, wishing he was larger, more human, less like a pig and more like a man. ‘Remontoire’s going to have that shuttle ready soon,’ she said. ‘I’d better be going. Take care of yourself, all right? You’re a good man. A good pig.’

‘I try,’ Scorpio said.

She hugged him, then kissed him.

Then she was gone. He never saw her again.

THIRTY-TWO

Hela, 2727

The caravan sidled up to the kerb of the Way, overtaking one cathedral after another. Monstrous machinery loomed over Rashmika. She was too overwhelmed to take it all in, retaining only a blurred impression of great dark-grey mechanisms, projected to an inhuman scale. As the caravan wormed between them, the cathedrals appeared to remain completely still, as fully rooted to the landscape as the buildings she had seen on the Jarnsaxa Flats. Except, of course, that these buildings were true skyscrapers, jagged fingers clawing across the face of Haldora. And that stillness, Rashmika knew, was only an illusion born of the caravan’s speed. Were they to stop, one or other of the cathedrals would be rolling over them within a few minutes.

It was said that the cathedrals never stopped. It was also said that they seldom deviated from their paths unless a given obstacle was too large to be safely crushed beneath their traction mechanisms.

The Way was much narrower than she had expected. She recalled what Quaestor Jones had said: that it was never more than two hundred metres wide, and usually much less than that. Distances were difficult to judge in the absence of any familiar landmarks, but she did not think the Way was more than one hundred metres wide at any point along this stretch. Some of the larger cathedrals were almost that wide themselves, squatting across the full width of the Way like mechanical toads. The smaller cathedrals were able to travel two abreast, but only by allowing parts of their superstructures to lean out over the edges of the Way. Here, it did not really matter: the Way was just a smoothed and cleared strip across the otherwise flat and unobstructed expanse of the Flats. Any one of the cathedrals could have diverted off the path prepared ahead of it, taking its chances on the slightly rougher ground on either side. But clearly no such risk-taking was on the cards today, and the relative order of the procession looked set to remain unchallenged for the time being. This was the normal way of things: the jockeying, jousting and general dirty tricks that one heard about in the badlands were very much the exception rather than the rule, and such stories, Rashmika had long suspected, enjoyed a degree of exaggeration as they travelled north.

For now, therefore, the flotillas of cathedrals would creep along the Way in a more or less fixed formation. If she thought of them as city-states, then now would be a period of trade and diplomacy rather than war. Doubtless there would be espionage and subtle gamesmanship, and doubtless plans were continually being drawn up for future contingencies. But for the moment what prevailed was a state of genteel cordiality, with all the strained courtesies one customarily expected between historical rivals.

This suited Rashmika: it would be difficult enough fitting in with the repair gang without having to deal with additional crises and complications.

She had been given orders to collect her belongings - such as they were - and remain in one vehicle of the caravan. The reason soon became obvious, as the caravan fissioned into many smaller components. Rashmika watched as the quaestor’s workers hopped from vehicle to vehicle, unhooking umbilicals and couplings with cool indifference to the obvious risks.

Some of these sub-caravans were still several vehicles in length, and she watched as they peeled away to rendezvous with the larger cathedrals or cathedral-clusters. To her disappointment, however, the vehicle to which she had been assigned departed on its own. She was not alone in it - there were a dozen or so pilgrims and migrant workers waiting with her - but any hope that the Catherine of Iron might turn out to be amongst the larger cathedrals was quickly dashed, if it only merited one portion of the caravan.

Well, she had to start somewhere, as the quaestor had said.

Quickly the vehicle nosed away from the major cathedrals, bouncing and jinking over the ruts and potholes they had left in their wake.

‘You lot,’ she said, addressing the other travellers, standing in front of them with arms akimbo. ‘Which one of those is the Lady Morwenna?’

One of her companions wiped a smear of mucus from his upper lip. ‘None of them, love.’

‘One of them has to be,’ she said. ‘That’s the main gathering. The sweet spot is right there.’

‘That’s the main gathering all right, but no one said the Lady Mor was part of it.’

‘Now you’re being oblique for the sake of it.’

‘Hark at her,’ someone else said. ‘Right stuck-up little cow.’

‘All right,’ she countered. ‘If the Lady Morwenna isn’t there, where is it?’

‘Why are you so interested?’ the first one asked.

‘It’s the oldest cathedral on the Way,’ she said. ‘I think it’d be a little strange not to want to see it, don’t you?’

‘All we want is work, love. Doesn’t matter which one doles it out. It’s still the same fucking ice you have to shovel out the way.’

‘Well, I’m still interested,’ she said.

‘It isn’t any of those cathedrals,’ another voice said, bored but not unreasonable. She saw a man at the back of the gathering, lying down on a couch with a cigarette in one hand and the other tucked deep into his trousers, where it rummaged and scratched. ‘But you can see it.’

‘Where?’

‘Over here, little girl.’

She stepped towards the man.

‘Watch him,’ another voice said. ‘He’ll be on you like a rash.’ She hesitated. The man waved her over with his cigarette. He pulled his hand free from his trousers. It ended in a crude-looking metal claw. He transferred the cigarette to it and beckoned her over with his undamaged hand. ‘It’s all right. I stink a bit, but I don’t bite. Just want to show you the Lady Mor, that’s all.’

‘I know,’ she said. She stepped through the jumble of other bodies.

The man pointed to a small scuffed window behind him. He wiped it clean with his sleeve. ‘Look through there. You can still see the top of her spire.’

She looked. All she saw was landscape. ‘I’m not . . .’

‘There.’ The man nudged her chin until she was looking in exactly the right direction. He smelled like vinegar. ‘Between those bluffs, do you see something sticking up?’

‘There’s something sticking up all right,’ someone else said.

‘Shut up,’ Rashmika snapped. There must have been something in the tone of her voice because it had exactly the desired effect.

‘See it now?’ the man asked.

‘Yes. What’s it doing all the way out there? It can’t be on the Permanent Way at all.’

‘It is,’ the man said. ‘Just not on the part we usually follow.’

‘Doesn’t she know?’ said another voice.

‘If I did, I wouldn’t be asking,’ Rashmika replied tartly.

‘The Way branches near here,’ the man said, explaining it to her the way you would explain something to a child. She decided that she did not really like him after all. He was helping her, but the manner in which he was helping mattered, too. Sometimes refusal was better than grudging assistance. ‘Splits in two,’ he said. ‘One route is the one the cathedrals normally follow. Takes them all the way down to the Devil’s Staircase.’

‘I know about that,’ she said. ‘Zigzag ramps cut into the side of the Rift. The cathedrals follow them down to the bottom of the Rift, then up the other side again after they’ve crossed it.’

‘Right. Care to have a guess where the other route takes them?’

‘I’m assuming it crosses the bridge.’

‘You’re a clever little girl.’

She pulled away from the window. ‘If there’s a branch of the Way from the bridge to here, why didn’t we follow it?’

‘Because for a caravan it isn’t the quickest route. Caravans can cut corners, go up slopes and around tight bends. Cathedrals can’t. They have to take the long way around anything they can’t blast through. Anyway, the route to the bridge doesn’t see much maintenance. You might not have noticed it was a part of the Way even if you were on it.’

‘Then the Lady Morwenna will pull further and further away from the main gathering of cathedrals,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t that mean Haldora won’t be overhead any more?’

‘Not exactly, no,’ he said. He scratched at the side of his face with his claw, metal rasping against stubble. ‘But the Devil’s Staircase isn’t bang on the equator, either. They had to dig it where they could dig it, not where it should have gone. Another thing, too: you go down the Devil’s Staircase, you’ve got overhanging ice to contend with. Not good for Observers: blocks their view of the planet. And the Staircase is where cathedrals stand the best chance of pulling ahead of each other. But if one of them ever managed to cross the bridge, it’d be so far ahead of the pack it’d have to stop to let the others catch up with it. After that, nothing would ever get ahead of them. They could build themselves as wide as they liked. Never mind the glory in having crossed the bridge. They’d rule the Way.’

‘But no cathedral has ever crossed the bridge.’ She remembered the cratered ruins she had seen from the roof of the caravan. ‘I know that one did try it once, but . . .’

‘No one said it wasn’t madness, love, but that’s old pop-eyed Dean Quaiche for you. You should be glad you’re ending up on the Iron Katy. They say the rats have already started leaving the Lady Mor.’

‘The dean must think he has a good chance of making it,’ she said.

‘Or he’s insane.’ The man grinned at her, his yellow teeth like chipped tombstones. ‘Take your pick.’

‘I don’t have to,’ she said, then added, ‘Why did you call him pop-eyed? ’

They all laughed at her. One of them made goggles of his fingers around his eyes.

‘Girl’s got a lot to learn,’ someone said.

The Catherine of Iron was one of the smaller cathedrals in the procession, travelling alone several kilometres to the rear of the main pack. There were others further behind it, but these were little more than spires on the horizon. Almost certainly they were struggling to catch up with the others, determined to bring themselves as close as possible to the abstract moving point on the Way that corresponded to Haldora sitting precisely overhead. The ultimate shame, from a cathedral’s point of view, was to fall so far back that even the casual observer became aware that Haldora was not quite at the zenith. Worse than that - unspeakably worse - was the stigma that went beyond shame that was the fate suffered by any cathedral that lost sight of Haldora altogether. That was why the work of the Permanent Way gangs was taken so seriously. A day’s delay here or there was nothing, but many such delays could have a catastrophic effect on a cathedral’s progress.

Rashmika’s vehicle slowed as it approached the Catherine of Iron, then looped around to the rear. The partial circumnavigation afforded her an excellent view of the place that was to be her new home. Small though her assigned cathedral undoubtedly was, it was not an untypical example of their general style.

The flat base of the cathedral was a rectangle thirty metres wide and perhaps one hundred in length. Above this base towered the superstructure; below it - partially hidden by metal skirts - lay the rude business of engines and traction systems. The cathedral inched along the Way by dint of many parallel sets of caterpillar tracks. Currently, on one side, an entire traction unit had been hauled ten or so metres above the ice. Suited workers were lashed to the immobile underside of one of the tread plates, their welding and cutting torches flashing a pretty blue-violet as they effected some repair. Rashmika had never asked herself how the cathedrals dealt with that kind of overhaul, and the sheer bloody-minded ruthlessness of the solution - fixing part of the traction machinery while the cathedral was still moving - rather impressed her.

All around the cathedral, now that she noticed it, was more such activity; traceries of scaffolding covered much of the superstructure. Small figures were working everywhere she looked. The way they popped in and out of hatches, high above ground, made her think of clockwork automata.

Above the flat base, the cathedral conformed more or less to the traditional architectural expectations. Seen from above, the cathedral was an approximate cruciform shape, made up of a long nave with two stubbier transepts jutting out on either side and a smaller chapel at the head of the cross. Rising from the intersection of the nave and its transepts was a square-based tower. It rose for one hundred metres - about equal to the length of the cathedral -- before tapering into a four-sided spire which was another fifty metres higher. The ridges of the spire were serrated, and at the very top of the spire was an assemblage of communications dishes and semaphoric signalling mirrors. Rising from the traction base and angling inwards to connect with the top part of the nave were a dozen or so flying buttresses formed from skeletal girderwork. One or two were obviously missing or incomplete. Much of the cathedral, in fact, had a haphazard look, with various parts of the architecture sitting in only approximate harmony with each other. There were whole sections that appeared to have been replaced in great haste, or at minimal expense, or some combination of the two. The spire appeared to lean at a small angle away from the true vertical. It was propped up on one side by scaffolding.

She didn’t know whether to be saddened or relieved. At this point, knowing what she now knew about Dean Quaiche’s plans for the Lady Morwenna, she was glad not to have been assigned to it. She could entertain all the fantasies she liked, but there was no chance of rescuing her brother before the Lady Morwenna reached the bridge. She would be lucky to have infiltrated any level of the cathedral’s hierarchy by then.

The notion of infiltration chimed in her head. It was as if it had resonated with something intimate and personal, something that ran as deep within her as bone marrow. Why did the idea suddenly have such grave and immediate potency? She supposed that her entire mission had been a form of infiltration, from the moment she left her village and set about joining the caravan. The work of ascending through the cathedral until she located Harbin was only a later, more dangerous aspect of an enterprise upon which she had already embarked. She had taken the first step weeks ago, when she first heard of the caravan passing so close to the badlands.

But it had begun earlier than that, really.

Very much earlier.

Rashmika felt dizzy. She had glimpsed something there, a moment of clarity that had opened and closed in an instant. She herself had jammed it shut, the way one slammed a door on a loud noise or a bright light. She had glimpsed a plan - a scheme of infiltration - which stood outside the one she thought she knew. Outside and beyond, enveloping it in its entirety. A scheme of infiltration so huge, so ambitious, that even this trek across Hela was but one chapter in something much longer.

A scheme in which she was not simply a puppet, but also the puppeteer. One thought shone through with painful clarity: you brought this on yourself.

You wanted it to happen this way.

She tore her mind away from that line of thinking. With an effort of will she forced it back on to the immediate business of the cathedrals. A lapse now, a moment of inattention, could make all the difference.

A shadow fell on the vehicle. It was under the Catherine of Iron, moving between those great rows of crawler tracks. Wheels and treads moved with an unstoppable, inexorable slowness. Never mind her own lapses: it was the driver she had to trust now.

She moved to the other side of the cabin. Ahead, folding down from the underside of the cathedral, was a ramp, its edges marked with pulsing red lights. The lower end of the ramp scraped against the ground, leaving a smooth trail in its wake. The sub-caravan pushed itself on to the slope, wheels spinning for a moment to gain traction, and then its whole length surmounted the ramp. Rashmika grabbed for a handhold as the vehicle began to climb the steep slope. She could feel the labouring grind of the transmission through the metal framing of the cabin.

Soon they reached the top. The sub-caravan righted itself, emerging in a barely lit reception area. There were a couple of other vehicles parked there, as well as a great amount of unfathomable and elderly-looking equipment. Figures moved around wearing vacuum suits. Three of them were fixing an airlock umbilical to the side of the sub-caravan, puzzling over the interconnectors as if this was something they had never had to do before.

Presently Rashmika heard thumps and hisses, then voices. Her companions began to gather themselves and their possessions, edging towards the airlock. She collected her own bundle of belongings and stood ready to join them. For a while nothing happened. She heard the voices getting louder, as if some dispute was taking place. Standing by the window, she had a better view of what was going on outside. Within the depressurised part of the chamber was a figure, standing, doing nothing. She caught a glimpse of a man’s face through the visor of his rococo helmet: the expression was blank, but the face was not entirely unfamiliar.

Whoever it was stood watching the proceedings, with one hand resting on a cane.

The commotion continued unabated for a few more moments. Finally it died down and Rashmika’s companions began to shuffle out through the airlock, donning the helmets of their vacuum suits as they entered it. They all looked a lot less lively than they had five minutes ago. The actuality of arriving at the Catherine of Iron had brought them to the end of their journey. Judging by their expressions, this dim, grimy-looking enclosure filled with derelict junk and bored-looking workers was not quite what they had imagined when they had set out. She remembered what the quaestor had said, however: that the dean of the Iron Katy was a fair man who treated his workers and pilgrims well. They should all count themselves lucky, in that case. Better a down-at-heel cathedral run by a good man than the doomed madhouse of the Lady Morwenna, even if she did have to get to the Lady Mor eventually.

She had reached the door when a hand touched her chest, preventing her from going any further. She looked into the eyes of a fat-faced Adventist official.

‘Rashmika Els?’ the man said.

‘Yes.’

‘There’s been a change of plan,’ he said. ‘You’re to stay on the caravan, I’m afraid.’

They took her away from the Catherine of Iron, away from the smooth road of the Permanent Way. She was the only passenger in the sub-caravan apart from the suited man with the cane. He just sat there, his helmet still on, tapping the cane against the heel of his boot. Most of the time she could not see his face.

The vehicle bounced over ruts of ice for many minutes, the main gathering of cathedrals falling into the distance.

‘We’re going to the Lady Morwenna, aren’t we?’ Rashmika asked, not really expecting an answer.

None arrived. The man merely tightened the grip on his cane, tilting his head just so, the reflected lighting making a perfect blank mask of his visor. Rashmika felt sick by the time they hit smoother ground and drew alongside the cathedral. It was not only the motion of the caravan sub-unit that made her feel ill, but also a nauseating sense of entrapment. She had wanted to come to the Lady Morwenna. She had not wanted the Lady Morwenna to draw her into it, against her will.

The vehicle pulled alongside the slowly moving mountain of the cathedral. Whereas the Catherine of Iron crawled around Hela on caterpillar tracks, the Lady Morwenna actually walked, shuffling along on twenty vast trapedozoidal feet. There were two parallel rows of ten of them, each row two hundred metres long. The entire mass of the main structure, towering far above, was connected to the feet by the huge telescoping columns of the cathedral’s flying buttresses. They were not really buttresses at all, but rather the legs of the feet: complex, brutishly mechanical things, sinewy with pistons and articulation points, veined by thick segmented cables and power lines. They were driven by moving shafts thrusting through the walls of the main structure like the horizontal oars of a slave-powered galleon. In turn, each foot was elevated three or four metres from the surface of the Way, allowed to move forwards slightly, and then lowered back down to the ground. The result was that the entire structure slid smoothly along at a rate of one-third of a metre per second.

It was, she knew, very old. It had grown from a tiny seed sown in the earliest days of Hela’s human settlement. Everywhere Rashmika looked she saw indications of damage and repair, redesign and expansion. It was less like a building than a city, one that had been subjected to grandiose civic projects and urban improvement schemes, each throwing out the blueprint of the old. In amongst the machinery, coexisting with it, was a crawling population of sculptural forms: gargoyles and gryphons, dragons and demons, visages of carved masonry or welded metal. Some of these were animated, drawing their motion from the moving mechanisms of the legs, so that the jaws of the carved figures gaped wide and snapped closed with each step taken by the cathedral.

She looked higher, straining to see the vehicle’s windows. The great hall of the cathedral reached far above the point where the articulated buttresses curved in to join it. Enormous stained-glass windows towered above her, pointing towards the face of Haldora. There were outflung prominences of masonry and metal capped by squatting gryphons or other heraldic creatures. And then there was the Clocktower itself, shaming even the hall, a tapering, teetering finger of iron thrusting higher than any structure Rashmika had ever seen. She could see the history of the cathedral in the tower, the strata of growth periods laid bare, showing how the vast structure had expanded to its present size. There were follies and abandoned schemes; out-jutting elbows that went nowhere. There were strange levellings-off where it looked as if the spire had been tapering towards a conclusion, before deciding to continue upwards for another hundred metres. And somewhere near the very top - difficult to see from this angle - was a cupola in which burned the unmistakable yellow lights of habitation.

The caravan vehicle swerved closer to the line of slowly stomping feet. There was a clang, and then they floated free of the ground, winched off the surface just as Crozet’s icejammer had been by the caravan.

The man in the vacuum suit began undoing his helmet clasp. He did it with a kind of manic patience, as if the act itself was a necessary penitence.

The helmet came off. The man riffled one gloved hand through the white shock of his hair, making it stand straight up from his scalp. The top was mathematically flat. He looked at her, his face long and flat-featured, making her think of a bulldog. She was certain, then, that she had seen the man somewhere before, but for now that was all she remembered.

‘Welcome to the Lady Morwenna, Miss Els,’ he said.

‘I don’t know who you are, or why I’m here.’

‘I’m Surgeon-General Grelier,’ he said. ‘And you’re here because we want you to be here.’

Whatever that meant, he was telling the truth.

‘Now come with me,’ he said. ‘There is someone you need to see. Then we can discuss terms of employment.’

‘Employment?’

‘It’s work you came for, isn’t it?’

She nodded meekly. ‘Yes.’

‘Then we may have something right up your alley.’

THIRTY-THREE

Near Ararat, 2675

Scorpio had hoped for some rest. But the days immediately following Antoinette’s departure were as tiring as any that had preceded them. He stayed awake nearly all the time, watching the arrival and departure of shuttles and tugs, supervising the processing of new evacuees and the comings and goings of Remontoire’s technical personnel.

He felt stretched beyond breaking point, never certain that he was more than one or two breaths from collapsing. And yet he kept functioning, sustained by Antoinette’s words and his own stubborn refusal to show the slightest glimmer of weakness around the humans. It was becoming difficult. More and more it seemed to him that they had an energy that he lacked; that they were never as close to exhaustion or complete breakdown as he was. It had been different in his younger days. He had been the unstoppable powerhouse then, stronger not only than the humans who made up part of his coterie but also many of the pigs. He had been foolish to imagine that this would be the pattern for the whole of his life, that he would always have that edge. He had never quite noticed the moment when parity occurred; it might have happened months or years in the past, but now he was quite sure that the humans had pulled ahead of him. In the short term he still had a furious, impulsive strength that they lacked, but what use was thuggish immediacy now? What mattered were slow-burning, calculated strength, endurance and presence of mind. The humans were quicker-minded than he was, much less prone to making mistakes. Did they realise that? he wondered. Perhaps not immediately, for he was working hard to compensate for this intrinsic weakness. But sooner or later the effort would take its toll and then they would start to notice his failings. Many of them - the allies Antoinette had spoken of - would do their best to ignore his increasing inadequacy, making excuses for his failings. But again, that process could only continue for so long. Inevitably there would come a time when his enemies would pick up on that creeping weakness and use it against him. He wondered if he would have the courage to step down first, before it became so obvious. He didn’t know. It was too hard to think about that, because it cut too close to the essence of what he was, and what he could never be.

Antoinette had not meant to be cruel when she had talked of their time on Ararat as being ‘good years’. She had meant it sincerely, and twenty-three years was no small chunk out of anyone’s life. But Antoinette was a human. True enough, she did not have access to all the life-extension procedures that had been commonplace a couple of hundred years earlier. Nobody did nowadays. But Antoinette still had advantages that Scorpio lacked. The genes she had inherited had been modified many hundreds of years earlier, weeding out many of the commoner causes of death. She could expect to live about twice as long as she would have had her ancestors never undergone those changes. A one-hundred-and-fifty-year lifespan was not unthinkable for her. Given exceptional luck, she might even see two hundred. Long enough, perhaps, to witness and maybe even benefit from a resurgence in the other kinds of life-extending medicine, the kinds that had been in short supply since the Melding Plague. Granted, the present crisis didn’t make that likely, but it was still a remote possibility, still something she could hope for.

Scorpio was fifty now. He would be lucky to see sixty. He had never heard of a pig living longer than seventy-five years, and the oldest pig he had ever met had been seventy-one years old. That pig had died one year later, as a constellation of time-bomb illnesses had ripped him apart over a period of a few months.

Even if, by some stroke of luck, he found a medical facility that still had access to the old rejuvenation and life-extension treatments, they would be useless to him, too finely tuned to human biochemistry. He had heard about pigs who had tried such things, and their efforts had invariably been unsuccessful. More often than not they had died prematurely, as the procedures triggered fatal iatrogenic side effects.

It wasn’t an option. The only option, really, was to die, in about ten to fifteen years’ time. Twenty if he was astonishingly lucky. Less time, even then, than he had already spent on Ararat.

‘It was half my life,’ he had told her. But he didn’t think she had understood exactly what that meant. Not just half the life he had lived to date, but a decent fraction of the life he could ever hope to live. The first twenty years of his life barely counted, anyway. He hadn’t really been born until he turned the laser on his shoulder and burned the green scorpion into scar tissue. The humans were making plans for decades to come. He was thinking in terms of years, and even then counting on nothing.

The question was, did he have the courage to acknowledge this? If he stepped down now and made it clear that it was because of his genetic inheritance - because of the encroachment of premature death that was part and parcel of the pig package - no one would criticise him. They would understand, and he would have their sympathy. But what if he was wrong to relinquish power now, just because he felt the shadow on him? The shadow was still faint. He thought it likely that only he had seen it clearly. Surely it was a kind of cowardice to give up now, when he still had five or ten more years of useful service in him. Surely he owed Ararat - or Ararat’s refugees - more than that. He was many things - violent, stubborn, loyal - but he had never been a coward.

He thought, then, of Aura. It came to him with crystal clarity: she would be followed. She was a child who spoke of things beyond her reach. She had, in a way, already saved thousands of lives by preventing Scorpio from attacking the Jugglers as they tried to haul the Infinity to a safe distance from First Camp. She had known what the right thing to do was.

She was just a small thing now, encased in the transparent crib of the incubator, but she was growing. In ten years, what would she be like? It hurt him to have to think so far ahead. He did it anyway. He saw a flash of her then, a girl who looked older than her years, the expression on her face hovering somewhere between serene certainty and the stiff mask of a zealot, untroubled by the smallest flicker of doubt. She would be beautiful, in human terms, and she would have followers. He saw her wearing Skade’s armour - the armour as it had been when they had found Skade in the crashed ship, tuned to white, its chameleoflage permanently jammed on that one setting.

She might be right, he thought. She might know exactly what had to be done to make a difference against the Inhibitors. Given what she had already cost them, he desperately hoped that this would be the case. But what if she was wrong? What if she was a weapon, implanted in their midst? What if her one function was to lead them all to extinction, by the most efficient means?

He didn’t really think that likely, though. If he had, he would have killed her already, and then perhaps himself. But the chance was still there. She might even be innocent, but still wrong. In some respects that was an even more dangerous possibility.

Vasko Malinin had already sided with her. So, Scorpio thought, had a number of the seniors. Others were uncommitted, but might turn either way in the coming days. Against this, against what would surely be the magnetic charisma of the girl, there had to be a balance, something stolid and unimaginative, not much given to crusades or the worship of zealots. He couldn’t step down. It might wear him out even sooner, but - somehow or other - he had to be there. Not as Aura’s antagonist, necessarily, but as her brake. And if it came to a confrontation with Aura or one of her supporters (he could see them now, rallying behind the white-armoured girl) then it would only vindicate his decision to stay.

The one thing Scorpio knew about himself was that when he made a decision it stayed made. In that respect, he thought, he had much in common with Clavain. Clavain had been a better forward-thinker than Scorpio, but at the end - when he had met his death in the iceberg - all his life had amounted to was a series of dogged stands.

There were, Scorpio concluded, worse ways to live.

‘You’re quite happy with this?’ Remontoire asked Scorpio.

They were sitting alone in a spider-legged inspection saloon, a pressurised cabin clutching the sheer clifflike face of the accelerating starship. From an aperture below them - a docking gate framed by bony structures that resembled fused spinal vertebrae - the cache weapons were being unloaded. It would have been a delicate operation at the best of times, but with the Nostalgia for Infinity continuing to accelerate away from Ararat, following the trajectory Remontoire and his projections had specified, it was one that required the utmost attention to detail.

‘I’m happy,’ Scorpio said. ‘I thought you’d be the one with objections, Rem. You wanted all of these things. I’m not letting you have them all. Doesn’t that piss you off?’

‘Piss me off, Scorp?’ There was a faint, knowing smile on his companion’s face. Remontoire had prepared a flask of tea and was now pouring it into minuscule glass tumblers. ‘Why should it? The risk is shared equally. Your own chance of survival - according to our forecasts, at least - is now significantly reduced. I regret this state of affairs, certainly, but I can appreciate your unwillingness to hand over all the weapons. That would require an unprecedented leap of faith.’

‘I don’t do faith,’ Scorpio said.

‘In truth, the cache weapons may not make very much difference in the long run. I did not want to say this earlier, for fear of dispiriting our associates, but the fact remains that our forecasts may be too optimistic. When Ilia Volyova rode Storm Bird into the heart of the wolf concentration around Delta Pavonis, the cache weapons she deployed made precious little impact.’

‘As far as we know. Maybe she did slow things down a bit.’

‘Or perhaps she did not deploy the weapons in the most effective manner possible - she was ill, after all - or perhaps those were not the most dangerous weapons in the arsenal. We shall never know.’

‘What about these other weapons,’ Scorpio asked, ‘the ones that they’re making for us now?’

‘The hypometric devices? They have proven useful. You saw how the wolf concentration around your shuttle and the Nostalgia for Infinity was dispersed. I also used a hypometric weapon against the wolf aggregate that was causing you difficulties on the surface of Ararat.’

Scorpio sipped at his tea, holding the little tumbler - it was barely larger than a thimble - in the clumsy vice of his hands. He felt as if at any minute he was going to shatter the glass. ‘These are the weapons Aura showed you how to make?’

‘Yes.’

‘And you still don’t really know how any of it works?’

‘Let’s just say that theory is lagging some distance behind practice, shall we?’

‘All right. It’s not as if I’d be able to understand it even if you knew. But one thing does occur to me. If this shit is so useful, why aren’t the wolves using it against us?’

‘Again, we don’t know,’ Remontoire admitted.

‘Doesn’t that worry you? Doesn’t it concern you that maybe there’s some kind of long-term problem with this new technology that you don’t know about?’

Remontoire arched an eyebrow. ‘You, thinking ahead, Scorpio? Whatever next?’

‘It’s a legitimate point.’

‘Conceded. And yes, it does, amongst other things, give me pause for concern. But given the choice between extinction now and dealing with an unspecified problem at a later point . . . well, it’s not much of a contest, is it?’ Remontoire peered through the amber belly of his tiny glass, one eye looming large in distortion. ‘Anyway, there’s another possibility. The wolves may not have this technology.’

Beyond the observation spider, framed by the brass-ringed eye of one of its portholes, Scorpio saw one of the cache weapons emerge. The weapon - it was all bronze-green lustre and art deco flanges, like an old radio or cinema - was encased in a cradle studded with steering jets. The cradle, in turn, was being grasped by four tugs of Conjoiner manufacture.

‘Then where did this technology come from?’

‘The dead. The collective memories of countless extinct cultures, gathered together in the neutron-crust matrix of the Hades computer. Clearly it wasn’t enough to make a difference to those extinct species; maybe none of the other techniques Aura has given us will make a difference to our eventual future. But perhaps they have served to slow things down. It might be that all we need is time. If there is something else out there - something more significant, something more potent than the wolves - then all we need is time to discover it.’

‘You think it’s Hela, don’t you?’

‘Doesn’t it intrigue you, Scorpio? Don’t you want to go there and see what you find?’

‘We looked it up, Rem. Hela is an iceball, home to a bunch of religious lunatics tripping on the tainted blood of an indoctrinal virus carrier.’

‘Yet they speak of miracles.’

‘A planet that disappears. Except no one you’d trust to fix a vac-suit seal has ever seen it happen.’

‘Go there and find out. One-oh-seven Piscium is the system. The Inhibitors haven’t reached it yet, by all accounts.’

‘Thanks for the information.’

‘It will be your decision, Scorpio. You already know what Aura will recommend, but you don’t have to be swayed by that.’

‘I won’t.’

‘But keep this in mind: one-oh-seven Piscium is an outlying system. Reports of wolf incursions into human space are fragmentary at best, but you can be certain that when they move in, the core colonies - the worlds within a dozen or so light years of Earth - will be the first to fall. That’s how they work: identify the hub, attack and destroy it. Then they pick off the satellite colonies and anyone trying to flee deeper into the galaxy.’

Scorpio shrugged. ‘So nowhere’s safe.’

‘No. But given your responsibilities - given the seventeen thousand individuals now in your care - it would be far safer to head outwards than to dive back towards those hub worlds. But I sense that you may feel otherwise.’

‘I have unfinished business back home,’ Scorpio replied.

‘You don’t mean Ararat, do you?’

‘I mean Yellowstone. I mean the Rust Belt. I mean Chasm City and the Mulch.’

Remontoire finished his tea, consuming the last drop with the fastidious neatness of a cat. ‘I understand that you still have emotional ties to that place, but don’t overestimate the danger of returning there. If the wolves have gathered any intelligence on us, it won’t have taken them very long to identify Yellowstone as a critical hub. It will be high on their list of priorities. They may already be there, building a Singer, as they did around Delta Pavonis.’

‘In which case there’ll be a lot of people needing to get out.’

‘You can’t make enough of a difference to justify the risk,’ Remontoire told him.

‘I can try.’ Scorpio gestured through the window of the inspection spider, towards the looming presence of the ship. ‘The Infinity brought one hundred and sixty thousand people from Resurgam. I may not be much of a mathematician, but with only seventeen thousand aboard her now, that means we have some spare capacity.’

‘You will be risking all the lives we have already saved.’

‘I know,’ he replied.

‘You will be squandering any advantage you gain in the next few days, as we draw the machines away from you.’

‘I know,’ he said again.

‘You will also be risking your own life.’

‘I know that as well, and it isn’t going to make one damned bit of difference, Rem. The more you try to talk me out of it, the more I know I’m going to do it.’

‘If you have the backing of the seniors.’

‘They either back me or sack me. It’s their choice.’

‘You’ll also need the ship to agree to it.’

‘I’ll ask nicely,’ Scorpio said.

The tugs had dragged the cache weapon to a safe distance from the ship. He expected to see their main drives flick on, bright spears of scattered light from plasma exhausts, but the whole assembly just accelerated away, as if moved by an invisible hand.

‘I don’t agree with your stance,’ Remontoire said, ‘but I respect it. You remind me of Nevil, in some ways.’

Scorpio recalled the ludicrously brief episode of ‘grieving’ Remontoire had undergone. ‘I thought you were over him now.’

‘None of us are over him,’ Remontoire said curtly. Then he gestured to the flask again and his mood lightened visibly. ‘More tea, Mr Pink?’

Scorpio didn’t know what to say. He looked at the bland-faced man and shrugged. ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Clock.’

Hela, 2727

The surgeon-general ushered Rashmika through the labyrinthine Lady Morwenna. It was clearly not a sightseeing trip. Though she dawdled when she was able - slowing down to look at the windows, or something of equal interest - Grelier always chivvied her on with polite insistence, tapping his cane against the walls and floor to emphasise the urgency of his mission. ‘Time is of the essence, Miss Els,’ he kept saying. That and, ‘We’re in a wee bit of a hurry.’

‘It would help if you told me what all this is about,’ she said.

‘No, it wouldn’t,’ he replied. ‘Why would it help? You’re here and we’re on our way.’

He had a point, she supposed. She just didn’t like it very much.

‘What happened with the Catherine of Iron?’ she asked, determined not to give up too easily.

‘Nothing that I’m aware of. There was a change of assignment. Nothing significant. You’re still being employed by the First Adventist Church, after all. We’ve just relocated you from one cathedral to another.’ He tapped the side of his nose, as if sharing a grand confidence. ‘Frankly, you’ve done rather well out of it. You don’t know how difficult it is to get into the Lady Mor these days. Everyone wants to work in the Way’s most historic cathedral.’

‘I was given to understand that its popularity had taken a bit of a knock lately,’ she said.

Grelier looked back at her. ‘Whatever do you mean, Miss Els?’

‘The dean is taking it over the bridge. At least, that’s what people are saying.’

‘And if that were the case?’

‘I wouldn’t be too surprised if people aren’t all that keen to stay aboard. How far from the crossing are we, Surgeon-General?’

‘Navigation’s not really my thing.’

‘You know exactly how far away we are,’ she said.

He flashed a smile back at her. She decided that she did not like his smile at all. It looked altogether too feral. ‘You’re good, Miss Els. As good as I’d hoped.’

‘Good, Surgeon-General?’

‘The lying thing. The ability to read faces. That’s your little stock in trade, isn’t it? Your little party trick?’

They had arrived at what Rashmika judged to be the base of the Clocktower. The surgeon-general pulled out a key, slipped it into a lock next to a wooden door and admitted them into what was obviously a private compartment. The walls were made of trellised iron. Inside he pressed a sequence of brass knobs and they began to rise. Through the trelliswork, Rashmika watched the walls of the elevator shaft glide by. Then the walls became stained glass, and as they ascended past each coloured facet the light changed in the compartment: green to red, red to gold, gold to a cobalt blue that made the surgeon-general’s shock of white hair glow as if electrified.

‘I still don’t know what this is about,’ she persisted.

‘Are you frightened?’

‘A bit.’

‘You needn’t be.’ She saw that he was telling the truth, at least as he perceived it. This calmed her slightly. ‘We’re going to treat you very well,’ he added. ‘You’re too valuable to us to be treated otherwise. ’

‘And if I decide I don’t want to stay here?’

He looked away from her, glancing out of the window. The light traced the outline of his face with dying fire. There was something about him - a muscular compactness to his body, that bulldog face - that made her think of circus performers she had seen in the badlands, who were actually unemployed miners touring from village to village to supplement their income. He could have been a fire-eater or an acrobat.

‘You can leave,’ he said, turning back to her. ‘There’d be no point keeping you here without your permission. Your usefulness to us depends entirely on your good will.’

Perhaps she was reading him incorrectly, but she did not think he was lying about that, either.

‘I still don’t see ...’ she said.

‘I’ve done my homework,’ he told her. ‘You’re a rara avis, Miss Els.

You have a gift shared by fewer than one in a thousand people. And you have the gift to a remarkable degree. You’re off the scale. I doubt that there’s anyone else quite like you on the whole of Hela.’

‘I just see when people lie,’ she said.

‘You see more than that. Look at me now.’ He smiled at her again. ‘Am I smiling because I am genuinely happy, Miss Els?’

It was the same feral smile she had seen before. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘You’re right. Do you know why you can tell?’

‘Because it’s obvious,’ she said.

‘But not to everyone. When I smile on demand - as I did just then - I make use of only one muscle in my face: the zygomaticus major. When I smile spontaneously - which I confess does not happen very often - I flex not only my zygomaticus major but I also tighten the orbicularis oculi, pars lateralis.’ Grelier touched a finger to the side of his temple. ‘That’s the muscle that encircles the eye. The majority of us cannot tighten that muscle voluntarily. I certainly can’t. By the same token the majority of us cannot stop it tightening when we are genuinely pleased.’ He smiled again; the elevator was slowing. ‘Many people do not see the difference. If they notice it, they notice it subliminally, and the information is lost in the welter of other sensory inputs. The crucial data is ignored. But to you these things come screaming through. They sound trumpets. You are incapable of ignoring them.’

‘I remember you now,’ she said.

‘I was there when they interviewed your brother, yes. I remember the fuss you made when they lied to him.’

‘Then they did lie.’

‘You always knew it.’

She looked at him: square in the face, alert to every nuance. ‘Do you know what happened to Harbin?’

‘Yes,’ he replied.

The trelliswork carriage rattled to a halt.

Grelier led her into the dean’s garret. The six-sided room was alive with mirrors. She saw her own startled expression jangling back at her, fragmented like a cubist portrait. In the confusion of reflections she did not immediately notice the dean himself. She saw the view through the windows, the white curve of Hela’s horizon reminding her of the smallness of her world, and she saw the suit - the strange, roughly welded one - that she recognised from the Adventist insignia. Rashmika’s skin prickled: just looking at the suit disturbed her. There was something about it, an impression of evil radiating from it in invisible lines, flooding the room; a powerful sense of presence, as if the suit itself embodied another visitor to the garret.

Rashmika walked past the suit. As she neared it the impression of evil became perceptibly stronger, almost as if invisible rays of malevolence were boring into her head, fingering their way into the private cavities of her mind. It was not like her to respond so irrationally to something so obviously inanimate, but the suit had an undeniable power. Perhaps, buried inside it, was a mechanism for inducing disquiet. She had heard of such things: vital tools in certain spheres of negotiation. They tickled the parts of the brain responsible for stimulating dread and the registering of hidden presences.

Now that she thought she could explain the suit’s power she felt less disturbed by it. All the same, she was glad when she reached the other side of the garret, into full view of the dean. At first she thought he was dead. He was lying back on his couch, hands clasped across his blanketed chest like a man in the repose of the recently deceased. But then the chest moved. And the eyes - splayed open for examination - were horribly alive within their sockets. They trembled like little warm eggs about to hatch.

‘Miss Els,’ the dean said. ‘I hope your trip here was an enjoyable one.’

She couldn’t believe she was in his presence. ‘Dean Quaiche,’ she said. ‘I heard . . . I thought ...’

‘That I was dead?’ His voice was a rasp, the kind of sound an insect might have manufactured by the deft rubbing of chitinous surfaces. ‘I have never made any secret of my continued existence, Miss Els . . . for all these years. The congregation has seen me regularly.’

‘The rumours are understandable,’ Grelier said. The surgeon-general had opened a medical cabinet on the wall and was now fishing through its innards. ‘You don’t show your face outside of the Lady Morwenna, so how are the rest of the population expected to know?’

‘Travel is difficult for me.’ Quaiche pointed with one hand towards a small hexagonal table set amid the mirrors. ‘Have some tea, Miss Els. And sit down, take the weight off your feet. We have much to talk about.’

‘I have no idea why I am here, Dean.’

‘Didn’t Grelier tell you anything? I told you to brief the young lady, Grelier. I told you not to keep her in the dark.’

Grelier turned from the wall and walked towards Quaiche, carrying bottles and swabs. ‘I told her precisely what you asked me to tell her: that her services were required, and that our use for her depended critically on her sensitivity to facial microexpressions.’

‘What else did you tell her?’

‘Absolutely nothing.’

Rashmika sat down and poured herself some tea. There appeared little point in refusing. And now that she was being offered a drink she realised that she was very thirsty.

‘I presume you want me to help you,’ she ventured. ‘You need my skill, for some reason or other. There is someone you’re not sure if you trust or not.’ She sipped at the tea: whatever she thought of her hosts, it tasted decent enough. ‘Am I warm?’

‘You’re more than warm, Miss Els,’ Quaiche remarked. ‘Have you always been this astute?’

‘Were I truly astute, I’m not sure I’d be sitting here.’

Grelier leant over the Dean and began dabbing at the exposed whites of his eyes. She could see neither of their faces.

‘You sound as if you have misgivings,’ the dean said. ‘And yet all the evidence suggests you were rather keen on reaching the Lady Morwenna.’

‘That was before I found out where it was going. How close are we to the bridge, Dean? If you don’t mind my asking.’

‘Two hundred and fifty-six kilometres distant,’ he said.

Rashmika allowed herself a moment of relief. She sipped another mouthful of the tea. At the crawling pace the cathedrals maintained, that was sufficiently far away not to be of immediate concern. But even as she enjoyed that solace, another part of her mind quietly informed her that it was really much closer than she feared. A third of a metre a second did not sound very fast, but there were a lot of seconds in a day.

‘We’ll be there in ten days,’ the dean added.

Rashmika put down her tea. ‘Ten days isn’t very long, Dean. Is it true what they say, that you’ll be taking the Lady Morwenna over Absolution Gap?’

‘God willing.’

That was the last thing she wanted to hear. ‘Forgive me, Dean, but the one thing I didn’t have in mind when I came here was dying in some suicidal folly.’

‘No one’s going to die,’ he told her. ‘The bridge has been proven able to take the weight of an entire supply caravan. Measurements have never detected an ångström of deflection under any load.’

‘But no cathedral has ever crossed it.’

‘Only one has ever tried, and it failed because of guidance control, not any structural problem with the bridge.’

‘You think you’ll be more successful, I take it?’

‘I have the finest cathedral engineers on the Way. And the finest cathedral, too. Yes, we’ll make it, Miss Els. We’ll make it and one day you’ll tell your children how fortunate you were to enter my employment at such an auspicious time.’

‘I sincerely hope you’re right.’

‘Did Grelier tell you that you could leave at any time?’

‘Yes,’ she said, hesitantly.

‘It was the truth. Go now, Miss Els. Finish your tea and go. No one will stop you, and I will make arrangements for your employment in the Catherine. Good work, too.’

She was about to ask: the same good work you promised my brother? But she stopped herself. It was too soon to go barging in with another question about Harbin. She had come this far, and either extraordinary luck or extraordinary misfortune had propelled her into the heart of Quaiche’s order. She still did not know exactly what they wanted of her, but she knew she had been granted a chance that she must not throw away with one idle, ill-tempered question. Besides, there was another reason not to ask: she was frightened of what the answer might be.

‘I’ll stay,’ she said, adding quickly, ‘For now. Until we’ve talked things over properly.’

‘Very wise, Miss Els,’ Quaiche said. ‘Now, would you do me a small favour?’

‘That would depend,’ she said.

‘I only want you to sit there and drink your tea. A gentleman is going to come into this room and he and I are going to have a little chat. I want you to observe the gentleman in question - carefully, but not obtrusively - and report your observations to me when the gentleman has departed. It won’t take long, and there’s no need for you to say anything while the man is present. In fact, it would be better if you didn’t.’

‘Is that what you want me for?’

‘That is part of it, yes. We can discuss terms of employment later. Consider this part of your interview.’

‘And if I fail?’

‘It isn’t a test. You’ve already been tested on your basic skills, Miss Els. You came through with flying colours. In this instance, I just want honest observation. Grelier, are you done yet? Stop fussing around. You’re like a little girl playing with her dolly.’

Grelier began to put away his swabs and ointments. ‘I’m done,’ he said curtly. ‘That abscess has nearly stopped weeping pus.’

‘Would you care for more tea before the gentleman arrives, Miss Els?’

‘I’m fine with this,’ she said, holding on to her empty cup.

‘Grelier, make yourself scarce, then have the Ultra representative shown in.’

The surgeon-general locked the medical cabinet, said goodbye to Rashmika and walked out of the room by a different door than the one through which they had entered. His cane tapped into the distance.

Rashmika waited. Now that Grelier had gone she felt uncomfortable in Quaiche’s presence. She did not know what to say. She had never wanted to reach him specifically. She found the very idea distasteful. It was his order she had wanted to infiltrate, and then only to the point necessary to find Harbin. It was true that she did not care how much damage she did along the way, but Quaiche himself had never been of interest to her. Her mission was selfish, concerned only with the fate of her brother. If the Adventist church continued to inflict misery and hardship on the population of Hela, that was their problem, not hers. They were complicit in it, as much a part of the problem as Quaiche. And she had not come to change any of that, unless it stood in her way.

Eventually the representative arrived. Rashmika observed his entry, remembering that she had been told to say nothing. She presumed that extended to not even greeting the Ultra.

‘Come in, Triumvir,’ Quaiche said, his couch elevating to something approximating a normal sitting position. ‘Come in and don’t be alarmed. Triumvir, this is Rashmika Els, my assistant. Rashmika, this is Triumvir Guro Harlake of the lighthugger That Which Passes, recently arrived from Sky’s Edge.’

The Ultra arrived in a shuffling red mobility contraption. His skin had the smooth whiteness of a baby reptile’s, faintly tattooed with scales, and his eyes were partially concealed behind slitted yellow contacts. His short white hair fell over his face in a stiff, foppish fringe. His fingernails were long, green, vicious as scythes, and they kept clicking against the armature of his mobility device.

‘We were the last ship out during the evacuation,’ the Triumvir said. ‘There were ships behind us, but they didn’t make it.’

‘How many systems have fallen so far?’ Quaiche asked.

‘Eight ... nine. Maybe more by now. News takes decades to reach us. They say Earth is still intact, but there have been confirmed attacks against Mars and the Jovian polities, including the Europan Demarchy and Gilgamesh Isis. No one has heard anything from Zion or Prospekt. They say every system will fall eventually. It’ll just be a matter of time until they find us all.’

‘In which case, why did you stop here? Wouldn’t it have been better to keep moving outwards, away from the threat?’

‘We had no choice,’ the Ultra said. His voice was deeper than Rashmika had expected. ‘Our contract required that we bring our passengers to Hela. Contracts mean a great deal to us.’

‘An honest Ultra? What is the world coming to?’

‘We’re not all vampires. Anyway, we had to stop for another reason, not just because our sleepers wanted to come here as pilgrims. We had shield difficulties. We can’t make another interstellar transit without major repairs.’

‘Costly ones, I’d imagine,’ Quaiche said.

The Triumvir bowed his head. ‘That is why we are having this conversation, Dean Quaiche. We heard that you had need of the services of a good ship. A matter of protection. You feel yourself threatened.’

‘It’s not a question of feeling threatened,’ he said. ‘It’s just that in these times . . . we’d be foolish not to want to protect our assets, wouldn’t we?’

‘Wolves at the door,’ the Ultra said.

‘Wolves?’

‘That’s what the Conjoiners named the Inhibitor machines, just before they evacuated human space. That was a century ago. If we’d had any sense we’d all have followed them.’

‘God will protect us,’ Quaiche said. ‘You believe that, don’t you? Even if you don’t, your passengers do, otherwise they wouldn’t have embarked upon this pilgrimage. They know something is going to happen, Triumvir. The series of vanishings we have witnessed here is merely the precursor - the countdown - to something truly miraculous.’

‘Or something truly cataclysmic,’ the Ultra said. ‘Dean, we are not here to discuss the interpretation of an anomalous astronomical phenomenon. We are strict positivists. We believe only in our ship and its running costs. And we need a new shield very badly. What are your terms of employment?’

‘You will bring your ship into close orbit around Hela. Your weapons will be inspected for operational effectiveness. Naturally, a party of Adventist delegates will be stationed aboard your ship for the term of the contract. They will have complete control of the weapons, deciding who and what constitutes a threat to the security of Hela. In other respects, they won’t get in your way at all. And as our protectors, you will be in a very advantageous position when it comes to matters of trade.’ Quaiche waved his hand, as if brushing away an insect. ‘You could walk away from here with a lot more than a new shield if you play your cards right.’

‘You make it sound very tempting.’ The Ultra drummed his fingernails against the chest-plate of his mobility device. ‘But don’t underestimate the risk that we perceive in bringing our ship close to Hela. We all know what happened to the ...’ He paused. ‘The Gnostic Ascension.’

‘That’s why our terms are so generous.’

‘And the matter of Adventist delegates? You should know how unusual it is for anyone to be permitted aboard one of our ships. We could perhaps accommodate two or three hand-picked representatives, but only after they had undergone extensive screening ...’

‘That part isn’t negotiable,’ Quaiche said abruptly. ‘Sorry, Triumvir, but it all boils down to one thing: how badly do you want that shield?’

‘We’ll have to think about it,’ the Ultra said.

Afterwards, Quaiche asked Rashmika for her observations. She told him what she had picked up, restricting her remarks to the things she was certain she had detected rather than vague intuitions.

‘He was truthful,’ she said, ‘right up to the point where you mentioned his weapons. Then he was hiding something. His expression changed, just for a moment. I couldn’t tell you what it was, exactly, but I do know what it means.’

‘Probably a contraction of the zygomaticus major,’ Grelier said, sitting with his fingers knitted together before his face. He had removed his vacuum suit while he was away and now wore a plain grey Adventist smock. ‘Coupled with a depressing of the corners of the lips, using the risorius. Some flexion of the mentalis - chin elevation.’

‘You saw all that, Surgeon-General?’ Rashmika asked.

‘Only by slowing down the observation camera and running a tedious and somewhat unreliable interpretive routine on his face. For an Ultra he was rather expressive. But it wasn’t in real-time, and even when the routine detected it, I didn’t see it for myself. Not viscerally. Not the way you saw it, Rashmika: instantly, written there as if in glowing letters.’

‘He was hiding something,’ she said. ‘If you’d pushed him on the topic of the weapons, he’d have lied to your face.’

‘So his weapons aren’t what he makes them out to be,’ Quaiche said.

‘Then he’s no use to us,’ Grelier said. ‘Tick him off the list.’

‘We’ll keep him on just in case. The ship’s the main thing. We can always augment his weapons if we decide we have to.’

Grelier looked up at his master, peering over the steeple of his fingers. ‘Doesn’t that rather defeat the purpose?’

‘Perhaps.’ Quaiche seemed irritated by his surgeon’s needling. ‘In any case, there are other candidates. I have two more waiting in the cathedral. I take it, Rashmika, that you’d be willing to sit through another couple of interviews?’

She poured herself some more tea. ‘Send them in,’ she said. ‘It’s not as if I have anything else to do.’

THIRTY-FOUR

Interstellar Space, Near p Eridani 40, 2675

Scorpio had been walking through the ship for hours. It was still chaotic in the high levels, where the latest arrivals were being processed. There were smaller pockets of chaos at a dozen other locations. But the Nostalgia for Infinity was a truly enormous spacecraft, and it was remarkable how little evidence there was of the seventeen thousand newcomers once he moved away from the tightly policed processing zones. Throughout much of the ship’s volume, things were as empty and echoing as they had ever been, as if all the newcomers had been imagined spectres.

But the ship was not completely deserted, even away from the processing zones. He paused now at a window that faced on to a deep vertical shaft. Red light bathed the interior, throwing a roseate tint on the metallic structure taking form within it. The structure was utterly unfamiliar. And yet it reminded him, forcefully, of something - one of the trees he had seen in the glade. Only this was a tree made from countless bladelike parts, foil-thin leaves arranged in spiralling ranks around a narrow core that ran the length of the shaft. There was too much detail to take in; too much geometry; too much perspective. His head hurt to look at the treelike object, as if the whole sculptural form was a weapon designed to shatter perception.

Servitors scuttled amongst the leaves like black bugs, their movements methodical and cautious, while black-suited human figures hung from harnesses at a safe distance from the delicate convolutions of the forming structure. The servitors carried metal-foil parts on their backs, slotting them into precisely machined apertures. The humans - they were Conjoiners - appeared to do very little except hang in their harnesses and observe the machines. But they were undoubtedly directing the action at a fundamental level, their concentration intense, their minds multitasking with parallel thought threads.

These were just some of the Conjoiners aboard the ship. There were dozens more. Hundreds, even. He could barely tell them apart. Except for minor variations in skin tone, bone structure and sex, they all appeared to have stepped from the same production line. They were of the crested kind, advanced specimens from Skade’s own taskforce. They said nothing to each other and were uncomfortable when forced to talk to the non-Conjoined. They stuttered and made elementary errors of pronunciation, grammar and syntax: things that would have shamed a pig. They functioned and communicated on an entirely non-verbal level, Scorpio knew. To them, verbal communication - even when speeded up by mind-to-mind linkage - was as primitive as communication by smoke signal. They made Clavain and Remontoire look like grunting Stone-Age relics. Even Skade must have felt some itch of inadequacy around these sleek new creatures.

If the wolves lost, Scorpio thought, but the only people left to celebrate were these silent Conjoiners, would it have been worth it?

He had no easy answer.

Beyond their silent strangeness, their stiffly economical movements and utter absence of expression, the thing that most chilled him about the Conjoiner technicians was the blithe ease with which they had shifted loyalty to Remontoire. At no point had they acknowledged that their obedience to Skade had been in error. They had, they said, only ever been following the path of least resistance when it came to the greater good of the Mother Nest. For a time, that path had involved co-operation with Skade’s plans. Now, however, they were content to align themselves with Remontoire. Scorpio wondered how much of that had to do with the pure demands of the situation and how much with respect for the traditions and history of the Nest. With Galiana and Clavain now dead, Remontoire was probably the oldest living Conjoiner.

Scorpio had no choice but to accept the Conjoiners. They were not a permanent fixture in any case; in fewer than eight days they would have to leave if they wanted to return home to the Zodiacal Light and their other remaining ships. There were already fewer of them than there had been at first.

They had helped to reinstall nanotechnological manufactories, plague-hardened so that they would continue to function even in the contagious environment of the Infinity. Primed with blueprints and raw matter, the forges spewed out gleaming new technologies of mostly unfamiliar function. The same blueprints showed how the newly minted components were to be assembled into even larger - yet equally unfamiliar - new shapes. In evacuated shafts running the length of the Nostalgia for Infinity - just like the one he was looking into now - these contraptions grew and grew. The thing that looked like an elongated silver tree - or a dizzyingly complicated turbine, or some weird alien take on DNA - was a hypometric weapon. Perhaps sensing their value, the Captain tolerated the activity, although at any moment he could have remade his interior architecture, crushing the shafts out of existence.

Elsewhere, Conjoiners crawled through the skin of the ship, installing a network of cryo-arithmetic engines. Tiny as hearts, each limpetlike engine was a sucking wound in the corpus of classical thermodynamics. Scorpio recalled what had happened to Skade’s corvette when the cryo-arithmetic engines had gone wrong. The runaway cooling must have begun with a tiny splinter of ice, smaller than a snowflake. But it had been growing all the while, as the engines locked into manic, spiralling feedback loops, destroying more heat with every computational cycle, the cold feeding the cold. In space, the ship would simply have cooled down to within quantum spitting distance of absolute zero. On Ararat, however, with an ocean at hand, it had grown an iceberg around itself.

Other Conjoiners were crawling through the ship’s original engines, tinkering with the hallowed reactions at their core. More were out on the hull, tethered to the encrusted architecture of the Captain’s growth patterns. They were installing additional weapons and armouring devices. Still more - secluded deep within the ship, far from any other focus of activity - were assembling the inertia-suppression devices that had been tested during the Zodiacal Light’s chase from Yellowstone to Resurgam. This was alien technology, Scorpio knew, machinery that humans had appropriated without Aura’s assistance. But they had never been able to get it to work reliably. By all accounts, Aura had shown them how to modify it for relatively safe operation. Skade, in desperation, had attempted to use the same technology for faster-than-light travel. Her effort had failed catastrophically, and Aura had refused to reveal any secrets that might make another attempt possible. Amongst the gifts she was giving them, there was to be no superluminal technology.

He watched the servitors slip another blade into place. The device had looked finished a day ago, but since then they had added about three times more machinery. Yet, strangely, the structure looked even more lacy and fragile than it had before. He wondered when it would be done - and what exactly it would do when it was done - and then began to turn from the window, apprehension lying heavy in his heart.

‘Scorp.’

He had not been expecting company, so was surprised to hear his own name. He was even more surprised to see Vasko Malinin standing there.

‘Vasko,’ he said, offering a noncommittal smile. ‘What brings you down here?’

‘I wanted to find you,’ he said. Vasko was wearing a stiff, fresh-looking Security Arm uniform. Even his boots were clean, a miracle aboard the Nostalgia for Infinity.

‘You managed.’

‘I was told you’d probably be down here somewhere.’ Vasko’s face was lit from the side by the red glow spilling from the hypometric weapon shaft. It made him look young and feral by turns. Vasko glanced through the window. ‘Quite something, isn’t it?’

‘I’ll believe it works when I see it do something other than sit there looking pretty.’

‘Still sceptical?’

‘Someone should be.’

Scorpio realised now that Vasko was not alone. There was a figure looming behind him. He would have been able to see the person clearly years ago; now he had difficulty making out detail when the light was gloomy.

He squinted. ‘Ana?’

Khouri stepped into the pool of red light. She was dressed in a heavy coat and gloves, enormous boots covering her legs up to her knees - they were much dirtier than Vasko’s - and she was carrying something, tucked into the crook of her arm. It was a bundle, a form wrapped in quilted silver blanketing. At the top end of the bundle, near the crook of her arm, was a tiny opening.

‘Aura?’ he said, startled.

‘She doesn’t need the incubator now,’ Khouri said.

‘She might not need it, but ...’

‘Dr Valensin said it was holding her back, Scorp. She’s too strong for it. It was doing more harm than good.’ Khouri angled her face down towards the open end of the bundle, her eyes meeting the hidden eyes of her daughter. ‘She told me she wanted to be out of it as well.’

‘I hope Valensin knows what he’s doing,’ Scorpio said.

‘He does, Scorp. More importantly, so does Aura.’

‘She’s just a child,’ he said, keeping his voice low. ‘Barely that.’

Khouri stepped forwards. ‘Hold her.’

She was already offering the bundle to him. He wanted to say no. It wasn’t just that he did not quite trust himself with something as precious and fragile as a child. There was something else: a voice that warned him not to make this physical connection with her. Another voice - quieter - reminded him that he was already bound to her in blood. What more harm could be done now?

He took Aura. He held her against his chest, just tight enough to feel that he had her safely. She was astonishingly light. It stunned him that this girl - this asset they had lost their leader to recover - could feel so insubstantial.

‘Scorpio.’

The voice was not Khouri’s. It was not an adult voice; barely a child’s. It was more a gurgling croak that half-approximated the sound of his name.

He looked down at the bundle, into the opening. Aura’s face turned towards his. Her eyes were still tightly closed gummy slits. There was a bubble emerging from her mouth.

‘She didn’t just say my name,’ he said incredulously.

‘I did,’ Aura said.

He felt, for a heartbeat, as if he wanted to drop the bundle. There was something wrong lying there in his arms, something that had no right to exist in this universe. Then the shameful reflex passed, as quickly as it had come. He looked away from the tiny pink-red face, towards her mother.

‘She can’t even see me,’ he said.

‘No, Scorp,’ Khouri confirmed, ‘she can’t. Her eyes don’t work yet. But mine do. And that’s all that matters.’

Throughout the ship, Scorpio’s technicians worked day and night laying listening devices. They glued newly manufactured microphones and barometers to walls and ceilings, then unspooled kilometres of cables, running them through the natural ducts and tunnels of the Captain’s anatomy, splicing them at nodes, braiding them into thickly entwined trunk lines that ran back to central processing points. They tested their devices, tapping stanchions and bulkheads, opening and closing pressure doors to create sudden draughts of air from one part of the ship to another. The Captain tolerated them, even, it seemed, did his best to make their efforts easier. But he was not always in complete control of his reshaping processes. Fibre-optic lines were repeatedly severed; microphones and barometers were absorbed and had to be remade. The technicians accepted this stoically, going back down into the bowels of the ship to re-lay a kilometre of line that they had just put in place; even, sometimes, repeating the process three or four times until they found a better, less vulnerable routing.

What they did not do, at any point, was ask why they were doing this. Scorpio had told them not to, that they did not want to know, and that if they were to ask, he would not tell them the truth. Not until the reason for their work was over, and things were again as safe as they could be.

But he knew why, and when he thought about what was going to happen, he envied them their ignorance.

Hela, 2727

The interviews with the Ultras continued. Rashmika sat and made her observations. She sipped tea and watched her own shattered reflection swim in the mirrors. She thought about each hour bringing her more than a kilometre closer to Absolution Gap. But there were no clocks in the garret, hence no obvious means of judging their progress.

After each interview, she told Quaiche what she thought she had seen, taking care neither to embroider nor omit anything that might have been crucial. By the end of the third interview, she had formed an impression of what was happening. Quaiche wanted the Ultras to bring one of their ships into close orbit around Hela, to act as bodyguard.

Exactly what he feared, she could not guess. He told the Ultras that he desired protection from other spacefaring elements, that he had lately thwarted a number of schemes to seize control of Hela and wrest the supply of scuttler relics from the Adventist authorities. With a fully armed lighthugger in orbit around Hela, he said, his enemies would think twice about meddling in Hela’s affairs. The Ultras, in return, would enjoy favoured trader status, a necessary compensation for the risk entailed in bringing their valuable ship so close to the world that had destroyed the Gnostic Ascension. She could smell their nervousness: even though they only ever came down to Hela in shuttles, leaving their main spacecraft parked safely on the system’s edge, they did not want to spend a minute longer than necessary in the Lady Morwenna.

But there was, Rashmika suspected, something more to Quaiche’s plan than mere protection. She was certain that Quaiche was hiding something. It was a hunch this time, not something she saw in his face. He was, to all intents and purposes, unreadable. It was not just the mechanical eye-opener, hiding all those nuances of expression she counted on. There was also a torpid, masklike quality to his face, as if the nerves that operated his muscles had been severed or poisoned. When she stole glances at him she saw a vacuity of expression. The faces he made were stiff and exaggerated, like the expressions of a glove puppet. It was ironic, she thought, that she had been brought in to read people’s faces by a man whose own face was essentially closed. Almost deliberately so, in fact.

Finally the interviews for the day were over. She had reported her findings to Quaiche and he had listened appreciatively to what she had to say. There was no guessing where his own intuitions lay, but at no point did he question or contradict any of her observations. He merely nodded keenly, and told her she had been very helpful.

There would be more Ultras to interview, she was assured, but that was it for the day.

‘You can go now, Miss Els. Even if you leave the cathedral now, you will still have been very useful to me and I will see to it that your efforts are rewarded. Did I mention a good position in the Catherine of Iron?’

‘You did, Dean.’

‘That is one possibility. Another is for you to return to the Vigrid region. You have family there, I take it?’

‘Yes,’ she said, but even as the word left her mouth, her own family suddenly felt distant and abstract to her, like something she had only been told about. She could remember the rooms of her house, the faces and voices of her parents, but the memories felt thin and translucent, like the facets in the stained-glass windows.

‘You could return with a nice bonus - say, five thousand ecus. How does that sound?’

‘That would be very generous,’ she replied.

‘The other possibility - the preferred one from my point of view - is that you remain in the Lady Morwenna and continue to assist me in the interviewing of Ultras. For that I will pay you two thousand ecus for every day of work. By the time we reach the bridge, you will have made double what you could have taken back to your home if you’d left today. And it doesn’t have to stop there. For as long as you are willing, there will always be work. In a year’s service, think what you could earn.’

‘I’m not worth that much to anyone,’ she said.

‘But you are, Miss Els. Didn’t you hear what Grelier said? One in a thousand. One in a million, perhaps, with your degree of receptivity. I’d say that makes you worth two thousand ecus per day of anyone’s money.’

‘What if my advice isn’t right?’ she asked. ‘I’m only human. I make mistakes.’

‘You won’t get it wrong,’ he said, with more certainty than she liked. ‘I have faith in few things, Rashmika, beyond God Himself. But you are one of them. Fate has brought you to my cathedral. A gift from God, almost. I’d be foolish to turn it away, wouldn’t I?’

‘I don’t feel like a gift from anything,’ she said.

‘What do you feel like, then?’

She wanted to say, like an avenging angel. But instead she said, ‘I feel tired and a long way from home, and I’m not sure what I should do.’

‘Work with me. See how it goes. If you don’t like it, you can always leave.’

‘Is that a promise, Dean?’

‘As God is my witness.’

But she couldn’t tell if he was lying or not. Behind Quaiche, Grelier stood up with a click of his knee-joints. He ran a hand through the electric-white bristles of his hair. ‘I’ll show you to your quarters, then,’ he said. ‘I take it you’ve agreed to stay?’

‘For now,’ Rashmika said.

‘Good. Right choice. You’ll like it here, I’m sure. The dean is right: you are truly privileged to have arrived at such an auspicious time.’ He reached out a hand. ‘Welcome aboard.’

‘That’s it?’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘No formalities? No initiation rituals?’

‘Not for you,’ Grelier said. ‘You’re a secular specialist, Miss Els, just like myself. We wouldn’t want to go clouding your brain with all that religious claptrap, would we?’

She looked at Quaiche. His metal-goggled face was as unreadable as ever. ‘I suppose not.’

‘There is just one thing,’ Grelier said. ‘I’m going to have to take a bit of blood, if you don’t mind.’

‘Blood?’ she asked, suddenly nervous.

Grelier nodded. ‘Strictly for medical purposes. There are a lot of nasty bugs going around these days, especially in the Vigrid and Hyrrokkin regions. But don’t worry.’ He moved towards the wall-mounted medical cabinet. ‘I’ll only need a wee bit.’

Interstellar Space, Near p Eridani 40, 2675

Energies pocked the space around Ararat. Scorpio watched the distant, receding battle from the spider-shaped observation capsule, secure in the warm, padded plush of its upholstery.

Carnations of light bloomed and faded over many seconds, slow and lingering as violin chords. The lights were concentrated into a tight, roughly spherical volume, centred on the planet. Around them was a vaster darkness. The slow brightening and fading, the pleasing randomness of it, stirred some memory - probably second-hand - of sea creatures communicating in benthic depths, throwing patterns of bioluminescence towards each other. Not a battle at all but a rare, intimate gathering, a celebration of the tenacity of life in the cold lightlessness of the deep ocean.

In the early phases of the space war in the p Eridani A system, the battle had been fought under a ruling paradigm of maximum stealth. All parties, Inhibitor and human, had cloaked their activities by using drives, instruments and weapons that radiated energies - if they radiated anything - only into the narrow, squeezed blind spots between orthodox sensor bands. The way Remontoire had described it, it had been like two men in a dark room, treading silently, slashing almost randomly into the darkness. When one man took a wound, he could not cry out for fear of revealing his location. Nor could he bleed, or offer tangible resistance to the passage of the blade. And when the other man struck, he had to withdraw the blade quickly, lest he signal his own position. A fine analogy, if the room had been light-hours wide, and the men had been human-controlled spacecraft and wolf machines, and the weapons had kept escalating in size and reach with every feint and parry. Ships had darkened their hulls to the background temperature of space; masked the emissions from their drives; used weapons that slid undetected through darkness and killed with the same discretion.

Yet there had come a point, inevitably, when it had suited one or other of the combatants to discard the stealth stratagem. Once one abandoned it, the others had to follow suit. Now it was a war not of stealth but of maximum transparency. Weapons, machines and forces were being tossed about with abandon.

Watching the battle from the observation capsule, Scorpio was reminded of something Clavain had said on more than one occasion, when viewing some distant engagement: war was beautiful, when you had the good fortune not to be engaged in it. It was sound and fury, colour and movement, a massed assault on the senses. It was bravura and theatrical, something that made you gasp. It was thrilling and romantic, when you were a spectator. But, Scorpio reminded himself, they were involved. Not in the sense that they were participants in the engagement around Ararat, but because their own fate depended critically on its outcome. And to a large extent he was responsible for that. Remontoire had wanted him to hand over all the cache weapons, and he had refused. Because of that, Remontoire could not guarantee that the covering action would be successful.

The console chimed, signifying that a specific chip of gravitational radiation had just swept past the Nostalgia for Infinity.

‘That’s it,’ Vasko said, his voice hushed and businesslike. ‘The last cache weapon, assuming we haven’t lost count.’

‘He wasn’t meant to use them up this quickly,’ Khouri said. She was sitting with him in the observation capsule, with Aura cradled in her arms. ‘I think something’s gone wrong.’

‘Wait and see,’ Scorpio said. ‘Remontoire may just be changing the plan because he’s seen a better strategy.’

They watched a beam of something - bleeding visible light sideways so that it was evident even in vacuum - reach out with elegant slowness across the theatre of battle. There was something obscene and tonguelike about the way it extended itself, pushing towards some invisible wolf target on the far side of the battle. Scorpio did not like to think about how bright that beam must have been close-up, for it was visible now even without optical magnification or intensity enhancement. He had turned down all the lights in the observation capsule, dimming the navigation controls so that they had the best view of the engagement. Shields had been carefully positioned to screen out the glare and radiation from the engines.

The capsule lurched, something snapping free of the larger ship. Scorpio had learned not to flinch when such things happened. He waited while the capsule reoriented itself, picking its way to a new place of rest with the unhurried care of a tarantula, following the dictates of some ancient collision-avoidance algorithm.

Khouri looked through one of the portholes, holding Aura up to the view even though the baby’s eyes were still closed.

‘It’s strange down here,’ she said. ‘Like no other part of the ship. Who did this? The Captain or the sea?’

‘The sea, I think,’ Scorpio replied, ‘though I don’t know whether the Jugglers had anything to do with it or not. There was a whole teeming marine ecology below the Jugglers, just as on any other aquatic planet.’

‘Why are you whispering?’ Vasko asked. ‘Can he hear us in here?’

‘I’m whispering because it’s beautiful and strange,’ Scorpio said. ‘Plus, I happen to have a headache. It’s a pig thing. It’s because our skulls are a bit too small for our brains. It gets worse as we get older. Our optic nerves get squeezed and we go blind, assuming macular degeneration doesn’t get us first.’ He smiled into darkness. ‘Nice view, isn’t it?’

‘I only asked.’

‘You didn’t answer his question,’ Khouri said. ‘Can he hear us in here?’

‘John?’ Scorpio shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Me, I’m inclined to give him the benefit of the doubt. Only polite, isn’t it?’

‘I didn’t think you “did” polite,’ Khouri said.

‘I’m working on it.’

Aura gurgled.

The capsule stiffened its legs, pushing itself closer to the hull with a delicate clang of contacting surfaces. It hung suspended beneath the flattened underside of the great ship, where the Nostalgia for Infinity had come to rest on Ararat’s seabed. All around it, seen in dim pastel shades, were weird coral-like formations. There were grey-green structures as large as ships, forests of gnarled, downward-pointing fingers, like stone chandeliers. The growths had all formed during the ship’s twenty-three years of immersion, forming a charming rock-garden counterpoint to the brutalist transformations inflicted on the hull by the captain’s own plague-driven reshaping processes. They had remained intact even as the Jugglers had moved the Infinity to deeper water, and they had survived both the departure from Ararat and the subsequent engagement with wolf forces. Doubtless John Brannigan could have removed them, just as he had redesigned the ship’s lower extremities to permit it to land on Ararat in the first place. The entire ship was an externalisation of his psyche, an edifice chiselled from guilt, horror and the craving for absolution.

But there was no sign of any further transformations taking place here. Perhaps, Scorpio mused, it suited the Captain to carry these warts and scabs of dead marine life, just as it suited Scorpio to carry the scar on his shoulder, where he had effaced the scorpion tattoo. Remove evidence of that scar, and he would have been removing part of what made him Scorpio. Ararat, in turn, had changed the Captain. Scorpio was certain of that, certain also that the Captain felt it. But how had it changed him, exactly? Shortly, he thought, it would be necessary to put the Captain to the test.

Scorpio had already made the appropriate arrangements. There was a fistful of bright-red dust in his pocket.

Vasko stirred, the upholstery creaking. ‘Yes, it might pay to be polite to him,’ he said. ‘After all, nothing’s going to happen around here without his agreement. I think we all recognise that.’

‘You talk as if you think there’s going to be a clash of wills,’ Scorpio said. He kept one eye on the extending beam of the cache weapon, watching as it scribed a bright scratch across the volume of battle. The scratch was now of a finite length, inching its way across space. Where the cache weapon had been was only a fading smudge of dying matter. The weapon had been a one-shot job, a throwaway.

‘You think there won’t be?’ Vasko asked.

‘I’m an optimist. I think we’ll all see sense.’

‘You won the battle over the cache weapons,’ Vasko said. ‘Remontoire went along with it, and so did the ship. I’m not surprised about that: the ship felt safer with the weapons than without them. But we still don’t know that it was the right thing to do. What about next time?’

‘Next time? I don’t see any disputes on the horizon,’ Scorpio said.

But he did, and he felt isolated now that Remontoire and Antoinette had gone. Remontoire and the last of the Conjoiners had departed a day ago, taking with them their servitors, machines and the last of the negotiated number of cache weapons. In their place they had left behind working manufactories and the vast shining things Scorpio had watched them assemble. Remontoire had explained that the weapons and mechanisms had only been tested in a very limited fashion. Before they could be used they would require painstaking calibration, following a set of instructions the Conjoiner technicians had left behind. The Conjoiner technicians could not stay aboard and complete the calibrations: if they waited any longer, their small ships would be unable to return to the main battle group around Ararat. Even with inertia-suppressing systems, they were still horribly constrained by the exigencies of fuel reserves and delta-vee margins. Physics still mattered. It was not their own survival they cared about, but their usefulness to the Mother Nest. And so they had left, taking with them the one man Scorpio felt would have had the will to oppose Aura, if the circumstances merited it.

Which leaves me, he thought.

‘I can foresee at least one dispute in the very near future,’ Vasko said.

‘Enlighten me.’

‘We’re going to have to agree about where we go - whether it’s out, to Hela, or back to Yellowstone. We all know what you think about it.’

‘It’s “we” now, is it?’

‘You’re in the minority, Scorp. It’s just a statement of fact.’

‘There won’t necessarily be a confrontation,’ Khouri said. Her voice was low and soothing. ‘All Vasko means to say is that the majority of seniors believe Aura has privileged information, and that what she tells us ought to be taken seriously.’

‘That doesn’t mean they’re right. It doesn’t mean we’ll find anything useful when we get to Hela,’ Scorpio argued.

‘There must be something about that system,’ Vasko said. ‘The vanishings . . . they must mean something.’

‘It means mass psychosis,’ Scorpio said. ‘It means people see things when they’re desperate. You think there’s something useful on that planet? Fine. Go there and find out. And explain to me why it didn’t make one damned bit of difference to the natives.’

‘They’re called scuttlers,’ Vasko said.

‘I don’t care what they’re called. They’re fucking extinct. Doesn’t that tell you something even slightly significant? Don’t you think that if there was something useful in that system they’d have used it already and still be alive?’

‘Maybe it isn’t something you use lightly,’ Vasko said.

‘Great. And you want to go there and see what it was they were too scared to use even though the alternative was extinction? Be my guest. Send me a postcard. I’ll be about twenty light-years away.’

‘Frightened, Scorpio?’ Vasko asked.

‘No, I’m not frightened,’ he said, with a calm that even he found surprising. ‘Just prudent. There’s a difference. You’ll understand it one day.’

‘Vasko only meant to say that we can’t take a guess at what really happened there unless we visit the place,’ Khouri said. ‘Right now we know almost nothing about Hela or the scuttlers. The churches won’t allow orthodox scientific teams anywhere near the place. The Ultras don’t poke their noses in too deeply because they make a nice profit exporting useless scuttler relics. But we need to know more.’

‘More,’ Aura said, and then laughed.

‘If she knows we need to go there, why doesn’t she tell us why?’ Scorpio said. He nodded towards the vague milky-grey shape of the child. ‘All this stuff has to be in there somewhere, doesn’t it?’

‘She doesn’t know,’ Khouri said.

‘Do you mean she won’t tell us yet, or that she’ll never know?’

‘Neither, Scorp. I mean it hasn’t been unlocked for her yet.’

‘I don’t understand,’ he said.

‘I told you what Valensin said: every day he looks at Aura, and every day he comes up with a different guess as to her developmental state. If she were a normal child she wouldn’t be born yet. She wouldn’t be talking. She wouldn’t even be breathing. Some days it’s as if she has the language skills of a three-year-old. Other days, she’s barely past one. He sees brain structures come and go like clouds, Scorp. She’s changing even while we’re sitting here. Her head’s like a furnace. Given all that, are you really surprised that she can’t tell you exactly why we need to go to Hela? It’s like asking a child why they need food. They can tell you they’re hungry. That’s all.’

‘What did you mean about it being locked?’

‘I mean it’s all in there,’ she said, ‘all the answers, or at least everything we’ll need to know to work them out. But it’s encoded, packed too tightly to be unwound by the brain of a child, even a two- or three-year-old. She won’t begin to make sense of those memories until she’s older.’

‘You’re older,’ he said. ‘You can see into her head. You unwind them.’

‘It doesn’t work like that. I only see what she understands. What I get from her - most of the time, anyway - is a child’s view of things. Simple, crystalline, bright. All primary colours.’ In the gloom Scorpio saw the flash of her smile. ‘You should see how bright colours are to a child.’

‘I don’t see colours that well to begin with.’

‘Can you put aside being a pig for five minutes?’ Khouri asked. ‘It would really help if everything didn’t keep coming back to that.’

‘It keeps coming back to that for me. Sorry if it offends you.’

He heard her sigh. ‘All I’m saying, Scorp, is that we can’t begin to guess how significant Hela is unless we go there. And we’ll have to go there carefully, not barging in with all guns blazing. We’ll have to find out what we need before we ask for it. And we’ll have to be ready to take it if necessary, and to make sure we do it right the first time. But first of all we have to go there.’

‘And what if going there is the worst thing we could do? What if all of this is a setup, to make the job easier for the Inhibitors?’

‘She’s working for us, Scorp, not them.’

‘That’s an assumption,’ he said.

‘She’s my daughter. Don’t you think I have some idea about her intentions?’

Vasko interrupted them, touching Scorpio’s shoulder. ‘I think you need to see this,’ he said.

Scorpio looked at the battle, seeing immediately what Vasko had noticed. It was not good. The beam of the cache weapon was being bent away from its original trajectory, like a ray of light hitting water. There was no sign of anything at the point where the beam changed direction, but it did not take very much imagination to conclude that it was some hidden focus of Inhibitor energy that was throwing the beam off course. There was no weapon left to re-aim and refire; all that could be done now was to sit back and watch what happened to the deviated beam.

Somehow Scorpio knew that it wasn’t just going to sail off into interstellar space, fading harmlessly as it fell into the night.

That was not how the enemy did things.

They did not have long to wait. Seen in magnification, the beam grazed the edge of Ararat’s nearest moon, cleaving its way through hundreds of kilometres of crust and then out the other side. The moon began to come apart like a broken puzzle. Red-hot rocky gore oozed from the wound with dreamlike slowness. It was like the time-lapse opening of some red-hearted flower at dawn.

‘That’s not good,’ Khouri said.

‘You still think this is going according to plan?’ Vasko asked.

The stricken moon was extending a cooling tentacle of cherry-red slurry along the path of its orbit. Scorpio looked at it in dismay, wondering what it would mean for the people on Ararat’s surface. Even a few million tonnes of rubble hitting the ocean would have dreadful consequences for the people left behind, but the amount of debris from the moon would be far, far worse than that.

‘I don’t know,’ Scorpio said.

A little while later, there was a different chime from the console.

‘Encrypted burst from Remontoire,’ Vasko said. ‘Shall I put him on?’

Scorpio told him to do it, watching as a fuzzy, pixellated image of Remontoire appeared on the console. The transmission was highly compressed, subject to jolting gaps and periods when the image froze while Remontoire continued speaking.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but it hasn’t worked quite as well as I’d hoped.’

‘How bad?’ Scorpio mouthed.

It was as if Remontoire had heard him. ‘A small aggregate of Inhibitor machines appears to be pursuing you,’ he said. ‘Not as large as the pack that followed us from Delta Pavonis, but not something you can ignore, either. Have you completed testing the hypometric weaponry? That should be a priority now. And it might not be a bad idea to get the rest of the machinery working as well.’ Remontoire paused, his image breaking up and reassembling. ‘There’s something you need to know,’ he continued. ‘The failure was mine. It had nothing to do with the number of cache weapons in our arsenal. Even if you had given all of them to me, the outcome would have been the same. As a matter of fact, it was good that you didn’t. Your instincts served you well, Mr Pink. I’m glad of that little conversation we had just before I left. You still have a chance.’ He smiled: the expression looked as forced as ever, but Scorpio welcomed it. ‘You may be tempted to respond to this transmission. I recommend that you do nothing of the sort. The wolves will be trying to refine their positional fix on you, and a clear signal like that would do you no favours at all. Goodbye and good luck.’

That was it: the transmission was over.

‘Mr Pink?’ Vasko said. ‘Who’s Mr Pink?’

‘We go back a way,’ Scorpio said.

‘He didn’t say anything about himself,’ Khouri said. ‘Nothing about what he’s going to do.’

‘I don’t think he considered it relevant,’ Scorpio said. ‘There’s nothing we can do to help them, after all. They’ve done what they could for us.’

‘But it wasn’t good enough,’ Malinin said.

‘Maybe it wasn’t,’ Scorpio said, ‘but it was still a lot better than nothing, if you ask me.’

‘The conversation he mentioned,’ Khouri said. ‘What was that about?’

‘That was between me and Mr Clock,’ Scorpio replied.

Hela, 2727

After the surgeon-general had taken her blood, he showed her to her quarters. It was a small room about a third of the way up the Clocktower. It had one stained-glass window, a small, austere-looking bed and a bedside table. There was an annexe containing a washbasin and a toilet. There was some Quaicheist literature on the bedside table.

‘I hope you weren’t expecting the height of luxury,’ Grelier said.

‘I wasn’t expecting anything,’ she said. ‘Until a few hours ago I expected to be working in a clearance gang for the Catherine of Iron.’

‘Then you can’t complain, can you?’

‘I wasn’t intending to.’

‘Play your cards right and we’ll sort out something a little larger,’ he said.

‘This is all I need,’ Rashmika said.

Grelier smiled and left her alone. She said nothing as he left. She had not liked him taking her blood, but had felt powerless to resist. It was not simply the fact that the whole business of the churches and blood made her feel queasy - she knew too much about the indoctrinal viruses that were part and parcel of the Adventist faith - but something else, something that related to her own blood and the fact that she felt violated when he sampled it. The syringe had been empty before he drew the sample, which meant - assuming that the needle was sterile - that he had not tried to put the indoctrinal virus into her. That would have been a violation of a different order, but not necessarily worse. The thought that he had taken her blood was equally distressing.

But why, she wondered, did it bother her so much? It was a reasonable thing to do, at least within the confines of the Lady Morwenna. Everything here ran on blood, so it was hardly objectionable that she had been made to supply a sample. By rights, she should have been grateful that it had stopped there.

But she was not grateful. She was frightened, and she did not exactly know why.

She sat by herself. In the quiet of the room, bathed in the sepulchral light from the stained-glass window, she felt desperately alone. Had all this been a mistake? she wondered. Now that she had reached its roaring heart, the church did not seem like such a distant, abstract entity. It felt more like a machine, something capable of inflicting harm on those who strayed too close to its moving parts. Though she had never specifically set out to reach Quaiche, it had seemed evident to her that only someone very high up in the Adventist hierarchy would be able to reveal the truth about Harbin. But she had also envisaged that the path there would be treacherous and time-consuming. She had been resigned to a long, slow, will-sapping investigation, a slow progress through layers of administration. She would have begun in a clearance gang, about as low as it was possible to get.

Instead, here she was: in Quaiche’s direct service. She should have felt elated at her good fortune. Instead she felt unwittingly manipulated, as if she had set out to play a game fairly and someone had turned a blind eye, letting her win by fiat. On one level she wanted to blame Grelier, but she knew that the surgeon-general was not the whole story. There was something else, too. Had she come all this way to find Harbin, or to meet Quaiche?

For the first time, she was not completely certain.

She began to flick through the Quaicheist literature, looking for some clue that would unlock the mystery. But the literature was the usual rubbish she had disdained since the moment she could read: the Haldora vanishings as a message from God, a countdown to some vaguely defined event, the nature of which depended on the function of the text in which it was mentioned.

Her hand hesitated on the cover of one of the brochures. Here was the Adventist symbol: the strange spacesuit radiating light as if seen in silhouette against a sunrise, with the rays of light ramming through openings in the fabric of the suit itself. The suit had a curious welded-together look, lacking any visible joints or seams. There was no doubt in her mind now that it was the same suit that she had seen in the dean’s garret.

Then she thought about the name of the cathedral: the Lady Morwenna.

Of course. It all snapped into her head with blinding clarity. Morwenna had been Quaiche’s lover, before he came to Hela. Everyone who read their scripture knew that. Everyone also knew that something awful had happened to her, and that she had been imprisoned inside a strange welded-up suit when it happened. A suit that was itself a kind of punishment device, fashioned by the Ultras Quaiche and Morwenna had worked for.

The same suit she had seen in the garret; the same one that had made her feel so ill at ease.

She had rationalised away that fear at the time, but now, sitting all alone, the mere thought of being in the same building as the suit frightened her. She wanted to be as far away from it as possible.

There’s something in it, she thought. Something more than just a mechanism to put the jitters on rival negotiators.

A voice said, [Yes. Yes, Rashmika. We are inside the suit.]

She dropped the booklet, letting out a small gasp of horror. She had not imagined that voice. It had been faint, but very clear, very precise. And its lack of resonance told her that it had sounded inside her head, not in the room itself.

‘I don’t need this,’ she said. She spoke aloud, hoping to break the spell. ‘Grelier, you bastard, there was something on that needle, wasn’t there?’

[There was nothing on the needle. We are not a hallucination. We have nothing to do with Quaiche or his scripture.]

‘Then who the hell are you?’ she said.

[Who are we? You know who we are, Rashmika. We are the ones you came all this way to find. We are the shadows. You came to negotiate with us. Don’t you remember?]

She swore, then pummelled her head against the pillow at the end of the bed.

[That won’t do any good. Please stop, before you hurt yourself.]

She snarled, smashing her fists against the sides of her skull.

[That won’t help either. Really, Rashmika, don’t you see it yet? You aren’t going mad. We’ve just found a way into your head. We speak to Quaiche as well, but he doesn’t have the benefit of all that machinery in his head. We have to be discreet, whispering aloud to him when he’s alone. But you’re different.]

‘There’s no machinery in my head. And I don’t know anything about any shadows.’

The voice shifted its tone, adjusting its timbre and resonance until it sounded exactly as if there was a small, quiet friend whispering confidences into her ear.

[But you do know, Rashmika. You just haven’t remembered yet. We can see all the barricades in your head. They’re beginning to come down, but it will take a little while yet. But that’s all right. We’ve waited a long time to find a friend. We can wait a little longer.]

‘I think I should call Grelier,’ she said. Before he left, the surgeon-general had shown her how to access the cathedral’s pneumatic intercom system. She leant over the bed, towards the bedside table. There was a grilled panel above it.

[No, Rashmika,] the voice warned. [Don’t call him. He’ll only look at you more closely, and you don’t want that, do you?]

‘Why not?’ she demanded.

[Because then he’ll find out that you aren’t who you say you are. And you wouldn’t want that.]

Her hand hesitated above the intercom. Why not press it, and summon the surgeon-general? She didn’t like the bastard, but she liked voices in her head even less.

But what the voice had said reminded her of her blood. She visualised him taking the sample, drawing the red core from her arm.

[Yes, Rashmika, that’s part of it. You don’t see it yet, but when he analyses that sample he’ll be in for a shock. But he may leave it at that. What you don’t want is him crawling over your head with a scanner. Then he’d really find something interesting.]

Her hand still hovered above the intercom, but she knew she was not going to press the connecting button. The voice was right: the one thing she did not want was Grelier taking an even deeper interest in her, beyond her blood. She did not know why, but it was enough to know it.

‘I’m scared,’ she said, moving her hand away.

[You don’t have to be. We’re here to help you, Rashmika.]

‘Me?’ she said.

[All of you,] the voice said. She sensed it pulling away, leaving her alone. [All we ask of you is a little favour in return.]

Afterwards, she tried to sleep.

Interstellar space, 2675

Scorpio looked over the technician’s shoulder. Glued to one wall was a large flexible screen, newly grown by the manufactories. It showed a cross-section through the ship, duplicated from the latest version of the hand-drawn map that had been used to track the Captain’s apparitions. Rather than the schematic of a spacecraft, it resembled a blow-up of some medieval anatomy illustration. The technician was marking a cross next to a confluence of tunnels, near to one of the acoustic listening posts.

‘Any joy?’ Scorpio asked.

The other pig made a noncommittal noise. ‘Probably not. False positives from this area all day. There’s a hot bilge pump near this sector. Keeps clanging, setting off our ’phones.’

‘Better check it out all the same, just to be on the safe side,’ Scorpio advised.

‘There’s a team already on their way down there. They’ve never been far away.’

Scorpio knew that the team would be going down in full vacuum-gear, warned that they might encounter a breach at any point, even deep within the ship. ‘Tell them to be careful,’ he said.

‘I have, Scorp, but they could be even more careful if they knew what they needed to be careful about.’

‘They don’t need to know.’

The pig technician shrugged and went back to his task, waiting for another acoustic or barometric signal to appear on his read-out.

Scorpio’s thoughts drifted to the hypometric weapon moving in its shaft, a corkscrewing, meshing, interleaving gyre of myriad silver blades. Even immobile, the weapon had felt subtly wrong, a discordant presence in the ship. It was like a picture of an impossible solid, one of those warped triangles or ever-rising staircases; a thing that looked plausible enough at first glance but which on closer inspection produced the effect of a knife twisting in a particular part of the brain - an area responsible for handling representations of the external universe, an area that handled the mechanics of what did and didn’t work. Moving, it was worse. Scorpio could barely look at the threshing, squirming complexity of the operational weapon. Somewhere within that locus of shining motion, there was a point or region where something sordid was being done to the basic fabric of space-time. It was being abused.

That the technology was alien had come as no surprise to Scorpio. The weapon - and the two others like it - had been assembled according to instructions passed to the Conjoiners by Aura, before Skade had stolen her from Khouri’s womb. The instructions had been precise and comprehensive, a series of unambiguous mathematical prescriptions, but utterly lacking any context - no hint of how the weapon actually functioned, or which particular model of reality had to apply for it to work. The instructions simply said: just build it, calibrate it in this fashion, and it will work. But do not ask how or why, because even if you were capable of understanding the answers, you would find them upsetting.

The only other hint of context was this: the hypometric weapon represented a general class of weakly acausal technologies usually developed by pre-Inhibitor-phase Galactic cultures within the second or third million years of their starfaring history. There were layers of technology beyond this, Aura’s information had implied, but they could certainly not be assembled using human tools. The weapons in that theoretical arsenal bore the same abstract relationship to the hypometric device as a sophisticated computer virus did to a stone axe. Simply grasping how such weapons were in some way disadvantageous to something loosely analogous to an enemy would have required such a comprehensive remapping of the human mind that it would be pointless calling it human any more.

The message was: make the most of what you have.

‘Teams are there,’ the other pig said, pressing a microphone into the little pastrylike twist of his ear.

‘Found anything?’

‘Just that pump playing up again.’

‘Shut it down,’ Scorpio said. ‘We can deal with the bilge later.’

‘Shut it down, sir? That’s a schedule-one pump.’

‘I know. You’re probably going to tell me it hasn’t been turned off in twenty-three years.’

‘It’s been turned off, sir, but always with a replacement unit standing by to take over. We don’t have a replacement available now, and won’t be able to get one down there for days. All service teams are tied up following other acoustic leads.’

‘How bad would it be?’

‘About as bad as it gets. Unless we install a replacement unit, we’ll lose three or four decks within a few hours.’

‘Then I guess we’ll have to lose them. Is your equipment sophisticated enough to filter out the sounds of those decks being flooded?’

The technician hesitated for a moment, but Scorpio knew that professional pride would win out in the end. ‘That shouldn’t be a problem, no.’

‘Then look on the bright side. Those fluids have to come from somewhere. We’ll be taking the load off some other pumps, more than likely.’

‘Yes, sir,’ the pig said, more resigned than convinced. He gave the order to his team, telling them to sacrifice those levels. He had to repeat the instruction several times before the message got through that he was serious and that he had Scorpio’s authorisation.

Scorpio understood his reservations. Bilge management was a serious business aboard the Nostalgia for Infinity, and the turning off of pumps was not something that was ever done lightly. Once a deck had been flooded with the Captain’s chemical humours and exudations, it could be very difficult to reclaim it for human use. But what mattered more now was the calibration of the weapon. Turning off the pump made more sense than turning off the listening devices in that area. If losing three or four decks meant having a realistic hope of defeating the pursuing wolves, it was a small price to pay.

The lights dimmed; even the constant background churn of bilge pumps became muted. The weapon was being discharged.

As the weapon rotated up to speed, it became a silent columnar blur of moving parts, a glittering whirlwind. In vacuum, it moved with frightening speed. Calculations had shown that it would only take the failure of one tiny part of the hypometric weapon to rip the Nostalgia for Infinity to pieces. Scorpio remembered the Conjoiners putting the thing together, taking such care, and now he understood why.

They followed the calibration instructions to the letter. Because their effects depended critically on atomic-scale tolerances, Remontoire had said, no two versions of the weapon could ever be exactly alike. Like handmade rifles, each would have its own distinct pull, an unavoidable effect of manufacture that had to be gauged and then compensated for. With a hypometric weapon it was not just a case of aiming-off to compensate - it was more a case of finding an arbitrary relationship between cause and effect within a locus of expectations. Once this pattern was determined, the weapon could in theory produce its effect almost anywhere, like a rifle able to fire in any direction.

Scorpio had already seen the weapon in action. He didn’t have to understand how it worked, only what it did. He had heard the sonic booms as spherical volumes of Ararat’s atmosphere were deleted from existence (or, conceivably, shifted or redistributed somewhere else). He had seen a hemispherical chunk of water removed from the sea, the memory of those inrushing walls of water - even now - making him shiver at the sheer wrongness of what he had witnessed.

The technology, Remontoire had told him, was spectacularly dangerous and unpredictable. Even when it was properly constructed and calibrated, a hypometric weapon could still turn against its maker. It was a little like grasping a cobra by the tail and using it to lash out against enemies while hoping that the snake didn’t coil around and bite the hand that held it.

The trouble was, they needed that snake.

Thankfully, not all aspects of the h-weapon’s function were totally unpredictable. The range was limited to within light-hours of the weapon itself, and there was a tolerably well-defined relationship between weapon spin-rate (as measured by some parameter Scorpio didn’t even want to think about) and radial reach in a given direction. What was more difficult to predict was the direction in which the extinction bubble would be launched, and the resulting physical size of the bubble’s effect.

The testing procedure required the detection of an effect caused by the weapon’s discharge. On a planet, this would have presented no real difficulties: the weapon’s builders would simply tune the spin-rate to allow the effect to show itself at a safe distance, and then make some guess as to the size of the effect and the direction in which it would occur. After the weapon had been fired, they would examine the predicted zone of effect for any indication that a spherical bubble of space-time - including all the matter within it - had simply winked out of existence.

But in space it was much more difficult to calibrate a hypometric weapon. No sensors in existence could detect the disappearance of a few atoms of interstellar gas from a few cubic metres of vacuum. The only practical solution, therefore, was to try to calibrate the weapon within the ship itself. Of course, this was scarily dangerous: had the bubble appeared within the core of one of the Conjoiner drives, the ship would have been destroyed instantly. But the mid-flight calibration procedure had been done before, Remontoire had said, and none of his ships had been destroyed in the process.

The one thing they didn’t do was immediately select a target within the ship. They were aiming for an effect on the skin of the vessel, safely distant from any critical systems. The procedure, therefore, was to set the weapon’s initial coordinates to generate a small, unobserved extinction bubble beyond the hull. The weapon would then be fired repeatedly, with the spin-rate adjusted by a tiny amount each time, decreasing the radial distance and therefore drawing the bubble closer and closer to the hull. They couldn’t see it out there; they could only imagine it approaching, and could never be sure whether it was about to nibble the ship’s hull or was still hundreds of metres distant. It was like summoning a malevolent spirit to a seance: the moment of arrival was a thing of both dread and anticipation.

The test area around the weapon had been sealed off right out to the skin of the ship, save for automated control systems. Everyone not already frozen had been moved as far away from the weapon as possible. After each firing - each squirming, rebounding collapse of the threshing mechanisms - Scorpio’s technicians pored over their data to see if the weapon had generated an effect, scanning the network of microphones and barometers to see if there was any hint that a spherical chunk of the ship a metre in diameter had just ceased to exist. And so the calibration process continued, the technicians tuning the weapon time and again and listening for results.

The lights dimmed again.

‘Getting something,’ the technician said, after a moment. Scorpio saw a cluster of red indicators appear on his read-out. ‘Signals coming in from ...’

But the technician did not complete his sentence. His words were drowned out by a rising howl, a noise unlike anything Scorpio had ever heard aboard the Nostalgia for Infinity. It was not the shriek of air escaping through a nearby breach, nor the groan of structural failure. It was much closer to a low, agonised vocalisation, to the sound of something huge and bestial being hurt.

The moan began to subside, like the dying after-rumble of a thunder-clap.

‘I think you have your effect,’ Scorpio said.

He went down to see it for himself. It was much worse than he had feared: not a one-metre-wide nibble taken out of the ship, but a gaping fifteen-metre-wide wound, the edges where bulkheads and floors had been sheared gleaming a bright, untarnished silver. Greenish fluids were raining down through the cavity from severed feed-lines; an electrical cable was thrashing back and forth in the void, gushing sparks each time it contacted a metallic surface.

It could have been worse, he told himself. The volume of the ship nipped out of existence by the weapon had not coincided with any of the inhabited parts, nor had it intersected critical ship systems or the outer hull. There had been a slight local pressure loss as the air inside the volume ceased to exist, but, all told, the weapon had had a negligible effect on the ship. But it had unquestionably had an effect on the Captain. Some part of his vaguely mapped nervous system must have passed through this volume, and the weapon had evidently caused him pain. It was difficult to judge how severe that pain must have been, whether it had been transitory or was even now continuing. Perhaps there was no exact analogue for it in human terms. If there was, Scorpio was not certain that he really wished to know, because for the first time a disturbing thought had occurred to him: if this was the pain the Captain felt when a tiny part of the ship was harmed, what would it be like if something much worse happened?

Yes, it could have been worse.

He visited the technicians who were calibrating the weapon, taking in their nervous expressions and gestures. They were expecting a reprimand, at the very least.

‘Looks like it was a bit larger than one metre,’ he said.

‘It was always going to be uncertain,’ their leader flustered. ‘All we could do was take a lucky guess and hope—’

Scorpio cut her off. ‘I know. No one ever said this was going to be easy. But knowing what you know now, can you adjust the volume down to something more practical?’

The technician looked relieved and doubtful at the same time, as if she could not really believe that Scorpio had no intention of punishing her.

‘I think so . . . given the effect we’ve just observed . . . of course, there’s still no guarantee ...’

‘I’m not expecting one. I’m just expecting the best you can do.’

She nodded quickly. ‘Of course. And the testing?’

‘Keep it up. We’re still going to need that weapon, no matter how much of a bastard it is to use.’

THIRTY-FIVE

Hela, 2727

The dean had called Rashmika to his garret. When she arrived, she was relieved to find him alone in the room, with no sign of the surgeon-general. She had no great affection for the dean’s company, but even less for the skulking attentions of his personal physician. She imagined him lurking somewhere else in the Lady Morwenna, busy with his Bloodwork or one of the unspeakable practices he was rumoured to favour.

‘Settling in nicely?’ the dean asked her as she took her appointed seat in the middle of the forest of mirrors. ‘I do hope so. I’ve been very impressed with your acumen, Miss Els. It was an inspired suggestion of Grelier’s to have you brought here.’

‘I’m glad to have been of service,’ Rashmika said. She prepared herself a small measure of tea, her hands shaking as she held the china. She had no appetite - the mere thought of being in the same room as the iron suit was enough to unsettle her nerves - but it was necessary to maintain the illusion of calm.

‘Yes, a bold stroke of luck,’ Quaiche said. He was nearly immobile, only his lips moving. The air in the garret was colder than usual, and with each word she saw a jet of exhalation issue from his mouth. ‘Almost too lucky, one might say.’

‘I beg your pardon, Dean?’

‘Look at the table,’ he said. ‘The malachite box next to the tea service.’

Rashmika had not noticed the box until then, but she was certain it had not been there during any of her earlier visits to the garret. It sat on little feet, like the paws of a dog. She picked it up, finding it lighter than she had expected, and fiddled with the gold-coloured metal clasps until the lid popped open. Inside was a great quantity of paper: sheets and envelopes of all colours and bonds, neatly gathered together with an elastic band.

‘Open them,’ the dean said. ‘Have a gander.’

She took out the bundle, slipped the elastic band free. The paperwork spilled on to the table. At random, she selected a sheet and unfolded it. The lilac paper was so thin, so translucent that only one side had been written on. The neatly inked letters, seen in reverse, were already familiar to her before she turned it over. The dark-scarlet script was hers: childish but immediately recognisable.

‘This is my correspondence,’ she said. ‘My letters to the church-sponsored archaeological study group.’

‘Does it surprise you to see them gathered here?’

‘It surprises me that they were collected and brought to your attention,’ Rashmika said, ‘but I’m not surprised that it could have happened. They were addressed to a body within the ministry of the Adventist church, after all.’

‘Are you angered?’

‘That would depend.’ She was, but it was only one emotion amongst several. ‘Were the letters ever seen by anyone in the study group?’

‘The first few,’ Quaiche replied, ‘but almost all the others were intercepted before they reached any of the researchers. Don’t take it personally: it’s just that they receive enough crank literature as it is; if they had to answer it all they’d never get anything else done.’

‘I’m not a crank,’ Rashmika said.

‘No, but - judging by the content of these letters - you are coming from a slightly unorthodox position on the matter of the scuttlers, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘If you consider the truth to be an unorthodox position,’ Rashmika countered.

‘You aren’t the only one. The study teams receive a lot of letters from well-meaning amateurs. The majority are really quite worthless. Everyone has their own cherished little theory on the scuttlers. Unfortunately, none of them has the slightest grasp of scientific method.’

‘That’s more or less what I’d have said about the study teams,’ Rashmika said.

He laughed at her temerity. ‘Not greatly troubled by self-doubt, are you, Miss Els?’

She gathered the papers into an untidy bundle, stuffed them back in the box. ‘I’ve broken no rules with this,’ she said. ‘I didn’t tell you about my correspondence because I wasn’t asked to tell you about it.’

‘I never said you had broken any rules. It just intrigued me, that’s all. I’ve read the letters, seen your arguments mature with time. Frankly, I think some of the points you raise are worthy of further consideration.’

‘I’m very pleased to hear it,’ Rashmika said.

‘Don’t sound so snide. I’m sincere.’

‘You don’t care, Dean. No one in the church cares. Why should they? The doctrine disallows any other explanation except the one we read about in the brochures.’

He asked, playfully, ‘Which is?’

‘That the scuttlers are an incidental detail, their extinction unrelated to the vanishings. If they serve any theological function it’s only as a reminder against hubris, and to emphasise the urgent need for salvation.’

‘An extinct alien culture isn’t much of a mystery these days, is it?’

‘Something different happened here,’ Rashmika said. ‘What happened to the scuttlers wasn’t what happened to the Amarantin or any of the other dead cultures.’

‘That’s the gist of your objection, is it?’

‘I think it might help if we knew what happened,’ she said. She tapped her fingernails against the lid of the box. ‘They were wiped out, but it doesn’t bear the hallmarks of the Inhibitors. Whoever did this left too much behind.’

‘Perhaps the Inhibitors were in a hurry. Perhaps it was enough that they’d wiped out the scuttlers, without worrying about their cultural artefacts.’

‘That’s not how they work. I know what they did to the Amarantin. Nothing survived on Resurgam unless it was under metres of bedrock, deliberately entombed. I know what it was like, Dean: I was there.’

The light flared off his eye-opener as he turned towards her. ‘You were there?’

‘I meant,’ she said hastily, ‘that I’ve read so much about it, spent so much time thinking about it, it’s as if I was there.’ She shivered: it was easy to gloss over the statement in retrospect, but when she had said it she had felt a burning conviction that it was completely true.

‘The problem is,’ Quaiche said, ‘that if you remove the Inhibitors as possible agents in the destruction of Hela, you have to invoke another agency. From a philosophical standpoint, that’s not the way we like to do things.’

‘It may not be elegant,’ she said, ‘but if the truth demands another agency - or indeed a third - we should have the courage to accept the evidence.’

‘And you have some idea of what this other agency might have been, I take it?’

She could not help but glance towards the welded-up space suit. It was an involuntary shift in her attention, unlikely to have been noticed by the dean, but it still annoyed her. If only she could control her own reactions as well as she read those of others.

‘I don’t,’ she said. ‘But I do have some suspicions.’

The dean’s couch shifted, sending a wave of accommodating movement through the mirrors. ‘The first time Grelier told me about you - when it seemed likely that you might prove of use to me - he said that you were on something of a personal crusade.’

‘Did he?’

‘In Grelier’s view, it had something to do with your brother. Is that true?’

‘My brother came to the cathedrals,’ she said.

‘And you feared for him, anxious because you had heard nothing from him for a while, and decided to come after him. That’s the story, isn’t it?’

There was something about the way he said ‘story’ that she did not care for. ‘Why shouldn’t it be?’

‘Because I wonder how much you really care about your brother. Was he really the reason you came all this way, Rashmika, or did he just legitimise your quest by making it seem less intellectually vain?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘I think you gave up on your brother years ago,’ the dean said. ‘I think you knew, in your heart, that he was gone. What you really cared about was the scuttlers, and your ideas about them.’

‘That’s preposterous.’

‘That bundle of letters says otherwise. It speaks of a deep-rooted obsession, quite unseemly in a child.’

‘I came here for Harbin.’

He spoke with the calm insistence of a Latin tutor emphasising some subtlety of tense and grammar. ‘You came here for me, Rashmika. You came to the Way with the intention of climbing to the top of the cathedral administration, convinced that only I had the answers you wanted, the answers you craved, like an addict.’

‘I didn’t invite myself here,’ she said, with something of the same insistence. ‘You brought me here, from the Catherine of Iron.’

‘You’d have found your way here sooner or later, like a mole burrowing its way to the surface. You’d have made yourself useful in one of the study groups, and from there you’d have found a connection to me. It might have taken months; it might have taken years. But Grelier - bless his sordid little heart - expedited something that was already running its course.’

‘You’re wrong,’ she said, her hands trembling. ‘I didn’t want to see you. I didn’t want to come here. Why would that have meant so much to me?’

‘Because you’ve got it into your head that I know things,’ the dean said. ‘Things that might make a difference.’

Her hands fumbled for the box. ‘I’ll take this,’ she said. ‘It’s mine, after all.’

‘The letters are yours. But you may keep the box.’

‘Is it over, now?’

He seemed surprised. ‘Over, Miss Els?’

‘The agreement. My period of employment.’

‘I don’t see why it should be,’ he said. ‘As you pointed out, you were never obliged to mention your interest in the scuttlers. No crimes have been committed; no trust betrayed.’

Her hands left sweaty imprints on the box. She had not expected him to let her keep it. All that lost correspondence: sad, earnest little messages from her past self to her present. ‘I thought you’d be displeased,’ she said.

‘You still have your uses. I’m expecting more Ultras very shortly, as a matter of fact. I’ll want your opinions on them, your peculiar insights and observations, Miss Els. You can still do that for me, can’t you?’

She stood up, clutching the box. From the tone of his voice it was clear that her audience with the dean was at an end. ‘Might I ask one thing?’ she enquired, nearly stammering over her words.

‘I’ve asked you enough questions. I don’t see why not.’

She hesitated. Even as she made her request, she had meant to ask him about Harbin. The dean must have known what had happened to him: it wouldn’t have cost him anything to uncover the truth from cathedral records, even if he’d never set eyes on her brother. But now that the moment was here, now that it had arrived and the dean had granted her permission to ask her question, she knew that she did not have the strength of mind to go through with it. It was not simply that she was frightened of hearing the truth. She already suspected the truth. What frightened her was finding out how she would react when that truth was revealed. What if she turned out not to care about Harbin as much as she claimed? What if everything the dean had said was true, about Harbin just being the excuse she gave for her quest?

Could she take that?

Rashmika swallowed. She felt very young, very alone. ‘I wanted to ask if you had ever heard of the shadows,’ she said.

But the dean said nothing. He had never, she realised, promised her an answer.

Interstellar space, 2675

Three days later, the Inhibitor aggregate had moved within range of the weapon. The technicians still felt they had more calibration to do, more parameter space to explore. Every now and then the weapon did something weird and frightening, taking a nibble out of something local when it was supposed to be tuned for a target several AU distant. Sometimes, most frighteningly of all, its effects seemed only loosely coupled to any input. It was weakly acausal, after all: a weapon that undercut both time and space, and did so according to rules of Byzantine and shifting complexity. It was no wonder that the wolves had nothing analogous to it in their own arsenal. Perhaps they had decided that, all told, it was more trouble than it was worth. The same logic probably applied to Skade’s faster-than-light drive. A great many things were possible in the universe, far more than appeared so at first glance. But many of them were unhealthy, on both the individual and the species/galactic culture level.

But the lights kept dimming, and the weapon kept operating, and Scorpio’s private sense of self continued, unperturbed. The weapon might be doing grotesque things to the very foundations of reality, but all he cared about was what it did to the wolves. Slowly, it was taking chunks out of the pursuing swarm.

He wasn’t winning. He was surviving. That was good enough, for now.

Aura was wrapped in her customary quilted silver blanket, supported on her mother’s lap. Scorpio still found her frighteningly small, like a doll designed to sit inside a cabinet rather than be subjected to the damaging rough-and-tumble of the outside world. But there was something else, too: a quiet sense of invulnerability that made the back of his neck tingle. He only felt it now that her eyes were fully open. Focused and bright, like the eyes of some hunting bird, she absorbed everything that took place around her. Her eyes were golden-brown, flecked with glints of gold and bronze and some colour closer to electric blue. They didn’t simply look around. They probed and extracted. They surveilled.

Scorpio and the other seniors had gathered in the usual meeting room, facing each other around the dark mirror of the table. He studied his companions, mentally listing his allies and adversaries and those who had probably still to make up their minds. He could have counted on Antoinette, but she was back on Ararat now. He was sure that Blood would also have seen things his way, not because Blood would necessarily have thought things through, but because it took imagination to think of disloyalty, and imagination had never been Blood’s strong point. Scorpio missed him already. He had to keep reminding himself that his old deputy was not in fact dead, just out of reach.

It was two weeks since they had left Ararat. The Nostalgia for Infinity had pushed its way out of Ararat’s system at a steady one-gee acceleration, slipping between the meshing gear-teeth of the battle. In the first week, the Infinity had put twelve AU between itself and Ararat, reaching a fiftieth of the speed of light. By the end of the second week it had reached a twenty-fifth of light speed and was now nearly fifty AU from Ararat. Scorpio felt that distance now: looking back, Ararat’s Bright Sun, p Eridani A - the one that had warmed them for the last twenty-three years - was now only a very bright star, one hundred thousand times fainter than when seen from the planet’s surface. It looked no brighter now than its binary companion, Faint Sun or p Eridani B; they were two amber eyes falling behind the lighthugger, pulling together as the ship headed further and further out into interstellar space. He couldn’t see the wolves - only the sensors could even begin to pick them out of the background, and then with only limited confidence - but they were there. The hypometric weapons - there were three of them online now - had been chewing holes in the pursuing elements, but not all of the wolves had been destroyed.

There was no going back. But until this moment their course had been dictated solely by Remontoire’s plan, his trajectory designed merely to get them away from the wolves with the lowest probability of interception. It was only now, after two weeks, that they had the option to steer on a new heading. The pursuing wolves had no bearing on that decision: Scorpio had to assume that they would eventually be destroyed, long before the ship reached its final destination.

He stood up and waited for everyone to fall silent. Saying nothing himself, he pulled Clavain’s knife from its sheath. Without turning it on, he leant across the table and made two marks, one on either side of the centre line, each requiring only three scratches of the blade. One was a ‘Y’, the other an ‘H’. In the dark lacquer of the wood the scratches were the colour of pigskin.

They all watched him, expecting him to say something. Instead he returned the knife to its sheath and sat back down in his seat. Then he meshed his hands behind his neck and nodded at Orca Cruz.

Cruz was his only remaining ally from his Chasm City days. She looked at them all in turn, fixing everyone with her one good eye, black fingernails rasping against the table as she made her points.

‘The last few weeks haven’t been easy,’ she began. ‘We’ve all made sacrifices, all seen plans upturned. Some of us have lost loved ones or seen our families ripped apart. Every certainty that we had a month ago has been pulverised. We are deep into unfamiliar territory, and we don’t have a map. Worse, the man we had come to trust, the man who would have seen the right way forward, isn’t with us any more.’ She fixed her gaze on Scorpio, waiting until everyone else was looking at him as well. ‘But we still have a leader,’ she continued. ‘We still have a damned good leader, someone Clavain trusted to run things on Ararat when he wasn’t around. Someone we should trust to lead us, more now than ever. Clavain had faith in his judgement. I think it’s about time we took a leaf from the old man’s book.’

Urton, the Security Arm woman, shook her head. ‘This is all well and good, Orca. None of us has a problem with Scorpio’s leadership.’ She gave the last word a heavy emphasis, leaving everyone to draw their own conclusions about just what problems they might have with the pig. ‘But what we want to hear now is where you think we should go.’

‘It’s very simple,’ Orca Cruz replied. ‘We have to go to Hela.’

Urton tried unsuccessfully to hide her surprise. ‘Then we’re in agreement.’

‘But only after we’ve been to Yellowstone,’ Cruz said. ‘Hela is . . . speculative, at best. We don’t really know what we’ll find there, if anything. But we know that we can do some good around Yellowstone. We have the capacity to take tens of thousands more sleepers. Another hundred and fifty thousand, easily. Those are human lives, Urton. They’re people we can save. Fate gave us this ship. We have to do something with it.’

‘We’ve already evacuated the Resurgam system,’ Urton said. ‘Not to mention seventeen thousand people from this one. I’d say that wipes the slate clean.’

‘This slate is never wiped clean,’ Cruz said.

Urton waved her hand across the table. ‘You’re forgetting something. The core systems are crawling with Ultras. There are dozens, hundreds of ships with the sleeper capacity of Infinity, in any system you care to name.’

‘You’d trust lives to Ultras? You’re dumber than you look,’ Orca said.

‘Of course I’d trust them,’ Urton said.

Aura laughed.

‘Why did she do that?’ Urton asked.

‘Because you lied,’ Khouri told her. ‘She can tell. She can always tell.’

One of the refugee representatives - a man named Rintzen - coughed tactically. He smiled, doing his best to seem conciliatory. ‘What Urton means is that it simply isn’t our job. The motives and methods of the Ultras may be questionable - we all know that - but it is a simple fact that they have ships and a desire for customers. If the situation in the core systems does indeed reach a crisis point, then - might I venture to suggest - all we’d have is a classic case of demand being met by supply.’

Cruz shook her head. She looked disgusted. If Scorpio had walked in at that moment and only had her face to go by, he would have concluded that someone had just deposited a bowel movement on the table.

‘Remind me,’ she said. ‘When you came aboard this ship from Resurgam - how much did it cost you?’

The man examined his fingernails. ‘Nothing, of course . . . but that’s not the point. The situation was totally different.’

The lights dimmed. It was happening every few minutes now, as the weapons were spun up and discharged; often enough that everyone had stopped remarking on it, but that didn’t mean that the dimming went unnoticed. Everyone knew that it meant the wolves were still out there, still creeping closer to the Nostalgia for Infinity.

‘All right,’ Cruz said when the lights flicked back up to full strength. ‘Then what about this time, when you were evacuated from Ararat? How much did you cough up for the privilege?’

‘Again, nothing,’ Rintzen conceded. ‘And again, the two things can’t be compared ...’

‘You revolt me,’ Cruz said. ‘I dealt with some slime down in the Mulch, but you’d have been in a league of your own, Rintzen.’

‘Look,’ said Kashian, another of the refugee representatives, ‘no one’s saying it’s right for the Ultras to make a profit out of the wolf emergency, but we have to be pragmatic. Their ships will always be better suited than this one to the task of mass evacuation.’ She looked around, inviting the others to do likewise. ‘This room may seem normal enough, but it’s hardly representative of the rest of the ship. It’s more like a hard, dry pearl in the slime of an oyster. There are still vast swathes of this ship that are not even mapped, let alone habitable. And let’s not forget that things are significantly worse than they were during the Resurgam evacuation. Most of the seventeen thousand who came aboard two weeks ago still haven’t been processed properly. They are living in unspeakable conditions.’ She shivered, as if experiencing some of that squalor by osmosis.

‘You want to talk about unspeakable conditions,’ Cruz said, ‘try death for a few weeks, see how it suits you.’

Kashian shook her head, looking in exasperation at the other seniors. ‘You can’t negotiate with this woman. She reduces everything to insult or absurdity.’

‘Might I say something?’ asked Vasko Malinin.

Scorpio shrugged in his direction.

Vasko stood up, leaning forwards across the table, his fingers splayed for support. ‘I won’t debate the logistics of helping the evacuation effort from Yellowstone,’ he said. ‘I don’t believe it makes any difference. Irrespective of the needs of those refugees, we have been given a clear direction not to go there. We have to listen to Aura.’

‘She didn’t say we shouldn’t go to Yellowstone,’ Cruz interjected. ‘She just said we should go to Hela.’

Vasko’s expression was severe. ‘You think there’s a difference?’

‘Yellowstone could be our first priority, as I said. It doesn’t preclude a visit to Hela once the evacuation is complete.’

‘It will take decades to do that,’ Vasko said.

‘It’ll take decades whatever we do,’ Cruz said, smiling slightly. ‘That’s the nature of the game, kid. Get used to it.’

‘I know the nature of the game,’ Vasko told her, his voice low, letting her know that she had made a mistake in addressing him that way. ‘I’m also aware that we’ve been given a clear instruction about reaching Hela. If Yellowstone formed part of Aura’s plans, don’t you think she’d have told us?’

They all looked at the child. Sometimes Aura spoke: by now they had all become accustomed to her small, half-formed, liquid croak. Yet there were still days when she said nothing at all, or made only childlike noises. Then, as now, she appeared to have switched into some mode of extreme receptivity, taking in rather than giving out. Her development was accelerated, but it was not progressing smoothly: there were leaps and bounds, but there were also plateaux and unaccountable reversals.

‘She means for us to go to Hela,’ Khouri said. ‘That’s all I know.’

‘What about the other part?’ Scorpio asked. ‘The bit about negotiating with shadows?’

‘It was something that came through. Maybe a memory that came loose, but which she couldn’t interpret.’

‘What else came through at the same time?’

She looked at him, hesitating on the edge of answering. It was a lucky guess, but his question had worked. ‘I sensed something that frightened me,’ she said.

‘Something about these shadows?’

‘Yes. It was like the chill from an open door, like a draught of terror.’ Khouri looked down at the hair on her baby’s head. ‘She felt it as well.’

‘And that’s all you can tell me?’ Scorpio asked. ‘We have to go to Hela and negotiate with something that frightens both of you to death?’

‘It was just that the message carried a warning,’ Khouri said. ‘It said proceed with caution. But it also said it’s what we have to do.’

‘You’re sure of that?’ Scorpio persisted.

‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘Maybe you interpreted the message wrongly. Maybe the “draught of terror” was there for a different reason. Maybe it was there to indicate that on no account should we have anything to do with . . . whatever these shadows are.’

‘Maybe, Scorp,’ Khouri said, ‘but in that case, why mention the shadows at all?’

‘Or Hela, for that matter,’ Vasko added.

Scorpio looked at him, drawing out the moment. ‘You done?’ he asked.

‘I guess so,’ Vasko said.

‘Then I think the decision needs to be taken,’ the pig said. ‘We’ve heard all the arguments, either way. We can go to Hela on the off chance that there might be something there worth our effort. Or we can take this ship to Yellowstone and save some lives, guaranteed. I think you all know my feelings on the matter.’ He nodded at the letters he had gouged into the table using Clavain’s old knife. ‘I think you also know what Clavain would have done, under the same circumstances.’

No one said anything.

‘But there’s a problem,’ Scorpio said. ‘And the problem is that it isn’t our choice to make. This isn’t a democracy. All we can do is present our arguments and let Captain John Brannigan make up his mind.’

He reached into a pocket in his leather tunic and pulled out the small handful of red dust he had carried there for days.

It was finely graded iron oxide, collected from one of the machine shops - as close to Martian soil as it was possible to get, twenty-seven light-years from Mars. It trailed between the short stubs of his fingers even as he stood up and held it over the centre of the table, between the Y and the H.

This was it, he knew: the crux moment. If nothing happened - if the ship did not immediately signal its intentions by making the dust point unambiguously to one letter or other, he was over. No matter how much he wanted to see things through, he would have made a mockery of himself. But Clavain had never shirked from these moments. His whole life had lurched from one point of maximum crisis to another.

Scorpio looked up. The dust was beginning to run out.

‘Your call, John.’

Hela, 2727

At night, in her room, the voice returned. It always waited until Rashmika was alone, until she was away from the garret. She had hoped, the first time, that it might turn out to be some temporary delusion, the effect, perhaps, of Quaicheist viral agents somehow entering her system and playing havoc with her sanity. But the voice was too rational for that, entirely too quiet and calm, and what it said was specifically directed at Rashmika and her predicament, rather than some ill-defined generic host.

[Rashmika,] it said, [listen to us, please. The time of crisis grows near, in more ways than one.]

‘Go away,’ she said, burying her head in the pillow.

[We need your help now,] the voice said.

She knew that if she did not answer the voice it would keep pestering her, its patience endless. ‘My help?’

[We know what Quaiche intends to do with this cathedral, how he plans to drive it over the bridge. He won’t succeed, Rashmika. The bridge won’t take the Lady Morwenna. It wasn’t ever meant to take something like a cathedral.]

‘And you’d know, would you?’

[The bridge wasn’t made by the scuttlers. It’s a lot more recent than that. And it won’t withstand the Lady Mor.]

She sat up in her narrow cot of a bed and turned the shutters to admit stained-glass light. She felt the rumble and sway of the cathedral’s progress, the distant churning of engines. She thought of the bridge, shining somewhere ahead, delicate as a dream, oblivious to the vast mass sliding slowly towards it.

What did the voice mean, that it was a lot more recent?

‘I can’t stop it,’ she said.

[You don’t have to stop it. You just have to get us to safety, before it’s too late.]

‘Ask Quaiche.’

[Don’t you think we’ve tried, Rashmika? Don’t you think we’ve spent hours trying to persuade him? But he doesn’t care about us. He’d rather we didn’t exist. Sometimes, he even manages to convince himself that we don’t. When the cathedral falls from the bridge, or the bridge collapses, we’ll be destroyed. He’ll let that happen, because then he doesn’t have to think about us any more.]

‘I can’t help you,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to help you. You scare me. I don’t even know what you are, or where you’ve come from.’

[You know more than you imagine,’ the voice said. ‘You came here to find us, not Quaiche.]

‘Don’t be silly.’

[We know who you are, Rashmika, or rather we know who you aren’t. That machinery in your head, remember? Where did all that come from?]

‘I don’t know about any machinery.’

[And your memories - don’t they sometimes seem to belong to someone else? We heard you talking to the dean. We heard you talk about the Amarantin, and your memories of Resurgam.]

‘It was a slip,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean ...’

[You meant every word of it, but you just don’t realise it yet. You are vastly more than you think, Rashmika. How far back do your memories of life on Hela really stretch? Nine years? Not much more, we suspect. So what came before?]

‘Stop talking like that,’ she said.

The voice ignored her. [You aren’t what you seem. These memories of life on Hela are a graft, nothing more. Beneath them lies something else entirely. For nine years they’ve served you well, allowing you to move amongst these people as if born to them. The illusion was so perfect, so seamless, that you didn’t even suspect it yourself. But all along your true mission was at the back of your mind. You were waiting for something: some conjunction of events. It brought you from the badlands, down to the Permanent Way. Now, nearing the end of your quest, you are coming out of the dream. You are starting to remember who you really are, and it thrills and terrifies you in equal measure.]

‘My mission?’ she asked, almost laughing at the absurdity of it.

[To make contact with us,] the voice said, [the shadows. Those you were sent to negotiate with.]

‘Who are you?’ she asked quietly. ‘Please tell me.’

[Go to sleep, little girl. You’ll dream of us, and then you’ll know everything.]

Rashmika went to sleep. She dreamed of shadows, and more. She dreamed the kinds of dream she had always associated with shallow sleep and fever: geometric and abstract, highly repetitious, filled with inexplicable terrors and ecstasies. She dreamed the dream of a hunted people.

They were far away, so far away that the distance separating them from the familiar universe - in both space and time - was incomprehensibly large, beyond any sensible scheme of measurement. But they were people, of a kind. They had lived and dreamed, and they had a history that was itself a kind of dream: unimaginably far-reaching, unimaginably complex, an epic now grown too long for the telling. All that it was necessary for her to know - all that she could know, now - was that they had reached a point where their memory of interstellar colonisation on the human scale was so remote, so faded and etiolated by time, that it almost seemed to merge with their earliest prehistory, barely separable from a faint ancestral recollection of fire-making and the bringing down of game.

They had colonised a handful of stars, and then they had colonised their galaxy, and then they had colonised much more than that, leap-frogging out into ever-larger territories, dancing from one hierarchical structure to the next. Galaxies, then groups of galaxies, then sprawling superclusters of tens of thousands of galaxy-groups, until they called across the starless voids between superclusters - the largest structures in creation - like apes howling from one tree-top to the next. They had done wonderful and terrible things. They had reshaped themselves and their universe, and they had made plans for eternity.

They had failed. Across all that dizzying history, from one leap of scale to the next, there had never been a time when they were not running from something. It wasn’t the Inhibitors, or anything very like them. It was a kind of machinery, but this time more like a blight, a transforming, ravening disease that they themselves had let loose. The dream’s details were vague, but what she understood was this: in their very earliest history they had made something, a tool rather than a weapon, its intended function peaceful and utilitarian, but which had slipped from their control.

The tool neither attacked the people nor showed any great evidence of recognising them. What it did - with the mindless efficiency of wildfire - was rip matter apart, turning worlds into floating clouds of rubble, shells of rock and ice surrounding entire stars. Mirrors in the swarms of machinery gathered starlight, focusing life-giving energy on to the grains of rubble; transparent membranes trapped that energy around each grain and allowed tiny bubble-like ecologies to grow. Within these warm emerald-green pockets the people were able to survive, if they chose. But that was their only choice, and even then only a certain kind of existence was possible. Their only other option was flight: they could not stop the advancement of the transforming machines, only keep running from the leading edge of the wave. They could only watch as the transforming fire swept through their vast civilisation in a mere flicker of cosmic time, as the great swarms of machine-stimulated living matter turned stars into green lanterns.

They ran, and they ran. They sought solace in satellite galaxies, and for a few million years they thought they were safe. But the machines eventually reached the satellites, and began the same grindingly slow process of stellar consumption. The people ran again, but it was never far enough, never fast enough. No weapons worked: they either did more damage than the blight, or helped spread it faster. The transforming machines evolved, becoming steadily more agile and clever. Yet one thing never changed: their central task remained the smashing of worlds, and the remaking of them into a billion bright-green shards.

They had been created to do something, and that was what they were going to do.

Now, at the tail end of their history, the people had run as far as it was possible to run. They had exhausted every niche. They could not go back, could not make an accommodation with the machines. Even the transformed galaxies were now uninhabitable, their chemistries poisoned, the ecological balance of stellar life and death upset by the swarming industry of the machines. Out-of-control weapons, designed originally to defeat the machines, were themselves now as much of a hazard as the original problem.

So the people turned elsewhere. If they were being squeezed out of their own universe, then perhaps it was time to consider moving to another.

Fortunately, this was not as impossible as it sounded.

In her dream, Rashmika learned about the theory of braneworlds. There was a hallucinatory texture to it: velvety curtains of light and darkness rippled in her mind with the languor of auroral storms. What she understood was this: everything in the visible universe, everything that she saw - from the palm of her hand to the Lady Morwenna, from Hela itself out to the furthest observable galaxy - was necessarily trapped on one brane, like a pattern woven into a sheet of fabric. Quarks and electrons, photons and neutrinos - everything that constituted the universe in which she lived and breathed, including herself, was forced to travel along the surface of this one brane alone.

But the brane itself was only one of many parallel sheets floating in the higher-dimensional space that was called the bulk. The sheets were stacked closely together; were even, perhaps, joined at their edges, like the folded musical programme of some vast cosmic orchestrion. Some of the sheets had very different properties from others: although the same fundamental rules of nature applied in each, the strengths of the coupling constants - and hence the properties of the macroscopic universe - depended on where a particular brane lay within the bulk. Life within those distant branes was bizarre and strange, assuming that the parochial physics even allowed anything as complex as life. Elsewhere, some sheets were brushing against each other, the glancing impact of their collisions generating primordial events in each brane that looked very much like the Big Bangs of traditional cosmology.

If the local brane was connected to another, then the fold point - the crease - lay at a cosmological distance beyond even the Hubble length scale. But there was nothing to prevent matter and radiation making the journey around that fold, given time. If one travelled far enough along the surface of one of these connected branes - through countless megaparsecs, far enough through the conventional universe of matter and light - one would eventually end up on the next closest brane in the multidimensional void of the bulk.

Rashmika could not see the topological relationship between her brane and the brane of the shadows. Were they joined, or separate? Were the shadows deliberately withholding this information, or was it just not known to them?

It probably didn’t matter.

What did matter - the only thing that mattered - was that there was a way to signal across the bulk. Gravity was not like the other elements of her universe: it was only imperfectly bound to a particular brane. It could take the long way around - oozing along an individual brane like a slowly spreading wine stain - but it could also leak through, taking the short cut across the bulk.

The people - the shadows, she now realised - had used gravity to send messages across the bulk, from brane to brane. And with their usual patience - for they were nothing if not patient - they had waited until someone answered.

Finally, someone had. They were the scuttlers: a starfaring species in their own right. Their history was much shorter than that of the shadows; only a few million years had passed since they had emerged from their birth world, in some lost corner of the galaxy. They were a peculiar species, with their strange habit of swapping body parts and their utter abhorrence of similarity and duplication. Their culture was impenetrably weird: nothing about it made any sense to any other species that the scuttlers ever met. Because of this they had established few trading partners, made few allegiances, and accumulated very little knowledge from other societies. They lived on cold worlds, favouring the moons of gas giants. They kept themselves to themselves, and had no ambitions beyond the modest settlement of a few hundred systems in their local galactic sector. Because of their solitary habits, it took them a while to draw down the attentions of the Inhibitors.

It made no difference. The Inhibitors didn’t distinguish between the meek and aggressive: the rules applied equally to all. By the time the scuttlers had made contact with the shadows, they had been pushed to the edge of extinction. They were, needless to say, ready to consider anything.

The shadows learned of the scuttlers’ travails. They listened, amused, at the stories of entire species being wiped out by the swarming black machines.

We can help, they said.

At that time, all they could do was transmit messages across the bulk, but with the co-operation of the scuttlers, they could do much more than that: the vast gravitational signal receiver constructed by the scuttlers to collect the shadows’ messages had the potential to allow physical intervention. At its heart was a mass-synthesiser, a machine capable of constructing solid objects according to transmitted blueprints. Like the receiver itself, the mass-synthesiser was old galactic-level technology. It fed itself on the metal-rich remains of the gas-giant planet that had been stripped apart to make the receiver in the first place. But for all its simplicity, the mass-synthesiser was versatile. It could be programmed to build receptacles for the shadows: vacant, near-immortal machine bodies into which they could transmit their personalities. For the shadows, already embodied in machines on their side of the bulk, it was no great sacrifice.

But the scuttlers - nothing if not a cautious species - had installed clever safeguards, mindful of the danger in permitting physical intervention from one brane to another. The mass-synthesiser couldn’t be activated remotely, from the shadows’ side of the bulk. Only the scuttlers could turn it on, and allow the shadows to start colonising this side of the bulk. The shadows weren’t interested in taking over the entire galaxy, or so they said, merely in establishing a small, independent community away from the dangers that were making their own braneworld uninhabitable.

In return, they promised, they would supply the scuttlers with the means to defeat the Inhibitors.

All the scuttlers had to do was turn on the mass-synthesiser and allow the shadows to reach across the bulk.

Rashmika awoke. It was bright daylight outside, and the stained-glass window threw tinted lozenges across the damp hummock of her pillow. For a moment she lay there, anointed in colours, lulled by the sway of the Lady Morwenna. She felt as if she had been deeply asleep, but at the same time she also felt drained, in desperate need of a few hours of dreamless oblivion. The voice was gone now, but she did not doubt that it would return. Nor was there any doubt in her mind that the voice had been real, and its story essentially true.

Now, at least, she understood a little more. The scuttlers had been offered a chance to escape extinction, but the price of that deal had been opening the door to the shadows. They had come so very close to doing it, too, but at the final moment they had not been able to make that leap of faith. The shadows had remained on their side of the bulk; the scuttlers had been wiped out.

With that realisation she felt a groaning sense of failure. She had been wrong to doubt that the scuttlers were destroyed by the Inhibitors. Everything she had worked for over the last nine years, every pious certainty she had allowed herself to indulge in, had been undermined by that one revelatory dream. The shadows had put her right. What did her opinions matter, when set against actual testimony from another alien intelligence?

She had already considered the alternative: that the shadows had wiped out the scuttlers. But that made even less sense than the Inhibitor hypothesis. If the scuttlers had let the shadows through, and if the shadows had organised themselves enough to do that much damage, then where were they now? It was unthinkable that they would have pulverised Hela, wiping out the scuttlers, and then crawled quietly back into their own universe. Nor was it likely that they had crossed the gap, done that damage, and then vanished into some solitary corner of this one, because - or so the voice had told her - they still needed to make the crossing. That was why they were speaking to her.

They wanted humanity to have the courage that the scuttlers had lacked.

Haldora, she now understood, was the signalling mechanism: the great receiver that the scuttlers had built. They had taken the former gas giant, smashed it down to its essentials and woven the remains into a world-sized gravitational antenna with a mass-synthesiser at its heart.

What the Observers saw when they looked into the sky - the illusion of Haldora - was just a form of projected camouflage. The scuttlers were gone, but their receiver remained. And now and then, for a fraction of a second, the camouflage failed. In the vanishings, what the Observers glimpsed was not some shining citadel of God but the mechanism of the receiver itself.

A door in the sky, waiting to be unlocked.

That only left one question. It was, perhaps, the hardest of all. If everything the shadows had told her was true, then she also had to accept what the shadows told her about herself.

That she wasn’t who she thought she was.

Interstellar space, 2675

Five days later, technicians plumbed Scorpio into the reefersleep casket. It was a surgical procedure: a ritual of incisions and catheters, anaesthetic swabs, sterilising balms.

‘You don’t have to watch,’ he told Khouri, who was standing at the foot of the casket with Aura in her arms.

‘I want to see you go under safely,’ she said.

‘You mean you want to see me safely out the picture.’ He knew even as he said it that it was cruel and unnecessary.

‘We still need you, Scorp. We might not agree with you about Hela, but that doesn’t make you any less useful.’

The child watched fascinatedly as the technicians fumbled a plastic shunt into Scorpio’s wrist. He could still see the scar where the last one had been removed, twenty-three years earlier.

‘It hurts,’ Aura said.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘It hurts, kid. But I can handle it.’

The reefersleep casket sat in a room of its own. It was the same one that had brought him to Ararat all those years ago. It was very old and very unsophisticated: a brutish black box with squared-off edges and the heavy, wrought-iron look of some artefact of medieval jurisprudence.

But it also had a perfect operational record, a flawless history of preserving its human occupants in frozen stasis during the years of relativistic travel between stars. It had never killed anyone, never brought anyone back to life with anything other than the full spectrum of mental faculties. It incorporated the minimum of nanotechnology. The Melding Plague had never touched it, nor had the Captain’s own transforming influences. A baseline human contemplating a spell in the casket could have been quietly confident of revival. The transitions to and from the cryogenic state were slow and uncomfortable compared to the sleeker, more modern units. There would be discomfort, both physical and mental. But there would be little doubt that the unit would work as intended, and that the occupant would wake again at the other end of the journey.

The only problem was, none of this applied to pigs. The caskets were tuned to baseline human physiology on the unforgiving level of cell chemistry. Scorpio had made it through reefersleep before, but each time had been a gamble. He told himself that the odds didn’t get any worse each time he submitted himself to a casket, that he was no more likely to die in this unit than in the first one he had used. But that wasn’t strictly true. He was much older now. His body was intrinsically weaker than the last time he had been through the process. Everyone was being very coy about the hard numbers - whether it was a ten or twenty or even a thirty per cent chance of him not making out - but their very refusal to discuss the matter alarmed him more than a cold assessment of the risk would ever have done. At least then he could have compared the risks of taking the casket and staying awake for the entire trip. Five or six years of shiptime, making him fifty-five or fifty-six, against a thirty per cent chance of not making it there at all? It wouldn’t have been an easy decision - as a pig, he had no guarantee of making it to sixty under normal circumstances. But at least full disclosure of the facts would have enabled him to make a considered choice. Instead, what drove him to the casket was a simple desire to skip over the intervening time. Damn the odds; he had to get the waiting over with. He had to know if it was worth their while making it to Hela.

And before that, of course, he had to know if he had made a terrible mistake by persuading the ship to travel to Yellowstone first.

He thought of the dust leaking from his hand, spilling on to the table, the trail drifting towards the Y he had marked rather than the H. Within minutes it had been confirmed: the ship was executing a slow turn, steering for Epsilon Eridani rather than the dim, unfamiliar star of 107 Piscium.

He had been pleased with the Captain’s decision, but it also frightened him. The Captain had followed the minority view rather than the democratic wish of the seniors. It had suited Scorpio, but he wondered how he would have felt if the Captain had sided with the others. It was one thing to know that he had an ally in John Brannigan. It would be quite another to feel himself the prisoner of the ship.

‘It’s not too late,’ Khouri said. ‘You can stop now, spend the trip awake.’

‘Is that what you’re planning to do?’

‘At least until Aura is older,’ she said.

The girl laughed.

‘I can’t take the risk,’ Scorpio said. ‘I may not last the journey if they don’t freeze me. Five or six years might not be much to you, but it’s a big chunk out of my life.’

‘It might not be that long if they can get the new machines to work. Our subjective time to Yellowstone might only be a couple of years.’

‘Still too long for my liking.’

‘It worries you that much? I thought you said you never thought much about the future.’

‘I don’t. Now you know why.’

She came closer to the black cabinet, lowering down on one knee, presenting Aura to him. ‘She thinks this is the wrong thing to do,’ Khouri said. ‘I feel it coming through. She really thinks we should be going straight to Hela.’

‘We’ll get there eventually,’ he said. ‘John willing.’ He directed his attention to Aura, looking into her golden-brown eyes. He expected her to flinch, but she held his gaze, barely blinking.

‘Shadows,’ she said, in her liquid gurgle, a voice that always seemed on the edge of hilarity. ‘Negotiate with shadows.’

‘I don’t believe in negotiation,’ Scorpio said. ‘All it gets you into is a world of pain.’

‘Maybe it’s time you changed your opinion,’ Khouri said.

Khouri and Aura left him alone with the technicians. He had been glad of the visit, but he was also glad to have a moment to marshal his thoughts, making sure that he did not forget the important things. One thing in particular assumed particular importance in his mind. He had still not told either of them about the private conversation he had had with Remontoire just before the Conjoiner’s departure. The conversation had not been recorded, and Remontoire had given little more than his words: no data, no written evidence, just a shard of translucent white material small enough to fit in his pocket.

Now that omission was beginning to weigh upon him. Was it right to keep Remontoire’s doubts from Aura and her mother? Remontoire had left the final decision to him, in the end: a measure of the extent to which he trusted Scorpio.

Now, in the casket, Scorpio could have done with a bit less of that trust.

He didn’t have the shard with him now. It was with his personal effects, awaiting his revival. It had no intrinsic worth in its own right, and had anyone else found it, it was more than likely that they would have left it undisturbed, assuming only that it was some personal trinket or totem of purely sentimental value. What mattered was where Remontoire had found it. And aboard the ship, to the best of his knowledge, Scorpio was the only one who knew.

‘I don’t know what to make of it,’ Remontoire said, handing him the curved white shard. Scorpio examined it, immediately disappointed at what had he been given. He could see through it. The edges were sharp enough to be dangerous, and it was too hard to flex or break. The thing looked like a dinosaur’s toenail clipping.

‘I know what it is, Rem.’

‘You do?’

‘It’s a piece of conch material. We found it all the time on Ararat, washed up after storms or floating out at sea. Much bigger than this piece.’

‘How big?’ Remontoire asked, steepling his fingers.

‘Large enough to use for dwellings, sometimes. Sometimes even for major administrative structures. We didn’t have enough metal or plastic to go around, so we were always trying to make the best use of local resources. We had to anchor the conch pieces down, because otherwise they blew away in the first storm.’

‘Difficult to work with?’

‘We couldn’t cut them with anything other than torches, but that’s not saying much. You should have seen the state of our tools.’

‘What did you make of the conch pieces, Scorp? Did you have a theory about them?’

‘We didn’t have much time for theories about anything.’

‘You must have had an inkling.’

Scorpio shrugged and passed the fragment back to him. ‘We assumed they were the discarded shells of extinct marine creatures, bigger than anything now living on Ararat. The Jugglers weren’t the only organism in that ocean; there was always room for other kinds of life, maybe relics of the original inhabitants, before the Juggler colonisation.’

Remontoire tapped a finger against the shard. ‘I don’t think we’re dealing with marine life, Scorp.’

‘Does it matter?’

‘It might do, especially given the fact that I found this in space, around Ararat.’ He handed it back to the pig. ‘Interested now?’

‘I might be.’

Remontoire told him the rest. During the last phase of the battle around Ararat, he had been contacted by a group of Conjoiners from Skade’s party. ‘They knew she was dead. Without a leader, they were devolving into a directionless squabble. They approached me, hoping to steal the hypometric technology. They’d learned much already, but that was the one thing they didn’t have. I resisted, fought them off, but I also let them go with a warning. I considered it rather late in the day to be making new enemies.’

‘And?’

‘They came back to help me when the wolf aggregate was about to finish me off. A suicidal move on their part. I think it convinced me and my associates to accept terms of co-operation from Skade’s people. But there was something else.’

‘The shard?’

‘Not the shard itself, but data pertaining to the same mystery. I viewed it with suspicion, as I still do. I can’t rule out the possibility that it may have been a piece of disinformation sown by Skade when she knew her days were numbered. Just like her to throw a posthumous spanner into our works, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I wouldn’t put it past her for a second,’ Scorpio replied. Now that he knew it had some deeper significance, the piece of conch material felt like some holy relic in his hands. He held it with reverential care, as if he might damage it. ‘What did the data tell you?’

‘Before they transmitted the data, they spoke of the situation around Ararat being more complicated than we had assumed. I didn’t admit it at the time, but what they said chimed with my own observations. There had, for some time, been hints of something else in the game. Not my people, nor Skade’s, not even the Inhibitors, but another party, lurking on the very edge of events, like spectators. Of course, in the confusion of battle it was easy to dismiss such speculation: ghost returns from mass sensors, vague phantom forms glimpsed during intense energy bursts. There was a great deal of deliberate confusion.’

‘And the data?’

‘It only confirmed those fears. Added to my own observations, the conclusion was inescapable: we were being watched. Something else - neither human nor Inhibitor - had followed us to Ararat. It may even have been there before us.’

‘How do you know they weren’t part of the Inhibitors? We know so little about them.’

‘Because their movements suggested they were as wary of the Inhibitors as we were. Not to the same degree, but cautious nonetheless. ’

‘Then who are they?’

‘I don’t know, Scorp. I only have this shard. It was recovered after an engagement during which one of their vehicles may have been damaged by drifting too close to the battle. It is a piece of debris, Scorp. The same applies, I think, to every piece of conch material you have ever found on Ararat. They are the remains of ships, fallen into the sea.’

‘Then who made them?’

‘We don’t know.’

‘What do they want with us?’

‘We don’t know that, either, only that they have taken an interest.’

‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that.’

‘I’m not sure I like it either. They haven’t contacted us directly, and everything they’ve done suggests they have no intention of making their presence known. They’re more advanced than us, that’s for sure. They may skulk in the darkness, slinking around the Inhibitors, but they’ve survived. They’re still out there, when we’re on the brink of extinction.’

‘They could help us.’

‘Or they could turn out to be as bad for us as the Inhibitors.’

Scorpio looked into the old Conjoiner’s face: so maddeningly calm, despite the vast implications of their conversation. ‘You sound as if you think we’re being judged,’ he said.

‘I wonder if that isn’t the case.’

‘And Aura? What does she have to say?’

‘She has never made any mention of another party,’ Remontoire said.

‘Perhaps these are the shadows, after all.’

‘Then why go to Hela to make contact with them? No, Scorp: these aren’t the shadows. They’re something else, something she either doesn’t know about, or chooses not to tell us.’

‘Now you’re making me nervous.’

‘That, Mr Pink, was very much the idea. Someone has to know this, and it might as well be you.’

‘If she doesn’t know about the other party, how can we be sure the rest of her information’s correct?’

‘We can’t. That’s the difficulty.’

Scorpio fingered the shard. It was cool to the touch, barely heavier than the air it displaced. ‘I could talk to her about it, see if she remembers.’

‘Or you could keep the information to yourself, because it is too dangerous to reveal to her. Remember: it may be misinformation created by Skade to destroy our confidence in Aura. If she were to deny knowledge of it, will you be able to trust her any more?’

‘I’d still like the data,’ Scorpio said.

‘Too dangerous. If I passed it to you, it might find its way into her head. She’s one of us, Scorp: a Conjoiner. You’ll have to make do with the shard - call it an aide-mémoire - and this conversation. That should suffice, should it not?’

‘You’re saying I shouldn’t tell her, ever?’

‘No, I’m merely saying you must make that decision for yourself, and that it should not be taken lightly.’ Remontoire paused, and then offered a smile. ‘Frankly, I don’t envy you. Rather a lot may depend on it, you see.’

Scorpio pushed the shard into his pocket.

Hela, 2727

[Help us, Rashmika,] the voice said, when she was alone. [Don’t let us die when the cathedral dies.]

‘I can’t help you. I’m not even sure I want to.’

[Quaiche is unstable,] the voice insisted. [He will destroy us, because we are a chink in the armour of his faith. That cannot be allowed to happen, Rashmika. For your sakes - for the sake of all your people - don’t make the same mistake as the scuttlers. Don’t close the door on us.]

She thrashed her head into the damp landscape of her pillow, smelling her own days-old sweat worked into the yellowing fabric during sleepless, voice-tormented nights such as this. All she wanted was for the voice to silence itself; all she wanted was a return to the old simplicities, where all she had to worry about was the imposition of her own self-righteous convictions.

‘How did you get here? You still haven’t told me. If the door is closed—’

[The door was opened, briefly. During a difficult period with the supply of the virus, Quaiche endured a lapse of faith. In that crisis he began to doubt his own interpretation of the vanishings. He arranged for the firing of an instrument package into the face of Haldora, a simple mechanical probe crammed with electronic instrumentation.]

‘And?’

[He provoked a response. The probe was injected into Haldora during a vanishing. It caused the vanishing to last longer than usual, more than a second. In that hiatus, Quaiche was granted a glimpse of the machinery the scuttlers made to contact us across the bulk.]

‘So was everyone else who happened to see it.’

[That’s why that particular vanishing had to be stricken from the public record,] the voice said. [It couldn’t be allowed to have happened.]

She remembered what the shadows had told her about the mass-synthesiser. ‘Then the probe allowed you to cross over?’

[No. We are still not physically embodied in this brane. What it did re-establish was the communication link. It had been silenced since the last time the scuttlers spoke to us, but in the moment of Quaiche’s intervention it was reopened, briefly. In that window we transmitted an aspect of ourselves across the bulk, a barely sentient ghost, programmed only to survive and negotiate.]

So that was what she was dealing with: not the shadows themselves, but their stripped-down minimalist envoy. She did not suppose that it made very much difference: the voice was clearly at least as intelligent and persuasive as any machine she had ever encountered.

‘How far did you get?’ Rashmika asked.

[Into the probe, as it fell within the Haldora projection. From there - following the probe’s telemetry link - we reached Hela. But no further. Ever since then, we have been trapped within the scrimshaw suit.]

‘Why the suit?’

[Ask Quaiche. It has some deeply personal significance for him, irrevocably entwined with the nature of the vanishings and his own salvation. His lover - the original Morwenna - died in it. Afterwards, Quaiche couldn’t bring himself to destroy the suit. It was a reminder of what had brought him to Hela, a spur to keep looking for an answer, for Morwenna’s memory. When it came time to send the probe into Haldora, Quaiche filled the suit with the cybernetic control system necessary to communicate with the probe. That is why it has become our prison.]

‘I can’t help you,’ she said again.

[You must, Rashmika. The suit is strong, but it will not survive the destruction of the Lady Morwenna. Yet without us, you will have lost your one channel of negotiation. You might establish another, but you cannot guarantee it. In the meantime, you will be at the mercy of the Inhibitors. They’re coming closer, you know. There isn’t much time left.]

‘I can’t do this,’ she said. ‘You’re asking too much of me. You’re just a voice in my head. I won’t do it.’

[You will if you know what’s good for you. We don’t know all that we would like to know about you, Rashmika, but one thing is clear: you are most certainly not who you claim to be.]

She pulled her face from the pillow, brushed lank, damp hair from her eyes. ‘So what if I’m not?’

[It would probably be for the best if Quaiche didn’t find out, don’t you think?]

The surgeon-general sat alone in his private quarters in the Office of Bloodwork, high in the middle levels of the Clocktower. He hummed to himself, happy in his environment. Even the faint swaying motion of the Lady Morwenna - exaggerated now that she was moving over the rough ground of the ungraded and potholed road that led to the bridge - was pleasing to him, the sense of continuing motion spurring him to work. He had not eaten in many hours and his hands trembled with anticipation as he waited for the assay to finish. The task of prolonging Quaiche’s life had offered many challenges, but he had not felt this sense of intellectual excitement since his days in the service of Queen Jasmina, when he was the master of the body factory.

He had already pored over the results of Harbin’s blood analysis. He had been looking for some explanation in his genes for the gift that had been so strongly manifested in his sister. There had never been any suggestion that Harbin had the same degree of hypersensitivity to expressions, but that might simply mean that the relevant genes had only been activated in his sister’s case. Grelier did not know exactly what he was looking for, but he had a rough idea of the cognitive areas that ought to have been affected. What she had was a kind of inverse autism, an acute sensitivity to the emotional states of the people around her, rather than blank indifference. By comparing Harbin’s DNA against Bloodwork’s genetic database, culled not just from the inhabitants of Hela but from information sold to him by Ultras, he had hoped to see something anomalous. Even if it was not immediately obvious, the software ought to be able to tease it out.

But Harbin’s blood had turned out to be stultifyingly normal, utterly deficient in anything anomalous. Grelier had gone back into the library and found a back-up sample, just in case there had been a labelling error. It was the same story: there was nothing in Harbin’s blood that would have suggested anything unusual in his sister.

So perhaps, Grelier reasoned, there was something uniquely anomalous in her blood, the result of some statistical reshuffling of her parents’ genes that had somehow failed to manifest in Harbin. Alternatively, her blood could turn out to be just as uninteresting. In that case he would have to conclude that her hypersensitivity had in some way been learned, that it was a skill anyone could acquire, given the right set of stimuli.

The analysis suite chimed, signalling that it had finished its assay. He leant back in his chair, waiting for the results to be displayed. Harbin’s analysis - histograms, pie charts, genetic and cytological maps - were already up for inspection. Now the data from Rashmika Els’s blood appeared alongside it. Almost immediately the analysis software began to search for correlations and mismatches. Grelier crackled his knuckles. He could see his own reflection, the ghostly white nimbus of his hair floating in the display.

Something wasn’t right.

The correlation software was struggling. It was throwing up red error messages, a plague of them appearing all over the read-out. Grelier was familiar with this: it meant that the software had been told to hunt for correlations at a statistical threshold far above the actual situation. It meant that the two blood samples were far less alike than he had expected.

‘But they’re siblings,’ he said.

Except they weren’t. Not according to their blood. Harbin and Rashmika Els did not appear to be related at all.

In fact, it looked rather unlikely that Rashmika Els had even been born on Hela.

THIRTY-SIX

Interstellar Space, Near Epsilon Eridani, 2698

In the instant of awakening he assumed there had been a mistake. He was still in the black cabinet. Only a moment earlier the technicians had been cutting him open, stuffing tubes into him, pulling pieces out, examining and replacing them like children looking for treats. Now they were here again, white-hooded forms shuffling around him in a gauzy haze of vapour. He found it difficult to focus on them, the white forms blurring and joining like clouds.

‘What ...’he started to say. But he couldn’t speak. There was something packed into his mouth, chafing his throat with sharp edges.

One of the technicians leant into his field of view. The blur of white relaxed into a face framed in a hood, the lower half concealed behind a surgical mask.

‘Easy, Scorp, don’t try talking for a moment.’

He made a sound that was both furious and interrogative. The technician appeared to understand. He pushed back his hood and lowered the mask, revealing a face that Scorpio almost recognised. A man, like the older brother of someone he knew.

‘You’re safe,’ the man said. ‘Everything worked.’

He grunted another question. ‘The wolves?’

‘We took care of them. In the end they evolved - or deployed - some defence against the hypometric weaponry. It just stopped working against them. But we still had the cache weapons we didn’t give to Remontoire.’

‘How many?’ he signalled.

‘We used all but one finishing off the wolves.’

For a moment none of these things meant anything to Scorpio. Then the memories budged into some kind of order, some kind of sense. There was a feeling of dislocation, of standing on one side of a rift that was widening, gaping open to geological depths. The land that had seemed immediately in reach a second or two ago was racing away into the distance, forever inaccessible. The memory of the technicians pushing lines into him suddenly felt ancient, something from a second- or third-hand account, as if it had happened to someone else entirely.

They pulled the breather assembly from his throat. He took ragged breaths, each inhalation feeling as if finely ground glass had been stuffed into his pleural cavity. Was it ever this bad for humans, he wondered, or was reefersleep a special kind of hell for pigs? He guessed no one would ever know for sure.

It was enough to make him laugh. One weapon left. One fucking weapon, out of the nearly forty they had begun with.

‘Let’s hope we saved the best until last,’ he said, when he felt he could manage a sentence. ‘What about the hypometrics? Are you saying they’re just so much junk?’

‘Not yet. Maybe in time, but the local wolves don’t seem to have evolved the defence that the others used. We still have a window of usefulness.’

‘Oh, good. You said “local”. Local to where?’

‘We’ve reached Yellowstone,’ the man said. ‘Or rather, we’ve reached the Epsilon Eridani system, but it isn’t good. We can’t slow down to system speeds, just enough to make the turn for Hela.’

‘Why can’t we slow down? Is something wrong with the ship?’

‘No,’ the man replied. Scorpio had realised by then that he was talking to an older version of Vasko Malinin. Not a young man now, a man. ‘But there is something wrong with Yellowstone.’

He didn’t like the sound of that. ‘Show me,’ Scorpio said.

Before they showed him, he met Aura. She walked into the reefersleep chamber with her mother. The shock of it nearly floored him. He didn’t want to believe it was her, but there was no mistaking those golden-brown eyes. Glints of embedded metal threw prismatic light back at him like oil in water.

‘Hello,’ she said. She held her mother’s hand, standing hip-high against Khouri’s side. ‘They said they were waking you, Scorpio. Are you all right?’

‘I’m all right,’ he replied, which was as much as he was prepared to commit. ‘It was always a risk, going in that thing.’ Understatement of the century, he thought. ‘How are you, Aura?’

‘I’m six,’ she said.

Khouri gripped her daughter’s hand. ‘She’s having one of her child days, Scorp, when she acts more or less the way you’d expect a six-year-old to act. But she isn’t always like this. I just thought you should be prepared.’

He studied the two of them. Khouri looked a little older, but not dramatically so. The lines in her face had a little more definition, as if an artist had taken a soft-edged sketch of a woman and gone over it with a sharp pencil, lovingly delineating each crease and fold of skin. She had grown her hair to shoulder length, parted it to one side, clasping it there with a small slide the colour of ambergris. There were veins of white and silver running through her hair, but these served only to emphasise the blackness of the rest of it. Folds of skin he didn’t remember marked her neck, and her hands were somehow thinner and more anatomical. But she was still Khouri, and had he no knowledge that six years had passed he might not have noticed these changes.

The two of them wore white. Khouri was dressed in a floor-length ruffled skirt and a high-collared white jacket over a scoop-necked blouse. Her daughter wore a knee-length skirt over white leggings, with a simple long-sleeved top. Aura’s hair was a short, tomboyish black crop, the fringe cut straight above her eyes. Mother and daughter stood before him like angels, too clean to be a part of the ship he knew. But perhaps things had changed. It had been six years, after all.

‘Have you remembered anything?’ he asked Aura.

‘I’m six,’ she said. ‘Do you want to see the ship?’

He smiled, hoping it wouldn’t frighten the child. ‘That would be nice. But someone told me there was something else I had to deal with first.’

‘What did they tell you?’ Khouri asked.

‘That it wasn’t good.’

‘Understatement of the century,’ she replied.

But Valensin would not let him out of the reefersleep chamber without a full medical examination. The doctor made him lie back on a couch and submit to the silent scrutiny of the green medical servitors. The machines fussed over his abdomen with scanners and probes while Valensin peeled back Scorpio’s eyelids and shone a migraine-inducing light into his head, tutting to himself as if he had found something slightly sordid hidden away inside.

‘You had me asleep for six years,’ Scorpio said. ‘Couldn’t you have made your examinations then?’

‘It’s the waking that kills you,’ Valensin said breezily. ‘That and the immediate period after revival. Given the antiquity of the casket you just came out of and the unavoidable idiosyncrasies of your anatomy, I’d say you have no more than a ninety-five per cent chance of making it through the next hour.’

‘I feel fine.’

‘If you do, that’s quite some achievement.’ Valensin held up a hand, flicking his fingers around Scorpio’s face. ‘How many?’

‘Three.’

‘Now?’

‘Two.’

‘And now?’

‘Three.’

‘And now?’

‘Three. Two. Is there a point to this?’

‘I’ll need to run some more exhaustive tests, but it looks to me as if you’re exhibiting a ten or fifteen per cent degradation in your peripheral vision.’ Valensin smiled, as if this was exactly the sort of news Scorpio needed: just the ticket for getting him off the couch and putting a spring in his step.

‘I’ve just come out of reefersleep. What do you expect?’

‘More or less what I’m seeing,’ Valensin said. ‘There was some loss of peripheral vision before we put you under, but it has definitely worsened now. There may be some slight recovery over the next few hours, but I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you never get back to where you were.’

‘But I haven’t aged. I was in the casket all the time.’

‘It’s the transitions,’ Valensin said, spreading his hands apologetically. ‘In some respects, they’re as hard on you as staying awake. I’m sorry, Scorp, but this technology just wasn’t made for pigs. The best I can say is that if you’d stayed awake, the loss in vision would have been five to ten per cent worse.’

‘Well, that’s fine, then. I’ll bear it in mind next time. Nothing I like better than having to choose between two equally fucked-up options.’

‘Oh, you made the right decision,’ Valensin said. ‘From a hard-nosed statistical viewpoint, it was your best chance of surviving through the last six years. But I’d think very carefully about the “next time”, Scorp. The same hard-nosed statistical viewpoint gives you about a fifty per cent chance of surviving another reefersleep immersion. After that, it drops to about ten per cent. Throughout your body, your cells will be putting their affairs in order, settling their debts and making sure their wills are up to date.’

‘What does that mean? That I’ve got one more shot in that thing?’

‘About that. You weren’t planning on going back in there in a hurry, were you?’

‘What, with your bedside manner to cheer me up? I’d be mad to.’

‘It’s the lowest form of wit,’ Valensin said.

‘It beats a kick in the teeth.’

Scorpio pushed himself off the couch, sending Valensin’s robots scurrying for cover. Check-out time for the pig, he thought.

Symbols floated in the sphere of a holographic display, resolving into suns, worlds, ships and ruins. Scorpio, Vasko, Khouri and Aura stood before it, their reflections looming spectrally in the sphere’s glass. With them were half a dozen other ship seniors, including Cruz and Urton.

‘Scorp,’ Khouri said, ‘take it easy, all right? Valensin’s a certified prick, but that doesn’t mean you should ignore what he said. We need you in one piece.’

‘I’m still here,’ he said. ‘Anyway, you woke me for a reason. Let’s get the bad news over with, shall we?’

It was worse than anything he could have anticipated.

Wolves had reached Epsilon Eridani, the Yellowstone system. The evidence from departing ships suggested that their depredations had begun only recently. Three light-months from Yellowstone, expanding outwards in all directions, was a ragged shell of lighthuggers: the leading edge of an evacuation wave. He saw them in the display when the scale was adjusted to include the entire volume of surrounding space to a light-year out from Epsilon Eridani. The ships, each marked with its own colourfully annotated symbol - ship ID and vector - looked like startled fish racing in radial lines away from some central threat. Some had pulled slightly ahead of the rest, some were lagging, but the one-gee acceleration ceiling of their drives guaranteed that the shell was only now beginning to lose its symmetry.

On either side of the wave there were hardly any ships. Those few vessels further out must have left Yellowstone before the wolves arrived. They were on routine trade routes. Some of them were travelling so fast that it would be years before news of the crisis caught up with them. Further in, there were a handful of ships - the last to leave, or perhaps they had been unable to maintain their usual acceleration rate for some reason. Closer to Epsilon Eridani, within a light-week of the system, there was no outbound traffic at all. If there were any starships left down in the still-hot ruins, they were not going anywhere in a hurry. There was no indication of in-system traffic, and nor were there any signals being received from the system’s colonies or navigation beacons. Those few ships that had been on approach patterns when the crisis erupted were now engaged in wide, lazy turnarounds. They had heard the warnings and seen the evacuees streaming out in the other direction; now they were trying to head back into interstellar space.

It had taken the wolves a year to sterilise every world around Delta Pavonis. Here, Scorpio doubted that more than half a year had passed since the onset of the cull.

This, however, was a different kind of cull from that which had obliterated Resurgam and its fellow worlds. Around Delta Pavonis, an earlier cull - a million years previously - had already failed, so the Inhibitor elements tasked with the current clean-up operation had gone to extraordinary lengths to make sure the job was done properly this time. They had ripped worlds apart, mining them for raw materials to be assembled into an engine that murdered stars. They had turned it on Delta Pavonis, stabbing deep to the star’s heart and unleashing an arterial gush of core material at fusion temperatures and pressures. They had sprayed this hellfire across the face of Resurgam, incinerating every organism unfortunate enough not to be shielded beneath hundreds of kilometres of crust. If life was ever to arise again on Resurgam, it would have to start almost from scratch. Faced with the unambiguous evidence of two prior extinctions, even other starfaring cultures would want to give the place a wide berth.

But that was not the Inhibitors’ usual modus operandi. Felka had revealed to Clavain that the wolves were not programmed simply to wipe intelligent life out of existence. They were more cunning and purposeful than that, and their task was ultimately more difficult than wholesale extermination. They were designed to hold back the eruption of starfaring life, to keep the galaxy in a state of bucolic pastoralism for the next three billion years. Life, confined to individual worlds, would be shepherded through an unavoidable cosmic crisis in what the wolves viewed as only the moderately distant future. Then, and only then, could it be allowed to teem unchecked. But the preservation of life on the planetary scale was just as much a part of the wolves’ plan as its desire to control expansion on the interstellar scale. To this end, the sterilisation of fertile systems like Delta Pavonis was a tool of last resort. It was a marker of local incompetence. Wolf packs vied for prestige, competing with each other to demonstrate their subtle control over emergent life. Having to destroy first worlds and then a star was a sign of slippage, an unforgivable lapse in attention. It was the sort of thing that might result in a group of wolves being ostracised, denied the latest tips in extinction management.

Around Epsilon Eridani, events were taking place on a more subtle, surgical scale. The attacking efforts were concentrated around the infrastructure of human presence rather than on the worlds themselves. There was no need to sterilise Yellowstone: the planet had never been truly inhabitable in the first place, and the only native life was microscopic. The human colonies on its surface were tenuous, domed affairs. They drew minerals and warmth from the planet, but this was only an expediency: had those resources not existed, the colonies could have been as totally self-sufficient as space habitats. It was enough for the wolves to target them and leave the rest of Yellowstone intact. Where Ferrisville had been, and Loreanville and Chasm City, all that now remained were glaring, molten craters of radioactivity. They winked through the thick yellow smog of the planet’s atmosphere. No one could have survived. No thing could have survived.

It was the same around the planet. Before the Melding Plague, the Glitter Band had been the local name for the twinkling swarm of orbital habitats encircling the planet. Ten thousand jewelled city-states had swung around Yellowstone, nose-to-nose, many with populations in the millions. The Melding Plague had taken the shine off that glory, but Scorpio had only ever known the Glitter Band in its post-plague days, when they renamed it the Rust Belt. Many of the habitats had been airless shells by then, but there were still hundreds more that had managed to hold on to their ecologies, each a festering little microkingdom with its own laws and uniquely tasty opportunities for criminal adventuring. Scorpio hadn’t been greedy. The Rust Belt had been more than sufficient for his needs, especially when he had access to Chasm City as well. But now there was no Rust Belt. A glowing ring system now hung around Yellowstone, a bracelet of cherry-red ruins. There was nothing left larger than a boulder. Every single human artefact had been pulverised. It was horrifying and beautiful.

Not just the Rust Belt, either, but all the way out. The Inhibitor machines had smashed and sterilised all the other human habitats in near-Yellowstone space. Scorpio identified their ruins from their orbits. No Haven, now. No Idlewild. Even Marco’s Eye, the planet’s moon, had been pruned. There was no sign that any structure larger than an igloo had ever existed on its surface. No cities, no spaceports, just a local enhancement in radioactivity and a few interesting trace elements to puzzle over.

Elsewhere in the system, the same story: nothing remained. No habitats. No surface encampments. No ships. No transmitters.

Scorpio wept.

‘How many got out?’ he said, when he could face reality again. ‘Count the ships, tell me how many survivors they could have carried.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Vasko said.

‘What the fuck do you mean, it doesn’t matter? It matters to me. That’s why I’m asking you the fucking question.’

Khouri frowned at him. ‘Scorpio ... she’s only six.’

He looked at Aura. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You don’t understand,’ Vasko said softly. He nodded at the holographic sphere. ‘It’s not real-time, Scorp.’

‘What?’

‘It’s a snapshot. It’s the way things were two months ago.’ Vasko looked at him with his too-adult eyes. ‘Things got worse, Scorp. Let me show you what I’m talking about, and then you’ll understand why it doesn’t make much difference how many got out.’

Vasko ran the holographic display forwards in time. Timecode numerals, logged to worldtime, tumbled in one corner. Scorpio saw the date and felt a lurch of disorientation: 04/07/2698. The numerals were meaningless, too far removed from his own days in Chasm City to have any emotional impact. I wasn’t made for these times, he thought. He had been yanked from the ordinary flow of time and now he was adrift, unmoored from history. He realised, with a shudder of comprehension, that it was precisely this sense of dislocation that shaped the psychologies of Ultras. How much worse must it have been for Clavain?

He watched the ragged shell of the migration wave increase in size, becoming a little less spherical as the distances between the ships increased. And then, one by one, the ships began to disappear. Their icons flashed red and vanished, leaving nothing behind.

Urton was speaking now, her hands folded across her chest. ‘The Inhibitors had already locked on to those escaping ships,’ she said. ‘From the moment the attack began, they didn’t have a hope. The Inhibitors caught up, smothered them, stripped the ships down to make more Inhibitors.’

‘We can even track them mathematically,’ Vasko elaborated, ‘with models based on the mass of raw material in each ship. Each captured vessel becomes the seed for a new wolf expansion sphere.’

The shell was breaking up. There had been hundreds of ships to begin with; now there could not be more than three dozen left. Even some of these last remaining sparks were vanishing from the display.

‘No,’ he said.

‘There was nothing we could do,’ Vasko said. ‘It’s the end of the world, Scorp. That’s all it was ever going to be.’

‘Run it forwards, to the end.’

Vasko complied. The numerals blurred, the scale of the display lurching wider. There were still some ships left: maybe twenty. Scorpio didn’t have the heart to count them. At least a third of them had been the ones that had been approaching Yellowstone when the crisis started. Of the ships in the evacuation wave, not many more than a dozen had made it out this far.

‘I’m sorry,’ Vasko said.

‘You woke me for this?’ Scorpio said. ‘Just to rub my snout in it? Just to show me the utter fucking futility of coming all this way?’

‘Scorpio,’ Aura said chidingly. ‘Please. I’m only six.’

‘We woke you because you ordered us to wake you when we got here,’ Vasko said.

‘We never got anywhere,’ Scorpio said. ‘You said it yourself. We’re turning around, just like those other fortunate sons of bitches. I’ll ask you again: why did you wake me, if it wasn’t to show me this?’

‘Show him,’ Khouri said.

‘There was another reason,’ Vasko said.

The image in the tank wobbled and stabilised. Something new appeared. It was fuzzy, even after the enhancement filters had been applied. The computers were guessing details into existence, constantly testing their assumptions against the faint signal rising above the crackle of background noise. The best that the high-magnification cameras could offer was a rectangular shape with vague suggestions of engine modules and comms blisters.

‘It’s a ship,’ Vasko said. ‘Not a lighthugger. Something smaller, like an in-system shuttle or freighter. It’s the only human spacecraft within two light-months of Epsilon Eridani.’

‘What the hell is it doing out there?’ Scorpio asked.

‘What everyone else was doing,’ Khouri said. ‘Trying to get away from there as quickly as possible. It’s sustaining five gees, but it won’t be able to keep that up for very long.’ She added, ‘If it’s really what it looks like.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She means that we backtracked its point of origin,’ Vasko said. ‘Of course, there’s some guesswork, but we think this is more or less what happened.’

He cut back to the main display showing the shell of expanding lighthuggers. Now the numerals tumbled in reverse. The icon of the shuttle zoomed back into the heart of the expansion, coinciding with a lighthugger that had just popped into existence. Vasko ran the scenario back a little more, then let it run forwards in accelerated time. Now the lighthugger was moving away from Yellowstone, following its own escape trajectory. Scorpio read the ship’s name: Wild Pallas.

The icon winked out. At that same moment the separate emblem of the shuttle raced away from the point where the lighthugger had been.

‘Someone got out,’ Scorpio said, marvelling. ‘Used the shuttle as a lifeboat before the wolves got them.’

‘Not many, if that lighthugger was carrying hundreds of thousands of sleepers,’ Vasko said.

‘If we save a dozen we’ve justified our visit. And that shuttle could easily be carrying thousands.’

‘We don’t know that, Scorp,’ Khouri said. ‘It isn’t transmitting, or at least not along a line of sight we can intercept. No distress codes, nothing.’

‘They wouldn’t be transmitting if they thought the space around them was swarming with wolves,’ Scorpio said, ‘but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t save the poor bastards. That is why you woke me, isn’t it? To decide whether we rescue them or not?’

‘Actually,’ Vasko said, ‘the reason we woke you was to let you know that the ship’s within range of the hypometric weapons. We think it may be safer to destroy it.’

THIRTY-SEVEN

Interstellar Space, Epsilon Eridani, 2698

Scorpio toured the ship. It distracted his mind from dwelling on what had happened to Yellowstone. He kept hoping all this would turn out to be a bad dream, one of those plausible nightmares that sometimes happened during a slow revival from reefersleep. Any moment now this layer of reality was going to peel back and they would be pulling him out of the casket again. The news would be bad: the wolves would still be on their way, but they would not yet have reached Yellowstone. There would still be time to warn the planet - still time to make a difference. If the system had just one more month, millions might be saved. The wolves would still be out there, of course, but any prolongation of life was better than immediate extinction. He had to believe that, or else everything was futile.

But he kept not waking up. This nightmare into which he had woken had the stubborn texture of reality.

He was going to have to get used to it.

Aboard the ship, a great many things had changed while he had been sleeping. Time dilation had compressed the twenty-three-year journey between Ararat and the Yellowstone system into six years of shiptime, with many of the crew staying awake for a significant portion of that time. Some had spent the entire trip warm, unwilling to submit to reefersleep when the future was so uncertain. They had coaxed and nursed the new technologies into life - not just the hypometric weapons, but the other gifts that Remontoire had left. When Scorpio’s companions took him beyond the hull in the observation capsule, they traversed a landscape darker and colder than space itself. Nested in the outer layer of the hull, the cryo-arithmetic engines conjured heat out of existence by a sleight of quantum computation. A technician had tried to explain how the cryo-arithmetic engines worked, but some crucial twist had lost him halfway through. In Chasm City he had once hired an accountant to make his finances disappear from the official scrutiny of the Canopy financial regulators. He had experienced a similar feeling when his accountant explained the devious little principle that underpinned his patented credit-laundering technique: some detail that made his head hurt. Scorpio just couldn’t grasp it. Similarly, he simply couldn’t grasp the paradox of quantum computation that allowed the engines to launder heat away from under the noses of the universe’s thermal regulators.

Just as long as they kept working, just as long they didn’t spiral out of control like they had on Skade’s ship: that was all he cared about.

There was more. The ship was under thrust, but there was no sign of exhaust glare from the Conjoiner drives. The ship slid through space on a wake of darkness.

‘They tweaked the engines,’ Vasko said, ‘did something to the reaction processes deep inside them. The exhaust - the stuff that gives us thrust - doesn’t interact with this universe for very long. Just enough time to impart momentum - a couple of ticks of Planck time - and then it decays away into something we can’t detect. Maybe something that isn’t really there at all.’

‘You’ve learned some physics while I was sleeping.’

‘I had to keep up. But I don’t pretend to understand it.’

‘All that matters is that it’s something the wolves can’t track,’ Khouri said. ‘Or at least not very easily. Maybe if they had a solid lock on us, they could sniff out something. But they’d have to get close for that.’

‘What about the neutrinos coming from the reaction cores?’ Scorpio asked.

‘We don’t see them any more. We think they’ve been shifted into some flavour no one knew about.’

‘And you hope the wolves don’t know about it either.’

‘The one way to find out, Scorp, would be to get too close.’

She meant the shuttle. They knew a little more about it now: it was a blunt-hulled in-system vehicle with no transatmospheric capability, one example of what must have been tens of thousands of similar ships operating in Yellowstone space before the arrival of the wolves. Although a large ship by the standards of shuttles, it was still small enough to have been carried within the lighthugger. There was no guessing how much time the crew and passengers had had to board it, but a ship like that could easily have carried five or six thousand people; more if some of them were frozen or sedated in some way.

‘I’m not turning my back on them,’ Scorpio insisted.

‘They could be wolves,’ Vasko said.

‘They don’t look like wolves to me. They look like people scared for their lives.’

‘Scorp, listen to me,’ Khouri said. ‘We picked up transmissions from some of those lighthuggers before they vanished. Omnidirectional distress broadcasts to anyone who was listening. The early ones, the first to go? They talked about being attacked by the wolves as we know them - machines made from black cubes, like the ones that brought down Skade’s ship. But the ships that went later, they said something different.’

‘She’s right,’ Vasko said. ‘The reports were sketchy - understandable, given that the ships were being overrun by wolf machines - but what came through was that the wolves don’t always look like wolves. They learn camouflage. They learn how to move amongst us, disguising themselves. Once they’d ripped apart one lighthugger, they began to learn how to make themselves look like our ships. They mimicked shuttles and other transports; made exhaust signatures and put out identification signals. It wasn’t perfect - you could tell the difference close up - but it was enough to fool some lighthuggers into staging rescue attempts. They thought they were being good Samaritans, Scorp. They thought they were helping other evacuees.’

‘That’s fine, then,’ Scorpio said. ‘Just gives us an excuse not even to think about rescuing those poor bastards, right?’

‘If they’re wolves, everything we’ve done so far will have been wasted.’ Vasko lowered his voice, as if afraid of disturbing Aura. ‘There are seventeen thousand people on this ship. They’re relatively safe. But you’d be gambling those seventeen thousand lives against the vague chance of saving only a few thousand more.’

‘So we should just let them die, is that it?’

‘If you knew there were only a few dozen people on that ship, what would you do then? Still take that risk?’ Vasko argued.

‘No, of course not.’

‘Then where do you draw the line? When does the risk become acceptable?’

‘It never does,’ Scorpio said. ‘But this is where I draw the line. Here. Now. We’re saving that shuttle.’

‘Maybe you should ask Aura what she thinks,’ Vasko said, ‘because it’s not just about those seventeen thousand lives, is it? It’s about the millions of lives that might depend on Aura’s survival. It’s about the future of the human species.’

Scorpio looked at the little girl, at her white dress and neat hair, the absurdity of the situation pressing in on him like a concrete shroud. No matter her history, no matter what she had already cost them, no matter what else was going on inside her head, it all boiled down to this: she was still a six-year-old girl, sitting there with her mother, speaking when she was spoken to. And now he was going to consult her about a tactical situation upon which depended the lives of thousands.

‘You have an opinion on the matter?’ he asked her.

She looked to her mother first for approval. ‘Yes,’ she said. Her small, clear voice filled the capsule like a flute. ‘I have an opinion, Scorpio.’

‘I’d really like to hear it.’

‘You shouldn’t rescue those people.’

‘You mind if I ask why not?’

‘Because they won’t be people any more,’ she said. ‘And neither will we.’

Scorpio sat in an oversized command chair, in a windowless room that in the days of the old Triumvirate had formed part of the Nostalgia for Infinity’s gunnery-control complex. He felt like a child in an adult’s world of huge furniture, his feet not even touching the chair’s grilled footrest.

He was surrounded by screens showing the cautious approach of the shuttle. Lasers picked it out of the darkness, scribing the boxy blunt-nosed rectangle of its hull. Three-dimensional realisations grew more detailed with each passing second. He could see docking gear, comms antennae, thrusters’ venturi tubes, airlock panels and windows.

‘Be ready, Scorp,’ Vasko said.

‘I’m ready,’ he replied, gripping the makeshift trigger he had ordered installed on the armrest of the command chair. It had been shaped for his trotters, but it still felt alien in his hand. One squeeze, that was all it would take. The three hypometric weapons had been spun up to discharge speed, corkscrewing even now in their shafts and ready for their first shot. They were locked on to the moving target of the shuttle, ready to attack if he squeezed the trigger. So was the one remaining cache weapon and all the other hull-mounted defences. Scorpio hoped that the cache weapon would make some difference if the shuttle suddenly revealed itself to be a wolf machine, but he doubted that the hull-mounted defences would have any effect at all, other than giving the wolves something conspicuous to retaliate against. But there seemed little sense in underplaying his hand. Full-spectrum dominance, that was what Clavain had always said.

But even the hypometric weapons could not be relied upon at such short range. There was a savage, shifting relationship between the size of the target region and the certainty with which its radial distance and direction from the ship could be predetermined. When a target was distant - light-seconds away or further - the target volume could be made large enough to destroy a ship in one go. When the target was closer - when it was only hundreds of metres away, as was now the case - the degree of unpredictability increased vastly. The target volume had to be kept very small, mere metres across, so that it could be positioned with some reliability. The hypometric weapons each needed several seconds to spin up to their discharge speeds after firing, so the best Scorpio could hope for was to inflict an early, crippling wound. He doubted that he would have the chance to spin up and refire the hypometric weapons a second time.

But he hoped it was not going to come to that. When the shuttle was still at a safe distance, there had been talk of sending out one of their own vessels to meet it, so that a crew could verify that it was really what it appeared to be. But Scorpio had vetoed the idea. It would have taken too much time, delaying the rescue of the shuttle long enough for the other wolves to come dangerously close. And even if a human crew got aboard the shuttle and reported back that it was genuine, there would have been no way of knowing for sure that they had not been co-opted by the wolves, their memories sucked dry for codewords. By the same token, he could place no real reliance on the voices and faces of the shuttle’s crew that had been transmitted to the Infinity. They had seemed genuine enough, but the wolves had had millions of years to learn the art of expert, swift mimicry. Doubtless the crews of the lighthuggers had been certain that they were receiving friendly evacuees as well. No, there were only two choices, really: abandon it (probably destroying it to be on the safe side) or stake everything upon it being real. No half-measures. He was certain Clavain would have agreed with this analysis. The only thing he wasn’t certain of was which choice Clavain would have taken in the end. He could be a cold-hearted bastard when the situation demanded it.

Well, so can I, Scorpio thought to himself. But this wasn’t the time.

‘Two hundred metres,’ Vasko called, studying the laser ranger. ‘Getting close, Scorp. Are you certain you don’t have second thoughts?’

‘I’m certain.’

He became aware, joltingly, of Aura’s presence next to him. She appeared less childlike with each apparition. ‘This is too dangerous,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t take this risk, Scorpio. There’s too much to be lost.’

‘You don’t know any more about that shuttle than I do,’ he said.

‘I know that I don’t like it,’ she said.

He gritted his teeth. ‘This isn’t one of your little girl days, is it? This is one of your scary prophet days.’

‘She’s only telling us how she feels,’ Khouri said, sitting on Scorpio’s opposite side. ‘She has that right, doesn’t she, Scorp?’

‘I got the message already,’ he said.

‘Destroy it now,’ Aura said, golden-brown eyes aflame with authority.

‘One-fifty metres,’ Vasko said. ‘I think she means it, Scorp.’

‘I think she’d better shut up.’ But involuntarily his hand tightened on the trigger. He was one twitch away from doing it himself. He wondered how much warning the other ships had received before it was too late to do anything about it.

‘One-thirty. She’s within floodlight range now, Scorp.’

‘Light her up. Let’s see what happens.’

The view shuffled, making way for the grab from the optical cameras, the scene now illuminated by the floods. The shuttle was veering, turning end over end as it made its final approach. The light caught the texture of the hull: battered metal and ceramics, hyperdiamond viewing blisters, scratched and scuffed surface markings, glints of bare metal along the edges of panel lines, spirals of vapour from attitude jets. It looked terribly real, Scorpio thought. Too real, surely, to be the product of wolf camouflage. A wolf machine would only look human from a distance; up close, surely, it would reveal itself to be no more than a crude approximation shaped from myriad black cubes rather than metals and ceramics. There would be no smooth curves, no subtlety of detail, no uneven coloration or signs of damage and repair . . .

‘One-ten,’ Vasko said. ‘Ten metres closer and I’ll be disarming the cache weapon. You fine with that, Scorp?’

‘Copacetic.’

This had always been part of the plan. Any closer and the cache weapon stood a better than average chance of doing real damage to the Nostalgia for Infinity as well as the shuttle. Of course, if they needed the cache weapon in the first place . . . but Scorpio did not want to think about that.

‘Disarmed,’ Vasko said. ‘Ninety-five metres. Ninety.’

The shuttle’s slow tumble brought its tail-parts into view. Scorpio saw gaping exhaust nozzles packed together like multiple gunbarrels. They were still cooling down from operation, sliding down through the spectrum. Retracted tail-mounted landing gear, for dropping down on airless worlds, became visible. Blisters and pods of unguessable function. And something else: scabrous, black encrustations, stepped along geometric lines.

‘Wolf,’ Vasko said, his voice barely a whisper.

Scorpio looked at the ship, his heart frozen. Vasko was right. The black growths were exactly what they had seen around Skade’s ship, in the iceberg.

His hand tightened on the trigger. He could almost feel the hypometric weapons squirming in anticipation.

‘Scorp,’ Vasko said. ‘Kill it. Now.’

He did nothing.

‘Kill it!’ Vasko shouted.

‘It isn’t an impostor,’ Scorpio said. ‘It’s just been infect—’

Vasko seized the hypometric trigger from his hands, snapping it from the seat-rest. It trailed cables behind it. For a drawn-out moment, Vasko fumbled with it, struggling to get his fingers around the weird pig-specific trigger design. Scorpio fought back, leaning over in the seat until he was able to reach Vasko’s hand and wrestle the trigger under his own control once more. He plunged his hand into the complexity of the grip, using his other arm to hold Vasko back.

‘You’ll fucking pay for that,’ he snarled.

But the young man just said, ‘Kill it. Kill it now and deal with me later. It’s seventy-five fucking metres away, Scorp!’

Scorpio felt something cold press against the side of his neck. He whipped his head around, and there was Urton. She was holding something against him. All he could see was a blur of silver in her hand. A gun, or a knife, or a hypodermic - it didn’t make much difference.

‘Drop it, Scorp,’ she said. ‘It’s over.’

‘What is this?’ he asked calmly. ‘A mutiny?’

‘No, nothing that dramatic. Just a regime change.’

Vasko took back the trigger, forced his hand into the guard. ‘Sixtyfive metres,’ he whispered, and closed the trigger.

The lights dimmed.

He was allowed to watch the off-loading of the shuttle’s refugees.

The shuttle had been brought into one of the smaller docking bays and the occupants were now filing off, marshalled by SA guards who were taking down their personal details. Some of the people did not seem entirely certain who they were, or who they were meant to be. Some of them looked relieved to have been rescued. Others just looked weary, as if sensing that this rescue was unlikely to be anything other than a temporary reprieve.

There were about twelve hundred of them, all told, including two dozen crew. None of them had been frozen: the shuttle had not carried reefersleep caskets, and when the wolf takeover of the lighthugger had commenced, there had barely been time to get those thousand-odd people aboard. Several hundred thousand people had been left behind on the lighthugger, to be reprocessed into wolf components. Mercifully, most of them had been frozen when it happened. The wolves might have sunk probes into their heads, but at least most of them would have been unconscious. And perhaps by that point the wolves had gathered all the tactical data they needed. Perhaps by then humans were really only useful to them for the trace elements contained in their bodies.

Interviewing the crew and passengers, they heard horror stories. Some of them had brought documentary recordings with them: first-hand evidence of the wolf onslaught - habitats being ripped apart in an orgy of transformative destructions, spewing out new wolf machines even as the structures crumbled to rubble; shots of Chasm City’s newly rebuilt domes being breached, life and property being sucked into the cold, rushing atmosphere of Yellowstone in spiralling vortices of escaping air; the wolf machines descending into the ruins of the city like clouds of purposeful ink, oblivious to gravity, coalescing around and copulating with the city’s warped and wizened buildings; the buildings swelling, engorged with wolf spawn. They didn’t use killing energy when a process of grinding assimilation was just as efficient.

But when humans fought back, the Inhibitors lashed out with fire ripped from the vacuum itself.

The evacuees spoke of the chaos in the Rust Belt as people tried to get aboard the few remaining starships. Thousands had died in the panic, in the desperate, crowding rush for reefersleep slots. Towards the end, some survivors had been cutting their way into the hulls of lighthuggers, infesting them, hoping to find some liveable niche in the machine-crammed interior. Overwhelmed by the surge of evacuees, the Ultras had either fought back with their own weapons or let their ships be stormed. There had been no checking of documentation, no questions about names or medical histories. Whole identities had been discarded, lives flung aside in a moment of desperation. People carried only their own memories. But reefersleep did terrible things to memories.

They had allowed him to come down here and watch the unloading before he was taken away. He was not bound or cuffed - they had at least allowed him that dignity - but he was under no illusions. They felt that they owed him nothing. It was a privilege to be allowed to witness this process, and he was not going to be allowed to forget it.

The guards were processing an older man who appeared to have forgotten who he was. At some recent point in time he must have been thawed from reefersleep too hastily, perhaps during a transfer of frozen assets from one ship to another. He was gesticulating at the SA officials, trying to make them understand something that was obviously dearly important to him. The man had a grey-white moustache and a thick head of grey-white hair, combed back from his brow in neat grooves. For a moment he looked in Scorpio’s direction and their eyes met. There was something pleading in his expression, a burning desire to reach out and connect with one other living creature capable of understanding his predicament. He desperately wanted someone, somewhere, to understand him. Not to help him, necessarily - there was something in his expression that spoke clearly of tremendous self-reliance and dignity, even now - but just, for one moment, to acknowledge what he felt and share that emotional burden.

Scorpio looked away, knowing he could not give the man what he wanted. When he looked back the man had been processed, moved through the connecting door into the rest of the ship, and the SA officials were working on another lost soul. There were already seventeen thousand sleepers aboard the Infinity, he thought. It was very unlikely that their paths would ever cross again.

‘Seen enough, Scorpio?’ Vasko asked.

‘Guess I have,’ he said.

‘Still haven’t changed your mind?’

‘I guess not.’

‘You were right, Scorp. No one doubts that.’ Vasko looked at the people being processed. ‘We can all see that now. But it was still the wrong thing to do. It was still too much of a risk.’

‘That’s not what the Captain seemed to think. Surprised you, didn’t he?’

Vasko’s hesitation told him everything he needed to know. In truth, he had been as surprised as anyone else. When Vasko had fired the hypometric weapon, it had discharged on schedule. But the targeting had been altered. Rather than destroying the shuttle, the weapon had surgically excised the part where the wolf machinery had established a foothold. The Captain had agreed with Scorpio: the shuttle was not a wolf impostor, just a human ship that happened to have suffered a small degree of Inhibitor infestation. The initial seed must have been tiny, or else the entire shuttle would have been consumed by the time they reached it. But there had still been hope, the Captain had recognised. And in changing the target-setting of the weapon he had revealed that his control over the internal processes of the ship was far more developed than anyone had suspected.

Vasko shrugged. ‘We’ll just have to factor it into our long-term planning. It’s nothing we can’t deal with. The ship’s still headed for Hela, isn’t it? Even the Captain sees that’s the right place to go now.’

‘Just make sure you keep on his right side,’ Scorpio said. ‘Place could get a little uncomfortable otherwise.’

‘The Captain isn’t a problem.’

‘Nor am I, now.’

‘It doesn’t have to be this way. It’s your call, Scorp.’

Yes, his call: whether to stand down from command on the grounds of medical unsuitability, or save his dignity by going back into the casket. What was it Valensin had told him? He had a fifty-fifty chance of making it out alive next time. But even if the casket didn’t kill him he would be a wreck, surviving only by a kind of chemical momentum. One more trip into the casket after that and he’d be pushing the statistics to breaking point.

‘You’re still not going to admit this is mutiny?’ he asked.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Vasko said. ‘We still value your input as a colony senior. No one has ever said otherwise. You’ll still be nominally in charge. It’s just that your role will become more of a consultative one.’

‘Rubber-stamping whatever you and Urton and the rest of your gang decide is the next policy decision?’

‘That sounds terribly cynical.’

‘I should have drowned you when I had the chance,’ Scorpio said.

‘You shouldn’t say that. I’ve learned as much from you as I did from Clavain.’

‘You knew Clavain for about a day, kid.’

‘And how long did you know him, Scorp? Twenty, thirty years? That still wasn’t a scratch against his lifetime. You think it really makes any difference? If you want to make a point of it, then neither of us knew him.’

‘Maybe I didn’t know him,’ Scorpio said, ‘but I know he’d have let that shuttle in, just the way I did.’

‘You’re probably right,’ Vasko said, ‘but it would still have been a mistake. He wasn’t infallible, you know. They didn’t call him the Butcher of Tharsis for nothing.’

‘You’d have deposed him as well, is that what you’re saying?’

Vasko considered the point and then nodded. ‘He’d have been getting old as well. Sometimes you just have to cut out the dead wood.’

Aura came to see him before they put him under again. She stood in front of her mother, knees together, hands together. Khouri was straightening her daughter’s hair, fussing her fringe into shape. They both wore white.

‘I’m sorry, Scorpio,’ Aura said. ‘I didn’t want them to get rid of you.’

He felt like saying something angry, something that would hurt her, but the words stalled in his mouth. He knew, on some fundamental level, that none of this was Aura’s fault. She had not asked for the things that had been put in her head.

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘They’re not getting rid of me. I’m just going to go back to sleep again until they remember how useful I am.’

‘It won’t take them long,’ Khouri said. She knelt down so that her head was at the same level as her daughter’s. ‘You were right,’ she said. ‘No matter what advice Aura gave you, and no matter what the others said, it was the right thing to do. The brave thing. The day we forget that is the day we might as well start calling ourselves wolves as well.’

‘That’s the way I saw it,’ Scorpio said. ‘Thanks for your support. It’s not that I don’t have allies, I just don’t have as many as I need.’

‘None of us are going anywhere in a hurry, Scorp. We’ll still be around when you wake up.’

He acknowledged that with a nod, but kept his thoughts to himself. She knew as well as he did that there was nothing certain about his chances of waking up again.

‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘Planning to sleep this one out?’

He had expected Khouri to answer: the question had been addressed at her. But it was Aura who spoke. ‘No, Scorpio,’ she said. ‘I’m going to stay awake. I’m six now. I want to be older when we reach Hela.’

‘You have it all worked out, don’t you?’

‘Not all of it,’ she said, ‘but I’m remembering more and more each day.’

‘About the shadows?’ he asked.

‘They’re people,’ she said. ‘Not exactly like us, but closer than you’d think. They just live on the other side of something. But it’s very bad there. Something’s gone wrong with their home. That’s why they can’t live there any longer.’

‘Sometimes she speaks of brane worlds,’ Khouri said, ‘mumbles mathematics in her sleep, stuff about folded branes and gravitic signalling across the bulk. We think the shadows are entities, Scorp: the inhabitants of an adjacent universe.’

‘That’s quite a leap.’

‘It’s all there, in the old theories. They might only be a few millimetres away, in the hyperspace of the bulk.’

‘And what does this have to do with us?’

‘Like Aura says, they can’t live there any longer. They want out. They want to come across the gap, into this brane, but they need help from someone on this side to do it.’

‘Just like that? Would there be something in it for us, as well?’

‘She’s always talked about negotiation, Scorp. I think what she meant was that the shadows might be able to help us out with our own local problem.’

‘Provided we let them cross the gap,’ Scorpio said.

‘That’s the idea.’

‘You know what?’ he said, as the technicians began to plumb him in. ‘I think I’m going to have to sleep on this one.’

‘What are you holding in your hand?’ Khouri asked.

He opened his fist, showing her the shard of conch material Remontoire had given him. ‘It’s for luck,’ he said.

THIRTY-EIGHT

Hela, 2727

Rashmika was on her way to the Clocktower when Grelier emerged from the shadows between two pillars. She wondered how long he had been skulking there, waiting on the off chance that she would select this particular route from her quarters.

‘Surgeon-General,’ she said.

‘Like a wee word, if that won’t take too much of your time.’

‘I’m on my way to the garret. The dean has a new Ultra delegation to interview.’

‘This won’t take a moment. I understand how useful you’ve become to him.’

Rashmika shrugged: clearly she was going nowhere until Grelier was done with her. ‘What is it?’ she asked.

‘Nothing much,’ he said, ‘just a small anomaly in your bloodwork. Thought it worth mentioning.’

‘Then mention it,’ she said.

‘Not here, if you don’t mind. Loose lips, and all that.’

She looked around. There was no one else in sight. There was, now that she thought about it, almost never anyone else in sight when the surgeon-general was in the vicinity. He made witnesses melt into the architecture, especially when he did his rounds with the medical case and its arsenal of loaded syringes. Today all he carried was the cane, the head of which he tapped against the bottom of his chin as he spoke.

‘I thought you said it would only take a moment,’ Rashmika said.

‘It will, and it’s on your way. We’ll just make a stop in Bloodwork, and then you can go about your duty.’

He escorted her to the nearest Clocktower elevator, slid the trelliswork door closed and set the carriage in motion. Outside it was daytime. The coloured light from the stained-glass windows slid tints across his face as they rose.

‘Enjoying your work here, Miss Els?’

‘It’s work,’ she said.

‘You don’t sound sparklingly enthusiastic. I’m surprised, frankly. Given what you might have ended up with - dangerous work in a clearance gang - haven’t you landed on your feet?’

What could she tell him? That she was scared to death by the voices that she had started hearing?

No. That wasn’t necessary at all. She had enough rational fears to draw from without invoking the shadows.

‘We’re seventy-five kilometres from Absolution Gap, Surgeon-General, ’ she said. ‘In just under three days this cathedral is going to be crossing that bridge.’ She mimicked his tone of voice. ‘Frankly, there are places I’d rather be.’

‘Alarms you, does it?’

‘Don’t tell me that you’re thrilled at the prospect.’

‘The dean knows what he’s doing.’

‘You think so?’

Green and pink light chased each other across his face. ‘Yes,’ he said.

‘You don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘You’re as scared as I am, aren’t you? You’re a rational man, Surgeon-General. You don’t have his blood in your veins. You know this cathedral can’t be taken over the bridge.’

‘There’s a first time for everything,’ he said. Self-conscious of her attention, he was trying so hard to control his expression that a muscle in the side of his temple had started twitching.

‘He has a death wish,’ Rashmika said. ‘He knows that the vanishings are heading towards a culmination. He wants to mark the occasion with a bang. What better way than to smash the cathedral to dust and make a holy martyr of himself in the process? He’s the dean now, but who’s to say he doesn’t have his mind set on sainthood?’

‘You’re forgetting something,’ Grelier said. ‘He’s thinking beyond the crossing. He wants the long-term protection of Ultras. That isn’t the desire of a man planning suicide in three days. What other explanation is there?’

Unless she was reading him badly, Grelier believed that himself. She began to wonder just how much Grelier really knew about what Quaiche had in mind.

‘I saw something odd when I was on my way here,’ Rashmika said.

Grelier neatened his hair. His usually impeccably tidy white bristle-cut showed signs of distress. It was getting to him, Rashmika thought. He was as scared as everyone else, but he could not let it show.

‘Saw something?’ he echoed.

‘Towards the end of the caravan trip,’ she said, ‘after we’d crossed the bridge and were on our way to meet the cathedrals, we passed a huge fleet of machines moving north - excavating equipment, the sort they use to open out the largest scuttler seams. Whatever it was, it was on its way somewhere.’

Grelier’s eyes narrowed. ‘Nothing strange in that. They’d have been on their way to fix a problem with the Permanent Way before the cathedrals got there.’

‘They were moving in the wrong direction for that,’ Rashmika said. ‘And whatever they were doing, the quaestor didn’t want to talk about them. It was as if he’d been given orders to pretend they didn’t exist.’

‘This has nothing to do with the dean.’

‘But something on that scale could hardly take place without him knowing about it, surely,’ Rashmika said. ‘In fact, he probably authorised it. What do you think it is? A new scuttler excavation he doesn’t want anyone to know about? Something they’ve found that can’t be left to the usual settlement miners?’

‘I have no idea.’ The twitch in the side of his temple had set up camp. ‘I have no idea and I don’t care. My responsibility is to Bloodwork and the dean’s health. That’s all. I have enough on my plate without worrying about interecumenical conspiracies.’ The carriage shuddered to a halt, Grelier shrugging with evident relief. ‘Well, we’re here, Miss Els. And now, if you don’t mind, it’s my turn to ask the questions.’

‘You said it would only take a wee moment.’

He smiled. ‘Well, that may well have been a wee fib.’

He sat her down in Bloodwork and showed her the results of her blood analysis, which had been correlated against some other sample he had not deigned to identify.

‘I was interested in your gift,’ Grelier said, resting his chin on the head of his cane, looking at her with heavy-lidded, heavily bagged eyes. ‘Wanted to know if there was a genetic component. Fair enough, eh? I’m a man of science, after all.’

‘If you say so,’ Rashmika replied.

‘Problem was, I hit a block even before I could start looking for any peculiarities.’ Affectionately, Grelier tapped his medical kit. It was resting on a bench. ‘Blood’s my thing,’ he said. ‘Always has been, always will be. Genetics, cloning, you name it - but it all boils down to good old blood in the end. I dream about the stuff. Torrential, haemorrhaging rivers of it. I’m not what you’d call a squeamish man.’

‘I’d never have guessed.’

‘The thing is, I take a professional pride in understanding blood. Everyone who comes near me gets sampled sooner or later. The archives of the Lady Morwenna contain a comprehensive picture of the genetic make-up of this world, as it has evolved over the last century. You’d be surprised at how distinctive it is, Rashmika. We haven’t been settled in piecemeal fashion, over many hundreds of years. Almost everyone who now lives on Hela is descended from the colonists of a handful of ships, right back to the Gnostic Ascension, all from single points of origin, and all of those worlds have very distinct genetic profiles. The newcomers - the pilgrims, the evacuees, the chancers - make very little difference at all to the gene pool. And of course even their blood is sampled and labelled at their point of entry.’ He took a vial from the case and shook it, inspecting the frothy raspberry-red liquid within. ‘All of which means that - unless you happen to have just arrived on Hela - I can predict what your blood will look like, to a high degree of precision. Even more accurately if I know where you live, so that I can factor in interbreeding. The Vigrid region’s one of my specialities, actually. I’ve studied it a lot.’ He tapped the vial against the side of the display showing the unidentified blood sample. ‘Take this fellow, for instance. Classic Vigrid. Couldn’t be mistaken for the blood of someone from any other place on Hela. He’s so typical it’s almost frightening.’

Rashmika swallowed before speaking. ‘That blood is from Harbin, isn’t it?’ she asked.

‘That’s what the archives tell me.’

‘Where is he? What happened to him?’

‘This man?’ Grelier made a show of reading fine print at the bottom of his display. ‘Dead, it looks like. Killed during clearance work. Why? You weren’t going to pretend he was your brother, were you?’

She felt nothing yet. It was like driving off a cliff. There was an instant when her trajectory carried on normally, as if the world had not been pulled from under her.

‘You know he was my brother,’ she said. ‘You saw us together. You were there when they interviewed Harbin.’

‘I was there when they interviewed someone,’ Grelier said. ‘But I don’t think he could have been your brother.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘In the strict genetic sense, I’m afraid it must be.’ He nodded at the display, inviting her to draw her own conclusion. ‘You’re no more related to him than you are to me. He was not your brother, Rashmika. You were never his sister.’

‘Then one of us was adopted,’ she said.

‘Well, funny you should say that, because it crossed my mind as well. And it struck me that perhaps the only way to get to the bottom of this whole mess was to pop up there myself and have a bit of a nose around. So I’m off to the badlands. Won’t keep me away from the cathedral for more than a day. Any messages you’d like me to pass on, while I’m up there?’

‘Don’t hurt them,’ she said. ‘Whatever you do, don’t hurt them.’

‘No one said anything about hurting anyone. But you know how it is with those communities up there. Very secular. Very closed. Very suspicious of interference from the churches.’

‘You hurt my parents,’ she said, ‘and I’ll hurt you back.’

Grelier placed the vial back in the case, snapped shut its lid. ‘No, you won’t, because you need me on your side. The dean’s a dangerous man, and he cares very much about his negotiations. If he thought for one moment that you weren’t what you said you were, that you might in any way have compromised his discussions with the Ultras . . . well, I wouldn’t want to predict what he might do.’ He paused, sighed, as if they had simply got off on the wrong foot and all he needed to do was spool back to the start of the conversation and everything would be fine. ‘Look, this is as much my problem as yours. I don’t think you’re everything you say you are. This blood of yours looks suspiciously foreign. It doesn’t look as though you ever had ancestors on Hela. Now, there may be an innocent explanation for this, but until I know otherwise, I have to assume the worst.’

‘Which is?’

‘That you’re not at all who or what you say you are.’

‘And why is that a problem for you, Surgeon-General?’ She was crying now, the truth of Harbin’s death hitting her as hard as she had always known it would.

‘Because,’ he said, snarling his answer, ‘I brought you here. It was my bright idea to bring you and the dean together. And now I’m wondering what the hell I’ve brought here. I’m also assuming I’ll be in nearly as much trouble as you if he ever finds out.’

‘He won’t hurt you,’ Rashmika said. ‘He needs you to keep him alive.’

Grelier stood up. ‘Well, let’s just hope that’s the case, shall we? Because a few minutes ago you were trying to convince me he had a death wish. Now dry your eyes.’

Rashmika rode the elevator alone, up through strata of stained-glass light. She cried, and the more she tried to stop crying the worse the tears became. She wanted to think it was because of the news she had just learned about Harbin. Crying would have been the decent, human, sisterly response. But another part of her knew that the real reason she was crying was because of what she had learned about herself, not her brother. She could feel layers of herself coming loose, peeling away like drying scabs, revealing the raw truth of what she was, what she had always been. The shadows had been right: of that she no longer had any doubt. Nor was there was any reason for Grelier to have lied about her blood. He was as disturbed by the discovery as she was.

She felt sorry for Harbin. But not as sorry as she felt for Rashmika Els.

What did it mean? The shadows had spoken of machines in her head; Grelier thought it unlikely that she had even been born on Hela. But her memories said she had been born to a family in the Vigrid badlands, that she was the sister of someone named Harbin. She looked back over her past, examining it with the raptorial eye of someone inspecting a suspected forgery, attentive to every detail. She expected a flaw, a faint disjunction where something had been pasted over something else. But her recent memories flowed seamlessly into the past. Everything that she recalled had the unmistakable grain of lived experience. She didn’t just see her past in her mind’s eye: she heard it, smelt it, felt it, with the bruising, tactile immediacy of reality.

Until she looked back far enough. Nine years, the shadows had said. And then things became less certain. She had memories of her first eight years on Hela, but they felt detached: a sequence of anonymous snapshots. They could have been her memories; they could equally well have belonged to someone else.

But perhaps, Rashmika thought, that was what childhood always felt like from the perspective of adulthood: a handful of time-faded moments, as thin and translucent as stained glass.

Rashmika Els. It might not even be her real name.

The dean waited in his garret with the next Ultra delegation, sunglasses covering the eye-opener. When Rashmika arrived the air had a peculiar stillness, as if no one there had spoken for several minutes. She watched the shattered components of herself prowl through the confusion of mirrors, trying to reassemble the expression on her own face, anxious that there should be no indication of the upsetting conversation she had just had with the surgeon-general.

‘You’re late, Miss Els,’ the dean observed.

‘I was detained,’ she told him, hearing the tremble in her voice. Grelier had made it clear she was to make no mention of her visit to Bloodwork, but some excuse seemed necessary.

‘Have a seat, drink some tea. I was just having a chat with Mr Malinin and Miss Khouri.’

The names, inexplicably, meant something to her. She looked at the two visitors and felt another tingle of recognition. Neither of them looked much like Ultras. They were too normal; there was nothing obviously artificial about either of them, no missing or augmented bits, no suggestion of genetic reshaping or chimeric fusion. He was a tall, slim, dark-haired man, about ten years older than her. Handsome, even, in a slightly self-regarding way. He wore a stiff red uniform and stood with his hands behind his back, as if at attention. He watched her as she sat down and poured herself some tea, taking more interest in her than any of the other Ultras had done. To them she had only ever been part of the scenery, but from Malinin she sensed curiosity. The other one - the woman called Khouri - looked at her with something of the same inquisitiveness. Khouri was a small-framed older woman, sad eyes dominating a sad face, as if too much had been taken from her and not enough given back.

Rashmika thought she had seen both of them before. The woman, in particular.

‘We haven’t been introduced,’ the man said, nodding towards Rashmika.

‘This is Rashmika Els, my advisor,’ the dean said, the tone of his voice indicating that this was all he was prepared to say on the matter. ‘Now, Mr Malinin . . .’

‘You still haven’t properly introduced us,’ he said.

The dean reached out to adjust one of his mirrors. ‘This is Vasko Malinin, and this is Ana Khouri,’ he said, gesturing to each of them in turn, ‘the human representatives of the Nostalgia for Infinity, an Ultra vessel recently arrived in our system.’

The man looked at her again. ‘No one mentioned anything about advisors sitting in on negotiations.’

‘You have a particular problem with that, Mr Malinin? If you do, I can ask her to leave.’

‘No,’ the Ultra said, after a moment’s consideration. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

The dean invited the two visitors to sit down. They took their seats opposite Rashmika, on the other side of the little table where she poured tea.

‘What brought you to our system?’ the dean asked, directing his question to the male Ultra.

‘The usual. We have a belly full of evacuees from the inner systems. Many of them specifically wanted to be brought here, before the vanishings reach culmination. We don’t question their motives, so long as they pay. The others want to be taken further out, as far away from the wolves as possible. We, of course, have our own technical needs. But we don’t plan on staying very long.’

‘Interested in scuttler relics?’

‘We have a different incentive,’ the man said, pressing a crease from his suit. ‘We’re interested in Haldora, as it happens.’

Quaiche reached up and unclipped his sunglasses. ‘Aren’t we all?’

‘Not in the religious sense,’ the Ultra replied, apparently unfazed by Quaiche lying there with his splayed-open eyelids. ‘But it’s not our intention to undermine anyone’s belief system. However, since this system was discovered, there’s been almost no scientific investigation into the Haldora phenomenon. Not because no one has wanted to examine it, but because the authorities here - including the Adventist church - have never permitted close-up examinations.’

‘The ships in the parking swarm are free to use their sensors to study the vanishings,’ Quaiche said. ‘Many have done so, and have circulated their findings to the wider community.’

‘True,’ the Ultra said, ‘but those long-distance observations haven’t been taken very seriously beyond this system. What’s really needed is a detailed study, using physical probes - instrument packages fired into the face of the planet, that kind of thing.’

‘You might as well spit in the face of God.’

‘Why? If this is a genuine miracle, it should withstand investigation. What do you have to fear?’

‘God’s ire, that’s what.’

The Ultra examined his fingers. Rashmika read his tension like a book. He had lied once, when he told the dean about the ship being full of evacuees who wanted to witness the vanishings. There might be a host of mundane reasons for that. Beyond that he had told the truth, so far as she was able to judge. Rashmika glanced at the woman, who had said nothing yet, and felt another electric shock of recognition. For a moment their eyes met, and the woman held the gaze for a second longer than Rashmika found comfortable. It was Rashmika who looked away, feeling the blood rush to her cheeks.

‘The vanishings are reaching culmination,’ the Ultra said. ‘No one disputes this. But it also means that we do not have much time to study Haldora as it is now.’

‘I can’t allow it.’

‘It has happened once before, hasn’t it?’

The light caught the frame of his eye-opener as he turned towards the man. ‘What has?’

‘The direct probing of Haldora,’ the Ultra said. ‘On Hela, so far as we can gather, there are rumours of an unrecorded vanishing, one that happened about twenty years ago. A vanishing that lasted longer than the others, but which has now been stricken from the public record.’

‘There are rumours about everything,’ Quaiche said, sounding peevish.

‘It’s said that the prolonged event was the result of an instrument package being sent into the face of Haldora at the moment of an ordinary vanishing. Somehow it delayed the return of the normal three-dimensional image of the planet. Stressed the system, perhaps. Overloaded it.’

‘The system?’

‘The mechanism,’ the Ultra said. ‘Whatever it is that projects an image of the gas giant.’

‘The mechanism, my friend, is God.’

‘That’s one interpretation.’ The Ultra sighed. ‘Look, I didn’t come here to irritate you, only to state our position honestly. We believe that an instrument package has already been sent into the face of Haldora, and that it was probably done with Adventist blessing.’ Rashmika thought again about the scratchy markings Pietr had shown her, and what she had been told by the shadows. It was true, then: there really had been a missing vanishing, and it was in that moment that the shadows had sent their bodiless envoy - their agent of negotiation - into the scrimshaw suit. The same suit they wanted her to remove from the cathedral, before it was dashed to pieces on the floor of Ginnungagap Rift.

She forced her attention back to the Ultra, for fear of missing something crucial. ‘We also believe that no harm can come from a second attempt,’ he said. ‘That’s all we want: permission to repeat the experiment.’

‘The experiment that never happened,’ Quaiche said.

‘If so, we’ll just have to be the first.’ The Ultra leaned forwards in his seat. ‘We’ll give you the protection you require for free. No need to offer us trade incentives. You can continue to deal with other Ultra parties as you have always done. In return, all we ask for is the permission to make a small study of Haldora.’

The Ultra leant back. He glanced at Rashmika and then looked out of one of the windows. From the garret, the line of the Way was clearly visible, stretching twenty kilometres into the distance. Very soon they would see the geological transitions that marked the approach of the Rift. The bridge could not be far below the horizon.

Fewer than three days, she thought. Then they’d be on it. But it wouldn’t be over quickly, even then. At the cathedral’s usual crawl it would take a day and a half to make the crossing.

‘I do need protection,’ Quaiche said, after a great silence. ‘And I suppose I am prepared to be flexible. You have a good ship, it seems. Heavily armed, and with a sound propulsion system. You’d be surprised how difficult it has been to find a ship that can meet my requirements. By the time they get here, most ships are on their last legs. They’re in no fit state to act as a bodyguard.’

‘Our ship has some idiosyncrasies,’ the Ultra said, ‘but yes, it is sound. I doubt that there’s a better-armed ship in the parking swarm.’

‘The experiment,’ Quaiche said. ‘It wouldn’t be anything more than the dropping of an instrument package?’

‘One or two. Nothing fancy.’

‘Sequenced with a vanishing?’

‘Not necessarily. We can learn a great deal at any time. Of course, if a vanishing chooses to happen ... we’ll be sure to have an automated drone stationed within response distance.’

‘I don’t like the sound of any of this,’ Quaiche said. ‘But I do like the sound of protection. I take it you have studied the rest of my terms?’

‘They seem reasonable enough.’

‘You agree to the presence of a small Adventist delegation on your ship?’

‘We don’t really see why it’s necessary.’

‘Well, it is. You don’t understand the politics of this system. It’s no criticism: after only a few weeks here, I wouldn’t expect you to. But how are you going to know the difference between a genuine threat and an innocent transgression? I can’t have you shooting at everything that comes within range of Hela. That wouldn’t do at all.’

‘Your delegates would take those decisions?’

‘They’d be there in an advisory capacity,’ Quaiche said, ‘nothing more. You won’t have to worry about every ship that comes near Hela, and I won’t have to worry about your weapons being ready when I need them.’

‘How many delegates?’

‘Thirty,’ Quaiche said.

‘Too many. We’ll consider ten, maybe twelve.’

‘Make it twenty, and we’ll say no more on the matter.’

The Ultra looked at Rashmika again, as if it was her advice that he sought. ‘I’ll have to discuss this with my crew,’ he said.

‘But in principle, you don’t have any strong objections?’

‘We don’t like it,’ Malinin said. He stood up, straightened his uniform. ‘But if that’s what it takes to get your permission, we may have no choice but to accept it.’

Quaiche bobbed his head emphatically, sending a sympathetic ripple through his attendant mirrors. ‘I’m so pleased,’ he said. ‘The moment you came through that door, Mr Malinin, I knew you were someone I could do business with.’

THIRTY-NINE

Hela Surface, 2727

When the Ultras’ shuttle had departed, Quaiche turned to her and said, ‘Well? Are they the ones?’

‘I think they are,’ she said.

‘The ship looks very suitable from a technical standpoint, and they certainly want the position very badly. The woman didn’t give us much to go on. What about the man: did you sense that Malinin was hiding anything?’

This was it, she thought: the crux moment. She had known that Vasko Malinin meant something important as soon as she heard his name: it had felt like the right key slipping into a lock after so many wrong ones, like the sequenced falling of well-oiled tumblers.

She had felt the same thing when she had heard the woman’s name.

I know these people, she thought. They were older than she remembered them, but their faces and mannerisms were as familiar to her as her own flesh and blood.

There had been something in Malinin’s manner, too: he knew her, just as she knew him. The recognition went both ways. And she had sensed, too, that he was hiding something. He had lied blatantly about his motive for coming to Hela, but there had been more to it than that. He wanted more than just the chance to make an innocent study of Haldora.

This was it: the crux moment.

‘He seemed honest enough,’ Rashmika said.

‘He did?’ the dean asked.

‘He was nervous,’ she replied, ‘and he was hoping you wouldn’t ask too many questions, but only because he wants his ship to get the position.’

‘It’s odd that they should show such an interest in Haldora. Most Ultras are only interested in trade advantages.’

‘You heard what he said: the market’s crashed.’

‘Still doesn’t explain his interest in Haldora, though.’

Rashmika sipped at her tea, hoping to hide her own expression. She was nowhere near as successful at lying as she was adept at its detection.

‘Doesn’t really matter, does it? You’ll have your representatives aboard their ship. They won’t be able to get up to anything fishy with a bunch of Adventists breathing down their necks.’

‘There’s still something,’ Quaiche said. With no visitors to intimidate he had replaced his sunglasses, clipping them into place over the eye-opener. ‘Something I just can’t put my finger . . . I know, did you see the way he kept looking at you? And the woman, too? Odd, that. The others have barely looked at you.’

‘I didn’t notice,’ she said.

Hela Orbit, 2727

Vasko felt his weight increase as the shuttle pushed them back towards orbit. As the vessel altered its course, he saw the Lady Morwenna again, looking tiny and toylike compared to when they had first approached it. The great cathedral sat alone on its own diverging track of the Permanent Way, so far from the others that it appeared to have been cast into the icy wilderness for some unspeakable heresy, excommunicated from the main family of cathedrals. He knew it was moving, but at this distance the cathedral might as well have been fixed to the landscape, turning with Hela. It took ten minutes to travel its own length, after all.

He looked at Khouri, sitting next to him. She had said nothing since they left the cathedral.

An odd thought occurred to him, popping into his mind from nowhere. All this trouble that the cathedrals went to - the great circumnavigation of Hela’s equator - was undertaken to ensure that Haldora was always overhead, so that it could be observed without interruption. And that was because Hela had not quite settled into synchronous rotation around the larger planet. How much simpler it would have been had Hela reached that state, so that it always kept the same face turned towards Haldora. Then all the cathedrals could have gathered at the same spot and set down roots. There would have been no need for them to move, no need for the Permanent Way, no need for the unwieldy culture of support communities that the cathedrals both depended upon and nurtured. And all it would have taken was a tiny adjustment in Hela’s rotation. The planet was like a clock that almost kept time. It only needed a tiny nudge to fall into absolute, ticking synchrony. How much? Vasko ran the numbers in his head, not quite believing what they told him. The length of Hela’s day would only have to be changed by one part in two hundred. Just twelve minutes out of the forty hours.

He wondered how any of them could keep their faith knowing that. For if there was anything miraculous about Haldora, why would the Creator have slipped up over a matter of twelve minutes in forty hours when arranging Hela’s diurnal rotation? It was a glaring omission, a sign of cosmic sloppiness. Not even that, Vasko corrected himself. It was a sign of cosmic obliviousness. The universe didn’t know what was happening here. It didn’t know and it didn’t care. It didn’t even know that it didn’t know.

If there was a God, he thought, then there wouldn’t be wolves. They weren’t part of anyone’s idea of heaven and hell.

The shuttle banked away from the cathedral. He could see the rough, ungraded surface of the Permanent Way stretching ahead of the Lady Morwenna. But it did not stretch very far before meeting the dark, shadowed absence of Ginnungagap Rift. Vasko knew exactly what the locals called it.

The Way appeared to end at the edge of Absolution Gap. On the far side of the Rift, forty kilometres from the near side, the road continued. There appeared to be nothing in between but forty kilometres of empty space. It was only when the shuttle had climbed a little higher that a particular angle of the light picked out the absurdly delicate filigree of the bridge, as if it had been breathed into being just at that moment.

Vasko looked at the bridge, then back to the cathedral. It still appeared to be stationary, but he could see that the landmarks that had been next to it a few minutes earlier were now just behind it. The crawl was slug-slow, but there was also an inevitability about it.

And the bridge did not look remotely capable of carrying the cathedral to the other side of the rift.

He opened the secure channel to the larger shuttle waiting in orbit, the one that would relay his signal to the Nostalgia for Infinity, which was still waiting in the parking swarm.

‘This is Vasko,’ he said. ‘We’ve made contact with Aura.’

‘Did you get anything?’ asked Orca Cruz.

He looked at Khouri. She nodded, but said nothing.

‘We got something,’ Vasko said.

Aboard the Nostalgia for Infinity, Parking Swarm, 107 Piscium, 2727

Scorpio came to consciousness knowing that this sleep had been even longer than the one before. He could feel the messages of chemical protestation from his cells flooding his system as they were cajoled back towards the grudging labour of metabolism. They were picking up tools like disgruntled workers, ready to down them for good at the slightest provocation. They had had enough mistreatment for one lifetime. Join the club, Scorpio thought. It was not as if the management was enjoying it, either.

He groped back into memory. He recalled, clearly enough, the episode of waking in the Yellowstone system. He remembered seeing the evidence of the wolves’ handiwork, Yellowstone and its habitats reduced to ruins, the system gutted. He remembered also the part he had played in the dispute over the evacuees. He had won that particular battle - the shuttle had been allowed aboard - but it seemed that he had lost the war. The choice had been his: surrender command and submit to a passive role as an observer, or go into the freezer again. Practically, the two amounted to the same thing: he would be out of the picture, leaving the running of the ship to Vasko and his allies. But at least if frozen he would not have to stand there watching it happen. It was a small compensation, but at his point in life it was the small compensations that mattered.

And now at last he was being awoken. His position aboard the ship might be just as compromised as before he went under, but at least he would have the benefit of some different scenery.

‘Well?’ he asked Valensin, while the doctor ran his usual battery of tests. ‘Ducked the odds again, didn’t I?’

‘You always had an even chance of surviving it, Scorpio, but that doesn’t make you immortal. You go into that thing again, you won’t come out of it.’

‘You said I had a ten per cent chance of survival the next time.’

‘I was trying to cheer you up.’

‘It’s worse than that?’

Valensin pointed at the reefersleep casket. ‘You climb into that box one more time, we might as well paint it black and put handles on it.’

But the true state of his current health, even when he filtered out Valensin’s usual tendency to put a positive spin on things, was still bad. In some respects it was as if he had not been in the casket at all; as if the flow of time had operated on him with stealthy disregard for the supposed effects of cryogenic stasis. His vision and hearing had degenerated further. He could barely see anything in his peripheral vision now, and even in full view, things that had been sharp before now appeared granular and milky. He kept having to ask Valensin to speak up above the churn of the room’s air conditioners. He had never had to do that before. When he walked around he found himself tiring quickly, always looking for somewhere to rest and catch his breath. His heart and lung capacities had weakened. Pig cardiovascular systems had been engineered by commercial interests for maximum ease of transgenic transplantation. The same interests hadn’t been overly concerned about the longevity of their products. Planned obsolescence, they called it.

He had been fifty when he left Ararat. To all intents and purposes he was still fifty: he had lived through only a few subjective weeks of additional time. But the transitions to and from reefersleep had put another seven or eight years on the clock, purely because of the battering his cells had taken. It would have been worse if he had stayed awake, living through all those years of shiptime, but not by very much.

Still, he was alive. He had lived through more years of worldtime than most pigs. So what if he was pushing the envelope of pig longevity? He was weakened, but he wasn’t on his back just yet.

‘So where are we?’ he asked Valensin. ‘I take it we’re around 107 Piscium. Or did you just wake me up to tell me how bad an idea it was to wake me up?’

‘We’re around 107 Piscium, yes, but you still need to do a little catching up.’ Valensin helped him off the examination couch, Scorpio noticing that the two old servitors had finally broken down and been consigned to new roles as coat racks, standing guard on either side of the door.

‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ Scorpio said. ‘How long has it been? What’s the year?’

‘Twenty-seven twenty-seven,’ Valensin said. ‘And no, I don’t like the sound of that any more than you do. One other thing, Scorpio.’

‘Yes?’

Valensin handed him a curved white shard, like a flake of ice. ‘You were holding this when you went under. I presumed it had some significance.’

Scorpio took the piece of conch material from the doctor.

There was something wrong, something that no one was telling him. Scorpio looked at the faces around the conference table, trying to see it for himself. Everyone that he would have expected to be there was present: Cruz, Urton, Vasko, as well as a good number of seniors he did not know so well. Khouri was also there. But now that he saw her he realised the obvious, screaming absence. There was no sign of Aura.

‘Where is she?’ he asked.

‘She’s all right, Scorp,’ Vasko said. ‘She’s safe and well. I know because I’ve just seen her.’

‘Someone tell him,’ Khouri said. She looked older than last time, Scorpio thought. There were more lines on her face, more grey in her hair. She wore it short now, combed across her brow. He could see the shape of her skull shining through the skin.

‘Tell me what?’ he asked.

‘How much did Valensin explain?’ Vasko asked him.

‘He told me the date. That was about it.’

‘We had to take some difficult decisions, Scorp. In your absence, we did the best we could.’

In my absence, Scorpio thought: as if he had walked out on them, leaving them in the lurch when they most needed him; making him feel as if he was the one at fault, the one who had shirked his responsibilities.

‘I’m sure you managed,’ he said, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had woken up with a headache. It was still there.

‘We arrived here in 2717,’ Vasko said, ‘after a nineteen-year flight from the Yellowstone system.’

The back of Scorpio’s neck prickled. ‘That’s not the date Valensin just gave me.’

‘Valensin didn’t lie,’ Urton said. ‘The local system date is 2727. We arrived around Hela nearly ten years ago. We’d have woken you then, but the time wasn’t right. Valensin told us we’d only get one shot. If we woke you then, you’d either be dead now or frozen again with only a small chance of revival.’

‘This is the way it had to happen, Scorp,’ Vasko said. ‘You were a resource we couldn’t afford to squander.’

‘You’ve no idea how good that makes me feel.’

‘What I mean is, we had to think seriously about when would be the best time to wake you. You always told us to wait until we’d arrived around Hela.’

‘I did, didn’t I?’

‘Well, think of this as our proper arrival. As far as the system authorities are concerned - the Adventists - we’ve only shown up in the last few weeks. We left and came back again, making a loop through local interstellar space.’

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘Because of what had to happen,’ Vasko said. ‘When we got here ten years ago, we realised that the situation in this system was vastly more complex than we’d anticipated. The Adventists controlled access to Haldora, the planet that keeps vanishing. You had to deal with the church to get near Hela, and even then you weren’t allowed to send any probes anywhere near the gas giant.’

‘You could have shot your way in, taken what you wanted by force.’

‘And risked a bloodbath? There are a million innocent civilians on Hela, not to mention all the tens of thousands of sleepers in the ships parked in this system. And it’s not as if we knew exactly what we were looking for. If we’d come in with guns blazing, we might have destroyed the very thing we needed, or at the very least made sure that we’d never get our hands on it. But if we could get close to Quaiche, then we could get at the problem from the inside.’

‘Quaiche is still alive?’ Scorpio asked.

‘We know that for sure now - Khouri and I met him today,’ Vasko said. ‘But he’s a recluse, kept alive with faltering longevity therapies. He never leaves the Lady Morwenna, his cathedral. He doesn’t sleep. He’s had his brain altered so that he doesn’t need to. He doesn’t even blink. He spends every waking instant of his life staring at Haldora, waiting for it to blink instead.’

‘He’s insane, then.’

‘In his situation, wouldn’t you be? Something awful happened to him down there. It pushed him over the edge.’

‘He has an indoctrinal virus,’ Cruz said. ‘It’s always been in his blood, since before he came to Hela. Now there’s a whole industry down there, fractioning it off, splicing it into different grades, mixing it with other viruses brought in by the evacuees. They say he has moments of doubt, when he realises that everything he’s created here is a sham. That deep down inside he knows the vanishings are a rational phenomenon, not a miracle. That’s when he has a new strain of the indoctrinal virus pumped back into his blood.’

‘Difficult man to get to know, sounds like,’ Scorpio observed.

‘More difficult than we anticipated,’ Vasko said. ‘But Aura saw the way. It was her plan, Scorp, not ours.’

‘And the plan was?’

‘She went down there nine years ago,’ Khouri said, looking straight at him, as if the two of them were alone in the room. ‘She was eight years old, Scorp. I couldn’t stop her. She knew what she’d been sent out into the world to do, and it was to find Quaiche.’

He shook his head. ‘You didn’t send an eight-year-old girl down there alone. Tell me you didn’t do it.’

‘We had no choice,’ Khouri said. ‘Trust me. I’m her mother. Trying to stop her from going down there was like trying to stop a salmon swimming upriver. It was going to happen whether we liked it or not.’

‘We found a family,’ Vasko said. ‘Good people, living in the Vigrid badlands. They had a son, but they’d lost their only daughter in an accident a couple of years earlier. They didn’t know who or what Aura was, only that they weren’t to ask too many questions. They were also told to treat her exactly as if she’d always been with them. They fell into the role very easily, telling her stories of things that their other daughter had done when she was younger. They loved her very much.’

‘Why the pretence?’

‘Because she didn’t remember who she really was,’ Khouri said. ‘She buried her own memories, suppressing them. She’s halfway to being a Conjoiner. She can arrange her own head the way the rest of us arrange furniture. It wasn’t all that difficult for her to do, once she realised it had to happen.’

‘Why?’ he asked.

‘So that she’d fit in without her whole life becoming an act. If she believed she’d been born on Hela, so would the people she met.’

‘That’s horrific.’

‘You think it was any easier for me, Scorp? I’m her mother. I was with her the day she decided to forget me. I walked into the same room as her and she barely noticed me.’

He gradually learned the rest of the story, doing his best to ignore the sense of unreality he felt. More than once he had to examine his surroundings, convincing himself that this was not just another revival nightmare. He felt foolish, having slept through all these machinations. But their story, or at least what he had been told of it, was seamless. It also had, he was forced to admit, a brutal inevitability. It had taken the Nostalgia for Infinity decades to reach Hela: more than forty years just travelling from Ararat via the Yellowstone system. But Aura’s mission had begun long before that, when she was hatched within the matrix of the Hades neutron star. Given all the time that she had been on her way, an extra nine years was really not all that serious an addition. Yes: now that he put it like that, it all made a horrid kind of sense. But only if you chose not to view the universe through the eyes of a pig close to the end of his life.

‘She didn’t really forget anything,’ Vasko said. ‘It was just buried subconsciously, planted there to bubble up as she grew older. We knew that sooner or later she would start to be compelled by those hidden memories, even if she didn’t know exactly what was going on herself.’

‘And?’ Scorpio asked.

‘She sent us a signal. It was to warn us that she was on her way to meet Quaiche. That was our cue to start making approaches to the Adventists. By the time we got through to him, Aura had already worked her way into his confidence.’

The leather of Scorpio’s jacket creaked as he folded his arms across his chest. ‘She just strolled into his life?’

‘She’s his advisor,’ Vasko said. ‘Sits in on his dealings with Ultras. We don’t know exactly what she’s doing there, but we can guess. Aura had - has - a gift. We saw it even when she was a baby.’

‘She can read our faces better than we can,’ Khouri said, ‘can tell if we’re lying, if we’re sad when we say we’re happy. It doesn’t have anything to do with her implants, and it won’t have gone away just because she hid those memories of herself.’

‘She must have drawn attention to herself,’ Vasko said, ‘made herself irresistible to Quaiche. But that was really just a short cut to his attention. Sooner or later she’d have found her way there, no matter what the obstacles. It was what she was born to do.’

‘Did you talk to her?’ Scorpio asked.

‘No,’ Vasko said. ‘It wasn’t possible. We couldn’t let Quaiche suspect that we’d ever met. But Khouri has the same implants, with the same compatibilities.’

‘I was able to dig into her memories,’ Khouri said, ‘once we were in the same room. It was close enough for direct contact between our implants without her suspecting anything.’

‘You revealed yourself to her?’ Scorpio asked.

‘No. Not yet,’ Khouri said. ‘She’s too vulnerable. It’s safer if she doesn’t remember everything straight away. That way she can continue to play the role Dean Quaiche expects of her. If he suspects she’s an Ultra spy, she’s in as much trouble as we are.’

‘Let’s hope no one takes too close an interest in her, then,’ Scorpio said. ‘How long are we looking at before she remembers everything on her own?’

‘Days,’ Khouri said. ‘No more than that. Maybe less. The cracks must already be showing.’

‘About these talks with the dean,’ Scorpio said. ‘Would you mind telling me exactly what was discussed?’

Vasko told him what he had talked about with the dean. Scorpio could tell that he was glossing over details, omitting anything not strictly essential. He learned of the dean’s request for a ship to provide local defence duties for Hela, orbiting the planet, sponsored by the Adventists. He learned that many Ultras were unwilling to accept the contract even with the sweeteners Quaiche had offered. They were frightened that their ships would be damaged by whatever had destroyed the Gnostic Ascension, the ship that had originally brought Quaiche to Hela.

‘But that isn’t a problem for us,’ Vasko said. ‘The risk is probably overstated in any case, but even if something does take a pot shot at us, we’re not exactly lacking defences. We’ve kept all the new technologies hidden ever since we approached the system, but that doesn’t mean we can’t turn them on again if we need them. I doubt that we’d have much to worry about from a few buried sentry weapons.’

‘And for that protection, Quaiche is willing to let us take a closer look at Haldora?’

‘Grudgingly,’ Vasko said. ‘He still doesn’t like the idea of anyone poking sticks into the face of his miracle, but he wants that protection very badly.’

‘Why is he so scared? Have other Ultras been causing trouble?’

Vasko shrugged. ‘The occasional incident, but nothing serious.’

‘Sounds like an overreaction, in that case.’

‘It’s his paranoia. There’s no need to second-guess him, so long as it gives us a licence to get close to Haldora without firing a gun.’

‘Something isn’t right,’ Scorpio said, his headache returning, having gone away and sharpened itself.

‘You’re naturally cautious,’ Vasko said. ‘There’s no fault in that. But we’ve waited nine years for this. This is our one chance. If we don’t take it, he’ll make the contract with another ship.’

‘I still don’t like it.’

‘Maybe you’d feel differently if it was your plan,’ Urton said. ‘But it’s not. You were sleeping while we put this together.’

‘That’s all right,’ he said, obliging her with a smile. ‘I’m a pig. We don’t do long-term plans anyway.’

‘What she means is,’ Vasko said, ‘try to see it from our side. If you’d lived through all the years of waiting, you’d see things differently.’ He leant back in his seat and shrugged. ‘Anyway, what’s done is done. I told Quaiche that we’d have to discuss the issue of the delegates, but other than that, all we’re waiting for is the agreement to come through from his side. Then we can go on in.’

‘Wait,’ Scorpio said, raising his hand. ‘Did you say delegates? What delegates?’

‘Quaiche insists on it,’ Vasko said. ‘Says he’ll need to station a small party of Adventists on the ship.’

‘Over my dead body.’

‘It’s all right,’ Urton said. ‘The arrangement is reciprocal. The church sends up a party, we send one down to the cathedral. It’s all above board.’

Scorpio sighed. What point was there in arguing? He was already tired, and all he had done was sit in on this discussion. This discussion in which everything was already agreed, and he was - to all intents and purposes - relegated to the role of passive observer. He could object all he wanted, but for all the difference he made he might as well have stayed in the reefersleep casket.

‘You’re making a serious mistake,’ he said. ‘Trust me on this.’

Hela Surface, 2727

Captain Seyfarth was a slight, unsmiling man with a small thin-lipped mouth ideally evolved for the registering of contempt. In fact, beyond his neutral calm, Quaiche had never known the captain of the Cathedral Guard to show any other emotion. Even Seyfarth’s contempt was deployed sparingly, like a very expensive, difficult to procure item of military ordnance. It was usually in connection with his opinion of someone else’s security arrangements. He was a man who liked his work very much, and little else. He was, in Quaiche’s opinion, the perfect man for the job.

Standing in the garret, he wore the highly polished armour of the Guard, with his pink-plumed ceremonial vacuum helmet tucked under his arm. The ostentatiously flanged and recurved armour was the deep maroon of arterial blood. Many medals and ribbons had been painted on the chest-plate, commemorating the actions Seyfarth had led in defence of the Lady Morwenna’s interests. Officially, they had all been above board and within the generally accepted rules of Way behaviour. He had fought off raiding parties of disgruntled villagers; he had repelled hostile actions by rogue trading elements, including small parties of Ultras. But there had been covert operations as well, matters too delicate to commemorate: pre-emptive sabotage of both the Permanent Way and other cathedrals; the discreet removal from the church hierarchy of progressive elements hostile to Quaiche. Assassination was too strong a word, but that, too, was within Seyfarth’s repertoire of possible effects. He had the kind of past best left unmentioned. It included wars and war crimes.

But he remained fiercely loyal to Quaiche. In thirty-five years of service, there had been enough opportunities for Seyfarth to betray his master in return for personal advancement. It had never happened; all he cared about was the excellence with which he discharged his duty as Quaiche’s protector.

It had still been a risk, all the same, for Quaiche to let him know of his plans in advance. Everyone else involved - even the master of holdfast construction - needed to know only certain details. Grelier knew nothing at all. But Seyfarth required an overview of the entire scheme. He was the one, after all, who was going to have to take the ship.

‘It’s going to happen, then,’ Seyfarth said. ‘I wouldn’t have been called here otherwise.’

‘I’ve found a willing candidate,’ Quaiche said. ‘More importantly, one that also suits my needs.’ He passed Seyfarth a picture of the starship, captured by spy remotes. ‘What do you think? Can you do the business?’

Seyfarth took his time studying the picture. ‘I don’t like the look of it,’ he said. ‘All that gothic ornamentation ... it looks like a chunk of the Lady Morwenna, flying through space.’

‘All the more appropriate, then.’

‘My objection stands.’

‘You’ll have to live with it. No two Ultra ships look alike, and we’ve seen stranger. Anyway, the holdfast can accommodate any hull profile, within reason. This won’t pose any problems. And it’s what’s inside that really matters.’

‘You’ve managed to put a spy aboard?’

‘No,’ Quaiche said. ‘Too little time. But it doesn’t matter. They’ve more or less agreed to accept a small party of Adventist observers. That’s all we need.’

‘And the condition of the engines?’

‘Nothing to cause alarm. We observed her approach: everything looked clean and stable.’

Seyfarth was still studying the picture, his lips signalling the contempt Quaiche recognised so well. ‘Where had she come from?’

‘Could have been anywhere. We didn’t see her until she was very near. Why?’

‘There’s something about this ship that I don’t like.’

‘You’d say that no matter which one I offered you. You’re a born pessimist, Seyfarth: that’s why you’re so good at your work. But the matter is closed. The ship’s already been selected.’

‘Ultras aren’t to be trusted,’ he said. ‘Now more than ever. They’re as scared as everyone else.’ He flicked the picture, making it crack. ‘What is it they want, Quaiche? Have you asked yourself that?’

‘What I’m giving them.’

‘Which is?’

‘Favoured trading incentives, first refusal on relics, that kind of thing. And ...’ He left the sentence unfinished.

‘And what?’

‘They’re mainly interested in Haldora,’ Quaiche said. ‘They have some studies they’d like to make.’

Seyfarth watched him inscrutably; Quaiche felt as if he was being peeled open like a fruit. ‘You’ve always denied anyone that kind of access in the past,’ he said. ‘Why the sudden change of heart?’

‘Because,’ Quaiche said, ‘it doesn’t really matter now. The vanishings are heading towards some sort of conclusion anyway. The word of God is about to be revealed whether we like it or not.’

‘There’s more to it than that.’ Idly, Seyfarth ran one red gauntlet through the soft pink plume of his helmet. ‘You don’t care now, do you? Not now that your triumph is so close at hand.’

‘You’re wrong,’ Quaiche said. ‘I do care, more than ever. But perhaps this is God’s way after all. The Ultras may even hasten the end of the vanishings by their interference.’

‘The word of God revealed, on the eve of your victory? Is that what you’re hoping for?’

‘If that’s the way it’s meant to happen,’ Quaiche said, with a fatalistic sigh, ‘then who am I to stand in the way?’

Seyfarth returned the picture to Quaiche. He walked around the garret, his form sliced and shuffled by the intervening mirrors. His armour creaked with every footstep, his gauntleted fists opening and closing in neurotic rhythm.

‘The advance party: how many delegates?’

‘They agreed to twenty. Seemed unwise to try to talk them up. You can make do with twenty, can’t you?’

‘Thirty would have been better.’

‘Thirty begins to look too much like an army. In any case, the twenty will only be there to make sure the ship’s really worth taking. Once they’ve started softening things up, you can send in as many Cathedral Guard as you can spare.’

‘I’ll need authorisation to use whatever weapons I see fit.’

‘I don’t want you murdering people, Captain,’ Quaiche said, raising a forbidding finger. ‘Reasonable resistance may be dealt with, yes, but that doesn’t mean turning the ship into a bloodbath. Pacify the security elements, by all means, but emphasise that we only want the loan of the ship: we’re not stealing it. Once our work is done, they can have it back, with our gratitude. I need hardly add that you’d better make sure you deliver the ship to me in one piece.’

‘I only asked for permission to use weapons.’

‘Use whatever you see fit, Captain, provided you can smuggle it past the Ultras. They’ll be looking for the usual: bombs, knives and guns. Even if we had access to anti-matter, we’d have a hard time getting it past them.’

‘I’ve already made all the necessary arrangements,’ Seyfarth said.

‘I’m sure you have. But - please - show a modicum of restraint, all right?’

‘And your magic advisor?’ Seyfarth asked. ‘What did she have to say on the matter?’

‘She concluded there was nothing to worry about,’ Quaiche said.

Seyfarth turned around, latching his helmet into place. The pink plume fell across the black strip of his faceplate. He looked both comical and fearsome, which was exactly the intended effect.

‘I’ll get to work, then.’

Nostalgia for Infinity, Parking Swarm, 107 Piscium, 2727

An hour later there was an official transmission from the Clocktower of the Lady Morwenna. The arrangement had been accepted by the Adventist party. Subject to the installation of twenty clerical observers aboard the Nostalgia for Infinity, the lighthugger was free to move into near-Hela space and commence the defence watch. Once the observers had come aboard and inspected the weapons setup, the crew would be permitted to make a limited physical study of the Haldora phenomenon.

The reply was sent back within thirty minutes. The terms were acceptable to the Nostalgia for Infinity, and the Adventist party would be welcomed aboard as the ship made its approach-spiral to Hela orbit. At the same time, an Ultra delegation would proceed by shuttle to the landing stage of the Lady Morwenna.

Thirty minutes after that, with a flicker of main drive thrust, the Nostalgia for Infinity broke station from the parking swarm.

FORTY

Hela Surface, 2727

The threshing machinery of Motive Power seemed to salute Captain Seyfarth as he strode through the chamber, his gloved hands tucked behind his back. As the leader of the Cathedral Guard, he never counted on a warm welcome from the mechanically minded denizens of the propulsion department. While they had no instinctive dislike for him, they did have long memories: it was always Seyfarth’s people who put down any rebellions within the Lady Morwenna’s technical workforce. There were surprisingly few workers in the chamber now, but in his mind’s eye Seyfarth sketched in the fallen bodies and injured victims of the last ‘arbitration action’, as the cathedral authorities had referred to the matter. Glaur, the shift boss he was looking for now, had never been directly linked to the rebellion, but it was clear from their infrequent dealings that Glaur had no love for either the Cathedral Guard or its chief.

‘Ah, Glaur,’ he said, catching sight of the man next to an open access panel.

‘Captain. What a pleasure.’

Seyfarth made his way to the panel. Wires and cables hung from its innards, like disembowelled vitals. Seyfarth pulled the access hatch down so that it hung half-opened over the dangling entrails. Glaur started to say something - some useless protestation - but Seyfarth silenced him by touching a finger to his own lips. ‘Whatever it is, it can wait.’

‘You have no ...’

‘Bit quiet in here, isn’t it?’ Seyfarth said, looking around the chamber at the untended machines and empty catwalks. ‘Where is everyone?’

‘You know exactly where everyone is,’ Glaur said. ‘They got themselves off the Lady Mor as soon as they could. By the end of it they were charging a year’s wages for a surface suit. I’m down to a skeleton crew now, just enough lads to keep the reactor sweet and the machines greased.’

‘Those who left,’ Seyfarth mused. It was happening all over the cathedral: even the Guard was having trouble stopping the exodus. ‘They’d be in violation of contract, wouldn’t they?’

Glaur looked at him incredulously. ‘You think they give a damn about that, Captain? All that they care about is getting off this thing before we reach the bridge.’

Seyfarth could smell the man’s fear boiling off him like a heat haze. ‘You mean they don’t think we’ll make it?’

‘Do you?’

‘If the dean says we’ll make it, who are we to doubt him?’

‘I doubt him,’ Glaur said, his voice a hiss. ‘I know what happened the last time, and we’re bigger and heavier. This cathedral isn’t going to cross that bridge, Captain, no matter how much blood the surgeon-general pumps into us.’

‘Fortunate, then, that I won’t be on the Lady Morwenna when it happens,’ Seyfarth said.

‘You’re leaving?’ Glaur asked, suddenly keen.

Did he imagine, Seyfarth thought, that he was actually proposing rebellion? ‘Yes, but on church business. Something that’ll keep me away until the bridge is either crossed . . . or it isn’t. What about you?’

Glaur shook his head, stroking the filthy handkerchief he kept knotted around his neck. ‘I’ll stay, Captain.’

‘Loyalty to the dean?’

‘Loyalty to my machines, more like.’

Seyfarth touched him on the shoulder. ‘I’m impressed. You wouldn’t be tempted, not even once, to steer the cathedral from the Way, or to sabotage the motors?’

Glaur’s teeth flashed. ‘I’m here to do a job.’

‘It’ll kill you.’

‘Then maybe I’ll leave at the last moment. But this cathedral’s staying on the Way.’

‘Good man. We’d better make sure of that, all the same.’

Glaur looked into his eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Captain?’

‘Walk me to the lock-out controls, Glaur.’

‘No.’

Seyfarth seized him by the neckerchief, lifted him half his height from the ground. Glaur choked, flailing his fists uselessly against Seyfarth’s chest.

‘Walk me to the lock-out controls,’ Seyfarth repeated, his voice still calm.

The surgeon-general’s private shuttle made its own approach, squatting down on a stiletto of fusion thrust. The landing pad Grelier had selected was a small, derelict affair on the outskirts of the Vigrid settlement. His red cockleshell of a ship came to rest with a pronounced lean, the pad’s surface subsiding into the ground. The pad clearly saw very little traffic: it might easily have been decades since anything larger than a robot supply drone had landed on it.

Grelier gathered his belongings and exited his ship. The pad was decrepit, but the walkway leading away from it was still more or less serviceable. Tapping his cane against the fractured craquelure of the concrete surface, he made his way to the nearest public entrance point. The airlock, when he tried it, refused to open. He resorted to the all-purpose Clocktower key - it was supposed to open just about any door on Hela - but that didn’t work either. Gloomily he concluded that the door was simply broken, its mechanism failed.

He followed the trail for another ten minutes, casting around until he found a lock that actually worked. He was near the centre of the little buried hamlet now; the topside was a confusion of parked vehicles, abandoned equipment modules, scorched and broken-faceted solar collectors. This was all very well, but the closer he was to the heart of the settlement, the more likely he was to be discovered going about his business.

No matter: it had to be done, and he had exhausted the alternatives. Still suited, he cycled through the airlock and then descended a vertical ladder. This brought him into a dimly lit tunnel network, with corridors radiating in five different directions. Fortunately, they were colour-coded, indicating the residential and industrial districts they led to. Except districts wasn’t really the right word, Grelier thought. This tiny community, though it might have enjoyed social ties with others in the badlands, was smaller in population than one floor of the Lady Morwenna.

He hummed as he walked. As bothered as he was by recent events, he always enjoyed being on Clocktower business. Even if, as now, the business was verging on the personal, a mission the precise reason for which Grelier had not told the dean.

Fair enough, he said to himself. If the dean kept secrets from him, then he would keep secrets from the dean.

Quaiche was up to something. Grelier had suspected as much for months, but the girl’s remarks about witnessing the construction fleet had clinched it. Although Grelier had done his best to dismiss her observation, it had continued to gnaw at him. It chimed with other odd things that he had noticed lately. The skimping on Way maintenance, for instance. They had got stuck behind the ice blockage precisely because Way maintenance lacked the usual resources to clear it. Quaiche had been forced to deploy nuclear demolition charges: God’s Fire.

At the time, Grelier had put it down to nothing more than a happy coincidence. But the more he thought about it, the less likely that seemed. Quaiche had wanted to make his announcement about taking the Lady Morwenna over the bridge with the maximum fanfare. What better way to underline his words than with a dose of God’s Fire shining through his newly installed stained-glass window?

The use of God’s Fire had only been justified because Way maintenance was already stretched. But what if Way maintenance was stretched precisely because Quaiche had ordered the diversion of its equipment and manpower?

Another thought occurred to Grelier: the blockage itself might even have been orchestrated. Quaiche had blamed it on sabotage by another church, but Quaiche could easily have arranged it himself. It would only have been a question of laying fuses and explosives the last time the Lady Mor went through.

A year earlier.

Did he honestly think Quaiche had been planning something all that time? Well, perhaps. People who built cathedrals tended to take the long view, after all.

Grelier still couldn’t see where all this was heading. All he knew - with a growing conviction - was that Quaiche was keeping something from him.

Something to do with the Ultras?

Something to do with the bridge crossing?

Events did after all seem to be rushing towards some grand culmination. And then there was the girl. Where did she fit into all this? Grelier could have sworn he had picked her, not the other way around. But now he was not so certain. She had made herself conspicuous to him, that much was true. It was like that trick they did with cards, suggesting the one you were meant to take from the spread.

Of course, he’d have had no suspicions if her blood had checked out.

‘It’s a wee bit of a puzzle,’ he said to himself.

He stopped suddenly, for in his cogitations he had walked straight past the address he was looking for. He backtracked, grateful that no one else seemed to be about at this hour. He had no idea what the local time was, whether everyone was asleep, or down at the scuttler mines.

Didn’t care, either.

He opened his helmet visor, ready to introduce himself, and then rapped his cane smartly against the outer door of the Els residence. And then waited, humming to himself, until he heard the door opening.

Hela Orbit, 2727

The Adventist delegates had arrived at the Nostalgia for Infinity. There were twenty of them, all seemingly stamped from the same production mould. They came aboard with apparent trepidation, their politeness exaggerated to the point of insolence. They wore hard-shelled scarlet vacuum suits marked with the cruciform spacesuit insignia of their church, and they all carried their pink-plumed helmets tucked under the same arm.

Scorpio studied their leader through the window in the inner airlock door. He was a small man with a cruel, petulant slot of a mouth seemingly cut into his face as an afterthought.

‘I’m Brother Seyfarth,’ the man announced.

‘Glad to have you aboard, Brother,’ Scorpio said, ‘but before we let you into the rest of the ship, we’re going to have to run some decontamination checks.’

The man’s voice rattled through the speaker grille. ‘Still concerned about plague traces? I thought we all had other things to worry about these days.’

‘Can’t be too careful,’ Scorpio said. ‘It’s nothing personal, of course.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of complaining,’ Brother Seyfarth replied.

In truth, they had been scanned from the moment they entered the Infinity’s airlock. Scorpio had to know whether there was anything hidden under that armour, and if there was, he had to know what it was.

He had studied the Nostalgia for Infinity’s history. Once, when the ship had been under the command of its old triumvirate, they had made the mistake of allowing someone aboard with a tiny anti-matter device implanted in the mechanism of their artificial eyes. That pin-sized weapon had enabled the entire ship to be hijacked. Scorpio didn’t blame Volyova and the others for having made that mistake: such devices were both rare and exquisitely difficult to manufacture, and you didn’t encounter them very often. But it was not the kind of mistake he was going to allow on his watch, if there was anything he could do to stop it.

Elsewhere in the ship, Security Arm officers examined the spectral images of the scanned delegates, peering through smoky grey-green layers of armour to the flesh, blood and bone beneath. There were no obvious concealed weapons: no guns or knives. But that didn’t surprise Scorpio. Even if the delegates had ill intentions, they’d have known that even a cursory scan would pick up normal weapons. If they had anything, it was going to be a lot less obvious.

But perhaps they had nothing at all. Perhaps they were what they said they were, and nothing more. Perhaps he was only objecting to the delegates because he had not been consulted before they were allowed aboard.

But there was something about Brother Seyfarth that he didn’t like, something in the cruel set of his mouth that made him think of other violent men he had known. Something in the way he kept clenching and unclenching the metal fists of his gloves as he waited to be processed through the airlock.

Scorpio touched his earpiece. ‘Clear on concealed weapons,’ he heard. ‘Clear on chemical traces for explosives, toxins or nerve agents. Clear on standard nanotech filters. Nothing pre-plague here, and no plague traces either.’

‘Look for implants,’ he said, ‘any mechanisms under those suits that don’t serve an obvious function. And check the ones that do, as well. I don’t want hot dust within a light-year of this ship.’

He was asking a lot of them, he knew. They couldn’t risk annoying the delegates by subjecting them to an obvious invasive examination. But - again - this was his watch. He had a reputation to live up to. It hadn’t been him who had invited the fuckers aboard.

‘Clear on implants,’ he heard. ‘Nothing large enough to contain a standard pinhead device.’

‘Meaning that none of the delegates have implants of any kind?’

‘Like I said, sir, nothing large enough ...’

‘Tell me about all the implants. We can’t assume anything.’

‘One of them has something in his eye. Another has a prosthetic hand. A total of half a dozen very small neural implants spread throughout the whole delegation.’

‘I don’t like the sound of any of that.’

‘The implants aren’t anything we wouldn’t expect to see in a random sample of Hela refugees, sir. Most of them look inactive, anyway.’

‘The one with the eye, the one with the hand - I want to know for sure that there isn’t any nasty stuff inside those things.’

‘Going to be tricky, sir. They might not like it if we start bombarding them with protons. If there is anti-matter in those things, there’ll be local cell damage from the spallation products ...’

‘If there is anti-matter in those things, they’re going to have a lot more than cancer to worry about,’ Scorpio said.

Trouble was, so would he.

He waited as the man sent a mantislike servitor into the airlock, a bright-red stick-limbed contraption equipped with a proton beam generator. Scorpio told the delegates it was just a more refined form of the plague scanners they had already used, designed to sniff out some of the less common strains. They probably knew this was a lie, but agreed to go along with it for the sake of avoiding a scene. Was that a good sign? he wondered.

The proton beam drilled through flesh and bone, too narrow to hurt major bodily structures. At worst, it would inflict some local tissue damage. But if it touched anti-matter, even a microgram nugget of anti-matter suspended in vacuum in an electromagnetic cradle, it would induce a burst of proton-antiproton reactions.

The servitor listened for the back-scatter of gamma rays, the incriminating sizzle of annihilation.

It heard nothing: not from the hand, not from the eye.

‘They’re clean, sir,’ the SA operative announced into Scorpio’s earpiece.

No, he thought, they weren’t. At least, he couldn’t be sure of it. He’d ruled out the obvious, done what he could. But the proton beam might have missed the cradles: there hadn’t been time to make an exhaustive sweep of either the hand or the eye. Or the cradles themselves might have been surrounded with deflection or absorption barriers: he’d heard of such things. Or the nuggets could be in the neural implants, hidden behind too many centimetres of bone and tissue for non-surgical scanning.

‘Sir? Permission to let them through?’

Scorpio knew that there was nothing else he could do except keep a close watch on them.

‘Open the door,’ he said.

Brother Seyfarth stepped through the aperture and stood eye to eye with Scorpio. ‘Don’t trust us, sir?’

‘Got a job to do,’ Scorpio said. ‘That’s all.’

The leader nodded gravely. ‘Don’t we all? Well, no hard feelings. I take it you didn’t find anything suspicious?’

‘I didn’t find anything, no.’

The man winked at him, as if the two of them were sharing a joke. The other nineteen delegates bustled through, Scorpio’s distorted reflection gleaming back at him in the buffed and polished plates of their armour. He looked worried.

Now that they were aboard he had to keep them where he wanted them. They didn’t need to see the whole of the ship, just the parts that related to their specific areas of interest. No tour of the cache weapon chambers, no tour of the hypometric weapon shafts or any of the other modifications installed after their departure from Ararat. He’d be careful to keep the delegates away from the weirder manifestations of the Captain’s transforming illness, too, although some of the changes were always going to be apparent. They bobbed along behind him like twenty ducklings, showing emphatic interest in everything he stopped to point out.

‘Interesting interior design you have here,’ the leader said, fingering - with vague distaste - a riblike extrusion sticking out from a wall. ‘We always knew that your ship looked a little odd from the outside, but we never imagined you’d have extended the theme all the way through.’

‘It grows on you,’ Scorpio said.

‘I don’t suppose it makes very much difference, from our point of view. As long as the ship does what you’ve claimed it can, who are we to care about the décor?’

‘What you really care about is our hull defences and long-range sensors, I imagine,’ Scorpio said.

‘Your technical specifications were very impressive,’ Brother Seyfarth said. ‘Naturally, we’ll have to double-check. The security of Hela depends on our knowing that you can deliver the protection you promised.’

‘I don’t think you need lose any sleep over that,’ Scorpio said.

‘You’re not offended, I hope?’

The pig turned back to him. ‘Do I look like someone easily offended? ’

‘Not at all,’ Seyfarth said, his fists clenching.

They were uneasy around him, Scorpio realised. He doubted that they saw many pigs on Hela. ‘We’re not great travellers,’ he elaborated. ‘We tend to die on the way.’

‘Sir?’ asked one of the other delegates. ‘Sir, if it isn’t too much bother, we’d really like to see the engines.’

Scorpio checked the time. They were on schedule. In fewer than six hours he would be able to launch the two instrument packages into Haldora. They were simply modified automated drones, hardened slightly to tolerate passage into the atmosphere of a gas giant. No one was exactly certain what they would encounter when they hit the visible surface of Haldora, but it seemed prudent to take every precaution, even if the planet popped like a soap bubble.

‘You want to see the engines?’ he said. ‘No problem. No problem at all.’

The light from Hela’s sun was low on the horizon, casting the cathedral’s great gothic shadow far ahead of it. It was more than two days since Vasko and Khouri had first visited Quaiche, and in the intervening time the Lady Morwenna had nearly reached the western edge of the rift. The bridge lay before it: a sparkling, dreamlike confection of sugar-ice and gossamer. Now that they were so close to it, the cathedral looked heavier, the bridge less substantial, the very idea of taking one across the other even more absurd.

A thought occurred to Vasko: what if the bridge didn’t exist any more? It was a foolhardy thing to take the Lady Morwenna across such a fragile structure, but in Quaiche’s mind there must have been at least a glimmer of hope that he might succeed. But if the bridge was destroyed, surely he wouldn’t take the cathedral over the edge, to certain destruction?

‘How far?’ Khouri asked.

‘Twelve, thirteen kilometres,’ Vasko said. ‘She travels about a kilometre per hour, which gives us around half a day before it really wouldn’t be a good idea to be aboard any more.’

‘That doesn’t give us much time.’

‘We don’t need much time,’ he said. ‘Twelve hours should be more than enough time to get in and out. All we have to do is find Aura, and whatever we need from Quaiche. How difficult can it be?’

‘Scorpio needs time to drop those instrument packages into Haldora, ’ she said. ‘If we break our side of the agreement before he’s done, there’s no telling how much trouble we’ll be in. Things could start getting messy. That’s exactly what we spent nine years trying to avoid.’

‘It’ll be all right,’ Vasko said. ‘Trust me on this, it’ll be all right.’

‘Scorp didn’t like the idea of those delegates,’ she said.

‘They’re church dignitaries,’ Vasko said. ‘How much of a problem can they be?’

‘In these matters,’ Khouri said, ‘I’m inclined to trust Scorpio’s judgement. Sorry, but he’s got a bit more mileage on him than you have.’

‘I’m getting there,’ Vasko said.

Their shuttle picked its way down to the cathedral. It grew from something small and delicate, like an ornate architectural model, to something huge and threatening. Something more than a building, Vasko thought: more like a pinnacled chunk of the landscape that had decided to make a slow circumnavigation of its world.

They landed. Suited Adventist officials were there to usher them deep into the iron heart of the Lady Morwenna.

FORTY-ONE

Hela, 2727

At long last, Quaiche could see the bridge for himself. The spectacle sent a shiver of excitement through him. There was less ground to cover to reach it now than the span of the bridge itself. Everything he had planned, everything he had schemed into existence, was now tantalisingly close to fruition.

‘Look at it, Rashmika,’ he said, inviting the girl to stand by the garret window and admire the view for herself. ‘So ancient, yet so sparklingly ageless. From the moment I announced that we were to cross the rift, I’ve been counting every second. We’re not there yet, but at least now I can see it.’

‘Are you really going to do it?’ she asked.

‘You think I’ve come all this way just to back down now? Not likely. The prestige of the church is at stake, Rashmika. Nothing matters more to me than that.’

‘I wish I could read your face,’ she said. ‘I wish I could see your eyes and I wish Grelier hadn’t deadened all your nerve endings. Then I’d know if you were telling the truth.’

‘You don’t believe me?’

‘I don’t know what to believe,’ she said.

‘I’m not asking you to believe anything,’ he said, turning his couch around so that all the mirrors had to adjust their angles. ‘I’ve never asked you to submit to faith, Rashmika. All I’ve ever asked of you is honest judgement. What troubles you, all of a sudden?’

‘I need to know the truth,’ she said. ‘Before you take this thing over the bridge, I want some answers.’

His eyes quivered in their sockets. ‘I’ve always been open with you.’

‘Then what about the vanishing that never happened? Was that you, Dean? Did you make that happen?’

‘Make that happen?’ he echoed, as if her words made no sense at all.

‘You had a lapse of faith, didn’t you? A crisis during which you began to think that there was a rational explanation for the vanishings after all. Maybe you’d developed immunity to whatever was the strongest indoctrinal virus Grelier could offer you that week.’

‘Be very, very careful, Rashmika. You’re useful to me, but you’re far from indispensable.’

She gathered her composure. ‘What I mean is, did you decide to test your faith? Did you arrange for an instrument package to be dropped into the face of Haldora, at the moment of a vanishing?’

His eyes became quite still, regarding her intently. ‘What do you think?’

‘I think you sent something into Haldora - a machine, a probe of some kind. Perhaps some Ultras sold it to you. You hoped to glimpse something in there. What, I don’t know. Maybe something you’d already glimpsed years earlier, but which you didn’t want to admit to yourself.’

‘Ridiculous.’

‘But you succeeded,’ she said. ‘The probe did something: it caused the vanishing to be prolonged. You threw a spanner in, Dean, and you got a reaction. The probe encountered something when the planet vanished. It made contact with whatever the planet was meant to conceal. And whatever it was had precious little to do with miracles.’ He started to say something, tried to cut her off, but she forced herself to continue, speaking over him. ‘I have no idea whether the probe came back or not, but I do know that you’re still in contact with something. You opened a window, didn’t you?’ Rashmika pointed at the welded metal suit, the one that had disturbed her so much on her first visit to the garret. ‘They’re in there, trapped within it. You made a prison of the same suit in which Morwenna died.’

‘Why would I do that?’ Quaiche asked.

‘Because,’ she said, ‘you don’t know if they’re demons or angels.’

‘And you do know, I take it?’

‘I think they might be both,’ she said.

Hela Orbit, 2727

Scorpio whisked back a heavy metal shutter, revealing a tiny oval porthole. The scuffed and scratched glass was as thick and dark as burned sugar. He pushed himself away from the window.

‘You’ll have to take turns,’ he said.

They were in a zero-gravity section of the Infinity. It was the only way to view the engines while the ship was in orbit, since the rotating sections of the ship that provided artificial gravity were set too deeply back into the hull to permit observation of the engines. Had the engines themselves been pushed up to their usual one-gee of thrust - providing the illusion of gravity by another means throughout the entire ship - the orbit around Hela could not have been sustained.

‘We’d like to see them fire up, if that’s possible,’ Brother Seyfarth said.

‘Not exactly standard procedure while we’re holding orbit,’ Scorpio said.

‘Just for a moment,’ Seyfarth said. ‘They don’t have to operate at full capacity.’

‘I thought it was the defences you were interested in.’

‘Those as well.’

Scorpio spoke into his cuff. ‘Give me a burst of drive, counteracted by the steering jets. I don’t want to feel this ship move one inch.’

The order was implemented almost instantly. Theoretically, one of his people had to send the command into the ship’s control system, whereupon Captain Brannigan might or might not choose to act upon it. But he suspected that the Captain had made the engines fire before the command had ever been entered.

The great ship groaned as the engines lit up. Through the dark glass of the porthole, the exhaust was a scratch of purple-white - visible only because the stealthing modifications to the drives had been switched off during the Nostalgia for Infinity’s final approach to the system. At the other end of the hull, multiple batteries of conventional fusion rockets were balancing the thrust from the main drives. The ancient hull creaked and moaned like some vast living thing as it absorbed the compressive forces. The ship could take a lot more punishment than this, Scorpio knew, but he was still grateful when the drive flame flicked out. He felt a tiny lurch, evidence of the minutest lack of synchrony between the shutting down of the fusion rockets and the drives, but then all was motionless. The great, saurian protestations of stressed ship fabric died away like diminishing thunder.

‘Good enough for you, Brother Seyfarth?’

‘I think so,’ the leader said. ‘They seem to be in excellent condition. You wouldn’t believe how difficult it is to find well-maintained Conjoiner drives now that their makers are no longer with us.’

‘We do our best,’ Scorpio said. ‘Of course, it’s the weapons you’re really interested in, isn’t it? Shall I show them to you, and then we can call it a day? There’ll be plenty of time for a more detailed examination later.’ He was fed up with small talk, fed up with showing the twenty intruders around his empire.

‘Actually,’ Brother Seyfarth said, when they were safely back inside one of the rotating sections, ‘we’re more interested in the engines than we admitted.’

There was an itch at the back of Scorpio’s neck. ‘You are?’

‘Yes,’ Seyfarth said, nodding to the nineteen others.

In one smoothly choreographed blur, the twenty delegates touched parts of their suits, causing them to fly apart in irregular scablike pieces, as if spring-loaded. The hard-shelled components rained down around them, clattering in untidy piles at their feet. Beneath the suits, as he already knew from the scans, they wore only flimsy inner layers.

He wondered what he had missed. There were still no obvious weapons; still no guns or knives.

‘Brother,’ he said, ‘think very carefully about this.’

‘I’ve already thought about it,’ Seyfarth replied. Along with the other delegates, he knelt down and - his hands still gloved - rummaged with quick efficiency through the pile of sloughed suit parts.

His fist rose clutching something sharp-edged and aerodynamically formed. It was a shard of suit, viciously curved along its leading edge. Seyfarth raised himself on one knee and flicked his wrist. Tumbling end over end, the projectile wheeled through the air towards Scorpio. He heard it coming: the chop, chop, chop of its whisking approach. The fraction of a second of its flight stretched to a subjective eternity. A small, plaintive voice - lacking any tone of recrimination - told him it had been the suits all along. He had been looking so hard through them, so convinced they had to be hiding something, that he had missed the suits themselves.

The suits were the weapons.

The tumbling thing speared into his shoulder, the brutality of its impact knocking him against the slick, ribbed side of the corridor. It pinned him, through leather and flesh, to the wall itself. He thrashed in pain, but the shard had anchored itself firmly.

Seyfarth stood up, a bladed weapon in each hand. There was nothing accidental about them: their lines were too spare and deliberate for that. The suits must have been primed to fall apart along precise flaw lines etched into them with ångström precision.

‘I’m sorry I had to do that,’ he said.

‘You’re a dead man.’

‘And you’d be a dead pig if I’d intended to kill you.’ Scorpio knew it was true: the casual way Seyfarth had tossed the weapon towards him had betrayed an easy fluency in its use. It would have cost him no more effort to sever Scorpio’s head. ‘But instead I’ve spared you. I’ll spare all your crew if we have the co-operation we request.’

‘No one’s co-operating with anything. And you won’t get far with knives, no matter how clever you think you are.’

‘It’s not just knives,’ Seyfarth said.

Behind him, two of the other Adventist delegates stood up. They were holding something between them: a rig containing the lashed-together parts of their air-tanks. One of them was pointing the open nozzle of a hose in Scorpio’s direction.

‘Show him,’ Seyfarth said, ‘just so he gets the picture.’

Fire roared from the nozzle, jetting five or six metres beyond the pair of Adventists. The curving plume of the flame scythed against the corridor wall, blistering the surface. Again the ship groaned. Then the flames died, the only sound the hiss of fuel escaping from the nozzle.

‘This is a bit of a surprise,’ Scorpio said.

‘Do what we say and no one will come to any harm,’ Seyfarth said. Behind him, the other delegates were looking around: they had heard that groan as well. Perhaps they thought the ship was still settling down after the drive burn, creaking like an old house after sunset.

The moment stretched. Scorpio felt strangely calm. Perhaps, he thought, that was what being old did to you. ‘You’ve come to take my ship?’ he asked.

‘Not take it,’ Seyfarth said, with urgent emphasis. ‘We just want to borrow it for a while. When we’re finished, you can have it back.’

‘I think you picked the wrong ship,’ Scorpio said.

‘On the contrary,’ Seyfarth replied, ‘I think we picked exactly the right ship. Now stay there, like a good pig, and we’ll all come away from this as friends.’

‘You can’t seriously expect to take my ship with just twenty of you.’

‘No,’ Seyfarth said. ‘That would be silly, wouldn’t it?’

Scorpio tried to free himself. He could not move his arm enough to bring the communicator up to his face. The weapon had pinned him too tightly. He shifted, the pain of movement like so many shards of glass twisting within his shoulder. It was that shoulder: the one he had burned.

Seyfarth shook his head. ‘What did I say about being a good pig?’ He knelt down, examined another weapon, something like a dagger this time. He walked slowly over to Scorpio. ‘I’ve never been overly fond of pigs, truth be told.’

‘Suits me.’

‘You’re quite an old one, aren’t you? What are you - forty, fifty years old?’

‘Young enough to take the shine off your day, pal.’

‘We’ll see about that.’

Seyfarth stabbed the dagger in, impaling Scorpio through the other shoulder in more or less the corresponding position. Scorpio yelped in pain: a high-pitched squeal that sounded nothing like a human scream.

‘I can’t claim an exhaustive knowledge of pig anatomy,’ Seyfarth said. ‘All being well, I haven’t severed anything I shouldn’t have. But if I were you, I’d play it safe and not wriggle about too much.’

Scorpio tried to move, but gave up before the tears of pain blocked his view. Behind Seyfarth, another pair of delegates test-fired their makeshift flame-thrower. Then the whole party split into two groups and moved away into the rest of the ship, leaving Scorpio alone.

FORTY-TWO

Hela, 2727

A rapture of black machines climbed from the surface of Hela. They were small shuttles for the most part: surface-to-orbit vehicles bought, stolen, impounded and purloined from Ultras. Most had only chemical drives; a very few had fusion motors. The majority carried only one or two members of the Cathedral Guard, packed into armoured bubbles within their stripped-down skeletal chassis. They lifted from orthodox landing stages along the Way, or from concealed bunkers in the ice itself, dislodging plaques of surface frost as they fled. Some even departed from the superstructures of the Adventist cathedrals, including the Lady Morwenna. What had appeared to be small subsidiary spires or elbowed out-jutting towers were suddenly revealed as long-concealed spacecraft. Shells of mock architecture fell away like dead grey foliage. Complex cantilevered gantries swung the ships away from delicate masonry and glass before their drives lit. Domes and cupolas opened along ridge-lines, revealing ships packed tightly within, now rising on hydraulic launch platforms. When the ships hauled themselves aloft, the glare of their motors etched bright highlights and pitch-dark shadows into the ornate frippery of the architecture. Gargoyles seemed to turn their heads, their jaws lolling in wonderment and surprise. Below, the cathedrals trembled at the violent departure of so much mass. But when the ships had gone, the cathedrals were still there, little changed.

In seconds, the ships of the Guard had reached orbit; in several more seconds they had identified and signalled their brethren who were already parked around Hela. From every direction, drives flicked on to engagement thrust. The ships grouped into formations, stacked themselves into assault waves and commenced their run towards the Nostalgia for Infinity.

Even as the ships of the Cathedral Guard were leaving Hela, another spacecraft settled on to the pad of the Lady Morwenna, parking alongside the larger shuttle that had brought the Ultra delegates down from their lighthugger.

Grelier sat inside the cockpit for several minutes, flicking ivory-tipped toggle switches and making sure that vital systems would continue to tick over even in his absence. The cathedral was alarmingly close to the bridge now, and he had no plans to stay aboard once it had commenced the crossing. He would find an excuse to leave: Clocktower duty, something to do with Bloodwork. There were dozens of likely reasons he could give. And if the dean decided that he would much rather have the surgeon-general’s company for the crossing, then Grelier would just have to do a runner and smooth things over later. If, of course, there turned out to be a later. But the one thing he did not want to have to wait for was for his ship to go through its pre-flight cycle.

He snapped his helmet on, gathered his belongings and cycled through the airlock. Outside, standing on the pad, he had to admit that the view was awesome. He could see the point where the land just ended, that vast cliff edge towards which they were sliding. Unstoppable now, he thought. Under any circumstances even slowing the progress of the Lady Morwenna was a matter of labyrinthine bureaucratic procedure. It could take many hours for the paperwork to filter down to the Motive Power technicians who actually had their hands on the motor controls. More often than not, conditioned to believe that the cathedral should never slow, they queried their orders, sending the paperwork echoing back up through the chain of command, resulting in more hours of delay. And what the cathedral needed now was not to slow down but to come to a complete standstill. Grelier shuddered: he didn’t want to think about how long it would take for that to happen.

Something caught his eye. He looked up, seeing countless sparks zip across the sky. Dozens - no, hundreds - of ships. What was going on?

Then he looked towards the horizon and saw the much larger bulk of the lighthugger, a small but visibly elongated sliver of twinkling iron-grey. The other ships were obviously heading towards it.

Something was up.

Grelier turned from the shuttle, anxious to make his way indoors and find out what was happening. Then he noticed the smudge of red on the end of his cane. He thought he had cleaned it thoroughly before leaving the settlement in the Vigrid region, but evidently he had been remiss.

Tutting to himself, he wiped the end of the cane against the frost-covered surface of the landing pad, leaving smears of pink.

Then he set off to find the dean, for he had interesting news to deliver.

Orca Cruz saw the two Adventists before the rest of her party. They were at the end of a wide, low-ceilinged corridor, one against each wall, moving towards her with the measured pace of sleepwalkers.

Cruz turned to the three Security Arm officers behind her. ‘Minimum necessary force,’ she said quietly. ‘Bayonets and stun-prods only. This lot don’t have a flame-gun, and I’d really like to do some questioning.’

The Arm unit nodded in unison. They all knew what Cruz meant by that.

She started towards the Adventists, pushing the sharp blade of her weapon before her. The Adventists had little armour now. Garbled reports from the other elements of the Security Arm - the same messages that had warned her about the flame-throwers - had suggested that they had removed their vacuum suits, but she had not been prepared to believe it until she saw it with her own eye. But they hadn’t discarded the armour entirely: they carried jagged bits of it in their hands, and had lashed large curved parts to their chests. They still wore their metal gloves and pink-plumed helmets.

She admired the thinking behind their strategy. Once a boarding party had reached this far inside a lighthugger, armour was largely superfluous. Ultras would be very unwilling to deploy energy weapons against boarders even if they knew themselves to be safely distant from vacuum or ship-critical systems. The instinct not to harm their own ship was just too deeply ingrained, even when the ship was under threat of takeover. And aboard a ship like the Nostalgia for Infinity - with every inch of the ship’s fabric wired into the Captain’s nervous system - that instinct was all the stronger. They had all seen what happened when some accident inflicted a wound in the ship; they had all felt the Captain’s pain.

Cruz advanced down the corridor. ‘Put down your weapons,’ she called. ‘You know you can’t succeed.’

‘Put down your weapons,’ one of the Adventists replied, chidingly. ‘We only want your ship. No one will be harmed, and the ship will be returned to you.’

‘You could have asked nicely,’ Cruz said.

‘Would you have been likely to agree?’

‘Not very,’ she said, after a moment’s reflection.

‘Then I think we have nothing else to say to each other.’

Cruz’s party moved forwards to within ten metres of the Adventists. She noticed that one of them was not in fact wearing a gauntlet at all; his hand was artificial. She remembered him: Scorpio had gone to extra pains to make sure the hand did not contain an anti-matter bomb.

‘Final warning,’ she said.

The other Adventist flung a bladed weapon towards her. It gyred through the air; Cruz threw herself back against the wall and felt the sharp, brief breeze as the weapon whisked past her throat and buried itself in the wall. Another weapon spun through the air; she heard it glance against body armour without finding a weak spot.

‘All right, game over,’ Cruz said. She gestured to her people. ‘Pacification strength. Take ’em down.’

They pushed ahead of her, bayonets and snub-nosed stun-prods at the ready. The Adventist with the artificial hand pointed it in Cruz’s direction, like an admonition. It didn’t worry her: Scorpio’s examination had been thorough; the hand couldn’t possibly contain a concealed projectile or beam weapon.

The tip of the index finger came off. It detached from the rest of the finger, but instead of dropping to the ground it just floated there, slowly drifting away from the hand like a spacecraft on a lazy departure.

Cruz watched it, stupidly transfixed. The tip accelerated, travelled ten, twenty centimetres. It approached her party, bobbing slightly, and then yawed to the right as the hand moved, as if still connected to it by an invisible thread.

Which, she realised, it was.

‘Monofilament scythe,’ she shouted. ‘Fall back. Fall the fuck back!’

Her party got the message. They retreated from the Adventists even as the tip of the finger began to move in a vertical circle, seemingly of its own volition. The man’s hand was making tiny, effortless movements. The circle widened, the tip of the finger becoming a blurred grey ring a metre wide. In Chasm City, Orca Cruz had seen the grotesque results of scythe weapons. She had seen what happened when people blundered into static scythe defence lines, or moving scythes like the one being demonstrated here. It was never pretty. But what she remembered, more than the screams, more than the hideously sculpted and segregated corpses left behind, was the expression she always saw on the faces of the victims an instant after they’d realised their mistake. It was less fright, less shock, more acute embarrassment: the realisation that they were about to make a terrible, sickening spectacle of themselves.

‘Fall back,’ she repeated.

‘Permission to fire,’ one of her party said.

Cruz shook her head. ‘Not yet,’ she said. ‘Not until we’re cornered.’

The whisking blur of the scythe advanced further down the corridor, emitting a high-pitched quavering note that was almost musical.

Scorpio tried again, shifting his weight as much as he was able, to prise himself away from the wall. He had given up calling for help and had long since stopped paying attention to his own yelps and squeals. The Adventist delegates had not returned, but they were still out there: intermittently, the muffled sounds of battle reached him through the echoing labyrinth of corridors, ducts and elevator shafts. He heard shouts and screams, and very occasionally he heard the basso groan of the ship itself, responding to some niggling internal injury. Nothing that the delegates did - either with their cutting tools or their flame-throwers - could possibly inflict any real harm upon the Captain. The Nostalgia for Infinity had survived a direct attack by one of its own cache weapons, after all. But even a tiny splinter could become an irritation out of all proportion to its physical size.

He thrashed again, feeling savage fire in both shoulders. There: something was beginning to give, wasn’t it? Was it him or the throwing weapons?

He tried again, and blacked out. He came around seconds or possibly minutes later, still pinned to the wall, an unpleasant metallic taste in his mouth. He was still alive, and - pain aside - he didn’t feel much worse than when Seyfarth had stuck him here. He supposed there must have been something in Seyfarth’s boast about not damaging any of his internal organs. But there was no guarantee that Scorpio wouldn’t start bleeding all over the place as soon as the weapons were removed. Why were the Security Arm taking so long to find him?

Twenty soldiers, he thought. That was enough to make trouble, no doubt about it, but they couldn’t possibly hope to take the entire ship. They had known all along that they could not smuggle serious firepower aboard the Nostalgia for Infinity, not in these hair-trigger times. But Seyfarth had struck him as a man who knew what he was doing, very unlikely to have volunteered for a futile suicide mission.

Scorpio groaned: not with pain, this time, but with the realisation that he had made a dreadful mistake. He couldn’t be blamed for letting the delegates aboard: he had been overruled on that one, and if he had missed the true nature of their armour, it was only because he had never heard of anyone using that particular trick before. Anyway, he had scanned the armour - even if he’d been looking through, rather than at it - and he’d seen nothing suspicious. The armour would have to have been removed and examined in a lab before the microscopic flaws and weak points would have revealed themselves. No: that wasn’t his mistake either. But he really shouldn’t have turned on the engines. Why had the Adventists needed to see them? They’d already observed the ship making its approach to the system, if that was what they were interested in.

What they were really interested in, if he read them rightly, was something else entirely: they had been using the engines to send a signal to Hela. The burst of thrust meant they were in place - that they had passed through his security arrangements and were ready to begin the takeover operation.

It was a signal to send in reinforcements.

Even as that thought crystallised in his head, he heard the ship groan again. But it was a different kind of groan this time. It was more like the sonorous off-key tolling of a very large, very cracked bell.

Scorpio closed his eyes: he knew exactly what that sound was. It was the hull defences: the Nostalgia for Infinity was under attack from outside as well as from within. Great, he thought. This was really shaping up to be one of those days when he should have stayed inside the reefersleep casket. Or, better still, should never have survived thawing in the first place.

A moment later, the entire fabric of the ship trembled. He felt it through the sharp-edged things pinning him to the wall. He screamed and blacked out again.

What woke him was pain - more than he had felt so far. It was hard and strangely rhythmic, as if he had been convulsing in his sleep. But he was making no conscious movements at all. Instead, the wall against which he was pinned was bellowing in and out, like a huge breathing lung.

Suddenly, anticlimactically, he popped loose. He hit the deck, sprawling, his lower jaw in the filthy, stinking overflow of ship effluent. The two bladed weapons clattered to the ground beside him. He experimented with pushing himself to his knees, and - to his surprise - found he was able to exert pressure on his arms without the pain becoming more than two or three times as intense. Nothing was broken, then - or at least nothing that had much to do with either arm.

Scorpio struggled to his feet. He touched the first wound, then the second. There was a lot of blood, but it wasn’t jetting out under arterial pressure. Presumably it was the same story with the two exit wounds. No telling about internal bleeding, but he’d cross that bridge when it became a problem.

Still unsure exactly what had happened to him, he knelt down again and picked up one of the bladed things. It was the first one: the boomerang weapon. He could see the curve of the original armour, the larger form implied by the fragment. He threw it away, kicked the other one aside. Then he reached down to his belt, through waves of pain, and found the haft of Clavain’s knife. He removed it from its sheath and flicked on the piezo-electric effect, feeling the hum transmitted to his palm.

In the gloom of the corridor ahead of him, something moved.

‘Scorpio.’

He squinted, half-expecting it to be another Adventist, hoping it was someone from the Security Arm. ‘Took your time,’ he said, which seemed to cover either possibility.

‘We’ve got trouble, Scorp. Big trouble.’

The figure stepped out of the gloom. Scorpio flinched: it was no one he had been expecting. ‘Captain,’ he breathed.

‘I thought you needed some help to get free of that wall. Sorry it took me so long.’

‘Better late than never,’ Scorpio said.

It was a class-three apparition. No, Scorpio thought, strike that: this apparition demanded a new category all of its own. It was more than just a local alteration of the ship’s fabric, a remodelling of a wall or the temporary reassignment of some servitor parts. This thing was real and distinct from the ship itself. It was a physical artefact: a spacesuit, a huge, lumbering golemlike servo-powered affair. And it was empty. The faceplate was cranked up: there was only darkness within the helmet. The voice he heard came through the speaker grille beneath the helmet’s chin that was normally used for audio communications in a pressurised environment.

‘Are you all right, Scorp?’

He dabbed at the blood again. ‘I’m not down yet. Doesn’t look as if you are, either.’

‘It was a mistake to let them aboard.’

‘I know,’ Scorpio said, looking down at his shoes. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ the Captain said. ‘It was mine.’

Scorpio looked up at the apparition again. Something forced him to direct his attention into the darkness within the helmet: it seemed impolite not to. ‘So what now? They’re bringing reinforcements, aren’t they?’

‘That’s their plan. Ships have begun to attack. I’ve parried most of them, but a handful have slipped through my hull defences. They’ve begun to drill into the hull. They’re hurting me, Scorp.’

He echoed the Captain’s earlier question: ‘Are you all right?’

‘Oh, I’m all right, it’s just that I’m beginning to get a little pissed off. I think they’ve had enough fun for one day, don’t you?’

Though it hurt him, Scorpio nodded vigorously. ‘They picked the wrong pig to fuck with.’

The vast suit bowed towards him, then turned, its huge boots sending sluggish wakes through the effluent. ‘They did more than pick the wrong pig. They picked the wrong ship. Now, shall we go and do some damage?’

‘Yes,’ Scorpio said, smiling wickedly. ‘Let’s do some damage.’

Orca Cruz and her party had retreated as far as they could go. The two Adventists had pushed her group to a major nexus of corridors and shafts, something like a heart valve in the Captain’s anatomy, from which point it would be possible to reach any other part of the Nostalgia for Infinity with comparative ease. Cruz knew that she could not allow the Adventists such access. There were only twenty of them, maybe fewer now - it was unthinkable that they could ever gain more than a transient, faltering control over very small districts of the ship - but it was still her duty to limit their nuisance value. If that meant inflicting some small, local hurt on John Brannigan, then that was what she had to do.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘Disarm them. Short, controlled bursts. I want something at the end to interrogate.’

Her last few words were drowned out by the sudden, enraged roar of her soldiers’ slug-firing automatic weapons. Tracers sliced bright convergent lines down the corridor. The Adventist with the false hand fell down, his right leg peppered with bullet holes. The whirling demon of the scythe bit an arc into the floor, then fell silent. Some retraction mechanism inched the fingertip back to the rest of the hand as the line spooled itself in.

The other Adventist lay on his side, his chest bloody despite the protection of the armour pieces.

The ship groaned.

‘I did warn you,’ Cruz said. Her own weapon lay cold in her hand. She hadn’t fired a shot.

The second Adventist moved, clawing at his face with his hand, like a man trying to remove a bee.

‘Don’t move,’ Cruz said, approaching him cautiously. ‘Don’t move and you might make it through the day.’

He kept clawing at his face, concentrating his efforts around his eye. He dug his fingers into the socket, popping something loose. He held it between thumb and forefinger for a moment: a perfect human eye, glassily solid, bloodied like some horrid raw delicacy.

‘I said—’ Orca Cruz began.

He crunched his fingers down on the eye, shattering it. Something chrome-yellow emerged in smoky wisps. A moment later Cruz felt the nerve agent infiltrate her lungs.

No one had to tell her it would be fatal.

From the safe vantage point of his garret, the dean studied the progress of his takeover effort. Cameras around Hela offered him continuous real-time imagery of the Ultras’ ship, no matter where its orbit took it. He had seen the telling flicker of drive flame: Seyfarth’s message that the first phase of the acquisition operation had been successful. He had seen - indeed, felt - the departure of the massed ships of the Cathedral Guard, and he had also seen the gathering and co-ordination of the squadrons above Hela. Tiny, flimsy ships, to be sure, but many of them. Crows could mob a man to death.

He had no data about the ensuing activities within the ship. If Seyfarth had followed his own plan, then the twenty members of the spearhead unit would have begun their attack shortly after the signal was returned to Hela. Seyfarth was a brave man: he must have known that his chances of surviving until the arrival of reinforcements were not excellent. He was also, it had to be remembered, a career survivor. More than likely Seyfarth had lost some of his squad by now, but Quaiche very much doubted that Seyfarth himself was amongst the casualties. Somewhere on that ship he was still fighting, still surviving.

The dean craved, desperately, some means of divining what was happening in the ship at this moment. After all the planning, all the years of dreaming and scheming this mad folly into existence, it struck him as the height of unfairness not to be able to see whether events were unfolding as planned. He had always skipped over this hiatus in his imagination: it was either successful or it wasn’t, and there had been little point dwelling on the agony of uncertainty it represented.

But now he had doubts. The squadrons were meeting unexpected resistance from the ship’s hull defences. The imagery showed the ship to be surrounded by a spangling halo of explosions, like a dark and foreboding castle throwing a fireworks display. Most Ultra craft had defences of some kind, so Quaiche had not been greatly surprised to see them deployed here. His cover story had even demanded that the ship have the means to defend itself. But the scale of the defences and the speed and efficiency with which they had reacted: that had taken him aback. What if the forces within the ship were encountering the same unexpected resistance? What if Seyfarth was dead? What if everything was going slowly, catastrophically wrong?

His couch chimed: an incoming message. Shaking, his hand worked the control. ‘Quaiche,’ he said.

‘Report from Cathedral Guard,’ said a muffled voice, lashed by static. ‘Report successful incursion of relief units three and eight. Hull has been breached; no significant airloss. Reinforcement squads are now aboard the Nostalgia for Infinity. Attempting to rendezvous with elements of spearhead.’

Quaiche sighed, disappointed in himself. Of course it was going according to plan, and of course it was turning out to be a little more difficult than anticipated. That was the nature of worthy tasks. But he should never have doubted its ultimate success.

‘Keep me posted,’ he said.

The two mismatched figures - the Captain’s hulking, vacant suit and the childlike form of the pig - sloshed their way towards the scene of battle. They moved through corridors and passages that had never been fully reclaimed for human habitation: rat-ridden, rank with effluent and other toxins, crypt-dark save for the occasional weak and stuttering light source. When the Adventists had turned on him, Scorpio had known exactly where he was. But since then he had been following the Captain, allowing himself to be led into areas of the ship that were completely unfamiliar. As the tour progressed, and as the Captain ushered him through obscure hatchways and hidden apertures, he was struck by the increasing absence of the usual markers of shipwide authority: the jury-rigged electrical and hydraulic systems, the painted, luminescent direction arrows. There was only anatomy. They were navigating parts of the ship known only to the Captain, he realised: private corridors he must have haunted alone. It was his flesh and blood, Scorpio thought: up to him what he did with it.

The pig was under no illusion that he was actually in the Captain’s physical presence. The suit was just a focus for his attention; in every other respect the Captain was as omnipresent as ever, surrounding him in every sinew of the architecture. But for all that Scorpio would have preferred something with a face to talk to rather than the empty suit, it was a lot better than being on his own. He knew that he had been hurt badly by the Adventist leader, and that sooner or later he was going to feel the delayed shock of those injuries. How hard it would hit him, he couldn’t say. He’d have shrugged off the wounds twenty years ago. Now, shrugging off anything seemed unlikely. Yet while he had some form of companion, he felt he could keep delaying that moment of accounting. Just give me a few hours, he thought, just long enough to sort out this mess.

A few hours were all he needed; all he wanted.

‘There’s something we need to discuss, Scorp. You and me. Before it’s too late.’

‘Captain?’

‘I need to do something before it becomes impractical. We came here on Aura’s instructions, in the hope that we’d find something that might make a difference against the Inhibitors. Quaiche and the scuttlers were always the key, which is why we sent Aura into Hela society nine years ago. She was to gather information, to infiltrate the cathedrals through the back door, without anyone ever suspecting her connection to us. That was a good plan, Scorp. It was the best we had at the time. But we mustn’t neglect Haldora itself.’

‘No one’s neglecting it,’ Scorpio said. ‘Aura already thinks she’s made contact with the shadows, via that suit. Isn’t that good enough for now?’

‘It might have been if the Adventists hadn’t betrayed us. But we don’t control that suit: Quaiche does, and he’s no longer a man we can trust. It’s time to up the ante, Scorp. We can’t put all our faith in that one line of negotiation.’

‘So we launch the instrument packages, just like we always planned.’

‘The packages were only ever intended as a precursor. More than likely, they’d have told us nothing we haven’t already learned from Aura. Sooner or later we’d have had to bring in the big guns.’

For a moment Scorpio had forgotten his pain. ‘So what have you got in mind?’

‘We need to know what’s inside Haldora,’ the Captain said. ‘We need to break through the camouflage, and we can’t afford to sit around waiting for a vanishing.’

‘The cache weapon,’ Scorpio said, guessing his companion’s intentions. ‘You want to use it, don’t you? Fire it into the face of that planet, and see what happens?’

‘Like I said, it’s time to bring out the big guns.’

‘It’s the last one we’ve got. Make it count, Captain.’

The suit studied him with the blank aperture of its faceplate. ‘I’ll do my best,’ it said.

Presently, the suit slowed its pace. The pig halted, using the wide bulk of the suit for cover.

‘There’s something ahead, Scorp.’

Scorpio looked into darkness. ‘I don’t see anything.’

‘I sense it, but I need the suit to take a closer look. I don’t have cameras here.’

They rounded a slight bend, easing their way through a knuckle of interconnected corridors. Suddenly they were back in a part of the ship Scorpio thought he recognised - one of the corridors he had taken the Adventists down earlier that day. Dull sepia light dribbled from sconces in the wall.

‘There are bodies here, Scorp. It doesn’t look good.’

The suit strode ahead, sloshing through unspeakable fluids. The bodies were shadowed lumps, half-submerged in the muck. The suit’s head-light flicked on, playing over the forms. Feral janitor rats fled from the glare.

‘They’re not Adventists,’ Scorpio said.

The suit knelt down next to the closest of the bodies. ‘Do you recognise them?’

Scorpio squatted on his haunches, grimacing at the twin spikes of pain on either side of his chest. He touched the body nearest to the Captain, turning it over so that he could see the face. He fingered the rough leather of an eyepatch.

‘It’s Orca Cruz,’ he said.

His own voice sounded detached, matter-of-fact. She’s dead, he thought. This woman who was loyal to you for more than thirty years of your life is dead; this woman who aided you, protected you, fought for you and made you laugh with her stories, is dead, and she died because of your mistake, your stupidity in not seeing through the Adventists’ plans. And all you feel now is that something you own has been stepped on.

There was a hiss of pistons and servo-mechanisms. The monstrous gauntlet of the Captain’s suit touched him gently on the back. ‘It’s all right, Scorp. I know how you feel.’

‘I don’t feel anything.’

‘That’s what I mean. It’s too soon, too sudden.’

Scorpio looked at the other bodies, knowing that they were all members of the Security Arm. Their weapons were gone, but there was no obvious indication of injury on any of them. But he wouldn’t forget the expression on Cruz’s face in a hurry.

‘She was good,’ he said. ‘She stuck by me when she could have carved out a little empire of her own in Chasm City. She didn’t deserve this. None of them deserved this.’

He forced himself to his full height, steadying himself against the wall. First Lasher, on the trip to Resurgam. Then he’d had to say goodbye to Blood, probably for ever. Now Cruz was gone: his last, precious link to that half-remembered life in Chasm City.

‘I don’t know about you, Captain,’ he said, ‘but I’m about ready to start taking things personally.’

‘I’ve already started,’ the empty suit said.

Battle continued to rage within the Nostalgia for Infinity. Slowly, however, the tide was turning against the Adventist boarders. Around the ship, the last elements of the Cathedral Guard had either tunnelled through to the interior or were being picked off by the hull-mounted defences. Damage had been sustained: fresh craters and scars gouged into the already treacherous landscape of the starship’s hull. The tiny ships that had reached the hull and anchored themselves in place - with projectile barbs, epoxy-pads, rocket grapples and drilling equipment - resembled mechanical ticks half-embedded in the flesh of some monstrous animal. Elsewhere, the mashed corpses of other ships lay entangled in the crevices and folds of the Nostalgia for Infinity’s architecture, quills of escaping air and fluid bleeding into space. Other ships had been ripped apart before they got close to the lighthugger, their hot, mangled wreckage trailing the larger vessel as it orbited Hela. No additional reinforcements had been launched from the moon: the assault had been designed to be total and overwhelming, and only a handful of Cathedral Guard units had not been mobilised during the first wave.

The few elements still trying to make their boarding approach must have known that their chances were not excellent. The resistance had been greater than expected: for the first time, a group of Ultras had actually downplayed the effectiveness of their defences. But the regular soldiers of the Cathedral Guard were blood-loyal to the Adventist order, Quaicheist doctrine running thick and true in their veins, and for them retreat was literally unthinkable. They did not have to know the purpose of their mission to understand that it was of the utmost importance to the dean.

Preoccupied with the matter of finding a safe route to the hull, none of them observed the opening of a space-door in the side of the Nostalgia for Infinity, a chink of golden-yellow light amidst the complexity of the Captain’s transformations. The door looked tiny, but that was only because of the dizzying scale of the ship itself.

Something emerged, moving with the smooth, unhesitating autonomy of a machine. It did not look very much like a spacecraft, even the ungainly sort used for ship-to-ship operations. It resembled a strange abstract ornament: a surreal juxtaposition of flanged bronze-green shapes, windowless and seamless, as if carved from soap or marble, the whole thing encased in a skeletal black harness, a geodesic framework stubbed with docking latches, thrusters and navigation and aiming devices.

It was a cache weapon. There had been forty of the hell-class devices once; now only this unit remained. The science that had made it, the engineering principles embodied in its construction, were almost certainly less advanced than those in the latest additions to the Infinity’s arsenal, like the bladder-mines or the hypometric weapons. No one would ever know for sure. But one thing was clear: the new weapons were instruments of surgical precision rather than brute force, so the cache weapon still had its uses.

It cleared the space-door. Around the skeletal framework of the harness, thrusters sparked blue-white. The glare lit the Nostalgia for Infinity, throwing hard radiance across the black shapes of the last few ships of the Cathedral Guard.

No one noticed.

The cache weapon wheeled around, the harness aligning itself with the looming face of Haldora. Then it accelerated, climbing away from the Nostalgia for Infinity, away from the battle, away from the scratched face of Hela.

Vasko and Khouri stepped into the mirror-filled room of the garret. Vasko looked around, satisfying himself that the room was much as they had left it. The dean was still sitting in the same couch, in the same part of the chamber. Rashmika was seated at the table in the middle of the room, watching their arrival. She had a tea set before her: a neat china service. Vasko observed her reactions carefully, wondering how much of her memory she had recovered. Even if she had not recalled everything, he could not believe that the sight of her mother’s face would not elicit some reaction. There were certain things that cut through memory, he thought.

But if there was a flicker of reaction from Rashmika, he missed it. She simply inclined her head towards them, the way she would have to greet any arriving visitors.

‘Just the two of you?’ Dean Quaiche asked.

‘We’re the advance party,’ Vasko said. ‘There didn’t seem to be any need to send down dozens of us, not until we’ve assessed the facilities.’

‘I told you there were many rooms available,’ he said, ‘for as many delegates as you cared to send.’

Rashmika spoke up. ‘They’re not mad, Dean. They know what’s going to happen in a few hours.’

‘The crossing concerns you?’ he asked the Ultras, as if the very thought was ludicrous.

‘Let’s just say we’d rather observe it from a distance,’ Vasko said. ‘That’s fair enough, isn’t it? There was nothing in our agreement that said we absolutely had to remain aboard the Lady Morwenna. The disadvantage is on our side if we choose not to have delegates present.’

‘I’m disappointed, all the same,’ Quaiche said. ‘I’d hoped you would want to share it with me. The spectacle won’t be anywhere near as impressive from a distance.’

‘I don’t doubt that for a moment,’ Vasko said. ‘All the same, we’ll leave you in peace to enjoy it first-hand.’ He looked at Khouri, choosing his words carefully. ‘We wouldn’t want to interfere with a sacred event.’

‘You wouldn’t be interfering,’ the dean said. ‘All the same, if that’s what you wish . . . I can hardly stop you. But we’re still twelve hours from the crossing. There’s no need to get nervous just yet.’

‘Are you nervous?’ Khouri asked him.

‘Not in the slightest,’ he said. ‘That bridge was put there for a reason. I’ve always believed that.’

‘There’s the wreckage of another cathedral at the bottom of the rift,’ Vasko said. ‘Doesn’t that worry you at all?’

‘It tells me that the dean of that cathedral lacked faith,’ Quaiche said.

Vasko’s communicator chimed. He lifted the bracelet to his ear, listened carefully. He frowned, then turned and whispered something into Khouri’s ear.

‘Something the matter?’ Quaiche asked.

‘There’s some trouble on the ship,’ Vasko said. ‘I’m not sure exactly what it is, but it seems to have something to do with your delegates.’

‘My delegates? Why would they be causing trouble?’

‘It seems they’re trying to take over the ship,’ Vasko said. ‘You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’

‘Well, now that you mention it—’ Quaiche made a very poor imitation of a smile ‘—I might have an inkling.’

One of the doors to the garret swung open. Six red-uniformed Adventist guards walked in, carrying weapons and looking as if they knew what to do with them.

‘I’m sorry it’s come to this,’ Quaiche said, as the guards motioned for Vasko and Khouri to sit down opposite Rashmika. ‘But I really need your ship, and - let’s be honest - there was never much chance of you just giving it to me, was there?’

‘But we had an agreement,’ Vasko said, one of the guards prodding him on the shoulder. ‘We offered you protection.’

‘The trouble was, it wasn’t protection I was after,’ Quaiche said. The rim of his eye-opener flashed polished brass. ‘It was propulsion.’

FORTY-THREE

Rashmika had a premonitory sense that something was about to trespass into her head. In the moments before the shadows spoke to her, she had learned to identify a specific sensation: a faint tingle of neural intrusion, like the feeling that somewhere in a huge and rambling old house a door had just opened.

She steeled herself: aware of the proximity of the scrimshaw suit, conscious of the ease with which the shadows were able to slip in and out of her skull.

But the voice was different this time.

[Rashmika. Listen to me. Don’t react. Don’t pay any more attention to me than you would to a stranger.]

Rashmika shaped an answer, without speaking. It was as if she had been born to it, as if the skill had always been there. Who are you?

[I’m the only other woman in this room.]

Despite herself, Rashmika glanced towards Khouri. The woman’s face was impassive: not hostile, not even unkind, but utterly blank of any kind of expression. It was as if she were looking at a wall, rather than Rashmika.

You?

[Me, Rashmika. Yes.]

Why are you here?

[To help you. How much do you remember? All of it, or only some of it? Do you remember anything at all?]

Aloud, Vasko said, ‘Propulsion, Dean? Are you saying you want our ship to take you somewhere?’

‘Not exactly, no,’ Quaiche replied.

Rashmika tried not to look at the woman, keeping her attention focused on the men instead. I don’t remember much, only that I don’t belong here. The shadows already found me out. Do you know about the shadows, Khouri?

[A little. Not as much as you.]

Can you answer any of my questions? Who sent me here? What was I supposed to do?

[We sent you here.] In her peripheral vision Rashmika saw the woman’s head nod by the slightest of degrees: silent, discreet affirmation that it was really her voice Rashmika was hearing. [But it was your decision. Nine years ago, Rashmika, you told us we had to put you on Hela, in the care of another family.]

Why?

[To learn things, to find out as much as you could about Hela and the scuttlers, from the inside. To reach the dean.]

Why?

[Because the dean was the only way of reaching Haldora. We thought Haldora was the key: the only route to the shadows. We didn’t know he’d already used it. You told us that, Rashmika. You found the short cut.]

The suit?

[That’s what we came for. And you, of course.]

Whatever your plan was, it’s going wrong. We’re in trouble, aren’t we?

[You’re safe, Rashmika. He doesn’t know you have anything to do with us.]

If he finds out?

[We’ll protect you. I’ll protect you, no matter what happens. You have my word on that.]

She looked into the woman’s face, daring Quaiche to notice. Why would you care about me?

[Because I’m your mother.]

Look into my eyes. Say it again.

Khouri did. And though Rashmika watched her face intently for the slightest indication of a lie, there was none. She supposed that meant Khouri was telling the truth.

There was shock, a stinging sense of denial, but it was not nearly as great as Rashmika might have expected. She had, by then, already begun to doubt much of what passed for her assumed history. The shadows - and, of course, Surgeon-General Grelier - had already convinced her that she had not been born on Hela, and that the people in the Vigrid badlands could not be her real parents. So what remained was a void waiting to be filled with facts, rather than one truth waiting to be displaced by another.

So here it was. There was still much she needed to remember for herself, but the essence was this: she was an agent of Ultras - these Ultras, specifically - and she had been put on Hela on an intelligence-gathering mission. Her actual memories had been suppressed, and in their place she had a series of vague, generic snapshots of early life on Hela. They were like a theatrical backdrop: convincing enough to pass muster provided they were not the object of attention themselves. But when the shadows had told her about her false past, she had seen the early memories for what they were.

The woman said she was Rashmika’s mother. She had no reason to doubt her - her face had conveyed no indication of a lie, and Rashmika already knew that her supposed mother in the badlands was only a foster parent. She felt sadness, a sense of loss, but no sense of betrayal.

She shaped a thought. I think you must be my mother.

[Do you remember me?]

I don’t know. A little. I remember someone like you, I think.

[What was I doing?]

You were standing in a palace of ice. You were crying.

Hela Orbit, 2727

Ribbons of grey-blue smoke twisted in the corridor, writhing with the shifts of air pressure. Fluid sluiced from weeping wounds in the walls and ceiling, raining down in muddy curtains. From some nearby part of the ship, Captain Seyfarth heard shouts and the rattle of automatic slug-guns, punctuated by the occasional bark of an energy weapon. He stepped through an obstacle course of bodies, his booted feet squashing limbs and heads into the ankle-deep muck that seemed to flood every level of the ship. One gauntleted hand gripped the rough handle of a throwing knife formed from the armour he had been wearing upon his arrival. The knife was already bloodied - by Seyfarth’s estimate he had killed three Ultras so far, and left another two with serious injuries - but he was still looking for something better. As he passed each body he kicked it over, checking the hands and belt for something promising. All he needed was a slug-gun.

Seyfarth was alone, the rest of his group either dead or cut off, wandering some other part of the ship. He had anticipated nothing less. Of the twenty units of the first infiltration team, Seyfarth would have been surprised if more than half a dozen survived to see the taking of the ship. Of course, he counted himself amongst the likely survivors, but based on past experience that was only to be expected. It was not, never had been, a suicide mission: just an operation with a low survival probability for most of those involved. The infiltration squad wasn’t required to survive, just to signal the fitness of the ship for the full takeover effort, using the massed ships of the Cathedral Guard. If the infiltrators were able to disrupt the defensive activities aboard the ship, creating pockets of internal confusion, then all the better. But once that signal had been sent to the surface, the survival or otherwise of Seyfarth’s unit had no bearing on subsequent events.

Given that, he thought, things were actually going tolerably well. There had been reports - fragmented, not entirely trustworthy - that the massed assault had met more resistance than expected. Certainly, the Cathedral Guard had appeared to suffer greater losses than Seyfarth had ever planned. But the massed assault had been overwhelming in scale for precisely the reason that it needed to be able to absorb huge losses and still succeed. It was shock and awe: no one needed to lecture Seyfarth on that particular doctrine. And the reports of weapons fire from elsewhere in the ship confirmed that elements of the second wave had indeed reached the Nostalgia for Infinity, together with the slug-guns they could never have smuggled past the pig.

His foot touched something.

Seyfarth knelt down, grimacing at the smell. He pushed the body over, bringing a sodden hip out of the brown muck in which it lay. He spied the tarnished gleam of a slug-gun.

Seyfarth pulled the weapon from the belt of the dead Cathedral Guardsman, shaking loose most of the muck. He checked the clip: fully loaded. The slug-gun was crudely made, mass-produced from cheap metal, but there were no electronic components in it, nothing that would have suffered from being immersed in the shipboard filth. Seyfarth tested it anyway, releasing a single slug into the nearest wall. The ship groaned as the slug went in. Now that he paid attention to it, it occurred to Seyfarth that the ship had been groaning rather a lot lately - more than he would have expected if the groans were merely structural noises. For a moment this troubled him.

Only for a moment, though.

He threw the knife away, grateful for the weighty heft of the slug-gun. It had taken nerve to come aboard the ship with only knives and a few concealed gadgets, but he had always known that if he made it this far - to the point where he had a real gun in his hand - he would make it all the way through.

It was like the end of a bad dream.

‘Going somewhere?’

The voice had come from behind him. But that simply wasn’t possible: he had been checking his rearguard constantly, and there had been no one coming along the corridor behind him when he knelt down to recover the slug-gun. Seyfarth was a good soldier: he never left his back uncovered for more than a few seconds.

But the voice sounded very near. Very familiar, too.

The safety catch was still off. He turned around slowly, holding the slug-gun at waist level. ‘I thought I took care of you,’ he said.

‘I need a lot of taking care of,’ the pig replied. He stood there, unarmed, not even a slug-gun to his name. Looming behind him, like an adult above an infant, stood the hollow shell of a spacesuit. Seyfarth’s lip twisted in a sneer of incomprehension. The pig, just possibly, could have hidden in the darkness, or even pretended to be a body. But the hulking spacesuit? There was no conceivable way he had walked past that without noticing it. And it didn’t seem very likely that the suit could have sprinted from the far end of the corridor in the few seconds during which he’d had his back turned.

‘This is a trick,’ Seyfarth said, ‘isn’t it?’

‘I’d put down that gun if I were you,’ the pig said.

Seyfarth’s finger squeezed the trigger. Part of him wanted to blow the snout-faced abortion away. Another part wanted to know why the pig thought he had the right to speak to him in that kind of tone.

Didn’t the pig know his place?

‘I hung you out to dry,’ Seyfarth said. He wasn’t mistaken: this was the same pig. He could even see the wounds from where he had pinned him to the wall.

‘Listen to me,’ the pig said. ‘Put down the gun and we’ll talk. There are things I want you to tell me. Like what the hell Quaiche wants with my ship.’

Seyfarth touched one finger to his helmeted head, as if scratching an itch. ‘Which one of us is holding the gun, pig?’

‘You are.’

‘Right. Just felt that needed clearing up. Now step away from the suit and kneel in the shit, where you belong.’

The pig looked at him, the sly white of an eye catching the light. ‘Or what?’

‘Or we’ll be looking at pork.’

The pig made a move towards him. It was only a flinch, but it was enough for Seyfarth. There were questions he’d have liked answered, but they would all have to wait for now. Once they had taken the ship, there would be all the time in the world for a few forensic investigations. It would actually give him something to do.

He made to squeeze the trigger. Nothing happened. Furious, imagining that the slug-gun had jammed after all, Seyfarth glanced down at the weapon.

It wasn’t the weapon that was the problem. The problem was his arm. Two spikes had appeared through it: they had shot out from one wall, speared his forearm and emerged on the other side, their sharp tips a damp ruby-red.

Seyfarth felt the pain arrive, felt the spikes grinding against bone and tendon. He bit down on the agony, sneering at the pig. ‘Nice ...’ he tried to say.

The spikes slid out of his arm, making a slick, slithery sound as they retracted. Seyfarth watched, fascinated and appalled, as they vanished back into the smooth wall.

‘Drop the gun,’ the pig said.

Seyfarth’s arm quivered. He raised the barrel towards the pig and the suit, made one last effort to squeeze the trigger. But there was something badly amiss with the anatomy of his arm. His forefinger merely spasmed, tapping pathetically against the trigger like a worm wriggling on a hook.

‘I did warn you,’ the pig said.

All around Seyfarth, walls, floor and ceiling erupted spikes. He felt them slide into him, freezing him in place. The gun fell from his hand, clattering to the ground through the labyrinth of interlaced metal rods.

‘That’s for Orca,’ the pig said.

It went quickly after that. The Captain’s control over his own local transformations seemed to grow in confidence and dexterity with each kill. It was, at times, quite sickening to watch. How much more terrible it must have been for the Adventists, to suddenly have the ship itself come alive and turn against them. How shocking, when the supposedly fixed surfaces of walls and floors and ceilings became mobile, crushing and pinning, maiming and suffocating. How distressing, when the fluids that ran throughout the ship - the fluids that the bilge pumps strove to contain - suddenly became the liquid instruments of murder, gushing out at high pressure, drowning hapless Adventists caught in the Captain’s hastily arranged traps. Growing up on Hela, drowning probably hadn’t been amongst the ways they expected to die. But that, Scorpio reflected, was life: full of nasty little surprises.

The tide had been turning against the Adventists, but now it was in full ebb. Scorpio felt his strength redouble, tapping into some last, unexpected reserve. He knew he was going to pay for it later, but for now it felt good to be pushing the enemy back, doing - as the Captain had promised - some actual damage. The slug-gun wasn’t designed for a pig, but that didn’t stop him finding a way to fire it. Sooner or later he was able to trade up for a shipboard boser pistol, pig-issue. Then, as he had always liked to say in Chasm City, he was really cooking.

‘Do what you have to do,’ the Captain told him. ‘I can take a little pain, for now.’

Pushing through the ship, following the Captain’s lead, he soon met up with surviving members of the Security Arm. They were shell-shocked, confused and disorganised, but on seeing him they rallied, realising that the ship had not yet fallen to the Adventists. And when word began to spread that the Captain was assisting in the effort, they fought like devils. The nature of the battle changed from minute to minute. Now it was no longer a question of securing control of their ship, but of mopping up the few outstanding pockets of Adventist resistance holed up in volumes of the ship where the Captain had only limited control.

‘I could kill them now,’ he told Scorpio. ‘I can’t reshape those parts of me, but I can depressurise them, or flood them. It will just take a little longer than usual. I could even turn the hypometric weapon against them.’

‘Inside yourself?’ Scorpio asked, remembering the last time that had happened, during the calibration exercise.

‘I wouldn’t do it lightly.’

Scorpio tightened his grip on the boser pistol. His heart was hammering in his chest, his eyesight and hearing no better than when he had been revived.

None of that mattered.

‘I’ll deal with them,’ he said. ‘You’ve done your bit for the day, Captain.’

‘I’ll leave things to you, then,’ the suit said, stepping back into a perfectly formed aperture that had just appeared in the wall. The wall resealed itself. It was as if the Captain had never been with him.

Beyond the Nostalgia for Infinity, the Captain’s manifold attention was at least partly occupied by the progress of the cache weapon. Even as the battle raged within him, even as the ship was brought slowly back under orthodox control, he was mindful of the weapon, anxious that it should not be wasted. For years he had carried the forty hell-class weapons within him, treasuring them against the predations of theft and damage. His degree of transformation had been much less than it was now, but he still felt an intense bond of care towards the weapons that had played such a central role in his recent history. Besides, the weapons themselves had been the beloved playthings of the old Triumvir, Ilia Volyova. He still had fond thoughts for the Triumvir, despite what she had done to him. As long as he remembered Ilia - who had always found time to speak to the Captain, even when he had been at his least communicative - he was not going to let her down by misusing the last of those dark toys.

Telemetry from the cache weapon reached him through multiply secure channels. The Captain had already sewn tiny spysat cameras around himself during the fiercest phase of the Cathedral Guard assault. Now that same swarm of eyes permitted continuous communication with the weapon, even as the Nostalgia for Infinity swung around the far side of Hela.

Haldora, from the cache weapon’s perspective, now swallowed half the sky. The gas giant was a striped behemoth of primal cold oozing exotic chemistries, its bands of colour so wide that you could drown a rocky world in them. It looked very real: every sensor on the cache weapon’s harness reported exactly what would have been expected this close to a gas giant. It sniffed the cruel strength of its magnetic field, felt the hard sleet of charged particles entrained by that field. Even at extreme magnification, the whorls and flurries of the atmosphere looked absolutely convincing.

The Captain had listened to the conversations of the humans in his care, to their speculations concerning the nature of the Haldora enigma. He knew what they expected to find behind this mask of a world: a mechanism for signalling between adjacent realities, entire universes fluttering there like ribbons, adjacent braneworlds in the higher-dimensional reality of the bulk: a kind of radio, capable of tuning into the whisper of gravitons. The details, as yet, didn’t matter. What they needed, now, was to make contact with the entities on the other side as quickly as possible. The suit in the Lady Morwenna was one possible means - perhaps the easiest, since it was already open - but it couldn’t be relied upon. If Quaiche destroyed it, then they would need to find another way to contact the shadows. Quaiche had waited until a vanishing occurred before sending his probe into the planet. They didn’t have time for that.

They needed to provoke a vanishing, to expose the machinery for themselves.

The weapon began to slow, taking up its firing posture. Within it, grave preparations were being made. Arcane physical processes began to occur: sequences of reactions, tiny at first, but growing towards an irreversible cascade. The commanding sentience of the device had settled into a state of calm acceptance. After so many years of inaction, it was now going to do the thing for which it had been created. The fact that it would die in the process did not alarm it in the slightest. It felt only a microscopic glimmer of regret that it was the last of its kind, and that no other cache weapons would be around to witness its furious proclamation.

That was the one thing their human masters had never grasped: cache weapons were intensely vain.

Scorpio sat at the conference table, scowling. He was alone except for a handful of seniors. Valensin was tending to his wounds: there was a small museum’s worth of antiquated medical equipment spread out on a bloodstained sheet before the pig, including bandages, scalpels, scissors, needles and various bottled ointments and sterilising agents. The doctor had already cut away part of his tunic, exposing the twin wounds where the Adventist’s throwing knives had pinned him to the wall.

‘You’re lucky,’ Valensin said, when he had cleaned away most of the blood and began sealing the entrance and exit wounds with an adhesive salve. ‘He knew what he was doing. You probably weren’t meant to die.’

‘And that makes me lucky? It wasn’t remotely unlucky to end up impaled on a wall in the first place? Just a thought.’

‘All I’m saying is, it could have been worse. It looks to me as if they were under orders to minimise casualties, as far as possible.’

‘Tell that to Orca.’

‘Yes, the nerve gas was unfortunate. At some point, obviously, they were prepared to kill, but in general it appears that they considered themselves to be on holy business, like Crusaders. The sword was to be used only as an instrument of last resort. But they must have known some blood would be shed.’

Urton leant across the table. Her arm was in a sling and there was a vivid purple bruise across her right cheek, but she was otherwise unhurt. ‘The question is, what now? We can’t just sit here and not react, Scorp. We have to take this back to Quaiche.’

The pig winced as Valensin tugged two folds of skin together, drawing a slug of adhesive across them. ‘That thought’s crossed my mind, believe me.’

‘And?’ Jaccottet asked.

‘I’d like nothing more than to target all our hull defences on that cathedral and turn the fucker into a smouldering pile of rubble. But that isn’t an option, not while we’ve got people aboard it.’

‘If we could get a message to Vasko and Khouri,’ Urton said, ‘they could start doing some damage themselves. At the very least, they could find their way to safety.’

Scorpio sighed. Of all of them, why did it fall to him - the one who had the least-developed capacity for forward thinking - to point out the problems?

‘This isn’t about revenge,’ he said. ‘Believe me, I’m big on revenge. I wrote the book on retribution.’ He paused, catching his breath while Valensin started fussing around with another wound, snipping away at leather and scabbed blood. ‘But we came here for a reason. I don’t know what Quaiche wanted with our ship, and it doesn’t look as if any of the surviving Adventists have much of an idea either. My guess is we just got caught up in some local power game, something that probably has damn all to do with the shadows. As tempting as it might be to take revenge now, it’d be the worst thing we could do in terms of our mission objective. We still have to make contact with the shadows, and our quickest route to them is inside a metal spacesuit inside the Lady Morwenna. That, people, is what we need to focus on, not on giving Quaiche the kicking he so richly deserves because he betrayed us. We can do that later, once we’ve established contact with the shadows. Believe me, I’ll be the first in line. And I won’t be operating on a minimum-casualties basis, either.’

No one said anything for a moment. There was a hiatus, a stillness in the room. It reminded him of something, but it took a while to remember what it was. When he did, he almost flinched away from the memory: Clavain. There had been a similar pause whenever the old man had finished one of his rabble-rousing monologues.

‘We could still storm the cathedral,’ Urton said, her voice low. ‘There’s time. We’ve taken losses, but we have operational shuttles. How about it, Scorp: a precision raid on the Lady Morwenna, in and out, snatch the suit and our people?’

‘It’d be dangerous,’ said another of the Security Arm people. ‘We don’t just have Khouri and Malinin to worry about. There’s Aura. What if Quaiche suspects she’s one of us?’

‘He won’t,’ Urton said. ‘There’s no reason for him to do that.’

Scorpio wrestled away from Valensin long enough to lift up his sleeve and inspect the plastic and metal ruin of his communicator. He did not remember when he had damaged it, just as he did not recall where all the additional bruises and cuts had come from.

‘Someone get me a line to the cathedral,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to the man in charge.’

‘You never used to think much of negotiation,’ Urton said. ‘You said all it ever got you was a world of pain.’

‘Trouble is,’ Scorpio acknowledged ruefully, ‘sometimes that’s the best you can hope for.’

‘You’re wrong about this,’ Urton said. ‘This isn’t the way to handle things.’

‘Like I was wrong about letting those twenty Adventists aboard the ship? That wasn’t my bright idea, the last time I checked.’

‘They slipped past your security checks,’ Urton said.

‘You wouldn’t let me examine them as thoroughly as I’d have liked.’

Urton glanced at her fellows. ‘Look, we’re grateful for your help in regaining control. Deeply grateful. But now that the situation is stable again, wouldn’t it be better if—’

The ship moaned. Someone else slid a communicator across the polished gloss of the table. Scorpio reached for it, snapped it around his wrist, and called Vasko.

Hela Surface, 2727

Grelier stepped into the garret and took a moment to adjust to the scene that met his eyes. Superficially, the room was much as he had left it. But now it had extra guests - a man and an older woman - detained by a small detachment of the Cathedral Guard. The guests - they were from the Ultra ship, he realised - looked at him as if expecting an explanation. Grelier merely brushed a hand through the white shock of his hair and placed his cane by the door. There was a lot he wanted to get off his chest, but the one thing he couldn’t do was explain what was happening here.

‘I go away for a few hours and all hell breaks loose,’ he commented.

‘Have a seat,’ the dean said.

Grelier ignored the suggestion. He did what he usually did upon his arrival in the garret, which was to attend to the dean’s eyes. He opened the wall cabinet and took out his usual paraphernalia of swabs and ointments.

‘Not now, Grelier.’

‘Now is as good a time as any,’ he said. ‘Infection won’t stop spreading merely because it is inconvenient to treat it.’

‘Where have you been, Grelier?’

‘First things first.’ The surgeon-general leant over the dean, inspecting the points where the barbs of the eye-opener hooked into the delicate skin of Quaiche’s eyelids. ‘Might be my imagination, but there seemed to be a wee bit of an atmosphere when I came in here.’

‘They’re not too thrilled about my taking the cathedral over the rift.’

‘Neither am I,’ Grelier said, ‘but you’re not holding me at gun-point. ’

‘It’s rather more complicated than that.’

‘I’ll bet it is.’ More than ever, he was glad that he had left his shuttle in a state of immediate flight-readiness. ‘Well, is someone going to explain? Or is this a new parlour game, where I have twenty guesses?’

‘He’s taken over our ship,’ the man said.

Grelier glanced back at him, continuing to dab at the dean’s eyes. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘The Adventist delegates were a trick,’ the man elaborated. ‘They were sent up there to seize control of the Nostalgia for Infinity.’

‘Nostalgia for Infinity,’ Grelier said. ‘Now there’s a name that keeps coming up.’

Now it was the man’s turn to be puzzled. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Been here before, haven’t you? About nine years ago.’

The two prisoners exchanged glances. They did their best to hide it, but Grelier had been expecting some response.

‘You’re ahead of me,’ Quaiche said.

‘I think we’re all ahead of each other in certain respects,’ Grelier said. He scooped his swab under an eyelid, the tip yellow with infection. ‘Is it true what he said, about the delegates taking over their ship?’

‘I don’t think he’d have any reason to lie,’ Quaiche said.

‘You set that up?’

‘I needed their ship,’ Quaiche said. He sounded like a child explaining why he had been caught stealing apples.

‘We know that much. Why else did you spend all that time looking for the right one? But now that they’ve brought the ship, what’s the problem? You’re better off letting them run it, if protection’s what you want.’

‘It was never about protection.’

Grelier froze, the swab still buried under the dean’s eyelid. ‘It wasn’t?’

‘I wanted a ship,’ Quaiche said. ‘Didn’t matter which one, so long as it was in reasonably good condition and the engines worked. It wasn’t as if I was planning on taking it very far.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Grelier said.

‘I know why,’ the man said. ‘At least, I think I have a good idea. It’s about Hela, isn’t it?’

Grelier looked at him. ‘What about it?’

‘He’s going to take our ship and land it on this planet. Somewhere near the equator, I’d guess. He’s probably already constructed something for docking - a cradle of some kind.’

‘A cradle?’ Grelier said blankly.

‘A holdfast,’ Quaiche said, as if that explained everything. Grelier thought about the diverted Permanent Way resources, the fleet of construction machines Rashmika had described to him. Now he knew exactly what they were for. They must have been on their way to the holdfast - whatever that was - to put the finishing touches to it.

‘Just one question,’ Grelier said. ‘Why?’

‘He’s going to land the ship sideways,’ the man replied. ‘Lie it down on Hela with the hull aligned east-west, parallel to the equator. Then he’ll lock it in place, so that it can’t move.’

‘There’s a point to all this?’ Grelier said.

‘There will be when I start the engines,’ Quaiche said, unable to contain himself. ‘Then you’ll see. Then everyone will see.’

‘He’s going to change the spin rate of Hela,’ the man said. ‘He’s going to use the ship’s engines to lock Hela into synchronous rotation around Haldora. He doesn’t have to change the length of the day by much - twelve minutes will do the trick. Won’t they, Dean?’

‘One part in two hundred,’ Quaiche said. ‘Sounds trivial, doesn’t it? But worlds - even small ones like Hela - take a lot of shifting. I always knew I’d need a lighthugger to do it. Think about it: if those engines can push a million tonnes of ship to within a scratch of the speed of light, I think they can change Hela’s day by twelve minutes.’

Grelier retrieved the swab from under Quaiche’s eyelid. ‘What God failed to put right, you can fix. Is that it?’

‘Now don’t go giving me delusions of grandeur,’ Quaiche chided.

Vasko’s bracelet chimed. He looked at it, not daring to move.

‘Answer it,’ Quaiche said eventually. ‘Then we can all hear how things are going.’

Vasko did as he was told. He listened to the report very carefully, then snapped the bracelet from his wrist and passed it to Grelier. ‘Listen to it yourself,’ he said. ‘I think you’ll find it very interesting.’

Grelier examined the bracelet, his lips pursed in suspicion. ‘I’ll take this call, I think,’ he said.

‘Suits me either way,’ Vasko said.

Grelier listened to the voice coming out of the bracelet. He spoke into it carefully, then listened to the answers, nodding occasionally, raising his snow-white eyebrows in mock astonishment. Then he shrugged and passed it back to Vasko.

‘What?’ Quaiche said.

‘The Cathedral Guard have failed in their attempt to take the ship,’ he said. ‘They’ve been cut to shreds, including the reinforcements. I had a nice chat with the pig in command of ship operations. Seemed a very reasonable fellow, for a pig.’

‘No,’ Quaiche breathed. ‘Seyfarth gave me his promise. He told me he had the men to do it. It can’t have failed.’

‘It did.’

‘What happened? What did they have on that ship that Seyfarth didn’t know about? A whole army?’

‘That’s not what the pig says.’

‘The pig’s right,’ Vasko said. ‘It was the ship that ruined your plans. It’s not like other ships, not inside. It has ideas of its own. It didn’t take very kindly to your intruders.’

‘This wasn’t how it was meant to happen,’ Quaiche moaned.

‘You’re in a spot of bother, I think,’ Grelier said. ‘The pig mentioned something about taking the cathedral by force.’

‘They set me up,’ Quaiche said, realisation dawning.

‘Oh, don’t think ill of them. They just wanted access to Haldora. It wasn’t their fault they stumbled into your scheme. They’d have left you alone if you hadn’t tried to use them.’

‘We’re in trouble,’ Quaiche said quietly.

‘Actually,’ Grelier said, as if remembering something important, ‘things aren’t quite as bad as you think.’ He leant closer to the dean, then looked back at the three people sitting around the table. ‘We still have a bit of leverage, you see.’

‘We do?’ Quaiche said.

‘Give me the bracelet,’ he told Vasko.

Vasko passed it to him. Grelier smiled and spoke into it. ‘Hello, is that the pig? Nice to speak to you again. Got a bit of news for you. We have the girl. If you want her back in one piece, I suggest you start taking instructions.’

Then he handed the bracelet to the dean. ‘You’re on,’ he said.

FORTY-FOUR

Scorpio struggled to hear the whispery, paper-thin voice of Dean Quaiche. He held up a hand to silence his companions, screwing his eyes closed against the tight, nagging discomfort of his sealed wounds. His work finished, Valensin began wrapping up the soiled blood-red bundle of surgical tools and ointments.

‘I don’t know about any girl,’ Scorpio said.

The dean’s answer was like a scratch of nails against tin. ‘Her name is Rashmika Els. Her real name, I neither know nor care. What I do know is that she arrived on Hela from your ship nine years ago. We’ve established the connection beyond any doubt. And so much else suddenly tumbles into place.’

‘It does?’

The voice changed: it was the other man again, the surgeon-general. ‘I don’t know exactly how you did it,’ he said, ‘but I’m impressed. Buried memories, autosuggestion . . . what was it?’

‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

‘The business with the Vigrid constabulary.’

Again, ‘I’m sorry?’

‘The girl had to be primed to emerge from her shell. There must have been a trigger. Perhaps after eight or nine years she knew, on a subconscious level, that she had spent enough time amongst the badland villagers to begin the next phase of her infiltration: penetrating the highest level of our very order. Why, I don’t yet know, although I’m a wee bit inclined to think you do.’

Scorpio said nothing. He let the man continue speaking.

‘She had to wait until a means arrived to reach the Permanent Way. Then she had to signal to you that she was on her way, so that you would know to bring your ship in from the cold. It was a question of timing: your successful dealings with the dean obviously depended on internal intelligence fed to you by the girl. There are machines in her head - they rather resemble Conjoiner implants - but I doubt that you could read them from orbit. So you needed another sign, something you couldn’t possibly miss. The girl sabotaged a store of demolition charges, didn’t she? She blew it up, drawing down the attention of the constabulary. I doubt that she even knew she had done it herself: it was probably more like sleepwalking, acting out buried commands. Then she felt an inexplicable need to leave home and journey to the cathedrals. She concocted a motive for herself: a search for her long-lost brother, even though every rational bone in her body must have told her he was already dead. You, meanwhile, had your signal. The sabotage was reported on all the local news networks; doubtless you had the means to intercept them even far beyond Hela. I imagine there was something unambiguous about it - the time of day, perhaps - that made it absolutely clear that it was the work of your spy.’

Scorpio saw that there was no further point in bluffing. ‘You’ve done your homework,’ he said.

‘Bloodwork, really, but I take your point.’

‘Touch her, and I’ll turn you to dust.’

He heard the smile in the surgeon-general’s voice. ‘I think touching her is the last thing any of us have in mind. I don’t think we intend to harm a hair on her head. On that note, why don’t I put you back on to the dean? I think he has an interesting proposition.’

The whispery voice again, like someone blowing through drift-wood: ‘A proposition, yes,’ the dean said. ‘I was prepared to take your ship by force because I never imagined I’d have any leverage over you. Force, it seems, has failed. I’m surprised: Seyfarth assured me he had every confidence in his own abilities. Frankly, it doesn’t matter now that I have the girl. Obviously she means something to you. That means you’re going to do what I want, without a single one of my agents lifting a finger.’

‘Let’s hear your proposition,’ Scorpio said.

‘I told you I wanted the loan of your ship. As a gesture of my good faith - and my extremely forgiving nature - that arrangement still stands. I will take your ship, use it as I see fit, and then I shall return it to you, its occupants and infrastructure largely intact.’

‘Largely intact,’ Scorpio said. ‘I like that.’

‘Don’t play games with me, pig. I’m older and uglier, and that’s really saying something.’

Scorpio heard his own voice, as if from a distance. ‘What do you want?’

‘Take a look at Hela,’ Quaiche said. ‘I know you have cameras spotted all around your orbit. Examine these co-ordinates; tell me what you see.’

It took a few seconds to acquire an image of the surface. When the picture on the compad stabilised, Scorpio found himself looking at a neatly excavated rectangular hole in the ground, like a freshly prepared grave. The co-ordinates referred to a part of Hela that was in daylight, but even so the sunken depths of the hole were in shadow, relieved by strings of intense industrial floodlights. The overlaid scale said that the trench was five kilometres long and nearly three wide. Three of the sides were corrugated grey revetments, sloping steeply, slightly outwards from their bases, carved with ledges and sloping access ramps. Windows shone in the two-kilometre-high walls, peering through plaques of industrial machinery and pressurised cabins. Around the upper edges of the trench, Scorpio saw retracted sheets, serrated to lock together. In the shadowed depths, sketchy, floodlit suggestions of enormous mechanisms were barely visible, things like grasping lobster claws and flattened molars: the movable components of a harness as large as the Nostalgia for Infinity. He could see the tracks and piston-driven hinges that would enable the harness to lock itself around almost any kind of lighthugger hull, within limits.

Only three walls of the trench were sheer. The fourth - one of the two short sides - provided a much shallower transition to the level of the surrounding plain. From the fall of surface shadows it was obvious that the trench was aligned parallel to Hela’s equator.

‘Got the message?’ Quaiche asked.

‘I’m getting it,’ Scorpio said.

‘The structure is a holdfast: a facility for supporting the mass of your ship and preventing her escape, even while she is under thrust.’

Scorpio noted how the rear parts of the cradle could be raised or lowered to enable adjustment of the angle of the hull by precise increments. In his mind’s eye he already saw the Nostalgia for Infinity down in that trench, pinned there as he had been pinned to the wall.

‘What is it for, Dean?’

‘Haven’t you grasped it yet?’

‘I’m a little slow on the uptake. It comes with my genes.’

‘Then I’ll explain. You’re going to slow Hela for me. I’m going to use your ship as a brake, to bring this world into perfect synchronisation with Haldora.’

‘You’re a madman.’

Scorpio heard a dry rattle of laughter, like old twigs being shaken in a bag. ‘I’m a madman with something you want very badly. Shall we do business? You have sixty minutes from now. In exactly one hour, I want your ship locked down in that holdfast. I have an approach trajectory already plotted, one that will minimise lateral hull stresses. If you follow it, the damage and discomfort will be minimalised. Would you like to see it?’

‘Of course I’d like to ...’

But even before he had finished the sentence he felt a lurch, the impulse as the ship broke from orbit. The other seniors reached instinctively for the table, clawing at it for support. Valensin’s bundle of medical tools slid to the floor. Groans and bellows of protest from the ship’s fabric were like the creaking of vast old trees in a thunderstorm.

They were going down. It was what the Captain wanted.

Scorpio snarled into the communicator, ‘Quaiche: listen to me. We can work this out. You can have your ship - we’re already on our way - but you have to do something for me in return.’

‘You can have the girl when the ship has finished its business.’

‘I’m not expecting you to hand her over right now. But do one thing: stop the cathedral. Don’t take it over the bridge.’

The whisper of a voice said, ‘I’d love to, I really would, but I’m afraid we’re already committed.’

In the core of the cache weapon, the cascade of reactions passed an irreversible threshold. Exotic physical processes simmered, rising like boiling water. No conceivable intervention could now prevent the device from firing, short of the violent destruction of the weapon itself. Final systems checks were made, targeting and yield cross-checked countless times. The spiralling processes continued: something like a glint became a spark, which in turn became a little marble-sized sphere of naked, swelling energy. The fireball grew larger still, swallowing layer after layer of containment mechanisms. Microscopic sensors, packed around the expanding sphere, recorded squalls of particle events. Space-time itself began to curl and crisp, like the edge of a sheet of parchment held too close to a candle flame. The sphere engulfed the last bastion of containment and kept growing. The weapon sensed parts of itself being eaten from within: glorious and chilling at the same time. In its last moments it reassigned functions from the volume around the expanding sphere, cramming more and more of its control sentience into its outer layers. Still the sphere kept growing, but now it was beginning to deform, elongating in one direction in exact accordance with prediction. A spike of annihilating force rammed forwards, blasting through a marrow of abandoned machine layers. The weapon felt it as a cold steel impalement. The tip of the spike reached beyond its armour, beyond the harness, towards the face of Haldora.

The expanding sphere had now consumed eighty per cent of the cache weapon’s volume. Shockwaves were racing towards the gas giant’s surface: in a matter of nanoseconds, the weapon would cease to exist except as a glowing cloud at one end of its beam.

It had nearly run out of viable processing room. It began to discard higher sentience functions, throwing away parts of itself. It did so with a curious discrimination, intent on preserving a tiny nugget of intelligence until the last possible moment. There were no more decisions to be made; nothing to do except await destruction. But it had to know: it had to cling to sentience long enough to know that it had done some damage.

Ninety-five per cent of the cache weapon was now a roiling ball of photo-leptonic hellfire. Its thinking systems were smeared in a thin, attenuated crust on the inside of the weapon’s skin: a crust that was itself beginning to break up, sundered and riven by the racing shockwave of the explosion. The machine’s intelligence slid down the cognitive ladder until all that remained was a stubborn, bacterial sense of its own existence and the fact that it was there to do something.

The light rammed through the last millimetre of armour. By then, the first visual returns were arriving from Haldora. The cameras on the cache weapon’s skin relayed the news to the shrinking puddle of mind that was all that remained of the once-sly intelligence.

The beam had touched the planet. And something was happening to it, spreading away from the impact point in a ripple of optical distortion.

The mind shrivelled out of existence. The last thing it allowed itself was a dwindling thrill of consummation.

In the depths of the Lady Morwenna - in the great hall of Motive Power - several things happened almost at once. An intense flash of light flooded the hall through the narrow colourless slits of the utilitarian windows above the coupling sleeves. Glaur, the shift boss, was just blinking away the afterimages of the flash - the propulsion systems etched into his retinae in looming pink-and-green negative forms - when he saw the machinery lose its usual keen synchronisation: the scissoring aerial intricacy of rods and valves and compensators appearing, for a heart-stopping moment, to be about to work loose, threshing itself and anyone nearby into a bloody amalgam of metal and flesh.

But the instant passed: the governors and dampers worked as they were meant to, forcing the motion back into its usual syncopated rhythm. There were groans and squeals of mechanical protestation - deafening, painful - as hundreds of tonnes of moving metal struggled against the constraints of hinge-point and valve sleeve, but nothing actually worked loose, or came flying through the air towards him. Glaur noticed, then, that the emergency lights were flashing on the reactor, as well as on the servo-control boxes of the main propulsion assembly.

The wave of unco-ordinated motion had been damped and controlled within the Motive Power hall, but these mechanisms were only part of the chain: the wave itself was still travelling. In half a second it passed through the airtight seals in the wall and out into vacuum. An observer, watching the Lady Morwenna from a distance, would have seen the usual smooth movements of the flying buttresses slip out of co-ordination. Glaur didn’t need to be outside: he knew exactly what was about to happen, saw it in his imagination with the clarity of an engineering blueprint. He even reached for a handhold before he had made a conscious decision to do so.

The Lady Morwenna stumbled. Huge reciprocating masses of moving machinery - normally counterweighted so that the walking motion of the cathedral was experienced as only the tiniest of sways even at the top of the Clocktower - were now appallingly unbalanced. The cathedral lurched first to one side, then to the other. The effect was catastrophic and predictable: the lurch sent a fresh shudder through the propulsion mechanisms, and the entire process began again even before the first lurch had been damped out.

Glaur gritted his teeth and hung on. He watched the floor tilt by entire, horrifying degrees. Klaxons tripped automatically; red emergency lights flashed from the chamber’s vaulted heights.

A voice sounded on the pneumatic speaker system. He reached for the mouthpiece, raising his own voice above the racket.

‘This is the surgeon-general. What, exactly, is happening?’

‘Glaur, sir. I don’t know. There was a flash ... systems went berserk. If I didn’t know better I’d say someone just let off a very powerful demolition charge, hit our ’tronics boxes.’

‘It wasn’t a nuke. I meant, what is happening with your control of the cathedral?’

‘She’s on her own now, sir.’

‘Will she topple?’

Glaur looked around. ‘No, sir. No.’

‘Will she leave the Way?’

‘No sir, not that either.’

‘Very well. I just wanted to be certain.’ Grelier paused: in the gap between his words Glaur heard something odd, like a kettle whistling. ‘Glaur ... what did you mean by “she’s on her own”?’

‘I mean, sir, that we’re on automatic control, like we’re supposed to be during times of emergency. Manual control is locked out on the twenty-six-hour timer. Captain Seyfarth made me do it, sir: said it was on Clocktower authority. So we don’t stop, sir. So we can’t stop.’

‘Thank you,’ Grelier said quietly.

Above them all, something was very wrong with Haldora. Where the beam from the weapon had struck the planet, something like a ripple had raced out, expanding concentrically. The weapon itself was gone now; even the beam had vanished into Haldora, and only a dispersing silvery-white cloud remained at the point where the device had been activated.

But the effects continued. Within the circular interior of the expanding ripple, the usual swirls and bands of gas-giant chemistry were absent. Instead there was just a ruby-red bruise, smooth and undifferentiated. In seconds it grew to encompass the entire planet. What had been Haldora was now something like a bloodshot eye.

It stayed like that for a few seconds, staring balefully down at Hela. Then hints of patterning began to appear in the ruby-red sphere: not the commas and horsetails of random chemical boundaries, not the bands of differentiated rotation belts, not the cyclopean eyes of major storm foci. These patterns were regular and precise, like designs worked into carpets. They sharpened, as if being worked and neatened by an invisible hand. Then they shifted: now a tidily manicured ornamental labyrinth, now a suggestion of cerebral folds. The colour flicked from ruby-red to bronze to a dark silver. The planet erupted forth a thousand spikes. The spikes lingered, then collapsed back into a sea of featureless mercury. The mercury became a chequerboard; the chequerboard became a spherical cityscape of fantastic complexity; the cityscape became a crawling Armageddon.

The planet returned. But it wasn’t the same planet. In a blink, Haldora became another gas giant, then another - the colouring and banding different each time. Rings appeared in the sky. A garland of moons, orbiting in impossible procession. Two sets of rings, intersecting at an angle, passing through each other. A dozen perfectly square moons.

A planet with a neat chunk taken out of it, like a half-eaten wedding cake.

A planet that was a reflected mirror of stars.

A dodecahedral planet.

Nothing.

For a few seconds there was only a black sphere up there. Then the sphere began to wobble, like a balloon full of water.

At last the great concealment mechanism was breaking down.

FORTY-FIVE

Quaiche clawed at his eyes, making a faint screaming sound, the words I’m blind, I’m blind his pitiful refrain.

Grelier put down the pneumatic speaking tube. He leant over the dean, pulling some gleaming ivory-handled optical device from his tunic pocket and peering into the trembling horror of Quaiche’s exposed eyes. With the other hand he cast shadows over them, watching the reactions of the twitching irises.

‘You’re not blind,’ he said. ‘At least, not in both eyes.’

‘The flash—’

‘The flash damaged your right eye. I’m not surprised: you were staring straight at the face of Haldora when it happened, and you have no blink reflex, of course. But we happened to lurch at the same moment: whatever caused that flash also upset Glaur’s machines. It was enough to perturb the optical light path from the collecting apparatus above the garret. You were spared the full effect of it.’

‘I’m blind,’ Quaiche said again, as if he had heard nothing that Grelier had told him.

‘You can still see me,’ Grelier said, moving his finger, ‘so stop snivelling.’

‘Help me.’

‘I’ll help you if you tell me what just happened - and also why the hell the Lady Mor is on automatic control.’

Quaiche’s voice regained a semblance of calm. ‘I don’t know what happened. If I’d been expecting that, do you think I’d have been looking at it?’

‘I imagine it was your friends the Ultras. They professed an interest in Haldora, didn’t they?’

‘They said they were going to send in instrument packages.’

‘I think they fibbed,’ Grelier replied.

‘I trusted them.’

‘You still haven’t told me about the automatic control. Glaur says we can’t stop.’

‘Twenty-six-hour lockout,’ Quaiche said, as if reciting from a technical manual. ‘To be used in the event of a complete collapse of cathedral authority, ensuring that the Lady Mor continues to move along the Way until order is restored. All manual control of the reactor and propulsion systems is locked out on sealed, tamper-proof timing systems. Guidance cameras detect the Way; gyroscopes prevent drift even if there’s a loss of all visual cues; multiply redundant star-trackers come online for celestial navigation. There’s even a buried inductance cable we can follow, if all else fails.’

‘When was the lockout instigated?’

‘It was the last thing Seyfarth did before departing for the Infinity.’

Many hours ago, Grelier thought, but fewer than twenty-six. ‘So she’s going over that bridge, and nothing can stop it, short of sabotage? ’

‘Have you tried sabotaging a reactor lately, Grelier? Or a thousand tonnes of moving machinery?’

‘Just wondering what the chances were.’

‘The chances are, Surgeon-General, that she’s going over that bridge.’

It was a tiny surface-to-orbit ship, barely larger than the re-entry capsule that had brought Khouri to Ararat. It slipped from the belly of the Nostalgia for Infinity, impelled by the merest whisper of thrust. Through the transparent patches in the cockpit armour, Scorpio watched the huge old ship fall slowly away, more like a receding landscape than another vessel. He gasped: at last he could see the changes for himself.

Wonderful and frightening things were happening to the Nostalgia for Infinity. As she made her slow approach to the surface holdfast, vast acres of the hull were peeling away, sheets of biomechanical cladding and radiation shielding breaking loose like flakes of sloughed skin. As the ship approached Hela, the pieces stretched behind her, forming a dark, jostling tail, like a comet’s. It was the perfect camouflage for Scorpio, permitting him to make his departure undetected.

None of it, Scorpio knew, was unintentional. The ship wasn’t breaking up because of the unbalanced stresses of its sidelong approach to Hela. It was breaking up because the Captain was choosing to fling away entire parts of himself. Where the skin cladding had gone, the ship’s innards were revealed in all their bewildering intricacy. And even there - in the solid depths of the Nostalgia for Infinity - great changes were afoot. The Captain’s ordinary transformative processes had been accelerated. The former maps of the ship were now utterly useless - no one had the slightest idea how to navigate through those deep districts. Not that it mattered: the living crew were crammed into a tiny, stable district near the nose, and if anyone was alive and warm down in the parts of the ship that were changing, they were only the last, wandering elements of the Cathedral Guard. In Scorpio’s opinion, it was unlikely that they’d be alive and warm for very much longer.

No one had told the Captain to do this, just as no one had told him to lower himself towards Hela. Even if there had been a rebellion - even if some of the seniors had decided to abandon Aura - it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference. Captain John Brannigan had made up his mind.

When he was clear of the tumbling cloud of sloughed parts, Scorpio told the ship to accelerate harder. It had been a long time since he had sat behind the controls of a spacecraft, but that didn’t matter: the little machine knew exactly where it needed to go. Hela rolled below: he saw the diagonal scratch of the rift, and the even fainter scratch of the bridge spanning it. He turned up the magnification, steadied the image and tracked back from the bridge until he made out the tiny form of the Lady Morwenna, creeping towards the edge of the plain. He had no idea what was going on aboard it now: since the appearance of the Haldora machinery, all attempts to communicate with Quaiche or his hostages had failed. Quaiche must have destroyed or disabled all the communication channels, no longer wishing to be distracted by outside parties now that he had finally seized effective control of the Nostalgia for Infinity. All Scorpio could do was assume that Aura and the others were still safe, and that there was still some measure of rationality in Quaiche’s mind. If he could not be contacted by conventional means, then he would have to be sent a very obvious and compelling signal to stop.

Scorpio’s ship aimed itself for the bridge.

The pressure of thrust, mild as it was, made Scorpio’s chest hurt. Valensin had told him he was a fool even to think about riding a ship down to Hela after what he had been through in the last few years.

Scorpio had shrugged. A pig had to do what a pig had to do, he’d said.

Grelier attended to Quaiche, dribbling solutions into the blinded eye. Quaiche flinched and moaned at each drop, but gradually his moans became intermittent whimpers, signifying irritation and disappointment more than pain.

‘You still haven’t told me what she’s doing here,’ Quaiche said, finally.

‘That wasn’t my job,’ Grelier replied. ‘I established that she wasn’t who she said she was, and I established that she had arrived on Hela nine years ago. The rest you’ll have to ask her yourself.’

Rashmika stood up and walked over to the dean, brushing the surgeon-general aside. ‘You don’t have to ask,’ she said. ‘I’ll tell you myself. I came here to find you. Not because I was particularly interested in you, but because you were the key to reaching the shadows.’

‘The shadows?’ Grelier asked, screwing the lid on to a thumb-sized bottle of blue fluid.

‘He knows what I’m talking about,’ Rashmika said. ‘Don’t you, Dean?’

Even through the masklike rigidity of his face, Quaiche managed to convey his sense of awful realisation. ‘But it took you nine years to find me.’

‘It wasn’t just about finding you, Dean. I always knew where you were: no one ever made a secret of that. A lot of people thought you were dead, but it was always clear where you were meant to be.’

‘Then why wait all this time?’

‘I wasn’t ready,’ she said. ‘I had to learn more about Hela and the scuttlers, otherwise I couldn’t be sure that the shadows were the right people to talk to. It was no good trusting the church authorities: I had to learn things for myself, make my own deductions. And, of course, I had to have a convincing background, so you’d trust me.’

‘But nine years,’ Quaiche said again, marvelling. ‘And you’re still just a child.’

‘I’m seventeen. And it’s been a lot more than nine years, believe me.’

‘The shadows,’ Grelier said. ‘Will one of you please do me the courtesy of explaining who or what they are?’

‘Tell him, Dean,’ Rashmika said.

‘I don’t know what they are.’

‘But you know they exist. They talk to you, don’t they, just the way they talk to me. They asked you to save them, to make sure they aren’t destroyed when the Lady Morwenna goes over the bridge.’

Quaiche raised a hand, dismissing her. ‘You’re quite deluded.’

‘Just like Saul Tempier was deluded, Dean? He knew about the missing vanishing, and he didn’t believe the official denials. He also knew that the vanishings were due to end, just like the Numericists did.’

‘I’ve never heard of Saul Tempier.’

‘Perhaps you haven’t,’ Rashmika said, ‘but your church had him killed because he couldn’t be allowed to speak of the missing vanishing. Because you couldn’t face the fact that it had happened, could you?’

Grelier’s fingers shattered the little blue vial. ‘Tell me what this is about,’ he demanded.

Rashmika turned to him, cleared her throat. ‘If he won’t tell you, I will. The dean had a lapse of faith during one of those periods when he began to build up immunity to his own blood viruses. He began to question the entire edifice of the religion he’d built around himself, which was painful for him, because without this religion the death of his beloved Morwenna becomes just another meaningless cosmic event.’

‘Be careful what you say,’ Quaiche said.

She ignored him. ‘During this crisis, he felt compelled to test the nature of a vanishing, using the tools of scientific enquiry normally banned by the church. He arranged for a probe to be fired into the face of Haldora during a vanishing.’

‘Must have called for some careful preparations,’ Grelier said. ‘A vanishing’s so brief—’

‘Not this one,’ Rashmika said. ‘The probe had an effect: it prolonged the vanishing by more than a second. Haldora is an illusion, nothing more: a piece of camouflage to hide a signalling mechanism. The camouflage has been failing, lately - that’s why the vanishings have been happening in the first place. The dean’s probe added additional stress, prolonging the vanishing. It was enough, wasn’t it, Dean?’

‘I have no ...’

Grelier pulled out another vial - a smoky shade of green, this time - and held it over his master, pinched tight between thumb and forefinger. ‘Let’s stop mucking about, shall we? I’m convinced that she knows more than you’d like the rest of us to know, so will you please stop denying it?’

‘Tell him,’ Rashmika said.

Quaiche licked his lips: they were as pale and dry as bone. ‘She’s right,’ he said. ‘Why deny it now? The shadows are just a distraction.’ He tilted his head towards Vasko and Khouri. ‘I have your ship. Do you think I give a damn about anything else?’

The skin of Grelier’s fingers whitened around the vial. ‘Tell us,’ he hissed.

‘I sent a probe into Haldora,’ Quaiche said. ‘It prolonged the vanishing. In that extended glimpse I saw . . . things - shining machinery, like the inside of a clock, normally hidden within Haldora. And the probe made contact with something. It was destroyed almost instantly, but not before that something - whatever it was - had managed to transmit itself into the Lady Morwenna.’

Rashmika turned and pointed towards the suit. ‘He keeps it in that.’

Grelier’s eyes narrowed. ‘The scrimshaw suit?’

‘Morwenna died in it,’ Quaiche said, picking his way through his words like someone crossing a minefield. ‘She was crushed in it when our ship made an emergency sprint to Hela, to rescue me. The ship didn’t know that Morwenna couldn’t tolerate that kind of acceleration. It pulped her, turned her into red jelly, red jelly with bone and metal in it. I killed her, because if I hadn’t gone down to Hela ...’

‘I’m sorry about what happened to her,’ Rashmika said.

‘I wasn’t like this before it happened,’ Quaiche said.

‘No one could have blamed you for her death.’

Grelier sneered. ‘Don’t let him fool you. He wasn’t exactly an angel before that happened.’

‘I was just a man with something bad in his blood,’ Quaiche said defensively, ‘just a man trying to make his way.’

Quietly, Rashmika said, ‘I believe you.’

‘You can read my face?’ he asked.

‘No,’ she said. ‘I just believe you. I don’t think you were a bad man, Dean.’

‘And now, after all that I’ve made happen? After what happened to your brother?’ There was, she heard, an audible crack of hope in his voice. This late in the day, this close to the crossing, he still craved absolution.

‘I said that I believed you, not that I was in a forgiving mood,’ she said.

‘The shadows,’ Grelier said. ‘You still haven’t told me what they are, or what they have to do with the suit.’

‘The suit is a holy relic,’ Rashmika said, ‘his one tangible link with Morwenna. In testing Haldora, he was also validating the sacrifice she’d made for him. That was why he put the receiving apparatus inside the suit: so that when the answer came, when he discovered whether or not Haldora was a miracle, it would be Morwenna who told him.’

‘And the shadows?’ Grelier asked.

‘Demons,’ Quaiche said.

‘Entities,’ Rashmika corrected. ‘Sentient beings trapped in a different universe, adjacent to this one.’

Grelier smiled. ‘I think I’ve heard enough.’

‘Listen to the rest,’ Vasko said. ‘She’s not lying. They’re real, and we need their help very badly.’

‘Their help?’ Grelier repeated.

‘They’re more advanced than us,’ Vasko said, ‘more advanced than any other culture in this galaxy. They’re the only things that are going to make a difference against the Inhibitors.’

‘And in return for this help, what do they want?’ Grelier asked.

‘They want to be let out,’ Rashmika said. ‘They want to be able to cross over into this universe. The thing in the suit - it’s not really the shadows, just a negotiating agent, like a piece of software - it knows what we have to do to let the rest of them through. It knows the commands we need to send to the Haldora machinery.’

‘The Haldora machinery?’ the surgeon-general asked.

‘Take a look for yourself,’ the dean said. The arrangement of mirrors had locked on to him again, beaming a shaft of focused light into his one good eye. ‘The vanishings have ended, Grelier. After all this time, I can see the holy machinery.’

FORTY-SIX

Glaur was alone, the only member of the technical staff left in the vaulted hall of Motive Power. The cathedral had recovered from the earlier disturbance; the klaxon had silenced, the emergency lights on the reactor had dimmed, and the motion of the rods and spars above his head had fallen back into their usual hypnotic rhythm. The floor swayed from side to side, but only Glaur had the hard-won acuity of balance to detect that. The motion was within normal limits, and to someone unfamiliar with the Lady Morwenna the floor would have felt rock steady, as if anchored to Hela.

Breathing heavily, he made his way around one of the catwalks that encircled the central core of turbines and generators. He felt the breeze as the whisking spars moved just above his head, but years of familiarity with the place meant that he no longer ducked unnecessarily.

He reached an anonymous, unremarkable-looking access panel. Glaur flipped the toggles that held the panel shut, then hinged it open above his head. Inside were the gleaming silver-blue controls of the lockout system: two enormous levers, with a single keyhole beneath each. The procedure had been simple enough: well rehearsed in many exercises using the dummy panel on the other side of the machine.

Glaur had inserted a key into one lock. Seyfarth had inserted his key into the corresponding hole. The keys had been engaged simultaneously, and then the two of them had pulled the levers as far as they would travel, in one smooth, synchronised movement. Things had clunked and whirred. All around the chamber there had been the chatter of relays as the normal control inputs were disconnected. Behind this one panel, Glaur knew, was an armoured clock ticking down the seconds from the moment the levers had been pulled. The levers had now moved through half of their travel: there were another twelve or thirteen hours before the relays would chatter again, restoring manual control.

Too long. In thirteen hours, there probably wouldn’t be a Lady Morwenna.

Glaur braced himself against the catwalk handrail, then positioned both gloved hands on the left-side handle. He squeezed down, applying as much force as he could muster. The handle didn’t budge: it felt as solid as if it had been welded into place, at exactly that angle. He tried the other, and then tried to pull both of them down at the same time. It was absurd: his own knowledge of the lockout system told him that it was engineered to resist a lot more interference than this. It was built to withstand a rioting gang, let alone one man. But he had to try, no matter how unlikely the chances of success.

Sweating, his breathing even more laboured, Glaur returned to the floor of Motive Power and gathered some heavy tools. He climbed back up to the catwalk, found the panel again and began attacking the levers with the instruments he had chosen. The clanging rang out across the hall, audible above the smooth churning of the machinery.

That didn’t work either.

Glaur collapsed in exhaustion. His hands were too sweaty to hold anything made of metal, his arms too weak to lift even the lightest hammer.

If he couldn’t force the lockout mechanism to skip forwards to the end of its twenty-six-hour run, what else could he do? He only wanted to stop the Lady Morwenna or steer it off course, not destroy it. He could damage the reactor - there were plenty of access ports still accessible to him - but it would take hours for his actions to have any effect. Sabotaging the propulsion machinery was no more realistic: the only way to do it would be to jam something into it, but it would have to be something huge. There might be chunks of metal in the repair shops - entire spars or rods removed for refurbishment or meltdown - but he could never lift one on his own. It would be asking a lot of him to throw a spanner at the moment.

Glaur had considered his chances of sabotaging or fooling the guidance systems: the cameras watching the Way, the star-trackers scanning the sky, the magnetic field sensors sniffing for the signature of the buried cable. But those systems were all multiply redundant, and most of them were situated beyond the pressurised areas of the cathedral, high above ground or in difficult-to-access parts of the substructure.

Face it, he told himself: the engineers who had designed the lockout controls hadn’t been born yesterday. If there was an obvious way to stop the Lady Morwenna, they would have taken care of it.

The cathedral wasn’t going to stop, and it wasn’t going to deviate from the Way. He had told Seyfarth that he would stay aboard until the last minute, tending his machines. But what was there to tend now? His machines had been taken from him, taken out of his hands as if he couldn’t be trusted with them.

From the catwalk, Glaur looked down at the floor, at one of the observation windows he had often walked over. He could see the ground sliding below, at one-third of a metre per second.

Scorpio’s little ship touched down, its retractile skids crunching into the hardening slush of just-melted ice. The ship rocked as he unstrapped himself and fussed with his vacuum-suit connections, verifying that all was well. He was having trouble concentrating, clarity of mind fading in and out like a weak radio signal. Perhaps Valensin had been right, after all, and he should have stayed on the ship, deputising someone else to come down to Hela.

Fuck that, Scorpio thought.

He checked the helmet indicators one final time, satisfying himself that all the telltales were in the green. No point spending any more time worrying about it: the suit was either ready or it wasn’t, and if it didn’t kill him, something else was probably waiting around the corner.

He groaned in pain as he twisted around to release the exit latch. The side door popped away, splatting silently into the slush. Scorpio felt the slight tug as the last whiff of air in the cabin found its way into space. The suit seemed to be holding: none of the green lights had changed to red.

A moment later he was out on the ice: a squat, childlike figure in a metallic-blue vacuum suit designed for pigs. He waddled around to the rear of the ship, keeping away from the cherry-red exhaust vents, and opened a cargo recess. He reached into it, grunting against pain, and fumbled around with the clumsy two-fingered gauntlets of his suit. Pig hands were not exactly masterpieces of dexterity to begin with, but put them in a suit and they were not much better than stumps. But he’d been practising. He’d had a lifetime of practice.

He removed a pallet: a thing the size of a dinner-tray. Nestling in it, like Fabergé eggs, were three bladder-mines. He took one mine out, handling it with instinctive caution - even though the one thing a bladder-mine wasn’t very likely to do was go off by accident - and walked away from the parked ship.

He walked one hundred paces from it: far enough that there was no chance of the ship’s exhaust washing over the mine. Then he knelt down and used Clavain’s knife to carve out a little cone-shaped depression in the surface frost. He pressed the bladder-mine firmly down into the depression until only the top part was showing. Then he twisted a knurled dial on the mine’s surface through thirty degrees. His gloves kept slipping, but eventually he managed it. The dial clicked into place. A tiny red indicator shone in the upper pole of the bladder-mine: it was armed. Scorpio stood up.

He paused: something had caught his eye. He looked up into the face of Haldora. The planet was gone now; in its place, occupying a much smaller part of the sky, was a kind of mechanism. It had the look of some unlikely diagram from medieval cosmology, something crafted in the ecstatic grip of a vision: a geometric, latticelike structure, a thing of many finely worked parts. Around its periphery, distinct twinkling spars crisscrossed each other, radiating away from linking nodes. Towards the middle it became far too complicated to take in, let alone to describe or memorise. He retained only a sense of vertiginous complexity, like a glimpse of the clockwork mind of God. It made his head hurt. He could feel the swarming, tingling onset of a migraine, as if the thing itself was defying him to look at it for one moment longer.

He turned away, kept his eyes on the ground and trudged back to the ship. He placed the two remaining mines back inside the cargo recess, then climbed aboard, leaving the hull door lying on the ground. No need to repressurise now: he would just have to trust the suit.

The ship bucked into the air. Through the open part of the hull he watched the deck of the bridge drop away until the sides came into view. Below: the distant floor of Absolution Gap. He felt a lurch of dizziness. When he had been standing on the bridge, laying the mine, it had been easy to forget how far from the ground he really was.

He wouldn’t have that comfort the next time.

The holdfast readied itself below the Nostalgia for Infinity. The ship was close now, or at least what remained of it. During his descent from orbit, the Captain had committed himself to a series of terminal transformations, intent on protecting those in his care while doing what was necessary to safeguard Aura. He had shed much of his hull cladding around the midsection, revealing the festering complexity of his innards: structural spars and bulkhead partitions larger than many medium-sized spacecraft, the gristlelike tangle of densely packed ship systems, grown wild and knotted as strangler vines. As he discarded these protective sections he felt a chill of nakedness, as if he was exposing vulnerable skin where once he had been armoured. It had been centuries since these internal regions had last been open to vacuum.

He continued his transformation. Within him, major elements of ship architecture were reshuffled like dominos. Umbilical lines were severed and reconnected. Parts of the ship that had relied on others for the supply of life-giving power, air and water were now made self-sufficient. Others were allowed to die. The Captain felt these changes take place within him with a queasy sense of abdominal movement: pressure and cold, sharp pains and the sudden, troubling absence of any sensation whatsoever. Although he had instigated and directed the alterations, he still felt an unsettling sense of self-violation.

What he was doing to himself could not be easily undone.

He lowered closer to Hela, correcting his descent with bursts of docking thrust. Gravitational gradients stressed the geometry of his hull, soft fingers threatening to rip him apart.

He fell further. The landscape slid beneath him - not just ice and crevasses now, but an inhabited territory pocked with tiny hamlets and scratched with lines of communication. The maw of the holdfast was a golden cleft on the horizon.

He convulsed, like something giving birth. All the preparations were complete. From his midsection, neatly separated chunks of himself detached from the hull, leaving geometric holes. They trailed thousands of severed connections, like the pale roots beneath blocks of uprooted turf. The Captain had dulled the pain where it was possible, but ghost signals still reached him where cables and feed-lines had been ripped in two. This, the Captain thought, is how it feels to be gored. But he had expected the pain and was ready for it. In a way, it was actually quite bracing. It was a reminder that he was alive, that he had begun his thinking existence as a creature of flesh and blood. As long as he felt pain, he could still think of himself as distantly human.

The twenty chunks fell with the Nostalgia for Infinity, but only for a moment. Once they were safely clear of each other, the tiny sparks of steering rockets boosted them away. The rockets were not capable of pushing the chunks beyond Hela’s gravitational influence, but they were sufficient to lift them back into orbit. There, they would have to take care of themselves. He had done what he could for his eighteen thousand sleepers - he had brought many of them all the way from Ararat, and some from Yellowstone - but now they were safer outside him than within.

He just hoped someone else would arrive to take care of them.

The holdfast loomed much larger now. Within it, the waiting cradles and harnesses were moving, preparing to lock themselves around his gutted remains.

‘What do you want with the scrimshaw suit?’ Quaiche asked.

‘I want to take it with me,’ Rashmika said, with a forcefulness that surprised her. ‘I want to remove it from the Lady Morwenna.’

Vasko looked at Khouri, then at Rashmika. ‘You remember it all now?’ he asked.

‘I remember more than I did,’ she said, turning to her mother. ‘It’s coming back.’

‘She means something to you?’ Quaiche asked.

‘She’s my mother,’ Rashmika said. ‘And my name isn’t Rashmika. That was the name of the daughter they lost. It’s a good name, but it isn’t mine. My real name is something else, but I don’t quite remember it yet.’

‘It’s Aura,’ Khouri said.

Rashmika heard the name, considered it, and then looked her mother in the eye. ‘Yes. I remember now. I remember you calling me that.’

‘I was right about the blood,’ Grelier said, unable to suppress a smirk of satisfaction.

‘Yes, you were right,’ Quaiche said. ‘Happy now? But you brought her here, Surgeon-General. You brought this viper into our nest. It was your mistake.’

‘She’d have found her way here in the end,’ Grelier replied. ‘It was what she came to do. Anyway, why should you worry?’ Grelier indicated the video capture of the descending ship. ‘You’ve got the thing you wanted, haven’t you? You’ve even got your holy machinery looking down at you in congratulation.’

‘Something’s happened to the ship,’ Quaiche said, raising a trembling hand towards the image. He snapped a look at Vasko. ‘What is it?’

‘I have no idea,’ he replied.

‘The ship will still work,’ Khouri said. ‘You only needed it for its engines. You’ve got that much. Now let us leave with the scrimshaw suit.’

He appeared to consider her request. ‘Where will you take it, without a ship?’

‘Anywhere other than the Lady Morwenna would be a good start,’ Khouri said. ‘You may have suicidal inclinations, Dean, but we don’t.’

‘If I had the slightest inclination towards suicide, do you think I’d have lived as long as I have?’

Khouri looked at Malinin, then at Rashmika. ‘He has a way off this thing. You were never planning on staying aboard, were you?’

‘It’s a question of timing,’ Quaiche said. ‘The ship is nearly in the holdfast. That’s the moment of triumph. That’s the moment when everything on Hela changes. The moment - indeed - when Hela itself changes. Nothing will be the same again, you see. There will be no more Permanent Way, no more procession of cathedrals. There will be only one spot on Hela that is precisely beneath Haldora, and that spot will no longer be moving. And there will only be one cathedral occupying it.’

‘You haven’t built it yet,’ Grelier said.

‘There’s time, Surgeon-General. All the time in the world, once I stake my claim. I choose where that spot falls, understand? I have my hand on Hela. I can spin this world like a globe. I can stop it with my finger.’

‘And the Lady Morwenna?’ Grelier asked.

‘If this cathedral crosses the bridge, so be it. If it doesn’t, it will only emphasise the end of one era and the start of another.’

‘He doesn’t want it to succeed,’ Vasko whispered. ‘He never did.’

On the dean’s couch something started chiming.

Scorpio stood his ground even though every instinct told him to run backwards. The wrinkled purple-black sphere of the nearest bladder-mine detonation had raced towards him in an eyeblink, an unstoppable wall threatening to engulf him and the portion of the bridge on which he stood. But he had placed the three charges carefully, and he knew from Remontoire’s specifications that the bladder-mines were highly predictable in their effects, assuming that they worked in the first place. There was no air on Hela, so no shockwave to consider; all he had to worry about was the limiting radius of the nearest expanding sphere. With a small margin of error to allow for undulations in the surface, he would be safe only a few hundred metres beyond the nominal boundary.

The bridge was forty kilometres wide; he had arranged the charges in a row with their centres seven kilometres apart, the middle one situated at the highest point of the span. The combined effect of the overlapping spheres would take out the central thirty-four kilometres of the bridge, leaving only a few intact kilometres at either side of the rift. When he detonated the charges, Scorpio had still been standing more than a kilometre and a half out over open space.

The boundary of the sphere was nearly a kilometre away, but it looked as if it was just beyond his nose. It rippled and bulged, wrinkles and blisters rising and falling on its shrivelled surface. The nearest part of the bridge still plunged into the wall: in his mind’s eye it was impossible not to imagine it continuing across the gap. But the bridge was already gone: nothing material would be left behind when the sphere evaporated.

It vanished. The middle one had already gone, and the furthest one popped out of existence a moment later.

He started walking to the edge. The tongue of bridge beneath his feet felt as steady as ever, even though it was no longer connected to the other side. He slowed as he neared the point where the tongue ended, mindful that this part might be a lot less stable than the portion nearer the cliff. It had been within metres of the edge of the bladder-mine detonation, where all sorts of peculiar quantum effects were to be expected. The atomic properties of the bridge’s material might have been altered, fatal flaws introduced. Time for a person - even a pig - to tread carefully.

Vertigo gripped him as he approached the edge. The cut was miraculously clean. The surgical neatness of it, and the complete absence of debris from the intervening section, made it look as if the bridge was merely under construction. It made him feel less like a vandal than a spectator, anticipating something yet to be finished.

He turned around. In the distance, beyond the crouched form of his parked ship, he saw the Lady Morwenna. From his point of view the cathedral looked as if it had virtually reached the edge of the cliff. He knew that it still had some way to travel, but it would not be long before it arrived there.

Now that the bridge was gone, though, they would have no choice but to stop. There was no longer any question of degrees of risk, any question of just possibly being able to cross Absolution Gap. He had removed any doubt from the situation. There would be no glory, only devastation.

If they were sane, they’d stop.

A flashing pink light came on inside his helmet, synchronised with a shrill alarm tone. Scorpio halted, wondering at first if there was something wrong with his suit. But the pink light meant only that the suit was receiving a powerful modulated radio signal, outside of the usual assigned communications bands. The suit was asking him if he wanted to have the signal interpreted and passed through to him.

He looked at the cathedral again. It had to be from the Lady Morwenna.

‘Do it,’ Scorpio said.

The radio signal, the suit told him, was a repeating one: it was cycling through a short prerecorded transmission. The format was audio/holographic.

‘Let me see it,’ he said, less sure now that it had anything to do with the cathedral.

A figure appeared on the ice a dozen metres from him. It was nobody he had been expecting; in fact, it was nobody he even recognised. The figure wore no spacesuit and had the odd, asymmetrical anatomy of someone who spent most of their existence in free fall. He had plug-in limbs and a face like a planetary surface after a small nuclear exchange. An Ultra, Scorpio thought; but then, after a moment’s consideration, he decided that the man probably wasn’t an Ultra at all, but a member of that other, less social spacefaring human faction: the Skyjacks.

‘You couldn’t leave it alone, could you?’ the figure asked. ‘You couldn’t just live with it; couldn’t tolerate the existence of something so beautiful and yet so enigmatic. You had to know what it was. You had to know what its limits were. My lovely bridge. My beautiful, delicate bridge. I made it for you, placed it here like a gift. But that wasn’t enough for you, was it? You had to test it. You had to destroy it. You had to fucking ruin it.’

Scorpio walked through the figure. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Not interested.’

‘It was a thing of beauty,’ the man said. ‘It was a thing of fucking beauty.’

‘It was in my way,’ Scorpio said.

None of them could see the report Quaiche was accessing, sent through to the private display of his couch. But Rashmika watched his lips move and observed the barest crease of a frown as he reread the summary, as if he had made a mistake the first time.

‘What is it?’ Grelier asked.

‘The bridge,’ Quaiche answered. ‘It doesn’t seem to be there any more.’

Grelier leant closer to the couch. ‘There must be some mistake.’

‘There doesn’t seem to be one, Surgeon-General. The inductance cable - the line we use for emergency navigation - is quite clearly severed.’

‘So someone cut the cable.’

‘I’ll have surface imagery in a moment. Then we’ll know.’

They all turned to the screen that had been showing the descent of the Nostalgia for Infinity. The image flickered with ghostly colours, then stabilised around a familiar view captured by a static camera that must have been mounted on the wall of Ginnungagap Rift itself.

The dean was right: there was no longer any bridge. All that remained were the extremities of the span: those curlicued fancies of scrolled sugar and icing flung out from either cliff as if to suggest the rest of the bridge by a process of elegant mathematical extrapolation. But most of the span was simply not there. Nor was there any hint of wreckage down on the floor. In her mind’s eye, Rashmika had thought of the bridge collapsing time and again, ever since she had known she would have to cross it. But always she had seen it coming down in an avalanche of splintering shards, forming a jewelled, glinting scree that was in itself a thing of wonder: an enchanted glass forest you could lose yourself in.

‘What happened?’ the dean asked.

Rashmika turned to him. ‘Does it matter? It’s gone: you can see for yourself. Crossing it isn’t an issue now. There’s no reason not to stop the cathedral.’

‘Weren’t you listening, girl?’ he asked. ‘The cathedral doesn’t stop. The cathedral cannot stop.’

Khouri stood up, followed by Vasko. ‘We can’t stay aboard any longer. You’ll come with us, Aura.’

Rashmika shook her head. She was still not used to being called by that name. ‘I’m not leaving without the thing I came for.’

‘She is right,’ said a new voice, thin and metallic.

No one said anything. It was not the intrusion of a new voice that alarmed them, but its obvious point of origin. As one, they all turned to look at the scrimshaw suit. Outwardly, nothing about it had changed: it was exactly the same brooding silver-grey form, crawling with manic detail and the blistered seams of crude welding.

‘She is right,’ the suit continued. ‘We must leave now, Quaiche. You have your ship, the thing you wanted so badly. You have your means of stopping Hela. Now let us go. We are of no consequence to any of your plans.’

‘You never spoke except when I was alone before,’ Quaiche said.

‘We spoke to the girl, when you wouldn’t listen. She was easier: we could see straight into her head. Couldn’t we, Rashmika?’

Bravely, she said, ‘I’d rather you called me Aura now.’

‘Aura it is, then. It changes nothing, does it? You came all this way to find us. Now you have. And there’s nothing to prevent the dean from giving us to you.’

Grelier shook his head, as if he alone were the victim of an extended joke. ‘The suit is talking. The suit is talking and you’re all just standing around as if this happens every day.’

‘For some of us,’ Quaiche said, ‘it does.’

‘These are the shadows?’ Grelier asked.

‘An envoy of the shadows,’ the suit said. ‘The distinction need not detain us. Now, please, we must be removed from the Lady Morwenna immediately.’

‘You’ll stay here,’ Quaiche said.

‘No,’ Rashmika said. ‘Dean - give us the suit. It doesn’t matter to you, but it means everything to us. The shadows are going to help us survive the Inhibitors. But that suit is our only direct line of communication with them.’

‘If they mean that much to you, send another probe into Haldora.’

‘We don’t know that it will work twice. Whatever happened to you may have been a fluke. We can’t gamble everything on the off chance that it might happen again.’

‘Listen to her,’ the suit said urgently. ‘She is right: we are your only guaranteed contact with the shadows. You must safeguard us, if you wish our assistance.’

‘And the price of this assistance?’ Quaiche asked.

‘Nothing compared to the price of extinction. We wish only to be allowed to cross over from our side of the bulk. Is that so much to ask? Is that so great a cost to pay?’

Rashmika faced the others, feeling as if she had been appointed as witness for the shadows. ‘They can cross over provided that the matter-synthesiser is allowed to function. It’s a machine at the heart of the Haldora receiver. It will make them bodies, and their minds will slip across the bulk and inhabit them.’

‘Machines, again,’ Vasko said. ‘We run from one group, and now we negotiate with another.’

‘If that’s what it takes,’ Rashmika said. ‘And they’re only machines because they had no choice, after everything they’d lived through.’ She remembered, in hypnagogic flashes, the vision she had been granted of life in the shadow universe: of entire galaxies stained green with the marauding blight; suns like emerald lanterns. ‘They were a lot like us once,’ she added. ‘Closer than we realise.’

‘They’re demons,’ Quaiche said. ‘Not people at all. Not even machines.’

‘Demons?’ Grelier asked tolerantly.

‘Sent to test my faith, of course. To undermine my belief in the miracle. To pollute my mind with fantasies of other universes. To make me doubt that the vanishings are the word of God. To cause me to stumble, in the hour of my greatest testing. It’s no coincidence, you know: as my plans for Hela grew towards culmination, so the demons increased their taunting of me.’

‘They were scared you’d destroy them,’ Rashmika said. ‘The mistake they made was to deal with you as a rational individual. If only they had pretended to be demons or angels they might have got somewhere.’ She leant over him, until she could smell his breath: old and vinegary, like a disused wine cellar. ‘They may be demons to you, Dean, I won’t deny it. But don’t deny them to us.’

‘They are demons,’ he said. ‘And that’s why I can’t let you have them. I should have had the courage to destroy them years ago.’

‘Please,’ Rashmika said.

Something else chimed on his couch. Quaiche pursed his lips, his eyes watering against the metal harness that held them open.

‘It’s done,’ he said. ‘The ship’s in the holdfast. I have what I wanted.’

The viewscreen showed them everything. The Nostalgia for Infinity lay lengthwise in the pen Quaiche had prepared for it, like some captured sea creature of monstrous, mythic proportions. The clasps and supports of the cradle clutched the hull in a hundred places, expertly conforming to its irregularities and architectural flourishes. The damage that the ship had wrought upon itself during its descent - the shedding of the hull around the midsection and the disgorging of so many internal parts - was obvious now, and for a moment Quaiche wondered if his prize would be too weakened to serve his needs. But the doubt vanished immediately: the ship had withstood the stresses of the approach to the holdfast and the final, brutal mating procedure as it came to a crunching stop in the cradle. The harness machinery had been engineered to dampen the impact of that moving mass, but the instant of collision had still sent all the stress indicators into the red. Yet the harness had held - enough of it, anyway - and so had the ship. The lighthugger had not broken her back; her engines had not been ripped away from their outriggers. It had survived the hardest part of its journey, and nothing else that he asked of it would put quite the same load on it as the capture. It was everything that he had anticipated.

Quaiche signalled his audience closer. ‘Look at it. See how the rear of the ship is being elevated to align the exhaust away from Hela’s surface. A slight angle, but critical nonetheless.’

‘As soon as the engines are fired,’ Vasko said, ‘she’ll rip her way out of your holdfast.’

Quaiche shook his head. ‘No, she won’t. I didn’t just pick the first place on the map, you know. This is a region of extreme geological stability. The holdfast itself is anchored deep into Hela’s crust. It won’t budge. Trust me: after all the effort I went to getting my hands on that ship, do you think I’d forget geology?’ Another chime. Quaiche bent a speaking stalk towards his lips and whispered something to his contact in the holdfast. ‘She’s elevated now,’ he said. ‘No reason not to begin firing. Mr Malinin?’

Vasko spoke into his communicator. He asked for Scorpio, but it was another senior who answered.

‘Request that the ship fire its engines,’ Vasko said.

But even before he had finished his sentence they saw the engines light. Twin spikes of purple-edged white lanced from the Conjoiner drives, their brilliance overloading the camera. The ship crept forwards in the harness, like a last, weakened effort at escape by a captured sea creature. But the holding machines flexed, absorbing the shock of drive activation, and the ship gradually returned to its earlier position. The engines burned clean and steady.

‘Look,’ Grelier said, pointing to one of the garret’s windows. ‘We can see it.’

The exhaust beams were two scratches of fading white, probing over the horizon like searchlights.

A moment later, they felt a tremble run through the Lady Morwenna.

Quaiche summoned Grelier, gestured at his eyes. ‘Take this monstrosity off my face. I don’t need it any more.’

‘The eye-opener?’

‘Remove it. Gently.’

Grelier did as he was told, carefully levering the metal frame away from its subject.

‘Your eyelids will take a while to settle back,’ Grelier told him. ‘In the meantime, I’d keep the glasses on.’

Quaiche held the shades to his face, like a child playing with an adult’s spectacles. Without the eye-opener, they were much too large to stay in place.

‘Now we can leave,’ he said.

Scorpio loped back to the squat pebble of his ship, climbed in through the open doorframe and took the little craft away from the remains of the bridge. The gashed landscape wheeled below him, myriad sharp black shadows stretching across it like individual ink-spills. One wall of the Rift was now as dark as night, while the other was illuminated only near its top. Some part of him wanted the bridge to still be there; wanted his last act to have been revoked so that he could have more time to consider its consequences. He had always felt that way after he hurt someone or something. He always regretted his impulsiveness, but the one thing about the regret was that it never lasted.

The experts had been wrong about the bridge, he now knew. It was a human artefact, not something made by the scuttlers at all. It had certainly been here for more than a century, but it might not have been very much older than that. But until it was shattered, broken open, its origin - its very nature - had remained unknown. It was a thing of advanced science, but it was the advanced science of the Demarchist era rather than the vanished aliens’. He thought of the man who had appeared on the ice, his sense of anguish that his beautiful, pointless creation had been destroyed. But it was a recording, not a live transmission. It must have been made when the bridge was made, designed to activate when the structure was damaged or destroyed. It meant that the man had always considered this possibility; had even perhaps anticipated it. To Scorpio he had sounded very much like someone being vindicated.

The ship pulled away from the side of the Rift. He was over solid ground now, with the roughly defined track of the Way visible below him. There, no more than three or four kilometres away, was the Lady Morwenna, throwing its own shadow far back along the route it had travelled, dragging it like a great black wedding train. He pushed the bridge and its maker from his mind. Everything he wanted, everything that mattered now, was in that cathedral. And he had to find a way to get inside it.

He took his ship closer, until he could make out the slow, inching crawl of the great walking machine. There was something hypnotic and calming about the sequenced movements of the flying buttresses. It was not his imagination, then: the Lady Morwenna was still moving, seemingly oblivious to the nonexistence of any safe crossing ahead of it.

He hadn’t expected that.

Perhaps it would start slowing any moment now, as forward sensors detected the interruption in its route. Or perhaps it was simply going to keep walking towards the edge, exactly as if the bridge still existed. A thought occurred to him for the first time: what if stopping really wasn’t an option, and not just bluster on Quaiche’s part?

He slid the ship to within five hundred metres of the cathedral, approximately level with the top of its main tower. All he needed was a landing stage, or something he could improvise as one, and some means of accessing the interior of the cathedral from there. The main landing pad was too crowded; he couldn’t put his ship down on it without risking a collision with one of the other two craft already occupying it. One of them was an unfamiliar red cockleshell; the other was the shuttle Vasko and Khouri had brought from the Nostalgia for Infinity. The shuttle was the only ship capable of getting all of them - including Aura and the suit - back into orbit, so he was anxious not to damage it or push it from the landing stage.

But there were other possibilities, and a landing on the designated pad would have lacked the element of surprise. He circled the cathedral, tapping the thruster stud to hold his altitude steady, watching the stuttering glare flicker against the Lady Morwenna like midsummer lightning. The shadows and highlights moved with him, making the architectural features appear to slide and ooze against each other, as if the cathedral were yawning, waking from some tremendous sleep of stone and metal. Even the gargoyles joined in the illusion of movement, their gape-jawed heads seeming to track him with the smooth, oiled malevolence of weapons turrets.

It wasn’t an illusion.

He saw a flash of fire from one of the gargoyles, and then felt his ship shudder and lurch. In his helmet, alarms rang. The console lit up with emergency icons. He saw the cathedral and the landscape tilt alarmingly and felt the ship begin a sharp, barely controlled descent. The thrusters fired urgently, doing their best to stabilise the falling craft, but there was no hope of getting away from the Lady Morwenna, let alone of reaching orbit. Scorpio pulled hard on the controls, trying to steer the damaged ship away from the gargoyle defence systems. His chest hurt as he applied maximum pressure to the steering stick, making him groan and bite his bottom lip. He tasted his own blood. Another head vomited red fire towards him. The ship lurched and fell even more swiftly. He braced for the impact; it came an instant later. He stayed conscious as the ship slammed into the ice, but cried out with the pain - a pure meaningless roar of rage and indignation. The ship rolled, finally coming to rest on its side. The open door was above him, neatly framing the revealed heart of Haldora.

He waited for at least a minute before moving.

FORTY-SEVEN

The detachment of Cathedral Guard kept watch over their prisoners while Grelier left the garret with whispered orders from Quaiche buzzing in his ear. When he returned he brought with him a suit of approximately the right size for Rashmika: a blood-red Adventist model rather than the one she had worn during her journey aboard the caravan.

Grelier dropped the pieces of the suit into her lap. ‘Put it on,’ he said. ‘And don’t take an eternity doing it. I want to get off this thing as much as you do.’

‘I’m not leaving without the scrimshaw suit,’ she said, before glancing at her mother. ‘Or my friends. They’re coming with me, both of them.’

‘No,’ Quaiche said. ‘They’re staying here, at least until you and I reach the safety of the ship.’

‘Which ship?’ Vasko asked.

‘Your ship, of course,’ Quaiche said, as if this should have been obvious. ‘The Nostalgia for Infinity. There’s still rather a lot I don’t know about it. The ship even appears to have something of a mind of its own. Mysteries, mysteries: doubtless we’ll get to the bottom of them all in good time. What I do know is this: I don’t trust that ship not to do something stupid like making itself blow up.’

‘There are people aboard it,’ Vasko said.

‘A fully armed squad of Cathedral Guard will be attempting occupation from the holdfast even as I speak. They will have the weapons and armour denied to the earlier infiltration units, and they won’t need to wait for back-up from spaceborne elements. I assure you: they’ll have that ship flushed clean in a matter of hours, no matter what tricks it tries to play on them. In the meantime, it seems to me that the one thing guaranteed to stop that ship from doing anything foolish would be the presence of Rashmika - apologies, Aura - herself. After all, it practically threw itself into my holdfast as soon as I declared my position.’

‘I won’t save you,’ Rashmika said. ‘With me or without me, Dean, you’re a dead man unless you give me the shadows.’

‘The shadows stay here, with your friends.’

‘That’s murder.’

‘No, merely prudence.’ He beckoned one of the Cathedral Guard officers closer to his couch. ‘Haken, keep them here until you have news of my safe arrival in the holdfast. I should be there within thirty minutes, but you are not to act without my word. Understood?’

The guard acknowledged him with a nod. ‘And if we don’t hear from you, Dean?’

‘The cathedral won’t reach the western limit of the bridge for another four hours. In three hours and thirty minutes, you may release your prisoners and make your own escape. Regroup at the holdfast at your earliest convenience.’

‘And the suit, sir?’ Haken asked.

‘It goes down with the Lady Mor. The cathedral will take its demons with it when it dies.’ Quaiche directed his attention towards Grelier, who was helping Rashmika with the final details of the Adventist suit. ‘Surgeon-General? Would you happen to have your medical kit, by any chance?’

Grelier looked affronted. ‘I never leave home without it.’

‘Then open it. Find a syringe containing something potent, like DEUS-X. That should be sufficient encouragement, don’t you agree?’

‘Find your own way of controlling the girl,’ Grelier said. ‘I’m leaving on my own. I think it’s about time you and I went our separate ways.’

‘We can talk about that later,’ Quaiche said, ‘but for the time being I think you need me as much as I need you. I guessed that you and I might be headed for a slight crisis in our relationship, so I had Haken’s men disable your ship.’

‘I’m not fussed. I’ll take the other one.’

‘There isn’t another one. Haken’s men took care of the Ultra shuttle at the same time.’

‘Then we’re all stuck aboard the cathedral, is that it?’ Grelier asked.

‘No. I said we were going to the holdfast, didn’t I? Have some faith, Surgeon-General. Have some faith.’

‘Bit late in the day for that, I think,’ Grelier said. But even as he spoke he began rummaging in his case, flipping it open to reveal the ranked sets of syringes.

Rashmika finished putting on the suit by herself. There was no helmet: they were keeping that from her for the moment. She looked at her mother, then at Vasko. ‘You can’t leave them here. They have to come with us.’

‘They’ll be allowed to leave in good time,’ Quaiche said.

Rashmika felt the cold pressure of the syringe against her neck.

‘Ready to move?’ Grelier asked.

‘I’m not leaving them here,’ Rashmika insisted.

‘We’ll be all right,’ Khouri said. ‘Just go with him and do what he says. You’re the one that matters now.’

She breathed heavily, accepting it, knowing she had no other choice. ‘Let’s get this over with,’ Rashmika said.

Glaur allowed himself one last look at the throbbing empire of Motive Power before he left it for ever. He felt an unconscionable twinge of pride: the machines were performing flawlessly even though they had been running without human assistance ever since Seyfarth and he had turned their dual keys in the lockout console, thereby putting the Lady Morwenna on autonomic control. It was the feeling a headmaster might have experienced upon spying into a classroom of diligent scholars, busy with their studies even in the absence of authority. Given time, the lack of human attention would make its mark: warning lights would begin to appear on the reactor, and the turbines and their associated mechanisms would begin to overheat from the lack of lubrication and adjustment. But that was many hours in the future: far beyond the likely lifetime of the Lady Morwenna. Glaur was no longer concerned about the probability of the cathedral sustaining a crossing of the bridge. He knew from the telltale indicators on the main navigation board that the inductance cable had been broken some distance ahead of the cathedral. It could have been at any point within a hundred kilometres of the Lady Mor’s present position, but Glaur knew, with absolute conviction, that it was because the bridge itself had been taken down. He couldn’t say how, or who had done it. A rival cathedral, most likely, intent on robbing the dean of even this one foolhardy shot at glory. It must have been quite a thing to see, though. Almost as spectacular a sight as the one the cathedral herself would make very shortly.

He turned from the machines and began to ascend the spiral staircase that accessed the next level of the cathedral. He trudged from tread to tread, awkward in the emergency vacuum suit he had retrieved from the repair shop. He had the faceplate raised, but shortly he expected to be out on Hela’s surface, retracing the cathedral’s footsteps back towards the orthodox route of the Way. Many had already left: if he maintained a brisk pace, he was sure to catch up with one of the parties before very long. There might even be a vehicle he could take from the garage deck, if they hadn’t all been used.

Glaur neared the top. Something was wrong: his usual exit was obstructed, blocked by grilled metal. It was the protective gate: normally open, only rarely locked by members of the Clocktower when they were on sensitive duties.

He had been locked into Motive Power.

Glaur backed away from the gate. There were other stairwells, but he was certain that he would find similar obstructions at the top of them. Why go to the trouble of blocking one route, and not all the rest?

Glaur panicked. He grabbed the gate, rattling it on its hinges. It shuddered, but there was no way that he was going to be able to open it with brute force. There was no lock on this side, even if he’d had a key. He would need cutting tools to make his escape into the rest of the Lady Morwenna.

He forced calm: there was still plenty of time. In all likelihood he had been locked down in Motive Power by mistake, by someone thinking the hall was unattended and that it might as well be secured against possible sabotage attempts, no matter how ineffective they were likely to be.

All he needed was cutting equipment. That, fortunately, wasn’t a problem. Not down in Motive Power.

Keeping his head, forcing himself not to rush down the stairs, Glaur began to descend again. In his mind’s eye he was already rummaging through the tools of the repair shop, selecting the best for the task.

FORTY-EIGHT

From their newly constructed garrisons in the steep walls of the holdfast, detachments of Cathedral Guard stormed the downed hulk of the Nostalgia for Infinity. This time they were prepared: they had sifted the intelligence reports from the earlier attack and had some idea of what to expect. They knew that they were entering an active and hostile environment - not just because of the resistance they could expect from the Ultras, but because this ship had the means to turn against them, crushing and impaling, drowning and suffocating. None of this needed explanation, however: that was someone else’s problem. All that concerned the Guard units was the appropriate response.

Now they carried heavy-duty flame-throwers and energy weapons, massive high-penetration slug-guns and hyperdiamond-tipped drilling rigs. They carried hydraulic bulwarks to shore up corridors and bulkheads against collapse or unwanted closure. They carried shock-hardening epoxy sprays to freeze changing structures into shape. They carried explosives and nerve agents. They carried outlawed nanotechnologies.

Their mandate was still the same: they were to take the ship with minimum casualties. But the strict interpretation of that mandate was to be left at the discretion of the commanding officers. And any damage to the ship itself - while regrettable - was not as serious an issue as it had been while the Nostalgia for Infinity was still in orbit. The dean had promised the Ultras that they could have their ship back, but - given all that had happened since the last attempt at takeover - it appeared very unlikely that the ship would ever be leaving Hela’s surface. It had, perhaps, ceased even to be a ship.

The Cathedral Guard made swift progress. They swarmed through the vessel, neutralising resistance with maximum force. Surrender was always an option, but it was never one that Ultras took.

So be it. If the minimum of casualties meant the death of every remaining crew member, then that was the way it would have to be.

The ship groaned around them as they gouged and cleaved and burned their way through it. It fought back, taking some of their number, but its efforts were becoming sporadic and misdirected. As the Cathedral Guard declared more and more of the ship to be under their secure control, it struck them that the ship was dying. It didn’t matter: all the dean had ever wanted was the engines. The rest of it was an unnecessary complication.

He knew that he was dying. There was a place of rest for all things, and after all the centuries, all the light-years, all the changes, he began to think that he had found his final destination. He supposed that he had known it even before he saw the holdfast; even, perhaps, before he had gutted himself to save the sleepers he had carried from Ararat and Yellowstone. Perhaps he had known it from the moment he slowed from interstellar space into this place of miracle and pilgrimage, nine years earlier. There had been a weariness in him ever since he had been woken from his sleep in the ocean of Ararat, drawn to bad-tempered alertness by the newcomers and the urgent need to evacuate. Like Clavain, brooding alone on his island, he had really only wanted rest and solitude and an ease from his own unresolved burden of sins. Had none of that happened, he thought he would have been very content to remain in that bay, rusting into history, becoming part of the geography, no longer even haunting himself, fading into a final, mindless dream of flight.

He felt the Cathedral Guards enter his body, their violent progress at first no worse than pins and needles, but gradually becoming more unpleasant - an intense, fiery indigestion which in turn became a prickling agony. He could not guess their number, whether there were a hundred or a thousand of them. He could not guess at the weapons they used against him, or the damage they left behind. They burned his nerve endings and blinded his eyes. They left trails of numbness behind them. The lack of pain where they had passed - the lack of any sensation whatsoever - was the worst thing of all. They were reclaiming the dead machinery of the ship from the temporary grasp of his living infection. It had been a nice dream, what he had become. Now it was coming to an end.

When he was gone, when they had cleansed him, everything essential would remain. Even if the engines faltered as his mind ceased to control them, the people in the holdfast would find a way to make them fire again. They would make his corpse work for them, jerking him into a twitching parody of life. It would not be the work of days to bring Hela into synchronisation with Haldora, but something like the building of a cathedral itself. They would run his corpse until that work was done, and then, perhaps, enshrine or sanctify him.

The Guards were pushing deeper. The numbness that they left behind them was no longer confined to the narrow, winding routes they had taken into him, but had enlarged to consume entire districts of his anatomy. He had felt a similar sense of absence when he released the sleepers into orbit, but that wounding had been self-inflicted, and he had wrought no more harm upon himself than absolutely necessary. Now, the damage was indiscriminate, and the absence of sensation all the more terrifying. In a little while - a few hours, perhaps - the voids would have swallowed everything. He would be gone, then, leaving only the autonomic processes behind.

There was still time to act. He was becoming blind to himself, but his own body formed only the tiny, glittering kernel of his sphere of consciousness. Even as he rested in the cradle of the holdfast, he was still in receipt of data from the drones he had already released around Hela. He apprehended everything that was happening on the planet, his view synthesised and enhanced from the patchwork impressionism of the cameras.

And in his belly, yet to be reached by the Cathedral Guard, he still had the three hypometric weapons. They were excruciatingly delicate things: it had been difficult enough using them under normal conditions of thrust, let alone when he was lying on his side. It was anyone’s guess as to how the threshing machinery would react if he started it now; how long it would function before ripping itself and everything around it to shreds.

But he thought it likely they would work at least once. All he needed was a target, some means of making a difference.

His view of Hela changed emphasis. With an effort of will he focused on the streams of data that included imagery of the cathedral, shot from a variety of angles and elevations. For a moment, the effort of assembling these faint, fuzzy, multispectral moving views into a single three-dimensional picture was sufficiently taxing that he forgot all about the Cathedral Guards and what they were doing to him. Then, in his mind’s eye, with the unnatural clarity of a vision, he saw the Lady Morwenna. He felt his ever-shifting spatial relationship to the cathedral, as if a taut iron chain bound them together. He knew how far away it was. He knew in which direction it lay.

High on the flat surface of one tower, tiny figures moved like clockwork marionettes.

They had reached the Lady Morwenna’s landing stage. Two spacecraft waited there: the vehicle that the Ultras had arrived in, and the red cockleshell that Rashmika recognised as belonging to the surgeon-general. Both ships were peppered with the scorched holes of impact points where they had been shot at close range. Given time, Rashmika thought, the ships might have been able to repair themselves enough to leave the cathedral. But the one thing they didn’t have now was time.

Grelier had the syringe pressed hard against the outer integument of her suit. She didn’t know if the needle would be able to penetrate that layer and reach through to her skin, but she was certain that she did not want to take the chance. She had heard of DEUS-X; she knew what it could do. There might be a cure, and maybe the virus’s effects would even begin to fade after a while as her body developed its own immune response. But the one thing everyone agreed on where indoctrinal viruses were concerned was that once you’d had one in your blood, you were never quite the same again.

‘Look,’ Grelier said, with the cheerfulness of someone pointing out beautiful scenery, ‘you can still see the exhaust beams.’ He directed Rashmika’s attention to the double-edged sliver of light, like a highway in the sky. ‘Say what you like about our dean, but once he makes a plan, he sticks to it. It’s just such a shame he couldn’t bear to tell me about it first.’

‘I’d worry about that ship if I were you,’ Rashmika said. ‘It’s close enough to make trouble, even now. Are you sure you feel safe, Surgeon-General?’

‘They won’t try anything,’ Quaiche said. ‘Too much risk of hurting you. That’s why we’ve got you with us.’

Unlike Grelier and Rashmika, the dean was not wearing any kind of vacuum suit. He still travelled in his mobility couch, but now a transparent blister had been fitted into place around the couch’s upper surface, providing the necessary amenities of life-support. They heard his voice through their helmet speakers: it sounded just as thin and papery as usual.

‘We can’t all fit in my ship,’ Grelier said. ‘And I’m certainly not taking the risk of getting into their shuttle. We don’t know what booby traps might be aboard it.’

‘That’s all right,’ Quaiche said. ‘I’ve thought of that.’

Light hit their faces. Despite Grelier’s hold on her, Rashmika looked around. A third ship - one she had not seen before - was holding station on the side of the ramp. It was long and thin, like an arrow. It held itself upright, balancing on a single spike of thrust. Where had it come from? Rashmika was quite certain she would have noticed if another ship had approached the cathedral from any direction.

‘It was here all along,’ Quaiche said, as if reading her mind, ‘built into the architecture below us. I always knew I’d need it one day.’ She noticed now that he had something in his lap: a portable control deck of some kind. The bony tips of his fingers were skating over it, like a spiritualist’s over a Ouija board.

‘Your ship?’ Rashmika asked.

‘It’s the Dominatrix,’ Grelier interjected, as if this was supposed to mean something to her. ‘The ship that brought him to Hela in the first place. The one that rescued him when he got into trouble poking his nose into things that didn’t concern him.’

‘So it has history,’ Quaiche said. ‘All right, let’s get aboard. We haven’t got time to stand around admiring things. I told Haken we’d be at the holdfast within half an hour. I want to be there when the Guards declare her secured.’

‘You’ll never take the Infinity,’ Rashmika said.

A door opened in the side of Quaiche’s ship, exactly aligned with the side of the ramp. Quaiche steered his couch towards it, obviously intent on being the first aboard his private craft. Rashmika felt a tingle of apprehension: was he going to leave without them? She supposed anything was possible now: all the talk of safeguards, of having her along for the ride, might have been lies. As he had said in the garret, one era was ending and another beginning. Old loyalties - and possibly even rationality itself - could not be counted upon.

‘Wait for us,’ Grelier said.

‘Of course I’ll wait for you! Who else is going to keep me alive?’

The ship yawed away from the landing pad, leaving a metre-wide gap. Rashmika saw Quaiche’s fingers skate with panicked speed over the control board. The stabilising jets from the waiting ship stammered out in different directions: rapiers of purple-edged fire lasting a fraction of a second.

Glaur reached the repair shop. It was a lavish grotto of possible escape tools, all sparklingly clean and neatly racked. He could cut his way out of anything, given the equipment at hand. His only problem would be manhandling whatever he chose all the way back up the spiral staircase to the locked gate. And he would need space to use it safely, without injuring himself: not so simple given the tight spiral of the stairs. He appraised the tools: even given that constraint, there were still adequate possibilities. It would just take a little time, that was all. His gloved hands dithered over one tool, then another. Make the right choice: the one thing he didn’t want to have to do was come back down the stairs again, especially not while wearing the suit.

He looked back across the floor of Motive Power. Now that the idea of cutting his way out had occurred to him, he realised that he had no need to ascend the stairs at all. His only objective was to leave the Lady Morwenna by the quickest possible means: he had no possessions worth saving, no loved ones he needed to find and rescue, and there was - now that he thought about it properly - very little chance of finding a vehicle on the garage deck.

He could cut his way out right here, right now.

Glaur gathered the tools of his choice and walked across the floor to one of the transparent panels set into it. The ground was still oozing below: almost a twenty-metre drop, but that was a lot more palatable than going all the way back up to the next level and finding his way out by other means. He could cut through the glass and its associated grillework easily: all he needed was a means to lower himself to the ground.

He went back to the repair shop and found a spool of wire cabling. There was probably some rope somewhere, but he didn’t have time to hunt for it. The wire would have to do. He wouldn’t be asking very much of it, not in Hela’s gravity.

Back at the window in the floor, Glaur looked around for the nearest solid piece of machinery. There: the support stanchion for one of the catwalks, bolted solidly to the floor. There was more than enough cable to reach it.

He looped the line around the stanchion, then walked back to the glass panel. One end of the cable formed a convenient loop: he undid his suit utility belt and passed the loop through from one end, then refastened the belt securely.

He judged that the line would drop him to within three or four metres of the surface. The crudity of the arrangement offended Glaur’s engineering sensibilities, but he did not want to spend one minute longer than was absolutely necessary aboard the doomed cathedral.

He closed his helmet faceplate and made sure that the air was chugging in correctly. Then he sat on the floor, the glass panel between his legs, and turned on the cutter. Glaur plunged the blinding stiletto of the beam into the glass, and almost immediately saw the cold jet of escaping gas on the other side of the panel. Very shortly it would be a gale as all the air in the hall was sucked away. Emergency shutters would seal off the rest of the cathedral, but anyone still up there was probably on borrowed time already. It was possible, Glaur reflected, that he was the last man aboard the Lady Morwenna. The thought thrilled him: he had never expected fate to lay that kind of significance upon his life.

He carried on cutting, thinking of the stories he would tell.

FORTY-NINE

The Cathedral Guard had finished securing an entire district of the Nostalgia for Infinity. The bodies of dead Ultras lay all around them, smoking from weapons hits. There were one or two Cathedral Guard, but they were far outnumbered by the victims from the crew.

The Guards picked their way through the dead, poking them with the cherry-red muzzles of slug-guns and boser rifles. Lights burned from sconces in the corridor walls, casting a solemn ochre sheen on the fallen. On balance, the victims did not look very much like the usual image of Ultras. The majority were unaugmented: autopsies might reveal buried implants, but there was little sign of the flamboyant display of mechanical parts usually associated with Ultra crews. Most of these people, in fact, appeared to be baseline humans, just like the Cathedral Guard themselves. The only difference was that there were, amongst the dead, an unusual number of pigs. The Guards poked and prodded the pigs with particular interest: they did not see very many of them on Hela. What had they been doing, fighting alongside these humans, often in the same uniform? It was yet another mystery to add to the pile. Yet another problem for someone else to worry about.

‘Perhaps we’ll find Scorpio,’ one of the officers said to a colleague.

‘Scorpio?’

‘The pig that was running things when Seyfarth’s unit came aboard. They say there’s a special reward for the one who brings his body out of the ship. It’ll be difficult to miss: Seyfarth impaled him, here and here.’ He gestured to his collar bones.

The other officer kicked one of the pigs over, grateful for the helmet that meant he did not have to smell the carnage. ‘Let’s keep an eye out, then.’

The lights in the wall faded. The Cathedral Guard stepped through the bodies, only their helmet markers penetrating the darkness. Another part of the ship must have died; it was a wonder, really, that the lights had kept burning as long as they had.

But then they flickered back on again, as if to mock that assumption.

Something was wrong.

‘The ship’s losing control,’ Quaiche said. ‘This shouldn’t be happening. ’

His private vessel nudged closer to the pad. The gap was only a few centimetres.

‘No,’ Grelier said, with sudden insistence. ‘Don’t risk it. There’s obviously something wrong ...’

But Quaiche had seen his moment. He sped his couch towards the waiting airlock, pushing its speed to the maximum. For a long, lingering moment the spacecraft held perfect station. It looked as if he might make it, even if he had to cross a hand’s width of empty space. But then the Dominatrix lurched back again, its control jets firing chaotically. The gap enlarged: not centimetres now, but a good fraction of a metre. Quaiche began to slow down, realising his mistake. His hands worked like demons. But the gap was widening, and his couch was not going to stop in time.

The Dominatrix was now five or six metres from the landing stage, still desperately trying to orientate itself. It began to rotate, turning the open aperture of the airlock away from view.

By then it didn’t matter. Quaiche screamed. His couch passed over the edge.

‘Fool,’ Grelier said, before Quaiche’s scream had finished.

Rashmika looked at the ship. It had turned its rear-facing side back into view. Now, finally, they saw that the ship was terribly damaged, the smoothness of its hull ruined by a series of strange wounds. They were perfectly circular openings, revealing near-spherical interiors filled with the bright, clean metal of sheared surfaces. It was as if blisters had opened in the hull itself, bursting to reveal mathematically precise apertures.

‘Something attacked it,’ Grelier said.

The ship fell back, losing altitude, its corrective gestures becoming more frantic and ineffectual with each second.

‘Get down,’ Grelier said. He pushed her to the deck, falling beside her at the same instant. He flattened himself as efficiently as he could, one hand urging Rashmika to do likewise.

‘What ...’ she began.

‘Close your eyes.’

The warning came a fraction too late. She caught the beginning of the blast as the damaged ship hit the surface of Hela. The glare of it reached through her eyelids, a light like a hot needle pushed into her optic nerve. Through her body she felt the entire structure of the cathedral shake.

When the gale of escaping air had died down, Glaur judged that it was safe to make his escape. He had cut himself a man-sized hole in both the glass panel and the protective grille beneath it. Below were vacuum and - about twenty metres further down - the endlessly scrolling surface of Hela.

He checked his safety line once more, then heaved his lower half over the edge and pushed his legs through the hole. The edges of the glass were softly rounded where they had melted: there was no danger of them ripping any part of his suit. For a moment he lingered, his upper body still inside Motive Power, his lower half dangling into space. This was it: the final moment of surrender. Then he gave himself a valiant shove and became temporarily weightless. He fell for a second, retaining only an impression of blurred machinery rushing past. Then the line arrested his fall, snagging him sharply. The belt dug into his waist; he came to a halt on his back, with his head and shoulders at a slight angle to the ground.

He looked down: four, maybe five metres. The ground slid by beneath him. It was further than he had planned, and it would probably knock the wind out of him when he hit, but he should still be able to dust himself off and get up. Even if he was knocked out by the fall, the cathedral would just pass harmlessly over his fallen body: the huge, stomping plates of the traction feet were arranged in rows on either side of him. One set of feet would pass much nearer to him than the other, but still too far away to cause him any real anxiety.

The belt was beginning to grow uncomfortable. Now or never, Glaur thought. He reached up, fiddled with the catch, and suddenly he was falling.

He hit the ice. It was bad - he had never fallen from such a distance before - but he took the brunt of it on his back and after he had lain still for a minute he had the strength to roll over and think about standing up. The intricate machinery-filled underbelly of the Lady Morwenna had been sliding over him all the while, like a sky full of angular clouds.

Glaur stood up. To his relief, all his limbs seemed unbroken. Nor had the fall damaged his air supply: the helmet indicators were all in the green. There was enough air in the suit for another thirty hours of vigorous activity. He’d need it, too: he was going to have to hike all the way back along the Way until he met with other evacuees, or a rescue party sent out by another cathedral. It would be close, he thought, but he would far rather be walking than waiting aboard the Lady Morwenna, anticipating the first sickening lurch as she went over the edge.

Glaur was about to start walking when a vacuum-suited figure emerged from the cover of the nearest line of traction feet. The figure sprinted towards him - except it was more of a concentrated waddle than a sprint. Despite himself, Glaur laughed: there was something ludicrous about the way the childlike form moved. He racked his memory of the cathedral’s inhabitants, wondering who this dwarflike survivor could possibly be, and what he might want of Glaur.

Then he noticed the glint of a knife in the figure’s odd two-fingered gauntlet - a knife that shimmered and flickered, like something that could not decide what shape it wanted to be - and suddenly Glaur’s sense of humour deserted him.

‘I was worried that might happen,’ Grelier said. ‘Are you all right? Can you see?’

‘I think so,’ she said. She was dazed from the explosion of the dean’s ship, but still basically able to function.

‘Then stand up. We don’t have much time.’ Again Rashmika felt the needle squeeze against the outer layer of her suit.

‘Quaiche was wrong,’ she said, not moving. ‘You were never safe.’

‘Shut up and walk.’

His presence must have alerted it. The red cockleshell-shaped spacecraft blinked two green lights in acknowledgement. A small door opened in one side.

‘Get in,’ Grelier said.

‘Your ship’s no good,’ Rashmika said. ‘Didn’t you hear Quaiche? He had his men shoot it up.’

‘It doesn’t have to get us very far. Just getting off this cathedral would be a start.’

‘And then where, assuming it even takes off? Not the holdfast, surely?’

‘That was Quaiche’s plan, not mine.’

‘Where, then?’

‘I’ll think of something,’ he said. ‘I know a lot of places to hide on this planet.’

‘You don’t have to take me with you.’

‘You’re useful, Miss Els, too useful to throw away just this moment. You do understand, don’t you?’

‘Let me go. Let me go back and save my mother. You don’t need me now.’ She nodded at his waiting spacecraft. ‘Take it, and they’ll assume I’m with you. They won’t attack you.’

‘Wee bit risky,’ he said.

‘Please ... just let me save her.’

He took a step towards the waiting ship, then halted. It was as if he had remembered something he had forgotten, something that meant he would have to go back into the Lady Morwenna.

But instead he just looked at her, and made a horrible sound.

‘Surgeon-General?’ she said.

The pressure of the needle was gone. The syringe hit the deck in silence. The surgeon-general twitched, and then sagged to his knees. He made that sound again: a pained gurgling she hoped never to hear again.

She stood up, still unsteady on her feet. She did not know whether it was due to the after-effects of the explosion or the relaxation of the fear she had felt with the syringe pressed against her all that time.

‘Grelier?’ she said quietly.

But Grelier said nothing. She looked down at him, realising then that there was something very, very wrong with him. The abdomen of his suit had caved in, as if an entire part of him had been scooped away from within.

Rashmika reached down, fumbling through the surgeon-general’s belongings until she found the Clocktower key. She stood up, stepping back from the body, and watched as it suddenly disintegrated, spheres of nothingness chewing into it until all that remained was a kind of frozen interstitial residue.

‘Thank you, Captain,’ she said, without quite knowing why.

She looked ahead, towards the broken bridge. Not much time now.

Alone, Rashmika rode an elevator back down into the Lady Morwenna, closing her eyes against the stained-glass light, forcing concentration. Thoughts crashed through her head: Quaiche was dead; the surgeon-general was dead. Quaiche had ordered the Cathedral Guard not to let anyone leave until he reached the holdfast, or until thirty minutes before the Lady Morwenna was due to fall over the western limit of the bridge. And the scrimshaw suit was to remain aboard: he had been very specific about that. But the suit was heavy and cumbersome: even if the guards could be persuaded to let them take it, they would need more than thirty minutes to get it off the cathedral. They might even need more time than the handful of hours they had left before the cathedral ceased to exist.

Perhaps, she thought, it was time to make a deal with the shadows, here and now. Even they must see that she had no other choice, no way of saving their envoy. She had done the best she could, hadn’t she? If they had information regarding what Rashmika and her allies needed to do to allow the other shadows to cross over, then they would lose nothing by giving it to her now.

The elevator came to a clanging halt. Gingerly, Rashmika slid aside the trellised gate. She still had to move through the interior of the cathedral, retracing the route along which Grelier and the dean had brought her. Then she would have to find the other elevator that would take her to the high levels of the Clocktower. And she would have to do all this while avoiding any contact with the remaining elements of the Cathedral Guard.

She stepped out of the elevator. Anxious to conserve suit air for when she really needed it, she slid up her visor. The cathedral had never been this quiet before. She could still hear the labouring of the engines, but even that seemed muted now. There was no choir, no voices raised in prayer, no solemn processions of footsteps.

Her heart quickened. The cathedral was already deserted. The Cathedral Guard must have left already, during the commotion on the landing stage. If that was the case, all she had to do was find her mother and Vasko and hope that the scrimshaw suit was still in a communicative frame of mind.

She orientated herself using the designs in the stained-glass windows as a reference, and set off towards the Clocktower. But she had barely taken a step when two officers of the Cathedral Guard emerged from an annexe, pointing weapons at her. They had their helmets on, visors down, pink plumes hanging from their crests.

‘Please,’ Rashmika said, ‘let me through. All I want is to reach my friends.’

‘Stay where you are,’ said one of the guards, training his gun on the flickering indices of her life-support tabard. He nodded to his partner. ‘Secure her.’

His companion shouldered his gun and reached for something on his belt.

‘The dean is dead,’ Rashmika said. ‘The cathedral is about to be smashed to pieces. You should leave, now, while you still can.’

‘We have orders,’ the guard said, while his partner pushed her against a slab of stonework.

‘Don’t you understand?’ she asked. ‘It’s all over now. Everything has changed. It doesn’t matter.’

‘Bind her. And if you can shut her up, do that as well.’

The guard moved to slide her visor down. Rashmika started to protest, wanting to fight but knowing she didn’t have the strength. But even as she struggled, she saw something lurch from the shadows behind the guard holding the gun.

A flicker of a moving blade flashed through her peripheral vision. The guard made a guttural sound, his gun dropping to the floor.

The other one started to react, springing away from Rashmika and making an effort to bring his own weapon around. Rashmika kicked him, her boot catching him in the knee. He stumbled back into the masonry, still fumbling for the gun. The vacuum-suited pig crossed the distance to him, slid the silver gleam of his knife into the man’s abdomen and then dragged it upwards through his sternum in one smooth arc.

Scorpio killed the knife, slipped it back into its sheath. Firmly but gently, he pushed Rashmika into the shadows, where the two of them crouched together.

She pushed her visor up again, surprised at the harshness of her own breathing.

‘Thanks, Scorp.’

‘You know who I am? After all this time?’

‘You left your mark,’ she said, between breaths. She reached and touched his hand with hers. ‘Thanks for coming.’

‘Had to drop in, didn’t I?’

She waited until her breathing had settled down. ‘Scorp - was that you, with the bridge?’

‘Had my trademark on it, did it?’ He pushed his own visor up and smiled. ‘Yes. How else was I going to get them to stop this thing?’

‘I understand,’ she said. ‘It was a good idea, too. Shame about the bridge, but—’

‘But?’

‘The cathedral can’t stop, Scorp. It’s going over.’

He seemed to take this as only a minor adjustment to his world view. ‘Then we’d better get off it as soon as we can. Where are the others?’

‘Up the Clocktower, in the dean’s garret. They’re under guard.’

‘We’ll get them out,’ he said. ‘Trust me.’

‘And the suit, Scorp? The thing I came all this way to find?’

‘We need to have a word about that,’ he said.

FIFTY

They rode the elevator up to the garret, the low sun sliding colours across their faces.

Scorpio reached into his suit pocket. ‘Remontoire gave me this,’ he said.

Rashmika took the piece of conch material, examined it with the cautious, critical eye of someone who has lived amongst fossils and bones and who knows that the slightest scratch can speak volumes - both truthful and false.

‘I don’t recognise it,’ she said.

He told her everything that he had learned from Remontoire, everything that Remontoire had guessed or conjectured.

‘We’re not alone in this,’ Scorpio said. ‘There’s someone else out there. We don’t even have a name for them. We only know them from the wreckage they leave behind.’

‘They left this behind on Ararat?’

‘And around Ararat,’ he said. ‘And elsewhere, you can bet. Whoever they are, they must have been out there a long time. They’re clever, Aura.’ He used her real name deliberately. ‘They’d have to be, to have lived with the Inhibitors for so long.’

‘I don’t understand what they have to do with us.’

‘Maybe nothing,’ he said. ‘Maybe everything. It depends on what happened to the scuttlers. That’s where you come in, I think.’

Her voice was flat as she said, ‘Everyone knows what happened to the scuttlers.’

‘Which is?’

‘They were destroyed by the Inhibitors.’

He watched the colours paint her face. She looked radiant and dangerous, like an avenging angel in an illuminated heretical gospel. ‘And what do you think?’

‘I don’t think the Inhibitors had anything to do with the extinction of the scuttlers. I never have: not since I started paying attention, at least. It didn’t look like an Inhibitor cull to me. Too much was left behind. It was thorough, don’t get me wrong, but not thorough enough.’ She paused, cast her face down as if embarrassed. ‘That was what my book was about: the one I was working on when I lived in the badlands. It was a thesis, proving my hypothesis through the accumulation of data.’

‘No one would have listened to you,’ he said. ‘But if it’s any consolation, I think you’re right. The question is: what did the shadows have to do with any of this?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘When we came here, we thought it was simple. The evidence pointed to one conclusion: that the scuttlers had been wiped out by the Inhibitors.’

‘That’s what the scrimshaw suit told me,’ Rashmika said. ‘The scuttlers built the mechanism to receive the signals from the shadows. But they didn’t take the final step: they didn’t allow the shadows to cross over to help them.’

‘But now we have the chance not to make the same mistake,’ Scorpio said.

‘Yes,’ Rashmika said, sounding wary of a trap. ‘But you don’t think we should do it, do you?’

‘I think the mistake the scuttlers made was to contact the shadows,’ Scorpio said.

Rashmika shook her head. ‘The shadows didn’t wipe out the scuttlers. That doesn’t make any sense, either. We know that they’re at least as powerful as the Inhibitors. They wouldn’t have left a trace behind here. And if they had crossed over, why would they still be pleading for the chance to do so?’

‘Exactly,’ Scorpio said.

Rashmika echoed him. ‘Exactly?’

‘It wasn’t the Inhibitors that annihilated the scuttlers,’ he said. ‘And it wasn’t the shadows, either. It was whoever - or whatever - made that shard of conch material.’

She gave it back to him, as if the thing were in some way tainted. ‘Do you have any proof of this, Scorp?’

‘None whatsoever. But if we were to dig around on Hela - really dig - I wouldn’t be surprised if we eventually turned up something like this. Just a shard would do. Of course, there’s another way to test my theory.’

She shook her head, as if trying to clear it. ‘But what did the scuttlers do that meant they had to be wiped out of existence?’

‘They made the wrong decision,’ he said.

‘Which was?’

‘They negotiated with the shadows. That was the test, Aura, that was what the conch-makers were waiting for. They knew that the one thing the scuttlers shouldn’t do was open the door to the shadows. You can’t beat one enemy by doing a deal with something worse. We’d better ensure that we don’t make the same mistake.’

‘The conch-makers don’t sound much better than the shadows - or the Inhibitors - in that case.’

‘I’m not saying we have to climb into bed with them, just that we might want to take them into consideration. They’re here, Aura, in this system. Just because we can’t see them doesn’t mean they aren’t watching our every move.’

The elevator ascended in silence for several more seconds. Eventually Rashmika said, ‘You haven’t actually come for the scrimshaw suit at all, have you?’

‘I had an open mind,’ Scorpio said.

‘And now?’

‘You’ve helped me make it up. It isn’t leaving the Lady Morwenna.’

‘Then Dean Quaiche was right,’ Rashmika said. ‘He always said the suit was full of demons.’

The elevator slowed. Scorpio placed the shard of conch material back in his belt pouch, then retrieved Clavain’s knife. ‘Stay here,’ he said. ‘If I don’t come back out of that room in two minutes, take the elevator down to the surface. And then get the hell out of the cathedral.’

The four of them stood on the ice: Rashmika and her mother, Vasko and the pig. They had walked with the Lady Morwenna since leaving it, following the immense thing as it continued its journey towards the attenuated stump of the bridge thrusting out from the edge of the cliff. They were actually standing on that last part of the bridge, a good kilometre out from the cliff wall.

It seemed very unlikely that there was anyone left alive aboard the cathedral now, but Scorpio had resigned himself to never knowing that for certain. He had swept the main spaces looking for survivors, but there were almost certainly dozens of pressurised hiding places he would never have found. It was, he thought, enough that he had tried. In his present weakened state, even that had been more than anyone could have expected.

In other respects, nothing very much about the Lady Morwenna had changed. The lower levels had been depressurised, as he had discovered when he climbed aboard using the line that the technician had dropped down from the propulsion chamber. But the great machines evidently worked as well in vacuum as in air: there had been no hesitation in the cathedral’s onward march, and the subsystems of electrical generation had not been affected. High up in the garret of the Clocktower, lights still burned. But no one moved up there, nor in any of the other windows that shone in the moving edifice.

‘How far now?’ Scorpio asked.

‘Two hundred metres to the edge,’ Vasko said, ‘near as I can judge.’

‘Fifteen minutes,’ Rashmika said. ‘Then the front half of her will be over thin air - assuming that the remaining part of the bridge holds her that far.’

‘I think it’ll hold,’ Scorpio said. ‘I think it would have held all the way over, to be honest.’

‘That would have been something to see,’ Khouri said.

‘I guess we’ll never know what made the bridge,’ Vasko said. Next to him, one of the huge feet was hoisted into the air by the complex machinery of the flying buttress. The foot moved forwards, then descended silently on to the ice.

Scorpio thought of the message he had intercepted via his suit. ‘One of life’s mysteries,’ he said. ‘It wasn’t the scuttlers, though. We can be sure of that.’

‘Not them,’ Rashmika agreed. ‘Not in a million years. They’d never have left behind anything that marvellous.’

‘It’s not too late,’ Vasko said.

Scorpio turned to him, catching the distorted reflection of his own face in the man’s helmet. ‘Not too late for what, son?’

‘To go back inside. Fifteen minutes. Say, thirteen or fourteen, to be on the safe side. I could get to the garret in time.’

‘And haul that suit down the stairs?’ Khouri asked. ‘It won’t fit in the elevator.’

‘I could smash the window of the garret. With two of us, we ought to be able to push the suit over the side.’

‘I thought the idea was to save it,’ Scorpio said.

‘It’s a lot less of a drop from the garret to the ice than from the bridge to the bottom of the Gap,’ Rashmika said. ‘It would probably survive, with some damage.’

‘Twelve minutes, if you want to play safe,’ Khouri said.

‘I could still do it,’ Vasko said. ‘What about you, Scorp? Could you make it, if we had to?’

‘I probably could, if I didn’t have anything planned for the rest of my life.’

‘I’ll take that as a no, then.’

‘We made a decision, Vasko. Where I come from, we tend to stick with them.’

Vasko craned his neck to take in the highest extremities of the Lady Morwenna. Scorpio found himself doing the same thing, even though it made him dizzy to look up. Against the fixed stars over Hela, the cathedral hardly seemed to be moving at all. But it was not the fixed stars that were the problem: it was the twenty bright new ones strung in a ragged necklace around the planet. They couldn’t stay up there for ever, Scorpio thought. The Captain had done the right thing by protecting his sleepers from the uncertainties of the holdfast, even if it had been a kind of suicide. But sooner or later someone was going to have to do something about those eighteen thousand sleeping souls.

Not my problem, Scorpio thought. Someone else could take care of that one. ‘I didn’t think I’d make it this far,’ he said under his breath.

‘Scorp?’ Khouri asked.

‘Nothing,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Just wondering what the hell a fifty-year-old pig is doing this far from home.’

‘Making a difference,’ Khouri said. ‘Like we always knew you would.’

‘She’s right,’ Rashmika agreed. ‘Thank you, Scorpio. You didn’t have to do what you did. I’ll never forget it.’

And I’ll never forget the screams of my friend as I dug into him with that scalpel, Scorpio thought. But what choice had he had? Clavain had never blamed him; had, in fact, done everything in his power to absolve him of any feelings of guilt. The man was about to die horribly, and the only thing that really mattered to him was sparing his friend any emotional distress. Why couldn’t Scorpio honour Clavain’s memory by letting go of the hatred? He had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It wasn’t the pig’s fault. It hadn’t been Clavain’s, either. And the one person whose fault it definitely hadn’t been was Aura.

‘Scorp?’ she asked.

‘I’m glad you’re safe,’ he said.

Khouri put an arm around his shoulder. ‘I’m glad you made it as well, Scorp. Thank you for coming back, for all of us.’

‘A pig’s got to do ...’ he said.

They stood in silence, watching the cathedral narrow the distance between itself and the edge of the bridge. For more than a century it had kept moving, never once losing the endless race with Haldora. One-third of a metre per second, for every second of every day, every day of every year. And now that same clocklike inevitability was sending it to its destruction.

‘Scorp,’ Rashmika said, breaking the spell, ‘even if we destroy the scrimshaw suit, what do we do about the machinery in Haldora? It’s still there. It’s still just as capable of letting them through.’

‘If we had one more cache weapon ...’ Khouri said.

‘If wishes were horses,’ Scorpio answered. He stamped his feet to keep warm: either there was something wrong with the suit, or there was something wrong with him. ‘Look, we’ll find a way to destroy it, or at least throw a spanner into it. Or else they’ll show us.’

‘They?’ she asked.

‘The ones we haven’t met yet. But they’re out there, you can count on that. They’ve been watching and waiting, taking notes.’

‘What if we’re wrong?’ Khouri asked. ‘What if they’re waiting to see if we’re clever enough to contact the shadows? What if that’s the right thing to do?’

‘Then we’ll have added a new enemy to the list,’ Scorpio said. ‘And hey, if that happens ...’

‘What?’

‘It’s not the end of the world. Trust me on this: I’ve been collecting enemies since I drew my first breath.’

For another minute no one said anything. The Lady Morwenna continued its crunching advance towards oblivion. The twin fire trails of the Nostalgia for Infinity continued to bisect the sky, like the first tentative sketch towards a new constellation.

‘So what you’re saying is,’ Vasko said, ‘we should just do what we think is right, even if they don’t like it?’

‘More or less. Of course, it may be the right thing as well. All depends on what happened to the scuttlers, really.’

‘They certainly pissed someone off,’ Khouri said.

‘Amen to that,’ Scorpio replied, laughing. ‘My kind of species. We’d have got on famously.’

He couldn’t help himself. Here I am, he thought: critically injured, most likely more than half-dead, having in the last day lost both my ship and some of my best friends. I’ve just killed my way through a cathedral, murdering anyone who had the insolence to stand in my way. I’m about to watch the utter destruction of something that might - just might - be the most important discovery in human history, the only thing capable of standing between us and the Inhibitors. And I’m standing here laughing, as if the only thing at stake is a good night out.

Typical pig, he concluded: no sense of perspective. Sometimes, occasionally, it was the one thing in the universe he was most grateful for.

Too much perspective could be bad for you.

‘Scorp?’ Khouri said. ‘Do you mind if I ask you something, before we get separated again?’

‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘Ask, and find out.’

‘Why did you save that shuttle, the one from the Wild Pallas? What stopped you firing on it, even when you saw the Inhibitor machines? You saved those people.’

Did she know? he wondered. He had missed so much during the nine extra years for which he had been frozen. It was possible that she had found out, confirmed that which he had only suspected.

He remembered something that Antoinette Bax had said to him just before they had parted. She had wondered if they would ever meet again. It was a big universe, he had said: big enough for a few coincidences. Maybe for some people, Antoinette had replied, but not for the likes of Scorpio and her. And she had been right, too. He knew that they were never going to meet each other again. Scorpio had smiled to himself: he knew exactly what she meant. He didn’t believe in miracles either. But where exactly did you draw the line? But he knew now, with absolute confidence, that she had also been wrong. It didn’t happen for the likes of Scorpio and Antoinette. But for other people? Sometimes things like that just happened.

He knew. He had seen the names of all the evacuees on the shuttle they had rescued from the Yellowstone system. And one name in particular had stood out. The man had even made an impression on him, when he had seen the shuttle being unloaded. He remembered his quiet dignity, the need for someone to share what he felt, but not to take that load from him. The man had - like all the other passengers - probably been frozen ever since.

He would now be amongst the eighteen thousand sleepers who were orbiting Hela.

‘We have to find a way to get to those people,’ he told Khouri.

‘I thought we were talking about—’

‘We were,’ he said, leaving at it that. Let her wait a little longer: she’d waited this long, after all.

For a while, no one spoke. The cathedral looked as if it would last for another thousand years. It had, in Scorpio’s opinion, no more than five minutes left.

‘I could still make it up there,’ Vasko said. ‘If I ran . . . if we ran, Scorp ...’ He trailed off.

‘Let’s go,’ Scorpio said.

They all looked at him, then at the cathedral. Its front was a good seventy metres from the end of the bridge; there were still another three or four minutes before it began to push out into empty space. Then what? At least another minute, surely, before the awesome mass of the Lady Morwenna began to overbalance.

‘Go where, Scorp?’ Khouri asked.

‘I’ve had enough,’ he said, decisively. ‘It’s been a long day and we’ve all got a long walk ahead of us. The sooner we make a start on it, the better.’

‘But the cathedral—’ Rashmika said.

‘I’m sure it will be very impressive. You’re welcome to tell me all about it.’

He turned around and started walking back along what remained of the bridge. The sun was low behind him, pushing his own comical shadow ahead of him. It waddled before him, swaying from side to side like a poorly worked puppet. He was colder now: it was a peculiar, intimate kind of coldness, a coldness that felt as if it had his name on it. Maybe this is it, he thought: the end of the line, just as they had always warned him. He was a pig; he shouldn’t expect the world. He’d already made more of a dent in it than most.

He walked faster. Presently, three other shadows began to loom around his. They said nothing, walking together, mindful of the difficult journey ahead of them. When, after another few minutes, the ground rumbled - as if a great fist had just struck Hela in fury - none of them paused or broke their pace. They just kept walking. And when, eventually, he saw the smallest of the shadows begin to lose its footing, he watched the others rush towards it and hold it up.

After that, he didn’t remember very much.

EPILOGUE

She issues another command and the mechanical butterflies disengage their interlaced wings, shattering the temporary screen they have formed. The butterflies reassemble themselves into the lacy, fluttering fabric of her sleeve. When she looks into the sky she sees only a handful of stars: those bright enough to shine through the moonlight and the sparkling river of the ring. Of the green star that the butterflies have revealed there is no longer any sign. But she knows it is still there, just too faint to be seen. Once revealed, it is not something that can ever be forgotten.

She knows that there is nothing actually wrong with the star. Its fusion processes have not been unbalanced; its atmospheric chemistry has not been perturbed. It shines as hot as it did a century ago, and the neutrinos spilling from its core attest to normal conditions of pressure, temperature and nucleotide abundance. But something very wrong has happened to the system that once orbited the star. Its worlds have been unmade, stripped back to raw atoms, then reassembled into a cloud of glassy bubbles: air-and-water-filled habitats, countless numbers of them. Vast mirrors - forged in the same orgy of demolition and reconstruction - trap every outgoing photon of starlight and pump it into the swarm of habitats. Nothing is wasted; nothing is squandered. In the bubbles, the sunlight feeds complex, teetering webs of closed-cycle biochemistry. Plants and animals thrive in the swarm, machines tending to their every need. People are welcome: indeed, it was people for whom the swarm was made in the first place.

But people were never asked.

This green-stained sun is not the first, nor will it be the last. There are dozens more stained suns out there. The transforming machines that make the swarms of habitats can hop from system to system with the mindless efficiency of locusts. They arrive, make copies of themselves and then they start to dismantle. All attempts to contain their spread have failed. It only takes one to start the process, although they arrive by the million.

They are called greenfly.

No one knows where they came from, or who made them. The best guess is that they are a rogue terraforming technology: something developed almost a thousand years earlier, in the centuries before the Inhibitors came. But they are obviously much more than revenant machines. They are too quick and strong for that. They are something that has spent a long time learning to survive by itself, growing fierce and feral in the process. They are something opportunistic: something that has hidden in the woodwork, waiting for its moment.

And, she thinks, we gave them that moment.

While humanity was under the heel of the Inhibitors, nothing like this outbreak could ever have been allowed to happen. The Inhibitors - themselves a form of spacefaring replicating machinery - would never have tolerated a rival. But the Inhibitors were gone now; they had not been seen for more than four hundred years. Not that they had exactly been beaten: that wasn’t how it had happened. But they had been pushed back, frontiers and buffer-zones established. Much of the galaxy, presumably, still belonged to them. But the attempt to exterminate humanity - this local cull - had failed.

It had nothing to do with human cleverness.

It had everything to do with circumstance, luck, cowardice. Collectively, the Inhibitors had been failing for millions of years. Sooner or later, an emergent species was bound to break loose. Humanity would probably not have been that species, even with the assistance from the Hades matrix. But the matrix had pointed them in the right direction. It had sent them to Hela, and there they had made the correct decision: not to invoke the shadows, but to petition the assistance of the Nestbuilders. It was they who had annihilated the scuttlers, when the scuttlers had made the mistake of negotiating with shadows.

And we almost made the same one, she thinks. They came so close that even now she turns cold at the thought of it.

The white armour of her butterflies shuffles closer.

‘We should leave now,’ her protector says, calling from the end of the jetty.

‘You gave me an hour.’

‘You’ve used most of it, stargazing.’

It doesn’t seem possible. Perhaps he’s exaggerating, or perhaps she really did spend that long picking out the green star. Sometimes she slipped into a reverie of self-remembrance, and the moments oozed into hours, the hours into decades. She is so old that sometimes she even frightens herself.

‘A little longer,’ she says.

The Nestbuilders (she thinks back to the earlier, now-forgotten name for the symbionts: the conch-makers) had long practised a strategy of skulking. Rather than confront the Inhibitors head-on, they preferred to slip between the stars, avoiding contact wherever possible. They were experts in stealth. But after acquiring some of their weapons and data, humanity had pursued a tactic of pure confrontation. They had cleansed local space of the Inhibitors. The Nestbuilders hadn’t liked this: they had warned of the dangers in upsetting equilibria. Some things, no matter how bad, were always better than the alternative.

This wasn’t what humanity wanted to hear.

Maybe it was all worth it, she thinks. For four hundred years we had a second Golden Age. We did wonderful things, left wonderful marks on time. We had a blast. We forgot the old legends and made better ones, new fables for new times. But all the while, something else was waiting in the woodwork. When we took the Inhibitors out of the equation, we gave greenfly its chance.

It isn’t the end of everything. Worlds are being evacuated as the greenfly machines sweep through their systems. But after the catastrophic mismanagement of the first few evacuations, things move more smoothly now. The authorities are ahead of the wave. They know all the tricks of crowd-control.

She looks out into darkness again. The greenfly machines move slowly: there are still colonies out there that won’t fall victim to them for hundreds, even thousands of years. There is still time to live and love. Rejuvenation, even for an old demi-Conjoiner, has its allure. They say there are settled worlds in the Pleiades now. From there, the wave of green-stained suns must seem pretty remote, pretty unthreatening.

But by the time she gets to the Pleiades, she will be another four hundred years downstream from her birth.

She thinks, as she often does, about the messages from the shadows. They had also spoken of being harried by machines that turned stars green. She wonders, not for the first time, if that could really be a coincidence. Under the ruling paradigm of brane theory, the message must have come from the present, rather than the distant future or the distant past. But what if the theory was wrong? What if all of it - the shadow branes, the bulk, the gravitational signalling - was just a convenient fiction to dress up an even stranger truth?

She doesn’t know. She doesn’t think she ever will know.

She isn’t sure she wants to.

She turns from the sky, directing her attention to the ocean. It was here that they died, back when this place was called Ararat. No one calls it that now: no one even remembers that Ararat was ever its name. But she remembers.

She remembers seeing that moon being shattered as the Inhibitors deflected the energy of the cache-weapon while the Nostalgia for Infinity made its escape.

Inhibitors. Cache-weapon. Nostalgia for Infinity: they are like the incantations of a childhood game, forgotten for years. They sound faintly ridiculous, yet also freighted with a terrible significance.

She hadn’t really seen the moon being shattered, if truth be told. It was her mother who had seen it. But her memories made no great distinction between the one and the other. She had been a witness, even if she had seen things through another’s eyes.

She thinks of Antoinette, Xavier, Blood and the others: all the people who - by choice or compulsion - had remained on Ararat while the starship made its escape. None of them could have survived the phase of bombardment when the pieces of the ruined moon began to hit the ocean. They would have drowned, as tsunamis washed away their fragile little surface communities.

Unless, she thinks, they chose to drown before then. What if the sea welcomed them? The Pattern Jugglers had already co-operated in the departure of the ship. Was it such a leap of imagination to think of them saving the remaining islanders?

People had been living here for four hundred years, swimmers amongst them. Sometimes, the records said, they spoke of encountering ghost impressions: other, older minds. Were the islanders amongst them, preserved in the living memory of the sea after all these years?

The glowing smudges in the water now surround the jetty. She had made a decision even before she descended the transit stalk: she will swim, and she will open her mind to the ocean. And she will tell the ocean everything that she knows: everything that is going to happen to this place when the terraformers arrive. No one knows what will happen when the greenfly machines touch the alien organism of a Juggler sea, which one will assimilate the other. It is an experiment that has not yet been performed. Perhaps the ocean will absorb the machines harmlessly, as it has absorbed so much else. Perhaps there will be a kind of stalemate. Or perhaps this world, like dozens before it, will be ripped apart and remade, in a fury of reorganisation.

She does not know what that will mean for the minds now in the ocean. On some level, she is certain, they already know what is about to happen. They cannot have failed to pick up the nuances of panic as the human population made its escape plans. But she thinks it unlikely that anyone has swum with the specific purpose of telling the world what is to come. It might not make any difference. On the other hand, quite literally, it might make all the difference in the world.

It is, she supposes, a matter of courtesy. Everything that happens here, everything that will happen, is her responsibility.

She issues another command to the butterflies. The white armour dissipates, the mechanical insects fluttering in a cloud above her head. They linger, not straying too far, but leaving her naked on the jetty.

She risks a glance back towards her protector. She can just see his silhouette against the milky background of the sky, his childlike form leaning against a walking stick. He is looking away, his head bobbing impatiently. He wants to leave very much, but she doesn’t blame him for that.

She sits on the edge of the jetty. The water roils around her in anticipation. Things move within it: shapes and phantasms. She will swim for a little while, and open her mind. She does not know how long it will take, but she will not leave until she is ready. If her protector has already departed - she does not think this is very likely, but it must still be considered - then she will have to make other plans.

She slips into the sea, into the glowing green memory of Ararat.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Contents

Dedication

DIAMOND DOGS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

TURQUOISE DAYS

ONE

TWO

THREE

Thanks to Pete Crowther of PS Publishing and Marty Halpern and Gary Turner of Golden Gryphon Press for giving me the opportunity to write these novellas.

DIAMOND DOGS

ONE

I met Childe in the Monument to the Eighty.

It was one of those days when I had the place largely to myself, able to walk from aisle to aisle without seeing another visitor; only my footsteps disturbed the air of funereal silence and stillness.

I was visiting my parents’ shrine. It was a modest affair: a smooth wedge of obsidian shaped like a metronome, undecorated save for two cameo portraits set in elliptical borders. The sole moving part was a black blade which was attached near the base of the shrine, ticking back and forth with magisterial slowness. Mechanisms buried inside the shrine ensured that it was winding down, destined to count out days and then years with each tick. Eventually it would require careful measurement to detect its movement.

I was watching the blade when a voice disturbed me.

‘Visiting the dead again, Richard?’

‘Who’s there?’ I said, looking around, faintly recognising the speaker but not immediately able to place him.

‘Just another ghost.’

Various possibilities flashed through my mind as I listened to the man’s deep and taunting voice - a kidnapping, an assassination - before I stopped flattering myself that I was worthy of such attention.

Then the man emerged from between two shrines a little way down from the metronome.

‘My God,’ I said.

‘Now do you recognise me?’

He smiled and stepped closer: as tall and imposing as I remembered. He had lost the devil’s horns since our last meeting - they had only ever been a bio-engineered affectation - but there was still something satanic about his appearance, an effect not lessened by the small and slightly pointed goatee he had cultivated in the meantime.

Dust swirled around him as he walked towards me, suggesting that he was not a projection.

‘I thought you were dead, Roland.’

‘No, Richard,’ he said, stepping close enough to shake my hand. ‘But that was most certainly the effect I desired to achieve.’

‘Why?’ I said.

‘Long story.’

‘Start at the beginning, then.’

Roland Childe placed a hand on the smooth side of my parents’ shrine. ‘Not quite your style, I’d have thought?’

‘It was all I could do to argue against something even more ostentatious and morbid. But don’t change the subject. What happened to you?’

He removed his hand, leaving a faint damp imprint. ‘I faked my own death. The Eighty was the perfect cover. The fact that it all went so horrendously wrong was even better. I couldn’t have planned it like that if I’d tried.’

No arguing with that, I thought. It had gone horrendously wrong.

More than a century and a half ago, a clique of researchers led by Calvin Sylveste had resurrected the old idea of copying the essence of a living human being into a computer-generated simulation. The procedure - then in its infancy - had the slight drawback that it killed the subject. But there had still been volunteers, and my parents had been amongst the first to sign up and support Calvin’s work. They had offered him political protection when the powerful Mixmaster lobby opposed the project, and they had been amongst the first to be scanned.

Less than fourteen months later, their simulations had also been amongst the first to crash.

None could ever be restarted. Most of the remaining Eighty had succumbed, and now only a handful remained unaffected.

‘You must hate Calvin for what he did,’ Childe said, still with that taunting quality in his voice.

‘Would it surprise you if I said I didn’t?’

‘Then why did you set yourself so vocally against his family after the tragedy?’

‘Because I felt justice still needed to be served.’ I turned from the shrine and started walking away, curious as to whether Childe would follow me.

‘Fair enough,’ he said. ‘But that opposition cost you dearly, didn’t it?’

I bridled, halting next to what appeared a highly realistic sculpture but was almost certainly an embalmed corpse.

‘Meaning what?’

‘The Resurgam expedition, of course, which just happened to be bankrolled by House Sylveste. By rights, you should have been on it. You were Richard Swift, for heaven’s sake. You’d spent the better part of your life thinking about possible modes of alien sentience. There should have been a place for you on that ship, and you damned well knew it.’

‘It wasn’t that simple,’ I said, resuming my walk. ‘There were a limited number of slots available and they needed practical types first - biologists, geologists, that kind of thing. By the time they’d filled the most essential slots, there simply wasn’t any room for abstract dreamers like myself.’

‘And the fact that you’d pissed off House Sylveste had nothing whatsoever to do with it? Come off it, Richard.’

We descended a series of steps down into the lower level of the Monument. The atrium’s ceiling was a cloudy mass of jagged sculptures: interlocked metal birds. A party of visitors was arriving, attended by servitors and a swarm of bright, marble-sized float-cams. Childe breezed through the group, drawing annoyed frowns but no actual recognition, although one or two of the people in the party were vague acquaintances of mine.

‘What is this about?’ I asked, once we were outside.

‘Concern for an old friend. I’ve had my tabs on you, and it was pretty obvious that not being selected for that expedition was a crushing disappointment. You’d thrown your life into contemplation of the alien. One marriage down the drain because of your self-absorption. What was her name again?’

I’d had her memory buried so deeply that it took a real effort of will to recall any exact details about my marriage.

‘Celestine. I think.’

‘Since when you’ve had a few relationships, but nothing lasting more than a decade. A decade’s a mere fling in this town, Richard.’

‘My private life’s my own business,’ I responded sullenly. ‘Hey. Where’s my volantor? I parked it here.’

‘I sent it away. We’ll take mine instead.’

Where my volantor had been was a larger, blood-red model. It was as baroquely ornamented as a funeral barge. At a gesture from Childe it clammed open, revealing a plush gold interior with four seats, one of which was occupied by a dark, slouched figure.

‘What’s going on, Roland?’

‘I’ve found something. Something astonishing that I want you to be a part of; a challenge that makes every game you and I ever played in our youth pale in comparison.’

‘A challenge?’

‘The ultimate one, I think.’

He had pricked my curiosity, but I hoped it was not too obvious. ‘The city’s vigilant. It’ll be a matter of public record that I came to the Monument, and we’ll have been recorded together by those float-cams.’

‘Exactly,’ Childe said, nodding enthusiastically. ‘So you risk nothing by getting in the volantor.’

‘And should I at any point weary of your company?’

‘You have my word that I’ll let you leave.’

I decided to play along with him for the time being. Childe and I took the volantor’s front pair of seats. Once ensconced, I turned around to acquaint myself with the other passenger, and then flinched as I saw him properly.

He wore a high-necked leather coat which concealed much of the lower half of his face. The upper part was shadowed under the generous rim of a homburg, tipped down to shade his brow. Yet what remained visible was sufficient to shock me. There was only a blandly handsome silver mask; sculpted into an expression of quiet serenity. The eyes were blank silver surfaces, what I could see of his mouth a thin, slightly smiling slot.

‘Doctor Trintignant,’ I said.

He reached forward with a gloved hand, allowing me to shake it as one would the hand of a woman. Beneath the black velvet of the glove I felt armatures of hard metal. Metal that could crush diamond.

‘The pleasure is entirely mine,’ he said.

Airborne, the volantor’s baroque ornamentation melted away to mirror-smoothness. Childe pushed ivory-handled control sticks forward, gaining altitude and speed. We seemed to be moving faster than the city ordinances allowed, avoiding the usual traffic corridors. I thought of the way he had followed me, researched my past and had my own volantor desert me. It would also have taken considerable resourcefulness to locate the reclusive Trintignant and persuade him to emerge from hiding.

Clearly Childe’s influence in the city exceeded my own, even though he had been absent for so long.

‘The old place hasn’t changed much,’ Childe said, swooping us through a dense conglomeration of golden buildings, as extravagantly tiered as the dream pagodas of a fever-racked Emperor.

‘Then you’ve really been away? When you told me you’d faked your death, I wondered if you’d just gone into hiding.’

He answered with a trace of hesitation, ‘I’ve been away, but not as far as you’d think. A family matter came up that was best dealt with confidentially, and I really couldn’t be bothered explaining to everyone why I needed some peace and quiet on my own.’

‘And faking your death was the best way to go about it?’

‘Like I said, I couldn’t have planned the Eighty if I’d tried. I had to bribe a lot of minor players in the project, of course, and I’ll spare you the details of how we provided a corpse . . . but it all worked swimmingly, didn’t it?’

‘I never had any doubts that you’d died along with the rest of them.’

‘I didn’t like deceiving my friends. But I couldn’t go to all that trouble and then ruin my plan with a few indiscretions.’

‘You were friends, then?’ solicited Trintignant.

‘Yes, Doctor,’ Childe said, glancing back at him. ‘Way back when. Richard and I were rich kids - relatively rich, anyway - with not enough to do. Neither of us were interested in the stock market or the social whirl. We were only interested in games.’

‘Oh. How charming. What kinds of game, might I ask?’

‘We’d build simulations to test each other - extraordinarily elaborate worlds filled with subtle dangers and temptations. Mazes and labyrinths; secret passages; trapdoors; dungeons and dragons. We’d spend months inside them, driving each other crazy. Then we’d go away and make them even harder.’

‘But in due course you grew apart,’ the Doctor said. His synthesised voice had a curious piping quality.

‘Yeah,’ Childe said. ‘But we never stopped being friends. It was just that Richard had spent so much time devising increasingly alien scenarios that he’d become more interested in the implied psychologies behind the tests. And I’d become interested only in the playing of the games; not their construction. Unfortunately Richard was no longer there to provide challenges for me.’

‘You were always much better than me at playing them,’ I said. ‘In the end it got too hard to come up with something you’d find difficult. You knew the way my mind worked too well.’

‘He’s convinced that he’s a failure,’ Childe said, turning round to smile at the Doctor.

‘As are we all,’ Trintignant answered. ‘And with some justification, it must be said. I have never been allowed to pursue my admittedly controversial interests to their logical ends. You, Mister Swift, were shunned by those who you felt should have recognised your worth in the field of speculative alien psychology. And you, Mister Childe, have never discovered a challenge worthy of your undoubted talents.’

‘I didn’t think you’d paid me any attention, Doctor.’

‘Nor had I. I have surmised this much since our meeting.’

The volantor dropped below ground level, descending into a brightly lit commercial plaza lined with shops and boutiques. With insouciant ease, Childe skimmed us between aerial walkways and then nosed the car into a dark side-tunnel. He gunned the machine faster, our speed indicated only by the passing of red lights set into the tunnel sides. Now and then another vehicle passed us, but once the tunnel had branched and rebranched half a dozen times, no further traffic appeared. The tunnel lights were gone now and when the volantor’s headlights grazed the walls they revealed ugly cracks and huge, scarred absences of cladding. These old sub-surface ducts dated back to the city’s earliest days, before the domes were thrown across the crater.

Even if I had recognised the part of the city where we had entered the tunnel system, I would have been hopelessly lost by now.

‘Do you think Childe has brought us together to taunt us about our lack of respective failures, Doctor?’ I asked, beginning to feel uneasy again despite my earlier attempts at reassurance.

‘I would consider that a distinct possibility, were Childe himself not conspicuously tainted by the same lack of success.’

‘Then there must be another reason.’

‘Which I’ll reveal in due course,’ Childe said. ‘Just bear with me, will you? You two aren’t the only ones I’ve gathered together.’

Presently we arrived somewhere.

It was a cave in the form of a near-perfect hemisphere, the great domed roof arching a clear three hundred metres from the floor. We were obviously well below Yellowstone’s surface now. It was even possible that we had passed beyond the city’s crater wall, so that above us lay only poisonous skies.

But the domed chamber was inhabited.

The roof was studded with an enormous number of lamps, flooding the interior with synthetic daylight. An island stood in the middle of the chamber, moated by a ring of uninviting water. A single bone-white bridge connected the mainland to the island, shaped like a great curved femur. The island was dominated by a thicket of slender, dark poplars partly concealing a pale structure situated near its middle.

Childe brought the volantor to a rest near the edge of the water and invited us to disembark.

‘Where are we?’ I asked, once I had stepped down.

‘Query the city and find out for yourself,’ Trintignant said.

The result was not what I was expecting. For a moment there was a shocking absence inside my head, the neural equivalent of a sudden, unexpected amputation.

The Doctor’s chuckle was an arpeggio played on a pipe organ. ‘We have been out of range of city services from the moment we entered his conveyance.’

‘You needn’t worry,’ Childe said. ‘You are beyond city services, but only because I value the secrecy of this place. If I imagined it’d have come as a shock to you, I’d have told you already.’

‘I’d have at least appreciated a warning, Roland,’ I said.

‘Would it have changed your mind about coming here?’

‘Conceivably.’

The echo of his laughter betrayed the chamber’s peculiar acoustics. ‘Then are you at all surprised that I didn’t tell you?’

I turned to Trintignant. ‘What about you?’

‘I confess my use of city services has been as limited as your own, but for rather different reasons.’

‘The good Doctor needed to lie low,’ Childe said. ‘That meant he couldn’t participate very actively in city affairs. Not if he didn’t want to be tracked down and assassinated.’

I stamped my feet, beginning to feel cold. ‘Good. What now?’

‘It’s only a short ride to the house,’ Childe said, glancing towards the island.

Now a noise came steadily nearer. It was an antiquated, rumbling sound, accompanied by a odd, rhythmic sort of drumming, quite unlike any machine I had experienced. I looked towards the femoral bridge, suspecting as I did that it was exactly what it looked like: a giant, bio-engineered bone, carved with a flat roadbed. And something was approaching us over the span: a dark, complicated and unfamiliar contraption, which at first glance resembled an iron tarantula.

I felt the back of my neck prickle.

The thing reached the end of the bridge and swerved towards us. Two mechanical black horses provided the motive power. They were emaciated black machines with sinewy, piston-driven limbs, venting steam and snorting from intakes. Malignant red laser-eyes swept over us. The horses were harnessed to a four-wheeled carriage slightly larger than the volantor, above which was perched a headless humanoid robot. Skeletal hands gripped iron control cables which plunged into the backs of the horses’ steel necks.

‘Meant to inspire confidence, is it?’ I asked.

‘It’s an old family heirloom,’ Childe said, swinging open a black door in the side of the carriage. ‘My uncle Giles made automata. Unfortunately - for reasons we’ll come to - he was a bit of a miserable bastard. But don’t let it put you off.’

He helped us aboard, then climbed inside himself, sealed the door and knocked on the roof. I heard the mechanical horses snort; alloy hooves hammered the ground impatiently. Then we were moving, curving around and ascending the gentle arc of the bridge of bone.

‘Have you been here during the entire period of your absence, Mister Childe?’ Trintignant asked.

He nodded. ‘Ever since that family business came up, I’ve allowed myself the occasional visit back to the city - just like I did today - but I’ve tried to keep such excursions to a minimum.’

‘Didn’t you have horns the last time we met?’ I said.

He rubbed the smooth skin of his scalp where the horns had been. ‘Had to have them removed. I couldn’t very well disguise myself otherwise.’

We crossed the bridge and navigated a path between the tall trees which sheltered the island’s structure. Childe’s carriage pulled up to a smart stop in front of the building and I was afforded my first unobstructed view of our destination. It was not one to induce great cheer. The house’s architecture was haphazard: whatever basic symmetry it might once have had was lost under a profusion of additions and modifications. The roof was a jumbled collision of angles and spires, jutting turrets and sinister oubliettes. Not all of the embellishments had been arranged at strict right angles to their neighbours, and the style and apparent age of the house varied jarringly from place to place. Since our arrival in the cave the overhead lights had dimmed, simulating the onset of dusk, but only a few windows were illuminated, clustered together in the left-hand wing. The rest of the house had a forbidding aspect, the paleness of its stone, the irregularity of its construction and the darkness of its many windows suggesting a pile of skulls.

Almost before we had disembarked from the carriage, a reception party emerged from the house. It was a troupe of servitors - humanoid household robots, of the kind anyone would have felt comfortable with in the city proper - but they had been reworked to resemble skeletal ghouls or headless knights. Their mechanisms had been sabotaged so that they limped and creaked, and they had all had their voiceboxes disabled.

‘Had a lot of time on his hands, your uncle,’ I said.

‘You’d have loved Giles, Richard. He was a scream.’

‘I’ll take your word for it, I think.’

The servitors escorted us into the central part of the house, then took us through a maze of chill, dark corridors.

Finally we reached a large room walled in plush red velvet. A holoclavier sat in one corner, with a book of sheet music spread open above the projected keyboard. There was a malachite escritoire, a number of well-stocked bookcases, a single chandelier, three smaller candelabra and two fireplaces of distinctly Gothic appearance, in one of which roared an actual fire. But the room’s central feature was a mahogany table, around which three additional guests were gathered.

‘Sorry to keep everyone waiting,’ Childe said, closing a pair of sturdy wooden doors behind us. ‘Now. Introductions.’

The others looked at us with no more than mild interest.

The only man amongst them wore an elaborately ornamented exoskeleton: a baroque support structure of struts, hinged plates, cables and servo-mechanisms. His face was a skull papered with deathly white skin, shading to black under his bladelike cheekbones. His eyes were concealed behind goggles, his hair a spray of stiff black dreadlocks.

Periodically he inhaled from a glass pipe, connected to a miniature refinery of bubbling apparatus placed before him on the table.

‘Allow me to introduce Captain Forqueray,’ Childe said. ‘Captain - this is Richard Swift and . . . um, Doctor Trintignant.’

‘Pleased to meet you,’ I said, leaning across the table to shake Forqueray’s hand. His grip felt like the cold clasp of a squid.

‘The Captain is an Ultra; the master of the lighthugger Apollyon, currently in orbit around Yellowstone,’ Childe added.

Trintignant refrained from approaching him.

‘Shy, Doctor?’ Forqueray said, his voice simultaneously deep and flawed, like a cracked bell.

‘No, merely cautious. It is a matter of common knowledge that I have enemies amongst the Ultras.’

Trintignant removed his homburg and patted his crown delicately, as if smoothing down errant hairs. Silver waves had been sculpted into his head-mask, so that he resembled a bewigged Regency fop dipped in mercury.

‘You’ve enemies everywhere,’ said Forqueray between gurgling inhalations. ‘But I bear you no personal animosity for your atrocities, and I guarantee that my crew will extend you the same courtesy.’

‘Very gracious of you,’ Trintignant said, before shaking the Ultra’s hand for the minimum time compatible with politeness. ‘But why should your crew concern me?’

‘Never mind that.’ It was one of the two women speaking now. ‘Who is this guy, and why does everyone hate him?’

‘Allow me to introduce Hirz,’ Childe said, indicating the woman who had spoken. She was small enough to have been a child, except that her face was clearly that of an adult woman. She was dressed in austere, tight-fitting black clothes which only emphasised her diminutive build. ‘Hirz is - for want of a better word - a mercenary.’

‘Except I prefer to think of myself as an information retrieval specialist. I specialise in clandestine infiltration for high-level corporate clients in the Glitter Band - physical espionage, some of the time. Mostly, though, I’m what used to be called a hacker. I’m also pretty damned good at my job.’ Hirz paused to swig down some wine. ‘But enough about me. Who’s the silver dude, and what did Forqueray mean about atrocities?’

‘You’re seriously telling me you’re unaware of Trintignant’s reputation?’ I said.

‘Hey, listen. I get myself frozen between assignments. That means I miss a lot of shit that goes down in Chasm City. Get over it.’

I shrugged and - with one eye on the Doctor himself - told Hirz what I knew about Trintignant. I sketched in his early career as an experimental cyberneticist, how his reputation for fearless innovation had eventually brought him to Calvin Sylveste’s attention.

Calvin had recruited Trintignant to his own research team, but the collaboration had not been a happy one. Trintignant’s desire to find the ultimate fusion of flesh and machine had become obsessive; even - some said - perverse. After a scandal involving experimentation on unconsenting subjects, Trintignant had been forced to pursue his work alone, his methods too extreme even for Calvin.

So Trintignant had gone to ground, and continued his gruesome experiments with his only remaining subject.

Himself.

‘So let’s see,’ said the final guest. ‘Who have we got? An obsessive and thwarted cyberneticist with a taste for extreme modification. An intrusion specialist with a talent for breaking into highly protected - and dangerous - environments. A man with a starship at his disposal and the crew to operate it.’

Then she looked at Childe, and while her gaze was averted I admired the fine, faintly familiar profile of her face. Her long hair was the sheer black of interstellar space, pinned back from her face by a jewelled clasp which flickered with a constellation of embedded pastel lights. Who was she? I felt sure we had met once or maybe twice before. Perhaps we had passed each other amongst the shrines in the Monument to the Eighty, visiting the dead.

‘And Childe,’ she continued. ‘A man once known for his love of intricate challenges, but long assumed dead.’ Then she turned her piercing eyes upon me. ‘And, finally, you.’

‘I know you, I think—’ I said, her name on the tip of my tongue.

‘Of course you do.’ Her look, suddenly, was contemptuous. ‘I’m Celestine. You used to be married to me.’

All along, Childe had known she was here.

‘Do you mind if I ask what this is about?’ I said, doing my best to sound as reasonable as possible, rather than someone on the verge of losing their temper in polite company.

Celestine withdrew her hand once I had shaken it. ‘Roland invited me here, Richard. Just the same way he did you, with the same veiled hints about having found something.’

‘But you’re . . .

‘Your ex-wife?’ She nodded. ‘Exactly how much do you remember, Richard? I heard the strangest rumours, you know. That you’d had me deleted from your long-term memory.’

‘I had you suppressed, not deleted. There’s a subtle distinction.’

She nodded knowingly. ‘So I gather.’

I looked at the other guests, who were observing us. Even Forqueray was waiting, the pipe of his apparatus poised an inch from his mouth in expectation. They were waiting for me to say something; anything.

‘Why exactly are you here, Celestine?’

‘You don’t remember, do you?’

‘Remember what?’

‘What it was I used to do, Richard, when we were married.’

‘I confess I don’t, no.’

Childe coughed. ‘Your wife, Richard, was as fascinated by the alien as you were. She was one of the city’s foremost specialists on the Pattern Jugglers, although she’d be entirely too modest to admit it herself.’ He paused, apparently seeking Celestine’s permission to continue. ‘She visited them, long before you met, spending several years of her life at the study station on Spindrift. You swam with the Jugglers, didn’t you, Celestine?’

‘Once or twice.’

‘And allowed them to reshape your mind, transforming its neural pathways into something deeply - albeit usually temporarily - alien.’

‘It wasn’t that big a deal,’ Celestine said.

‘Not if you’d been fortunate enough to have it happen to you, no. But for someone like Richard - who craved knowledge of the alien with every fibre of his existence - it would have been anything but mundane.’ He turned to me. ‘Isn’t that true?’

‘I admit I’d have done a great deal to experience communion with the Jugglers,’ I said, knowing that it was pointless to deny it. ‘But it just wasn’t possible. My family lacked the resources to send me to one of the Juggler worlds, and the bodies that might ordinarily have funded that kind of trip - the Sylveste Institute, for instance - had turned their attentions elsewhere.’

‘In which case Celestine was deeply fortunate, wouldn’t you say?’

‘I don’t think anyone would deny that,’ I said. ‘To speculate about the shape of alien consciousness is one thing; but to drink it; to bathe in the full flood of it - to know it intimately, like a lover . . .’ I trailed off for a moment. ‘Wait a minute. Shouldn’t you be on Resurgam, Celestine? There isn’t time for the expedition to have gone there and come back.’

She eyed me with raptorial intent before answering, ‘I never went.’

Childe leaned over and refreshed my glass. ‘She was turned down at the last minute, Richard. Sylveste had a grudge against anyone who’d visited the Jugglers; he suddenly decided they were all unstable and couldn’t be trusted.’

I looked at Celestine wonderingly. ‘Then all this time . . . ?’

‘I’ve been here, in Chasm City. Oh, don’t look so crushed, Richard. By the time I learned I’d been turned down, you’d already decided to flush me out of your past. It was better for both of us this way.’

‘But the deception . . .’

Childe put one hand on my shoulder, calmingly. ‘There wasn’t any. She just didn’t make contact again. No lies; no deception; nothing to hold a grudge about.’

I looked at him, angrily. ‘Then why the hell is she here?’ ‘Because I happen to have use for someone with the skills that the Jugglers gave to Celestine.’

‘Which included?’ I said.

‘Extreme mathematical prowess.’

‘And why would that have been useful?’

Childe turned to the Ultra, indicating that the man should remove his bubbling apparatus.

‘I’m about to show you.’

The table housed an antique holo-projection system. Childe handed out viewers which resembled lorgnette binoculars, and, like so many myopic opera buffs, we studied the apparitions which floated into existence above the polished mahogany surface.

Stars: incalculable numbers of them - hard white and blood-red gems, strewn in lacy patterns against deep velvet blue.

Childe narrated:

‘The better part of two and a half centuries ago, my uncle Giles - whose somewhat pessimistic handiwork you have already seen - made a momentous decision. He embarked on what we in the family referred to as the Program, and then only in terms of extreme secrecy.’

Childe told us that the Program was an attempt at covert deep space exploration.

Giles had conceived the work, funding it directly from the family’s finances. He had done this with such ingenuity that the apparent wealth of House Childe had never faltered, even as the Program entered its most expensive phase. Only a few select members of the Childe dynasty had even known of the Program’s existence, and that number had dwindled as time passed.

The bulk of the money had been paid to the Ultras, who had already emerged as a powerful faction by that time.

They had built the autonomous robot space probes according to this uncle’s desires, and then launched them towards a variety of target systems. The Ultras could have delivered his probes to any system within range of their lighthugger ships, but the whole point of the exercise was to restrict the knowledge of any possible discoveries to the family alone. So the envoys crossed space by themselves, at only a fraction of the speed of light, and the targets they were sent to were all poorly explored systems on the ragged edge of human space.

The probes decelerated by use of solar sails, picked the most interesting worlds to explore, and then fell into orbit around them.

Robots were sent down, equipped to survive on the surface for many decades.

Childe waved his hand across the table. Lines radiated out from one of the redder suns in the display, which I assumed was Yellowstone’s star. The lines reached out towards other stars, forming a three-dimensional scarlet dandelion several dozen light-years wide.

‘These machines must have been reasonably intelligent,’ Celestine said. ‘Especially by the standards of the time.’

Childe nodded keenly. ‘Oh, they were. Cunning little blighters. Subtle and stealthy and diligent. They had to be, to operate so far from human supervision.’

‘And I presume they found something?’ I said.

‘Yes,’ Childe said testily, like a conjurer whose carefully scripted patter was being ruined by a persistent heckler. ‘But not immediately. Giles didn’t expect it to be immediate, of course - the envoys would take decades to reach the closest systems they’d been assigned to, and there’d still be the communicational time-lag to take into consideration. So my uncle resigned himself to forty or fifty years of waiting, and that was erring on the optimistic side.’ He paused and sipped from his wine. ‘Too bloody optimistic, as it happened. Fifty years passed . . . then sixty . . . but nothing of any consequence was ever reported back to Yellowstone, at least not in his lifetime. The envoys did, on occasion, find something interesting - but by then other human explorers had usually stumbled on the same find. And as the decades wore on, and the envoys failed to justify their invention, my uncle grew steadily more maudlin and bitter.’

‘I’d never have guessed,’ Celestine said.

‘He died, eventually - bitter and resentful; feeling that the universe had played some sick cosmic trick on him. He could have lived for another fifty or sixty years with the right treatments, but I think by then he knew it would be a waste of time.’

‘You faked your death a century and a half ago,’ I said. ‘Didn’t you tell me it had something to do with the family business?’

He nodded in my direction. ‘That was when my uncle told me about the Program. I didn’t know anything about it until then - hadn’t heard even the tiniest hint of a rumour. No one in the family had. By then, of course, the project was costing us almost nothing, so there wasn’t even a financial drain to be concealed. ’

‘And since then?’

‘I vowed not to make my uncle’s mistake. I resolved to sleep until the machines sent back a report, and then sleep again if the report turned out to be a false alarm.’

‘Sleep?’ I said.

He clicked his fingers and one entire wall of the room whisked back to reveal a sterile, machine-filled chamber.

I studied its contents.

There was a reefersleep casket of the kind Forqueray and his ilk used aboard their ships, attended by numerous complicated hunks of gleaming green support machinery. By use of such a casket, one might prolong the four hundred-odd years of a normal human lifespan by many centuries, though reefersleep was not without its risks.

‘I spent a century and a half in that contraption,’ he said, ‘waking every fifteen or twenty years whenever a report trickled in from one of the envoys. Waking is the worst part. It feels like you’re made of glass; as if the next movement you make - the next breath you take - will cause you to shatter into a billion pieces. It always passes, and you always forget it an hour later, but it’s never easier the next time.’ He shuddered visibly. ‘In fact, sometimes I think it gets harder each time.’

‘Then your equipment needs servicing,’ Forqueray said dismissively. I suspected it was bluff. Ultras often wore a lock of braided hair for every crossing they had made across interstellar space and survived all the myriad misfortunes which might befall a ship. But that braid also symbolised every occasion on which they had been woken from the dead, at the end of the journey.

They felt the pain as fully as Childe did, even if they were not willing to admit it.

‘How long did you spend awake each time?’ I asked.

‘No more than thirteen hours. That was usually sufficient to tell if the message was interesting or not. I’d allow myself one or two hours to catch up on the news; what was going on in the wider universe. But I had to be disciplined. If I’d stayed awake longer, the attraction of returning to city life would have become overwhelming. That room began to feel like a prison.’

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Surely the subjective time must have passed very quickly?’

‘You’ve obviously never spent any time in reefersleep, Richard. There’s no consciousness when you’re frozen, granted - but the transitions to and from the cold state are like an eternity, crammed with strange dreams.’

‘But you hoped the rewards would be worth it?’

Childe nodded. ‘And, indeed, they may well have been. I was last woken six months ago, and I’ve not returned to the chamber since. Instead, I’ve spent that time gathering together the resources and the people for a highly unusual expedition.’

Now he made the table change its projection, zooming in on one particular star.

‘I won’t bore you with catalogue numbers, suffice to say that this is a system which no one around this table - with the possible exception of Forqueray - is likely to have heard of. There’ve never been any human colonies there, and no crewed vessel has ever passed within three light-years of it. At least, not until recently.’

The view zoomed in again, enlarging with dizzying speed.

A planet swelled up to the size of a skull, suspended above the table.

It was hued entirely in shades of grey and pale rust, cratered and gouged here and there by impacts and what must have been very ancient weathering processes. Though there was a suggestion of a wisp of atmosphere - a smoky blue halo encircling the planet - and though there were icecaps at either pole, the world looked neither habitable nor inviting.

‘Cheerful-looking place, isn’t it?’ Childe said. ‘I call it Golgotha.’

‘Nice name,’ Celestine said.

‘But not, unfortunately, a very nice planet.’ Childe made the view enlarge again, so that we were skimming the world’s bleak, apparently lifeless surface. ‘Pretty dismal, to be honest. It’s about the same size as Yellowstone, receiving about the same amount of sunlight from its star. Doesn’t have a moon. Surface gravity’s close enough to one gee that you won’t know the difference once you’re suited up. A thin carbon dioxide atmosphere, and no sign that anything’s ever evolved there. Plenty of radiation hitting the surface, but that’s about your only hazard, and one we can easily deal with. Golgotha’s tectonically dead, and there haven’t been any large impacts on her surface for a few million years.’

‘Sounds boring,’ Hirz said.

‘And it very probably is, but that isn’t the point. You see, there’s something on Golgotha.’

‘What kind of something?’ Celestine asked.

‘That kind,’ Childe said.

It came over the horizon.

It was tall and dark, its details indistinct. That first view of it was like the first glimpse of a cathedral’s spire through morning fog. It tapered as it rose, constricting to a thin neck before flaring out again into a bulb-shaped finial, which in turn tapered to a needle-sharp point.

Though it was impossible to say how large the thing was, or what it was made of, it was very obviously a structure, as opposed to a peculiar biological or mineral formation. On Grand Teton, vast numbers of tiny single-celled organisms conspired to produce the slime towers which were that world’s most famous natural feature, and while those towers reached impressive heights and were often strangely shaped, they were unmistakably the products of unthinking biological processes rather than conscious design. The structure on Golgotha was too symmetric for that, and entirely too solitary. If it had been a living thing, I would have expected to see others like it, with evidence of a supporting ecology of different organisms.

Even if it were a fossil, millions of years dead, I could not believe that there would be just one on the whole planet.

No. The thing had most definitely been put there.

‘A structure?’ I asked Childe.

‘Yes. Or a machine. It isn’t easy to decide.’ He smiled. ‘I call it Blood Spire. Almost looks innocent, doesn’t it? Until you look closer.’

We spun round the Spire, or whatever it was, viewing it from all directions. Now that we were closer, it was clear that the thing’s surface was densely detailed; patterned and textured with geometrically complex forms, around which snaked intestinal tubes and branching, veinlike bulges. The effect was to undermine my earlier certainty that the thing was non-biological.

Now it looked like some sinewy fusion of animal and machine: something that might have appealed in its grotesquerie to Childe’s demented uncle.

‘How tall is it?’ I asked.

‘Two hundred and fifty metres,’ Childe said.

I saw that now there were tiny glints on Golgotha’s surface, almost like metallic flakes which had fallen from the side of the structure.

‘What are those?’ I asked.

‘Why don’t I show you?’ Childe said.

He enlarged the view still further, until the glints resolved into distinct shapes.

They were people.

Or - more accurately - the remains of what had once been people. It was impossible to say how many there had been. All had been mutilated in some fashion: crushed or pruned or bisected; the tattered ruins of their spacesuits were still visible in one or two places. Severed parts accompanied the bodies, often several tens of metres from the rightful owner.

It was as if they had been flung away in a fit of temper.

‘Who were they?’ Forqueray asked.

‘A crew who happened to slow down in this system to make shield repairs,’ Childe said. ‘Their captain was called Argyle. They chanced upon the Spire and started exploring it, believing it to contain something of immense technological value.’

‘And what happened to them?’

‘They went inside in small teams, sometimes alone. Inside the Spire they passed through a series of challenges, each of which was harder than the last. If they made a mistake, the Spire punished them. The punishments were initially mild, but they became steadily more brutal. The trick was to know when to admit defeat.’

I leaned forward. ‘How do you know all this?’

‘Because Argyle survived. Not long, admittedly, but long enough for my machine to get some sense out of him. It had been on Golgotha the whole time, you see - watching Argyle’s arrival, hiding and recording them as they confronted the Spire. And it watched him crawl out of the Spire, shortly before the last of his colleagues was ejected.’

‘I’m not sure I’m prepared to trust either the testimony of a machine or a dying man,’ I said.

‘You don’t have to,’ Childe answered. ‘You need only consider the evidence of your eyes. Do you see those tracks in the dust? They all lead into the Spire, and there are almost none leading to the bodies.’

‘Meaning what?’ I said.

‘Meaning that they got inside, the way Argyle claimed. Observe also the way the remains are distributed. They’re not all at the same distance from the Spire. They must have been ejected from different heights, suggesting that some got closer to the summit than others. Again, it accords with Argyle’s story.’

With a sinking feeling of inevitability I saw where this was heading. ‘And you want us to go there and find out what it was they were so interested in. Is that it?’

He smiled. ‘You know me entirely too well, Richard.’

‘I thought I did. But you’d have to be quite mad to want to go anywhere near that thing.’

‘Mad? Possibly. Or simply very, very curious. The question is—’ He paused and leaned across the table to refill my glass, all the while maintaining eye contact. ‘Which are you?’

‘Neither,’ I said.

But Childe could be persuasive. A month later I was frozen aboard Forqueray’s ship.

TWO

We reached orbit around Golgotha.

Thawed from reefersleep we convened for breakfast, riding a travel pod upship to the lighthugger’s meeting room.

Everyone was there, including Trintignant and Forqueray, the latter inhaling from the same impressive array of flasks, retorts and spiralling tubes he had brought with him to Yellowstone. Trintignant had not slept with the rest of us, but looked none the worse for wear. He had, Childe said, his own rather specialised plumbing requirements, incompatible with standard reefersleep systems.

‘Well, how was it?’ Childe asked, throwing a comradely arm around my shoulders.

‘Every bit as . . . dreadful as I’d been led to expect.’ My voice was slurred, sentences taking an age to form in whatever part of my brain it was that handled language. ‘Still a bit fuzzy.’

‘Well, we’ll soon fix that. Trintignant can synthesise a medichine infusion to pep up those neural functions, can’t you, Doctor?’

Trintignant looked at me with his handsome, immobile mask of a face. ‘It would be no trouble at all, my dear fellow . . .’

‘Thanks.’ I steadied myself; my mind crawled with half-remembered images of the botched cybernetic experiments which had earned Trintignant his notoriety. The thought of him pumping tiny machines into my skull made my skin crawl. ‘But I’ll pass on that for now. No offence intended.’

‘And absolutely none taken.’ Trintignant gestured towards a vacant chair. ‘Come. Sit with us and join in the discussion. The topic, rather interestingly, is the dreams some of us experienced on the way here.’

‘Dreams . . . ?’ I said. ‘I thought it was just me. I wasn’t the only one?’

‘No,’ Hirz said, ‘you weren’t the only one. I was on a moon in one of them. Earth’s, I think. And I kept on trying to get inside this alien structure. Fucking thing kept killing me, but I’d always keep going back inside, like I was being brought back to life each time just for that.’

‘I had the same dream,’ I said, wonderingly. ‘And there was another dream in which I was inside some kind of—’ I halted, waiting for the words to assemble in my head. ‘Some kind of underground tomb. I remember being chased down a corridor by an enormous stone ball which was going to roll over me.’

Hirz nodded. ‘The dream with the hat, right?’

‘My God, yes.’ I grinned like a madman. ‘I lost my hat, and I felt this ridiculous urge to rescue it!’

Celestine looked at me with something between icy detachment and outright hostility. ‘I had that one too.’

‘Me too,’ Hirz said, chuckling. ‘But I said fuck the hat. Sorry, but with the kind of money Childe’s paying us, buying a new one ain’t gonna be my biggest problem.’

An awkward moment followed, for only Hirz seemed at all comfortable about discussing the generous fees Childe had arranged as payment for the expedition. The initial sums had been large enough, but upon our return to Yellowstone we would all receive nine times as much; adjusted to match any inflation which might occur during the time - between sixty and eighty years - which Childe said the journey would span.

Generous, yes.

But I think Childe knew that some of us would have joined him even without that admittedly sweet bonus.

Celestine broke the silence, turning to Hirz. ‘Did you have the one about the cubes, too?’

‘Christ, yes,’ the infiltration specialist said, as if suddenly remembering. ‘The cubes. What about you, Richard?’

‘Indeed,’ I answered, flinching at the memory of that one. I had been one of a party of people trapped inside an endless series of cubic rooms, many of which contained lethal surprises. ‘I was cut into pieces by a trap, actually. Diced, if I remember accurately.’

‘Yeah. Not exactly on my top ten list of ways to die, either.’

Childe coughed. ‘I feel I should apologise for the dreams. They were narratives I fed into your minds - Doctor Trintignant excepted - during the transition to and from reefersleep.’

‘Narratives?’ I said.

‘I adapted them from a variety of sources, thinking they’d put us all in the right frame of mind for what lies ahead.’

‘Dying nastily, you mean?’ Hirz asked.

‘Problem-solving, actually.’ Childe served pitch-black coffee as he spoke, as if all that was ahead of us was a moderately bracing stroll. ‘Of course, nothing that the dreams contained is likely to reflect anything that we’ll find inside the Spire . . . but don’t you feel better for having had them?’

I gave the matter some thought before responding.

‘Not exactly, no,’ I said.

Thirteen hours later we were on the surface, inspecting the suits Forqueray had provided for the expedition.

They were sleek white contraptions, armoured, powered and equipped with enough intelligence to fool a roomful of cyberneticians. They enveloped themselves around you, forming a seamless white surface which lent the wearer the appearance of a figurine moulded from soap. The suits quickly learned how you moved, adjusting and anticipating all the time like perfect dance partners.

Forqueray told us that each suit was capable of keeping its occupant alive almost indefinitely; that the suit would recycle bodily wastes in a near-perfect closed cycle, and could even freeze its occupant if circumstances merited such action. They could fly and would protect their user against just about any external environment, ranging from a vacuum to the crush of the deepest ocean.

‘What about weapons?’ Celestine asked, once we had been shown how to command the suits to do our bidding.

‘Weapons?’ Forqueray asked blankly.

‘I’ve heard about these suits, Captain. They’re supposed to contain enough firepower to take apart a small mountain.’

Childe coughed. ‘There won’t be any weapons, I’m afraid. I asked Forqueray to have them removed from the suits. No cutting tools, either. And you won’t be able to achieve as much with brute force as you would with an unmodified suit. The servos won’t allow it.’

‘I’m not sure I understand. You’re handicapping us before we go in?’

‘No - far from it. I’m just abiding by the rules that the Spire sets. It doesn’t allow weapons inside itself, you see - or anything else that might be used against it, like fusion torches. It senses such things and acts accordingly. It’s very clever.’

I looked at him. ‘Is this guesswork?’

‘Of course not. Argyle already learned this much. No point making exactly the same mistakes again, is there?’

‘I still don’t get it,’ Celestine said when we had assembled outside the shuttle, standing like so many white soap statuettes. ‘Why fight the thing on its own terms at all? There are bound to be weapons on Forqueray’s ship we could use from orbit; we could open it like a carcase.’

‘Yes,’ Childe said, ‘and in the process destroy everything we came this far to learn?’

‘I’m not talking about blowing it off the face of Golgotha. I’m just talking about clean, surgical dissection.’

‘It won’t work. The Spire is a living thing, Celestine. Or at least a machine intelligence many orders of magnitude cleverer than anything we’ve encountered to date. It won’t tolerate violence being used against it. Argyle learned that much.

‘Even if it can’t defend itself against such attacks - and we don’t know that - it will certainly destroy what it contains. We’ll still have lost everything.’

‘But still . . . no weapons?’

‘Not quite,’ Childe said, tapping the forehead region of his suit. ‘We still have our minds, after all. That’s why I assembled this team. If brute force would have been sufficient, I’d have had no need to scour Yellowstone for such fierce intellects.’

Hirz spoke from inside her own, smaller version of the armoured suit. ‘You’d better not be taking the piss.’

‘Forqueray?’ Childe said. ‘We’re nearly there now. Put us down on the surface two klicks from the base of the Spire. We’ll cross the remaining distance on foot.’

Forqueray obliged, bringing the triangular formation down. Our suits had been slaved to his, but now we regained independent control.

Through the suit’s numerous layers of armour and padding I felt the rough texture of the ground beneath my feet. I held up a thickly gauntleted hand and felt the breeze of Golgotha’s thin atmosphere caress my palm. The tactile transmission was flawless, and when I moved, the suit flowed with me so effortlessly that I had no sense of being encumbered by it. The view was equally impressive, with the suit projecting an image directly into my visual field rather than forcing me to peer through a visor.

A strip along the top of my visual field showed a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view all around me, and I could zoom in on any part of it almost without thinking. Various overlays - sonar, radar, thermal, gravimetric - could be dropped over the existing visual field with the same ease. If I looked down I could even ask the suit to edit me out of the image, so that I could view the scene from a disembodied perspective. As we walked along the suit threw traceries of light across the scenery: an etchwork of neon which would now and then coalesce around an odd-shaped rock or peculiar pattern of ground markings. After several minutes of this I had adjusted the suit’s alertness threshold to what I felt was a useful level of protectivity, neither too watchful nor too complacent.

Childe and Forqueray had taken the lead on the ground. They would have been difficult to distinguish, but my suit had partially erased their suits, so that they seemed to walk unprotected save for a ghostly second skin. When they looked at me they would perceive the same consensual illusion.

Trintignant followed a little way behind, moving with the automaton-like stiffness I had now grown almost accustomed to.

Celestine followed, with me a little to her stern.

Hirz brought up the rear, small and lethal and - now that I knew her a little better - quite unlike any of the few children I had ever met.

And ahead - rising, ever rising - was the thing we had come all this way to best.

It had been visible, of course, long before we set down. The Spire was a quarter of a kilometre high, after all. But I think we had all chosen to ignore it; to map it out of our perceptions, until we were much closer. It was only now that we were allowing those mental shields to collapse; forcing our imaginations to confront the fact of the tower’s existence.

Huge and silent, it daggered into the sky.

It was much as Childe had shown us, except that it seemed infinitely more massive; infinitely more present. We were still a quarter of a kilometre from the thing’s base, and yet the flared top - the bulb-shaped finial - seemed to be leaning back over us, constantly on the point of falling and crushing us. The effect was exacerbated by the occasional high-altitude cloud that passed overhead, writhing in Golgotha’s fast, thin jetstreams. The whole tower looked as if it were toppling. For a long moment, taking in the immensity of what stood before us - its vast age; its vast, brooding capacity for harm - the idea of trying to reach the summit felt uncomfortably close to insanity.

Then a small, rational voice reminded me that this was exactly the effect the Spire’s builders would have sought.

Knowing that, it was fractionally easier to take the next step closer to the base.

‘Well,’ Celestine said. ‘It looks like we’ve found Argyle.’

Childe nodded. ‘Yes. Or what’s left of the poor bastard.’

We had found several body parts by then, but his was the only one that was anywhere near being complete. He had lost a leg inside the Spire, but had been able to crawl to the exit before the combination of bleeding and asphyxiation killed him. It was here - dying - that he had been interviewed by Childe’s envoy, which had only then emerged from its hiding place.

Perhaps he had imagined himself in the presence of a benevolent steel angel.

He was not well preserved. There was no bacterial life on Golgotha, and nothing that could be charitably termed weather, but there were savage dust-storms, and these must have intermittently covered and revealed the body, scouring it in the process. Parts of his suit were missing, and his helmet had cracked open, exposing his skull. Papery sheets of skin adhered to the bone here and there, but not enough to suggest a face.

Childe and Forqueray regarded the corpse uneasily, while Trintignant knelt down and examined it in more detail. A float-cam belonging to the Ultra floated around, observing the scene with goggling arrays of tightly packed lenses.

‘Whatever took his leg off did it cleanly,’ the Doctor reported, pulling back the tattered layers of the man’s suit fabric to expose the stump. ‘Witness how the bone and muscle have been neatly severed along the same plane, like a geometric slice through a platonic solid? I would speculate that a laser was responsible for this, except that I see no sign of cauterisation. A high-pressure water-jet might have achieved the same precision of cut, or even an extremely sharp blade.’

‘Fascinating, Doc,’ Hirz said, kneeling down next to him. ‘I’ll bet it hurt like fuck, too, wouldn’t you?’

‘Not necessarily. The degree of pain would depend acutely on the manner in which the nerve ends were truncated. Shock does not appear to have been the primary agent in this man’s demise.’ Doctor Trintignant fingered the remains of a red fabric band a little distance above the end of the leg. ‘Nor was the blood loss as rapid as might have been expected given the absence of cauterisation. This band was most likely a tourniquet, probably applied from his suit’s medical kit. The same kit almost certainly included analgesics.’

‘It wasn’t enough to save him, though,’ Childe said.

‘No.’ Trintignant stood up, the movement reminding me of an escalator. ‘But you must concede that he did rather well, considering the impediments.’

For most of its height Blood Spire was no thicker than a few dozen metres, and considerably narrower just below the bulb-like upper part. But, like a slender chess piece, its lower parts swelled out considerably to form a wide base. That podium-like mass was perhaps fifty metres in diameter: a fifth of the structure’s height. From a distance it appeared to rest solidly on the base: a mighty obelisk requiring the deepest of foundations to anchor it to the ground.

But it didn’t.

The Spire’s base failed to touch the surface of Golgotha at all, but floated above it, spaced by five or six clear metres of air. It was as if someone had constructed a building slightly above the ground, kicked away the stilts, and it had simply stayed there.

We all walked confidently towards the rim and then stopped; none of us were immediately willing to step under that overhang.

‘Forqueray?’ Childe said.

‘Yes?’

‘Let’s see what that drone of yours has to say.’

Forqueray had his float-cam fly under the rim, orbiting the underside of the Spire in a lazily widening spiral. Now and then it fingered the base with a spray of laser-light, and once or twice even made contact, skittering against the flat surface. Forqueray remained impassive, glancing slightly down as he absorbed the data being sent back to his suit.

‘Well?’ Celestine said. ‘What the hell’s keeping it up?’

Forqueray took a step under the rim. ‘No fields; not even a minor perturbation of Golgotha’s own magnetosphere. No significant alterations in the local gravitational vector, either. And - before we assume more sophistication than is strictly necessary - there are no concealed supports.’

Celestine was silent for a few moments before answering, ‘All right. What if the Spire doesn’t weigh anything? There’s air here; not much of it I’ll grant you - but what if the Spire’s mostly hollow? There might be enough buoyancy to make the thing float, like a balloon.’

‘There isn’t,’ Forqueray said, opening a fist to catch the cam, which flew into his grasp like a trained kestrel. ‘Whatever’s above us is solid matter. I can’t read its mass, but it’s blocking an appreciable cosmic-ray flux, and none of our scanning methods can see through it.’

‘Forqueray’s right,’ Childe said. ‘But I understand your reluctance to accept this, Celestine. It’s perfectly normal to feel a sense of denial.’

‘Denial?’

‘That what we are confronting is truly alien. But I’m afraid you’ll get over it, just the way I did.’

‘I’ll get over it when I feel like getting over it,’ Celestine said, joining Forqueray under the dark ceiling.

She looked up and around, less in the manner of someone admiring a fresco than in the manner of a mouse cowering beneath a boot.

But I knew exactly what she was thinking.

In four centuries of deep space travel there had been no more than glimpses of alien sentience. We had long suspected they were out there somewhere. But that suspicion had grown less fervent as the years passed; world after world had revealed only faint, time-eroded traces of cultures that might once have been glorious but which were now utterly destroyed. The Pattern Jugglers were clearly the products of intelligence, but not necessarily intelligent themselves. And - though they had been spread from star to star in the distant past - they did not now depend on any form of technology that we recognised. The Shrouders were little better: secretive minds cocooned inside shells of restructured spacetime.

They had never been glimpsed, and their nature and intentions remained worryingly unclear.

Yet Blood Spire was different.

For all its strangeness; for all that it mocked our petty assumptions about the way matter and gravity should conduct themselves, it was recognisably a manufactured thing. And, I told myself, if it had managed to hang above Golgotha’s surface until now, it was extremely unlikely to choose this moment to come crashing down.

I stepped across the threshold, followed by the others.

‘Makes you wonder what kind of beings built it,’ I said. ‘Whether they had the same hopes and fears as us, or whether they were so far beyond us as to seem like Gods.’

‘I don’t give a shit who built it,’ Hirz said. ‘I just want to know how to get into the fucking thing. Any bright ideas, Childe?’

‘There’s a way,’ he said.

We followed him until we stood in a small, nervous huddle under the centre of the ceiling. It had not been visible before, but directly above us was a circle of utter blackness against the mere gloom of the Spire’s underside.

‘That?’ Hirz said.

‘That’s the only way in,’ Childe said. ‘And the only way you get out alive.’

I said, ‘Roland - how exactly did Argyle and his team get inside?’

‘They must have brought something to stand on. A ladder or something.’

I looked around. ‘There’s no sign of it now, is there?’

‘No, and it doesn’t matter. We don’t need anything like that - not with these suits. Forqueray?’

The Ultra nodded and tossed the float-cam upwards.

It caught flight and vanished into the aperture. Nothing happened for several seconds, other than the occasional stutter of red light from the hole. Then the cam emerged, descending again into Forqueray’s hand.

‘There’s a chamber up there,’ Forqueray said. ‘Flat-floored, surrounding the hole. It’s twenty metres across, with a ceiling just high enough to let us stand upright. It’s empty. There’s what looks like a sealed door leading out of the chamber into the rest of the Spire.’

‘Can we be sure there’s nothing harmful in it?’ I asked.

‘No,’ Childe said. ‘But Argyle said the first room was safe. We’ll just have to take his word on that one.’

‘And there’s room for all of us up there?’

Forqueray nodded. ‘Easily.’

I suppose there should have been more ceremony to the act, but there was no sense of significance, or even foreboding, as we rose into the ceiling. It was like the first casual step onto the tame footslopes of a mountain, unweighted by any sense of the dangers that undoubtedly lay ahead.

Inside it was exactly as Forqueray had described.

The chamber was dark, but the float-cam provided some illumination and our suits’ sensors were able to map out the chamber’s shape and overlay this information on our visual fields.

The floor had a metalled quality to it, dented here and there, and the edge where it met the hole was rounded and worn.

I reached down to touch it, feeling a hard, dull alloy which nonetheless seemed as if it would yield given sufficient pressure. Data scrolled onto my visual readout, informing me that the floor had a temperature only one hundred and fifteen degrees above absolute zero. My palm chemosensor reported that the floor was mainly iron, laced with carbon woven into allotropic forms it could not match against any in its experience. There were microscopic traces of almost every other stable isotope in the periodic table, with the odd exception of silver. All of this was inferred, for when the chemosensor attempted to shave off a microscopic layer of the flooring for more detailed analysis, it gave a series of increasingly heated error messages before falling silent.

I tried the chemosensor against part of my own suit.

It had stopped working.

‘Fix that,’ I instructed my suit, authorising it to divert whatever resources it required to the task.

‘Problem, Richard?’ asked Childe.

‘My suit’s damaged. Minor, but annoying. I don’t think the Spire was too thrilled about my taking a sample of it.’

‘Shit. I probably should have warned you of that. Argyle’s lot had the same problem. It doesn’t like being cut into, either. I suspect you got off with a polite warning.’

‘Generous of it,’ I said.

‘Be careful, all right?’ Childe then told everyone else to disable their chemosensors until told otherwise. Hirz grumbled, but everyone else quietly accepted what had to be done.

In the meantime I continued my own survey of the room, counting myself lucky that my suit had not provoked a stronger reaction. The chamber’s circular wall was fashioned from what looked like the same hard, dull alloy, devoid of detail except for the point where it framed what was obviously a door, raised a metre above the floor. Three blocky steps led up to it.

The door itself was one metre wide and perhaps twice that in height.

‘Hey,’ Hirz said. ‘Feel this.’

She was kneeling down, pressing a palm against the floor.

‘Careful,’ I said. ‘I just did that and—’

‘I’ve turned off my chemo-whatsit, don’t worry.’

‘Then what are you—’

‘Why don’t you reach down and see for yourself?’

Slowly, we all knelt down and touched the floor. When I had felt it before it had been as cold and dead as the floor of a crypt, yet that was no longer the case. Now it was vibrating; as if somewhere not too far from here a mighty engine was shaking itself to pieces: a turbine on the point of breaking loose from its shackles. The vibration rose and fell in throbbing waves. Once every thirty seconds or so it reached a kind of crescendo, like a great slow inhalation.

‘It’s alive,’ Hirz said.

‘It wasn’t like that just now.’

‘I know.’ Hirz turned and looked at me. ‘The fucking thing just woke up, that’s why. It knows we’re here.’

THREE

I moved to the door and studied it properly for the first time.

Its proportions were reassuringly normal, requiring only that we stoop down slightly to step through. But for now the door was sealed by a smooth sheet of metal, which would presumably slide across once we had determined how to open it. The only guidance came from the door’s thick metal frame, which was inscribed with faint geometric markings.

I had not noticed them before.

The markings were on either side of the door, on the uprights of the frame. Beginning from the bottom on the left-hand side, there was a dot - it was too neatly circular to be accidental - a flat-topped equilateral triangle, a pentagon and then a heptagonal figure. On the right-hand side there were three more figures with eleven, thirteen and twenty sides respectively.

‘Well?’ Hirz was looking over my shoulder. ‘Any bright ideas?’

‘Prime numbers,’ I said. ‘At least, that’s the simplest explanation I can think of. The number of vertices of the shapes on the left-hand frame are the first four primes: one, three, five and seven.’

‘And on the other frame?’

Childe answered for me. ‘The eleven-sided figure is the next one in the sequence. Thirteen’s one prime too high, and twenty isn’t a prime at all.’

‘So you’re saying if we choose eleven, we win?’ Hirz reached out her hand, ready to push her hand against the lowest figure on the right, which she could reach without ascending the three steps. ‘I hope the rest of the tests are this simp—’

‘Steady, old girl.’ Childe had caught her wrist. ‘Mustn’t be too hasty. We shouldn’t do anything until we’ve arrived at a consensus. Agreed?’

Hirz pulled back her hand. ‘Agreed . . .’

It took only a few minutes for everyone to agree that the eleven-sided figure was the obvious choice. Celestine did not immediately accede; she looked long and hard at the right-hand frame before concurring with the original choice.

‘I just want to be careful, that’s all,’ she said. ‘We can’t assume anything. They might think from right to left, so that the figures on the right form the sequence which those on the left are supposed to complete. Or they might think diagonally, or something even less obvious.’

Childe nodded. ‘And the obvious choice might not always be the right one. There might be a deeper sequence - something more elegant - which we’re just not seeing. That’s why I wanted Celestine along. If anyone’ll pick out those subtleties, it’s her.’

She turned to him. ‘Just don’t put too much faith in whatever gifts the Jugglers might have given me, Childe.’

‘I won’t. Unless I have to.’ Then he turned to the infiltration specialist, still standing by the frame. ‘Hirz - you may go ahead.’

She reached out and touched the frame, covering the eleven-sided figure with her palm.

After a heart-stopping pause there was a clunk, and I felt the floor vibrate even more strongly than it had before. Ponderously, the door slid aside, revealing another dark chamber.

We all looked around, assessing each other.

Nothing had changed; none of us had suffered any sudden, violent injuries.

‘Forqueray?’ Childe said.

The Ultra knew what he meant. He tossed the float-cam through the open doorway and waited several seconds until it flew back into his grasp.

‘Another metallic chamber, considerably smaller than this one. The floor is level with the door, so we’ll have gained a metre or so in height. There’s another raised door on the opposite side, again with markings. Other than that, I don’t see anything except bare metal.’

‘What about the other side of this door?’ Childe said. ‘Are there markings on it as well?’

‘Nothing that the drone could make out.’

‘Then let me be the guinea pig. I’ll step through and we’ll see what happens. I’m assuming that even if the door seals behind me, I’ll still be able to open it. Argyle said the Spire didn’t prevent anyone from leaving provided they hadn’t attempted to access a new room.’

‘Try it and see,’ Hirz said. ‘We’ll wait on this side. If the door shuts on you, we’ll give you a minute and then we’ll open it ourselves. ’

Childe walked up the three steps and across the threshold. He paused, looked around and then turned back to face us, looking down on us now.

Nothing had happened.

‘Looks like the door stays open for now. Who wants to join me?’

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘Before we all cross over, shouldn’t we take a look at the problem? We don’t want to be trapped in there if it’s something we can’t solve.’

Childe walked over to the far door. ‘Good thinking. Forqueray, pipe my visual field through to the rest of the team, will you?’

‘Done.’

We saw what Childe was seeing, his gaze tracking along the doorframe. The markings looked much like those we had just solved, except that the symbols were different. Four unfamiliar shapes were inscribed on the left side of the door, spaced vertically. Each of the shapes was composed of four rectangular elements of differing sizes, butted together in varying configurations. Childe then looked at the other side of the door. There were four more shapes on the right, superficially similar to those we had already seen.

‘Definitely not a geometric progression,’ Childe said.

‘No. Looks more like a test of conservation of symmetry through different translations,’ Celestine said, her voice barely a murmur. ‘The lowest three shapes on the left have just been rotated through an integer number of right angles, giving their corresponding forms on the right. But the top two shapes aren’t rotationally symmetric. They’re mirror images, plus a rotation.’

‘So we press the top right shape, right?’

‘Could be. But the left one’s just as valid.’

Hirz said, ‘Yeah. But only if we ignore what the last test taught us. Whoever the suckers were that made this thing, they think from left to right.’

Childe raised his hand above the right-side shape. ‘I’m prepared to press it.’

‘Wait.’ I climbed the steps and walked over the threshold, joining Childe. ‘I don’t think you should be in here alone.’

He looked at me with something resembling gratitude. None of the others had stepped over yet, and I wondered if I would have done so had Childe and I not been old friends.

‘Go ahead and press it,’ I said. ‘Even if we get it wrong, the punishment’s not likely to be too severe at this stage.’

He nodded and palmed the right-side symbol.

Nothing happened.

‘Maybe the left side . . . ?’

‘Try it. It can’t hurt. We’ve obviously done something wrong already.’

Childe moved over and palmed the other symbol on the top row.

Nothing.

I gritted my teeth. ‘All right. Might as well try one of the ones we definitely know is wrong. Are you ready for that?’

He glanced at me and nodded. ‘I didn’t go to the hassle of bringing in Forqueray just for the free ride, you know. These suits are built to take a lot of crap.’

‘Even alien crap?’

‘About to find out, aren’t we?’

He moved to palm one of the lower symmetry pairs.

I braced myself, unsure what to expect when we made a deliberate error, wondering if the Spire’s punishment code would even apply in such a case. After all, what was clearly the correct choice had elicited no response, so what was the sense in being penalised for making the wrong one?

He palmed the shape; still nothing happened.

‘Wait,’ Celestine said, joining us. ‘I’ve had an idea. Maybe it won’t respond - positively or negatively - until we’re all in the same room.’

‘Only one way to find out,’ Hirz said, joining her.

Forqueray and Trintignant followed.

When the last of them had crossed the threshold, the rear door - the one we had all come through - slid shut. There were no markings on it, but nothing that Forqueray did made it open again.

Which, I supposed, made a kind of sense. We had committed to accepting the next challenge now; the time for dignified retreats had passed. The thought was not a pleasant one. This room was smaller than the last one, and the environment was suddenly a lot more claustrophobic.

We were standing almost shoulder to shoulder.

‘You know, I think the first chamber was just a warm-up,’ Celestine said. ‘This is where it starts getting more serious.’

‘Just press the fucking thing,’ Hirz said.

Childe did as he was told. As before, there was an uncomfortable pause which probably lasted only half a second, but which felt abyssally longer, as if our fates were being weighed by distant judicial machinery. Then thumps and vibrations signalled the opening of the door.

Simultaneously, the door behind us had opened again. The route out of the Spire was now clear again.

‘Forqueray . . .’ Childe said.

The Ultra tossed the float-cam into the darkness.

‘Well?’

‘This is getting a tiny bit monotonous. Another chamber, another door, another set of markings.’

‘No booby-traps?’

‘Nothing the drone can resolve, which I’m afraid isn’t saying much.’

‘I’ll go in this time,’ Celestine said. ‘No one follow me until I’ve checked out the problem, understood?’

‘Fine by me,’ Hirz said, peering back at the escape route.

Celestine stepped into the darkness.

I decided that I was no longer enjoying the illusion of seeing everyone as if we were not wearing suits - we all looked far too vulnerable, suddenly - and ordered my own to stop editing my visual field to that extent. The transition was smooth; suits formed around us like thickening auras. Only the helmet parts remained semi-transparent, so that I could still identify who was who without cumbersome visual tags.

‘It’s another mathematical puzzle,’ Celestine said. ‘Still fairly simple. We’re not really being stretched yet.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ll settle for not being really stretched,’ Hirz said.

Childe looked unimpressed. ‘Are you certain of the answer?’

‘Trust me,’ Celestine said. ‘It’s perfectly safe to enter.’

This time the markings looked more complicated, and at first I feared that Celestine had been over-confident.

On the left-hand side of the door - extending the height of the frame - was a vertical strip marked by many equally spaced horizontal grooves, in the manner of a ruler. But some of the cleanly cut grooves were deeper than the others. On the other side of the door was a similar ruler, but with a different arrangement of deeper grooves, not lining up with any of those on the right.

I stared at the frame for several seconds, thinking the solution would click into my mind; willing myself back into the problem-solving mode that had once seemed so natural. But the pattern of grooves refused to snap into any neat mathematical order.

I looked at Childe, seeing no greater comprehension in his face.

‘Don’t you see it?’ Celestine said.

‘Not quite,’ I said.

‘There are ninety-one grooves, Richard.’ She spoke with the tone of a teacher who had begun to lose patience with a tardy pupil. ‘Now counting from the bottom, the following grooves are deeper than the rest: the third, the sixth, the tenth, the fifteenth . . . shall I continue?’

‘I think you’d better,’ Childe said.

‘There are seven other deep grooves, concluding with the ninety-first. You must see it now, surely. Think geometrically.’

‘I am,’ I said testily.

‘Tell us, Celestine,’ Childe said, between what was obviously gritted teeth.

She sighed. ‘They’re triangular numbers.’

‘Fine,’ Childe said. ‘But I’m not sure I know what a triangular number is.’

Celestine glanced at the ceiling for a moment, as if seeking inspiration. ‘Look. Think of a dot, will you?’

‘I’m thinking,’ Childe said.

‘Now surround that dot by six neighbours, all the same distance from each other. Got that?’

‘Yes.’

‘Now keep on adding dots, extending out in all directions, as far as you can imagine - each dot having six neighbours.’

‘With you so far.’

‘You should have something resembling a Chinese chequerboard. Now concentrate on a single dot again, near the middle. Draw a line from it to one of its six neighbours, and then another line to one of the two dots either side of the neighbour you just chose. Then join the two neighbouring dots. What have you a got?’

‘An equilateral triangle.’

‘Good. That’s three taken care of. Now imagine that the triangle’s sides are twice as long. How many dots are connected together now?’

Childe answered after only a slight hesitation, ‘Six. I think.’

‘Yes.’ Celestine turned to me. ‘Are you following, Richard?’

‘More or less . . .’ I said, trying to hold the shapes in my head.

‘Then we’ll continue. If we triple the size of the triangle, we link together nine dots along the sides, with an additional dot in the middle. That’s ten. Continue - with a quadruple-sized triangle - and we hit fifteen.’ She paused, giving us time to catch up. ‘There are eight more; up to ninety-one, which has thirteen dots along each side.’

‘The final groove,’ I said, accepting for myself that whatever this problem was, Celestine had definitely understood it.

‘But there are only seven deep grooves in that interval,’ she continued. ‘That means all we have to do is identify the groove on the right which corresponds to the missing triangular number.’

‘All?’ Hirz said.

‘Look, it’s simple. I know the answer, but you don’t have to take my word for it. The triangles follow a simple sequence. If there are N dots in the lower row of the last triangle, the next one will have N plus one more. Add one to two and you’ve got three. Add one to two to three, and you’ve got six. One to two to three to four, and you’ve got ten. Then fifteen, then twenty-one . . .’ Celestine paused. ‘Look, it’s senseless taking my word for it. Graph up a chequerboard display on your suits - Forqueray, can you oblige? - and start arranging dots in triangular patterns.’

We did. It took quarter of an hour, but after that time we had all - Hirz included - convinced ourselves by brute force that Celestine was right. The only missing pattern was for the fifty-five-dot case, which happened to coincide with one of the deep grooves on the right side of the door.

It was obvious, then. That was the one to press.

‘I don’t like it,’ Hirz said. ‘I see it now . . . but I didn’t see it until it was pointed out to me. What if there’s another pattern none of us are seeing?’

Celestine looked at her coldly. ‘There isn’t.’

‘Look, there’s no point arguing,’ Childe said. ‘Celestine saw it first, but we always knew she would. Don’t feel bad about it, Hirz. You’re not here for your mathematical prowess. Nor’s Trintignant, nor’s Forqueray.’

‘Yeah, well remind me when I can do something useful,’ Hirz said.

Then she pushed forward and pressed the groove on the right side of the door.

Progress was smooth and steady for the next five chambers. The problems to be solved grew harder, but after consultation the solution was never so esoteric that we could not all agree on it. As the complexity of the tasks increased, so did the area taken up by the frames, but other than that there was no change in the basic nature of the challenges. We were never forced to proceed more quickly than we chose, and the Spire always provided a clear route back to the exit every time a doorway had been traversed. The door immediately behind us would seal only once we had all entered the room where the current problem lay, which meant that we were able to assess any given problem before committing ourselves to its solution. To convince ourselves that we were indeed able to leave, we had Hirz go back the way we had come in. She was able to return to the first room unimpeded - the rear-facing doors opened and closed in sequence to allow her to pass - and then make her way back to the rest of us by using the entry codes we had already discovered.

But something she said upon her return disturbed us.

‘I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or not . . .’

‘What?’ Childe snapped.

‘I think the doorways are getting narrower. And lower. There was definitely more headroom at the start than there is now. I guess we didn’t notice when we took so long to move from room to room.’

‘That doesn’t make much sense,’ Celestine said.

‘As I said, maybe I imagined it.’

But we all knew she had done no such thing. The last two times I had stepped across a door’s threshold my suit had bumped against the frame. I had thought nothing of it at the time - putting it down to carelessness - but that had evidently been wishful thinking.

‘I wondered about the doors already,’ I said. ‘Doesn’t it seem a little convenient that the first one we met was just the right size for us? It could have come from a human building.’

‘Then why are they getting smaller?’ Childe asked.

‘I don’t know. But I think Hirz is right. And it does worry me.’

‘Me too. But it’ll be a long time before it becomes a problem.’ Childe turned to the Ultra. ‘Forqueray - do the honours, will you?’

I turned and looked at the chamber ahead of us. The door was open now, but none of us had yet stepped across the threshold. As always, we waited for Forqueray to send his float-cam snooping ahead of us, establishing that the room contained no glaring pitfalls.

Forqueray tossed the float-cam through the open door.

We saw the usual red stutters as it swept the room in visible light. ‘No surprises,’ Forqueray said, in the usual slightly absent tone he adopted when reporting the cam’s findings. ‘Empty metallic chamber . . . only slightly smaller than the one we’re standing in now. A door at the far end with a frame that extends half a metre out on either side. Complex inscriptions this time, Celestine.’

‘I’ll cope, don’t you worry.’

Forqueray stepped a little closer to the door, one arm raised with his palm open. His expression remained calm as he waited for the drone to return to its master. We all watched, and then - as the moment elongated into seconds - began to suspect that something was wrong.

The room beyond was utterly dark; no stammering flashes now.

‘The cam—’ Forqueray said.

Childe’s gaze snapped to the Ultra’s face. ‘Yes?’

‘It isn’t transmitting any more. I can’t detect it.’

‘That isn’t possible.’

‘I’m telling you.’ The Ultra looked at us, his fear not well concealed. ‘It’s gone.’

Childe moved into the darkness, through the frame.

Just as I was admiring his bravery I felt the floor shudder. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a flicker of rapid motion, like an eyelid closing.

The rear door - the one that led out of the chamber in which we were standing - had just slammed shut.

Celestine fell forward. She had been standing in the gap.

‘No . . .’ she said, hitting the ground with a detectable thump.

‘Childe!’ I shouted, unnecessarily. ‘Stay where you are - something just happened.’

‘What?’

‘The door behind us closed on Celestine. She’s been injured . . .’

I was fearing the worst - that the door might have snipped off an arm or a leg as it closed - but it was, mercifully, not that serious. The door had damaged the thigh of her suit, grazing an inch of its armour away as it closed, but Celestine herself had not been injured. The damaged part was still airtight, and the suit’s mobility and critical systems remained unimpaired.

Already, in fact, the self-healing mechanisms were coming into play, repairing the wound.

She sat up on the ground. ‘I’m OK. The impact was hard, but I don’t think I’ve done any permanent damage.’

‘You sure?’ I said, offering her a hand.

‘Perfectly sure,’ she said, standing up without my assistance.

‘You were lucky,’ Trintignant said. ‘You were only partly blocking the door. Had that not been the case, I suspect your injuries would have been more interesting.’

‘What happened?’ Hirz asked.

‘Childe must have triggered it,’ Forqueray said. ‘As soon as he stepped into the other room, it closed the rear door.’ The Ultra stepped closer to the aperture. ‘What happened to my float-cam, Childe?’

‘I don’t know. It just isn’t here. There isn’t even a trace of debris, and there’s no sign of anything that could have destroyed it.’

The silence that followed was broken by Trintignant’s piping tones. ‘I believe this makes a queer kind of sense.’

‘You do, do you?’ I said.

‘Yes, my dear fellow. It is my suspicion that the Spire has been tolerating the drone until now - lulling us, if you will, into a false sense of security. Yet now the Spire has decreed that we must discard that particular mental crutch. It will no longer permit us to gain any knowledge of the contents of a room until one of us steps into it. And at that moment it will prevent any of us leaving until we have solved that problem.’

‘You mean it’s changing the rules as it goes along?’ Hirz asked.

The Doctor turned his exquisite silver mask towards her. ‘Which rules did you have in mind, Hirz?’

‘Don’t fuck with me, Doc. You know what I mean.’

Trintignant touched a finger to the chin of his helmet. ‘I confess I do not. Unless it is your contention that the Spire has at some point agreed to bind by a set of strictures, which I would ardently suggest is far from the case.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Hirz is right, in one way. There have been rules. It’s clear that it won’t tolerate us inflicting physical harm against it. And it won’t allow us to enter a room until we’ve all stepped into the preceding one. I think those are pretty fundamental rules.’

‘Then what about the drone, and the door?’ asked Childe.

‘It’s like Trintignant said. It tolerated us playing outside the rules until now, but we shouldn’t have assumed that was always going to be the case.’

Hirz nodded. ‘Great. What else is it tolerating now?’

‘I don’t know.’ I managed a thin smile. ‘I suppose the only way to find out is to keep going.’

We passed through another eight rooms, taking between one and two hours to solve each.

There had been a couple of occasions when we had debated whether to continue, with Hirz usually the least keen of us, but so far the problems had not been insurmountably difficult. And we were making a kind of progress. Mostly the rooms were blank, but every now and then there was a narrow, trellised window, panelled in stained sheets of what was obviously a substance very much more resilient than glass or even diamond. Sometimes these windows opened only into gloomy interior spaces, but on one occasion we were able to look outside, able to sense some of the height we had attained. Forqueray, who had had been monitoring our journey with an inertial compass and gravitometer, confirmed that we had ascended at least fifteen vertical metres since the first chamber. That almost sounded impressive, until one considered the several hundred metres of Spire that undoubtedly lay above us. Another few hundred rooms, each posing a challenge more testing than the last?

And the doors were definitely getting smaller.

It was an effort to squeeze through now, and while the suits were able to reshape themselves to some extent, there was a limit to how compact they could become.

It had taken us sixteen hours to reach this point. At this rate it would take many days to get anywhere near the summit.

But none of us had imagined that this would be over quickly.

‘Tricky,’ Celestine said, after studying the latest puzzle for many minutes. ‘I think I see what’s going on here, but . . .’

Childe looked at her. ‘You think, or you know?’

‘I mean what I said. It’s not easy, you know. Would you rather I let someone else take first crack at it?’

I put a hand on Celestine’s arm and spoke to her privately. ‘Easy. He’s just anxious, that’s all.’

She brushed my hand away. ‘I didn’t ask you to defend me, Richard.’

‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’

‘Never mind.’ Celestine switched off private mode and addressed the group. ‘I think these markings are shadows. Look.’

By now we had all become reasonably adept at drawing figures using our suits’ visualisation systems. These sketchy hallucinations could be painted on any surface, apparently visible to all.

Celestine, who was the best at this, drew a short red hyphen on the wall.

‘See this? A one-dimensional line. Now watch.’ She made the line become a square; splitting into two parallel lines joined at their ends. Then she made the square rotate until it was edge-on again, and all we could see was the line.

‘We see it . . .’ Childe said.

‘You can think of a line as the one-dimensional shadow of a two-dimensional object, in this case a square. Understand?’

‘I think we get the gist,’ Trintigant said.

Celestine made the square freeze, and then slide diagonally, leaving a copy of itself to which it was joined at the corners. ‘Now. We’re looking at a two-dimensional figure this time; the shadow of a three-dimensional cube. See how it changes if I rotate the cube, how it elongates and contracts?’

‘Yes. Got that,’ Childe said, watching the two joined squares slide across each other with a hypnotically smooth motion, only one square visible as the imagined cube presented itself face-on to the wall.

‘Well, I think these figures . . .’ Celestine sketched a hand an inch over the intricate designs worked into the frame, ‘I think what these figures represent are two-dimensional shadows of four-dimensional objects.’

‘Fuck off,’ Hirz said.

‘Look, just concentrate, will you? This one’s easy. It’s a hypercube. That’s the four-dimensional analogue of a cube. You just take a cube and extend it outwards; just the same way that you make a cube from a square.’ Celestine paused, and for a moment I thought she was going to throw up her hands in despair. ‘Look. Look at this.’ And then she sketched something on the wall: a cube set inside a slightly larger one, to which it was joined by diagonal lines. ‘That’s what the three-dimensional shadow of a hypercube would look like. Now all you have to do is collapse that shadow by one more dimension, down to two, to get this—’ and she jabbed at the beguiling design marked on the door.

‘I think I see it,’ Childe said, without anything resembling confidence.

Maybe I did, too - though I felt the same lack of certainty. Childe and I had certainly taunted each other with higher-dimensional puzzles in our youth, but never had so much deended on an intuitive grasp of those mind-shattering mathematical realms. ‘All right,’ I said. ‘Supposing that is the shadow of a tesseract . . . what’s the puzzle?’

‘This,’ Celestine said, pointing to the other side of the door, to what seemed like an utterly different - though no less complex - design. ‘It’s the same object, after a rotation.’

‘The shadow changes that drastically?’

‘Start getting used to it, Richard.’

‘All right.’ I realised she was still annoyed with me for touching her. ‘What about the others?’

‘They’re all four-dimensional objects; relatively simple geometric forms. This one’s a 4-simplex; a hypertetrahedon. It’s a hyper-pyramid with five tetrahedral faces . . .’ Celestine trailed off, looking at us with an odd expression on her face. ‘Never mind. The point is, all the corresponding forms on the right should be the shadows of the same polytopes after a simple rotation through higher-dimensional space. But one isn’t.’

‘Which is?’

She pointed to one of the forms. ‘This one.’

‘And you’re certain of that?’ Hirz said. ‘Because I’m sure as fuck not.’

Celestine nodded. ‘Yes. I’m completely sure of it now.’

‘But you can’t make any of us see that this is the case?’

She shrugged. ‘I guess you either see it or you don’t.’

‘Yeah? Well maybe we should have all taken a trip to the Pattern Jugglers. Then maybe I wouldn’t be about to shit myself.’

Celestine said nothing, but merely reached out and touched the errant figure.

‘There’s good news and there’s bad news,’ Forqueray said after we had traversed another dozen or so rooms without injury.

‘Give us the bad news first,’ Celestine said.

Forqueray obliged, with what sounded like the tiniest degree of pleasure. ‘We won’t be able to get through more than two or three more doors. Not with these suits on.’

There had been no real need to tell us that. It had become crushingly obvious during the last three or four rooms that we were near the limit; that the Spire’s subtly shifting internal architecture would not permit further movement within the bulky suits. It had been an effort to squeeze through the last door; only Hirz was oblivious to these difficulties.

‘Then we might as well give up,’ I said.

‘Not exactly.’ Forqueray smiled his vampiric smile. ‘I said there was good news as well, didn’t I?’

‘Which is?’ Childe said.

‘You remember when we sent Hirz back to the beginning, to see if the Spire was going to allow us to leave at any point?’

‘Yes,’ Childe said. Hirz had not repeated the complete exercise since, but she had gone back a dozen rooms, and found that the Spire was just as co-operative as it had been before. There was no reason to think she would not have been able to make her way to the exit, had she wished.

‘Something bothered me,’ Forqueray said. ‘When she went back, the Spire opened and closed doors in sequence to allow her to pass. I couldn’t see the sense in that. Why not just open all the doors along her route?’

‘I confess it troubled me as well,’ Trintignant said.

‘So I thought about it, and decided there must be a reason not to have all the doors open at once.’

Childe sighed. ‘Which was?’

‘Air,’ Forqueray said.

‘You’re kidding, aren’t you?’

The Ultra shook his head. ‘When we began, we were moving in vacuum - or at least through air that was as thin as that on Golgotha’s surface. That continued to be the case for the next few rooms. Then it began to change. Very slowly, I’ll grant you - but my suit sensors picked up on it immediately.’

Childe pulled a face. ‘And it didn’t cross your mind to tell any of us about this?’

‘I thought it best to wait until a pattern became apparent.’ Forqueray glanced at Celestine, whose face was impassive.

‘He’s right,’ Trintignant said. ‘I too have become aware of the changing atmospheric conditions. Forqueray has also doubtless noticed that the temperature in each room has been a little warmer than the last. I have extrapolated these trends and arrived at a tentative conclusion. Within two - possibly three - rooms, we will be able to discard our suits and breathe normally.’

‘Discard our suits?’ Hirz looked at him as if he were insane. ‘You have got to be fucking kidding.’

Childe raised a hand. ‘Wait a minute. When you said air, Doctor Trintignant, you didn’t say it was anything we’d be able to breathe.’

The Doctor’s answer was a melodious piped refrain. ‘Except it is. The ratios of the various gases are remarkably close to those we employ in our suits.’

‘Which isn’t possible. I don’t remember providing a sample.’

Trintignant dipped his head in a nod. ‘Nonetheless, it appears that one has been taken. The mix, incidentally, corresponds to precisely the atmospheric preferences of Ultras. Argyle’s expedition would surely have employed a slightly different mix, so it is not simply the case that the Spire has a long memory.’

I shivered.

The thought that the Spire - this vast breathing thing through which we were scurrying like rats - had somehow reached inside the hard armour of our suits to snatch a sample of air, without our knowing, made my guts turn cold. It not only knew of our presence, but it knew - intimately - what we were.

It understood our fragility.

As if wishing to reward Forqueray for his observation, the next room contained a substantially thicker atmosphere than any of its predecessors, and was also much warmer. It was not yet capable of supporting life, but one would not have died instantly without the protection of a suit.

The challenge that the room held was by far the hardest, even by Celestine’s reckoning. Once again the essence of the task lay in the figures marked on either side of the door, but now these figures were linked by various symbols and connecting loops, like the subway map of a foreign city. We had encountered some of these hieroglyphics before - they were akin to mathematical operators, like the addition and subtraction symbol - but we had never seen so many. And the problem itself was not simply a numerical exercise, but - as far as Celestine could say with any certainty - a problem about topological transformations in four dimensions.

‘Please tell me you see the answer immediately,’ Childe said.

‘I . . .’ Celestine trailed off. ‘I think I do. I’m just not absolutely certain. I need to think about this for a minute.’

‘Fine. Take all the time you want.’

Celestine fell into a reverie which lasted minutes, and then tens of minutes. Once or twice she would open her mouth and take a breath of air as if in readiness to speak, and on one or two other occasions she took a promising step closer to the door, but none of these things heralded the sudden, intuitive breakthrough we were all hoping for. She always returned to the same silent, standing posture. The time dragged on; first an hour and then the better part of two hours.

All this, I thought, before even Celestine had seen the answer.

It might take days if we were all expected to follow her reasoning.

Finally, however, she spoke. ‘Yes. I see it.’

Childe was the first to answer. ‘Is it the one you thought it was originally?’

‘No.’

‘Great,’ Hirz said.

‘Celestine . . .’ I said, trying to defuse the situation. ‘Do you understand why you made the wrong choice originally?’

‘Yes. I think so. It was a trick answer; an apparently correct solution which contained a subtle flaw. And what looked like the clearly wrong answer turned out to be the right one.’

‘Right. And you’re certain of that?’

‘I’m not certain of anything, Richard. I’m just saying this is what I believe the answer to be.’

I nodded. ‘I think that’s all any of us can honestly expect. Do you think there’s any chance of the rest of us following your line of argument?’

‘I don’t know. How much do you understand about Kaluza-Klein spaces?’

‘Not a vast amount, I have to admit.’

‘That’s what I feared. I could probably explain my reasoning to some of you, but there’d always be someone who didn’t get it—’ Celestine looked pointedly at Hirz. ‘We could be in this bloody room for weeks before any of us grasp the solution. And the Spire may not tolerate that kind of delay.’

‘We don’t know that,’ I cautioned.

‘No,’ Childe said. ‘On the other hand, we can’t afford to spend weeks solving every room. There’s going to have to come a point where we put our faith in Celestine’s judgement. I think that time may have come.’

I looked at him, remembering that his mathematical fluency had always been superior to mine. The puzzles I had set him had seldom defeated him, even if it had taken weeks for his intensely methodical mind to arrive at the solution. Conversely, he had often managed to beat me by setting a mathematical challenge of similar intricacy to the one now facing Celestine. They were not quite equals, I knew, but neither were their abilities radically different. It was just that, thanks to her experiences with the Pattern Jugglers, Celestine would always arrive at the answer with the superhuman speed of a savant.

‘Are you saying I should just press it, with no consultation?’ Celestine said.

Childe nodded. ‘Provided everyone else agrees with me . . .’

It was not an easy decision to make, especially after having navigated so many rooms via such a ruthlessly democratic process. But we all saw the sense, even Hirz coming around to our line of thinking in the end.

‘I’m telling you,’ she said. ‘We get through this door, I’m out of here, money or not.’

‘You’re giving up?’ Childe asked.

‘You saw what happened to those poor bastards outside. They must have thought they could keep on solving the next test.’

Childe looked sad, but said, ‘I understand perfectly. But I trust you’ll reassess your decision as soon as we’re through?’

‘Sorry, but my mind’s made up. I’ve had enough of this shit.’ Hirz turned to Celestine. ‘Put us all out of our misery, will you? Make the choice.’

Celestine looked at each of us in turn. ‘Are you ready for this?’

‘We are,’ Childe said, answering for the group. ‘Go ahead.’

Celestine pressed the symbol. There was the usual yawning moment of expectation; a moment that stretched agonisingly. We all stared at the door, willing it to begin sliding open.

This time nothing happened.

‘Oh God . . .’ Hirz began.

Something happened then, almost before she had finished speaking, but it was over almost before we had sensed any change in the room. It was only afterwards - playing back the visual record captured by our suits - that we were able to make any sense of events.

The walls of the chamber - like every room we had passed through, in fact - had looked totally seamless. But in a flash something emerged from the wall: a rigid, sharp-ended metal rod spearing out at waist-height. It flashed through the air from wall to wall, vanishing like a javelin thrown into water. None of us had time to notice it, let alone react bodily. Even the suits - programmed to move out of the way of obvious moving hazards - were too slow. By the time they began moving, the javelin had been and gone. And if there had been only that one javelin, we might almost have missed it happening at all.

But a second emerged, a fraction of a second after the first, spearing across the room at a slightly different angle.

Forqueray happened to be standing in the way.

The javelin passed through him as if he were made of smoke; its progress was unimpeded by his presence. But it dragged behind it a comet-tail of gore, exploding out of his suit where he had been speared, just below the elbow. The pressure in the room was still considerably less than atmospheric.

Forqueray’s suit reacted with impressive speed, but it was still sluggish compared to the javelin.

It assessed the damage that had been inflicted on the arm, aware of how quickly its self-repair systems could work to seal that inch-wide hole, and came to a rapid conclusion. The integrity could be restored, but not before unacceptable blood and pressure loss. Since its duty was always to keep its wearer alive, no matter what the costs, it opted to sever the arm above the wound; hyper-sharp irised blades snicked through flesh and bone in an instant.

All that took place long before any pain signals had a chance to reach his brain. The first thing Forqueray knew of his misfortune was when his arm clanged to his feet.

‘I think—’ he started saying. Hirz dashed over to the Ultra and did her best to support him.

Forqueray’s truncated arm ended in a smooth silver iris.

‘Don’t talk,’ Childe said.

Forqueray, who was still standing, looked at his injury with something close to fascination. ‘I—’

‘I said don’t talk.’ Childe knelt down and picked up the amputated arm, showing the evidence to Forqueray. The hole went right through it, as cleanly bored as a rifle barrel.

‘I’ll live,’ Forqueray managed.

‘Yes, you will,’ Trintignant said. ‘And you may also count yourself fortunate. Had the projectile pierced your body, rather than one of its extremities, I do not believe we would be having this conversation.’

‘You call this fortunate?’

‘A wound such as yours can be made good with only trivial intervention. We have all the equipment we need aboard the shuttle.’

Hirz looked around uneasily. ‘You think the punishment’s over?’

‘I think we’d know if it wasn’t,’ I said. ‘That was our first mistake, after all. We can expect things to be a little worse in future, of course.’

‘Then we’d better not make any more screw-ups, had we?’ Hirz was directing her words at Celestine.

I had expected an angry rebuttal. Celestine would have been perfectly correct to remind Hirz that - had the rest of us been forced to make that choice - our chances of hitting the correct answer would have been a miserable one in six.

But instead Celestine just spoke with the flat, soporific tones of one who could not quite believe she had made such an error.

‘I’m sorry . . . I must have . . .’

‘Made the wrong decision. Yes.’ I nodded. ‘And there’ll undoubtedly be others. You did your best, Celestine - better than any of us could have managed.’

‘It wasn’t good enough.’

‘No, but you narrowed the field down to two possibilities. That’s a lot better than six.’

‘He’s right,’ Childe said. ‘Celestine, don’t cut yourself up about this. Without you we wouldn’t have got as far as we did. Now go ahead and press the other answer - the one you settled on originally - and we’ll get Forqueray back to base camp.’

The Ultra glared at him. ‘I’m fine, Childe. I can continue.’

‘Maybe you can, but it’s still time for a temporary retreat. We’ll get that arm looked at properly, and then we’ll come back with lightweight suits. We can’t carry on much further with these, anyway - and I don’t particularly fancy continuing with no armour at all.’

Celestine turned back to the frame. ‘I can’t promise that this is the right one, either.’

‘We’ll take that chance. Just hit them in sequence - best choice first - until the Spire opens a route back to the start.’

She pressed the symbol that had been her first choice, before she had analysed the problem more deeply and seen a phantom trap.

As always, Blood Spire did not oblige us with an instant judgement on the choice we had made. There was a moment when all of us tensed, expecting the javelins to come again . . . but this time we were spared further punishment.

The door opened, exposing the next chamber.

We did not step through, of course. Instead, we turned around and made our way back through the succession of rooms we had already traversed, descending all the while, almost laughing at the childish simplicity of the very earliest puzzles compared to those we had faced before the attack.

As the doors opened and closed in sequence, the air thinned out and the skin of Blood Spire became colder; less like a living thing, more like an ancient, brooding machine. But still that distant, throbbing respiratory vibration rattled the floors, lower now, and slower: the Spire letting us know it was aware of our presence and, perhaps, the tiniest bit disappointed at this turning back.

‘All right, you bastard,’ Childe said. ‘We’re retreating, but only for now. We’re coming back, understand?’

‘You don’t have to take it personally,’ I said.

‘Oh, but I do,’ Childe said. ‘I take it very personally indeed.’

We reached the first chamber, and then dropped down through what had been the entrance hole. After that, it was just a short flight back to the waiting shuttle.

It was dark outside.

We had been in the Spire for more than nineteen hours.

FOUR

‘It’ll do,’ Forqueray said, tilting his new arm this way and that.

‘Do?’ Trintignant sounded mortally wounded. ‘My dear fellow, it is a work of exquisite craftsmanship; a thing of beauty. It is unlikely that you will see its like again, unless of course I am called upon to perform a similar procedure.’

We were sitting inside the shuttle, still parked on Golgotha’s surface. The ship was a squat, aerodynamically blunt cylinder which had landed tail-down and then expanded a cluster of eight bubbletents around itself: six for our personal quarters during the expedition, one commons area, and a general medical bay equipped with all the equipment Trintigant needed to do his work. Surprisingly - to me, at least, who admitted to some unfamiliarity with these things - the shuttle’s fabricators had been more than able to come up with the various cybernetic components that the Doctor required, and the surgical tools at his disposal - glistening, semi-sentient things which moved to his will almost before they were summoned - were clearly state-of-the-art by any reasonable measure.

‘Yes, well, I’d have rather you’d reattached my old arm,’ Forqueray said, opening and closing the sleek metal gauntlet of his replacement.

‘It would have been almost insultingly trivial to do that,’ Trintignant said. ‘A new hand could have been cultured and regrafted in a few hours. If that did not appeal to you, I could have programmed your stump to regenerate a hand of its own accord; a perfectly simple matter of stem-cell manipulation. But what would have been the point? You would be very likely to lose it as soon as we suffer our next punishment. Now you will only be losing machinery - a far less traumatic prospect.’

‘You’re enjoying this,’ Hirz said, ‘aren’t you?’

‘It would be churlish to deny it,’ Trintignant said. ‘When you have been deprived of willing subjects as long as I have, it’s only natural to take pleasure in those little opportunities for practice that fate sees fit to present.’

Hirz nodded knowingly. She had not heard of Trintignant upon our first meeting, I recalled, but she had lost no time in forming her subsequent opinion of the man. ‘Except you won’t just stop with a hand, will you? I checked up on you, Doc - after that meeting in Childe’s house. I hacked into some of the medical records that the Stoner authorities still haven’t declassified, because they’re just too damned disturbing. You really went the whole hog, didn’t you? Some of the things I saw in those files - your victims - they stopped me from sleeping.’

And yet still she had chosen to come with us, I thought. Evidently the allure of Childe’s promised reward outweighed any reservations she might have had about sharing a room with Trintignant. But I wondered about those medical records. Certainly, the publicly released data had contained more than enough atrocities for the average nightmare. It chilled the blood to think that Trintignant’s most heinous crimes had never been fully revealed.

‘Is it true?’ I said. ‘Were there really worse things?’

‘That depends,’ Trintignant said. ‘There were subjects upon whom I pushed my experimental techniques further than is generally realised, if that is what you mean. But did I ever approach what I considered were the true limits? No. I was always hindered.’

‘Until, perhaps, now,’ I said.

The rigid silver mask swivelled to face us all in turn. ‘That is as maybe. But please give the following matter some consideration. I can surgically remove all your limbs now, cleanly, with the minimum of complications. The detached members could be put into cryogenic storage, replaced by prosthetic systems until we have completed the task that lies ahead of us.’

‘Thanks . . .’ I said, looking around at the others. ‘But I think we’ll pass on that one, Doctor.’

Trintigant offered his palms magnanimously. ‘I am at your disposal, should you wish to reconsider.’

We spent a full day in the shuttle before returning to the Spire. I had been mortally tired, but when I finally slept, it was only to submerge myself in yet more labyrinthine dreams, much like those Childe had pumped into our heads during the reefersleep transition. I woke feeling angry and cheated, and resolved to confront him about it.

But something else snagged my attention.

There was something wrong with my wrist. Buried just beneath the skin was a hard rectangle, showing darkly through my flesh. Turning my wrist this way and that, I admired the object, acutely - and strangely - conscious of its rectilinearity. I looked around me, and felt the same visceral awareness of the other shapes which formed my surroundings. I did not know whether I was more disturbed at the presence of the alien object under my flesh, or my unnatural reaction to it.

I stumbled groggily into the common quarters of the shuttle, presenting my wrist to Childe, who was sitting there with Celestine.

She looked at me before Childe had a chance to answer. ‘So you’ve got one too,’ she said, showing me the similar shape lurking just below her own skin. The shape rhymed - there was no other word for it - with the surrounding panels and extrusions of the commons. ‘Um, Richard?’ she added.

‘I’m feeling a little strange.’

‘Blame Childe. He put them there. Didn’t you, you lying rat?’

‘It’s easily removed,’ he said, all innocence. ‘It just seemed more prudent to implant the devices while you were all asleep anyway, so as not to waste any more time than necessary.’

‘It’s not just the thing in my wrist,’ I said, ‘whatever it is.’

‘It’s something to keep us awake,’ Celestine said, her anger just barely under control. Feeling less myself than ever, I watched the way her face changed shape as she spoke, conscious of the armature of muscle and bone lying just beneath the skin.

‘Awake?’ I managed.

‘A . . . shunt, of some kind,’ she said. ‘Ultras use them, I gather. It sucks fatigue poisons out of the blood, and puts other chemicals back into the blood to upset the brain’s normal sleeping cycle. With one of these you can stay conscious for weeks, with almost no psychological problems.’

I forced a smile, ignoring the sense of wrongness I felt. ‘It’s the almost part that worries me.’

‘Me too.’ She glared at Childe. ‘But much as I hate the little rat for doing this without my permission, I admit to seeing the sense in it.’

I felt the bump in my wrist again. ‘Trintignant’s work, I presume? ’

‘Count yourself lucky he didn’t hack your arms and legs off while he was at it.’

Childe interrupted her. ‘I told him to install the shunts. We can still catnap, if we have the chance. But these devices will let us stay alert when we need alertness. They’re really no more sinister than that.’

‘There’s something else . . .’ I said tentatively. I glanced at Celestine, trying to judge if she felt as oddly as I did. ‘Since I’ve been awake, I’ve . . . experienced things differently. I keep seeing shapes in a new light. What exactly have you done to me, Childe?’

‘Again, nothing irreversible. Just a small medichine infusion—’

I tried to keep my temper. ‘What sort of medichines?’

‘Neural modifiers.’ He raised a hand defensively, and I saw the same rectangular bulge under his skin. ‘Your brain is already swarming with Demarchist implants and cellular machines, Richard, so why pretend that what I’ve done is anything more than a continuation of what was already there?’

‘What the fuck is he talking about?’ said Hirz, who had been standing at the door to the commons for the last few seconds. ‘Is it to do with the weird shit I’ve been dealing with since waking up?’

‘Very probably,’ I said, relieved that at least I was not going insane. ‘Let me guess - heightened mathematical and spatial awareness?’

‘If that’s what you call it, yeah. Seeing shapes everywhere, and thinking of them fitting together . . .’

Hirz turned to look at Childe. Small as she was, she looked easily capable of inflicting injury. ‘Start talking, dickhead.’

Childe spoke with quiet calm. ‘I put modifiers in your brain, via the wrist shunt. The modifiers haven’t performed any radical neural restructuring, but they are suppressing and enhancing certain regions of brain function. The effect - crudely speaking - is to enhance your spatial abilities, at the expense of some less essential functions. What you are getting is a glimpse into the cognitive realms that Celestine inhabits as a matter of routine.’ Celestine opened her mouth to speak, but he cut her off with a raised palm. ‘No more than a glimpse, no, but I think you’ll agree that - given the kinds of challenges the Spire likes to throw at us - the modifiers will give us an edge that we lacked previously.’

‘You mean you’ve turned us all into maths geniuses, overnight?’

‘Broadly speaking, yes.’

‘Well, that’ll come in handy,’ Hirz said.

‘It will?’

‘Yeah. When you try and fit the pieces of your dick back together.’

She lunged for him.

‘Hirz, I . . .’

‘Stop,’ I said, interceding. ‘Childe was wrong to do this without our consent, but - given the situation we find ourselves in - the idea makes sense.’

‘Whose side are you on?’ Hirz said, backing away with a look of righteous fury in her eyes.

‘Nobody’s,’ I said. ‘I just want to do whatever it takes to beat the Spire.’

Hirz glared at Childe. ‘All right. This time. But you try another stunt like that, and . . .’

But even then it was obvious that Hirz had come to the conclusion that I had already arrived at myself: that, given what the Spire was likely to test us with, it was better to accept these machines than ask for them to be flushed out of our systems.

There was just one troubling thought which I could not quite dismiss.

Would I have welcomed the machines so willingly before they had invaded my head, or were they partly influencing my decision?

I had no idea.

But I decided to worry about that later.

FIVE

‘Three hours,’ Childe said triumphantly. ‘Took us nineteen to reach this point on our last trip through. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?’

‘Yeah,’ Hirz said snidely. ‘It means it’s a piece of piss when you know the answers.’

We were standing by the door where Celestine had made her mistake the last time. She had just pressed the correct topological symbol and the door had opened to admit us to the chamber beyond, one we had not so far stepped into. From now on we would be facing fresh challenges again, rather than passing through those we had already faced. The Spire, it appeared, was more interested in probing the limits of our understanding than getting us simply to solve permutations of the same basic challenge.

It wanted to break us, not stress us.

More and more I was thinking of it as a sentient thing: inquisitive and patient and - when the mood took it - immensely capable of cruelty.

‘What’s in there?’ Forqueray said.

Hirz had gone ahead into the unexplored room.

‘Well, fuck me if it isn’t another puzzle.’

‘Describe it, would you?’

‘Weird shape shit, I think.’ She was quiet for a few seconds. ‘Yeah. Shapes in four dimensions again. Celestine - you wanna take a look at this? I think it’s right up your street.’

‘Any idea what the nature of the task is?’ Celestine asked.

‘Fuck, I don’t know. Something to do with stretching, I think . . .’

‘Topological deformations,’ Celestine murmured before joining Hirz in the chamber.

For a minute or so the two of them conferred, studying the marked doorframe like a pair of discerning art critics.

On the last run through, Hirz and Celestine had shared almost no common ground: it was unnerving to see how much Hirz now grasped. The machines Childe had pumped into our skulls had improved the mathematical skills of all of us - with the possible exception of Trintignant, who I suspected had not received the therapy - but the effects had differed in nuance, degree and stability. My mathematical brilliance came in feverish, unpredictable waves, like inspiration to a laudanum-addicted poet. Forqueray had gained an astonishing fluency in arithmetic, able to count huge numbers of things simply by looking at them for a moment.

But Hirz’s change had been the most dramatic of all, something even Childe was taken aback by. On the second pass through the Spire she had been intuiting the answers to many of the problems at a glance, and I was certain that she was not always remembering what the correct answer had been. Now, as we encountered the tasks that had challenged even Celestine, Hirz was still able to perceive the essence of a problem, even if it was beyond her to articulate the details in the formal language of mathematics.

And if she could not yet see her way to selecting the correct answer, she could at least see the one or two answers that were clearly wrong.

‘Hirz is right,’ Celestine said eventually. ‘It’s about topological deformations, stretching operations on solid shapes.’

Once again we were seeing the projected shadows of four-dimensional lattices. On the right side of the door, however, the shadows were of the same objects after they had been stretched and squeezed and generally distorted. The problem was to identify the shadow that could only be formed with a shearing, in addition to the other operations.

It took an hour, but eventually Celestine felt certain that she had selected the right answer. Hirz and I attempted to follow her arguments, but the best we could do was agree that two of the other answers would have been wrong. That, at least, was an improvement on anything we would have been capable of before the medichine infusions, but it was only moderately comforting.

Nonetheless, Celestine had selected the right answer. We moved into the next chamber.

‘This is as far as we can go with these suits,’ Childe said, indicating the door that lay ahead of us. ‘It’ll be a squeeze, even with the lighter suits - except for Hirz, of course.’

‘What’s the air like in here?’ I asked.

‘We could breathe it,’ Forqueray said. ‘And we’ll have to, briefly. But I don’t recommend that we do that for any length of time - at least not until we’re forced into it.’

‘Forced?’ Celestine said. ‘You think the doors are going to keep getting smaller?’

‘I don’t know. But doesn’t it feel as if this place is forcing us to expose ourselves to it, to make ourselves maximally vulnerable? I don’t think it’s done with us just yet.’ He paused, his suit beginning to remove itself. ‘But that doesn’t mean we have to humour it.’

I understood his reluctance. The Spire had hurt him, not us.

Beneath the Ultra suits which had brought us this far we had donned as much of the lightweight versions as was possible. They were skintight suits of reasonably modern design, but they were museum pieces compared to the Ultra equipment. The helmets and much of the breathing gear had been impossible to put on, so we had carried the extra parts strapped to our backs. Despite my fears, the Spire had not objected to this, but I remained acutely aware that we did not yet know all the rules under which we played.

It only took three or four minutes to get out of the bulky suits and into the new ones; most of this time was taken up running status checks. For a minute or so, with the exception of Hirz, we had all breathed Spire air.

It was astringent, blood-hot, humid, and smelt faintly of machine oil.

It was a relief when the helmets flooded with the cold, tasteless air of the suits’ backpack recyclers.

‘Hey.’ Hirz, the only one still wearing her original suit, knelt down and touched the floor. ‘Check this out.’

I followed her, pressing the flimsy fabric of my glove against the surface.

The structure’s vibrations rose and fell with increased strength, as if we had excited it by removing our hard protective shells.

‘It’s like the fucking thing’s getting a hard-on,’ Hirz said.

‘Let’s push on,’ Childe said. ‘We’re still armoured - just not as effectively as before - but if we keep being smart, it won’t matter.’

‘Yeah. But it’s the being smart part that worries me. No one smart would come within pissing distance of this fucking place.’

‘What does that make you, Hirz?’ Celestine asked.

‘Greedier than you’ll ever know,’ she said.

Nonetheless we made good progress for another eleven rooms. Now and then a stained-glass window allowed a view out of Golgotha’s surface, which looked very far below us. By Forqueray’s estimate we had gained forty-five vertical metres since entering the Spire. Although two hundred further metres lay ahead - the bulk of the climb, in fact - for the first time it began to appear possible that we might succeed. That, of course, was contingent on several assumptions. One was that the problems, while growing steadily more difficult, would not become insoluble. The other was that the doorways would not continue to narrow now that we had discarded the bulky suits.

But they did.

As always, the narrowing was imperceptible from room to room, but after five or six it could not be ignored. After ten or fifteen more rooms we would again have to scrape our way between them.

And what if the narrowing continued beyond that point?

‘We won’t be able to go on,’ I said. ‘We won’t fit - even if we’re naked.’

‘You are entirely too defeatist,’ Trintignant said.

Childe sounded reasonable. ‘What would you propose, Doctor?’

‘Nothing more than a few minor readjustments of the basic human body-plan. Just enough to enable us to squeeze through apertures which would be impassable with our current . . . encumbrances. ’

Trintignant looked avariciously at my arms and legs.

‘It wouldn’t be worth it,’ I said. ‘I’ll accept your help after I’ve been injured, but if you’re thinking that I’d submit to anything more drastic . . . well, I’m afraid you’re severely mistaken, Doctor.’

‘Amen to that,’ Hirz said. ‘For a while back there, Swift, I really thought this place was getting to you.’

‘It isn’t,’ I said. ‘Not remotely. And in any case, we’re thinking many rooms ahead here, when we might not even be able to get through the next.’

‘I agree,’ Childe said. ‘We’ll take it one at a time. Doctor Trintignant, put your wilder fantasies aside, at least for now.’

‘Consider them relegated to mere daydreams,’ Trintignant said.

So we pushed on.

Now that we had passed through so many doors, it was possible to see that the Spire’s tasks came in waves; that there might, for instance, be a series of problems which depended on prime number theory, followed by another series which hinged on the properties of higher-dimensional solids. For several rooms in sequence we were confronted by questions related to tiling patterns - tessellations - while another sequence tested our understanding of cellular automata: odd chequerboard armies of shapes which obeyed simple rules and yet interacted in stunningly complex ways. The final challenge in each set would always be the hardest; the one where we were most likely to make a mistake. We were quite prepared to take three or four hours to pass each door, if that was the time it took to be certain - in Celestine’s mind at least - that the answer was clear.

And though the shunts were leaching fatigue poisons from our blood, and though the modifiers were enabling us to think with a clarity we had never known before, a kind of exhaustion always crept over us after solving one of the harder challenges. It normally passed in a few tens of minutes, but until then we generally waited before venturing through the now open door, gathering our strength again.

In those quiet minutes we spoke amongst ourselves, discussing what had happened and what we could expect.

‘It’s happened again,’ I said, addressing Celestine on the private channel.

Her answer came back, no more terse than I had expected. ‘What?’

‘For a while the rest of us could keep up with you. Even Hirz. Or, if not keep up, then at least not lose sight of you completely. But you’re pulling ahead again, aren’t you? Those Juggler routines are kicking in again.’

She took her time replying. ‘You have Childe’s medichines.’

‘Yes. But all they can do is work with the basic neural topology, suppressing and enhancing activity without altering the layout of the connections in any significant way. And the ’chines are broad-spectrum; not tuned specifically to any one of us.’

Celestine looked at the only one of us still wearing one of the original suits. ‘They worked on Hirz.’

‘Must have been luck. But yes, you’re right. She couldn’t see as far as you, though, even with the modifiers.’

Celestine tapped the shunt in her wrist, still faintly visible beneath the tight-fitting fabric of her suit. ‘I took a spike of the modifiers as well.’

‘I doubt that it gave you much of an edge over what you already had.’

‘Maybe not.’ She paused. ‘Is there a point to this conversation, Richard?’

‘Not really,’ I said, stung by her response. ‘I just . . .’

‘Wanted to talk, yes.’

‘And you don’t?’

‘You can hardly blame me if I don’t, can you? This isn’t exactly the place for small talk, let alone with someone who chose to have me erased from his memory.’

‘Would it make any difference if I said I was sorry about that?’

I could tell from the tone of her response that my answer had not been quite the one she was expecting. ‘It’s easy to say you’re sorry, now . . . now that it suits you to say as much. That’s not how you felt at the time, is it?’

I fumbled for an answer which was not too distant from the truth. ‘Would you believe me if I said I’d had you suppressed because I still loved you, and not for any other reason?’

‘That’s just a little too convenient, isn’t it?’

‘But not necessarily a lie. And can you blame me for it? We were in love, Celestine. You can’t deny that. Just because things happened between us . . .’ A question I had been meaning to ask her forced itself to the front of my mind. ‘Why didn’t you contact me again, after you were told you couldn’t go to Resurgam?’

‘Our relationship was over, Richard.’

‘But we’d parted on reasonably amicable terms. If the Resurgam expedition hadn’t come up, we might not have parted at all.’

Celestine sighed; one of exasperation. ‘Well, since you asked, I did try and contact you.’

‘You did?’

‘But by the time I’d made my mind up, I learned about the way you’d had me suppressed. How do you imagine that made me feel, Richard? Like a small, disposable part of your past - something to be wadded up and flicked away when it offended you?’

‘It wasn’t like that at all. I never thought I’d see you again.’

She snorted. ‘And maybe you wouldn’t have, if it wasn’t for dear old Roland Childe.’

I kept my voice level. ‘He asked me along because we both used to test each other with challenges like this. I presume he needed someone with your kind of Juggler transform. Childe wouldn’t have cared about our past.’

Her eyes flashed behind the visor of her helmet. ‘And you don’t care either, do you?’

‘About Childe’s motives? No. They’re neither my concern nor my interest. All that bothers me now is this.’

I patted the Spire’s thrumming floor.

‘There’s more here than meets the eye, Richard.’

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘Haven’t you noticed how—’ She looked at me for several seconds, as if on the verge of revealing something, then shook her head. ‘Never mind.’

‘What, for pity’s sake?’

‘Doesn’t it strike you that Childe has been just a little too well prepared?’

‘I wouldn’t say there’s any such thing as being too well prepared for a thing like Blood Spire, Celestine.’

‘That’s not what I mean.’ She fingered the fabric of her skintight. ‘These suits, for instance. How did he know we wouldn’t be able to go all the way with the larger ones?’

I shrugged, a gesture that was now perfectly visible. ‘I don’t know. Maybe he learned a few things from Argyle, before he died.’

‘Then what about Doctor Trintignant? That ghoul isn’t remotely interested in solving the Spire. He hasn’t contributed to a single problem yet. And yet he’s already proved his value, hasn’t he?’

‘I don’t follow.’

Celestine rubbed her shunt. ‘These things. And the neural modifiers - Trintignant supervised their installation. And I haven’t even mentioned Forqueray’s arm, or the medical equipment aboard the shuttle.’

‘I still don’t see what you’re getting at.’

‘I don’t know what leverage Childe’s used to get his co-operation - it’s got to be more than bribery or avarice - but I have a very, very nasty idea. And all of it points to something even more disturbing.’

I was wearying of this. With the challenge of the next door ahead of us, the last thing I needed was paranoiac theory-mongering.

‘Which is?’

‘Childe knows too much about this place.’

Another room, another wrong answer, another punishment.

It made the last look like a minor reprimand. I remembered a swift metallic flicker of machines emerging from hatches which opened in the seamless walls: not javelins now, but jointed, articulated pincers and viciously curved scissors. I remembered high-pressure jets of vivid arterial blood spraying the room like pink banners, the shards of shattered bone hammering against the walls like shrapnel. I remembered an unwanted and brutal lesson in the anatomy of the human body; the elegance with which muscle, bone and sinew were anchored to each other and the horrid ease with which they could be flensed apart - filleted - by surgically sharp metallic instruments.

I remembered screams.

I remembered indescribable pain, before the analgesics kicked in.

Afterwards, when we had time to think about what had happened, I do not think any of us thought of blaming Celestine for making another mistake. Childe’s modifiers had given us a healthy respect for the difficulty of what she was doing, and - as before - her second choice had been the correct one; the one that opened a route back to the Spire’s exit.

And besides . . .

Celestine had suffered as well.

It was Forqueray who had caught the worst of it, though. Perhaps the Spire, having tasted his blood once, had decided it wanted much more of it - more than could be provided by the sacrifice of a mere limb. It had quartered him: two quick opposed snips with the nightmarish scissors; a bisection followed an instant later by a hideous transection.

Four pieces of Forqueray had thudded to the Spire’s floor; his interior organs were laid open like a wax model in a medical school. Various machines nestled neatly amongst his innards, sliced along the same planes. What remained of him spasmed once or twice, then - with the exception of his replacement arm, which continued to twitch - he was mercifully still. A moment or two passed, and then - with whiplash speed - jointed arms seized his pieces and pulled him into the wall, leaving slick red skid-marks.

Forqueray’s death would have been bad enough, but by then the Spire was already inflicting further punishment.

I saw Celestine drop to the ground, one arm pressed around the stump of another, blood spraying from the wound despite the pressure she was applying. Through her visor her face turned ghostly.

Childe’s right hand was missing all the fingers. He pressed the ruined hand against his chest, grimacing, but managed to stay on his feet.

Trintignant had lost a leg. But there was no blood gushing from the wound; no evidence of severed muscle and bone. I saw only damaged mechanisms; twisted and snapped steel and plastic armatures; buzzing cables and stuttering optic fibres; interrupted feedlines oozing sickly green fluids.

Trintignant, nonetheless, fell to the floor.

I also felt myself falling, looking down to see that my right leg ended just below the knee; realising that my own blood was hosing out in a hard scarlet stream. I hit the floor - the pain of the injury having yet to reach my brain - and reached out in reflex for the stump. But only one hand presented itself; my left arm had been curtailed neatly above the wrist. In my peripheral vision I saw my detached hand, still gloved, perched on the floor like an absurd white crab.

Pain flowered in my skull.

I screamed.

SIX

‘I’ve had enough of this shit,’ Hirz said.

Childe looked up at her from his recovery couch. ‘You’re leaving us?’

‘Damn right I am.’

‘You disappoint me.’

‘Fine, but I’m still shipping out.’

Childe stroked his forehead, tracing its shape with the new steel gauntlet Trintignant had attached to his arm. ‘If anyone should be quitting, it isn’t you, Hirz. You walked out of the Spire without a scratch. Look at the rest of us.’

‘Thanks, but I’ve just had my dinner.’

Trintignant lifted his silver mask towards her. ‘Now there is no call for that. I admit the replacements I have fashioned here possess a certain brutal esthétique, but in functional terms they are without equal.’ As if to demonstrate his point, he flexed his own replacement leg.

It was a replacement, rather than simply the old one salvaged, repaired and reattached. Hirz - who had picked up as many pieces of us as she could manage - had never found the other part of Trintignant. Nor had an examination of the area around the Spire - where we had found the pieces of Forqueray - revealed any significant part of the Doctor. The Spire had allowed us to take back Forqueray’s arm after it had been severed, but it appeared to have decided to keep all metallic things for itself.

I stood up from my own couch, testing the way my new leg supported my weight. There was no denying the excellence of Trintignant’s work. The prosthesis had interfaced with my existing nervous system so perfectly that I had already accepted the leg into my body image. When I walked on it I did so with only the tiniest trace of a limp, and that would surely vanish once I had grown accustomed to the replacement.

‘I could take the other one off as well,’ Trintignant piped, rubbing his hands together. ‘Then you would have perfect neural equilibrium . . . shall I do it?’

‘You want to, don’t you?’

‘I admit I have always been offended by asymmetry.’

I felt my other leg; the flesh and blood one that now felt so vulnerable, so unlikely to last the course.

‘You’ll just have to be patient,’ I said.

‘Well, all things come to he who waits. And how is the arm doing?’

Like Childe, I now boasted one steel gauntlet instead of a hand. I flexed it, hearing the tiny, shrill whine of actuators. When I touched something I felt prickles of sensation; the hand was capable of registering subtle gradations of warmth or coldness. Celestine’s replacement was very similar, although sleeker and somehow more feminine. At least our injuries had demanded as much, I thought; unlike Childe, who had lost only his fingers, but who had appeared to welcome more of the Doctor’s gleaming handiwork than was strictly necessary.

‘It’ll do,’ I said, remembering how much Forqueray had irritated the Doctor with the same remark.

‘Don’t you get it?’ Hirz said. ‘If Trintignant had his way, you’d be like him by now. Christ only knows where he’ll stop.’

Trintignant shrugged. ‘I merely repair what the Spire damages.’

‘Yeah. The two of you make a great team, Doc.’ She looked at him with an expression of pure loathing. ‘Well, sorry, but you’re not getting your hands on me.’

Trintignant appraised her. ‘No great loss, when there is so little raw material with which to work.’

‘Screw you, creep.’

Hirz left the room.

‘Looks like she means it when she says she’s quitting,’ I said, breaking the silence that ensued.

Celestine nodded. ‘I can’t say I entirely blame her, either.’

‘You don’t?’ Childe asked.

‘No. She’s right. This whole thing is in serious danger of turning into some kind of sick exercise in self-mutilation.’ Celestine looked at her own steel hand, not quite masking her own revulsion. ‘What will it take, Childe? What will we turn into by the time we beat this thing?’

He shrugged. ‘Nothing that can’t be reversed.’

‘But maybe by then we won’t want it reversed, will we?’

‘Listen, Celestine.’ Childe propped himself against a bulkhead. ‘What we’re doing here is trying to beat an elemental thing. Reach its summit, if you will. In that respect Blood Spire isn’t very different from a mountain. It punishes us when we make mistakes, but then so do mountains. Occasionally, it kills. More often than not it leaves us only with a reminder of what it can do. Blood Spire snips off a finger or two. A mountain achieves the same effect with frostbite. Where’s the difference?’

‘A mountain doesn’t enjoy doing it, for a start. But the Spire does. It’s alive, Childe, living and breathing.’

‘It’s a machine, that’s all.’

‘But maybe a cleverer one than anything we’ve ever known before. A machine with a taste for blood, too. That’s not a great combination, Childe.’

He sighed. ‘Then you’re giving up as well?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Fine.’

He stepped through the door which Hirz had just used.

‘Where are you going?’ I said.

‘To try and talk some sense into her, that’s all.’

SEVEN

Ten hours later - buzzing with unnatural alertness; the need for sleep a distant, fading memory - we returned to Blood Spire.

‘What did he say to make you come back?’ I said to Hirz, between one of the challenges.

‘What do you think?’

‘Just a wild stab in the dark, but did he by any chance up your cut?’

‘Let’s just say the terms were renegotiated. Call it a performance-related bonus.’

I smiled. ‘Then calling you a mercenary wasn’t so far off the mark, was it?’

‘Sticks and stones may break my bones . . . sorry. Given the circumstances, that’s not in the best possible good taste, is it?’

‘Never mind.’

We were struggling out of our suits now. Several rooms earlier we had reached a point where it was impossible to squeeze through the door without first disconnecting our airlines and removing our backpacks. We could have done without the packs, of course, but none of us wanted to breathe Spire air until it was absolutely necessary. And we would still need the packs to make our retreat, back through the unpressurised rooms. So we kept hold of them as we wriggled between rooms, fearful of letting go. We had seen the way the Spire harvested first Forqueray’s drone and then Trintignant’s leg, and it was likely it would do the same with our equipment if we left it unattended.

‘Why are you doing it, then?’ asked Hirz.

‘It certainly isn’t the money,’ I said.

‘No. I figured that part out. What, then?’

‘Because it’s there. Because Childe and I go back a long way, and I can’t stand to give up on a challenge once I’ve accepted it.’

‘Old-fashioned bullheadedness, in other words,’ Celestine said.

Hirz was putting on a helmet and backpack assembly for the first time. She had just been forced to get out of her original suit and put on one of the skintights; even her small frame was now too large to pass through the constricted doors. Childe had attached some additional armour to her skintight - scablike patches of flexible woven diamond - but she must have felt more vulnerable.

I answered Celestine. ‘What about you, if it isn’t the same thing that keeps me coming back?’

‘I want to solve the problems, that’s all. For you they’re just a means to an end, but for me they’re the only thing of interest.’

I felt slighted, but she was right. The nature of the challenges was less important to me than discovering what was at the summit; the secret the Spire so jealously guarded.

‘And you’re hoping that through the problems they set us you’ll eventually understand the Spire’s makers?’

‘Not just that. I mean, that’s a significant part of it, but I also want to know what my own limitations are.’

‘You mean you want to explore the gift that the Jugglers have given you?’ Before she had time to answer I continued, ‘I understand. And it’s never been possible before, has it? You’ve only ever been able to test yourself against problems set by other humans. You could never map the limits of your ability; any more than a lion could test its strength against paper.’

She looked around her. ‘But now I’ve met something that tests me.’

‘And?’

Celestine smiled thinly. ‘I’m not sure I like it.’

We did not speak again until we had traversed half a dozen new rooms, and then rested while the shunts mopped up the excess of tiredness which came after such efforts.

The mathematical problems had now grown so arcane that I could barely describe them, let alone grope my way towards a solution. Celestine had to do most of the thinking, therefore, but the emotional strain which we all felt was just as wearying. For an hour during the rest period I teetered on the edge of sleep, but then alertness returned like a pale, cold dawn. There was something harsh and clinical about that state of mind - it did not feel completely normal - but it enabled us to get the job done, and that was all that mattered.

We continued, passing the seventieth room - fifteen further than we had reached before. We were now at least sixty metres higher than when we had entered, and for a while it looked like we had found a tempo that suited us. It was a long time since Celestine had shown any hesitation in her answers, even if it took a couple of hours for her to reach the solution. It was as if she had found the right way of thinking, and now none of the challenges felt truly alien to her. For a while, as we passed room after room, a dangerous optimism began to creep over us.

It was a mistake.

In the seventy-first room, the Spire began to enforce a new rule. Celestine, as usual, spent at least twenty minutes studying the problem, skating her fingers over the shallowly etched markings on the frame, her lips moving silently as she mouthed possibilities.

Childe studied her with a peculiar watchfulness I had not observed before.

‘Any ideas?’ he said, looking over her shoulder.

‘Don’t crowd me, Childe. I’m thinking.’

‘I know, I know. Just try and do it a little faster, that’s all.’

Celestine turned away from the frame. ‘Why? Are we on a schedule suddenly?’

‘I’m just a little concerned about the amount of time it’s taking us, that’s all.’ He stroked the bulge on his forearm. ‘These shunts aren’t perfect, and—’

‘There’s something else, isn’t there?’

‘Don’t worry. Just concentrate on the problem.’

But this time the punishment began before we had begun our solution.

It was lenient, I suppose, compared to the savage dismembering that had concluded our last attempt to reach the summit. It was more of a stern admonishment to make our selection; the crack of a whip rather than the swish of a guillotine.

Something popped out of the wall and dropped to the floor.

It looked like a metal ball, about the size of a marble. For several seconds it did nothing at all. We all stared at it, knowing that something unpleasant was going to happen, but unsure what.

Then the ball trembled, and - without deforming in any way - bounced itself off the ground to knee-height.

It hit the ground and bounced again; a little higher this time. ‘Celestine,’ Childe said, ‘I strongly suggest that you come to a decision—’

Horrified, Celestine forced her attention back to the puzzle marked on the frame. The ball continued bouncing; reaching higher each time.

‘I don’t like this,’ Hirz said.

‘I’m not exactly thrilled by it myself,’ Childe told her, watching as the ball hit the ceiling and slammed back to the floor, landing to one side of the place where it had begun its bouncing. This time its rebound was enough to make it hit the ceiling again, and on the recoil it streaked diagonally across the room, hitting one of the side walls before glancing off at a different angle. The ball slammed into Trintignant, ricocheting off his metal leg, and then connected with the walls twice - gaining speed with each collision - before hitting me in the chest. The force of it was like a hard punch, driving the air from my lungs.

I fell to the ground, emitting a groan of discomfort.

The little ball continued arcing around the room, its momentum not sapped in any appreciable way. It kept getting faster, in fact, so that its trajectory came to resemble a constantly shifting silver loom which occasionally intersected with one of us. I heard groans, and then felt a sudden pain in my leg, and the ball kept on getting faster. The sound it made was like a fusillade of gunshots, the space between each detonation growing smaller.

Childe, who had been hit himself, shouted: ‘Celestine! Make your choice!’

The ball chose that moment to slam into her, making her gasp in pain. She buckled down on one knee, but in the process reached out and palmed one of the markings on the right side of the frame.

The gunshot sounds - the silver loom - even the ball itself - vanished.

Nothing happened for several more seconds, and then the door ahead of us began to open.

We inspected our injuries. There was nothing life-threatening, but we had all been bruised badly, and it was likely that a bone or two had been fractured. I was sure I had broken a rib, and Childe grimaced when he tried to put weight on his right ankle. My leg felt tender where the ball had struck me, but I could still walk, and after a few minutes the pain abated, soothed by a combination of my own medichines and the shunt’s analgesics.

‘Thank God we’d put the helmets back on,’ I said, fingering a deep bump in the crown. ‘We’d have been pulped otherwise.’

‘Would someone please tell me what just happened?’ Celestine asked, inspecting her own wounds.

‘I guess the Spire thought we were taking too long,’ Childe said. ‘It’s given us as long as we like to solve the problems until now, but from now on it looks like we’ll be up against the clock.’

Hirz said: ‘And how long did we have?’

‘After the last door opened? Forty minutes or so.’

‘Forty-three, to be precise,’ Trintignant said.

‘I strongly suggest we start work on the next door,’ Childe said. ‘How long do you think we have, Doctor?’

‘As an upper limit? In the region of twenty-eight minutes.’

‘That’s nowhere near enough time,’ I said. ‘We’d better retreat and come back.’

‘No,’ Childe said. ‘Not until we’re injured.’

‘You’re insane,’ Celestine said.

But Childe ignored her. He just stepped through the door, into the next room. Behind us the exit door slammed shut.

‘Not insane,’ he said, turning back to us. ‘Just very eager to continue.’

It was never the same thing twice.

Celestine made her selection as quickly as she could, every muscle tense with concentration, and that gave us - by Trintignant’s estimation - five or six clear minutes before the Spire would demand an answer.

‘We’ll wait it out,’ Childe said, eyeing us all to see if anyone disagreed. ‘Celestine can keep checking her results. There’s no sense in giving the fucking thing an answer before we have to; not when so much is at stake.’

‘I’m sure of the answer,’ Celestine said, pointing to the part of the frame she would eventually palm.

‘Then take five minutes to clear your head. Whatever. Just don’t make the choice until we’re forced into it.’

‘If we get through this room, Childe . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m going back. You can’t stop me.’

‘You won’t do it, Celestine, and you know it.’

She glared at him, but said nothing. I think what followed was the longest five minutes in my life. None of us dared speak again, unwilling to begin anything - even a word - for fear that something like the ball would return. All I heard for five minutes was our own breathing; backgrounded by the awful slow thrumming of the Spire itself.

Then something slithered out of one wall.

It hit the floor, writhing. It was an inch-thick, three-metre-long length of flexible metal.

‘Back off . . .’ Childe told us.

Celestine looked over her shoulder. ‘You want me to press this, or not?’

‘On my word. Not a moment before.’

The cable continued writhing: flexing, coiling and uncoiling like a demented eel. Childe stared at it, fascinated. The writhing grew in strength, accompanied by the slithering, hissing sounds of metal on metal.

‘Childe?’ Celestine asked.

‘I just want to see what this thing actually—’

The cable flexed and writhed, and then propelled itself rapidly across the floor in Childe’s direction. He hopped nimbly out of the way, the cable passing under his feet. The writhing had become a continuous whipcracking now, and we all pressed ourselves against the walls. The cable - having missed Childe - retreated to the middle of the room and hissed furiously. It looked much longer and thinner than it had a moment ago, as if it had elongated itself.

‘Childe,’ Celestine said, ‘I’m making the choice in five seconds, whether you like it or not.’

‘Wait, will you?’

The cable moved with blinding speed now, rearing up so that its motion was no longer confined to a few inches above the floor. Its writhing was so fast that it took on a quasi-solidity: an irregularly shaped pillar of flickering, whistling metal. I looked at Celestine, willing her to palm the frame, no matter what Childe said. I appreciated his fascination - the thing was entrancing to look at - but I suspected he was pushing curiosity slightly too far.

‘Celestine . . .’ I started saying.

But what happened next happened with lightning speed: a silver-grey tentacle of the blur - a thin loop of the cable - whipped out to form a double coil around Celestine’s arm. It was the one Trintignant had already worked on. She looked at it in horror; the cable tightened itself and snipped the arm off. Celestine slumped to the floor, screaming.

The tentacle tugged her arm to the centre of the room, retreating into the hissing, flickering pillar of whirling metal.

I dashed for the door, remembering the symbol she had pressed. The whirl reached a loop out to me, but I threw myself against the wall and the loop merely brushed the chest of my suit before flicking back into the mass. From the whirl, tiny pieces of flesh and bone dribbled to the ground. Then another loop flicked out and snared Hirz, wrapping around her midsection and pulling her towards the centre.

She struggled - cartwheeling her arms, her feet skidding against the floor - but it was no good. She started shouting, and then screaming.

I reached the door.

My hand hesitated over the markings. Was I remembering accurately, or had Celestine intended to press a different solution? They all looked so similar now.

Then Celestine, who was still clutching her ruined arm, nodded emphatically.

I palmed the door.

I stared at it, willing it to move. After all this, what if her choice had been wrong? The Spire seemed to draw out the moment sadistically while behind me I continued to hear the frantic hissing of the whirling cable. And something else, which I preferred not to think about.

Suddenly the noise stopped.

In my peripheral vision I saw the cable retreating into the wall, like a snake’s tongue laden with scent.

Before me, the door began to open.

Celestine’s choice had been correct. I examined my state of mind and decided that I ought to be feeling relief. And perhaps, distantly, I did. At least now we would have a clear route back out of the Spire. But we would not be going forward, and I knew not all of us would be leaving.

I turned around, steeling myself against what I was about to see.

Childe and Trintignant were undamaged.

Celestine was already attending to her injury, fixing a tourniquet from her medical kit above the point where her arm ended. She had lost very little blood, and did not appear to be in very much discomfort.

‘Are you all right?’ I said.

‘I’ll make it out, Richard.’ She grimaced, tugging the tourniquet tighter. ‘Which is more than can be said for Hirz.’

‘Where is she?’

‘It got her.’

With her good hand, Celestine pointed to the place where the whirl had been only moments before. On the floor - just below the volume of air where the cable had hovered and thrashed - lay a small, neat pile of flailed human tissue.

‘There’s no sign of Celestine’s hand,’ I said. ‘Or Hirz’s suit.’

‘It pulled her apart,’ Childe said, his face drained of blood.

‘Where is she?’

‘It was very fast. There was just a . . . blur. It pulled her apart and then the parts disappeared into the walls. I don’t think she could have felt much.’

‘I hope to God she didn’t.’

Doctor Trintignant stooped down and examined the pieces.

EIGHT

Outside, in the long, steely-shadowed light of what was either dusk or dawn, we found the pieces of Hirz for which the Spire had had no use.

They were half-buried in dust, like the bluffs and arches of some ancient landscape rendered in miniature. My mind played gruesome tricks with the shapes, turning them from brutally detached pieces of human anatomy into abstract sculptures: jointed formations that caught the light in a certain way and cast their own pleasing shadows. Though some pieces of fabric remained, the Spire had retained all the metallic parts of her suit for itself. Even her skull had been cracked open and sucked dry, so that the Spire could winnow the few small precious pieces of metal she carried in her head.

And what it could not use, it had thrown away.

‘We can’t just leave her here,’ I said. ‘We’ve got to do something, bury her . . . at least put up some kind of marker.’

‘She’s already got one,’ Childe said.

‘What?’

‘The Spire. And the sooner we get back to the shuttle, the sooner we can fix Celestine and get back to it.’

‘A moment, please,’ Trintignant said, fingering through another pile of human remains.

‘Those aren’t anything to do with Hirz,’ Childe said.

Trintignant rose to his feet, slipping something into his suit’s utility belt pocket in the process.

Whatever it had been was small; no larger than a marble or small stone.

‘I’m going home,’ Celestine said, when we were back in the safety of the shuttle. ‘And before you try and talk me out of it, that’s final.’

We were alone in her quarters. Childe had just given up trying to convince her to stay, but he had sent me in to see if I could be more persuasive. My heart, however, was not in it. I had seen what the Spire could do, and I was damned if I was going to be responsible for any blood other than my own.

‘At least let Trintignant take care of your hand,’ I said.

‘I don’t need steel now,’ she said, stroking the glistening blue surgical sleeve which terminated her arm. ‘I can manage without a hand until we’re back in Chasm City. They can grow me a new one while I’m sleeping.’

The Doctor’s musical voice interrupted us, Trintignant’s impassive silver mask poking through into Celestine’s bubbletent partition. ‘If I may be so bold . . . it may be that my services are the best you can now reasonably hope to attain.’

Celestine looked at Childe, and then at the Doctor, and then at the glistening surgical sleeve.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Nothing. Only some news from home which Childe has allowed me to see.’ Uninvited, Trintignant stepped fully into the room and sealed the partition behind him.

‘What, Doctor?’

‘Rather disturbing news, as it happens. Not long after our departure, something upsetting happened to Chasm City. A blight which afflicted everything contingent upon any microscopic, self-replicating system. Nanotechnology, in other words. I gather the fatalities were numbered in the millions . . .’

‘You don’t have to sound so bloody cheerful about it.’

Trintignant navigated to the side of the couch where Celestine was resting. ‘I merely stress the point that what we consider state-of-the-art medicine may be somewhat beyond the city’s present capabilities. Of course, much may change before our return . . .’

‘Then I’ll just have to take that risk, won’t I?’ Celestine said.

‘On your own head be it.’ Trintignant paused and placed something small and hard on Celestine’s table. Then he turned as if to leave, but stopped and spoke again. ‘I am accustomed to it, you know.’

‘Accustomed to what?’ I said.

‘Fear and revulsion. Because of what I have become, and what I have done. But I am not an evil man. Perverse, yes. Given to peculiar desires, most certainly. But emphatically not a monster.’

‘What about your victims, Doctor?’

‘I have always maintained that they gave consent for the procedures I inflicted -’ he corrected himself ‘- performed upon them.’

‘That’s not what the records say.’

‘And who are we to argue with records?’ The light played on his mask in such a fashion as to enhance the half-smile that was always there. ‘Who are we, indeed.’

When Trintignant was gone, I turned to Celestine and said, ‘I’m going back into the Spire. You realise that, don’t you?’

‘I’d guessed, but I still hope I can talk you out of it.’ With her good hand, she fingered the small, hard thing Trintignant had placed on the table. It looked like a misshapen dark stone - whatever the Doctor had found amongst the dead - and for a moment I wondered why he had left it behind.

Then I said, ‘I really don’t think there’s much point. It’s between me and Childe now. He must have known that there’d come a point when I wouldn’t be able to turn away.’

‘No matter what the costs?’ Celestine asked.

‘Nothing’s without a little risk.’

She shook her head, slowly and wonderingly. ‘He really got to you, didn’t he.’

‘No,’ I said, feeling a perverse need to defend my old friend, even when I knew that what Celestine said was perfectly true. ‘It wasn’t Childe, in the end. It was the Spire.’

‘Please, Richard. Think carefully, won’t you?’

I said I would. But we both knew it was a lie.

NINE

Childe and I went back.

I gazed up at it, towering over us like some brutal cenotaph. I saw it with astonishing, diamond-hard clarity. It was as if a smoky veil had been lifted from my vision, permitting thousands of new details and nuances of hue and shade to blast through. Only the tiniest, faintest hint of pixelation - seen whenever I changed my angle of view too sharply - betrayed the fact that this was not quite normal vision, but a cybernetic augmentation.

Our eyes had been removed, the sockets scrubbed and packed with far more efficient sensory devices, wired back into our visual cortices. Our eyeballs waited back at the shuttle, floating in jars like grotesque delicacies. They could be popped back in when we had conquered the Spire.

‘Why not goggles?’ I said when Trintignant had first explained his plans.

‘Too bulky, and too liable to be snatched away. The Spire has a definite taste for metal. From now on, anything vital had better be carried as part of us - not just worn, but internalised.’ The Doctor steepled his silver fingers. ‘If that repulses you, I suggest you concede defeat now.’

‘I’ll decide what repulses me,’ I said.

‘What else?’ Childe said. ‘Without Celestine we’ll need to crack those problems ourselves.’

‘I will increase the density of medichines in your brains,’ Trintignant said. ‘They will weave a web of fullerene tubes, artificial neuronal connections supplanting your existing synaptic topology. ’

‘What good will that do?’

‘The fullerene tubes will conduct nerve signals hundreds of times more rapidly than your existing synaptic pathways. Your neural computation rate will increase. Your subjective sense of elapsed time will slow.’

I stared at the Doctor, horrified and fascinated at the same time. ‘You can do that?’

‘It’s actually rather trivial. The Conjoiners have been doing it since the Transenlightenment, and their methods are well documented. With them I can make time slow to a subjective crawl. The Spire may give you only twenty minutes to solve a room, but I can make it feel like several hours; even one or two days.’

I turned to Childe. ‘You think that’ll be enough?’

‘I think it’ll be a lot better than nothing, but we’ll see.’

But it was better than that.

Trintignant’s machines did more than just supplant our existing and clumsily slow neural pathways. They reshaped them, configuring the topology to enhance mathematical prowess, which took us onto a plateau beyond what the neural modifiers had been capable of doing. We lacked Celestine’s intuitive brilliance, but we had the advantage of being able to spend longer - subjectively, at least - on a given problem.

And, for a while at least, it worked.

TEN

‘You’re turning into a monster,’ she said.

I answered, ‘I’m turning into whatever it takes to beat the Spire.’

I stalked away from the shuttle, moving on slender, articulated legs like piston-driven stilts. I no longer needed armour now: Trintignant had grafted it to my skin. Tough black plaques slid over each other like the carapacial segments of a lobster.

‘You even sound like Trintignant now,’ Celestine said, following me. I watched her asymmetric shadow loom next to mine: she lopsided; me a thin, elongated wraith.

‘I can’t help that,’ I said, my voice piping from the speech synthesiser that replaced my sealed-up mouth.

‘You can stop. It isn’t too late.’

‘Not until Childe stops.’

‘And then? Will even that be enough to make you give up, Richard?’

I turned to face her. Behind her faceplate I watched her try to conceal the revulsion she obviously felt.

‘He won’t give up,’ I said.

Celestine held out her hand. At first I thought she was beckoning me, but then I saw there was something in her palm. Small, dark and hard.

‘Trintignant found this outside, by the Spire. It’s what he left in my room. I think he was trying to tell us something. Trying to redeem himself. Do you recognise it, Richard?’

I zoomed in on the object. Numbers flickered around it. Enhancement phased in. Surface irregularity. Topological contours. Albedo. Likely composition. I drank in the data like a drunkard.

Data was what I lived for now.

‘No.’

ELEVEN

‘I can hear something.’

‘Of course you can. It’s the Spire, the same as it’s always been.’

‘No.’ I was silent for several moments, wondering whether my augmented auditory system was sending false signals into my brain.

But there it was again: an occasional rumble of distant machinery, but one that was coming closer.

‘I hear it now,’ Childe said. ‘It’s coming from behind us. Along the way we’ve come.’

‘It sounds like the doors opening and closing in sequence.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘Something must be coming through the rooms towards us.’

Childe thought about that for what felt like minutes, but was probably only a matter of actual seconds. Then he shook his head, dismissively. ‘We have eleven minutes to get through this door, or we’ll be punished. We don’t have time to worry about anything extraneous.’

Reluctantly, I agreed.

I forced my attention back to the puzzle, feeling the machinery in my head pluck at the mathematical barbs of the problem. The ferocious clockwork that Trintignant had installed in my skull spun giddily. I had never understood mathematics with any great agility, but now I sensed it as a hard grid of truth underlying everything: bones shining through the thin flesh of the world.

It was almost the only thing I was now capable of thinking of at all. Everything else felt painfully abstract, whereas before the opposite had been the case. This, I knew, must be what it felt like to an idiot savant, gifted with astonishing skill in one highly specialised field of human expertise.

I had become a tool shaped so efficiently for one purpose that it could serve no other.

I had become a machine for solving the Spire.

Now that we were alone - and no longer reliant on Celestine - Childe had revealed himself as a more than adequately capable problem-solver. Several times I had found myself staring at a problem, with even my new mathematical skills momentarily unable to crack the solution, when Childe had seen the answer. Generally he was able to articulate the reasoning behind his choice, but sometimes there was nothing for it but for me to either accept his judgement or wait for my own sluggard thought processes to arrive at the same conclusion.

And I began to wonder.

Childe was brilliant now, but I sensed there was more to it than the extra layers of cognitive machinery Trintignant had installed. He was so confident now that I began to wonder if he had merely been holding back before, preferring to let the rest of us make the decisions. If that was the case, he was in some way responsible for the deaths that had already happened.

But, I reminded myself, we had all volunteered.

With three minutes to spare, the door eased open, revealing the room beyond. At the same moment the door we had come through opened as well, as it always did at this point. We could leave now, if we wished. At this time, as had been the case with every room we had passed through, Childe and I made a decision on whether to proceed further or not. There was always the danger that the next room would be the one that killed us - and every second that we spent before stepping through the doorway meant one second less available for cracking the next problem.

‘Well?’ I said.

His answer came back, clipped and automatic. ‘Onwards.’

‘We only had three minutes to spare on this one, Childe. They’re getting harder now. A hell of a lot harder.’

‘I’m fully aware of that.’

‘Then maybe we should retreat. Gather our strength and return. We’ll lose nothing by doing so.’

‘You can’t be sure of that. You don’t know that the Spire will keep letting us make these attempts. Perhaps it’s already tiring of us.’

‘I still—’

But I stopped, my new, wasp-waisted body flexing easily at the approach of a footfall.

My visual system scanned the approaching object, resolving it into a figure, stepping over the threshold from the previous room. It was a human figure, but one that had, admittedly, undergone some alterations - although none that were as drastic as those that Trintignant had wrought on me. I studied the slow, painful way she made her progress. Our own movements seemed slow, but were lightning-fast by comparison.

I groped for a memory; a name; a face.

My mind, clotted with routines designed to smash mathematics, could not at first retrieve such mundane data.

Finally, however, it obliged.

‘Celestine,’ I said.

I did not actually speak. Instead, laser light stuttered from the mass of sensors and scanners jammed into my eyesockets. Our minds now ran too rapidly to communicate verbally, but, though she moved slowly herself, she deigned to reply.

‘Yes. It’s me. Are you really Richard?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because I can hardly tell the difference between you and Childe.’

I looked at Childe, paying proper attention to his shape for what seemed the first time.

At last, after so many frustrations, Trintignant had been given free rein to do with us as he wished. He had pumped our heads full of more processing machinery, until our skulls had to be reshaped to accommodate it, becoming sleekly elongated. He cracked our ribcages open and carefully removed our lungs and hearts, putting these organs into storage. The space vacated by one lung was replaced by a closed-cycle blood oxygenating system of the kind carried in spacesuit backpacks, so that we could endure vacuum and had no need to breathe ambient air. The other lung’s volume was filled by a device which circulated refrigerated fluid along a loop of tube, draining the excess heat generated by the stew of neural machines filling our heads. Nutrient systems crammed the remaining thoracic spaces; our hearts were tiny fusion-powered pumps. All other organs - stomach, intestines, genitalia - were removed, along with many bones and muscles. Our remaining limbs were detached and put into storage, replaced by skeletal prosthetics of immense strength, but which could fold and deform to enable us to squeeze through the tightest door. Our bodies were encased in exoskeletal frames to which these limbs were anchored. Finally, Trintignant gave us whiplike counterbalancing tails, and then caused our skins to envelop our metal parts, hardening here and there in lustrous grey patches of organic armour, woven from the same diamond mesh that had been used to reinforce Hirz’s suit.

When he was done, we looked like diamond-hided greyhounds.

Diamond dogs.

I bowed my head. ‘I am Richard.’

‘Then for God’s sake please come back.’

‘Why have you followed us?’

‘To ask you. One final time.’

‘You changed yourself just to come after me?’

Slowly, with the stone grace of a statue, she extended a beckoning hand. Her limbs, like ours, were mechanical, but her basic form was far less canine.

‘Please.’

‘You know I can’t go back now. Not when I’ve come so far.’

Her answer was an eternity arriving. ‘You don’t understand, Richard. This is not what it seems.’

Childe turned his sleek, snouted face to mine.

‘Ignore her,’ he said.

‘No,’ Celestine said, who must have also been attuned to Childe’s laser signals. ‘Don’t listen to him, Richard. He’s tricked and lied to you all along. To all of us. Even to Trintignant. That’s why I came back.’

‘She’s lying,’ Childe said.

‘No. I’m not. Haven’t you got it yet, Richard? Childe’s been here before. This isn’t his first visit to the Spire.’

I convulsed my canine body in a shrug. ‘Nor mine.’

‘I don’t mean since we arrived on Golgotha. I mean before that. Childe’s been to this planet already.’

‘She’s lying,’ Childe repeated.

‘Then how did you know what to expect, in so much detail?’

‘I didn’t. I was just prudent.’ He turned to me, so that only I could read the stammer of his lasers. ‘We are wasting valuable time here, Richard.’

‘Prudent?’ Celestine said. ‘Oh yes; you were damned prudent. Bringing along those other suits, so that when the first ones became too bulky we could still go on. And Trintignant - how did you know he’d come in so handy?’

‘I saw the bodies lying around the base of the Spire,’ Childe answered. ‘They’d been butchered by it.’

‘And?’

‘I decided it would be good to have someone along who had the medical aptitude to put right such injuries.’

‘Yes.’ Celestine nodded. ‘I don’t disagree with that. But that’s no more than part of the truth, is it?’

I looked at Childe and Celestine in turn. ‘Then what is the whole truth?’

‘Those bodies aren’t anything to do with Captain Argyle.’

‘They’re not?’ I said.

‘No.’ Celestine’s words arrived agonisingly slowly, and I began to wish that Trintignant had turned her into a diamond-skinned dog as well. ‘No. Because Argyle never existed. He was a necessary fiction - a reason for Childe knowing at least something about what the Spire entailed. But the truth . . . well, why don’t you tell us, Childe?’

‘I don’t know what you want me to say.’

Celestine smiled. ‘Only that the bodies are yours.’

His tail flexed impatiently, brushing the floor. ‘I won’t listen to this.’

‘Then don’t. But Trintignant will tell you the same thing. He guessed first, not me.’

She threw something towards me.

I willed time to move more slowly. What she had thrown curved lazily through the air, following a parabola. My mind processed its course and extrapolated its trajectory with deadening precision.

I moved and opened my foreclaw to catch the falling thing.

‘I don’t recognise it,’ I said.

‘Trintignant must have thought you would.’

I looked down at the thing, trying to see it anew. I remembered the Doctor fishing amongst the bones around the Spire’s base; placing something in one of his pockets. This hard, black, irregular, dully pointed thing.

What was it?

I half remembered.

‘There has to be more than this,’ I said.

‘Of course there is,’ Celestine said. ‘The human remains - with the exception of what’s been added since we arrived - are all from the same genetic individual. I know. Trintignant told me.’

‘That isn’t possible.’

‘Oh, it is. With cloning, it’s almost child’s play.’

‘This is nonsense,’ Childe said.

I turned to him now, feeling the faint ghost of an emotion Trintignant had not completely excised. ‘Is it really?’

‘Why would I clone myself?’

‘I’ll answer for him,’ Celestine said. ‘He found this thing, but long, long before he said he did. And he visited it, and set about exploring it, using clones of himself.’

I looked at Childe, expecting him to at least proffer some shred of explanation. Instead, padding on all fours, he crossed into the next room.

The door behind Celestine slammed shut like a steel eyelid.

Childe spoke to us from the next room. ‘My estimate is that we have nine or ten minutes in which to solve the next problem. I am studying it now and it strikes me as . . . challenging, to say the least. Shall we adjourn any further discussion of trivialities until we’re through?’

‘Childe,’ I said. ‘You shouldn’t have done that. Celestine wasn’t consulted . . .’

‘I assumed she was on the team.’

Celestine stepped into the new room. ‘I wasn’t. At least, I didn’t think I was. But it looks like I am now.’

‘That’s the spirit,’ Childe said. And I realised then where I had seen the small, dark thing that Trintignant had retrieved from the surface of Golgotha.

I might have been mistaken.

But it looked a lot like a devil’s horn.

TWELVE

The problem was as elegant, Byzantine, multi-layered and potentially treacherous as any we had encountered.

Simply looking at it sent my mind careering down avenues of mathematical possibility, glimpsing deep connections between what I had always assumed were theoretically distant realms of logical space. I could have stared at it for hours, in a state of ecstatic transfixion. Unfortunately, we had to solve it, not admire it. And we now had less than nine minutes.

We crowded around the door and for two or three minutes - what felt like two or three hours - nothing was said.

I broke the silence, when I sensed that I needed to think about something else for a moment.

‘Was Celestine right? Did you clone yourself?’

‘Of course he did,’ she said. ‘He was exploring hazardous territory, so he’d have been certain to bring the kind of equipment necessary to regenerate organs.’

Childe turned away from the problem. ‘That isn’t the same as cloning equipment.’

‘Only because of artificially imposed safeguards,’ Celestine answered. ‘Strip those away and you can clone to your heart’s content. Why regenerate a single hand or arm when you can culture a whole body?’

‘What good would that do me? All I’d have done was make a mindless copy of myself.’

I said, ‘Not necessarily. With memory trawls and medichines, you could go some way towards imprinting your personality and memory on any clone you chose.’

‘He’s right,’ Celestine said. ‘It’s easy enough to rescript memories. Richard should know.’

Childe looked back at the problem, which was still as fiercely intractable as when we had entered.

‘Six minutes left,’ he said.

‘Don’t change the fucking subject,’ Celestine said. ‘I want Richard to know exactly what happened here.’

‘Why?’ Childe said. ‘Do you honestly care what happens to him? I saw that look of revulsion when you saw what we’d done to ourselves.’

‘Maybe you do revolt me,’ she said, nodding. ‘But I also care about someone being manipulated.’

‘I haven’t manipulated anyone.’

‘Then tell him the truth about the clones. And the Spire, for that matter.’

Childe returned his attention to the door, evidently torn between solving the problem and silencing Celestine. Less than six minutes now remained, and though I had distracted myself, I had not come closer to grasping the solution, or even seeing a hint of how to begin.

I snapped my attention back to Childe. ‘What happened with the clones? Did you send them in, one by one, hoping to find a way into the Spire for you?’

‘No.’ He almost laughed at my failure to grasp the truth. ‘I didn’t send them in ahead of me, Richard. Not at all. I sent them in after me.’

‘Sorry, but I don’t understand.’

‘I went in first, and the Spire killed me. But before I did that, I trawled myself and installed those memories in a recently grown clone. The clone wasn’t a perfect copy of me, by any means - it had some memories, and some of my grosser personality traits, but it was under no illusions that it was anything but a recently made construct.’ Childe looked back towards the problem. ‘Look, this is all very interesting, but I really think—’

‘The problem can wait,’ Celestine said. ‘I think I see a solution, in any case.’

Childe’s slender body stiffened in anticipation. ‘You do?’

‘Just a hint of one, Childe. Keep your hackles down.’

‘We don’t have much time, Celestine. I’d very much like to hear your solution.’

She looked at the pattern, smiling faintly. ‘I’m sure you would. I’d also like to hear what happened to the clone.’

I sensed him seethe with anger, then bring it under control. ‘It - the new me - went back into the Spire and attempted to make further progress than its predecessor. Which it did, advancing several rooms beyond the point where the old me died.’

‘What made it go in?’ Celestine said. ‘It must have known it would die in there as well.’

‘It thought it had a significantly better chance of survival than the last one. It studied what had happened to the first victim and took precautions - better armour; drugs to enhance mathematical skills; some crude stabs at the medichine therapies we have been using.’

‘And?’ I said. ‘What happened after that one died?’

‘It didn’t die on its first attempt. Like us, it retreated once it sensed it had gone as far as it reasonably could. Each time, it trawled itself - making a copy of its memories. These were inherited by the next clone.’

‘I still don’t get it,’ I said. ‘Why would the clone care what happened to the one after it?’

‘Because . . . it never expected to die. None of them did. Call that a character trait, if you will.’

‘Overweening arrogance?’ Celestine offered.

‘I’d prefer to think of it as a profound lack of self-doubt. Each clone imagined itself better than its predecessor; incapable of making the same errors. But they still wanted to be trawled, so that - in the unlikely event that they were killed - something would go on. So that, even if that particular clone did not solve the Spire, it would still be something with my genetic heritage that did. Part of the same lineage. Family, if you will.’ His tail flicked impatiently. ‘Four minutes. Celestine . . . are you ready now?’

‘Almost, but not quite. How many clones were there, Childe? Before you, I mean?’

‘That’s a pretty personal question.’

She shrugged. ‘Fine. I’ll just withhold my solution.’

‘Seventeen,’ Childe said. ‘Plus my original; the first one to go in.’

I absorbed this number; stunned at what it implied. ‘Then you’re . . . the nineteenth to try and solve the Spire?’

I think he would have smiled at that point, had it been anatomically possible. ‘Like I said, I try and keep it in the family.’

‘You’ve become a monster,’ Celestine said, almost beneath her breath.

It was hard not to see it that way as well. He had inherited the memories from eighteen predecessors, all of whom had died within the Spire’s pain-wracked chambers. It hardly mattered that he had probably never inherited the precise moment of death; the lineage was no less monstrous for that small mercy. And who was to say that some of his ancestor clones had not crawled out of the Spire, horribly mutilated, dying, but still sufficiently alive to succumb to one last trawl?

They said a trawl was all the sharper if it was performed at the moment of death, when damage to the scanned mind mattered less.

‘Celestine’s right,’ I said. ‘You’ve become something worse than the thing you set out to beat.’

Childe appraised me, those dense clusters of optics sweeping over me like gun barrels. ‘Have you looked in a mirror lately, Richard? You’re not exactly the way nature intended, you know.’

‘This is just cosmetic,’ I said. ‘I still have my memories. I haven’t allowed myself to become a—’ I faltered, my brain struggling with vocabulary now that so much of it had been reassigned to the task of cracking the Spire, ‘a perversion,’ I finished.

‘Fine.’ Childe lowered his head; a posture of sadness and resignation. ‘Then go back, if that’s what you want. Let me stay to finish the challenge.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think I will. Celestine? Get us through this door and I’ll come back with you. We’ll leave Childe to his bloody Spire.’

Celestine’s sigh was one of heartfelt relief. ‘Thank God, Richard. I didn’t think I’d be able to convince you quite that easily.’

I nodded towards the door, suggesting that she sketch out what she thought was the likely solution. It still looked devilishly hard to me, but now that I refocused my mind on it, I thought I began to see the faintest hint of an approach, if not a full-blooded solution.

But Childe was speaking again. ‘Oh, you shouldn’t sound so surprised,’ he said. ‘I always knew he’d turn back as soon as the going got tough. That’s always been his way. I shouldn’t have deceived myself that he’d have changed.’

I bristled. ‘That isn’t true.’

‘Then why turn back when we’ve come so far?’

‘Because it isn’t worth it.’

‘Or is it simply that the problem’s become too difficult; the challenge too great?’

‘Ignore him,’ Celestine said. ‘He’s just trying to goad you into following him. That’s what this has always been about, hasn’t it, Childe? You think you can solve the Spire, where eighteen previous versions of you have failed. Where eighteen previous versions of you were butchered and flayed by the thing.’ She looked around, almost as if she expected the Spire to punish her for speaking so profanely. ‘And perhaps you’re right, too. Perhaps you really have come closer than any of the others.’

Childe said nothing, perhaps unwilling to contradict her.

‘But simply beating the Spire wouldn’t be good enough,’ Celestine said. ‘For you’d have no witnesses. No one to see how clever you’d been.’

‘That isn’t it at all.’

‘Then why did we all have to come here? You found Trintignant useful, I’ll grant you that. And I helped you as well. But you could have done without us, ultimately. It would have been bloodier, and you might have needed to run off a few more clones . . . but I don’t doubt that you could have done it.’

‘The solution, Celestine.’

By my estimate we had not much more than two minutes left in which to make our selection. And yet I sensed that it was time enough. Magically, the problem had opened up before me where a moment ago it had been insoluble; like one of those optical illusions which suddenly flip from one state to another. The moment was as close to a religious experience as I cared to come.

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘I see it now. Have you got it?’

‘Not quite. Give me a moment . . .’ Childe stared at it, and I watched as the lasers from his eyes washed over the labyrinthine engravings. The red glare skittered over the wrong solution and lingered there. It flickered away and alighted on the correct answer, but only momentarily.

Childe flicked his tail. ‘I think I’ve got it.’

‘Good,’ Celestine replied. ‘I agree with you. Richard? Are you ready to make this unanimous?’

I thought I had misheard her, but I had not. She was saying that Childe’s answer was the right one; that the one I had been sure of was the wrong one . . .

‘I thought . . .’ I began. Then, desperately, stared at the problem again. Had I missed something? Childe had looked to have his doubts, but Celestine was so certain of herself. And yet what I had glimpsed had appeared beyond question. ‘I don’t know,’ I said weakly. ‘I don’t know.’

‘We haven’t time to debate it. We’ve got less than a minute.’

The feeling in my belly was one of ice. Somehow, despite the layers of humanity that had been stripped from me, I could still taste terror. It was reaching me anyway; refusing to be daunted.

I felt so certain of my choice. And yet I was outnumbered.

‘Richard?’ Childe said again, more insistent this time.

I looked at the two of them, helplessly. ‘Press it,’ I said.

Childe placed his forepaw over the solution that he and Celestine had agreed on, and pressed.

I think I knew, even before the Spire responded, that the choice had not been the correct one. And yet when I looked at Celestine I saw nothing resembling shock or surprise in her expression. Instead, she looked completely calm and resigned.

And then the punishment commenced.

It was brutal, and once it would have killed us. Even with the augmentations Trintignant had given us, the damage inflicted was considerable as a scythe-tipped, triple-jointed pendulum descended from the ceiling and began swinging in viciously widening arcs. Our minds might have been able to compute the future position of a simpler pendulum, steering our bodies out of its harmful path. But the trajectory of a jointed pendulum was ferociously difficult to predict: a nightmarish demonstration of the mathematics of chaos.

But we survived, as we had survived the previous attacks. Even Celestine made it through, the flashing arc snipping off only one of her arms. I lost an arm and leg on one side, and watched - half in horror, half in fascination - as the room claimed these parts for itself; tendrils whipped out from the wall to salvage those useful conglomerations of metal and plastic. There was pain, of a sort, for Trintignant had wired those limbs into our nervous systems, so that we could feel heat and cold. But the pain abated quickly, replaced by digital numbness.

Childe got the worst of it, though.

The blade had sliced him through the middle, just below what had once been his ribcage, spilling steel and plastic guts, bone, viscera, blood and noxious lubricants onto the floor. The tendrils squirmed out and captured the twitching prize of his detached rear end, flicking tail and all.

With the hand that she still had, Celestine pressed the correct symbol. The punishment ceased and the door opened.

In the comparative calm that followed, Childe looked down at his severed trunk.

‘I seem to be quite badly damaged,’ he said.

But already various valves and gaskets were stemming the fluid loss; clicking shut with neat precision. Trintignant, I saw, had done very well. He had equipped Childe to survive the most extreme injuries.

‘You’ll live,’ Celestine said, with what struck me as less than total sympathy.

‘What happened?’ I asked. ‘Why didn’t you press that one first?’

She looked at me. ‘Because I knew what had to be done.’

Despite her injuries she helped us on the retreat.

I was able to stumble from room to room, balancing myself against the wall and hopping on my good leg. I had lost no great quantity of blood, for while I had suffered one or two gashes from close approaches of the pendulum, my limbs had been detached below the points where they were anchored to flesh and bone. But I still felt the shivering onset of shock, and all I wanted to do was make it out of the Spire, back to the sanctuary of the shuttle. There, I knew, Trintignant could make me whole again. Human again, for that matter. He had always promised it would be possible, and while there was much about him that I did not like, I did not think he would lie about that. It would be a matter of professional pride that his work was technically reversible.

Celestine carried Childe, tucked under her arm. What remained of him was very light, she said, and he was able to cling to her with his undamaged forepaws. I felt a spasm of horror every time I saw how little of him there was, while shuddering to think how much more intense that spasm would have been were I not already numbed by the medichines.

We had made it back through perhaps one-third of the rooms when he slithered from her grip, thudding to the floor.

‘What are you doing?’ Celestine asked.

‘What do you think?’ He supported himself by his forelimbs, his severed trunk resting against the ground. The wound had begun to close, I saw, his diamond skin puckering tight to seal the damage.

Before very long he would look as if he had been made this way.

Celestine took her time before answering, ‘Quite honestly, I don’t know what to think.’

‘I’m going back. I’m carrying on.’

Still propping myself against a wall, I said, ‘You can’t. You need treatment. For God’s sake; you’ve been cut in half.’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ Childe said. ‘All I’ve done is lose a part of me I would have been forced to discard before very long. Eventually the doors would have been a tight squeeze even for something shaped like a dog.’

‘It’ll kill you,’ I said.

‘Or I’ll beat it. It’s still possible, you know.’ He turned around, his rear part scraping against the floor, and then looked back over his shoulder. ‘I’m going to retrace my steps back to the room where this happened. I don’t think the Spire will obstruct your retreat until I step - or crawl, as it may be - into the last room we opened. But if I were you, I wouldn’t take too long on the way back.’ Then he looked at me, and again switched on the private frequency. ‘It’s not too late, Richard. You can still come back with me.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘You’re wrong. It’s much too late.’

Celestine reached out to help me make my awkward way to the next door. ‘Leave him, Richard. Leave him to the Spire. It’s what he’s always wanted, and he’s had his witnesses now.’

Childe eased himself onto the lip of the door leading into the room we had just come through.

‘Well?’ he said.

‘She’s right. Whatever happens now, it’s between you and the Spire. I suppose I should wish you the best of luck, except it would sound irredeemably trite.’

He shrugged; one of the few human gestures now available to him. ‘I’ll take whatever I can get. And I assure you that we will meet again, whether you like it or not.’

‘I hope so,’ I said, while knowing it would never be the case. ‘In the meantime, I’ll give your regards to Chasm City.’

‘Do that, please. Just don’t be too specific about where I went.’

‘I promise you that. Roland?’

‘Yes?’

‘I think I should say goodbye now.’

Childe turned around and slithered into the darkness, propelling himself with quick, piston-like movements of his forearms.

Then Celestine took my arm and helped me towards the exit.

THIRTEEN

‘You were right,’ I told her as we made our way back to the shuttle. ‘I think I would have followed him.’

Celestine smiled. ‘But I’m glad you didn’t.’

‘Do you mind if I ask something?’

‘As long as it isn’t to do with mathematics.’

‘Why did you care what happened to me, and not Childe?’

‘I did care about Childe,’ she said firmly. ‘But I didn’t think any of us were going to be able to persuade him to turn back.’

‘And that was the only reason?’

‘No. I also thought you deserved something better than to be killed by the Spire.’

‘You risked your life to get me out,’ I said. ‘I’m not ungrateful.’

‘Not ungrateful? Is that your idea of an expression of gratitude?’ But she was smiling, and I felt a faint impulse to smile as well. ‘Well, at least that sounds like the old Richard.’

‘There’s hope for me yet, then. Trintignant can put me back the way I should be, after he’s done with you.’

But when we got back to the shuttle there was no sign of Doctor Trintignant. We searched for him, but found nothing; not even a set of tracks leading away. None of the remaining suits were missing, and when we contacted the orbiting ship they had no knowledge of the Doctor’s whereabouts.

Then we found him.

He had placed himself on his operating couch, beneath the loom of swift, beautiful surgical machinery. And the machines had dismantled him, separating him into his constituent components, placing some pieces of him in neatly labelled fluid-filled flasks and others in vials. Chunks of eviscerated bio-machinery floated like stinger-laden jellyfish. Implants and mechanisms glittered like small, precisely jewelled ornaments.

There was surprisingly little in the way of organic matter.

‘He killed himself,’ Celestine said. Then she found his hat - the homburg - which he had placed at the head of the operating couch. Inside, tightly folded and marked in precise handwriting, was what amounted to Trintignant’s suicide note.

My dear friends, he had written.

After giving the matter no little consideration, I have decided to dispose of myself. I find the prospect of my own dismantling a more palatable one than continuing to endure revulsion for a crime I do not believe I committed. Please do not attempt to put me back together; the endeavour would, I assure you, be quite futile. I trust, however, that the manner of my demise - and the annotated state to which I have reduced myself - will provide some small amusement to future scholars of cybernetics.

I must confess that there is another reason why I have chosen to bring about this somewhat terminal state of affairs. Why, after all, did I not end myself on Yellowstone?

The answer, I am afraid, lies as much in vanity as anything else.

Thanks to the Spire - and to the good offices of Mister Childe - I have been given the opportunity to continue the work that was so abruptly terminated by the unpleasantness in Chasm City. And thanks to yourselves - who were so keen to learn the Spire’s secrets - I have been gifted with subjects willing to submit to some of my less orthodox procedures.

You in particular, Mister Swift, have been a Godsend. I consider the series of transformations I have wrought upon you to be my finest achievement to date. You have become my magnum opus. I fully accept that you saw the surgery merely as a means to an end, and that you would not otherwise have consented to my ministrations, but that in no way lessens the magnificence of what you have become.

And therein, I am afraid, lies the problem.

Whether you conquer the Spire or retreat from it - assuming, of course, that it does not kill you - there will surely come a time when you will desire to return to your prior form. And that would mean that I would be compelled to undo my single greatest work.

Something I would rather die than do.

I offer my apologies, such as they are, while remaining -

Your obedient servant,

T

Childe never returned. After ten days we searched the area about the Spire’s base, but there were no remains that had not been there before. I supposed that there was nothing for it but to assume that he was still inside; still working his way to whatever lay at the summit.

And I wondered.

What ultimate function did the Spire serve? Was it possible that it served none but its own self-preservation? Perhaps it simply lured the curious into it, and forced them to adapt - becoming more like machines themselves - until they reached the point when they were of use to it.

At which point it harvested them.

Was it possible that the Spire was no more purposeful than a flytrap?

I had no answers. And I did not want to remain on Golgotha pondering such things. I did not trust myself not to return to the Spire. I still felt its feral pull.

So we left.

‘Promise me,’ Celestine said.

‘What?’

‘That whatever happens when we get home - whatever’s become of the city - you won’t go back to the Spire.’

‘I won’t go back,’ I said. ‘And I promise you that. I can even have the memory of it suppressed, so it doesn’t haunt my dreams.’

‘Why not,’ she said. ‘You’ve done it before, after all.’

But when we returned to Chasm City we found that Childe had not been lying. Things had changed, but not for the better. The thing that they called the Melding Plague had plunged our city back into a festering, technologically decadent dark age. The wealth we had accrued on Childe’s expedition meant nothing now, and what small influence my family had possessed before the crisis had diminished even further.

In better days, Trintignant’s work could probably have been undone. It would not have been simple, but there were those who relished such a challenge, and I would probably have had to fight off several competing offers: rival cyberneticists vying for the prestige of tackling such a difficult project. Things were different. Even the crudest kinds of surgery were now difficult or impossibly expensive. Only a handful of specialists retained the means to even attempt such work, and they were free to charge whatever they liked.

Even Celestine, who had been wealthier than me, could only afford to have me repaired, not rectified. That - and the other matter - almost bankrupted us.

And yet she cared for me.

There were those who saw us and imagined that the creature with her - the thing that trotted by her like a stiff, diamond-skinned, grotesque mechanical dog - was merely a strange choice of pet. Sometimes they sensed something unusual in our relationship - the way she might whisper an aside to me, or the way I might appear to be leading her - and they would look at me, intently, before I stared into their eyes with the blinding red scrutiny of my vision.

Then they would always look away.

And for a long time - until the dreams became too much - that was how it was.

Yet now I pad into the night, Celestine unaware that I have left our apartment. Outside, dangerous gangs infiltrate the shadowed, half-flooded streets. They call this part of Chasm City the Mulch and it is the only place where we can afford to live now. Certainly we could have afforded something better - something much better - if I had not been forced to put aside money in readiness for this day. But Celestine knows nothing of that.

The Mulch is not as bad as it used to be, but it would still have struck the earlier me as a vile place in which to exist. Even now I am instinctively wary, my enhanced eyes dwelling on the various crudely fashioned blades and crossbows that the gangs flaunt. Not all of the creatures who haunt the night are technically human. There are things with gills that can barely breathe in open air. There are other things that resemble pigs, and they are the worst of all.

But I do not fear them.

I slink between shadows, my thin, doglike form confusing them. I squeeze through the gaps in collapsed buildings, effortlessly escaping the few who are foolish enough to chase me. Now and then I even stop and confront them, standing with my back arched.

My red gaze stabs through them.

I continue on my way.

Presently I reach the appointed area. At first it looks deserted - there are no gangs here - but then a figure emerges from the gloom, trudging through ankle-deep caramel-brown floodwater. The figure is thin and dark, and with each step it makes there is a small, precise whine. It comes into view and I observe that the woman - for it is a woman, I think - is wearing an exoskeleton. Her skin is the black of interstellar space, and her small, exquisitely featured head is perched above a neck that has been extended by several vertebrae. She wears copper rings around her neck, and her fingernails - which I see clicking against the thighs of her exoskeleton - are as long as stilettos.

I think she is strange, but she sees me and flinches.

‘Are you . . . ?’ she starts to say.

‘I am Richard Swift,’ I answer.

She nods almost imperceptibly - it cannot be easy, bending that neck - and introduces herself. ‘I am Triumvir Verika Abebi, of the lighthugger Poseidon. I sincerely hope you are not wasting my time.’

‘I can pay you, don’t you worry.’

She looks at me with something between pity and awe. ‘You haven’t even told me what it is you want.’

‘That’s easy,’ I say. ‘I want you to take me somewhere.’

TURQUOISE DAYS

‘Set sail in those Turquoise Days’

Echo and the Bunnymen

ONE

Naqi Okpik waited until her sister was safely asleep before she stepped onto the railed balcony that circled the gondola.

It was the most perfectly warm and still summer night in months. Even the breeze caused by the airship’s motion was warmer than usual, as soft against her cheek as the breath of an attentive lover. Above, yet hidden by the black curve of the vacuum-bag, the two moons were nearly at their fullest. Microscopic creatures sparkled a hundred metres under the airship, great schools of them daubing galaxies against the profound black of the sea. Spirals, flukes and arms of luminescence wheeled and coiled as if in thrall to secret music.

Naqi looked to the rear, where the airship’s ceramic-jacketed sensor pod carved a twinkling furrow. Pinks and rubies and furious greens sparkled in the wake. Occasionally they darted from point to point with the nervous motion of kingfishers. As ever, she was alert to anything unusual in movements of the messenger sprites, anything that might merit a note in the latest circular, or even a full-blown article in one of the major journals of Juggler studies. But there was nothing odd happening tonight, no yet-to-be catalogued forms or behaviour patterns, nothing that might indicate more significant Pattern Juggler activity.

She walked around the airship’s balcony until she had reached the stern, where the submersible sensor pod was tethered by a long fibre-optic dragline. Naqi pulled a long hinged stick from her pocket, flicked it open in the manner of a courtesan’s fan and then waved it close to the winch assembly. The default watercoloured lilies and sea serpents melted away, replaced by tables of numbers, sinuous graphs and trembling histograms. A glance established that there was nothing surprising here either, but the data would still form a useful calibration set for other experiments.

As she closed the fan - delicately, for it was worth almost as much as the airship itself - Naqi reminded herself that it was a day since she had gathered the last batch of incoming messages. Rot had taken out the connection between the antenna and the gondola during the last expedition, and since then collecting the messages had become a chore, to be taken in turns or traded for less tedious tasks.

Naqi gripped a handrail and swung out behind the airship. Here the vacuum-bag overhung the gondola by only a metre, and a grilled ladder allowed her to climb around the overhang and scramble onto the flat top of the bag. She moved gingerly, bare feet against rusting rungs, doing her best not to disturb Mina. The airship rocked and creaked a little as she found her balance on the top and then was again silent and still. The churning of its motors was so quiet that Naqi had long ago filtered the sound from her experience.

All was calm, beautifully so.

In the moonlight the antenna was a single dark flower rising from the broad back of the bladder. Naqi started moving along the railed catwalk that led to it, steadying herself as she went but feeling much less vertigo than would have been the case in daylight.

Then she froze, certain that she was being watched.

Just within Naqi’s peripheral vision appeared a messenger sprite. It had flown to the height of the airship and was now shadowing it from a distance of ten or twelve metres. Naqi gasped, delighted and unnerved at the same time. Apart from dead specimens this was the first time Naqi had ever seen a sprite this close. The organism had the approximate size and morphology of a terrestrial hummingbird, yet it glowed like a lantern. Naqi recognised it immediately as a long-range packet carrier. Its belly would be stuffed with data coded into tightly packed wads of RNA, locked within microscopic protein capsomeres. The packet carrier’s head was a smooth teardrop, patterned with luminous pastel markings, but lacking any other detail save for two black eyes positioned above the midline. Inside the head was a cluster of neurones, which encoded the positions of the brightest circumpolar stars. Other than that, sprites had only the most rudimentary kind of intelligence. They existed to shift information between nodal points in the ocean when the usual chemical signalling pathways were deemed too slow or imprecise. The sprite would die when it reached its destination, consumed by microscopic organisms that would unravel and process the information stored in the capsomeres.

And yet Naqi had the acute impression that it was watching her: not just the airship, but her, with a kind of watchful curiosity that made the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. And then - just at the point when the feeling of scrutiny had become unsettling - the sprite whipped sharply away from the airship. Naqi watched it descend back towards the ocean and then coast above the surface, bobbing now and then like a skipping stone. She remained still for several more minutes, convinced that something of significance had happened, though aware too of how subjective the experience had been; how unimpressive it would seem if she tried to explain it to Mina tomorrow. Anyway, Mina was the one with the special bond with the ocean, wasn’t she? Mina was the one who scratched her arms at night; Mina was the one who had too high a conformal index to be allowed into the swimmer corps. It was always Mina.

It was never Naqi.

The antenna’s metre-wide dish was anchored to a squat plinth inset with weatherproofed controls and readouts. It was century-old Pelican technology, like the airship and the fan. Many of the controls and displays were dead, but the unit was still able to lock onto the functioning satellites. Naqi flicked open the fan and copied the latest feeds into the fan’s remaining memory. Then she knelt down next to the plinth, propped the fan on her knees and sifted through the messages and news summaries of the last day. A handful of reports had arrived from friends in Prachuap-Pangnirtung and Umingmaktok snowflake cities, another from an old boyfriend in the swimmer corps station on Narathiwat atoll. He had sent her a list of jokes that were already in wide circulation. She scrolled down the list, grimacing more than grinning, before finally managing a half-hearted chuckle at one that had previously escaped her. Then there were a dozen digests from various special interest groups related to the Jugglers, along with a request from a journal editor that she critique a paper. Naqi skimmed the paper’s abstract and thought that she was probably capable of reviewing it.

She checked through the remaining messages. There was a note from Dr Sivaraksa saying that her formal application to work on the Moat project had been received and was now under consideration. There had been no official interview, but Naqi had met Sivaraksa a few weeks earlier when both of them happened to be in Umingmaktok. Sivaraksa had been in an encouraging mood during the meeting, though Naqi couldn’t say whether that was because she’d given a good impression or because Sivaraksa had just had his tapeworm swapped for a nice new one. But Sivaraksa’s message said she could expect to hear the result in a day or two. Naqi wondered idly how she would break the news to Mina if she was offered the job. Mina was critical of the whole idea of the Moat and would probably take a dim view of her sister having anything to do with it.

Scrolling down further, she read another message from a scientist in Qaanaaq requesting access to some calibration data she had obtained earlier in the summer. Then there were four or five automatic weather advisories, drafts of two papers she was contributing to, and an invitation to attend the amicable divorce of Kugluktuk and Gjoa, scheduled to take place in three weeks’ time. Following that there was a summary of the latest worldwide news - an unusually bulky file - and then there was nothing. No further messages had arrived for eight hours.

There was nothing particularly unusual about that - the ailing network was always going down - but for the second time that night the back of Naqi’s neck tingled. Something must have happened, she thought.

She opened the news summary and started reading. Five minutes later she was waking Mina.

‘I don’t think I want to believe it,’ Mina Okpik said.

Naqi scanned the heavens, dredging childhood knowledge of the stars. With some minor adjustment to allow for parallax, the old constellations were still more or less valid when seen from Turquoise.

‘That’s it, I think.’

‘What?’ Mina said, still sleepy.

Naqi waved her hand at a vague area of the sky, pinned between Scorpius and Hercules. ‘Ophiuchus. If our eyes were sensitive enough, we’d be able to see it now: a little prick of blue light.’

‘I’ve had enough of little pricks for one lifetime,’ Mina said, tucking her arms around her knees. Her hair was the same pure black as Naqi’s, but trimmed into a severe, spiked crop which made her look younger or older depending on the light. She wore black shorts and a shirt that left her arms bare. Luminous tattoos in emerald and indigo spiralled around the piebald marks of random fungal invasion that covered her arms, thighs, neck and cheeks. The fullness of the moons caused the fungal patterns to glow a little themselves, shimmering with the same emerald and indigo hues. Naqi had no tattoos and scarcely any fungal patterns of her own; she couldn’t help but feel slightly envious of her sister’s adornments.

Mina continued, ‘But seriously, you don’t think it might be a mistake?’

‘I don’t think so, no. See what it says there? They detected it weeks ago, but they kept quiet until now so that they could make more measurements.’

‘I’m surprised there wasn’t a rumour.’

Naqi nodded. ‘They kept the lid on it pretty well. Which doesn’t mean there isn’t going to be a lot of trouble.’

‘Mm. And they think this blackout is going to help?’

‘My guess is official traffic’s still getting through. They just don’t want the rest of us clogging up the network with endless speculation. ’

‘Can’t blame us for that, can we? I mean, everyone’s going to be guessing, aren’t they?’

‘Maybe they’ll announce themselves before very long,’ Naqi said doubtfully.

While they had been speaking the airship had passed into a zone of the sea largely devoid of bioluminescent surface life. Such zones were almost as common as the nodal regions where the network was thickest, like the gaping voids between clusters of galaxies. The wake of the sensor pod was almost impossible to pick out, and the darkness around them was absolute, relieved only by the occasional mindless errand of a solitary messenger sprite.

Mina said: ‘And if they don’t?’

‘Then I guess we’re all in a lot more trouble than we’d like.’

For the first time in a century a ship was approaching Turquoise, commencing its deceleration from interstellar cruise speed. The flare of the lighthugger’s exhaust was pointed straight at the Turquoise system. Measurement of the Doppler shift of the flame showed that the vessel was still two years out, but that was hardly any time at all on Turquoise. The ship had yet to announce itself, but even if it turned out to have nothing but benign intentions - a short trade stopover, perhaps - the effect on Turquoise society would be incalculable. Everyone knew of the troubles that had followed the arrival of Pelican in Impiety. When the Ultras moved into orbit there had been much unrest below. Spies had undermined lucrative trade deals. Cities had jockeyed for prestige, competing for technological tidbits. There had been hasty marriages and equally hasty separations. A century later, old enmities smouldered just beneath the surface of cordial intercity politics.

It wouldn’t be any better this time.

‘Look,’ Mina said, ‘it doesn’t have to be all that bad. They might not even want to talk to us. Didn’t a ship pass through the system about seventy years ago without so much as a by your leave?’

Naqi agreed; it was mentioned in a sidebar to one of the main articles. ‘They had engine trouble, or something. But the experts say there’s no sign of anything like that this time.’

‘So they’ve come to trade. What have we got to offer them that we didn’t have last time?’

‘Not much, I suppose.’

Mina nodded knowingly. ‘A few works of art that probably won’t travel very well. Ten-hour-long nose-flute symphonies, anyone? ’ She pulled a face. ‘That’s supposedly my culture, and even I can’t stand it. What else? A handful of discoveries about the Jugglers, which have more than likely been replicated elsewhere a dozen times. Technology, medicine? Forget it.’

‘They must think we have something worth coming here for,’ Naqi said. ‘Whatever it is, we’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we? It’s only two years.’

‘I expect you think that’s quite a long time,’ Mina said.

‘Actually—’

Mina froze.

‘Look!’

Something whipped past in the night, far below, then a handful of them, then a dozen, and then a whole bright squadron. Messenger sprites, Naqi realised - but she had never seen so many of them moving at once, and on what was so evidently the same errand. Against the darkness of the ocean the lights were mesmerising: curling and weaving, swapping positions and occasionally veering far from the main pack before arcing back towards the swarm. Once again one of the sprites climbed to the altitude of the airship, loitering for a few moments on fanning wings before whipping off to rejoin the others. The swarm receded, becoming a tight ball of fireflies, and then only a pale globular smudge. Naqi watched until she was certain that the last sprite had vanished into the night.

‘Wow,’ Mina said quietly.

‘Have you ever seen anything like that?’

‘Never.’

‘Bit funny that it should happen tonight, wouldn’t you say?’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Mina said. ‘The Jugglers can’t possibly know about the ship.’

‘We don’t know that for sure. Most people heard about this ship hours ago. That’s more than enough time for someone to have swum.’

Mina conceded her younger sister’s point. ‘Still, information flow isn’t usually that clear-cut. The Jugglers store patterns, but they seldom show any sign of comprehending actual content. We’re dealing with a mindless biological archiving system, a museum without a curator.’

‘That’s one view.’

Mina shrugged. ‘I’d love to be proved otherwise.’

‘Well, do you think we should try following them? I know we can’t track sprites over any distance, but we might be able to keep up for a few hours before we drain the batteries.’

‘We wouldn’t learn much.’

‘We won’t know until we’ve tried,’ Naqi said, gritting her teeth. ‘Come on - it’s got to be worth a go, hasn’t it? I reckon that swarm moved a bit slower than a single sprite. We’d at least have enough for a report, wouldn’t we?’

Mina shook her head. ‘All we’d have is a single observation with a little bit of speculation thrown in. You know we can’t publish that sort of thing. And anyway, assuming that sprite swarm did have something to do with the ship, there are going to be hundreds of similar sightings tonight.’

‘I just thought it might take our minds off the news.’

‘Perhaps it would. But it would also make us unforgivably late for our target.’ Mina dropped the tone of her voice, making an obvious effort to sound reasonable. ‘Look, I understand your curiosity. I feel it as well. But the chances are it was either a statistical fluke or part of a global event everyone else will have had a much better chance to study. Either way we can’t contribute anything useful, so we might as well just forget about it.’ She rubbed at the marks on her forearm, tracing the paisley-patterned barbs and whorls of glowing colouration. ‘And I’m tired, and we have several busy days ahead of us. I think we just need to put this one down to experience, all right?’

‘Fine,’ Naqi said.

‘I’m sorry, but I just know we’d be wasting our time.’

‘I said fine.’ Naqi stood up and steadied herself on the railing that traversed the length of the airship’s back.

‘Where are you going?’

‘To sleep. Like you said, we’ve got a busy day coming up. We’d be fools to waste time chasing a fluke, wouldn’t we?’

An hour after dawn they crossed out of the dead zone. The sea below began to thicken with floating life, becoming soupy and torpid. A kilometre or so further in and the soup showed ominous signs of structure: a blue-green stew of ropy strands and wide, kelplike plates. They suggested the floating, half-digested entrails of embattled sea monsters.

Within another kilometre the floating life had become a dense vegetative raft, stinking of brine and rotting cabbage. Within another kilometre of that the raft had thickened to the point where the underlying sea was only intermittently visible. The air above the raft was humid, hot and pungent with microscopic irritants. The raft itself was possessed of a curiously beguiling motion, bobbing and writhing and gyring according to the ebb and flow of weirdly localised current systems. It was as if many invisible spoons were stirring a great bowl of spinach. Even the shadow of the airship, pushed far ahead of it by the low sun, had some influence on the movement of the material. The Pattern Juggler biomass scurried and squirmed to evade the track of the shadow, and the peculiar purposefulness of the motion reminded Naqi of an octopus she had seen in the terrestrial habitats aquarium on Umingmaktok, squeezing its way through impossibly small gaps in the glass prison of its tank.

Presently they arrived at the precise centre of the circular raft. It spread away from them in all directions, hemmed by a distant ribbon of sparkling sea. It felt as if the airship had come to rest above an island, as fixed and ancient as any geological feature. The island even had a sort of geography: humps and ridges and depressions sculpted into the cloying texture of layered biomass. But there were few islands on Turquoise, especially at this latitude, and the Juggler node was only a few days old. Satellites had detected its growth a week earlier, and Mina and Naqi had been sent to investigate. They were under strict instructions simply to hover above the island and deploy a handful of tethered sensors. If the node showed any signs of being unusual, a more experienced team would be sent out from Umingmaktok by high-speed dirigible. Most nodes dispersed within twenty to thirty days, so there was always a need for some urgency. They might even send trained swimmers, eager to dive into the sea and open their minds to alien communion. Ready - as they called it - to ken the ocean.

But first things first: chances were this node would turn out to be interesting rather than exceptional.

‘Morning,’ Mina said when Naqi approached her. Mina was swabbing the sensor pod she had reeled in earlier, collecting the green mucus that had adhered to its ceramic teardrop. All human artefacts eventually succumbed to biological attack from the ocean, although ceramics were the most resilient.

‘You’re cheerful,’ Naqi said, trying to make the statement sound matter-of-fact rather than judgemental.

‘Aren’t you? It’s not everyone gets a chance to study a node up this close. Make the most of it, sis. The news we got last night doesn’t change what we have to do today.’

Naqi scraped the back of her hand across her nose. Now that the airship was above the node she was breathing vast numbers of aerial organisms into her lungs with each breath. The smell was redolent of ammonia and decomposing vegetation. It required an intense effort of will not to keep rubbing her eyes rawer than they already were. ‘Do you see anything unusual?’

‘Bit early to say.’

‘So that’s a “no”, then.’

‘You can’t learn much without probes, Naqi.’ Mina dipped a swab into a collection bag, squeezing tight the plastic seal. Then she dropped the bag into a bucket between her feet. ‘Oh, wait. I saw another of those swarms, after you’d gone to sleep.’

‘I thought you were the one complaining about being tired.’

Mina dug out a fresh swab and rubbed vigorously at a deep olive smear on the side of the sensor. ‘I picked up my messages, that’s all. Tried again this morning, but the blackout still hasn’t been lifted. I picked up a few short-wave radio signals from the closest cities, but they were just transmitting a recorded message from the Snowflake Council: stay tuned and don’t panic.’

‘So let’s hope we don’t find anything significant here,’ Naqi said, ‘because we won’t be able to report it if we do.’

‘They’re bound to lift the blackout soon. In the meantime I think we have enough measurements to keep us busy. Did you find that spiral sweep programme in the airship’s avionics box?’

‘I haven’t looked for it,’ Naqi said, certain that Mina had never mentioned such a thing before. ‘But I’m sure I can programme something from scratch in a few minutes.’

‘Well, let’s not waste any more time than necessary. Here.’ Smiling, she offered Naqi the swab, its tip laden with green slime. ‘You take over this and I’ll go and dig out the programme.’

Naqi took the swab after a moment’s delay.

‘Of course. Prioritise tasks according to ability, right?’

‘That’s not what I meant,’ Mina said soothingly. ‘Look, let’s not argue, shall we? We were best friends until last night. I just thought it would be quicker . . .’ She trailed off and shrugged. ‘You know what I mean. I know you blame me for not letting us follow the sprites, but we had no choice but to come here. Understand that, will you? Under any other circumstances—’

‘I understand,’ Naqi said, realising as she did how sullen and childlike she sounded; how much she was playing the petulant younger sister. The worst of it was that she knew Mina was right. At dawn it all looked much clearer.

‘Do you? Really?’

Naqi nodded, feeling the perverse euphoria that came with an admission of defeat. ‘Yes. Really. We’d have been wrong to chase them.’

Mina sighed. ‘I was tempted, you know. I just didn’t want you to see how tempted I was, or else you’d have found a way to convince me.’

‘I’m that persuasive?’

‘Don’t underestimate yourself, sis. I know I never would.’ Mina paused and took back the swab. ‘I’ll finish this. Can you handle the sweep programme?

Naqi smiled. She felt better now. The tension between them would still take a little while to dissipate, but at least things were easier now. Mina was right about something else: they were best friends, not just sisters.

‘I’ll handle it,’ Naqi said.

Naqi stepped through the hermetic curtain into the air-conditioned cool of the gondola. She closed the door, rubbed her eyes and then sat down at the navigator’s station. The airship had flown itself automatically from Umingmaktok, adjusting its course to take cunning advantage of jet streams and weather fronts. Now it was in hovering mode: once or twice a minute the electrically driven motors purred, stabilising the craft against gusts of wind generated by the microclimate above the Juggler node. Naqi called up the current avionics programme, a menu of options appearing on a flat screen. The options quivered; Naqi thumped the screen with the back of her hand until the display behaved itself. Then she scrolled down through the other flight sequences, but there was no preprogramme spiral loaded into the current avionics suite. Naqi rummaged around in the background files, but there was nothing to help her there either. She was about to start hacking something together - at a push it would take her half an hour to assemble a routine - when she remembered that she had once backed up some earlier avionics files onto the fan. She had no idea if they were still there, or even if there was anything useful amongst the cache, but it was probably worth taking the time to find out. The fan lay closed on a bench; Mina must have left it there after she had verified that the blackout was still in force.

Naqi grabbed the fan and spread it open across her lap. To her surprise, it was still active: instead of the usual watercolour patterns the display showed the messages she had been scrolling through earlier.

She looked closer and frowned. These were not her messages at all. She was looking at the messages Mina had copied onto the fan during the night. Naqi felt an immediate prickle of guilt: she should snap the fan shut, or at the very least close her sister’s mail and move into her own area of the fan. But she did neither of those things. Telling herself that it was only what anyone else would have done, she accessed the final message in the list and examined its incoming time-stamp. To within a few minutes, it had arrived at the same time as the final message Naqi had received.

Mina had been telling the truth when she said that the blackout was continuing.

Naqi glanced up. Through the window of the gondola she could see the back of her sister’s head, bobbing up and down as she checked winches along the side.

Naqi looked at the body of the message. It was nothing remarkable, just an automated circular from one of the Juggler special-interest groups. Something about neurotransmitter chemistry.

She exited the circular, getting back to the list of incoming messages. She told herself that she had done nothing shameful so far. If she closed Mina’s mail now, she would have nothing to feel really guilty about.

But a name she recognised jumped out at her from the list of messages: Dr Jotah Sivaraksa, manager of the Moat project. The man she had met in Umingmaktok, glowing with renewed vitality after his yearly worm change. What could Mina possibly want with Sivaraksa?

She opened the message, read it.

It was exactly what she had feared, and yet not dared to believe.

Sivaraksa was responding to Mina’s request to work on the Moat. The tone of the message was conversational, in stark contrast to the businesslike response Naqi had received. Sivaraksa informed her sister that her request had been appraised favourably, and that while there were still one or two other candidates to be considered, Mina had so far emerged as the most convincing applicant. Even if this turned out not to be the case, Sivaraksa continued - and that was not very likely - Mina’s name would be at the top of the list when further vacancies became available. In short, she was more or less guaranteed a chance to work on the Moat within the year.

Naqi read the message again, just in case there was some highly subtle detail that threw the entire thing into a different, more benign light.

Then she snapped shut the fan with a sense of profound fury. She placed it back where it was, exactly as it had been.

Mina pushed her head through the hermetic curtain.

‘How’s it coming along?’

‘Fine,’ Naqi said. Her voice sounded drained of emotion even to herself. She felt stunned and mute. Mina would call her a hypocrite were she to object to her sister having applied for exactly the same job she had . . . but there was more to it than that. Naqi had never been as openly critical of the Moat project as her sister. By contrast, Mina had never missed a chance to denounce both the project and the personalities behind it.

Now that was real hypocrisy.

‘Got that routine cobbled together?’

‘Coming along,’ Naqi said.

‘Something the matter?’

‘No,’ Naqi forced a smile, ‘no. Just working through the details. Have it ready in a few minutes.’

‘Good. Can’t wait to start the sweep. We’re going to get some beautiful data, sis. And I think this is going to be a significant node. Maybe the largest this season. Aren’t you glad it came our way?’

‘Thrilled,’ Naqi said, before returning to her work.

Thirty specialised probes hung on telemetric cables from the underside of the gondola, dangling like the venom-tipped stingers of some grotesque aerial jellyfish. The probes sniffed the air metres above the Juggler biomass, or skimmed the fuzzy green surface of the formation. Weighted plumb lines penetrated to the sea beneath the raft, sipping the organism-infested depths dozens of metres under the node. Radar mapped larger structures embedded within the node - dense kernels of compacted biomass, or huge cavities and tubes of inscrutable function - while sonar graphed the topology of the many sinewy organic cables which plunged into darkness, umbilicals anchoring the node to the seabed. Smaller nodes drew most of their energy from sunlight and the breakdown of sugars and fats in the sea’s other floating micro-organisms but the larger formations, which had a vastly higher information-processing burden, needed to tap belching aquatic fissures, active rifts in the ocean bed kilometres under the waves. Cold water was pumped down each umbilical by peristaltic compression waves, heated by being circulated in the superheated thermal environment of the underwater volcanoes, and then pumped back to the surface.

In all this sensing activity, remarkably little physical harm was done to the extended organism itself. The biomass sensed the approach of the probes and rearranged itself so that they passed through with little obstruction, even those scything lines that reached into the water. Energy was obviously being consumed to avoid the organism sustaining damage, and by implication the measurements must therefore have had some effect on the node’s information-processing efficiency. The effect was likely to be small, however, and since the node was already subject to constant changes in its architecture - some probably intentional, and some probably forced on it by other factors in its environment - there appeared to be little point in worrying about the harm caused by the human investigators. Ultimately, so much was still guesswork. Although the swimmer teams had learned a great deal about the Pattern Jugglers’ encoded information, almost everything else about them - how and why they stored the neural patterns, and to what extent the patterns were subject to subsequent postprocessing - remained unknown. And those were merely the immediate questions. Beyond that were the real mysteries, which everyone wanted to solve, but right now they were simply beyond the scope of possible academic study. What they would learn today could not be expected to shed any light on those profundities. A single data point - even a single clutch of measurements - could not usually prove or disprove anything, but it might later turn out to play a vital role in a chain of argument, even if it was only in the biasing of some statistical distribution closer to one hypothesis than another. Science, as Naqi had long since realised, was as much a swarming, social process as it was something driven by ecstatic moments of personal discovery.

It was something she was proud to be part of.

The spiral sweep continued uneventfully, the airship chugging around in a gently widening circle. Morning shifted to early afternoon, and then the sun began to climb down towards the horizon, bleeding pale orange into the sky through soft-edged cracks in the cloud cover. For hours Naqi and Mina studied the incoming results, the ever-sharper scans of the node appearing on screens throughout the gondola. They discussed the results cordially enough, but Naqi could not stop thinking about Mina’s betrayal. She took a spiteful pleasure in testing the extent to which her sister would lie, deliberately forcing the conversation around to Dr Sivaraksa and the project he steered.

‘I hope I don’t end up like one of those deadwood bureaucrats,’ Naqi said, when they were discussing the way their careers might evolve. ‘You know, like Sivaraksa.’ She observed Mina pointedly, yet giving nothing away. ‘I read some of his old papers; he used to be pretty good once. But now look at him.’

‘It’s easy to say that,’ Mina said, ‘but I bet he doesn’t like being away from the front line any more than we would. But someone has to manage these big projects. Wouldn’t you rather it was someone who’d at least been a scientist?’

‘You sound like you’re defending him. Next you’ll be telling me you think the Moat is a good idea.’

‘I’m not defending Sivaraksa,’ Mina said. ‘I’m just saying—’ She eyed her sister with a sudden glimmer of suspicion. Had she guessed that Naqi knew? ‘Never mind. Sivaraksa can fight his own battles. We’ve got work to do.’

‘Anyone would think you were changing the subject,’ Naqi said. But Mina was already on her way out of the gondola to check the equipment again.

At dusk the airship arrived at the perimeter of the node, completed one orbit, then began to track inwards again. As it passed over the parts of the node previously mapped, time-dependent changes were highlighted on the displays: arcs and bands of red superimposed against the lime and turquoise false-colour of the mapped structures. Most of the alterations were minor: a chamber opening here or closing there, or a small alteration in the network topology to ease a bottleneck between the lumpy subnodes dotted around the floating island. Other changes were more mysterious in function, but conformed to other studies. They were studied at enhanced resolution, the data prioritised and logged.

It looked as if the node was large, but in no way unusual.

Then night came, as swiftly as it always did at those latitudes. Mina and Naqi took turns, one sleeping for two- or three-hour stretches while the other kept an eye on the readouts. During a lull Naqi climbed up onto the top of the airship and tried the antenna again, and for a moment was gladdened when she saw that a new message had arrived. But the message itself turned out to be a statement from the Snowflake Council stating that the blackout on civilian messages would continue for at least another two days, until the current ‘crisis’ was over. There were allusions to civil disturbances in two cities, with curfews being imposed, and imperatives to ignore all unofficial news sources concerning the nature of the approaching ship.

Naqi wasn’t surprised that there was trouble, though the extent of it took her aback. Her instincts were to believe the government line. The problem, from the government’s point of view at least, was that nothing was yet known for certain about the nature of the ship, and so by being truthful they ended up sounding like they were keeping something back. They would have been far better off making up a plausible lie, which could be gently moulded towards accuracy as time passed.

Mina rose after midnight to begin her shift. Naqi went to sleep and dreamed fitfully, seeing in her mind’s eye red smears and bars hovering against amorphous green. She had been staring at the readouts too intently, for too many hours.

Mina woke her excitedly before dawn.

‘Now I’m the one with the news,’ she said.

‘What?’

‘Come and see for yourself.’

Naqi rose from her hammock, neither rested nor enthusiastic.

In the dim light of the cabin Mina’s fungal patterns shone with peculiar intensity: abstract detached shapes that only implied her presence.

Naqi followed the shapes onto the balcony.

‘What,’ she said again, not even bothering to make it sound like a question.

‘There’s been a development,’ Mina said.

Naqi rubbed the sleep from her eyes. ‘With the node?’

‘Look. Down below. Right under us.’

Naqi pressed her stomach hard against the railing and leaned over as far as she dared. She had felt no real vertigo until they had lowered the sensor lines, and then suddenly there had been a physical connection between the airship and the ground. Was it her imagination, or had the airship lowered itself to about half its previous altitude, reeling in the lines at the same time?

The midnight light was all spectral shades of milky grey. The creased and crumpled landscape of the node reached away into mid-grey gloom, merging with the slate of the overlying cloud deck. Naqi saw nothing remarkable, other than the surprising closeness of the surface.

‘I mean really look down,’ Mina said.

Naqi pushed herself against the railing more than she had dared before, until she was standing on the very tips of her toes. Only then did she see it: directly below them was a peculiar circle of darkness, almost as if the airship was casting a distinct shadow beneath itself. It was a circular zone of exposed seawater, like a lagoon enclosed by the greater mass of the node. Steep banks of Juggler biomass, its heart a deep charcoal grey, rimmed the lagoon. Naqi studied it quietly. Her sister would judge her on any remark she made.

‘How did you see it?’ she asked eventually.

‘See it?’

‘It can’t be more than twenty metres wide. A dot like that would have hardly shown up on the topographic map.’

‘Naqi, you don’t understand. I didn’t steer us over the hole. It appeared below us, as we were moving. Listen to the motors. We’re still moving. The hole’s shadowing us. It follows us precisely. ’

‘Must be reacting to the sensors,’ Naqi said.

‘I’ve hauled them in. We’re not trailing anything within thirty metres of the surface. The node’s reacting to us, Naqi - to the presence of the airship. The Jugglers know we’re here, and they’re sending us a signal.’

‘Maybe they are. But it isn’t our job to interpret that signal. We’re just here to make measurements, not to interact with the Jugglers.’

‘So whose job is it?’ Mina asked.

‘Do I have to spell it out? Specialists from Umingmaktok.’

‘They won’t get here in time. You know how long nodes last. By the time the blackout’s lifted, by the time the swimmer corps hotshots get here, we’ll be sitting over a green smudge and not much more. This is a significant find, Naqi. It’s the largest node this season and it’s making a deliberate and clear attempt to invite swimmers.’

Naqi stepped back from the railing. ‘Don’t even think about it.’

‘I’ve been thinking about it all night. This isn’t just a large node, Naqi. Something’s happening - that’s why there’s been so much sprite activity. If we don’t swim here, we might miss something unique.’

‘And if we do swim, we’ll be violating every rule in the book. We’re not trained, Mina. Even if we learned something - even if the Jugglers deigned to communicate with us - we’d be ostracised from the entire scientific community.’

‘That would depend on what we learned, wouldn’t it?’

‘Don’t do this, Mina. It isn’t worth it.’

‘We won’t know if it’s worth it or not until we try, will we?’ Mina extended a hand. ‘Look. You’re right in one sense. Chances are pretty good nothing will happen. Normally you have to offer them a gift - a puzzle, or something rich in information. We haven’t got anything like that. What’ll probably happen is we’ll hit the water and there won’t be any kind of biochemical interaction. In which case, it doesn’t matter. We don’t have to tell anyone. And if we do learn something, but it isn’t significant - well, we don’t have to tell anyone about that either. Only if we learn something major. Something so big that they’ll have to forget about a minor violation of protocol.’

‘A minor violation—?’ Naqi began, almost laughing at Mina’s audacity.

‘The point is, sis, we have a win-win situation here. And it’s been handed to us on a plate.’

‘You could also argue that we’ve been handed a major chance to fuck up spectacularly.’

‘You read it whichever way you like. I know what I see.’

‘It’s too dangerous, Mina. People have died . . .’ Naqi looked at Mina’s fungal patterns, enhanced and emphasised by her tattoos. ‘You flagged high for conformality. Doesn’t that worry you slightly?’

‘Conformality’s just a fairy tale they use to scare children into behaving,’ said Mina. ‘ “Eat all your greens or the sea will swallow you up for ever.” I take it about as seriously as I take the Thule kraken, or the drowning of Arviat.’

‘The Thule kraken is a joke, and Arviat never existed in the first place. But the last time I checked, conformality was an accepted phenomenon.’

‘It’s an accepted research topic. There’s a distinction.’

‘Don’t split hairs—’ Naqi began.

Mina gave every indication of not having heard Naqi speak. Her voice was distant, as if she were speaking to herself. It had a lilting, singsong quality. ‘Too late to even think about it now. But it isn’t long until dawn. I think it’ll still be there at dawn.’

She pushed past Naqi.

‘Where are you going now?’

‘To catch some sleep. I need to be fresh for this. So do you.’

They hit the lagoon with two gentle, anticlimactic splashes. Naqi was underwater for a moment before she bobbed to the surface, holding her breath. At first she had to make a conscious effort to start breathing again: the air immediately above the water was so saturated with microscopic organisms that choking was a real possibility. Mina, surfacing next to her, drew in gulps with wild enthusiasm, as if willing the tiny creatures to invade her lungs. She shrieked delight at the sudden cold. When they had both gained equilibrium, treading with their shoulders above water, Naqi was finally able to take stock. She saw everything through a stinging haze of tears. The gondola hovered above them, poised beneath the larger mass of the vacuum-bladder. The life-raft that it had deployed was sparkling new, rated for one hundred hours against moderate biological attack. But that was for mid-ocean, where the density of Juggler organisms would be much less than in the middle of a major node. Here, the hull might only endure a few tens of hours before it was consumed.

Once again, Naqi wondered if she should withdraw. There was still time. No real damage had yet been done. She could be back in the boat and back aboard the airship in a minute or so. Mina might not follow her, but she did not have to be complicit in her sister’s actions. But Naqi knew she would not be able to turn back. She could not show weakness now that she had come this far.

‘Nothing’s happening . . .’ she said.

‘We’ve only been in the water a minute,’ Mina said.

The two of them wore black wetsuits. The suits themselves could become buoyant if necessary - the right sequence of tactile commands and dozens of tiny bladders would inflate around the chest and shoulder area - but it was easy enough to tread water. In any case, if the Jugglers initiated contact, the suits would probably be eaten away in minutes. The swimmers who had made repeated contact often swam naked or near-naked, but neither Naqi nor Mina were yet prepared for that level of abject surrender to the ocean’s assault. After another minute the water no longer felt as cold. Through gaps in the cloud cover the sun was harsh on Naqi’s cheek. It etched furiously bright lines in the bottle-green surface of the lagoon, lines that coiled and shifted into fleeting calligraphic shapes as if conveying secret messages. The calm water lapped gently against their upper bodies. The walls of the lagoon were metre-high masses of fuzzy vegetation, like the steep banks of a river. Now and then Naqi felt something brush gently against her feet, like a passing frond or strand of seaweed. The first few times she flinched at the contact, but after a while it became strangely soothing. Occasionally something stroked one hand or the other, then moved playfully away. When she lifted her hands from the sea, mats of gossamer green draped from her fingers like the tattered remains of expensive gloves. The green material slithered free and slipped back into the sea. It tickled between her fingers.

‘Nothing’s happened yet,’ Naqi said, more quietly this time.

‘You’re wrong. The shoreline’s moved closer.’

Naqi looked at it. ‘It’s a trick of perspective.’

‘I assure you it isn’t.’

Naqi looked back at the raft. They had drifted five or six metres from it. It might as well have been a mile, for all the sense of security that the raft now offered. Mina was right: the lagoon was closing in on them, gently, slowly. If the lagoon had been twenty metres wide when they had entered, it must now be a third smaller. There was still time to escape before the hazy green walls squeezed in on them, but only if they moved now, back to the raft, back into the safety of the gondola.

‘Mina . . . I want to go. We’re not ready for this.’

‘We don’t need to be ready. It’s going to happen.’

‘We’re not trained!’

‘Call it learning on the job, in that case.’ Mina was still trying to sound outrageously calm, but it wasn’t working. Naqi heard it in her voice: she was either terribly frightened or terribly excited.

‘You’re more scared than I am,’ she said.

‘I am scared,’ said Mina, ‘scared we’ll screw this up. Scared we’ll blow this opportunity. Understand? I’m that kind of scared.’

Either Naqi was treading water less calmly, or the water itself had become visibly more agitated in the last few moments. The green walls were perhaps ten metres apart, and were no longer quite the sheer vertical structures they had appeared before. They had taken on form and design, growing and complexifying by the second. It was akin to watching a distant city emerge from fog, the revealing of bewildering, plunging layers of mesmeric detail, more than the eye or the mind could process.

‘It doesn’t look as if they’re expecting a gift this time,’ Mina said.

Veined tubes and pipes coiled and writhed around each other in constant, sinuous motion, making Naqi think of some hugely magnified circuitry formed from plant parts. It was restless, living circuitry that never quite settled into one configuration. Now and then chequerboard designs appeared, or intricately interlocking runes. Sharply geometric patterns flickered from point to point, echoed, amplified and subtly iterated at each move. Distinct three-dimensional shapes assumed brief solidity, carved from greenery as if by the deft hand of a topiarist. Naqi glimpsed unsettling anatomies: the warped memories of alien bodies that had once entered the ocean, a million, or a billion years ago. Here was a three-jointed limb, there the shieldlike curve of an exoskeletal plaque. The head of something that was almost equine melted into a goggling mass of faceted eyes. Fleetingly, a human form danced from the chaos. But only once. Alien swimmers vastly outnumbered human swimmers.

Here were the Pattern Jugglers, Naqi knew. The first explorers had mistaken these remembered forms for indications of actual sentience, thinking that the oceanic mass was a kind of community of intelligences. It was an easy mistake to have made, but it was some way from the truth. These animate shapes were enticements, like the gaudy covers of books. The minds themselves were captured only as frozen traces. The only living intelligence within the ocean lay in its own curatorial system.

To believe anything else was heresy.

The dance of bodies became too rapid to follow. Pastel-coloured lights glowed from deep within the green structure, flickering and stuttering. Naqi thought of lanterns burning in the depths of a forest. Now the edge of the lagoon had become irregular, extending peninsulas towards the centre of the dwindling circle of water, while narrow bays and inlets fissured back into the larger mass of the node. The peninsulas sprouted grasping tendrils, thigh-thick at the trunk but narrowing to the dimensions of plant fronds, and then narrowing further, bifurcating into lacy, fernlike hazes of awesome complexity. They diffracted light like the wings of dragonflies. They were closing over the lagoon, forming a shimmering canopy. Now and then a sprite - or something smaller but equally bright - arced from one bank of the lagoon to another. Brighter things moved through the water like questing fish. Microscopic organisms were detaching from the larger fronds and tendrils, swarming in purposeful clouds. They batted against her skin, against her eyelids. Every breath that she took made her cough. The taste of the Pattern Jugglers was sour and medicinal. They were in her, invading her body.

She panicked. It was as if a tiny switch had flipped in her mind. Suddenly all other concerns melted away. She had to get out of the lagoon immediately, no matter what Mina would think of her.

Thrashing more than swimming, Naqi tried to push herself towards the raft, but as soon as the panic reaction had kicked in, she had felt something else slide over her. It was not so much paralysis as an immense sense of inertia. Moving, even breathing, became problematic. The boat was impossibly distant. She was no longer capable of treading water. She felt heavy, and when she looked down she saw that a green haze had enveloped the parts of her body that she could see above water. The organisms were adhering to the fabric of her wetsuit.

‘Mina—’ she called, ‘Mina!’

But Mina only looked at her. Naqi sensed that her sister was experiencing the same sort of paralysis. Mina’s movements had become languid; instead of panic, what Naqi saw on her face was profound resignation and acceptance. It was dangerously close to serenity.

Mina wasn’t frightened at all.

The patterns on her neck were flaring vividly. Her eyes were closed. Already the organisms had begun to attack the fabric of her suit, stripping it away from her flesh. Naqi could feel the same thing happening to her own suit. There was no pain, for the organisms stopped short of attacking her skin. With a mighty effort she hoisted her forearm from the water, studying the juxtaposition of pale flesh and dissolving black fabric. Her fingers were as stiff as iron.

But - and Naqi clung to this fact - the ocean recognised the sanctity of organisms, or at least, thinking organisms. Strange things might happen to people who swam with the Jugglers, things that might be difficult to distinguish from death or near-death. But people always emerged afterwards, changed perhaps, but essentially whole. No matter what happened now, they would survive. The Jugglers always returned those who swam with them, and even when they did effect changes, they were seldom permanent.

Except, of course, for those who didn’t return.

No, Naqi told herself. What they were doing was foolish, and might perhaps destroy their careers, but they would survive. Mina had flagged high on the conformality index when she had applied to join the swimmer corps, but that didn’t mean she was necessarily at risk. Conformality merely implied a rare connection with the ocean. It verged on the glamorous.

Now Mina was going under. She had stopped moving entirely. Her eyes were blankly ecstatic.

Naqi wanted to resist that same impulse to submit, but all the strength had flowed away from her. She felt herself begin the same descent. The water closed over her mouth, then her eyes, and in a moment she was under. She felt herself a toppled statue sliding towards the seabed. Her fear reached a crescendo, and then passed it. She was not drowning. The froth of green organisms had forced itself down her throat, down her nasal passage. She felt no fright. There was nothing except a profound feeling that this was what she had been born to do.

Naqi knew what was happening, what was going to happen. She had studied enough reports on swimmer missions. The tiny organisms were infiltrating her entire body, creeping into her lungs and bloodstream. They were keeping her alive, while at the same time flooding her with chemical bliss. Droves of the same tiny creatures were seeking routes to her brain, inching along the optic nerve, the aural nerve, or crossing the blood-brain barrier itself. They were laying tiny threads behind them, fibres that extended back into the larger mass of organisms suspended in the water around her. In turn, these organisms would establish data-carrying channels back into the primary mass of the node . . . And the node itself was connected to other nodes, both chemically and via the packet-carrying sprites. The green threads bound Naqi to the entire ocean. It might take hours for a signal to reach her mind from halfway around Turquoise, but it didn’t matter. She was beginning to think in Juggler time, her own thought processes seeming pointlessly quick, like the motion of bees.

She sensed herself becoming vaster.

She was no longer just a pale, hard-edged thing labelled Naqi, suspended in the lagoon like a dying starfish. Her sense of self was rushing out towards the horizon in all directions, encompassing first the node and then the empty oceanic waters around it. She couldn’t say precisely how this information was reaching her. It wasn’t through visual imagery, but more an intensely detailed spatial awareness. It was as if spatial awareness had suddenly become her most vital sense.

She supposed this was what swimmers meant when they spoke of kenning.

She kenned the presence of other nodes over the horizon, their chemical signals flooding her mind, each unique, each bewilderingly rich in information. It was like hearing the roar of a hundred crowds. And at the same time she kenned the ocean depths, the cold fathoms of water beneath the node, the life-giving warmth of the crustal vents. Closer, too, she kenned Mina. They were two neighbouring galaxies in a sea of strangeness. Mina’s own thoughts were bleeding into the sea, into Naqi’s mind, and in them Naqi felt the reflected echo of her own thoughts, picked up by Mina . . .

It was glorious.

For a moment their minds orbited each other, kenning each other on a level of intimacy neither had dreamed possible.

Mina . . . Can you feel me?

I’m here, Naqi. Isn’t this wonderful?

The fear was gone, utterly. In its place was a marvellous feeling of immanence. They had made the right decision, Naqi knew. She had been right to follow Mina. Mina was deliciously happy, basking in the same hopeful sense of security and promise.

And then they began to sense other minds.

Nothing had changed, but it was suddenly clear that the roaring signals from the other nodes were composed of countless individual voices, countless individual streams of chemical information. Each stream was the recording of a mind that had entered the ocean at some point. The oldest minds - those that had entered in the deep past - were the faintest, but they were also the most numerous. They had begun to sound alike, the shapes of their stored personalities blurring into each other, no matter how different - how alien - they had been to start with. The minds that had been captured more recently were sharper and more variegated, like oddly shaped pebbles on a beach. Naqi kenned brutal alienness, baroque architectures of mind shaped by outlandish chains of evolutionary contingency. The only thing any of them had in common was that they had all reached a certain threshold of tool-using intelligence, and had all - for whatever reason - been driven into interstellar space, where they had encountered the Pattern Jugglers. But that was like saying the minds of sharks and leopards were alike because they had both evolved to hunt. The differences between the minds were so cosmically vast that Naqi felt her own mental processes struggling to accommodate them.

Even that was becoming easier. Subtly - slowly enough that from moment to moment she was not aware of it - the organisms in her skull were retuning her neural connections, allowing more and more of her own consciousness to seep out into the extended processing loom of the sea.

Now she sensed the most recent arrivals.

They were all human minds, each a glittering gem of distinctness. Naqi kenned a great gulf in time between the earliest human mind and the last recognisably alien one. She had no idea if it was a million years or a billion, but it felt immense. At the same time she grasped that the ocean had been desperate for an injection of variety, but while these human minds were welcome, they were not exotic enough, just barely sufficient to break the tedium.

The minds were snapshots, frozen in the conception of a single thought. It was like an orchestra of instruments, all sustaining a single, unique note. Perhaps there was a grindingly slow evolution in those minds - she felt the merest subliminal hint of change - but if that were the case, it would take centuries to complete a thought . . . thousands of years to complete the simplest internalised statement. The newest minds might not even have recognised that they had been swallowed by the sea.

And now Naqi could perceive a single mind flaring louder than the others.

It was recent, and human, and there was something about it that struck her as discordant. The mind was damaged, as if it had been captured imperfectly. It was disfigured, giving off squalls of hurt. It had suffered dreadfully. It was reaching out to her, craving love and affection; it searched for something to cling to in the abyssal loneliness it now knew.

Images ghosted through her mind. Something was burning. Flames licked through the interstitial gaps in a great black structure. She couldn’t tell if it was a building or a vast, pyramidal bonfire.

She heard screams, and then something hysterical, which she at first took for more screaming, until she realised that it was something far, far worse. It was laughter, and as the flames roared higher, consuming the mass, smothering the screams, the laughter only intensified.

She thought it might be the laughter of a child.

Perhaps it was her imagination, but this mind appeared more fluid than the others. Its thoughts were still slow - far slower than Naqi’s - but the mind appeared to have usurped more than its share of processing resources. It was stealing computational cycles from neighbouring minds, freezing them into absolute stasis while it completed a single sluggish thought.

The mind worried Naqi. Pain and fury was boiling off it.

Mina kenned it too. Naqi tasted Mina’s thoughts and knew that her sister was equally disturbed by the mind’s presence. Then she felt the mind’s attention shift, drawn to the two inquisitive minds that had just entered the sea. It became aware of both of them, quietly watchful. A moment or two passed, and then the mind slipped away, back to wherever it had come from.

What was that . . .?

She felt her sister’s reply. I don’t know. A human mind. A conformal, I think. Someone who was swallowed by the sea. But it’s gone now.

No, it hasn’t. It’s still there. Just hiding.

Millions of minds have entered the sea, Naqi. Thousands of conformals, perhaps, if you think of all the aliens that came before us. There are bound to be one or two bad apples.

That wasn’t just a bad apple. It was like touching ice. And it sensed us. It reacted to us. Didn’t it?

She sensed Mina’s hesitation.

We can’t be sure. Our own perceptions of events aren’t necessarily reliable. I can’t even be certain we’re having this conversation. I might be talking to myself . . .

Mina . . . Don’t talk like that. I don’t feel safe.

Me neither. But I’m not going to let one frightening thing unnecessarily affect me.

Something happened then. It was a loosening, a feeling that the ocean’s grip on Naqi had just relented to a significant degree. Mina, and the roaring background of other minds, fell away to something much more distant. It was as if Naqi had just stepped out of a babbling party into a quiet adjacent room, and was even now moving further and further away from the door.

Her body tingled. She no longer felt the same deadening paralysis. Pearl-grey light flickered above. Without being sure whether she was doing it herself, she rose towards the surface. She was aware that she was moving away from Mina, but for now all that mattered was to escape the sea. She wanted to be as far from that discordant mind as possible.

Her head rammed through a crust of green into air. At the same moment the Juggler organisms fled her body in a convulsive rush. She thrashed stiff limbs and took in deep, panicked breaths. The transition was horrible, but it was over in a few seconds. She looked around, expecting to see the sheer walls of the lagoon, but all she saw in one direction was open water. Naqi felt panic rising again. Then she kicked herself around and saw a wavy line of bottle-green that had to be the perimeter of the node, perhaps half a kilometre away from her present position. The airship was a distant silvery teardrop that appeared to be perched on the surface of the node itself.

In her fear she did not immediately think of Mina. All she wanted to do was reach the safety of the airship, to be aloft. Then she saw the raft, bobbing only one or two hundred metres away. Somehow it had been transplanted to the open waters as well. It looked distant but reachable. She started swimming, fear giving her strength and sense of purpose. In truth, she was well within the true boundary of the node: the water was still thick with suspended micro-organisms, so that it was more like swimming through cold green soup. It made each stroke harder, but she did not have to expend much effort to stay afloat.

Did she trust the Pattern Jugglers not to harm her? Perhaps. After all, she had not encountered their minds at all - if they even had minds. They were merely the archiving system. Blaming them for that one poisoned mind was like blaming a library for one hateful book.

But still, it had unnerved her profoundly. She wondered why none of the other swimmers had ever communicated their encounters with such a mind. After all, she remembered it well enough now, and she was nearly out of the ocean. She might forget shortly - there were bound to be subsequent neurological effects - but under other circumstances there would have been nothing to prevent her relating her experiences to a witness or inviolable recording system.

She kept swimming, and began to wonder why Mina hadn’t emerged from the waters as well. Mina had been just as terrified. But Mina had also been more curious, and more willing to ignore her fears. Naqi had grasped the opportunity to leave the ocean once the Jugglers released their grip on her. But what if Mina had elected to remain?

What if Mina was still down there, still in communion with the Jugglers?

Naqi reached the raft and hauled herself aboard, being careful not to capsize it. She saw that the raft was still largely intact. It had been moved, but not damaged, and although the ceramic sheathing was showing signs of attack, peppered here and there with scabbed green accretions, it was certainly good for another few hours. The rot-hardened control systems were alive, and still in telemetric connection with the distant airship.

Naqi had crawled from the sea naked. Now she felt cold and vulnerable. She pulled an aluminised quilt from the raft’s supply box and wrapped it around herself. It did not stop her from shivering, did not make her feel any less nauseous, but at least it afforded some measure of symbolic barrier against the sea.

She looked around again, but there was still no sign of Mina.

Naqi folded aside the weatherproof control cover and tapped commands into the matrix of waterproofed keys. She waited for the response from the airship. The moment stretched. But there it was: a minute shift in the dull gleam on the silver back of the vacuum-bladder. The airship was turning, pivoting like a great slow weather vane. It was moving, responding to the raft’s homing command.

But where was Mina?

Now something moved in the water next to her, coiling in weak, enervated spasms. Naqi looked at it with horrified recognition. She reached over, still shivering, and with appalled gentleness fished the writhing thing from the sea. It lay in her fingers like a baby sea serpent. It was white and segmented, half a metre long. She knew exactly what it was.

It was Mina’s worm. It meant Mina had died.

TWO

Two years later Naqi watched a spark fall from the heavens.

Along with many hundreds of spectators, she was standing on the railed edge of one of Umingmaktok’s elegant cantilevered arms. It was afternoon. Every visible surface of the city had been scoured of rot and given a fresh coat of crimson or emerald paint. Amber bunting had been hung along the metal stay-lines that supported the tapering arms protruding from the city’s towering commercial core. Most of the berthing slots around the perimeter were occupied by passenger or cargo craft, while many smaller vessels were holding station in the immediate airspace around Umingmaktok. The effect, which Naqi had seen on her approach to the city a day earlier, had been to turn the snowflake into a glittering, delicately ornamented vision. By night they had fireworks displays. By day, as now, conjurors and confidence tricksters wound their way through the crowds. Nose-flute musicians and drum dancers performed impromptu atop improvised podia. Kick-boxers were being cheered on as they moved from one informal ring to another, pursued by whistle-blowing proctors. Hastily erected booths were marked with red and yellow pennants, selling refreshments, souvenirs or tattoo-work, while pretty costumed girls who wore backpacks equipped with tall flagstaffs sold drinks or ices. The children had balloons and rattles marked with the emblems of both Umingmaktok and the Snowflake Council, and many of them had had their faces painted to resemble stylised space travellers. Puppet theatres had been set up here and there, running through exactly the same small repertoire of stories that Naqi remembered from her childhood. The children were enthralled nonetheless; mouths agape at each miniature epic, whether it was a roughly accurate account of the world’s settlement - with the colony ship being stripped to the bone for every gram of metal it held - or something altogether more fantastic, like the drowning of Arviat. It didn’t matter to the children that one was based in fact and the other was pure mythology. To them the idea that every city they called home had been cannibalised from the belly of a four-kilometre-long ship was no more or less plausible than the idea that the living sea might occasionally snatch cities beneath the waves when they displeased it. At that age everything was both magical and mundane, and she supposed that the children were no more nor less excited by the prospect of the coming visitors than they were by the promised fireworks display, or the possibility of further treats if they were well behaved. Other than the children, there were animals: caged monkeys and birds, and the occasional expensive pet being shown off for the day. One or two servitors stalked through the crowd, and occasionally a golden float-cam would bob through the air, loitering over a scene of interest like a single detached eyeball. Turquoise had not seen this level of celebration since the last acrimonious divorce, and the networks were milking it remorselessly, over-analysing even the tiniest scrap of information.

This was, in truth, exactly the kind of thing Naqi would normally have gone to the other side of the planet to avoid. But something had drawn her this time, and made her wangle the trip out from the Moat at an otherwise critical time in the project. She could only suppose that it was a need to close a particular chapter in her life, one that had begun the night before Mina’s death. The detection of the Ultra ship - they now knew that it was named Voice of Evening - had been the event that triggered the blackout, and the blackout had been Mina’s justification for the two of them attempting to swim with the Jugglers. Indirectly, therefore, the Ultras were ‘responsible’ for whatever had happened to Mina. That was unfair, of course, but Naqi nonetheless felt the need to be here now, if only to witness the visitors’ emergence with her own eyes and see if they really were the monsters of her imagination. She had come to Umingmaktok with a stoic determination that she would not be swept up by the hysteria of the celebrations. Yet now that she had made the trip, now that she was amidst the crowd, drunk on the chemical buzz of human excitement, with a nice fresh worm hooked onto her gut wall, she found herself in the perverse position of actually enjoying the atmosphere.

And now everyone had noticed the falling spark.

The crowd turned their heads into the sky, ignoring the musicians, conjurors and confidence tricksters. The backpacked girls stopped and looked aloft along with the others, shielding their eyes against the midday glare. The spark was the shuttle of Voice of Evening, now parked in orbit around Turquoise.

Everyone had seen Captain Moreau’s ship by now, either with their own eyes as a moving star, or via the images captured by the orbiting cameras or ground-based telescopes. The ship was dark and sleek, outrageously elegant. Now and then its Conjoiner drives flickered on just enough to trim its orbit, those flashes like brief teasing windows into daylight for the hemisphere below.

A ship like that could do awful things to a world, and everyone knew it.

But if Captain Moreau and his crew meant ill for Turquoise, they’d had ample opportunity to do harm already. They had been silent at two years out, but at one year out the Voice of Evening had transmitted the usual approach signals, requesting permission to stop over for three or four months. It was a formality - no one argued with Ultras - but it was also a gladdening sign that they intended to play by the usual rules.

Over the next year there had been a steady stream of communications between the ship and the Snowflake Council. The official word was that the messages had been designed to establish a framework for negotiation and person-to-person trade. The Ultras would need to update their linguistics software to avoid being confused by the subtleties of the Turquoise dialects, which, although based on Canasian, contained confusing elements of Inuit and Thai, relics of the peculiar social mix of the original settlement coalition.

The falling shuttle had slowed to merely supersonic speed now, shedding its plume of ionised air. Dropping speed with each loop, it executed a lazily contracting spiral above Umingmaktok. Naqi had rented cheap binoculars from one of the vendors. The lenses were scuffed, shimmering with the pink of fungal bloom. She visually locked onto the shuttle, its roughly delta shape wobbling in and out of sharpness. Only when it was two or three thousand metres above Umingmaktok could she see it clearly. It was very elegant, a pure brilliant white like something carved from cloud. Beneath the manta-like hull complex machines - fans and control surfaces - moved too rapidly to be seen as anything other than blurs of subliminal motion. She watched as the ship reduced speed until it hovered at the same altitude as the snowflake city. Above the roar of the crowd - an ecstatic, flag-waving mass - all Naqi heard was a shrill hum, almost too far into ultrasound to detect.

The ship approached slowly. It had been given instructions for docking with the arm adjacent to the one where Naqi and the other spectators gathered. Now that it was close it was apparent that the shuttle was larger than any of the dirigible craft normally moored to the city’s arms; by Naqi’s estimate it was at least half as wide as the city’s central core. But it slid into its designated mooring point with exquisite delicacy. Bright red symbols flashed onto the otherwise blank white hull, signifying airlocks, cargo ports and umbilical sockets. Gangways were swung out from the arm to align with the doors and ports. Dockers, supervised by proctors and city officials, scrambled along the precarious connecting ways and attempted to fix magnetic berthing stays onto the shuttle’s hull. The magnetics slid off the hull. They tried adhesive grips next, and these were no more successful. After that, the dockers shrugged their shoulders and made exasperated gestures in the direction of the shuttle.

The roar of the crowd had died down a little by now.

Naqi felt the anticipation as well. She watched as an entourage of VIPs moved to the berthing position, led by a smooth, faintly cherubic individual that Naqi recognised as Tak Thonburi, the mayor of Umingmaktok and presiding chair of the Snowflake Council. Tak Thonburi was happily overweight and had a permanent cowlick of black hair, like an inverted question mark tattooed upon his forehead. His cheeks and brow were mottled with pale green. Next to him was the altogether leaner frame of Jotah Sivaraksa. It was no surprise that Dr Sivaraksa should be here today, for the Moat project was one of the most significant activities of the entire Snowflake Council. His iron-grey eyes flashed this way and that as if constantly triangulating the positions of enemies and allies alike. The group was accompanied by armed, ceremonially dressed proctors and a triad of martial servitors. Their articulation points and sensor apertures were lathered in protective sterile grease, to guard against rot.

Though they tried to hide it, Naqi could tell that the VIPs were nervous. They moved a touch too confidently, making their trepidation all the more evident.

The red door symbol at the end of the gangway pulsed brighter and a section of the hull puckered open. Naqi squinted, but even through the binoculars it was difficult to make out anything other than red-lit gloom. Tak Thonburi and his officials stiffened. A sketchy figure emerged from the shuttle, lingered on the threshold and then stepped with immense slowness into full sunlight.

The crowd’s reaction - and to some extent Naqi’s own - was double-edged. There was a moment of relief that the messages from orbit had not been outright lies. Then there was an equally brief tang of shock at the actual appearance of Captain Moreau. The man was at least a third taller than anyone Naqi had ever seen in her life, yet commensurately thinner, his seemingly brittle frame contained within a jade-coloured mechanical exoskeleton of ornate design. The skeleton lent his movements something of the lethargic quality of a stick insect.

Tak Thonburi was the first to speak. His amplified voice boomed out across the six arms of Umingmaktok, echoing off the curved surfaces of the multiple vacuum-bladders that held the city aloft. Float-cams jostled for the best camera angle, swarming around him like pollen-crazed bees.

‘Captain Moreau . . . Let me introduce myself. I am Tak Thonburi, mayor of Umingmaktok Snowflake City and incumbent chairman of the Snowflake Council of All Turquoise. It is my pleasure to welcome you, your crew and passengers to Umingmaktok, and to Turquoise itself. You have my word that we will do all in our power to make your visit as pleasant as possible.’

The Ultra moved closer to the official. The door to the shuttle remained open behind him. Naqi’s binocs picked out red hologram serpents on the jade limbs of the skeleton.

The Ultra’s own voice boomed at least as loud, but emanated from the shuttle rather than Umingmaktok’s public address system. ‘People of greenish-blue . . .’ The captain hesitated, then tapped one of the stalks projecting from his helmet. ‘People of Turquoise . . . Chairman Thonburi . . . Thank you for your welcome, and for your kind permission to assume orbit. We have accepted it with gratitude. You have my word . . . as captain of the lighthugger Voice of Evening . . . that we will abide by the strict terms of your generous offer of hospitality.’ His mouth continued to move even during the pauses, Naqi noticed: the translation system was lagging. ‘You have my additional guarantee that no harm will be done to your world, and Turquoise law will be presumed to apply to the occupants . . . of all bodies and vessels in your atmosphere. All traffic between my ship and your world will be subject to the authorisation of the Snowflake Council, and any member of the council will - under the . . . auspices of the council - be permitted to visit Voice of Evening at any time, subject to the availability of a . . . suitable conveyance.’

The captain paused and looked at Tak Thonburi expectantly. The mayor wiped a nervous hand across his brow, smoothing his kiss-curl into obedience. ‘Thank you . . . Captain.’ Tak Thonburi’s eyes flashed to the other members of the reception party. ‘Your terms are of course more than acceptable. You have my word that we will do all in our power to assist you and your crew, and that we will do our utmost to ensure that the forthcoming negotiations of trade proceed in an equable manner . . . and in such a way that both parties will be satisfied upon their conclusion.’

The captain did not respond immediately, allowing an uncomfortable pause to draw itself out. Naqi wondered if it was really the fault of the software, or whether Moreau was just playing on Tak Thonburi’s evident nervousness.

‘Of course,’ the Ultra said, finally. ‘Of course. My sentiments entirely . . . Chairman Thonburi. Perhaps now wouldn’t be a bad time to introduce my guests?’

On his cue three new figures emerged from Voice of Evening’s shuttle. Unlike the Ultra, they could almost have passed for ordinary citizens of Turquoise. There were two men and one woman, all of approximately normal height and build, each with long hair, tied back in elaborate clasps. Their clothes were brightly coloured, fashioned from many separate fabrics of yellow, orange, red and russet, and various permutations of the same warm sunset shades. The clothes billowed around them, rippling in the light afternoon breeze. All three members of the party wore silver jewellery, far more than was customary on Turquoise. They wore it on their fingers, in their hair, hanging from their ears.

The woman was the first to speak, her voice booming out from the shuttle’s PA system.

‘Thank you, Captain Moreau. Thank you also, Chairman Thonburi. We are delighted to be here. I am Amesha Crane, and I speak for the Vahishta Foundation. Vahishta’s a modest scientific organisation with its origins in the cometary prefectures of the Haven Demarchy. Lately we have been expanding our realm of interest to encompass other solar systems, such as this one.’ Crane gestured at the two men who had accompanied her from the shuttle. ‘My associates are Simon Matsubara and Rafael Weir. There are another seventeen of us aboard the shuttle. Captain Moreau carried us here as paying passengers aboard Voice of Evening, and as such Vahishta gladly accepts all the terms already agreed upon.’

Tak Thonburi looked even less sure of himself. ‘Of course. We welcome your . . . interest. A scientific organisation, did you say?’

‘One with a special interest in the study of the Jugglers,’ Amesha Crane answered. She was the most strikingly attractive member of the trio, with fine cheekbones and a wide, sensual mouth that looked to be always on the point of smiling or laughing. Naqi felt that the woman was sharing something with her, something private and amusing. Doubtless everyone in the crowd felt the same vague sense of complicity.

Crane continued, ‘We have no Pattern Jugglers in our own system, but that hasn’t stopped us from focusing our research on them, collating the data available from the worlds where Juggler studies are ongoing. We’ve been doing this for decades, sifting inference and theory, guesswork and intuition. Haven’t we, Simon?’

The man nodded. He had sallow skin and a fixed, quizzical expression.

‘No two Juggler worlds are precisely alike,’ Simon Matsubara said, his voice as clear and confident as the woman’s. ‘And no two Juggler worlds have been studied by precisely the same mix of human socio-political factions. That means that we have a great many variables to take into consideration. Despite that, we believe we have identified similarities that may have been overlooked by the individual research teams. They may even be very important similarities, with repercussions for wider humanity. But in the absence of our own Jugglers, it is difficult to test our theories. That’s where Turquoise comes in.’

The other man - Naqi recalled his name was Rafael Weir - began to speak. ‘Turquoise has been largely isolated from the rest of human space for the better part of two centuries.’

‘We’re aware of this,’ said Jotah Sivaraksa. It was the first time any member of the entourage other than Tak Thonburi had spoken. To Naqi he sounded irritated, though he was doing his best to hide it.

‘You don’t share your findings with the other Juggler worlds,’ said Amesha Crane. ‘Nor - to the best of our knowledge - do you intercept their cultural transmissions. The consequence is that your research on the Jugglers has been untainted by any outside considerations - the latest fashionable theory, the latest groundbreaking technique. You prefer to work in scholarly isolation. ’

‘We’re an isolationist world in other respects,’ Tak Thonburi said. ‘Believe it or not, it actually rather suits us.’

‘Quite,’ Crane said, with a hint of sharpness. ‘But the point remains. Your Jugglers are an uncontaminated resource. When a swimmer enters the ocean, their own memories and personality may be absorbed into the Juggler sea. The prejudices and preconceptions that swimmer carries inevitably enter the ocean in some shape or form - diluted, confused, but nonetheless present in some form. And when the next swimmer enters the sea, and opens their mind to communion, what they perceive - what they ken, in your own terminology - is irrevocably tainted by the preconceptions introduced by the previous swimmer. They may experience something that confirms their deepest suspicion about the nature of the Jugglers - but they can’t be sure that they aren’t simply picking up the mental echoes of the last swimmer, or the swimmer before that.’

Jotah Sivaraksa nodded. ‘What you say is undoubtedly true. But we’ve had just as many cycles of fashionable theory as anyone else. Even within Umingmaktok there are a dozen different research teams, each with their own views.’

‘We accept that,’ Crane said, with an audible sigh. ‘But the degree of contamination is slight compared to other worlds. Vahishta lacks the resources for a trip to a previously unvisited Juggler world, so the next best thing is to visit one that has suffered the smallest degree of human cultural pollution. Turquoise fits the bill.’

Tak Thonburi held the moment before responding, playing to the crowd again. Naqi rather admired the way he did it.

‘Good. I’m very . . . pleased . . . to hear it. And might I ask just what it is about our ocean that we can offer you?’

‘Nothing except the ocean itself,’ said Amesha Crane. ‘We simply wish to join you in its study. If you will allow it, members of the Vahishta Foundation will collaborate with native Turquoise scientists and study teams. They will shadow them and offer interpretation or advice when requested. Nothing more than that.’

‘That’s all?’

Crane smiled. ‘That’s all. It’s not as if we’re asking for the world, is it?’

Naqi remained in Umingmaktok for three days after the arrival, visiting friends and taking care of business for the Moat. The newcomers had departed, taking their shuttle to one of the other snowflake cities - Prachuap or the recently married Qaanaaq-Pangnirtung, perhaps - where a smaller but no less worthy group of city dignitaries would welcome Captain Moreau and his passengers.

In Umingmaktok the booths and bunting were packed away and normal business resumed. Litter abounded. Worm dealers did brisk business, as they always did during times of mild gloom. There were far fewer transport craft moored to the arms, and no sign at all of the intense media presence of a few days before. Tourists had gone back to their home cities and the children were safely back in school. Between meetings Naqi sat in the midday shade of half-empty restaurants and bars, observing the same puzzled disappointment in every face she encountered. Deep down she felt it herself. For two years they had been free to imprint every possible fantasy on the approaching ship. Even if the newcomers had arrived with less than benign intent, there would still have been something interesting to talk about: the possibility, however remote, that one’s own life might be about to become drastically more exciting.

But now none of that was going to happen. Undoubtedly Naqi would be involved with the visitors at some point, allowing them to visit the Moat or one of the outlying research zones she managed, but there would be nothing life-changing.

She thought back to that night with Mina, when they had heard the news. Everything had changed then. Mina had died, and Naqi had found herself taking her sister’s role in the Moat. She had risen to the challenge and promotions had followed with gratifying swiftness, until she was in effective charge of the Moat’s entire scientific programme. But that sense of closure she had yearned for was still absent. The men she had slept with - men who were almost always swimmers - had never provided it, and by turns they had each lost patience with her, realising that they were less important to her as people than what they represented, as connections to the sea. It had been months since her last romance, and once Naqi had recognised the way her own subconscious was drawing her back to the sea, she had drawn away from contact with swimmers. She had been drifting since then, daring to hope that the newcomers would allow her some measure of tranquillity.

But the newcomers had not supplied it.

She supposed she would have to find it elsewhere.

On the fourth day Naqi returned to the Moat on a high-speed dirigible. She arrived near sunset, dropping down from high altitude to see the structure winking back at her, a foreshortened ellipse of grey-white ceramic lying against the sea like some vast discarded bracelet. From horizon to horizon there were several Juggler nodes visible, webbed together by the faintest of filaments - to Naqi they looked like motes of ink spreading into blotting paper - but there were also smaller dabs of green within the Moat itself.

The structure was twenty kilometres wide and now it was nearly finished. Only a narrow channel remained where the two ends of the bracelet did not quite meet: a hundred-metre-wide sheer-sided aperture flanked on either side by tall, ramshackle towers of accommodation modules, equipment sheds and construction cranes. To the north, strings of heavy cargo dirigibles ferried processed ore and ceramic cladding from Narathiwat atoll, lowering it down to the construction teams on the Moat.

They had been working here for nearly twenty years. The hundred metres of the Moat that projected above the water was only one-tenth of the full structure - a kilometre-high ring resting on the seabed. In a matter of months the gap - little more than a notch in the top of the Moat - would be sealed, closed off by immense hermetically tight sea-doors. The process would be necessarily slow and delicate, for what was being attempted here was not simply the closing-off of part of the sea. The Moat was an attempt to isolate a part of the living ocean, sealing off a community of Pattern Juggler organisms within its impervious ceramic walls.

The high-speed dirigible swung low over the aperture. The thick green waters streaming through the cut had the phlegmatic consistency of congealing blood. Thick, ropy tendrils permitted information transfer between the external sea and the cluster of small nodes within the Moat. Swimmers were constantly present, either inside or outside the Moat, kenning the state of the sea and establishing that the usual Juggler processes continued unabated.

The dirigible docked with one of the two flanking towers.

Naqi stepped out, back into the hectic corridors and office spaces of the project building. It felt distinctly odd to be back on absolutely firm ground. Although one was seldom aware of it, Umingmaktok was never quite still: no snowflake city or airship ever was. But she would get used to it; in a few hours she would be immersed in her work, having to think of a dozen different things at once, finessing solution pathways, balancing budgets against quality, dealing with personality clashes and minor turf wars, and perhaps - if she was very lucky - managing an hour or two of pure research. Aside from the science, none of it was particularly challenging, but it kept her mind off other things. And after a few days of that, the arrival of the visitors would begin to feel like a bizarre, irrelevant interlude in an otherwise monotonous dream. She supposed that two years ago she would have been grateful for that. Life could indeed continue much as she had always imagined it would.

But when she arrived at her office there was a message from Dr Sivaraksa. He needed to speak to her urgently.

Dr Jotah Sivaraksa’s office on the Moat was a good deal less spacious than his quarters in Umingmaktok, but the view was superb. His accommodation was perched halfway up one of the towers that flanked the cut through the Moat, buttressed out from the main mass of prefabricated modules like a partially opened desk drawer. Dr Sivaraksa was writing notes when she arrived. For a few moments Naqi lingered at the sloping window, watching the construction activity hundreds of metres below. Railed machines and helmeted workers toiled on the flat upper surface of the Moat, moving raw materials and equipment to the assembly sites. Above, the sky was a perfect cobalt-blue, marred now and then by the passing green-stained hull of a cargo dirigible. The sea beyond the Moat had the dimpled texture of expensive leather.

Dr Sivaraksa cleared his throat and, when Naqi turned, he gestured at the vacant seat on the opposite side of his desk.

‘Life treating you well?’

‘Can’t complain, sir.’

‘And work?’

‘No particular problems that I’m aware of.’

‘Good. Good.’ Sivaraksa made a quick, cursive annotation in the notebook he had opened on his desk, then slid it beneath the smoky-grey cube of a paperweight. ‘How long has it been now?’

‘Since what, sir?’

‘Since your sister . . . Since Mina . . .’ He seemed unable to complete the sentence, substituting a spiralling gesture made with his index finger. His finely boned hands were marbled with veins of olive green.

Naqi eased into her seat. ‘Two years, sir.’

‘And you’re . . . over it?’

‘I wouldn’t exactly say I’m over it, no. But life goes on, like they say. Actually I was hoping . . .’ Naqi had been about to tell him how she had imagined the arrival of the visitors would close that chapter. But she doubted she would be able to convey her feelings in a way Dr Sivaraksa would understand. ‘Well, I was hoping I’d have put it all behind me by now.’

‘I knew another conformal, you know. Fellow from Gjoa. Made it into the élite swimmer corps before anyone had the foggiest idea . . .’

‘It’s never been proven that Mina was conformal, sir.’

‘No, but the signs were there, weren’t they? To one degree or another we’re all subject to symbiotic invasion by the ocean’s micro-organisms. But conformals show an unusual degree of susceptibility. On one hand it’s as if their own bodies actively invite the invasion, shutting down the usual inflammatory or foreign cell rejection mechanisms. On the other, the ocean seems to tailor its messengers for maximum effectiveness, as if the Jugglers have selected a specific target they wish to absorb. Mina had very strong fungal patterns, did she not?’

‘I’ve seen worse,’ Naqi said, which was not entirely a lie.

‘But not, I suspect, in anyone who ever attempted to commune. I understand you had ambitions to join the swimmer corps yourself?’

‘Before all that happened.’

‘I understand. And now?’

Naqi had never told anyone that she had joined Mina in the swimming incident. The truth was that even if she had not been present at the time of Mina’s death, her encounter with the rogue mind would have put her off entering the ocean for life.

‘It isn’t for me. That’s all.’

Jotah Sivaraksa nodded gravely. ‘A wise choice. Aptitude or not, you’d have almost certainly been filtered out of the swimmer corps. A direct genetic connection to a conformal - even an unproven conformal - would be too much of a risk.’

‘That’s what I assumed, sir.’

‘Does it trouble you, Naqi?’

She was wearying of this. She had work to do: deadlines to meet that Sivaraksa himself had imposed.

‘Does what trouble me?’

He nodded at the sea. Now that the play of light had shifted minutely, it looked less like dimpled leather than a sheet of beaten bronze. ‘The thought that Mina might still be out there . . . in some sense.’

‘It might trouble me if I were a swimmer, sir. Other than that . . . No. I can’t say that it does. My sister died. That’s all that mattered.’

‘Swimmers have occasionally reported encountering minds - essences - of the lost, Naqi. The impressions are often acute. The conformed leave their mark on the ocean at a deeper, more permanent level than the impressions left behind by mere swimmers. One senses that there must be a purpose to this.’

‘That wouldn’t be for me to speculate, sir.’

‘No.’ He glanced down at the compad and then tapped his forefinger against his upper lip. ‘No. Of course not. Well, to the matter at hand—’

She interrupted him. ‘You swam once, sir?’

‘Yes. Yes, I did.’ The moment stretched. She was about to say something - anything - when Sivaraksa continued, ‘I had to stop for medical reasons. Otherwise I suppose I’d have been in the swimmer corps for a good deal longer, at least until my hands started turning green.’

‘What was it like?’

‘Astonishing. Beyond anything I’d expected.’

‘Did they change you?’

At that he smiled. ‘I never thought that they did, until now. After my last swim I went through all the usual neurological and psychological tests. They found no anomalies; no indications that the Jugglers had imprinted any hints of alien personality or rewired my mind to think in an alien way.’

Sivaraksa reached across the desk and held up the smoky cube that Naqi had taken for a paperweight. ‘This came down from Voice of Evening. Examine it.’

Naqi peered into the milky-grey depths of the cube. Now that she saw it closely she realised that there were things embedded within the translucent matrix. There were chains of unfamiliar symbols, intersecting at right angles. They resembled the complex white scaffolding of a building.

‘What is it?’

‘Mathematics. Actually, a mathematical argument - a proof, if you like. Conventional mathematical notation - no matter how arcane - has evolved so that it can be written down on a two-dimensional surface, like paper or a readout. This is a three-dimensional syntax, liberated from that constraint. Its enormously richer, enormously more elegant.’ The cube tumbled in Sivaraksa’s hand. He was smiling. ‘No one could make head or tail of it. Yet when I looked at it for the first time I nearly dropped it in shock. It made perfect sense to me. Not only did I understand the theorem, but I also understood the point of it. It’s a joke, Naqi. A pun. This mathematics is rich enough to embody humour. And understanding that is the gift they left me. It was sitting in my mind for twenty-eight years, like an egg waiting to hatch.’

Abruptly, Sivaraksa placed the cube back on the table.

‘Something’s come up,’ he said.

From somewhere came the distant, prolonged thunder of a dirigible discharging its cargo of processed ore. It must have been one of the last consignments.

‘Something, sir?’

‘They’ve asked to see the Moat.’

‘They?’

‘Crane and her Vahishta mob. They’ve requested an oversight of all major scientific centres on Turquoise, and naturally enough we’re on the list. They’ll be visiting us, spending a couple of days seeing what we’ve achieved.’

‘I’m not too surprised that they’ve asked to visit, sir.’

‘No, but I was hoping we’d have a few months’ grace. We don’t. They’ll be here in a week.’

‘That’s not necessarily a problem for us, is it?’

‘It mustn’t become one,’ Sivaraksa said. ‘I’m putting you in charge of the visit, Naqi. You’ll be the interface between Crane’s group and the Moat. That’s quite a responsibility, you understand. A mistake - the tiniest gaffe - could undermine our standing with the Snowflake Council.’ He nodded at the compad. ‘Our budgetary position is precarious. Frankly, I’m in Tak Thonburi’s lap. We can’t afford any embarrassments.’

‘No, sir.’

She certainly did understand. The job was a poisoned chalice, or, at the very least, a chalice with the strong potential to become poisoned. If she succeeded - if the visit went smoothly, with no hitches - Sivaraksa could still take much of the credit for it. If it went wrong, on the other hand, the fault would be categorically hers.

‘One more thing.’ Sivaraksa reached under his desk and produced a brochure that he slid across to her. The brochure was marked with a prominent silver snowflake motif. It was sealed with red foil. ‘Open it; you have clearance.’

‘What is it, sir?’

‘A security report on our new friends. One of them has been behaving a bit oddly. You’ll need to keep an eye on him.’

For inscrutable reasons of their own, the liaison committee had decided she would be introduced to Amesha Crane and her associates a day before the official visit, when the party was still in Sukhothai-Sanikiluaq. The journey there took the better part of two days, even allowing for the legs she took by high-speed dirigible or the ageing, unreliable trans-atoll railway line between Narathiwat and Cape Dorset. She arrived at Sukhothai-Sanikiluaq in a velvety purple twilight, catching the tail end of a fireworks display. The two snowflake cities had only been married three weeks, so the arrival of the off-worlders was an excellent pretext for prolonging the celebrations. Naqi watched the fireworks from a civic landing stage perched halfway up Sukhothai’s core, star-bursts and cataracts of scarlet, indigo and intense emerald green brightening the sky above the vacuum-bladders. The colours reminded her of the organisms that she and Mina had seen in the wake of their airship. The recollection left her suddenly sad and drained, convinced that she had made a terrible mistake by accepting this assignment.

‘Naqi?’

It was Tak Thonburi, coming out to meet her on the balcony. They had already exchanged messages during the journey. He was dressed in full civic finery and appeared more than a little drunk.

‘Chairman Thonburi.’

‘Good of you to come here, Naqi.’ She watched his eyes map her contours with scientific rigour, lingering here and there around regions of particular interest. ‘Enjoying the show?’

‘You certainly seem to be, sir.’

‘Yes, yes. Always had a thing about fireworks.’ He pressed a drink into her hand and together they watched the display come to its mildly disappointing conclusion. There was a lull then, but Naqi noticed that the spectators on the other balconies were reluctant to leave, as if waiting for something. Presently a stunning display of three-dimensional images appeared, generated by powerful projection apparatus in the Voice of Evening’s shuttle. Above Sukhothai-Sanikiluaq, Chinese dragons as large as mountains fought epic battles. Sea monsters convulsed and writhed in the night. Celestial citadels burned. Hosts of purple-winged fiery angels fell from the heavens in tightly knit squadrons, clutching arcane instruments of music or punishment.

A marbled giant rose from the sea, as if woken from some aeons-long slumber.

It was very, very impressive.

‘Bastards,’ Thonburi muttered.

‘Sir?’

‘Bastards,’ he said, louder this time. ‘We know they’re better than us. But do they have to keep reminding us?’

He ushered her into the reception chamber where the Vahishta visitors were being entertained. The return indoors had a magical sharpening effect on his senses. Naqi suspected that the ability to turn drunkenness on and off like a switch must be one of the most hallowed of diplomatic skills.

He leaned towards her, confidentially. ‘Did Jotah mention any—’

‘Security considerations, Chairman? Yes, I think I got the message.’

‘It’s probably nothing, only—’

‘I understand. Better safe than sorry.’

He winked, touching a finger against the side of his nose. ‘Precisely.’

The interior was bright after the balcony. Twenty Vahishta delegates were standing in a huddle near the middle of the room. The captain was absent - little had been seen of Moreau since the shuttle’s arrival in Umingmaktok - but the delegates were talking to a clutch of local bigwigs, none of whom Naqi recognised. Thonburi steered her into the fray, oblivious to the conversations that were taking place.

‘Ladies and gentleman . . . I would like to introduce Naqi Okpik. Naqi oversees the scientific programme on the Moat. She’ll be your host for the visit to our project.’

‘Ah, Naqi.’ Amesha Crane leaned over and shook her hand. ‘A pleasure. I just read your papers on information propagation methods in class-three nodes. Erudite.’

‘They were collaborative works,’ Naqi said. ‘I really can’t take too much credit.’

‘Ah, but you can. All of you can. You achieved those findings with the minimum of resources, and you made very creative use of some extremely simplistic numerical methods.’

‘We muddle through,’ Naqi said.

Crane nodded enthusiastically. ‘It must give you a great sense of satisfaction.’

Tak Thonburi said, ‘It’s a philosophy, that’s all. We conduct our science in isolation, and we enjoy only limited communication with other colonies. As a social model it has its disadvantages, but it means we aren’t forever jealous of what they’re achieving on some other world that happens to be a few decades ahead of us because of an accident of history or location. We think that the benefits outweigh the costs.’

‘Well, it seems to work,’ Crane said. ‘You have a remarkably stable society here, Chairman. Verging on the utopian, some might say.’

Tak Thonburi caressed his cowlick. ‘We can’t complain.’

‘Nor can we,’ said the man Naqi recognised as quizzical-faced Simon Matsubara. ‘If you hadn’t enforced this isolation, your own Juggler research would have been as hopelessly compromised as everywhere else.’

‘But the isolation isn’t absolute, is it?’

The voice was quiet, but commanding.

Naqi followed the voice to the speaker. It was Rafael Weir, the man who had been identified as a possible security risk. Of the three who had emerged from Moreau’s shuttle, he was the least remarkable looking, possessing the kind of amorphous face that would allow him to blend in with almost any crowd. Had her attention not been drawn to him, he would have been the last one she noticed. He was not unattractive, but there was nothing particularly striking or charismatic about his looks. According to the security dossier, he had made a number of efforts to break away from the main party of the delegation while they had been visiting research stations. They could have been accidents - one or two other party members had become separated at other times - but it was beginning to look a little too deliberate.

‘No,’ Tak Thonburi answered. ‘We’re not absolute isolationists, or we’d never have given permission for Voice of Evening to assume orbit around Turquoise. But we don’t solicit passing traffic either. Our welcome is as warm as anyone’s, we hope, but we don’t encourage visitors.’

‘Are we the first to visit since your settlement?’ Weir asked.

‘The first starship?’ Tak Thonburi shook his head. ‘No. But it’s been a number of years since the last one.’

‘Which was?’

‘The Pelican in Impiety, a century ago.’

‘An amusing coincidence, then,’ Weir said.

Tak Thonburi narrowed his eyes. ‘Coincidence?’

‘The Pelican’s next port of call was Haven, if I’m not mistaken. It was en route from Zion, but it made a trade stopover around Turquoise.’ He smiled. ‘And we have come from Haven, so history already binds our two worlds, albeit tenuously.’

Thonburi’s eyes narrowed. He was trying to read Weir and evidently failing. ‘We don’t talk about the Pelican too much. There were technical benefits - vacuum-bladder production methods, information technologies . . . but there was also a fair bit of unpleasantness. The wounds haven’t entirely healed.’

‘Let’s hope this visit will be remembered more fondly,’ Weir said.

Amesha Crane nodded, fingering one of the items of silver jewellery in her hair. ‘Agreed. All the indications are favourable, at the very least. We’ve arrived at a most auspicious time.’ She turned to Naqi. ‘I find the Moat project fascinating, and I’m sure I speak for the entire Vahishta delegation. I may as well tell you that no one else has attempted anything remotely like it. Tell me, scientist to scientist, do you honestly think it will work?’

‘We won’t know until we try,’ Naqi said. Any other answer would have been politically hazardous: too much optimism and the politicians would have started asking just why the expensive project was needed in the first place. Too much pessimism and they would ask exactly the same question.

‘Fascinating, all the same.’ Crane’s expression was knowing, as if she understood Naqi’s predicament perfectly. ‘I understand that you’re very close to running the first experiment?’

‘Given that it’s taken us twenty years to get this far, yes, we’re close. But we’re still looking at three to four months, maybe longer. It’s not something we want to rush.’

‘That’s a great pity,’ Crane said, turning now to Thonburi. ‘In three to four months we might be on our way. Still, it would have been something to see, wouldn’t it?’

Thonburi leaned towards Naqi. The alcohol on his breath was a fog of cheap vinegar. ‘I suppose there wouldn’t be any chance of accelerating the schedule, would there?’

‘Out of the question, I’m afraid,’ Naqi said.

‘That’s just too bad,’ said Amesha Crane. Still toying with her jewellery, she turned to the others. ‘But we mustn’t let a little detail like that spoil our visit, must we?’

They returned to the Moat using the Voice of Evening’s shuttle. There was another civic reception to be endured upon arrival, but it was a much smaller affair than the one in Sukhothai-Sanikiluaq. Dr Jotah Sivaraksa was there, of course, and once Naqi had dealt with the business of introducing the party to him she was able to relax for the first time in many hours, melting into the corner of the room and watching the interaction between visitors and locals with a welcome sense of detachment. Naqi was tired and had difficulty keeping her eyes open. She saw everything through a sleepy blur, the delegates surrounding Sivaraksa like pillars of fire, the fabric of their costumes rippling with the slightest movement, reds and russets and chrome yellows dancing like sparks or sheets of flame. Naqi left as soon as she felt it was polite to do so, and when she reached her bed she fell immediately into troubled sleep, dreaming of squadrons of purple-winged angels falling from the skies and of the great giant rising from the depths, clawing the seaweed and kelp of ages from his eyes.

In the morning she awoke without really feeling refreshed. Anaemic light pierced the slats on her window. She was not due to meet the delegates again for another three or four hours, so there was time to turn over and try and catch some proper sleep. But she knew from experience that it would be futile.

She got up. To her surprise, there was a new message on her console from Jotah Sivaraksa. What, she wondered, did he have to say to her that he could not have said at the reception, or later this morning?

She opened the message and read.

‘Sivaraksa,’ she said to herself. ‘Are you insane? It can’t be done.’

The message informed her that there had been a change of plan. The first closure of the sea-doors would be attempted in two days, while the delegates were still on the Moat.

It was pure madness. They were months away from that. Yes, the doors could be closed - the basic machinery for doing that was in place - and yes, the doors would be hermetically tight for at least one hundred hours after closure. But nothing else was ready. The sensitive monitoring equipment, the failsafe sub-systems, the back-ups . . . None of that would be in place and operational for many weeks. Then there was supposed to be at least six weeks of testing, slowly building up to the event itself . . .

To do it in two days made no sense at all, except to a politician. At best all they would learn was whether or not the Jugglers had remained inside the Moat when the door was closed. They would learn nothing about how the data flow was terminated, or how the internal connections between the nodes adapted to the loss of contact with the wider ocean.

Naqi swore and hit the console. She wanted to blame Sivaraksa, but she knew that was unfair. Sivaraksa had to keep the politicians happy, or the whole project would be endangered. He was just doing what he had to do, and he almost certainly liked it even less than she did.

Naqi pulled on shorts and a T-shirt and found some coffee in one of the adjoining mess rooms. The Moat was deserted, quiet except for the womblike throb of generators and air-circulation systems. A week ago it would have been as noisy now as at any other time of day, for the construction had continued around the clock. But the heavy work was finished; the last ore dirigible had arrived while Naqi was away. All that remained was the relatively light work of completing the Moat’s support sub-systems. Despite what Sivaraksa had said in his message there was really very little additional work needed to close the doors. Even two days of frantic activity would make no difference to the usefulness of the stunt.

When she’d calmed down, she returned to her room and called Sivaraksa. It was still far too early, but seeing that the bastard had already ruined her day she saw no reason not to reciprocate.

‘Naqi.’ His silver hair was a sleep-matted mess on the screen. ‘I take it you got my message?’

‘You didn’t think I’d take it lying down, did you?’

‘I don’t like it any more than you do. But I see the political necessity.’

‘Do you? This isn’t like switching a light on and off, Jotah.’ His eyes widened at the familiarity, but she pressed on regardless. ‘If we screw up the first time, there might never be a second chance. The Jugglers have to play along. Without them all you’ve got here is a very expensive mid-ocean refuelling point. Does that make political sense to you?’

He pushed green fingers through the mess of his hair. ‘Have some breakfast, get some fresh air, then come to my office. We’ll talk about it then.’

‘I’ve had breakfast, thanks very much.’

‘Then get the fresh air. You’ll feel better for it.’ Sivaraksa rubbed his eyes. ‘You’re not very happy about this, are you?’

‘It’s bloody madness. And the worst thing is that you know it.’

‘And my hands are tied. Ten years from now, Naqi, you’ll be sitting in my place having to make similar decisions. And ten to one there’ll be some idealistic young scientist telling you what a hopeless piece of deadwood you are.’ He managed a weary smile. ‘Mark my words, because I want you to remember this conversation when it happens.’

‘There’s nothing I can do to stop this, is there?’

‘I’ll be in my office in—’ Sivaraksa looked aside at a clock, ‘thirty minutes. We can talk about it properly then.’

‘There’s nothing to talk about.’

But even as she said that she knew she sounded petulant and inflexible. Sivaraksa was right: it was impossible to manage a project as complex and expensive as the Moat without a degree of compromise.

Naqi decided that Sivaraksa’s advice - at least the part about getting some fresh air - was worth heeding. She descended a helical staircase until she reached the upper surface of the Moat’s ring-shaped wall. The concrete was cold beneath her bare feet and a pleasantly cool breeze caressed her legs and arms. The sky had brightened on one horizon. Machines and supplies were arranged neatly on the upper surface ready for use, although further construction would be halted until the delegates completed their visit. Stepping nimbly over the tracks, conduits and cables that crisscrossed each other on the upper surface, Naqi walked to the side. A high railing, painted in high-visibility rot-resistant sealer, fenced the inner part of the Moat. She touched it to make sure it was dry, then leaned over. The distant side of the Moat was a colourless thread, twenty kilometres away, like a very low wall of sea mist.

What could be done in two days? Nothing. Or at least nothing compared to what had always been planned. But if the new schedule was a fait accompli - and that was the message she was getting from Sivaraksa - then it was her responsibility to find a way to squeeze some scientific return from the event. She looked down at the cut, and at the many spindly gantries and catwalks that spanned the aperture or hung some way towards the centre of the Moat. Perhaps if she arranged for some standard-issue probes to be prepared today, the type dropped from dirigibles . . .

Naqi’s eyes darted around, surveying fixtures and telemetry conduits.

It would be hard work to get them in place in time, and even harder to get them patched into some kind of real-time acquisition system . . . But it was doable, just barely. The data quality would be laughable compared to the supersensitive instruments that were going to be installed over the next few months . . . But crude was a lot better than nothing at all.

She laughed, aloud. An hour ago she would have stuck pins into herself rather than collaborate in this kind of fiasco.

Naqi walked along the railing until she reached a pair of pillar-mounted binoculars. They were smeared with rot-protection. She wiped the lens and eyepieces clean with the rag that was tied to the pedestal, then swung the binoculars in a slow arc, panning across the dark circle of water trapped within the Moat. Only vague patches of what Naqi would have called open water were visible. The rest was either a verdant porridge of Juggler organisms, or fully grown masses of organised floating matter, linked together by trunks and veins of the same green biomass. The latest estimate was that there were three small nodes within the ring. The smell was atrocious, but that was an excellent sign as well: it correlated strongly with the density of organisms in the nodes. She had experienced that smell many times, but it never failed to slam her back to that morning when Mina had died.

As much as the Pattern Jugglers ‘knew’ anything, they were surely aware of what was planned here. They had drunk the minds of the swimmers who had already entered the sea near or within the Moat, and not one of those swimmers was ignorant of the project’s ultimate purpose. It was possible that that knowledge simply couldn’t be parsed into a form the aliens would understand, but Naqi considered that unlikely: the closure of the Moat would be about as stark a concept as one could imagine. If nothing else, geometry was the one thing the Jugglers did understand. And yet the aliens chose to remain within the closing Moat, hinting that they would tolerate the final closure that would seal them off from the rest of the ocean.

Perhaps they were not impressed. Perhaps they knew that the event would not rob them of every channel of communication, but only the chemical medium of the ocean. Sprites and other airborne organisms would still be able to cross the barrier. It was impossible to tell. The only way to know was to complete the experiment - to close the massive sea-doors - and see what happened.

She leaned back, taking her eyes from the binoculars.

Now Naqi saw something unexpected. It was a glint of hard white light, scudding across the water within the Moat.

Naqi squinted, but still she could not make out the object. She swung the binoculars hard around, got her eyes behind them and then zigzagged until something flashed through the field of view. She backed up and locked onto it.

It was a boat, and there was someone in it.

She keyed in the image zoom/stabilise function and the craft swelled to clarity across a clear kilometre of sea. The craft was a ceramic-hulled vessel of the type that the swimmer teams used, five or six metres long from bow to stern. The person sat behind a curved spray shield, their hands on the handlebars of the control pillar. An inboard thruster propelled the boat without ever touching water.

The figure was difficult to make out, but the billowing orange clothes left no room for doubt. It was one of the Vahishta delegates. And Naqi fully expected it to be Rafael Weir.

He was headed towards the closest node.

For an agonising few moments she did not know what to do. He was going to attempt to swim, she thought, just like she and Mina had done. And he would be no better prepared for the experience. She had to stop him, somehow. He would reach the node in only a few minutes.

Naqi sprinted back to the tower, breathless when she arrived. She reached a communications post and tried to find the right channel for the boat. But either she was doing it wrong or Weir had sabotaged the radio. What next? Technically, there was a security presence on the Moat, especially given the official visit. But what did the security goons know about chasing boats? All their training was aimed at dealing with internal crises, and none of them were competent to go anywhere near an active node.

She called them anyway, alerting them to what had happened. Then she called Sivaraksa, telling him the same news. ‘I think it’s Weir,’ she said. ‘I’m going to try and stop him.’

‘Naqi . . .’ he said warningly.

‘This is my responsibility, Jotah. Let me handle it.’

Naqi ran back outside again. The closest elevator down to sea level was out of service; the next one was a kilometre further around the ring. She didn’t have that much time. Instead she jogged along the line of railings until she reached a break that admitted entry to a staircase that descended the steep inner wall of the Moat. The steps and handrails had been helpfully greased with anti-rot, which made her descent that much more treacherous. There were five hundred steps down to sea level but she took them two or three at a time, sliding down the handrails until she reached the grilled platforms where the stairways reversed direction. All the while she watched the tiny white speck of the boat, seemingly immobile now that it was so far away, but undoubtedly narrowing the distance to the node with each minute. As she worked her way down she had plenty of time to think about what was going through the delegate’s head. She was sure now that it was Weir. It did not really surprise her that he wanted to swim: it was what everyone who studied the Jugglers yearned for. But why make this unofficial attempt now when a little gentle persuasion would have made it possible anyway? Given Tak Thonburi’s eagerness to please the delegates, it would not have been beyond the bounds of possibility for a swimming expedition to be organised . . . The corps would have protested, but just like Naqi they would have been given a forceful lesson in the refined art of political compromise.

But evidently Weir hadn’t been prepared to wait. It all made sense, at any rate: the times when he had dodged away from the party before must have all been abortive attempts to reach the Jugglers. But only now had he been able to seize his opportunity.

Naqi reached the water level, where jetties floated on ceramic-sheathed pontoons. Most of the boats were suspended out of the water on cradles, to save their hulls from unnecessary degradation. Fortunately, there was an emergency rescue boat already afloat. Its formerly white hull had the flaking, pea-green scab patterning of advanced rot, but it still had a dozen or so hours of seaworthiness in it. Naqi jumped aboard, released the boat from its moorings and fired up the thruster. In a moment she was racing away from the jetty, away from the vast, stained edifice of the Moat itself. She steered a course through the least viscous stretches of water, avoiding conspicuous rafts of green matter.

She peered ahead through the boat’s spray-drenched shield. It had been easy to keep track of Weir’s boat when she had been a hundred metres higher, but now she kept losing him behind swells or miniature islands of Juggler matter. After a minute or so she gave up trying to follow the boat, and instead diverted her concentration to finding the quickest route to the node.

She flipped on the radio. ‘Jotah? This is Naqi. I’m in the water, closing on Weir.’

There was a pause, a crackle, then: ‘What’s the status?’

She had to shout over the abrasive thump, thump, thump of the boat, even though the thruster was nearly silent.

‘I’ll reach the node in four or five minutes. Can’t see Weir, but I don’t think it matters.’

‘We can see him. He’s still headed for the node.’

‘Good. Can you spare some more boats, in case he decides to make a run for another node?’

‘They’ll be leaving in a minute or so. I’m waking everyone I can.’

‘What about the other delegates?’

Sivaraksa did not answer her immediately. ‘Most are still asleep. I have Amesha Crane and Simon Matsubara in my office, however.’

‘Let me speak to them.’

‘Just a moment,’ he said, after the same brief hesitation.

‘Crane here,’ said the woman.

‘I think I’m chasing Weir. Can you confirm that?’

‘He isn’t accounted for,’ she told Naqi. ‘But it’ll be a few minutes until we can be certain it’s him.’

‘I’m not expecting a surprise. Weir already had a question mark over him, Amesha. We were waiting for him to try something.’

‘Were you?’ Perhaps it was her imagination, but Crane sounded genuinely surprised. ‘Why? What had he done?’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No . . .’ Crane trailed off.

‘He was one of us,’ Matsubara said. ‘A good . . . delegate. We had no reason to distrust him.’

Perhaps Naqi was imagining this as well, but it almost sounded as if Matsubara had intended to say ‘disciple’ rather than ‘delegate’.

Crane came back on the radio. ‘Please do your best to apprehend him, Naqi. This is a source of great embarrassment to us. He mustn’t do any harm.’

Naqi gunned the boat harder, no longer bothering to avoid the smaller patches of organic matter. ‘No,’ she said. ‘He mustn’t.’

THREE

Something changed ahead.

‘Naqi?’ It was Jotah Sivaraksa’s voice.

‘What?’

‘Weir’s slowed his boat. From our vantage point it looks as if he’s reached the perimeter of the node. He seems to be circumnavigating it.’

‘I can’t see him yet. He must be picking the best spot to dive in.’

‘But it won’t work, will it?’ Sivaraksa asked. ‘There has to be an element of co-operation with the Jugglers. They have to invite the swimmer to enter the sea, or nothing happens.’

‘Maybe he doesn’t realise that,’ Naqi said, under her breath. It was of no concern to her how closely Weir was adhering to the usual method of initiating Juggler communion. Even if the Jugglers did not co-operate - even if all Weir did was flounder in thick green water - there was no telling the hidden harm that might be done. She had already grudgingly accepted the acceleration of the closure operation. There was no way she was going to tolerate another upset, another unwanted perturbation of the experimental system. Not on her watch.

‘He’s stopped,’ Sivaraksa said excitedly. ‘Can you see him yet?’

Naqi stood up in her seat, even though she felt perilously unbalanced. ‘Wait. Yes, I think so. I’ll be there in a minute or so.’

‘What are you going to do?’ Crane asked. ‘I hesitate to say it, but Weir may not respond to rational argument at this point. Simply requesting that he leave the water won’t necessarily work. Um, do you have a weapon?’

‘Yes,’ Naqi said. ‘I’m sitting in it.’

She did not allow herself to relax, but at least now she felt that the situation was slipping back into her control. She would kill Weir rather than have him contaminate the node.

His boat was visible now only as a smudge of white, intermittently popping up between folds and hummocks of shifting green. Her imagination sketched in the details. Weir would be preparing to swim, stripping off until he was naked, or nearly so. Perhaps he would feel some kind of erotic charge as he prepared for immersion. She did not doubt that he would be apprehensive, and perhaps he would hesitate on the threshold of the act, teetering on the edge of the boat before committing himself to the water. But a fanatic desire had driven him this far and she doubted that it would fail him.

‘Naqi—’

‘Jotah?’

‘Naqi, he’s moving again. He didn’t enter the water. He didn’t even look like he had any intention of swimming.’

‘He saw I was coming. I take it he’s heading for the next closest node?’

‘Perhaps . . .’ But Jotah Sivaraksa sounded far from certain.

She saw the boat again. It was moving fast - much faster than it had appeared before - but that was only because she was now seeing lateral motion.

The next node was a distant island framed by the background of the Moat’s encircling rim. If he headed that way she would be hard behind him all the way there as well. No matter his desire to swim, he must realise that she could thwart his every attempt.

Naqi looked back. The twin towers framing the cut were smothered in a haze of sea mist, their geometric details smeared into a vague suggestion of haphazard complexity. They suggested teetering, stratified sea-stacks, million-year-old towers of weathered and eroded rock guarding the narrow passage to the open ocean. Beneath them, winking in and out of clarity, she saw three or four other boats making their way into the Moat. The ponderous teardrop of a passenger dirigible was nosing away from the side of one of the towers, the low dawn sun throwing golden highlights along the fluted lines of its gondola. Naqi made out the sleek deltoid of the Voice of Evening’s shuttle, but it was still parked where it had landed.

She looked back to the node where Weir had hesitated.

Something was happening.

The node had become vastly more active than a minute earlier. It resembled a green, steep-sided volcanic island that was undergoing some catastrophic seismic calamity. The entire mass of the node was trembling, rocking and throbbing with an eerie regularity. Concentric swells of disturbed water raced away from it, sickening troughs that made the speeding boat pitch and slide. Naqi slowed her boat, some instinct telling her that it was now largely futile to pursue Weir. Then she turned around so that she faced the node properly and, cautiously, edged closer, ignoring the nausea she felt as the boat ducked and dived from crest to trough.

The node, like all nodes, had always shown a rich surface topology: fused hummocks and tendrils; fabulous domes and minarets and helter-skelters of organised biomass, linked and entangled by a telegraphic system of draping aerial tendrils. In any instant it resembled a human city - or, more properly, a fairy-tale human city - that had been efficiently smothered in green moss. The bright moving motes of sprites dodged through the interstices, the portholes and arches of the urban mass. The metropolitan structure only hinted at the node’s Byzantine interior architecture, and much of that could only be glimpsed or implied.

But this node was like a city going insane. It was accelerating, running through cycles of urban renewal and redesign with indecent haste. Structures were evolving before Naqi’s eyes. She had seen change this rapid just before Mina was taken, but normally those kinds of changes happened too slowly to be seen at all, like the daily movement of shadows.

The throbbing had decreased, but the flickering change was now throwing out a steady, warm, malodorous breeze. And when she stopped the boat - she dared come no closer now - Naqi heard the node. It was like the whisper of a billion forest leaves presaging a summer storm.

Whatever was happening here, it was about to become catastrophic.

Some fundamental organisation had been lost. The changes were happening too quickly, with too little central co-ordination. Tendrils thrashed like whips, unable to connect to anything. They flailed against each other. Structures were forming and collapsing. The node was fracturing, so that there were three, four, perhaps five distinct cores of flickering growth. As soon as she had the measure of it, the process shifted it all. Meagre light flickered within the epileptic mass. Sprites swarmed in confused flight patterns, orbiting mindlessly between foci. The sound of the node had become a distant shriek.

‘It’s dying . . .’ Naqi breathed.

Weir had done something to it. What, she couldn’t guess. But this could not be a coincidence.

The shrieking died down.

The breeze ceased.

The node had stopped its convulsions. She looked at it, hoping against hope that perhaps it had overcome whatever destabilising influence Weir had introduced. The structures were still misshapen, there was still an impression of incoherence, but the city was inert. The cycling motion of the sprites slowed, and a few of them dropped down into the mass, as if to roost.

A calm had descended.

Then Naqi heard another sound. It was lower than anything she had heard before - almost subsonic. It sounded less like thunder than like a very distant, very heated conversation.

It was coming from the approximate centre of the node.

She watched as a smooth green mound rose from the centre, resembling a flattened hemisphere. It grew larger by the second, assimilating the malformed structures with quiet indifference. They disappeared into the surface of the mound as if into a wall of fog, but they did not emerge again. The mound only increased its size, rumbling towards Naqi. The entire mass of the node was changing into a single undifferentiated mass.

‘Jotah . . .’ she said.

‘We see it, Naqi. We see it but we don’t understand it.’

‘Weir must have used some kind of . . . weapon against it,’ she said.

‘We don’t know that he’s harmed it . . . He might just have precipitated a change to a state we haven’t documented.’

‘That still makes it a weapon in my book. I’m scared, Jotah.’

‘You think I’m not?’

Around her the sea was changing. She had forgotten about the submerged tendrils that connected the nodes. They were as thick as hawsers, and now they were writhing and thrashing just beneath the surface of the water. Green-tinged spume lifted into the air. It was as if unseen aquatic monsters were wrestling, locked in some dire, to-the-death contest.

‘Naqi . . . We’re seeing changes in the closest of the two remaining nodes.’

‘No,’ she said, as if denying it would make any difference.

‘I’m sorry . . .’

‘Where is Weir?’

‘We’ve lost him. There’s too much surface disturbance.’

She realised then what had to be done. The thought arrived in her head with a crashing urgency.

‘Jotah . . . You have to close the sea-doors. Now. Immediately. Before whatever Weir’s unleashed has a chance to reach open ocean. That also happens to be Weir’s only escape route.’

Sivaraksa, to his credit, did not argue. ‘Yes. You’re right. I’ll start closure. But it will take quite a few minutes . . .’

‘I know, Jotah!’

She cursed herself for not having thought of this sooner, and cursed Sivaraksa for the same error. But she could hardly blame either of them. Closure had never been something to take lightly. A few hours ago it had been an event months in the future - an experiment to test the willingness of the Jugglers to co-operate with human plans. Now it had turned into an emergency amputation, something to be done with brutal haste.

She peered at the gap between the towers. At the very least it would take several minutes for Sivaraksa to initiate closure. It was not simply a matter of pressing a button on his desk, but of rousing two or three specialist technicians, who would have to be immediately convinced that this was not some elaborate hoax. And then the machinery would have to work. The mechanisms that forced the sea-doors together had been tested numerous times . . . But the machinery had never been driven to its limit; the doors had never moved more than a few metres together. Now they would have to work perfectly, closing with watchmaker precision.

And when had anything on Turquoise ever worked the first time?

There. The tiniest, least perceptible narrowing of the gap. It was all happening with agonising slowness.

She looked back to what remained of the node. The mound had consumed all the biomass available to it and had now ceased its growth. It was as if a child had sculpted in clay some fantastically intricate model of a city, which a callous adult had then squashed into a single blank mass, erasing all trace of its former complexity. The closest of the remaining nodes was showing something of the same transformation, Naqi saw: it was running through the frantic cycle that had presaged the emergence of the mound. She guessed now that the cycle had been the node’s attempt to nullify whatever Weir had used against it, like a computer trying to reallocate resources to compensate for some crippling viral attack.

She could do nothing for the Jugglers now.

Naqi turned the boat around and headed back towards the cut. The sea-doors had narrowed the gap by perhaps a quarter.

The changes taking place within the Moat had turned the water turbulent, even at the jetty. She hitched the boat to a mooring point and then took the elevator up the side of the wall, preferring to sprint the distance along the top rather than face the climb. By the time she reached the cut the doors were three-quarters of the way to closure and, to Naqi’s immense relief, the machinery had yet to falter.

She approached the tower. She had expected to see more people out on the top of the Moat, even if she knew that Sivaraksa would still be in his control centre. But no one was around. This was just beginning to register as a distinct wrongness when Sivaraksa emerged into daylight, stumbling from the door at the foot of the tower.

For an instant she was on the point of calling his name. Then she realised that he was stumbling because he had been injured - his fingers were scarlet with blood - and that he was trying to get away from someone or something.

Naqi dropped to the ground behind a stack of construction slabs. Through gaps between the slabs she observed Sivaraksa. He was swatting at something, like a man being chased by a persistent wasp. Something tiny and silver harried him. More than one thing, in fact: a small swarm of them, streaming out the open door. Sivaraksa fell to his knees with a moan, brushing ineffectually at his tormentors. His face was turning red, smeared with his own blood. He slumped on one side.

Naqi remained frozen with fear.

A person stepped from the open door.

The figure was garbed in shades of fire. It was Amesha Crane. For an absurd moment Naqi assumed that the woman was about to spring to Sivaraksa’s assistance. It was something about her demeanour. Naqi found it hard to believe that someone so apparently serene could commit such a violent act.

But Crane did not step closer to Sivaraksa. She merely extended her arms before her, with her fingers outspread. She sustained the oddly theatrical gesture, the muscles in her neck standing proud and rigid.

The silver things departed Sivaraksa.

They swarmed through the air, slowing as they neared Crane. Then, with a startling degree of orchestrated obedience, they slid onto her fingers, locked themselves around her wrists, clasped onto the lobes of her ears.

Her jewellery had attacked Sivaraksa.

Crane glanced at the man one last time, spun on her heels and then retreated back into the tower.

Naqi waited until she was certain the woman was not coming back, then started to emerge from behind the pile of slabs. But Sivaraksa saw her. He said nothing, but his agonised eyes widened enough for Naqi to get the warning. She remained where she was, her heart hammering.

Nothing happened for another minute.

Then something moved above, changing the play of light across the surface of the Moat. The Voice of Evening’s shuttle was detaching from the tower, a flicker of white machinery beneath the manta curve of its hull.

The shuttle loitered above the cut, as if observing the final moment of closure. Naqi heard the huge doors grind shut. Then the shuttle banked and headed into the circular sea, no more than two hundred metres above the waves. Some distance out it halted and executed a sharp right-angled turn. Then it resumed its flight, moving concentrically around the inner wall.

Sivaraksa closed his eyes. She thought he might have died, but then he opened them again and made the tiniest of nods. Naqi left her place of hiding. She crossed the open ground to Sivaraksa in a low, crablike stoop.

She knelt down by him, cradling his head in one hand and holding his own hand with the other. ‘Jotah . . . What happened? ’

He managed to answer her. ‘They turned on us. The nineteen other delegates. As soon as—’ He paused, summoning strength. ‘As soon as Weir made his move.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Join the club,’ he said, managing a smile.

‘I need to get you inside,’ she said.

‘Won’t help. Everyone else is dead. Or will be by now. They murdered us all.’

‘No.’

‘Kept me alive until the end. Wanted me to give the orders.’ He coughed. Blood spattered her hand.

‘I can still get you—’

‘Naqi. Save yourself. Get help.’

She realised that he was about to die.

‘The shuttle?’

‘Looking for Weir. I think.’

‘They want Weir back?’

‘No. Heard them talking. They want Weir dead. They have to be sure.’

Naqi frowned. She understood none of this, or at least her understanding was only now beginning to crystallise. She had labelled Weir as the villain because he had harmed her beloved Pattern Jugglers. But Crane and her entourage had murdered people, dozens, if what Sivaraksa said was correct. They appeared to want Weir dead as well. So what did that make Weir, now?

‘Jotah . . . I have to find Weir. I have to find out why he did this.’ She looked back towards the centre of the Moat. The shuttle was continuing its search. ‘Did your security people get a trace on him again?’

Sivaraksa was near the end. She thought he was never going to answer her. ‘Yes,’ he said finally. ‘Yes, they found him again.’

‘And? Any idea where he is? I might still be able to reach him before the shuttle does.’

‘Wrong place.’

She leaned closer. ‘Jotah?’

‘Wrong place. Amesha’s looking in the wrong place. Weir got through the cut. He’s in the open ocean.’

‘I’m going after him. Perhaps I can stop him . . .’

‘Try,’ Sivaraksa said. ‘But I’m not sure what difference it will make. I have a feeling, Naqi. A very bad feeling. Things are ending. It was good, wasn’t it? While it lasted?’

‘I haven’t given up just yet,’ Naqi said.

He found one last nugget of strength. ‘I knew you wouldn’t. Right to trust you. One thing, Naqi. One thing that might make a difference . . . if it comes to the worst, that is—’

‘Jotah?’

‘Tak Thonburi told me this . . . the most top secret, known only to the Snowflake Council. Arviat, Naqi—’

For a moment she thought she had misheard him, or that he was sliding into delirium. ‘Arviat? The city that sinned against the sea?’

‘It was real,’ Sivaraksa said.

There were a number of lifeboats and emergency service craft stored at the top of near-vertical slipways, a hundred metres above the external sea. She took a small but fast emergency craft with a sealed cockpit, her stomach knotting as the vessel commenced its slide towards the ocean. The boat submerged before resurfacing, boosted up to speed and then deployed ceramic hydrofoils to minimise the contact between the hull and the water. Naqi had no precise heading to follow, but she believed Weir would have followed a reasonably straight line away from the cut, aiming to get as far away from the Moat as possible before the other delegates realised their mistake. It would require only a small deviation from that course to take him to the nearest external node, which was as likely a destination as any.

When she was twenty kilometres from the Moat, Naqi allowed herself a moment to look back. The structure was a thin white line etched on the horizon, the towers and the now-sealed cut faintly visible as interruptions in the line’s smoothness. Quills of dark smoke climbed from a dozen spots along the length of the structure. It was too far for Naqi to be certain that she saw flames licking from the towers, but she considered it likely.

The closest external node appeared over the horizon fifteen minutes later. It was nowhere as impressive as the one that had taken Mina, but it was still a larger, more complex structure than any of the nodes that had formed within the Moat - a major urban megalopolis, perhaps, rather than a moderately sized city. Against the skyline Naqi saw spires and rotundas and coronets of green, bridged by a tracery of elevated tendrils. Sprites were rapidly moving silhouettes. There was motion, but it was largely confined to the flying creatures. The node was not yet showing the frenzied changes she had witnessed within the Moat.

Had Weir gone somewhere else?

She pressed onwards, slowing the boat slightly now that the water was thickening with micro-organisms and it was necessary to steer around the occasional larger floating structure. The boat’s sonar picked out dozens of submerged tendrils converging on the node, suspended just below the surface. The tendrils reached away in all directions, to the limits of the boat’s sonar range. Most would have reached over the horizon, to nodes many hundreds of kilometres away. But it was a topological certainty that some of them had been connected to the nodes inside the Moat. Evidently, Weir’s contagion had never escaped through the cut. Naqi doubted that the doors had closed in time to impede whatever chemical signals were transmitting the fatal message. It was more likely that some latent Juggler self-protection mechanism had cut in, the dying nodes sending emergency termination-of-connection signals that forced the tendrils to sever without human assistance.

Naqi had just decided that she had guessed wrongly about Weir’s plan when she saw a rectilinear furrow gouged right through one of the largest subsidiary structures. The wound was healing itself as she watched - it would be gone in a matter of minutes - but enough remained for her to tell that Weir’s boat must have cleaved through the mass very recently. It made sense. Weir had already demonstrated that he had no interest in preserving the Pattern Jugglers.

With renewed determination, Naqi gunned the boat forward. She no longer worried about inflicting local damage on the floating masses. There was a great deal more at stake than the well-being of a single node.

She felt a warmth on the back of her neck.

At the same instant the sky, sea and floating structures ahead of her pulsed with a cruel brightness. Her own shadow stretched forward ominously. The brightness faded over the next few seconds, and then she dared to look back, half-knowing what she would see.

A mass of hot, roiling gas was climbing into the air from the centre of the node. It tugged a column of matter beneath it, like the knotted and gnarled spinal column of a horribly swollen brain. Against the mushroom cloud she saw the tiny moving speck of the delegates’ shuttle.

A minute later the sound of the explosion reached her, but although it was easily the loudest thing she had ever heard, it was not as deafening as she had expected. The boat lurched; the sea fumed, and then was still again. She assumed that the Moat’s wall had absorbed much of the energy of the blast.

Suddenly fearful that there might be another explosion, Naqi turned back towards the node. At the same instant she saw Weir’s boat, racing perhaps three hundred metres ahead of her. He was beginning to curve and slow as he neared the impassable perimeter of the node. Naqi knew that she did not have time to delay.

That was when Weir saw her. His boat sped up again, arcing hard away. Naqi steered immediately, certain that her boat was faster and that it was now only a matter of time before she had him. A minute later Weir’s boat disappeared around the curve of the node’s perimeter. She might have stood a chance of getting an echo from his hull, but this close to the node all sonar returns were too garbled to be of any use. Naqi steered anyway, hoping that Weir would make the tactical mistake of striking for another node. In open water he stood no chance at all, but perhaps he understood that as well.

She had circumnavigated a third of the node’s perimeter when she caught up with him again. He had not tried to run for it. Instead he had brought the boat to a halt within the comparative shelter of an inlet on the perimeter. He was standing up at the rear of the boat, with something small and dark in his hand.

Naqi slowed her boat as she approached him. She had popped back the canopy before it occurred to her that Weir might be equipped with the same weapons as Crane.

She stood up herself. ‘Weir?’

He smiled. ‘I’m sorry to have caused so much trouble. But I don’t think it could have happened any other way.’

She let this pass. ‘That thing in your hand?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s a weapon, isn’t it?’

She could see it clearly now. It was merely a glass bauble, little larger than a child’s marble. There was something opaque inside it, but she could not tell if it contained fluid or dark crystals.

‘I doubt that a denial would be very plausible at this point.’ He nodded, and she sensed the lifting, partially at least, of some appalling burden. ‘Yes, it’s a weapon. A Juggler killer.’

‘Until today, I’d have said no such thing was possible.’

‘I doubt that it was very easy to synthesise. Countless biological entities have entered their oceans, and none of them have ever brought anything with them that the Jugglers couldn’t assimilate in a harmless fashion. Doubtless some of those entities tried to inflict deliberate harm, if only out of morbid curiosity. None of them succeeded. Of course, you can kill Jugglers by brute force—’ He looked towards the Moat, where the mushroom cloud was dissipating. ‘But that isn’t the point. Not subtle. But this is. It exploits a logical flaw in the Jugglers’ own informational processing algorithms. It’s insidious. And no, humans most certainly didn’t invent it. We’re clever, but we’re not that clever.’

Naqi strove to keep him talking. ‘Who made it, Weir?’

‘The Ultras sold it to us in a presynthesised form. I’ve heard rumours that it was found inside the topmost chamber of a heavily fortified alien structure . . . Another that it was synthesised by a rival group of Jugglers. Who knows? Who cares, even? It does what we ask of it. That’s all that matters.’

‘Please don’t use it, Rafael.’

‘I have to. It’s what I came here to do.’

‘But I thought you all loved the Jugglers.’

His fingers caressed the glass globe. It looked terribly fragile. ‘We?’

‘Crane . . . Her delegates.’

‘They do. But I’m not one of them.’

‘Tell me what this is about, Rafael.’

‘It would be better if you just accepted what I have to do.’

Naqi swallowed. ‘If you kill them, you kill more than just an alien life form. You erase the memory of every sentient creature that’s ever entered the ocean.’

‘Unfortunately, that rather happens to be the point.’

Weir dropped the glass into the sea.

It hit the water, bobbed under and then popped back out again, floating on the surface. The small globe was already immersed in a brackish scum of grey-green micro-organisms. They were beginning to lap higher up the sides of the globe, exploring it. A couple of millimetres of ordinary glass would succumb to Juggler erosion in perhaps thirty minutes . . . But Naqi guessed that this was not ordinary glass, that it was designed to degrade much more rapidly.

She jumped back down into her control seat and shot her boat forward. She came alongside Weir’s boat, trapping the globe between the two craft. Taking desperate care not to nudge the hulls together, she stopped her boat and leaned over as far as she could without falling in. Her fingertips brushed the glass. Maddeningly, she could not quite get a grip on it. She made one last valiant effort and it drifted beyond her reach. Now it was out of her range, no matter how hard she stretched. Weir watched impassively.

Naqi slipped into the water. The layer of Juggler organisms licked her chin and nose, the smell immediate and overwhelming now that she was in such close proximity. Her fear was absolute. It was the first time she had entered the water since Mina’s death.

She caught the globe, taking hold of it with the exquisite care she might have reserved for a rare bird’s egg.

Already the glass had the porous texture of pumice.

She held it up, for Weir to see.

‘I won’t let you do this, Rafael.’

‘I admire your concern.’

‘It’s more than concern. My sister is here. She’s in the ocean. And I won’t let you take her away from me.’

Weir reached inside a pocket and removed another globe.

They sped away from the node in Naqi’s boat. The new globe rested in his hand like a gift. He had not yet dropped it in the sea, although the possibility was only ever an instant away. They were far from any node now, but the globe would be guaranteed to come into contact with Juggler matter sooner or later.

Naqi opened a watertight equipment locker, pushing aside the flare pistol and first-aid kit that lay within. Carefully she placed the globe within, and then watched in horror as the glass immediately cracked and dissolved, releasing its poison: little black irregularly shaped grains like burned sugar. If the boat sank, the locker would eventually be consumed into the ocean, along with its fatal contents. She considered using the flare pistol to incinerate the remains, but there was too much danger of dispersing it at the same time. Perhaps the toxin had a restricted lifespan once it came into contact with air, but that was nothing she could count on.

But Weir had not thrown the globe into sea. Not yet. Something she had said had made him hesitate.

‘Your sister?’

‘You know the story,’ Naqi said. ‘Mina was a conformal. The ocean assimilated her entirely, rather than just recording her neural patterns. It took her as a prize.’

‘And you believe that she’s still present, in some sentient sense?’

‘That’s what I choose to believe, yes. And there’s enough anecdotal evidence from other swimmers that conformals do persist, in a more coherent form than other stored patterns.’

‘I can’t let anecdotal evidence sway me, Naqi. Have the other swimmers specifically reported encounters with Mina?’

‘No . . .’ Naqi said carefully. She was sure that he would see through any lie that she attempted. ‘But they wouldn’t necessarily recognise her if they did.’

‘And you? Did you attempt to swim yourself?’

‘The swimmer corps would never have allowed me.’

‘Not my question. Did you ever swim?’

‘Once,’ Naqi said.

‘And?’

‘It didn’t count. It was the same time that Mina died.’ She paused and then told him all that had happened. ‘We were seeing more sprite activity than we’d ever recorded. It looked like coincidence—’

‘I don’t think it was.’

Naqi said nothing. She waited for Weir to collect his own thoughts, concentrating on the steering of the boat. Open sea lay ahead, but she knew that almost any direction would bring them to a cluster of nodes within a few hours.

‘It began with Pelican in Impiety,’ Weir said. ‘A century ago. There was a man from Zion on that ship. During the stopover he descended to the surface of Turquoise and swam in your ocean. He made contact with the Jugglers and then swam again. The second time the experience was even more affecting. On the third occasion, the sea swallowed him. He’d been a conformal, just like your sister. His name was Ormazd.’

‘It means nothing to me.’

‘I assure you that on his homeworld it means a great deal more. Ormazd was a failed tyrant, fleeing a political counter-revolution on Zion. He had murdered and cheated his way to power on Zion, burning his rivals in their houses while they slept. But there’d been a backlash. He got out just before the ring closed around him - him and a handful of his closest allies and devotees. They escaped aboard Pelican in Impiety.’

‘And Ormazd died here?’

‘Yes - but his followers didn’t. They made it to Haven, our world. And once there they began to proliferate, spreading their word, recruiting new followers. It didn’t matter that Ormazd was gone. Quite the opposite. He’d martyred himself: given them a saint figure to worship. It evolved from a political movement into a religious cult. The Vahishta Foundation’s just a front for the Ormazd sect.’

Naqi absorbed that, then asked, ‘Where does Amesha come into it?’

‘Amesha was his daughter. She wants her father back.’

Something lit the horizon, a pink-edged flash. Another followed a minute later, in nearly the same position.

‘She wants to commune with him?’

‘More than that,’ said Weir. ‘They all want to become him; to accept his neural patterns on their own. They want the Jugglers to imprint Ormazd’s personality on all his followers, to remake them in his own image. The aliens will do that, if the right gifts are offered. And that’s what I can’t allow.’

Naqi chose her words carefully, sensing that the tiniest thing could push Weir into releasing the globe. She had prevented his last attempt, but he would not allow her a second chance. All he would have to do would be to crush the globe in his fist before spilling the contents into the ocean. Then it would all be over. Everything she had ever known; everything she had ever lived for.

‘But we’re only talking about nineteen people,’ she said.

Weir laughed hollowly. ‘I’m afraid it’s a little more than that. Why don’t you turn on the radio and see what I mean?’

Naqi did as he suggested, using the boat’s general communications console. The small, scuffed screen received television pictures beamed down from the comsat network. Naqi flicked through channels, finding static on most of them. The Snowflake Council’s official news service was off the air and no personal messages were getting through. There were some suggestions that the comsat network itself was damaged. Yet finally Naqi found a few weak broadcast signals from the nearest snowflake cities. There was a sense of desperation in the transmissions, as if they expected to fall silent at any time.

Weir nodded with weary acceptance, as if he had expected this.

In the last six hours at least a dozen more shuttles had come down from Voice of Evening, packed with armed Vahishta disciples. The shuttles had attacked the planet’s major snowflake cities and atoll settlements, strafing them into submission. Three cities had fallen into the sea, their vacuum-bladders punctured by beam weapons. There could not have been any survivors. Others were still aloft, but had been set on fire. The pictures showed citizens leaping from the cities’ berthing arms, falling like sparks. More cities had been taken bloodlessly, and were now under control of the disciples.

None of those cities were transmitting now.

It was the end of the world. Naqi knew that she should be weeping, or at the very least feel some writhing sense of loss in her stomach. But all she got was a sense of denial; a refusal to accept that events could have escalated so quickly. This morning the only hint of wrongness had been a single absent disciple.

‘There are tens of thousands of them up there,’ Weir said. ‘All that you’ve seen so far is the advance guard.’

Naqi scratched her forearm. It was itching, as if she had caught a dose of sunburn.

‘Moreau was in on this?’

‘Captain Moreau’s a puppet. Literally. The body you saw was just being tele-operated by orbital disciples. They murdered the Ultras and commandeered the ship—’

‘Rafael, why didn’t you tell us this before?’

‘My position was too vulnerable. I was the only anti-Ormazd agent my movement managed to put aboard Voice of Evening. If I’d attempted to warn the Turquoise authorities . . . Well, work it out for yourself. Almost certainly I wouldn’t have been believed, and the disciples would have found a way to silence me before I became an embarrassment. And it wouldn’t have made a difference to their takeover plans. My only hope was to destroy the ocean, to remove its usefulness to them. They might still have destroyed your cities out of spite, but at least they’d have lost the final thread that connected them to their martyr.’ Weir leaned closer to her. ‘Don’t you understand? It wouldn’t have stopped with the disciples aboard the Voice. They’d have brought more ships from Haven. Your ocean would have become a production line for despots.’

‘Why did they hesitate, if they had such a crushing advantage over us?’

‘They didn’t know about me, so they lost nothing by dedicating a few weeks to intelligence-gathering. They wanted to know as much as possible about Turquoise and the Jugglers before they made their move. They’re brutal, but they’re not inefficient. They wanted their takeover to be as precise and surgical as possible.’

‘And now?’

‘They’ve accepted that things won’t be quite that neat and tidy.’ He flipped the globe from one palm to another, with a casual playfulness that Naqi found alarming. ‘They’re serious, Naqi. Crane will stop at nothing now. You’ve seen those blast flashes. Pinpoint anti-matter devices. They’ve already sterilised the organic matter within the Moat, to stop the effect of my weapon from reaching further. If they know where we are, they’ll drop a bomb on us as well.’

‘Human evil doesn’t give us the excuse to wipe out the ocean.’

‘It’s not an excuse, Naqi. It’s an imperative.’

At that moment something glinted on the horizon, something that was moving slowly from east to west.

‘The shuttle,’ Weir said. ‘It’s looking for us.’

Naqi scratched her arm again. It was discoloured, itching.

Near local noon they reached the next node. The shuttle had continued to dog them, nosing to and fro along the hazy band where sea met sky. Sometimes it appeared closer, sometimes it appeared further away, but it never left them alone, and Naqi knew that it would be only a matter of time before it detected a positive homing trace, a chemical or physical note in the water that would lead it to its quarry. The shuttle would cover the remaining distance in seconds, a minute at the most, and then all that she and Weir would know would be a moment of cleansing whiteness, a fire of holy purity. Even if Weir released his toxin just before the shuttle arrived, it would not have time to dissipate into a wide enough volume of water to survive the fireball.

So why was he hesitating? It was Mina, of course. Naqi had given a name to the faceless library of stored minds he was prepared to erase. By naming her sister, Naqi had removed the onesidedness of the moral equation, and now Weir had to accept that his own actions could never be entirely blameless. He was no longer purely objective.

‘I should just do this,’ he said. ‘By hesitating even for a second, I’m betraying the trust of the people who sent me here, people who have probably been tormented to extinction by Ormazd’s followers by now.’

Naqi shook her head. ‘If you didn’t show doubt, you’d be as bad as the disciples.’

‘You almost sound as if you want me to do it.’

She groped for something resembling the truth, as painful as that might be. ‘Perhaps I do.’

‘Even though it would mean killing whatever part of Mina survived?’

‘I’ve lived in her shadow my entire life. Even after she died . . . I always felt she was still watching me, still observing my every mistake, still being faintly disappointed that I wasn’t living up to all she had imagined I could be.’

‘You’re being harsh on yourself. Harsh on Mina too, by the sound of things.’

‘I know,’ Naqi said angrily. ‘I’m just telling you how I feel.’

The boat edged into a curving inlet that pushed deep into the node. Naqi felt less vulnerable now: there was a significant depth of organic matter to screen the boat from any sideways-looking sensors that the shuttle might have deployed, even though the evidence suggested that the shuttle’s sensors were mainly focused down from its hull. The disadvantage was that it was no longer possible to keep a constant vigil on the shuttle’s movements. It could be on its way already.

She brought the boat to a halt and stood up in her control seat.

‘What’s happening?’ Weir asked.

‘I’ve come to a decision.’

‘Isn’t that my job?’

Her anger - brief as it was, and directed less at Weir than at the hopelessness of the situation - had evaporated. ‘I mean about swimming. It’s the one thing we haven’t considered yet, Rafael. That there might be a third way: a choice between accepting the disciples and letting the ocean die.’

‘I don’t see what that could be.’

‘Nor do I. But the ocean might find a way. It just needs the knowledge of what’s at stake.’ She stroked her forearm again, marvelling at the sudden eruption of fungal patterns. They must have been latent for many years, but now something had caused them to flare up.

Even in daylight, emeralds and blues shone against her skin. She suspected that the biochemical changes had been triggered when she entered the water to snatch the globe. Given that, she could not help but view it as a message. An invitation, perhaps. Or was it a warning, reminding her of the dangers of swimming?

She had no idea, but for her peace of mind, however - and given the lack of alternatives - she chose to view it as an invitation.

But she did not dare wonder who was inviting her.

‘You think the ocean can understand external events?’ Weir asked.

‘You said it yourself, Rafael: the night they told us the ship was coming, somehow that information reached the sea - via a swimmer’s memories, perhaps. And the Jugglers knew then that this was something significant. Perhaps it was Ormazd’s personality, rising to the fore.’

Or maybe it was merely the vast, choral mind of the ocean, apprehending only that something was going to happen.

‘Either way,’ Naqi said. ‘It still makes me think that there might be a chance.’

‘I only wish I shared your optimism.’

‘Give me this chance, Rafael. That’s all I ask.’

Naqi removed her clothes, less concerned that Weir would see her naked now than that she should have something to wear when she emerged. But although Weir studied her with unconcealed fascination, there was nothing prurient about it. What commanded his attention, Naqi realised, were the elaborate and florid patterning of the fungal markings. They curled and twined about her chest and abdomen and thighs, shining with a hypnotic intensity.

‘You’re changing,’ he said.

‘We all change,’ Naqi answered.

Then she stepped from the side of the boat, into the water.

The process of descending into the ocean’s embrace was much as she remembered it that first time, with Mina beside her. She willed her body to submit to the biochemical invasion, forcing down her fear and apprehension, knowing that she had been through this once before and that it was something that she could survive again. She did her best not to think about what it would mean to survive beyond this day, when all else had been shattered, every certainty crumbled.

Mina came to her with merciful speed.

Naqi?

I’m here. Oh, Mina, I’m here. There was terror and there was joy, alloyed together. It’s been so long.

Naqi felt her sister’s presence edge in and out of proximity and focus. Sometimes she appeared to share the same physical space. At other times she was scarcely more than a vague feeling of attentiveness.

How long?

Two years, Mina.

Mina’s answer took an eternity to come. In that dreadful hiatus Naqi felt other minds crowd against her own, some of which were so far from human that she gasped at their oddity. Mina was only one of the conformal minds that had noticed her arrival, and not all were as benignly curious or glad.

It doesn’t feel like two years to me.

How long?

Days . . . hours . . . It changes.

What do you remember?

Mina’s presence danced around Naqi. I remember what I remember. That we swam, when we weren’t meant to. That something happened to me, and I never left the ocean.

You became part of it, Mina.

The triumphalism of her answer shocked Naqi to the marrow. Yes!

You wanted this?

You would want it, if you knew what it was like. You could have stayed, Naqi. You could have let it happen to you, the way it happened to me. We were so alike.

I was scared.

Yes, I remember.

Naqi knew that she had to get to the heart of things. Time was passing differently here - witness Mina’s confusion about how long she had been part of the ocean - and there was no telling how patient Weir would be. He might not wait until Naqi re-emerged before deploying the Juggler killer.

There was another mind, Mina. We encountered it, and it scared me. Enough that I had to leave the ocean. Enough that I never wanted to go back.

You’ve come back now.

It’s because of that other mind. It belonged to a man called Ormazd. Something very bad is going to happen because of him. One way or the other.

There was a moment then that transcended anything Naqi had experienced before. She felt herself and Mina become inseparable. She could not only not say where one began and the other ended, but it was entirely pointless to even think in those terms. If only fleetingly, Mina had become her. Every thought, every memory, was open to equal scrutiny by both of them.

Naqi understood what it was like for Mina. Her sister’s memories were rapturous. She might only have sensed the passing of hours or days, but that belied the richness of her experience since merging with the ocean. She had exchanged experience with countless alien minds, drinking in entire histories beyond normal human comprehension. And in that moment of sharing, Naqi appreciated something of the reason for her sister having been taken in the first place. Conformals were the ocean’s way of managing itself. Now and then the maintenance of the vaster archive of static minds required stewardship - the drawing-in of independent intelligences. Mina had been selected and utilised, and given rewards beyond imagining for her efforts. The ocean had tapped the structure of her intelligence at a subconscious level. Only now and then had she ever felt that she was being directly petitioned on a matter of importance.

But Ormazd’s mind . . . ?

Mina had seen Naqi’s memories now. She would know exactly what was at stake, and she would know exactly what that mind represented.

I was always aware of him. He wasn’t always there - he liked to hide himself - but even when he was absent, he left a shadow of himself. I even think he might be the reason the ocean took me as a conformal. It sensed a coming crisis. It knew Ormazd had something to do with it. It had made a terrible mistake by swallowing him. So it reached out for new allies, minds it could trust.

Minds like Mina, Naqi thought. In that instant she did not know whether to admire the Pattern Jugglers or detest them for their heartlessness.

Ormazd was contaminating it?

His influence was strong. His force of personality was a kind of poison in its own right. The Pattern Jugglers knew that, I think.

Why couldn’t they just eject his patterns?

They couldn’t. It doesn’t work that way. The sea is a storage medium, but it has no self-censoring facility. If the individual minds detect a malign presence, they can resist it . . . But Ormazd’s mind is human. There aren’t enough of us here to make a difference, Naqi. The other minds are too alien to recognise Ormazd for what he is. They just see a sentience.

Who made the Pattern Jugglers, Mina? Answer me that, will you?

She sensed Mina’s amusement.

Even the Jugglers don’t know that, Naqi. Or why.

You have to help us, Mina. You have to communicate the urgency of this to the rest of the ocean.

I’m one mind amongst many, Naqi. One voice in the chorus.

You still have to find a way. Please, Mina. Understand this, if nothing else. You could die. You could all die. I lost you once, but now I know you never really went away. I don’t want to have to lose you again, for good.

You didn’t lose me, Naqi. I lost you.

She hauled herself from the water. Weir was waiting where she had left him, with the intact globe still resting in his hand. The daylight shadows had moved a little, but not as much as she had feared. She made eye contact with Weir, wordlessly communicating a question.

‘The shuttle’s come closer. It’s flown over the node twice while you were under. I think I need to do this, Naqi.’

He had the globe between thumb and forefinger, ready to drop it into the water.

She was shivering. Naqi pulled on her shorts and shirt, but she felt just as cold afterwards. The fungal marks were shimmering intensely; they appeared almost to hover above her skin. If anything they were shining more furiously than before she had swum. Naqi did not doubt that if she had lingered - if she had stayed with Mina - she would have become a conformal as well. It had always been in her, but it was only now that her time had come.

‘Please wait,’ Naqi said, her own voice sounding pathetic and childlike. ‘Please wait, Rafael.’

‘There it is again.’

The shuttle was a fleck of white sliding over the top of the nearest wall of Juggler biomass. It was five or six kilometres away, much closer than the last time Naqi had seen it. Now it came to a sudden sharp halt, hovering above the surface of the ocean as if it had found something of particular interest.

‘Do you think it knows we’re here?’

‘It suspects something,’ Weir said. The globe rolled between his fingers.

‘Look,’ Naqi said.

The shuttle was still hovering. Naqi stood up to get a better view, nervous of making herself visible but desperately curious. Something was happening. She knew something was happening.

Kilometres away, the sea was bellying up beneath the shuttle. The water was the colour of moss, supersaturated with micro-organisms. Naqi watched as a coil of solid green matter reached from the ocean, twisting and writhing. It was as thick as a building, spilling vast rivulets of water as it emerged. It extended upwards with astonishing haste, bifurcating and flexing like a groping fist. For a brief moment it closed around the shuttle. Then it slithered back into the sea with a titanic splash; a prolonged roar of spent energy. The shuttle continued to hover above the same spot, as if oblivious to what had just happened. Yet the manta-shaped craft’s white hull was lathered with various hues of green. And Naqi understood: what had happened to the shuttle was what had happened to Arviat, the city that drowned. She could not begin to guess the crime that Arviat had committed against the sea, the crime that had merited its destruction, but she could believe - now, at least - that the Jugglers had been capable of dragging it beneath the waves, ripping the main mass of the city away from the bladders that held it aloft. And of course such a thing would have to be kept maximally secret, known only to a handful of individuals. For otherwise no city would ever feel safe when the sea roiled and groaned beneath it.

But a city was not a shuttle. Even if the Juggler material started eating away the fabric of the shuttle, it would still take hours to do any serious damage . . . And that was assuming the Ultras had no better protection than the ceramic shielding used on Turquoise boats and machines . . .

But the shuttle was already tilting over.

Naqi watched it pitch, attempt to regain stability and then pitch again. She understood, belatedly. The organic matter was clogging the shuttle’s whisking propulsion systems, limiting its ability to hover. The shuttle was curving inexorably closer to the sea, spiralling steeply away from the node. It approached the surface and then, just before the moment of impact, another misshapen fist of organised matter thrust from the sea, seizing the hull in its entirety. That was the last Naqi saw of it.

A troubled calm fell on the scene. The sky overhead was un-marred by questing machinery. Only the thin whisper of smoke rising from the horizon, in the direction of the Moat, hinted of the day’s events.

Minutes passed, and then tens of minutes. Then a rapid series of bright flashes strobed from beneath the surface of the sea itself.

‘That was the shuttle,’ Weir said, wonderingly.

Naqi nodded. ‘The Jugglers are fighting back. This is more or less what I hoped would happen.’

‘You asked for this?’

‘I think Mina understood what was needed. Evidently she managed to convince the rest of the ocean, or at least this part of it.’

‘Let’s see.’

They searched the airwaves again. The comsat network was dead, or silent. Even fewer cities were transmitting now. But those that were - those that had not been overrun by Ormazd’s disciples - told a frightening story. The ocean was clawing at them, trying to drag them into the sea. Weather patterns were shifting, entire storms being conjured into existence by the orchestrated circulation of vast ocean currents. It was happening in concentric waves, racing away from the precise point in the ocean where Naqi had swum. Some cities had already fallen into the sea, though it was not clear whether this had been brought about by the Jugglers themselves or because of damage to their vacuum-bladders. There were people in the water: hundreds, thousands of them. They were swimming, trying to stay afloat, trying not to drown.

But what exactly did it mean to drown on Turquoise?

‘It’s happening all over the planet,’ Naqi said. She was still shivering, but now it was as much a shiver of awe as one of cold. ‘It’s denying itself to us by smashing our cities.’

‘Your cities never harmed it.’

‘I don’t think it’s really that interested in making a distinction between one bunch of people and another, Rafael. It’s just getting rid of us all, disciples or not. You can’t really blame it for that, can you?’

‘I’m sorry,’ Weir said.

He cracked the globe, spilled its contents into the sea.

Naqi knew there was nothing she could do now; there was no prospect of recovering the tiny black grains. She would only have to miss one, and it would be as bad as missing them all.

The little black grains vanished beneath the olive surface of the water.

It was done.

Weir looked at her, his eyes desperate for forgiveness.

‘You understand that I had to do this, don’t you? It isn’t something I do lightly.’

‘I know. But it wasn’t necessary. The ocean’s already turned against us. Crane has lost. Ormazd has lost.’

‘Perhaps you’re right,’ Weir said. ‘But I couldn’t take the chance that we might be wrong. At least this way I know for sure.’

‘You’ve murdered a world.’

He nodded. ‘It’s exactly what I came here to do. Please don’t blame me for it.’

Naqi opened the equipment locker where she had stowed the broken vial of Juggler toxin. She removed the flare pistol, snatched away its safety pin and pointed it at Weir. ‘I don’t blame you, no. Don’t even hate you for it.’

He started to say something, but Naqi cut him off.

‘But it’s not something I can forgive.’

She sat in silence, alone, until the node became active. The organic structures around her were beginning to show the same kinds of frantic rearrangement Naqi had seen within the Moat. There was a cold sharp breeze from the node’s heart.

It was time to leave.

She steered the boat away from the node, cautiously, still not completely convinced that she was safe from the delegates even though the first shuttle had been destroyed. Undoubtedly the loss of that craft would have been communicated to the others, and before very long some more of them would arrive, bristling with belligerence. The ocean might attempt to destroy the new arrivals, but this time the delegates would be profoundly suspicious.

She brought the boat to a halt when she was a kilometre from the fringe of the node. By then it was running through the same crazed alterations she had previously witnessed. She felt the same howling wind of change. In a moment the end would come. The toxin would seep into the node’s controlling core, instructing the entire biomass to degrade itself to a lump of dumb vegetable matter. The same killing instructions would already be travelling along the internode tendril connections, winging their way over the horizon. Allowing for the topology of the network, it would only take fifteen or twenty hours for the message to reach every node on the planet. Within a day it would be over. The Jugglers would be gone, the information they’d encoded erased beyond recall. And Turquoise itself would begin to die at the same time, its oxygen atmosphere no longer maintained by the oceanic organisms.

Another five minutes passed, then ten.

The node’s transformations were growing less hectic. She recalled this moment of false calm. It meant only that the node had given up trying to counteract the toxin, accepting the logical inevitability of its fate. A thousand times over this would be repeated around Turquoise. Towards the end, she guessed, there would be less resistance, for the sheer futility of it would have been obvious. The world would accept its fate.

Another five minutes passed.

The node remained. The structures were changing, but only gently. There was no sign of the emerging mound of undifferentiated matter she had seen before.

What was happening?

She waited another quarter of an hour and then steered the boat back towards the node, bumping past Weir’s floating corpse on the way. Tentatively, an idea was forming in her mind. It appeared that the node had absorbed the toxin without dying. Was it possible that Weir had made a mistake? Was it possible that the toxin’s effectiveness depended only on it being used once?

Perhaps.

There still had to be tendril connections between the Moat and the rest of the ocean at the time that the first wave of transformations had taken place. They had been severed later - either when the doors closed, or by some autonomic process within the extended organism itself - but until that moment, there would still have been informational links with the wider network of nodes. Could the dying nodes have sent sufficient warning that the other nodes were now able to find a strategy for protecting themselves?

Again, perhaps.

It never paid to take anything for granted where the Jugglers were concerned.

She parked the boat by the node’s periphery. Naqi stood up and removed her clothes for the final time, certain that she would not need them again. She looked down at herself, astonished at the vivid tracery of green that now covered her body. On one level, the evidence of alien cellular invasion was quite horrific.

On another, it was startlingly beautiful.

Smoke licked from the horizon. Machines clawed through the sky, hunting nervously. She stepped to the edge of the boat, tensing herself at the moment of commitment. Her fear subsided, replaced by an intense, loving calm. She stood on the threshold of something alien, but in place of terror what she felt was only an imminent sense of homecoming. Mina was waiting for her below. Together, nothing could stop them.

Naqi smiled, spread her arms and returned to the sea.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Contents

Dedication

GREAT WALL OF MARS

GLACIAL

A SPY IN EUROPA

WEATHER

DILATION SLEEP

GRAFENWALDER’S BESTIARY

NIGHTINGALE

GALACTIC NORTH

AFTERWORD

For David Pringle

GREAT WALL OF MARS

‘You realise you might die down there,’ said Warren.

Nevil Clavain looked into his brother’s one good eye; the one the Conjoiners had left him with after the Battle of Tharsis Bulge. ‘Yes, I know,’ he said. ‘But if there’s another war, we might all die. I’d rather take that risk, if there’s a chance for peace.’

Warren shook his head, slowly and patiently. ‘No matter how many times we’ve been over this, you just don’t seem to get it, do you? There can’t ever be any kind of peace while they’re still down there. That’s what you don’t understand, Nevil. The only long-term solution here is . . .’ he trailed off.

‘Go on,’ Clavain goaded. ‘Say it. Genocide.’

Warren might have been about to answer when there was a bustle of activity along the docking tube, at the far end from the waiting spacecraft. Through the door Clavain saw a throng of media people, then someone gliding through them, fielding questions with only the curtest of answers. That was Sandra Voi, the Demarchist woman who would be accompanying him to Mars.

‘It’s not genocide when they’re just a faction, not an ethnically distinct race,’ Warren said, before Voi was within earshot.

‘What is it, then?’

‘I don’t know. Prudence?’

Voi approached. She carried herself stiffly, her face a mask of quiet resignation. Her ship had only just docked from Circum-Jove after a three-week transit at maximum burn. During that time the prospects for a peaceful resolution of the current crisis had steadily deteriorated.

‘Welcome to Deimos,’ Warren said.

‘Marshals,’ she said, addressing them both. ‘I wish the circumstances were better. Let’s get straight to business. Warren - how long do you think we have to find a solution?’

‘Not long. If Galiana maintains the pattern she’s been following for the last six months, we’re due another escape attempt in . . .’ Warren glanced at a read-out buried in his cuff. ‘About three days. If she does try to get another shuttle off Mars, we’ll really have no option but to escalate.’

They all knew what that would mean: a military strike against the Conjoiner nest.

‘You’ve tolerated her attempts so far,’ Voi said, ‘and each time you’ve successfully destroyed her ship with all the people in it. The net risk of a successful breakout hasn’t increased. So why retaliate now?’

‘It’s very simple,’ Warren said. ‘After each violation we issued Galiana a stronger warning than the one before. Our last was absolute and final.’

‘You’ll be in violation of treaty if you attack.’

Warren’s smile was one of quiet triumph. ‘Not quite, Sandra. You may not be completely conversant with the treaty’s fine print, but we’ve discovered that it allows us to storm Galiana’s nest without breaking any terms. The technical phrase is a “police action”, I believe.’

Clavain saw that Voi was momentarily lost for words. That was hardly surprising. The treaty between the Coalition and the Conjoiners - which Voi’s neutral Demarchists had helped draft - was the longest document in existence, apart from some obscure, computer-generated mathematical proofs. It was supposed to be watertight, though only machines had ever read it from beginning to end, and only machines had ever stood a chance of finding the kind of loophole Warren was now brandishing.

‘No . . .’ she said. ‘There’s some mistake.’

‘I’m afraid he’s right,’ Clavain said. ‘I’ve seen the natural-language summaries, and there’s no doubt about the legality of a police action. But it needn’t come to that. I’m sure I can persuade Galiana not to make another escape attempt.’

‘But if we should fail?’ Voi looked at Warren now. ‘Nevil and I could still be on Mars in three days.’

‘Don’t be, is my advice.’

Disgusted, Voi turned and stepped into the green cool of the shuttle. Clavain was left alone with his brother for a moment. Warren fingered the leathery patch over his ruined eye with the chrome gauntlet of his prosthetic arm, as if to remind Clavain of what the war had cost him; how little love he had for the enemy, even now.

‘We haven’t got a chance of succeeding, have we?’ Clavain said. ‘We’re only going down there so you can say you explored all avenues of negotiation before sending in the troops. You actually want another damned war.’

‘Don’t be so defeatist,’ Warren said, shaking his head sadly, forever the older brother disappointed at his sibling’s failings. ‘It really doesn’t become you.’

‘It’s not me who’s defeatist,’ Clavain said.

‘No, of course not. Just do your best, little brother.’

Warren extended his hand for his brother to shake. Hesitating, Clavain looked again into his brother’s good eye. What he saw there was an interrogator’s eye: as pale, colourless and cold as a midwinter sun. There was hatred in it. Warren despised Clavain’s pacifism; Clavain’s belief that any kind of peace, even a peace that consisted only of stumbling episodes of mistrust between crises, was always better than war. That schism had fractured any lingering fraternal feelings they might have retained. Now, when Warren reminded Clavain that they were brothers, he never entirely concealed the disgust in his voice.

‘You misjudge me,’ Clavain whispered, before quietly shaking Warren’s hand.

‘No. I honestly don’t think I do.’

Clavain stepped through the airlock just before it sphinctered shut. Voi had already buckled herself in; she had a glazed look now, as if staring into infinity. Clavain guessed she was uploading a copy of the treaty through her implants, scrolling it across her visual field, trying to find the loophole; probably running a global search for any references to police actions.

The ship recognised Clavain, its interior shivering to his preferences. The green was closer to turquoise now, the read-outs and controls minimalist in layout, displaying only the most mission-critical systems. Though the shuttle was the tiniest peacetime vessel Clavain had been in, it was a cathedral compared to the dropships he had flown during the war; vessels so small that they were assembled around their occupants like medieval armour before a joust.

‘Don’t worry about the treaty,’ Clavain said. ‘I promise you, Warren won’t get his chance to exploit that loophole.’

Voi snapped out of her trance irritatedly. ‘You’d better be right, Nevil. Is it me, or is your brother hoping we fail?’ She was speaking Quebecois French now, Clavain shifting mental gears to follow her. ‘If my people discover there’s a hidden agenda here, there’ll be hell to pay.’

‘The Conjoiners gave Warren plenty of reasons to hate them after the Battle of the Bulge,’ Clavain said. ‘And he’s a tactician, not a field specialist. After the ceasefire, my knowledge of worms was even more valuable than before, so I had a role. But Warren’s skills were a lot less transferable.’

‘So that gives him a right to edge us closer to another war?’ The way Voi spoke, it was as if her own side had not been neutral during the last exchange. But Clavain knew she was right. If hostilities between the Conjoiners and the Coalition re-ignited, the Demarchy would not be able to stand on the sidelines as they had fifteen years ago. And it was anyone’s guess how they would align themselves this time around.

‘There won’t be war.’

‘And if you can’t reason with Galiana? Or are you going to play on your personal connection?’

‘I was just her prisoner, that’s all.’ Clavain took the controls - Voi said piloting was a bore - and unlatched the shuttle from Deimos. They dropped away at a tangent to the rotation of the equatorial ring that girdled the moon, instantly in free fall. Clavain sketched a porthole in the wall with his fingertip, outlining a rectangle that instantly became transparent.

For a moment he saw his reflection in the glass: older than he felt he had any right to look, the grey beard and hair making him appear ancient rather than patriarchal; a man deeply wearied by recent circumstance. With some relief, he darkened the cabin so that he could see Deimos, dwindling at surprising speed. The higher of the two Martian moons was a dark, bristling lump infested with armaments, belted by the bright, window-studded band of the moving ring. For the last nine years, Deimos was all he had known, but now he could encompass it within the arc of his fist.

‘Not just her prisoner,’ Voi said. ‘No one else came back sane from the Conjoiners. She never even tried to infect you with her machines.’

‘No, she didn’t, but only because the timing was on my side.’ Clavain was reciting an old argument now, as much for his own benefit as Voi’s. ‘I was the only prisoner she had. She was losing the war by then; one more recruit to her side wouldn’t have made any real difference. The terms of ceasefire were being thrashed out and she knew she could buy herself favours by releasing me unharmed. There was something else, too: Conjoiners weren’t supposed to be capable of anything so primitive as mercy. They were Spiders, as far as we were concerned. Galiana’s act threw a wrench into our thinking. It divided alliances within high command. If she hadn’t released me, they might well have nuked her out of existence.’

‘So there was absolutely nothing personal?’

‘No,’ Clavain said. ‘There was nothing personal about it at all.’

Voi nodded, without in any way suggesting that she actually believed him. It was a skill some women had honed to perfection, Clavain reflected.

Of course, he respected Voi completely. She had been one of the first human beings to enter Europa’s ocean, decades back. Now they were planning fabulous cities under the ice, efforts she had spearheaded. Demarchist society was supposedly flat in structure, non-hierarchical; but someone of Voi’s brilliance ascended through echelons of her own making. She had been instrumental in brokering the peace between the Conjoiners and Clavain’s own Coalition. That was why she was coming along now: Galiana had only agreed to Clavain’s mission provided he was accompanied by a neutral observer, and Voi had been the obvious choice. Respect was easy. Trust, however, was more difficult: it required that Clavain ignore the fact that, with her head dotted with implants, the Demarchist woman’s condition was not very far removed from that of the enemy.

The descent to Mars was hard and steep.

Once or twice they were queried by the automated tracking systems of the Satellite Interdiction Network. Dark weapons hovering in Mars-synchronous orbit above the nest locked on to the ship for a few instants, magnetic railguns powering up, before the shuttle’s diplomatic nature was established and it was allowed to proceed. The Interdiction was very efficient; as well it might be, given that Clavain had designed much of it himself. In fifteen years no ship had entered or left the Martian atmosphere, nor had any surface vehicle ever escaped from Galiana’s nest.

‘There she is,’ Clavain said, as the Great Wall rose over the horizon.

‘Why do you call “it” a “she”?’ Voi asked. ‘I never felt the urge to personalise it, and I designed it. Besides . . . even if it was alive once, it’s dead now.’

She was right, but the Wall was still awesome to behold. Seen from orbit, it was a pale, circular ring on the surface of Mars, two thousand kilometres wide. Like a coral atoll, it entrapped its own weather system: a disc of bluer air flecked with creamy white clouds that stopped abruptly at the boundary.

Once, hundreds of communities had sheltered inside that cell of warm, thick, oxygen-rich atmosphere. The Wall was the most audacious and visible of Voi’s projects. The logic had been inescapable: a means to avoid the millennia-long timescales needed to terraform Mars via such conventional schemes as cometary bombardment or ice-cap thawing. Instead of modifying the whole atmosphere at once, the Wall allowed the initial effort to be concentrated in a relatively small region, at first only a thousand kilometres across. There were no craters deep enough, so the Wall had been completely artificial: a vast ring-shaped atmospheric dam designed to move slowly outward, encompassing ever more surface area at a rate of twenty kilometres per year. The Wall needed to be very tall because the low Martian gravity meant that the column of atmosphere was higher for a fixed surface pressure than on Earth. The ramparts were hundreds of metres thick, dark as glacial ice, sinking great taproots deep into the lithosphere to harvest the ores needed for the Wall’s continual growth. Yet two hundred kilometres higher, the wall was a diaphanously thin membrane only microns wide, completely invisible except when rare optical effects made it hang like a frozen aurora against the stars. Eco-engineers had seeded the liveable area circumscribed by the Wall with terran genestocks, deftly altered in orbital labs. Flora and fauna had moved out in vivacious waves, lapping eagerly against the constraints of the Wall.

But the Wall was dead.

It had stopped growing during the war, hit by some sort of viral weapon that crippled its replicating subsystems, and now even the ecosystem within it was failing; the atmosphere cooling, oxygen bleeding into space, pressure declining inevitably towards the Martian norm of one seven-thousandth of an atmosphere.

He wondered how it must look to Voi; whether in any sense she saw it as her murdered child.

‘I’m sorry we had to kill it,’ Clavain said. He was about to add that it had been the kind of act that war normalised, but decided the statement would have sounded hopelessly defensive.

‘You needn’t apologise,’ Voi said. ‘It was only machinery. I’m surprised it’s lasted as long as it has, frankly. There must still be some residual damage-repair capability. We Demarchists build for posterity, you know.’

Yes, and it worried Clavain’s own side. There was talk of challenging the Demarchist supremacy in the outer solar system; perhaps even an attempt to gain a Coalition foothold around Jupiter.

They skimmed the top of the Wall and punched through the thickening layers of atmosphere within it, the shuttle’s hull morphing to an arrowhead shape. The ground had an arid, bleached look to it, dotted here and there with ruined shacks, broken domes, gutted vehicles and shot-down shuttles. There were patches of shallow-rooted, mainly dark-red tundra vegetation: cotton grass, saxifrage, arctic poppies and lichen. Clavain knew each species by its distinct infrared signature, but many of the plants were in recession now that the imported bird species had died. Ice lay in great silver swathes, and what few expanses of open water remained were warmed by buried thermopiles. Elsewhere, whole zones had reverted to almost sterile permafrost. It could have been a kind of paradise, Clavain thought, had the war not ruined everything. Yet what had happened here could only be a foretaste of the devastation that would follow across the system, on Earth as well as Mars, if another war was allowed to happen.

‘Do you see the nest yet?’ Voi said.

‘Wait a second,’ Clavain said, requesting a head-up display that boxed the nest. ‘That’s it. A nice fat thermal signature, too. Nothing else for kilometres around - nothing inhabited, anyway.’

‘Yes. I see it now.’

The Conjoiner nest lay a third of the way from the Wall’s edge, not far from the footslopes of Arsia Mons. The entire encampment was only a kilometre across, circled by a dyke piled high with regolith dust on one side. The area within the Great Wall was large enough to have an appreciable weather system: spanning enough Martian latitude for significant Coriolis effects; enough longitude for diurnal warming and cooling to cause thermal currents.

He could see the nest much more clearly now, details leaping out of the haze.

Its external layout was crushingly familiar. Clavain’s side had been studying the nest from the vantage point of Deimos ever since the ceasefire. Phobos, with its lower orbit, would have been even better, of course - but there was no helping that, and perhaps the Phobos problem might actually prove useful in his negotiations with Galiana. She was somewhere in the nest, he knew: somewhere beneath the twenty varyingly sized domes emplaced within the rim, linked together by pressurised tunnels or merged at their boundaries like soap bubbles. The nest extended several tens of levels beneath the Martian surface; maybe deeper.

‘How many people do you think are inside?’ Voi said.

‘Nine hundred or so,’ said Clavain. ‘That’s an estimate based on my experiences as a prisoner, and the hundred or so who’ve died trying to escape since. The rest, I have to say, is pretty much guesswork.’

‘Our estimates aren’t dissimilar. A thousand or less here, and perhaps another three or four spread across the system in smaller nests. I know your side thinks we have better intelligence than that, but it happens not to be the case.’

‘Actually, I believe you.’ The shuttle’s airframe was flexing around them, morphing to a low-altitude profile with wide, bat-like wings. ‘I was just hoping you might have some clue as to why Galiana keeps wasting valuable lives on pointless escape attempts.’

Voi shrugged. ‘Maybe to her the lives aren’t anywhere near as valuable as you’d like to think.’

‘Do you honestly believe that?’

‘I’m not sure we can even begin to guess the thinking of a true hive-mind society, Clavain. Even from a Demarchist standpoint.’

There was a chirp from the console: Galiana signalling them. Clavain opened the channel allocated for Coalition-Conjoiner diplomacy.

‘Nevil Clavain?’ he heard.

‘Yes.’ He tried to sound as calm as possible. ‘I’m with Sandra Voi. We’re ready to land as soon as you show us where.’

‘Okay,’ Galiana said. ‘Vector your ship towards the westerly rim wall. And please, be careful.’

‘Thank you. Any particular reason for the caution?’

‘Just be quick about it, Nevil.’

They banked over the nest, shedding height until they were skimming only a few tens of metres above the weatherworn Martian surface. A wide rectangular door had opened in the concrete dyke revealing a hangar bay aglow with yellow lights.

‘That must be where Galiana launches her shuttles from,’ Clavain whispered. ‘We always thought there had to be some kind of opening on the western side of the rim, but we never had a good view of it before.’

‘Which still doesn’t tell us why she does it,’ Voi said.

The console chirped again - the link poor, even though they were so close. ‘Nose up,’ Galiana said. ‘You’re too low and slow. Get some altitude or the worms will lock on to you.’

‘You’re telling me there are worms here?’ Clavain said.

‘I thought you were the worm expert, Nevil.’

He nosed the shuttle up, but fractionally too late. Ahead of them something coiled out of the ground with lightning speed, metallic jaws opening in its blunt, armoured head. He recognised the type immediately: Ouroborus class. Worms of this form still infested a hundred niches across the system. Not quite as smart as the type infesting Phobos, but still adequately dangerous.

‘Shit,’ Voi said, her veneer of Demarchist cool cracking for an instant.

‘You said it,’ Clavain answered.

The Ouroborus passed underneath them and then there was a spine-jarring series of bumps as the jaws tore into the shuttle’s belly. Clavain felt the shuttle lurch down sickeningly; no longer a flying thing but an exercise in ballistics. The cool, minimalist, turquoise interior shifted liquidly into an emergency configuration, damage read-outs competing for attention with weapons-status options. Their seats ballooned around them.

‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘We’re going down.’

Voi’s calm returned. ‘Do you think we can reach the rim in time?’

‘Not a cat in hell’s chance.’ He wrestled with the controls all the same, but it was no good. The ground was coming up fast and hard. ‘I wish Galiana had warned us a bit sooner—’

‘I think she thought we already knew.’

They hit. The impact was harder than Clavain had been expecting, but the shuttle stayed in one piece and the seat cushioned him from the worst of it. They skidded for a few metres and then nosed up against a sandbank. Through the window Clavain saw the white worm racing towards them with undulating waves of its segmented robot body.

‘I think we’re finished,’ Voi said.

‘Not quite,’ Clavain said. ‘You’re not going to like this, but . . .’ Biting his tongue, he brought the shuttle’s hidden weapons online. An aiming scope plunged down from the ceiling; he brought his eyes to it and locked crosshairs onto the Ouroborus. Just like old times . . .

‘Damn you,’ Voi said. ‘This was meant to be an unarmed mission!’

‘You’re welcome to lodge a formal complaint.’

Clavain fired, the hull shaking from the recoil. Through the side window they watched the white worm blow apart into stubby segments. The parts wriggled beneath the dust.

‘Good shooting,’ Voi said, almost grudgingly. ‘Is it dead?’

‘For now,’ Clavain said. ‘It’ll take several hours for the segments to fuse back into a functional worm.’

‘Good,’ Voi said, pushing herself out of her seat. ‘But there will be a formal complaint, take my word.’

‘Maybe you’d rather the worm had eaten us?’

‘I just hate duplicity, Clavain.’

He tried the radio again. ‘Galiana? We’re down - the ship’s history, but we’re both unharmed.’

‘Thank God.’ Old verbal mannerisms died hard, even amongst the Conjoined. ‘But you can’t stay where you are. There are more worms in the area. Do you think you can make it overland to the nest?’

‘It’s only two hundred metres,’ Voi said. ‘It shouldn’t be a problem.’

Two hundred metres, yes, Clavain thought - but two hundred metres across treacherous, potholed ground riddled with enough soft depressions to hide a dozen worms. And then they would have to climb up the rim’s side to reach the entrance to the hangar bay - ten or fifteen metres above the soil, at least.

‘Let’s hope it isn’t,’ Clavain said.

He unbuckled, feeling light-headed as he stood for the first time in Martian gravity. He had adapted entirely too well to the one gee of the Deimos ring, constructed for the comfort of Earth-side tacticians. He went to the emergency locker and found a mask, which slithered eagerly across his face; another for Voi. They plugged in air-tanks and went to the shuttle’s door. This time, when it sphinctered open there was a glistening membrane stretched across the doorway, a recently licensed item of Demarchist technology. Clavain pushed through the membrane and the stuff enveloped him with a wet, sucking sound. By the time he hit the dirt, the membrane had hardened itself around his soles and had begun to contour around his body, forming ribs and accordioned joints while remaining transparent.

Voi exited behind him, gaining her own m-suit.

They loped away from the crashed shuttle, towards the dyke. The worms would be locking on to their seismic patterns already, if there were any nearby. They might be more interested in the shuttle for now, but they couldn’t count on it. Clavain knew the behaviour of worms intimately, knew the major routines that drove them; but that expertise did not guarantee his survival. It had almost failed him in Phobos.

The mask felt clammy against his face. The air at the base of the Great Wall was technically breathable, even now, but there was no point in taking chances when speed was of the essence. His feet scuffed through the topsoil, and while he felt as if he was crossing ground, the dyke obstinately refused to come any closer. It was larger than it had looked from the crash site; the distance further.

‘Another worm,’ Voi said.

White coils erupted through sand to the west. The Ouroborus was making undulating progress towards them, zigzagging with predatory calm, knowing that it could afford to take its time. In the tunnels of Phobos, they had never had the luxury of knowing when a worm was close. They struck from ambush, quick as pythons.

‘Run,’ Clavain said.

Dark figures appeared in the opening high in the rim wall. A rope ladder unfurled down the side of the structure. Clavain, making for the base of it, made no effort to quieten his footfalls. He knew that the worm almost certainly had a lock on him by now.

He looked back.

The worm paused by the downed shuttle, then smashed its diamond-jawed head into the ship, impaling the hull on its body. The worm reared up, wearing the ship like a garland. Then it shivered and the ship flew apart like a rotten carcass. The worm returned its attention to Clavain and Voi. Like a sidewinder, it pulled its thirty-metre-long body from the sand and rolled towards them on wheeling coils.

Clavain reached the base of the ladder.

Once, he could have ascended the ladder with his arms alone, in one gee, but now the ladder felt alive beneath his feet. He began to climb, then realised that the ground was dropping away much faster than he was passing rungs. The Conjoiners were hauling him aloft.

He looked back in time to see Voi stumble.

‘Sandra! No!’

She made to stand up, but it was too late by then. As the worm descended on her, Clavain could do nothing but turn his gaze away and pray for her death to be quick. If it had to be meaningless, he thought, at least let it be swift.

Then he started thinking about his own survival. ‘Faster!’ he shouted, but the mask reduced his voice to a panicked muffle. He had forgotten to assign the ship’s radio frequency to the suit.

The worm thrashed against the base of the wall, then began to rear up, its maw opening beneath him: a diamond-ringed orifice like the drill of a tunnelling machine. Then something eye-hurtingly bright cut into the worm’s hide. Craning his neck, Clavain saw a group of Conjoiners leaning over the lip of the opening, aiming guns downward. The worm writhed in intense robotic irritation. Across the sand, he could see the coils of other worms coming closer. There must have been dozens ringing the nest. No wonder Galiana’s people had made so few attempts to leave by land.

They had hauled him within ten metres of safety. The injured worm showed cybernetic workings where its hide had been flensed away by weapons impacts. Enraged, it flung itself against the rim wall, chipping off scabs of concrete the size of boulders. Clavain felt the vibration of each impact through the wall as he was dragged upwards.

The worm hit again and the wall shook more violently than before. To his horror, Clavain watched one of the Conjoiners lose his footing and tumble over the edge of the rim towards him. Time oozed to a crawl. The falling man was almost upon him. Without thinking, Clavain hugged closer to the wall, locking his limbs around the ladder. Suddenly, he had seized the man by the arm. Even in Martian gravity, even allowing for the Conjoiner’s willowy build, the impact almost sent both of them careering towards the Ouroborus. Clavain felt his bones pop out of location, tearing at gristle, but he managed to keep his grip on both the Conjoiner and the ladder.

Conjoiners breathed the air at the base of the Wall without difficulty. The man wore only lightweight clothes, grey silk pyjamas belted at the waist. With his sunken cheeks and bald skull, the man’s Martian physique lent him a cadaverous look. Yet somehow he had managed not to drop his gun, still holding it in his other hand.

‘Let me go,’ the man said.

Below, the worm inched higher despite the harm the Conjoiners had inflicted on it. ‘No,’ Clavain said, through clenched teeth and the distorting membrane of his mask. ‘I’m not letting you go.’

‘You’ve no option.’ The man’s voice was placid. ‘They can’t haul both of us up fast enough, Clavain.’

Clavain looked into the Conjoiner’s face, trying to judge the man’s age. Thirty, perhaps - maybe not even that, since his cadaverous visage probably made him appear older than he really was. Clavain was easily twice his age; had surely lived a richer life; had comfortably cheated death on three or four previous occasions.

‘I’m the one who should die, not you.’

‘No,’ the Conjoiner said. ‘They’d find a way to blame your death on us. They’d make it a pretext for war.’ Without any fuss, the man pointed the gun at his own head and blew his brains out.

As much in shock as recognition that the man’s life was no longer his to save, Clavain released his grip. The dead man tumbled down the rim wall, into the mouth of the worm that had just killed Sandra Voi.

Numb, Clavain allowed himself to be pulled to safety.

When the armoured door to the hangar was shut, the Conjoiners attacked his m-suit with enzymic sprays. The sprays digested the fabric of the m-suit in seconds, leaving Clavain wheezing in a pool of slime. Then a pair of Conjoiners helped him unsteadily to his feet and waited patiently while he caught his breath through the mask. Through tears of exhaustion he saw that the hangar was racked full of half-assembled spacecraft: skeletal geodesic shark-shapes designed to punch out of an atmosphere, fast.

‘Sandra Voi is dead,’ he said, removing the mask to speak.

There was no way the Conjoiners could not have seen that for themselves, but it felt inhuman not to acknowledge what had happened.

‘I know,’ Galiana said. ‘But at least you survived.’

He thought of the man falling into the Ouroborus. ‘I’m sorry about your . . .’ But then he trailed off, because for all his depth of knowledge concerning the Conjoiners, he had no idea what the appropriate term was.

‘You placed your life in danger trying to save him.’

‘He didn’t have to die.’

Galiana nodded sagely. ‘No; in all likelihood he didn’t. But the risk to you was too great. You heard what he said - your death would be made to appear our fault; justification for a pre-emptive strike against our nest. Even the Demarchists would turn against us if we were seen to murder a diplomat.’

Taking another suck from the mask, he looked into her face. He had spoken to her over low-bandwidth video-links, but only in person was it obvious that Galiana had hardly aged in fifteen years. A decade and a half of habitual expression should have engraved existing lines deeper into her face - but Conjoiners were not known for their facial expression. Galiana had seen little sunlight in the intervening time, cooped up there in the nest, and Martian gravity was much kinder to bone structure than the one gee of Deimos. She still had the cruel beauty he remembered from his time as a prisoner. The only real evidence of ageing lay in the filaments of grey threading her hair; raven-black when she had been his captor.

‘Why didn’t you warn us about the worms?’

‘Warn you?’ For the first time, something like doubt crossed her face, but it was only fleeting. ‘We assumed you were fully aware of the Ouroborus infestation. Those worms have been dormant - waiting - for years, but they’ve always been there. It was only when I saw how low your approach was that I realised—’

‘That we might not have known?’

Worms were area-denial devices; autonomous prey-seeking mines. The war had left many pockets of the solar system still riddled with active worms. The machines were intelligent, in a one-dimensional way. Nobody ever admitted to deploying them and it was usually impossible to convince them that the war was over and that they should quietly deactivate.

‘After what happened to you in Phobos,’ Galiana said, ‘I assumed there was nothing you needed to be taught about worms.’

He never liked thinking about Phobos: the pain was still too deeply engraved. But if it had not been for the injuries he had sustained there he would never have been sent to Deimos to recuperate; would never have been recruited into his brother’s intelligence wing to study the Conjoiners. Out of that phase of deep immersion in everything concerning the enemy had come his peacetime role as negotiator - and now diplomat - on the eve of another war. Everything was circular, ultimately. And now Phobos was central to his thinking because he saw it as a way out of the impasse - maybe the last chance for peace. But it was too soon to put his idea to Galiana. He was not even sure the mission could still continue, after what had happened.

‘We’re safe now, I take it?’

‘Yes; we can repair the damage to the dyke. Mostly, we can ignore their presence.’

‘We should have been warned. Look, I need to talk to my brother.’

‘Warren? Of course. It’s easily arranged.’

They walked out of the hangar, away from the half-assembled ships. Somewhere deeper in the nest, Clavain knew, was a factory where the components for the ships were made, mined out of Mars or winnowed from the fabric of the nest. The Conjoiners managed to launch one every six weeks or so; had been doing so for six months. Not one of the ships had ever managed to escape the Martian atmosphere before being shot down . . . but sooner or later he would have to ask Galiana why she persisted with this provocative folly.

Now, though, was not the time - even if, by Warren’s estimate, he only had three days before Galiana’s next provocation.

The air elsewhere in the nest was thicker and warmer than in the hangar, which meant he could dispense with the mask. Galiana took him down a short, grey-walled, metallic corridor that ended in a circular room containing a console. He recognised the room from the times he had spoken to Galiana from Deimos. Galiana showed him how to use the system, then left him in privacy while he established a connection with Deimos.

Warren’s face soon appeared on a screen, thick with pixels like an impressionist portrait. Conjoiners were only allowed to send kilobytes a second to other parts of the system. Much of that bandwidth was now being sucked up by this one video link.

‘You’ve heard, I take it,’ Clavain said.

Warren nodded, his face ashen. ‘We had a pretty good view from orbit, of course. Enough to see that Voi didn’t make it. Poor woman. We were reasonably sure you’d survived, but it’s good to have it confirmed.’

‘Do you want me to abandon the mission?’

Warren’s hesitation was more than just timelag. ‘No . . . I thought about it, of course, and high command agrees with me. Voi’s death was tragic - no escaping that. But she was only along as a neutral observer. If Galiana consents for you to stay, I suggest you do so.’

‘But you still say I only have three days?’

‘That’s up to Galiana, isn’t it? Have you learned much?’

‘You must be kidding. I’ve seen shuttles ready for launch, that’s all. I haven’t raised the Phobos proposal yet, either. The timing wasn’t exactly ideal, after what happened to Voi.’

‘Yes. If only we’d known about that Ouroborus infestation.’

Clavain leaned closer to the screen. ‘Yes. Why the hell didn’t we? Galiana assumed that we would, and I don’t blame her for that. We’ve had the nest under constant surveillance for fifteen years. Surely in all that time we’d have seen evidence of the worms?’

‘You’d have thought so, wouldn’t you?’

‘Meaning what?’

‘Meaning, maybe the worms weren’t always there.’

Conscious that there could be nothing private about this conversation - but unwilling to drop the thread - Clavain said, ‘You think the Conjoiners put them there to ambush us?’

‘I’m saying we shouldn’t disregard any possibility, no matter how unpalatable.’

‘Galiana would never do something like that.’

‘No, I wouldn’t.’ She had just stepped back into the room. ‘And I’m disappointed that you’d even debate the possibility.’

Clavain terminated the link with Deimos. ‘Eavesdropping’s not a very nice habit, you know.’

‘What did you expect me to do?’

‘Show some trust? Or is that too much of a stretch?’

‘I never had to trust you when you were my prisoner,’ Galiana said. ‘That made our relationship infinitely simpler. Our roles were completely defined.’

‘And now? If you distrust me so completely, why did you ever agree to my visit? Plenty of other specialists could have come in my place. You could even have refused any dialogue.’

‘Voi’s people pressured us to allow your visit,’ Galiana said. ‘Just as they pressured your side into delaying hostilities a little longer.’

‘Is that all?’

She hesitated slightly now. ‘I . . . knew you.’

‘Knew me? Is that how you sum up a year of imprisonment? What about the thousands of conversations we had; the times when we put aside our differences to talk about something other than the damned war? You kept me sane, Galiana. I’ve never forgotten that. It’s why I’ve risked my life to come here to talk you out of another provocation.’

‘It’s completely different now.’

‘Of course!’ He forced himself not to shout. ‘Of course it’s different. But not fundamentally. We can still build on that bond of trust and find a way out of this crisis.’

‘But does your side really want a way out of it?’

He did not answer her immediately, wary of what the truth might mean. ‘I’m not sure. But I’m not sure you do either, or else you wouldn’t keep pushing your luck.’ Something snapped inside him and he asked the question he had meant to ask in a million better ways. ‘Why do you keep doing it, Galiana? Why do you keep launching those ships when you know they’ll be shot down as soon as they leave the nest?’

Her eyes locked on to his, unflinchingly. ‘Because we can. Because sooner or later one will succeed.’

Clavain nodded. It was exactly the sort of thing he had feared she would say.

She led him through more grey-walled corridors, descending several levels deeper into the nest. Light poured from snaking strips embedded into the walls like arteries. It was possible that the snaking design was decorative, but Clavain thought it much more likely that the strips had simply grown that way, expressing biological algorithms. There was no evidence that the Conjoiners had attempted to enliven their surroundings, to render them in any sense human.

‘It’s a terrible risk you’re running,’ Clavain said.

‘And the status quo is intolerable. I’ve every desire to avoid another war, but if it came to one, we’d at least have the chance to break these shackles.’

‘If you didn’t get exterminated first—’

‘We’d avoid that. In any case, fear plays no part in our thinking. You saw the man accept his fate on the dyke, when he understood that your death would harm us more than his own. He altered his state of mind to one of total acceptance.’

‘Fine. That makes it all right, then.’

She halted. They were alone in one of the snakingly lit corridors; he had seen no other Conjoiners since the hangar. ‘It’s not that we regard individual lives as worthless, any more than you would willingly sacrifice a limb. But now that we’re part of something larger—’

‘Transenlightenment, you mean?’

It was the Conjoiners’ term for the state of neural communion they shared, mediated by the machines swarming in their skulls. Whereas Demarchists used implants to facilitate real-time democracy, Conjoiners used them to share sensory data, memories - even conscious thought itself. That was what had precipitated the war. Back in 2190, half of humanity had been hooked into the system-wide data nets via neural implants. Then the Conjoiner experiments had exceeded some threshold, unleashing a transforming virus into the nets. Implants had begun to change, infecting millions of minds with the templates of Conjoiner thought. Instantly, the infected had become the enemy. Earth and the other inner planets had always been more conservative, preferring to access the nets via traditional media.

Once they saw communities on Mars and in the asteroid belts fall prey to the Conjoiner phenomenon, the Coalition powers hurriedly pooled their resources to prevent it from spreading to their own states. The Demarchists, out around the gas giants, had managed to get firewalls up before many of their habitats were lost. They had chosen neutrality while the Coalition tried to contain - some said sterilise - zones of Conjoiner takeover. Within three years - after some of the bloodiest battles in human experience - the Conjoiners had been pushed back to a clutch of hideaways dotted around the system. Yet all along they professed a kind of puzzled bemusement that their spread was being resisted. After all, no one who had been assimilated seemed to regret it. Quite the contrary. The few prisoners whom the Conjoiners had reluctantly returned to their pre-infection state had sought every means to re-enter the fold. Some had even chosen suicide rather than be denied Transenlightenment. Like acolytes given a vision of heaven, they devoted their entire waking existence to the search for another glimpse.

‘Transenlightenment blurs our sense of self,’ Galiana said. ‘When the man elected to die, the sacrifice was not absolute for him. He understood that much of what he was had already achieved preservation amongst the rest of us.’

‘But he was just one man. What about the hundred lives you’ve thrown away with your escape attempts? We know - we’ve counted the bodies.’

‘Replacements can always be cloned.’

Clavain hoped that he hid his disgust satisfactorily. Amongst his people, the very notion of cloning was an unspeakable atrocity, redolent with horror. To Galiana it would be just another technique in her arsenal. ‘But you don’t clone, do you? And you’re losing people. We thought there would be nine hundred of you in this nest, but that was a gross overestimate, wasn’t it?’

‘You haven’t seen much of it yet,’ Galiana said.

‘No, but this place smells deserted. You can’t hide absence, Galiana. I bet there aren’t more than a hundred of you left here.’

‘You’re wrong,’ Galiana said. ‘We have cloning technology, but we’ve hardly ever used it. What would be the point? We don’t aspire to genetic unity, no matter what your propagandists think. The pursuit of optima leads only to local minima. We honour our errors. We actively seek persistent disequilibrium.’

‘Right.’ The last thing he needed now was a dose of Conjoiner rhetoric. ‘So where the hell is everyone?’

In a while he had part of the answer, if not the whole of it. At the end of the maze of corridors - deep under the Martian surface now - Galiana brought him to a nursery.

It was shockingly unlike his expectations. Not only did it not match what he had imagined from the vantage point of Deimos, but it jarred against his predictions, based on what he had seen so far of the nest. In Deimos, he had assumed a Conjoiner nursery would be a place of grim medical efficiency: all gleaming machines with babies plugged in like peripherals, like a monstrously productive doll factory. Within the nest, he had revised his model to allow for the depleted numbers of Conjoiners. If there was a nursery, it was obviously not very productive. Fewer babies, then - but still a vision of hulking grey machines, bathed in snaking light.

The nursery was nothing like that.

The huge room Galiana showed him was almost painfully bright and cheerful: a child’s fantasy of friendly shapes and primary colours. The walls and ceiling projected a holographic sky: infinite blue and billowing clouds of heavenly white. The floor was an undulating mat of synthetic grass forming hillocks and meadows. There were banks of flowers and forests of bonsai trees. There were robot animals: fabulous birds and rabbits, just slightly too anthropomorphic to fool Clavain. They were like the animals in children’s books: big-eyed and happy-looking. Toys were scattered on the grass.

And there were children. They numbered between forty and fifty, spanning by his estimate ages from a few months to six or seven standard years. Some were crawling amongst the rabbits; other, older children were gathered around tree stumps whose sheared-off surfaces flickered rapidly with images, underlighting their faces. They were talking amongst themselves, giggling or singing. He counted perhaps half a dozen adult Conjoiners kneeling with the children. The children’s clothes were a headache of bright, clashing colours and patterns. The Conjoiners crouched amongst them like ravens. Yet the children looked at ease with them, listening attentively when the adults had something to say.

‘This isn’t what you thought it would be like, is it?’

‘No . . . not at all.’ There was no point lying to her. ‘We thought you’d raise your young in a simplified version of the machine-generated environment you experience.’

‘In the early days, that’s more or less what we did.’ Subtly, Galiana’s tone of voice had changed. ‘Do you know why chimpanzees are less intelligent than humans?’

He blinked at the change of tack. ‘I don’t know - are their brains smaller?’

‘Yes - but a dolphin’s brain is larger, and they’re scarcely more intelligent than dogs.’ Galiana stooped next to a vacant tree stump. Without apparently doing anything, she made a diagram of mammal brain anatomies appear on the trunk’s upper surface, then sketched her finger across the relevant parts. ‘It’s not overall brain volume that counts, so much as the developmental history. The difference in brain volume between a neonatal chimp and an adult is only about twenty per cent. By the time the chimp receives any data from beyond the womb, there’s almost no plasticity left to use. Similarly, dolphins are born with almost their complete repertoire of adult behaviour already hardwired. A human brain, on the other hand, keeps growing through years of learning. We inverted that thinking. If data received during post-natal growth was so crucial to intelligence, perhaps we could boost our intelligence even further by intervening during the earliest phases of brain development.’

‘In the womb?’

‘Yes.’ Now she made the tree stump show a human embryo running through cycles of cell division until the faint fold of a rudimentary spinal nerve began to form, nubbed with the tiniest of emergent minds. Droves of subcellular machines swarmed in, invading the nascent nervous system. Then the embryo’s development slammed forward, until Clavain was looking at an unborn human baby.

‘What happened?’

‘It was a grave error,’ Galiana said. ‘Instead of enhancing normal neural development, we impaired it terribly. All we ended up with were various manifestations of savant syndrome.’

Clavain looked around him. ‘So you let these kids develop normally?’

‘More or less. There’s no family structure, of course, but then again there are plenty of human and primate societies where the family is less important in child development than the cohort group. So far we haven’t seen any pathologies.’

Clavain watched as one of the older children was escorted out of the grassy room, through a door in the sky. When the Conjoiner reached the door the child hesitated, tugging against the man’s gentle insistence. The child looked back for a moment, then followed the man through the gap.

‘Where’s that child going?’

‘To the next stage of its development.’

Clavain wondered what the chances were of him seeing the nursery just as one of the children was being promoted. Small, he judged - unless there was a crash programme to rush as many of them through as quickly as possible. As he thought about this, Galiana took him into another part of the nursery. While this room was smaller and dourer, it was still more colourful than any other part of the nest he had seen before the grassy room. The walls were a mosaic of crowded, intermingling displays, teeming with moving images and rapidly scrolling text. He saw a herd of zebra stampeding through the core of a neutron star. Elsewhere, an octopus squirted ink at the face of a twentieth-century despot. Other display facets rose from the floor like Japanese paper screens, flooded with data. Children - up to early teenagers - sat on soft black toadstools next to the screens in little groups, debating.

A few musical instruments lay around unused: holoclaviers and air-guitars. Some of the children had grey bands around their eyes and were poking their fingers through the interstices of abstract structures, exploring the dragon-infested waters of mathematical space. Clavain could see what they were manipulating on the flat screens: shapes that made his head hurt, even in two dimensions.

‘They’re nearly there,’ Clavain said. ‘The machines are outside their heads, but not for long. When does it happen?’

‘Soon; very soon.’

‘You’re rushing them, aren’t you? Trying to get as many children Conjoined as you can. What are you planning?’

‘Something . . . has arisen, that’s all. The timing of your arrival is either very bad or very fortunate, depending on one’s point of view.’ Before he could query her, Galiana added, ‘Clavain, I want you to meet someone.’

‘Who?’

‘Someone very precious to us.’

She took him through a series of childproof doors until they reached a small circular room. The walls and ceiling were veined grey; tranquil after the last place. A child sat cross-legged on the floor in the middle of the room. Clavain estimated the girl’s age as ten standard years - perhaps fractionally older. But she did not respond to Clavain’s presence in any way an adult, or even a normal child, would have. She just kept on doing the thing she had been doing when they stepped inside, as if they were not really present at all. It was not particularly clear what she was doing. Her hands moved before her in slow, precise gestures. It was as if she were playing a holoclavier or working a phantom puppet show. Now and then she would pivot around until she was facing another direction and carry on making the hand movements.

‘Her name’s Felka,’ Galiana said.

‘Hello, Felka . . .’ Clavain waited for a response, but none came. ‘I can see there’s something wrong with her.’

‘She’s one of the savants. Felka developed with machines in her head. She was the last to be born before we realised our failure.’

Something about Felka disturbed him. Perhaps it was the way she carried on regardless, engrossed in an activity to which she appeared to attribute the utmost significance, yet which had to be without any sane purpose.

‘She doesn’t seem aware of us.’

‘Her deficits are severe,’ Galiana said. ‘She has no interest in other human beings. She has prosopagnosia: the inability to distinguish faces. We all look alike to her. Can you imagine something stranger than that?’

He tried, and failed. Life from Felka’s viewpoint must have been a nightmarish thing, surrounded by identical clones whose inner lives she could not begin to grasp. No wonder she was so engrossed in her game.

‘Why is she so precious to you?’ Clavain asked, not really wanting to know the answer.

‘She’s keeping us alive,’ Galiana said.

Of course, he asked Galiana what she meant by that. Galiana’s only response was to tell him that he was not yet ready to be shown the answer.

‘And what exactly would it take for me to reach that stage?’

‘A simple procedure.’

Oh yes, he understood that part well enough. Just a few machines in the right parts of his brain and the truth could be his. Politely, doing his best to mask his distaste, Clavain declined. Fortunately, Galiana did not press the point, for the time had arrived for the meeting he had been promised before his arrival on Mars.

He watched a subset of the nest file into the conference room. Galiana was their leader only inasmuch as she had founded the lab from which the original experiment had sprung and was accorded some respect deriving from seniority. She was also the most obvious spokesperson amongst them. But they all had areas of expertise that could not easily be shared amongst other Conjoined, which distinguished them from the hive mind of identical clones that still figured in the Coalition’s propaganda. If the nest was in any way like an ant colony, then it was an ant colony in which every ant fulfilled a role distinct from all the others. Naturally, no individual could be solely entrusted with a particular skill essential to the nest - that would have been dangerous overspecialisation - but neither had individuality been completely subsumed into the group mind.

The conference room must have dated back to the days when the nest was a research outpost, or even earlier, when it was some kind of mining base in the early 2100s. It was much too big for the dour handful of Conjoiners who stood around the main table. Tactical read-outs around the table showed the build-up of strike forces above the Martian exclusion zone; probable drop trajectories for ground-force deployment.

‘Nevil Clavain,’ Galiana said, introducing him to the others. Everyone sat down. ‘I’m just sorry that Sandra Voi can’t be with us now. We all feel the tragedy of her death. But perhaps out of this terrible event we can find some common ground. Nevil - before you came here you told us you had a proposal for a peaceful resolution to the crisis.’

‘I’d really like to hear it,’ one of the others murmured audibly.

Clavain’s throat was dry. Diplomatically, this was quicksand. ‘My proposal concerns Phobos—’

‘Go on,’ Galiana invited.

‘I was injured there,’ he said. ‘Very badly. Our attempt to clean out the worm infestation failed and I lost some good friends. That makes it personal between me and the worms. But I’d accept anyone’s help to finish them off.’

Galiana glanced quickly at her compatriots before answering. ‘A joint assault operation?’

‘It could work.’

‘Yes . . .’ Galiana looked lost, momentarily. ‘I suppose it could be a way out of the impasse. Our own attempt failed, too - and the Interdiction’s stopped us from trying again.’ Again, she seemed to fall into reverie. ‘But who would really benefit from the flushing out of Phobos? We’d still be quarantined here.’

Clavain leaned forward. ‘A cooperative gesture might be exactly the thing to lead to a relaxation in the terms of the Interdiction. But don’t think of it that way. Think instead of reducing the current threat from the worms.’

‘Threat?’

Clavain nodded. ‘It’s possible that you haven’t noticed.’ He leaned further forward, elbows on the table. ‘We’re concerned about the Phobos worms. They’ve begun altering the moon’s orbit. The shift is tiny at the moment, but too large to be anything other than deliberate.’

Galiana looked away from him for an instant, as if weighing her options, then said, ‘We were aware of this, but you weren’t to know that.’

Was that an indication of gratitude from Galiana?

He had assumed the worms’ activity could not have escaped Galiana. ‘We’ve seen odd behaviour from other worm infestations across the system, things that begin to look like emergent intelligence, but never anything this purposeful. This infestation must have come from a batch with some subroutines we never even guessed existed. Do you have any ideas about what they might be up to?’

Again, there was the briefest of hesitations, as if she was communing with her compatriots for the right response. Then she nodded towards a male Conjoiner sitting opposite her, Clavain guessing that the gesture was entirely for his benefit. His hair was black and curly, his face as smooth and untroubled by expression as Galiana’s, with something of the same beautifully symmetrical bone structure.

‘This is Remontoire,’ said Galiana. ‘He’s our specialist on the Phobos situation.’

Remontoire nodded politely. ‘In answer to your question, we currently have no viable theories as to what they’re doing, but we do know one thing: they’re raising the apocentre of the moon’s orbit.’ Apocentre, Clavain knew, was the Martian equivalent of apogee for an object orbiting Earth: the point of highest altitude in an elliptical orbit. Remontoire continued, his voice as preternaturally calm as a parent reading slowly to a child, ‘The natural orbit of Phobos is actually inside the Roche limit for a gravitationally bound moon; Phobos is raising a tidal bulge on Mars but, because of friction, the bulge can’t quite keep up with Phobos. It’s causing Phobos to spiral slowly closer to Mars, by about two metres a century. In a few tens of millions of years, what’s left of the moon will crash into Mars.’

‘You think the worms are elevating the orbit to avoid a cataclysm so far in the future?’

‘I don’t know,’ Remontoire said. ‘I suppose the orbital alterations could also be a by-product of some less meaningful worm activity.’

‘I agree,’ Clavain said. ‘But the danger remains. If the worms can elevate the moon’s apocentre - even accidentally - we can assume they also have the means to lower its pericentre. They could drop Phobos on top of your nest. Does that scare you sufficiently that you’d consider cooperation with the Coalition?’

Galiana steepled her fingers before her face; a human gesture of deep concentration that her time as a Conjoiner had not quite eroded. Clavain could almost feel the web of thought looming the room: ghostly strands of cognition reaching between each Conjoiner at the table, and beyond into the nest proper.

‘A winning team, is that your idea?’ she said at length.

‘It’s got to be better than war,’ Clavain said. ‘Hasn’t it?’

Galiana might have been about to answer him when her face grew troubled. Clavain saw the wave of discomposure sweep over the others almost simultaneously. Something told him that it was nothing to do with his proposal.

Around the table, half the display facets switched automatically over to another channel. The face that Clavain was looking at was much like his own, except that the face on the screen was missing an eye. It was his brother. Warren was overlaid with the official insignia of the Coalition and a dozen system-wide media cartels.

He was in the middle of a speech. ‘. . . express my shock,’ Warren said. ‘Or, for that matter, my outrage. It’s not just that they’ve murdered a valued colleague and a deeply experienced member of my team. They’ve murdered my brother.’

Clavain felt the deepest of chills. ‘What is this?’

‘A live transmission from Deimos,’ Galiana breathed. ‘It’s going out to all the nets, right out to the trans-Pluto habitats.’

‘What they did was an act of unspeakable treachery,’ Warren said. ‘Nothing less than the premeditated, cold-blooded murder of a peace envoy.’ And then a video clip sprang up to replace Warren. The image must have been snapped from Deimos or one of the Interdiction satellites. It showed Clavain’s shuttle, lying in the dust close to the dyke. He watched the Ouroborus destroy the shuttle, then saw the image zoom in on himself and Voi, running for sanctuary. The Ouroborus took Voi. But this time there was no ladder lowered down for him. Instead, he saw weapon beams scythe out from the nest towards him, knocking him to the ground. Horribly wounded, he tried to get up, to crawl a few centimetres nearer to his tormentors, but the worm was already upon him.

He watched himself get eaten.

Warren was back again. ‘The worms around the nest were a Conjoiner trap. My brother’s death must have been planned days - maybe even weeks - in advance.’ His face was a granite-like mask of military composure. ‘There can only be one outcome from such an act - something the Conjoiners must have well understood. For months they’ve been goading us towards hostile action.’ He paused, then nodded at an unseen audience. ‘Well, now they’re going to get it. In fact, our response has already commenced.’ ‘Dear God, no,’ Clavain said, but the evidence was everywhere now: all around the table he could see the updating orbital spread of the Coalition’s dropships, knifing down towards Mars.

‘I think it’s war,’ Galiana said.

Conjoiners stormed onto the roof of the nest, taking up defensive positions around the domes and the dyke’s edge. Most of them carried the same guns they had used against the Ouroborus. Smaller numbers were setting up automatic cannon on tripods. One or two were manhandling large anti-assault weapons into position. Most of it was war surplus. Fifteen years ago the Conjoiners had avoided extinction by deploying weapons of awesome ferocity - but those ship-to-ship armaments were simply too destructive to use against a nearby foe. Now it would be more visceral, closer to the primal templates of combat, and none of what the Conjoiners were marshalling would be much use against the kind of assault Warren had prepared, Clavain knew. They could slow an attack, but not much more than that.

Galiana had given him another breather mask, made him don lightweight chameleoflage armour and then forced him to carry one of the smaller guns. The gun felt alien in his hands; something he had never expected to carry again. The only possible justification for carrying it was to use it against his brother’s forces - against his own side.

Could he do that?

It was clear that Warren had betrayed him; he had surely been aware of the worms around the nest. So his brother was capable not just of contempt, but of treacherous murder. For the first time, Clavain felt genuine hatred for Warren. He must have hoped that the worms would destroy the shuttle completely and kill Clavain and Voi in the process. It must have pained him to see Clavain make it to the dyke . . . pained him even more when Clavain called to talk about the tragedy. But Warren’s larger plan had not been affected. The diplomatic link between the nest and Deimos was secure - even the Demarchists had no immediate access to it. So Clavain’s call from the surface could be quietly ignored; spysat imagery doctored to make it appear as if he had never reached the dyke . . . had in fact been repelled by Conjoiner treachery. Inevitably, the Demarchists would unravel the deception, given time . . . but if Warren’s plan succeeded, they would all be embroiled in war long before then. That, thought Clavain, was all that Warren had ever wanted.

Two brothers, Clavain thought. In many ways so alike. Both had embraced war once, but, like a fickle lover, Clavain had wearied of its glories. He had not even been injured as severely as Warren . . . but perhaps that was the point, too. Warren needed another war to avenge what one had stolen from him.

Clavain despised and pitied him in equal measure.

He searched for the safety clip on the gun. The rifle, now that he studied it more closely, was not all that different from those he had used during the war. The read-out said the ammo-cell was fully charged.

He looked into the sky.

The attack wave broke orbit hard and steep above the Wall: five hundred fireballs screeching towards the nest. The insertion scorched centimetres of ablative armour from most of the ships; fried a few others that came in just fractionally too hard. Clavain knew exactly what was happening: he had studied possible attack scenarios for years, the range of outcomes burned indelibly into his memory.

The anti-assault guns were already working - locking on to the plasma trails as they flowered overhead, swinging down to find the tiny spark of heat at the head, computing refraction paths for laser pulses, spitting death into the sky. The unlucky ships flared a white that hurt the back of the eye and rained down in a billion dulling sparks. A dozen - then a dozen more. Maybe fifty in total before the guns could no longer acquire targets. It was nowhere near enough. Clavain’s memory of the simulations told him that at least four hundred units of the attack wave would survive both re-entry and the Conjoiner’s heavy defences.

Nothing that Galiana could do would make any difference.

And that had always been the paradox. Galiana was capable of running the same simulations. She must always have known that her provocations would bring down something she could never hope to defeat.

Something that was always going to destroy her.

The surviving members of the wave were levelling out now, commencing long, ground-hugging runs from all directions. Cocooned in their dropships, the soldiers would be suffering punishing gee-loads, but it was nothing they were not engineered to withstand: their cardiovascular systems had been augmented with the sort of non-neural implants the Coalition grudgingly tolerated.

The first of the wave came arcing in at supersonic speeds. All around, worms struggled to snatch them out of the sky, but mostly they were too slow to catch the dropships. Galiana’s people manned their cannon positions and did their best to fend off as many as they could. Clavain clutched his gun, not firing yet. Best to save his ammo-cell power for a target he stood a chance of injuring.

Above, the first dropships made hairpin turns, nosing suicidally down towards the nest. Then they fractured cleanly apart, revealing falling pilots clad in bulbous armour. Just before the moment of impact, each pilot’s armour exploded into a mass of black shock-absorbing balloons, looking something like a blackberry, bouncing across the nest before the balloons deflated just as swiftly to leave the pilot standing on the ground. By then the pilot - now properly a soldier - would have a comprehensive computer-generated map of the nest’s nooks and crannies; enemy positions graphed in real-time from the down-looking spysats.

Clavain fell behind the curve of a dome before the nearest soldier got a lock on him. The firefight was beginning now. He had to hand it to Galiana’s people - they were fighting like devils. And they were at least as well coordinated as the attackers. But their weapons and armour were simply inadequate. Chameleoflage was only truly effective against a solitary enemy, or a massed enemy moving in from a common direction. With Coalition forces surrounding him, Clavain’s suit was going crazy trying to match every background, like a chameleon in a house of mirrors.

The sky overhead looked strange now - darkening purple. And the purple was spreading in a mist across the nest. Galiana had deployed some kind of chemical smokescreen: infrared and optically opaque, he guessed. It would occlude the spysats and might be primed to adhere only to enemy chameleoflage. That had never been in Warren’s simulations. Galiana had just given herself the slightest of edges.

A soldier stepped out of the mist, the obscene darkness of a gun muzzle trained on Clavain. His chameleoflage armour was dappled with vivid purple patches, ruining its stealthiness. The man fired, but his discharge wasted itself against Clavain’s armour. Clavain returned the compliment, dropping his compatriot. What he had done, he thought, was not technically treason. Not yet. All he had done was act in self-preservation.

The man was wounded, but not yet dead. Clavain stepped through the purple haze and knelt down beside the soldier. He tried not to look at the man’s wound.

‘Can you hear me?’ he said. There was no answer from the man, but beneath his visor, Clavain thought he saw the man’s lips shape a word. The man was just a kid - hardly old enough to remember much of the last war. ‘There’s something you have to know,’ Clavain continued. ‘Do you realise who I am?’ He wondered how recognisable he was, under the breather mask. Then something made him relent. He could tell the man he was Nevil Clavain - but what would that achieve? The soldier would be dead in minutes; maybe sooner than that. Nothing would be served by the soldier knowing that the basis for his attack was a lie; that he would not in fact be laying down his life for a just cause. The universe could be spared a single callous act.

‘Forget it,’ Clavain said, turning away from his victim.

And then he moved deeper into the nest, to see who else he could kill before the odds took him.

But the odds never did.

‘You were always were lucky,’ Galiana said, leaning over him. They were somewhere underground again - deep in the nest. A medical area, by the look of things. He was on a bed, fully clothed apart from the outer layer of chameleoflage armour. The room was grey and kettle-shaped, ringed by a circular balcony.

‘What happened?’

‘You took a head wound, but you’ll survive.’

He groped for the right question. ‘What about Warren’s attack?’

‘We endured three waves. We took casualties, of course.’

Around the circumference of the balcony were thirty or so grey couches, slightly recessed into archways studded with grey medical equipment. They were all occupied. There were more Conjoiners in this room than he had seen so far in one place. Some of them looked very close to death.

Clavain reached up and examined his head, gingerly. There was some dried blood on the scalp, matted with his hair, some numbness, but it could have been a lot worse. He felt normal - no memory drop-outs or aphasia. When he pushed himself up to sitting and tried to stand, his body obeyed his will with only a tinge of dizziness.

‘Warren won’t stop at just three waves, Galiana.’

‘I know.’ She paused. ‘We know there’ll be more.’

He walked to the railing on the inner side of the balcony and looked over the edge. He had expected to see something - some chunk of incomprehensible surgical equipment, perhaps - but the middle of the room was only an empty, smooth-walled, grey pit. He shivered. The air was colder than in any part of the nest he had visited so far, with a medicinal tang that reminded him of the convalescence ward on Deimos. What made him shiver even more was the realisation that some of the injured - some of the dead - were barely older than the children he had visited only hours ago. Perhaps some of them were those children, conscripted from the nursery since his visit, uploaded with fighting reflexes through their new implants.

‘What are you going to do? You know you can’t win. Warren lost only a tiny fraction of his available force in those waves. You look as if you’ve lost half your nest.’

‘It’s much worse than that,’ Galiana said.

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re not quite ready yet. But I can show you in a moment.’

He felt colder than ever now. ‘What do you mean, “not quite ready”?’

Galiana looked deeply into his eyes now. ‘You suffered a serious head injury, Clavain. The entry wound was small, but the internal bleeding . . . it would have killed you, had we not intervened.’ Before he could ask the inevitable question she answered it for him. ‘We injected a small cluster of medichines into your head. They undid the damage very easily. But it seemed provident to allow them to grow.’

‘You’ve put replicators in my head?’

‘You needn’t sound so horrified. They’re already growing - spreading out and interfacing with your existing neural circuitry - but the total volume of glial mass they will consume is tiny: only a few cubic millimetres in total, across your entire brain.’

He wondered if she was calling his bluff. ‘I don’t feel anything.’

‘You won’t - not for a minute or so.’ Now she pointed into the empty pit in the middle of the room. ‘Stand here and look into the air.’

‘There’s nothing there.’

But as soon as he had spoken, he knew he was wrong. There was something in the pit. He blinked and directed his attention somewhere else, but when he returned his gaze to the pit, the thing he imagined he had seen - milky, spectral - was still there, and becoming sharper and brighter by the second. It was a three-dimensional structure, as complex as an exercise in protein-folding. A tangle of loops and connecting branches and nodes and tunnels, embedded in a ghostly red matrix.

Suddenly, he saw it for what it was: a map of the nest, dug into Mars. Just as the Coalition had suspected, the base was far more extensive than the original structure, reaching deeper and further out than anyone had imagined. Clavain made a mental effort to retain some of what he was seeing in his mind, the intelligence-gathering reflex stronger than the conscious knowledge that he would never see Deimos again.

‘The medichines in your brain have interfaced with your visual cortex,’ Galiana said. ‘That’s the first step on the road to Transenlightenment. Now you’re privy to the machine-generated imagery encoded by the fields through which we move - most of it, anyway.’

‘Tell me this wasn’t planned, Galiana. Tell me you weren’t intending to put machines in me at the first opportunity.’

‘No, I wasn’t planning it. But nor was I going to let your phobias prevent me from saving your life.’

The image grew in complexity. Glowing nodes of light appeared in the tunnels, some moving slowly through the network.

‘What are they?’

‘You’re seeing the locations of the Conjoiners,’ Galiana said. ‘Are there as many as you imagined?’

Clavain judged that there were no more than seventy lights in the whole complex now. He searched for a cluster that would identify the room in which he stood. There: twenty-odd bright lights, accompanied by one much fainter than the rest. Himself, of course. There were few people near the top of the nest - the attack must have collapsed half the tunnels, or maybe Galiana had deliberately sealed entrances herself.

‘Where is everyone? Where are the children?’

‘Most of the children are gone now.’ She paused. ‘You were right to guess that we were rushing them to Transenlightenment, Clavain.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s the only way out of here.’

The image changed again. Now, each of the bright lights was connected to another by a shimmering filament. The topology of the network was constantly shifting, like a pattern seen in a kaleidoscope. Occasionally, too swiftly for Clavain to be sure, it coalesced towards a mandala of elusive symmetry, only to dissolve into the flickering chaos of the ever-changing network. He studied Galiana’s node and saw that - even as she was speaking to him - her mind was in constant rapport with the rest of the nest.

Now something very bright appeared in the middle of the image, like a tiny star, against which the shimmering network paled almost to invisibility. ‘The network is abstracted now,’ Galiana said. ‘The bright light represents its totality: the unity of Transenlightenment. Watch.’

He watched. The bright light - as beautiful and alluring as anything Clavain had ever imagined - was extending a ray towards the isolated node that represented himself. The ray was extending itself through the map, coming closer by the second.

‘The new structures in your mind are nearing maturity,’ Galiana said. ‘When the ray touches you, you will experience partial integration with the rest of us. Prepare yourself, Nevil.’

Her words were unnecessary. His fingers were already clenched, sweating on the railing as the light inched closer and engulfed his node.

‘I should hate you for this,’ Clavain said.

‘Why don’t you? Hate’s always the easier option.’

‘Because . . .’ Because it made no difference now. His old life was over. He reached out for Galiana, needing some anchor against what was about to hit him. Galiana squeezed his hand and an instant later he knew something of Transenlightenment. The experience was shocking; not because it was painful or fearful, but because it was profoundly and totally new. He was literally thinking in ways that had not been possible microseconds earlier.

Afterwards, when Clavain tried to imagine how he might describe it, he found that words were never going to be adequate for the task. And that was no surprise: evolution had shaped language to convey many concepts, but going from a single to a networked topology of self was not amongst them. But if he could not convey the core of the experience, he could at least skirt its essence with metaphor. It was like standing on the shore of an ocean, being engulfed by a wave taller than himself. For a moment he sought the surface; tried to keep the water from his lungs. But there happened not to be a surface. What had consumed him extended infinitely in all directions. He could only submit to it. Yet as the moments slipped by, it turned from something terrifying in its unfamiliarity to something he could begin to adapt to; something that even began in the tiniest way to feel comforting. Even then he glimpsed that it was only a shadow of what Galiana was experiencing every instant of her life.

‘All right,’ Galiana said. ‘That’s enough for now.’

The fullness of Transenlightenment retreated, like a fading vision of Godhead. What he was left with was purely sensory, lacking any direct rapport with the others. His state of mind came crashing back to normality.

‘Are you all right, Nevil?’

‘Yes . . .’ His mouth was dry. ‘Yes, I think so.’

‘Look around you.’

He did.

The room had changed completely. So had everyone in it.

His head reeling, Clavain walked in light. The formerly grey walls oozed beguiling patterns, as if a dark forest had suddenly become enchanted. Information hung in veils in the air: icons and diagrams and numbers clustering around the beds of the injured, thinning out into the general space like fantastically delicate neon sculptures. As he walked towards the icons they darted out of his way, mocking him like schools of brilliant fish. Sometimes they seemed to sing, or tickle the back of his nose with half-familiar smells.

‘You can perceive things now,’ Galiana said, ‘but none of it will mean much to you. You’d need years of education, or deeper neural machinery, for that - building cognitive layers. We read all this almost subliminally.’

Galiana was dressed differently now. He could still see the vague shape of her grey outfit, but layered around it were billowing skeins of light, unravelling at their edges into chains of Boolean logic. Icons danced in her hair like angels. He could see, faintly, the web of thought linking her with the other Conjoiners.

She was inhumanly beautiful.

‘You said things were much worse,’ Clavain said. ‘Are you ready to show me now?’

She took him to see Felka again, passing on the way through deserted nursery rooms, populated now only by bewildered mechanical animals. Felka was the only child left in the nursery.

Clavain had been deeply disturbed by Felka when he had seen her before, but not for any reason he could easily express. Something about the purposefulness of her actions, performed with ferocious concentration, as if the fate of creation hung on the outcome of her game. Felka and her surroundings had not changed at all since his previous visit. The room was still austere to the point of oppressiveness. Felka looked the same. In every respect it was as if only an instant had passed since their first meeting; as if the onset of war and the assaults against the nest - the battle in which this was only an interlude - were only figments from someone else’s troubling dream; nothing that need concern Felka in her devotion to the task at hand.

And the task awed Clavain.

Before, he had watched her make strange gestures in the empty air in front of her. Now the machines in his head revealed the purpose those gestures served. Around Felka - cordoning her like a barricade - was a ghostly representation of the Great Wall.

She was doing something to it.

It was not a scale representation, Clavain knew. The Wall looked much higher here in relation to its diameter. And the surface was not the nearly invisible membrane of the real thing, but something like etched glass. The etching was a filigree of lines and junctions, descending down to smaller and smaller scales in fractal steps until the blur of detail was too fine for his eyes to discriminate. It was shifting and altering colour, and Felka was responding to these alterations with what he now saw was frightening efficiency. It was as if the colour changes warned of some malignancy in part of the Wall, and by touching it - expressing some tactile code - Felka was able to restructure the etching to block and neutralise the malignancy before it spread.

‘I don’t understand,’ Clavain said. ‘I thought we destroyed the Wall, completely killed its systems.’

‘You only ever injured it,’ Galiana said, ‘stopped it from growing, and from managing its own repair processes correctly . . . but you never truly killed it.’

Sandra Voi had guessed, Clavain realised. She had wondered how the Wall had survived this long.

Galiana told him the rest: how they had managed to establish control pathways to the Wall from the nest, fifteen years earlier - optical cables sunk deep below the worm zone. ‘We stabilised the Wall’s degradation with software running on dumb machines,’ she said. ‘But when Felka was born we found that she managed the task just as efficiently as the computers; in some ways better than they ever did. In fact, she seemed to thrive on it. It was as if in the Wall she found . . .’ Galiana trailed off. ‘I was going to say a friend.’

‘Why don’t you?’

‘Because the Wall’s just a machine. If Felka recognised kinship with it . . . what would that make her?’

‘Someone lonely, that’s all.’ Clavain watched the girl’s motions. ‘She seems faster than before. Is that possible?’

‘I told you things had deteriorated. She’s having to work harder to hold the Wall together.’

‘Warren must have attacked it.’ Clavain said. ‘The possibility of knocking down the Wall always figured in our contingency plans for another war. I just never thought it would happen so soon.’ Then he looked at Felka. Maybe it was his imagination, but she seemed to be working even faster than when he had entered the room, not just since his last visit. ‘How long do you think she can keep it together?’

‘Not much longer,’ Galiana said. ‘As a matter of fact, I think she’s already failing.’

It was true. Now that he looked closely at the ghost Wall, he saw that the upper edge was not the mathematically smooth ring it should have been: there were scores of tiny ragged bites eating down from the top. Felka’s activities were increasingly directed to these opening cracks, instructing the crippled structure to divert energy and raw materials to these critical failure points. Clavain knew that the distant processes Felka directed were awesome. Within the Wall lay a lymphatic system whose peristaltic feed-pipes ranged in size from metres across to the submicroscopic, all flowing with myriad tiny repair machines. Felka chose where to send those machines, her hand gestures establishing pathways between damage points and the factories sunk into the Wall’s ramparts that made the required types of machine. For more than a decade, Galiana said, Felka had kept the Wall from crumbling - but for most of that time her adversaries had been only natural decay and accidental damage. It was a different game now that the Wall had been attacked again. It was not one she could ever win.

Felka’s movements became swifter, less fluid. Her face remained impassive, but in the quickening way that her eyes darted from point to point it was possible to read the first hints of panic. No surprise, either: the deepest cracks in the structure now reached a quarter of the way to the surface, and they were too wide to be repaired. The Wall was unzipping along those flaws. Cubic kilometres of atmosphere would be howling out through the openings. The loss of pressure would be immeasurably slow at first, for near the top the trapped cylinder of atmosphere was only fractionally thicker than the rest of the Martian atmosphere. But only at first . . .

‘We have to get deeper,’ Clavain said. ‘Once the Wall goes, we won’t have a chance in hell if we’re anywhere near the surface. It’ll be like the worst tornado in history.’

‘What will your brother do? Will he nuke us?’

‘No, I don’t think so. He’ll want to get hold of any technologies you’ve hidden away. He’ll wait until the dust storms have died down, then he’ll raid the nest with a hundred times as many troops as you’ve seen so far. You won’t be able to resist, Galiana. If you’re lucky you may just survive long enough to be taken prisoner.’

‘There won’t be any prisoners,’ Galiana said.

‘You’re planning to die fighting?’

‘No. And mass suicide doesn’t figure in our plans either. Neither will be necessary. By the time your brother reaches here, there won’t be anyone left in the nest.’

Clavain thought of the worms encircling the area; how small the chances were of reaching any kind of safety if it involved getting past them. ‘Secret tunnels under the worm zone, is that it? I hope you’re serious.’

‘I’m deadly serious,’ Galiana said. ‘And yes, there is a secret tunnel. The other children have already gone through it now. But it doesn’t lead under the worm zone.’

‘Where, then?’

‘Somewhere a lot further away.’

When they passed through the medical centre again it was empty, save for a few swan-necked robots patiently waiting for further casualties. They had left Felka behind tending the Wall, her hands a manic blur as she tried to slow the rate of collapse. Clavain had tried to make her come with them, but Galiana had told him he was wasting his time: that she would sooner die than be parted from the Wall.

‘You don’t understand,’ Galiana said. ‘You’re placing too much humanity behind her eyes. Keeping the Wall alive is the single most important fact of her universe - more important than love, pain, death - anything you or I would consider definitively human.’

‘Then what happens to her when the Wall dies?’

‘Her life ends,’ Galiana said.

Reluctantly he had left without her, the taste of shame bitter in his mouth. Rationally it made sense: without Felka’s help, the Wall would collapse much sooner and there was a good chance all their lives would end, not just that of the haunted girl. How deep would they have to go before they were safe from the suction of the escaping atmosphere? Would any part of the nest be safe?

The regions through which they were descending now were as cold and grey as any Clavain had seen. There were no entoptic generators buried in these walls to supply visual information to the implants Galiana had put in his head, and even her own aura of light was gone. They only met a few other Conjoiners, and they were all moving in the same general direction: down to the nest’s basement levels. This was unknown territory for Clavain.

Where was Galiana taking him?

‘If you had an escape route all along, why did you wait so long before sending the children through it?’

‘I told you, we couldn’t bring them to Transenlightenment too soon. The older they were, the better,’ Galiana said. ‘Now, though—’

‘There was no waiting any longer, was there?’

Eventually, they reached a chamber with the same echoing acoustics as the topside hangar. The chamber was dark except for a few pools of light, but in the shadows Clavain made out discarded excavation equipment and freight pallets; cranes and deactivated robots. The air smelled of ozone. Something was still going on there.

‘Is this the factory where you make the shuttles?’ Clavain said.

‘We manufactured parts of them here, yes,’ Galiana said, ‘but that was a side-industry.’

‘Of what?’

‘The tunnel, of course.’ Galiana made more lights come on. At the far end of the chamber - they were walking towards it - waited a series of cylindrical things with pointed ends, like huge bullets. They rested on rails, one after the other. The tip of the very first bullet was next to a dark hole in the wall. Clavain was about to say something when there was a sudden loud buzz and the first bullet slammed into the hole. The remaining three bullets eased slowly forward and halted. Conjoiners were waiting to board them.

He remembered what Galiana had said about no one being left behind.

‘What am I seeing here?’

‘A way out of the nest,’ Galiana said. ‘And a way off Mars, though I suppose you figured that part out for yourself.’

‘There is no way off Mars,’ Clavain said. ‘The Interdiction guarantees that. Haven’t you learned that with your shuttles?’

‘The shuttles were only ever a diversionary tactic,’ Galiana said. ‘They made your side think we were still striving to escape, whereas our true escape route was already fully operational.’

‘A pretty desperate diversion.’

‘Not really. I lied to you when I said we didn’t clone. We did - but only to produce braindead corpses. The shuttles were full of corpses before we ever launched them.’

For the first time since leaving Deimos, Clavain smiled, amused by the sheer obliquity of Galiana’s thinking.

‘Of course, the shuttles performed another function,’ she said. ‘They provoked your side into a direct attack against the nest.’

‘So this was deliberate all along?’

‘Yes. We needed to draw your side’s attention; to concentrate your military presence in low orbit, near the nest. Of course, we were hoping the offensive would come later than it did . . . but we reckoned without Warren’s conspiracy.’

‘Then you are planning something.’

‘Yes.’ The next bullet slammed into the wall, ozone crackling from its linear induction rails. Now only two remained. ‘We can talk later. There isn’t much time left.’ She projected an image into his visual field: the Wall, now veined by titanic fractures down half its length. ‘It’s collapsing.’

‘And Felka?’

‘She’s still trying to save it.’

He looked at the Conjoiners boarding the leading bullet; tried to imagine where they were going. Was it to any kind of sanctuary he might recognise - or to something so beyond his experience that it might as well be death? Did he have the nerve to find out? Perhaps. He had nothing to lose now, after all: he certainly could not return home. But if he was going to follow Galiana’s exodus, it could not be with the sense of shame he now felt in abandoning Felka.

The answer, when it came, was simple. ‘I’m going back for her. If you can’t wait for me, don’t. But don’t try to stop me doing this.’

Galiana looked at him, shaking her head slowly. ‘She won’t thank you for saving her life, Clavain.’

‘Maybe not now,’ he said.

He had the feeling he was running back into a burning building. Given what Galiana had said about the girl’s deficiencies - that by any reasonable definition she was hardly more than an automaton - what he was doing was very likely pointless, if not suicidal. But if he turned his back on her, he would become something less than human himself. He had misread Galiana badly when she said the girl was precious to them. He had assumed some bond of affection . . . whereas what Galiana meant was that the girl was precious in the sense of a vital component. Now - with the nest being abandoned - the component had no further use. Did that make Galiana as cold as a machine herself - or was she just being unfailingly realistic?

He found the nursery after only one or two false turns, and then Felka’s room. The implants Galiana had given him were once again throwing phantom images into the air. Felka sat within the crumbling circle of the Wall. Great fissures now reached to the surface of Mars. Shards of the Wall, as big as icebergs, had fractured away and now lay like vast sheets of broken glass across the regolith.

She was losing, and she knew it. This was not just some more difficult phase of the game. This was something she could never win, and her realisation was now plainly evident in her face. She was still moving her arms frantically, but her face was red, locked into a petulant scowl of anger and fear.

For the first time, she seemed to notice him.

Something had broken through her shell, Clavain thought. For the first time in years, something was happening that was beyond her control; something that threatened to destroy the neat, geometric universe she had made for herself. She might not have distinguished his face from all the other people who came to see her, but she surely recognised something . . . that now the adult world was bigger than she was, and it was only from the adult world that any kind of salvation could come.

Then she did something that shocked him beyond words. She looked deep into his eyes and reached out a hand.

But there was nothing he could do to help her.

Later - it felt like hours, but in fact could only have been tens of minutes - Clavain found that he was able to breathe normally again. They had escaped Mars now: Galiana, Felka and himself, riding the last bullet.

And they were still alive.

The bullet’s vacuum-filled tunnel cut deep into Mars; a shallow arc curving under the crust before rising again, thousands of kilometres away, well beyond the Wall, where the atmosphere was as thin as ever. For the Conjoiners, boring the tunnel had not been especially difficult. Such engineering would have been impossible on a planet that had plate tectonics, but beneath its lithosphere, Mars was geologically quiet. They had not even had to worry about tailings. What they excavated, they compressed and fused and used to line the tunnel, maintaining rigidity against awesome pressure with some trick of piezoelectricity. In the tunnel, the bullet accelerated continuously at three gees for ten minutes. Their seats had tilted back and wrapped around them, applying pressure to their legs to maintain bloodflow to their brains. Even so, it was difficult to think, let alone move, but Clavain knew that it was no worse than what the earliest space explorers had endured climbing away from Earth. And he had undergone similar tortures during the war, in combat insertions.

They were moving at ten kilometres a second when they reached the surface again, exiting via a camouflaged trap door. For a moment, the atmosphere snatched at them . . . but almost as soon as Clavain had registered the deceleration, it was over. The surface of Mars was dropping below them very quickly indeed.

In half a minute, they were in true space.

‘The Interdiction’s sensor web can’t track us,’ Galiana said. ‘You placed your best spysats directly over the nest. That was a mistake, Clavain - even though we did our best to reinforce your thinking with the shuttle launches. But now we’re well outside your sensor footprint.’

Clavain nodded. ‘But that won’t help us once we’re far from the surface. Then we’ll just look like another ship trying to reach deep space. The web may be late locking on to us, but it’ll still get us in the end.’

‘It would,’ Galiana said, ‘if deep space was where we were going.’

Felka stirred next to him. She had withdrawn into some kind of catatonia. Separation from the Wall had undermined her entire existence; now she was free-falling through an abyss of meaninglessness. Perhaps, Clavain thought, she would fall for ever. If that was the case, he had only postponed her fate. Was that much of a cruelty? Perhaps he was deluding himself, but with time, was it out of the question that Galiana’s machines could undo the harm they had inflicted ten years earlier? Surely they could try. It depended, of course, on where exactly they were headed. One of the system’s other Conjoiner nests had been Clavain’s initial guess - even though it seemed unlikely that they would ever survive the crossing. At ten klicks per second it would take years . . .

‘Where are you taking us?’ he asked.

Galiana issued some neural command that made the bullet’s skin become transparent.

‘There,’ she said.

Something lay distantly ahead. Galiana made the forward view zoom in until the object was much clearer.

Dark - misshapen. Like Deimos without fortifications.

‘Phobos,’ Clavain said, wonderingly. ‘We’re going to Phobos.’

‘Yes,’ Galiana said.

‘But the worms—’

‘Don’t exist any more.’ She spoke with the same tutorly patience with which Remontoire had addressed him on the same subject not long before. ‘Your attempt to oust the worms failed. You assumed our subsequent attempt failed, but that was only what we wanted you to think.’

For a moment he was lost for words. ‘You’ve had people in Phobos all along?’

‘Ever since the ceasefire, yes. They’ve been quite busy, too.’

Phobos altered. Layers of it were peeled away, revealing the glittering device that lay hidden in its heart, poised and ready for flight. Clavain had never seen anything like it, but the nature of the thing was instantly obvious. He was looking at something wonderful; something that had never existed before in the whole of human experience.

He was looking at a starship.

‘We’ll be leaving soon,’ Galiana said. ‘They’ll try to stop us, of course. But now that their forces are concentrated near the surface of Mars, they won’t succeed. We’ll leave Phobos and Mars behind, and send messages to the other nests. If they can break out and meet us, we’ll take them as well. We’ll leave this whole system behind.’

‘Where are you going?’

‘Shouldn’t that be where are we going? You’re coming with us, after all.’ She paused. ‘There are a number of candidate systems. Our choice will depend on the trajectory the Coalition forces upon us.’

‘What about the Demarchists?’

‘They won’t stop us.’ She spoke with total assurance - implying . . . what? That the Demarchy knew of this ship? Perhaps. It had long been rumoured that the Demarchists and the Conjoiners were closer than they admitted.

Clavain thought of something. ‘What about the worms’ altering the orbit?’

‘That was our doing,’ Galiana said. ‘We couldn’t help it. Every time we send up one of these canisters, we nudge Phobos into a different orbit. Even after we sent up a thousand canisters, the effect was tiny - we changed Phobos’s velocity by less than one-tenth of a millimetre per second - but there was no way to hide it.’ Then she paused and looked at Clavain with something like apprehension. ‘We’ll be arriving in two hundred seconds. Do you want to live?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Think about it. The tube in Mars was a thousand kilometres long, which allowed us to spread the acceleration over ten minutes. Even then it was three gees. But there simply isn’t room for anything like that in Phobos. We’ll be slowing down much more abruptly.’

Clavain felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. ‘How much more abruptly?’

‘Complete deceleration in one-fifth of a second.’ She let that sink home. ‘That’s around five thousand gees.’

‘I can’t survive that.’

‘No, you can’t. Not the way you are right now, anyway. But there are machines in your head now. If you allow it, there’s time for them to establish a structural web across your brain. We’ll flood the cabin with foam. We’ll all die temporarily, but there won’t be any damage they can’t fix in Phobos.’

‘It won’t just be a structural web, will it? I’ll be like you, then. There won’t be any difference between us.’

‘You’ll become Conjoined, yes.’ Galiana offered the faintest of smiles. ‘The procedure is reversible. It’s just that no one’s ever wanted to go back.’

‘And you still tell me none of this was planned?’

‘It wasn’t, but I don’t expect you to believe me. For what it’s worth, though . . . you’re a good man, Nevil. The Transenlightenment could use you. Maybe at the back of my mind . . . at the back of our mind—’

‘You always hoped it might come to this?’

Galiana smiled.

He looked at Phobos. Even without Galiana’s magnification, it was clearly bigger. They would be arriving very shortly. He would have liked longer to think about it, but the one thing not on his side now was time. Then he looked at Felka, and wondered which of them was about to embark on the stranger journey. Felka’s search for meaning in a universe without her beloved Wall, or his passage into Transenlightenment? Neither would necessarily be easy. But together, perhaps, they might even find a way to help each other. That was all he could hope for now.

Clavain nodded assent, preparing for the loom of machines to embrace his mind.

He was ready to defect.

GLACIAL

Nevil Clavain picked his way across a mosaic of shattered ice. The field stretched away in all directions, gouged by sleek-sided crevasses. They had mapped the largest cracks before landing, but he was still wary of surprises; his breath caught every time his booted foot cracked through a layer of ice. He was aware of how dangerous it would be to wander from the red path his implants were painting across the glacier field.

He only had to remind himself of what had happened to Martin Setterholm.

They had found his body a month ago, shortly after their arrival on the planet. It had been near the main American base; a stroll from the perimeter of the huge, deserted complex of stilted domes and ice-walled caverns. Clavain’s friends had found dozens of dead within the buildings, and most of them had been easily identified against the lists of base personnel that the expedition had pieced together. But Clavain had been troubled by the gaps, and had wondered if any further dead might be found in the surrounding ice fields. He had explored the warrens of the base until he found an airlock that had never been closed, and though snowfalls had long since obliterated any footprints, there was little doubt in which direction a wanderer would have set off.

Long before the base had vanished over the horizon behind him, Clavain had run into the edge of a deep, wide crevasse. And there at the bottom - just visible if he leaned over the edge - was a man’s outstretched arm and hand. Clavain had gone back to the others and had them return with a winch to lower him into the depths, descending thirty or forty metres into a cathedral of stained and sculpted ice. The body had come into view: a figure in an old-fashioned atmospheric survival suit. The man’s legs were bent in a horrible way, like those of a strangely articulated alien. Clavain knew it was a man because the fall had jolted his helmet from its neck-ring; the corpse’s well-preserved face was pressed halfway into a pillow of ice. The helmet had ended up a few metres away.

No one died instantly on Diadem. The air was breathable for short periods, and the man had clearly had time to ponder his predicament. Even in his confused state of mind he must have known that he was going to die.

‘Martin Setterholm,’ Clavain had said aloud, picking up the helmet and reading the nameplate on the crown. He felt sorry for him, but could not deny himself the small satisfaction of accounting for another of the dead. Setterholm had been amongst the missing, and though he had waited the better part of a century for it, he would at least receive a proper funeral now.

There was something else, but Clavain very nearly missed it. Setterholm had lived long enough to scratch out a message in the ice. Sheltered at the base of the glacier, the marks he had gouged were still legible. Three letters, it seemed to Clavain: an ‘I’, a ‘V’ and an ‘F’.

IVF.

The message meant nothing to Clavain, and even a deep search of the Conjoiner collective memory threw up only a handful of vaguely plausible candidates. The least ridiculous was ‘in vitro fertilisation’, but even that seemed to have no immediate connection with Setterholm. But then again, he had been a biologist, according to the base records. Did the message spell out the chilling truth about what had happened to the colony on Diadem: a biology lab experiment that had gone terribly wrong? Something to do with the worms, perhaps?

But after a while, overwhelmed by the sheer number of dead, Clavain had allowed the exact details of Setterholm’s death to slip from his mind. He was hardly unique anyway, just one more example of the way most of them had died: not by suicide or violence but through carelessness, recklessness or just plain stupidity. Basic safety procedures - like not wandering into a crevasse zone without the right equipment - had been forgotten or ignored. Machines had been used improperly. Drugs had been administered incorrectly. Sometimes the victim had taken only themselves to the grave, but in other cases the death toll had been much higher. And it had all happened swiftly.

Galiana talked about it as if it was some kind of psychosis, while the other Conjoiners speculated about an emergent neural condition, buried in the gene pool of the entire colony, lurking for years until it was activated by an environmental trigger.

Clavain, while not discounting his friends’ theories, could not help but think of the worms. They were everywhere, after all, and the Americans had certainly been interested in them - Setterholm especially. Clavain himself had pressed his faceplate against the ice and observed that the worms reached down to the depth where the man had died. Their fine burrowing trails scratched into the vertical ice walls like the branchings of a river delta, with dark nodes of breeding tangles at the intersections of the larger tunnels. The tiny black worms had infested the glacier completely, and this would only be one distinct colony out of the millions that existed throughout Diadem’s frozen regions. The worm biomass in this single colony must have been several dozen tonnes at the very least. Had the Americans’ studies of the worms unleashed something that shattered the mind, turning them all into stumbling fools?

He sensed Galiana’s quiet presence at the back of his thoughts, where she had not been a moment earlier.

‘Nevil,’ she said. ‘We’re ready to leave again.’

‘You’re done with the ruin already?’

‘It isn’t very interesting - just a few equipment shacks. There are still some remains to the north we have to look over, and it’d be good to get there before nightfall.’

‘But I’ve only been gone half an hour or—’

‘Two hours, Nevil.’

He checked his wrist display disbelievingly, but Galiana was right: he had been out alone on the glacier for all that time. Time away from the others always seemed to fly by, like sleep to an exhausted man. Perhaps the analogy was accurate, at that: sleep was when the mammalian brain took a rest from the business of processing the external universe, allowing the accumulated experience of the day to filter down into long-term memory; collating useful memories and discarding what did not need to be remembered. And for Clavain - who still needed normal sleep - these periods away from the others were when his mind took a rest from the business of engaging in frantic neural communion with the other Conjoiners. He could almost feel his neurons breathing a vast collective groan of relief, now that all they had to do was process the thoughts of a single mind.

Two hours was nowhere near enough.

‘I’ll be back shortly,’ Clavain said. ‘I just want to pick up some more worm samples, then I’ll be on my way.’

‘You’ve picked up hundreds of the damned things already, Nevil, and they’re all the same, give or take a few trivial differences. ’

‘I know. But it can’t hurt to indulge an old man’s irrational fancies, can it?’

As if to justify himself, he knelt down and began scooping surface ice into a small sample container. The leech-like worms riddled the ice so thoroughly that he was bound to have picked up a few individuals in this sample, even though he would not know for sure until he got back to the shuttle’s lab. If he was lucky, the sample might even hold a breeding tangle: a knot of several dozen worms engaged in a slow, complicated orgy of cannibalism and sex. There, he would complete the same comprehensive scans he had run on all the other worms he had picked up, trying to guess just why the Americans had devoted so much effort to studying them. And doubtless he would get exactly the same results he had found previously. The worms never changed; there was no astonishing mutation buried in every hundredth or even thousandth specimen; no stunning biochemical trickery going on inside them. They secreted a few simple enzymes and they ate pollen grains and ice-bound algae and they wriggled their way through cracks in the ice, and when they met other worms they obeyed the brainless rules of life, death and procreation.

That was all they did.

Galiana, in other words, was right: the worms had simply become an excuse for him to spend time away from the rest of the Conjoiners.

At the beginning of the expedition, a month ago, it had been much easier to justify these excursions. Even some of the true Conjoined had been drawn by a primal human urge to walk out into the wilderness, surrounding themselves with kilometres of beautifully tinted, elegantly fractured, unthinking ice. It was good to be somewhere quiet and pristine after the war-torn solar system they had left behind.

Diadem was an Earth-like planet orbiting the star Ross 248. It had oceans, ice caps, plate tectonics and signs of reasonably advanced multi-cellular life. Plants had already invaded Diadem’s land, and some animals - the equivalents of arthropods, molluscs and worms - had begun to follow in their wake. The largest land-based animals were still small by terrestrial standards, since nothing in the oceans had yet evolved an internal skeleton. There was nothing that showed any signs of intelligence, but that was only a minor disappointment. It would still take a lifetime’s study just to explore the fantastic array of body-plans, metabolisms and survival strategies Diadem life had blindly evolved.

Yet even before Galiana had sent down the first survey shuttles, a shattering truth had become apparent.

Someone had reached Diadem before them.

The signs were unmistakable: glints of refined metal on the surface, picked out by radar. Upon inspection from orbit they turned out to be ruined structures and equipment, obviously of human origin.

‘It’s not possible,’ Clavain had said. ‘We’re the first. We have to be the first. No one else has ever built anything like the Sandra Voi; nothing capable of travelling this far.’

‘Somewhere in there,’ Galiana had answered, ‘I think there might be a mistaken assumption, don’t you?’

Meekly, Clavain had nodded.

Now - later still than he had promised - Clavain made his way back to the waiting shuttle. The red carpet of safety led straight to the access ramp beneath the craft’s belly. He climbed up and stepped through the transparent membrane that spanned the entrance door, most of his suit slithering away on contact with the membrane. By the time he was inside the ship he wore only a lightweight breather mask and a few communications devices. He could have survived outside naked for many minutes - Diadem’s atmosphere now had enough oxygen to support humans - but Galiana refused to allow any intermingling of micro-organisms.

He returned the equipment to a storage locker, placed the worm sample in a refrigeration rack and clothed himself in a paper-thin black tunic and trousers, before moving into the aft compartment where Galiana was waiting.

She and Felka were sitting facing each other across the blank-walled, austerely furnished room. They were staring into the space between them without quite meeting each other’s eyes. They looked like a mother and daughter locked in argumentative stalemate, but Clavain knew better.

He issued the mental command, well rehearsed now, that opened his mind to communion with the others. It was like opening a tiny aperture in the side of a dam: he was never adequately prepared for the force with which the flow of data hit him. The room changed: colour bleeding out of the walls, lacing itself into abstract structures that permeated the room’s volume. Galiana and Felka, dressed dourly a moment earlier, were now veiled in light, and appeared superhumanly beautiful. He could feel their thoughts, as if he were overhearing a heated conversation in the room next door. Most of it was non-verbal; Galiana and Felka were playing an intense, abstract game. The thing floating between them was a solid lattice of light, resembling the plumbing diagram of an insanely complex refinery. It was constantly adjusting itself, with coloured flows racing this way and that as the geometry changed. About half the volume was green, the remainder lilac, but suddenly the former encroached dramatically on the latter.

Felka laughed; she was winning.

Galiana conceded and crashed back into her seat with a sigh of exhaustion, but she was smiling as well.

‘Sorry. I appear to have distracted you,’ Clavain said.

‘No; you just hastened the inevitable. I’m afraid Felka was always going to win.’

The girl smiled again, still saying nothing, though Clavain sensed her victory; a hard-edged thing, which for a moment outshone all other thoughts from her direction, eclipsing even Galiana’s air of weary resignation.

Felka had been a failed Conjoiner experiment in the manipulation of foetal brain development; a child with a mind more machine than human. When he had first met her - in Galiana’s nest on Mars - he had encountered a girl absorbed in a profound, endless game: directing the faltering self-repair processes of the terraforming structure known as the Great Wall of Mars, in which the nest sheltered. She had no interest in people - indeed, she could not even discriminate between faces. But when the nest was being evacuated, Clavain had risked his life to save hers, even though Galiana had told him that the kindest thing would be to let her die. As Clavain had struggled to adjust to life as part of Galiana’s commune, he had set himself the task of helping Felka to develop her latent humanity. She had begun to show signs of recognition in his presence, perhaps sensing on some level that they had a kinship; that they were both strangers stumbling towards a mysterious new light.

Galiana rose from her chair, carpets of light wrapping around her. ‘It was time to end the game, anyway. We’ve got work to do.’ She looked down at the girl, who was still staring at the lattice. ‘Sorry, Felka. Later, maybe.’

Clavain said, ‘How’s she doing?’

‘She’s laughing, Nevil. That has to be progress, doesn’t it?’

‘I’d say that depends what she’s laughing about.’

‘She beat me. She thought it was funny. I’d say that was a fairly human reaction, wouldn’t you?’

‘I’d still be happier if I could convince myself she recognised my face, and not my smell, or the sound my footfalls make.’

‘You’re the only one of us with a beard, Nevil. It doesn’t take vast amounts of neural processing to spot that.’

Clavain scratched his chin self-consciously as they stepped through into the shuttle’s flight deck. He liked his beard, even though it was trimmed to little more than grey stubble so that he could slip a breather mask on without difficulty. It was as much a link to his past as his memories, or the wrinkles Galiana had studiously built into his remodelled body.

‘You’re right, of course. Sometimes I just have to remind myself how far we’ve come.’

Galiana smiled - she was getting better at that, though there was still something a little forced about it - and pushed her long, grey-veined black hair behind her ears. ‘I tell myself the same things when I think about you, Nevil.’

‘Mm. But I have come some way, haven’t I?’

‘Yes, but that doesn’t mean you haven’t got a considerable distance ahead of you. I could have put that thought into your head in a microsecond, if you allowed me to do so - but you still insist that we communicate by making noises in our throats, the way monkeys do.’

‘Well, it’s good practice for you,’ Clavain said, hoping that his irritation was not too obvious.

They settled into adjacent seats while avionics displays slithered into take-off configuration. Clavain’s implants allowed him to fly the machine without any manual inputs at all, but - old soldier that he was - he generally preferred tactile controls. So his implants obliged, hallucinating a joystick inset with buttons and levers, and when he reached out to grasp it, his hands appeared to close around something solid. He shuddered to think how thoroughly his perceptions of the real world were being doctored to support this illusion; but once he had been flying for a few minutes he generally forgot about it, lost in the joy of piloting.

He got them airborne, then settled the shuttle into level flight towards the fifth ruin they would be visiting that day. Kilometres of ice slid beneath them, only occasionally broken by a protruding ridge or a patch of dry, boulder-strewn ground.

‘Just a few shacks, you said?’

Galiana nodded. ‘A waste of time, but we had to check it out.’

‘Any closer to understanding what happened to them?’

‘They died, more or less overnight. Mostly through incidents related to the breakdown of normal thought - although one or two may simply have died, as if they had some greater susceptibility to a toxin than the others.’

Clavain smiled, feeling that a small victory was his. ‘Now you’re looking at a toxin, rather than a psychosis?’

‘A toxin’s difficult to explain, Nevil.’

‘From Martin Setterholm’s worms, perhaps?’

‘Not very likely. Their biohazard containment measures weren’t as good as ours - but they were still adequate. We’ve analysed those worms and we know they don’t carry anything obviously hostile to us. And even if there was a neurotoxin, how would it affect everyone so quickly? Even if the lab workers had caught something, they’d have fallen ill before anyone else did, sending a warning to the others - but nothing like that happened.’ She paused, anticipating Clavain’s next question. ‘And no, I don’t think that what happened to them is necessarily something we need worry about, though that doesn’t mean I’m going to rule anything out. But even our oldest technology’s a century ahead of the best they had - and we have the Sandra Voi to retreat to if we run into anything the medichines in our heads can’t handle.’

Clavain always did his best not to think too much about the swarms of subcellular machines lacing his brain - supplanting much of it, in fact - but there were times when it was unavoidable. He still had a squeamish reaction to the idea, though it was becoming milder. Now, though, he could not help but view the machines as his allies; as intimately a part of him as his immune system. Galiana was right: they would resist anything that tried to interfere with what now passed as the ‘normal’ functioning of his mind.

‘Still,’ he said, not yet willing to drop his pet theory, ‘you’ve got to admit something: the Americans - Setterholm especially - were interested in the worms. Too interested, if you ask me.’

‘Look who’s talking.’

‘Ah, but my interest is strictly forensic. And I can’t help but put the two things together. They were interested in the worms. And they went mad.’

This was an oversimplification, of course: it was clear enough that the worms had preoccupied only some of the Americans: those who were most interested in xeno-biology. According to the evidence the Conjoiners had so far gathered, the effort had been largely spearheaded by Setterholm, the man Clavain had found dead at the bottom of the crevasse. Setterholm had travelled widely across Diadem’s snowy wastes, gathering a handful of allies to assist in his work. He had found worms in dozens of ice fields, grouped into vast colonies. For the most part, the other members of the expedition had let him get on with his activities, even as they struggled with the day-to-day business of staying alive in what was still a hostile, alien environment.

Even before they had all died, things had been far from easy. The self-replicating robots that had brought them there in the first place had failed years before, leaving the delicate life-support systems of their shelters to slowly collapse; each malfunction a little more difficult to rectify than the last. Diadem was getting colder, too - sliding inexorably into a deep ice age. It had been the Americans’ misfortune to arrive at the onset of a great, centuries-long winter. Now, Clavain thought, it was colder still; the polar ice caps rushing towards each other like long-separated lovers.

‘It must have been fast, whatever it was,’ Clavain mused. ‘They’d already abandoned most of the outlying bases by then, huddling together back at the main settlement. By that point they only had enough spare parts and technical know-how to run a single fusion power plant.’

‘Which failed.’

‘Yes - but that doesn’t mean much. It couldn’t run itself, not by then - it needed constant tinkering. Eventually the people with the right know-how must have succumbed to the . . . whatever it was - and then the reactor stopped working and they all died of the cold. But they were in trouble long before the reactor failed.’

Galiana seemed on the point of saying something. Clavain could always tell when she was about to speak: it was as if some leakage from her thoughts reached his brain even as she composed what she would say.

‘Well?’ he said, when the silence had stretched long enough.

‘I was just thinking,’ she said. ‘A reactor of that type - it doesn’t need any exotic isotopes, does it? No tritium, or deuterium?’

‘No. Just plain old hydrogen. You could get all you needed from sea water.’

‘Or ice,’ Galiana said.

They vectored in for the next landing site. Toadstools, Clavain thought: half a dozen black metal towers of varying height surmounted by domed black habitat modules, interlinked by a web of elevated, pressurised walkways. Each of the domes was thirty or forty metres wide, perched a hundred or more metres above the ice, festooned with narrow, armoured windows, sensors and communications antennas. A tongue-like extension from one of the tallest domes was clearly a landing pad. In fact, as he came closer, he saw that there was an aircraft parked on it: one of the blunt-winged machines that the Americans had used to get around in. It was dusted with ice, but it would probably still fly with a little persuasion.

He inched the shuttle down, one of its skids coming to rest only just inside the edge of the pad. Clearly the landing pad had only really been intended for one aircraft at a time.

‘Nevil . . .’ Galiana said. ‘I’m not sure I like this.’

He felt tension leaking into his head, but could not be sure if it was his own or Galiana’s.

‘What don’t you like?’

‘There shouldn’t be an aircraft here,’ Galiana said.

‘Why not?’

She spoke softly, reminding him that the evacuation of the outlying settlements had been orderly, compared to the subsequent crisis. ‘This base should have been shut down and moth-balled with all the others.’

‘Then maybe someone stayed behind here,’ Clavain suggested.

Galiana nodded. ‘Or someone came back.’

There was a third presence with them now; another hue of thought bleeding into his mind. Felka had come into the cockpit. He could taste her apprehension.

‘You sense it, too,’ he said wonderingly, looking into the face of the terribly damaged girl. ‘Our discomfort. And you don’t like it any more than we do, do you?’

Galiana took the girl’s hand. ‘It’s all right, Felka.’

She must have spoken aloud just for Clavain’s benefit. Before her mouth had even opened Galiana would have planted reassuring thoughts in Felka’s mind, attempting to still the disquiet with the subtlest of neural adjustments. Clavain thought of an expert ikebana artist minutely altering the placement of a single flower in the interests of harmony.

‘Everything will be okay,’ Clavain said. ‘There’s nothing here that can harm you.’

Galiana took a moment, blank-eyed, to commune with the other Conjoiners in and around Diadem. Most of them were still in orbit, observing things from the ship. She told them about the aircraft and notified them that she and Clavain were going to enter the structure.

He saw Felka’s hand tighten around Galiana’s wrist.

‘She wants to come as well,’ Galiana said.

‘She’ll be safer if she stays here.’

‘She doesn’t want to be alone.’

Clavain chose his words carefully. ‘I thought Conjoiners - I mean we - could never be truly alone, Galiana.’

‘There might be a communicational block inside the structure. It’ll be better if she stays physically close to us.’

‘Is that the only reason?’

‘No, of course not.’ For a moment he felt a sting of her anger, prickling his mind like sea-spray. ‘She’s still human, Nevil - no matter what we’ve done to her mind. We can’t erase a million years of evolution. She may not be very good at recognising faces, but she recognises the need for companionship.’

He raised his hands. ‘I never doubted it.’

‘Then why are you arguing?’

Clavain smiled. He’d had this conversation so many times before, with so many women. He had been married to some of them. It was oddly comforting to be having it again, light-years from home, wearing a new body, his mind clotted with machines and confronting the matriarch of what should have been a feared and hated hive mind. At the epicentre of so much strangeness, a tiff was almost to be welcomed.

‘I just don’t want anything to hurt her.’

‘Oh. And I do?’

‘Never mind,’ he said, gritting his teeth. ‘Let’s just get in and out, shall we?’

The base, like all the American structures, had been built for posterity. Not by people, however, but by swarms of diligent self-replicating robots. That was how the Americans had reached Diadem: they had been brought there as frozen fertilised cells in the armoured, radiation-proofed bellies of star-crossing von Neumann robots. The robots had been launched towards several solar systems about a century before the Sandra Voi had left Mars. Upon arrival on Diadem they had set about breeding, making copies of themselves from local ores. When their numbers had reached some threshold, they had turned over their energies to the construction of bases: luxurious accommodation for the human children who would then be grown in their wombs.

‘The entrance door’s intact,’ Galiana said when they had crossed from the shuttle to the smooth black side of the dome, stooping against the wind. ‘And there’s still some residual power in its circuits.’

That was a Conjoiner trick that always faintly unnerved Clavain. Like sharks, Conjoiners were sensitive to ambient electrical fields. Mapped into her vision, Galiana would see the energised circuits superimposed on the door like a ghostly neon maze. Now she extended her hand towards the lock, palm first.

‘I’m accessing the opening mechanism. Interfacing with it now.’ Behind her mask, he saw her face scrunch in concentration. Galiana only ever frowned when having to think hard. With her hand outstretched she looked like a wizard attempting some particularly demanding enchantment.

‘Hmm,’ she said. ‘Nice old software protocols. Nothing too difficult.’

‘Careful,’ Clavain said. ‘I wouldn’t put it past them to have installed some kind of trap here—’

‘There’s no trap,’ she said. ‘But there is - ah, yes - a verbal entry code. Well, here goes.’ She spoke louder, so that her voice would travel through the air to the door even above the howl of the wind. ‘Open sesame.’

Lights flicked from red to green; dislodging a frosting of ice, the door slid ponderously aside to reveal a dimly lit interior chamber. The base must have been running on a trickle of emergency power for decades.

Felka and Clavain lingered while Galiana crossed the threshold.

‘Well?’ she challenged, turning around. ‘Are you two sissies coming or not?’

Felka offered a hand. He took hers and the two of them - the old soldier and the girl who could barely grasp the difference between two human faces - took a series of tentative steps inside.

‘What you just did, that business with your hand and the password . . .’ Clavain paused. ‘That was a joke, wasn’t it?’

Galiana looked at him, blank-faced. ‘How could it have been? Everyone knows Conjoiners haven’t got anything remotely resembling a sense of humour.’

Clavain nodded gravely. ‘That was my understanding, but I just wanted to be sure.’

There was no trace of the wind inside, but it would still have been too cold to remove their suits, even had they not been concerned about contamination. They worked their way along a series of winding corridors, some of which were dark, others bathed in feeble, pea-green lighting. Now and then they passed the entrance to a room full of equipment, but nothing that looked like a laboratory or living quarters. Then they descended a series of stairs and found themselves crossing one of the sealed walkways between the toadstools. Clavain had seen a few other American settlements built like this one; they were designed to remain useful even as they sank slowly into the ice.

The bridge led to what was obviously the main habitation section. Now there were lounges, bedrooms, laboratories and kitchens - enough for a crew of perhaps fifty or sixty. But there were no signs of any bodies, and the place did not look as if it had been abandoned in a hurry. The equipment was neatly packed away and there were no half-eaten meals on the tables. There was frost everywhere, but that was just the moisture that had frozen out of the air when the base cooled down.

‘They were expecting to come back,’ Galiana said.

Clavain nodded. ‘They couldn’t have had much of an idea of what lay ahead of them.’

They moved on, crossing another bridge, until they arrived in a toadstool almost entirely dedicated to bio-analysis laboratories. Galiana had to use her neural trick again to get them inside, the machines in her head sweet-talking the duller machines entombed in the doors. The low-ceilinged labs were bathed in green light, but Galiana found a wall panel that brought the lighting up a notch and even caused some bench equipment to wake up, pulsing with stand-by lights.

Clavain looked around, recognising centrifuges, gene-sequencers, gas chromatographs and scanning-tunnelling microscopes. There were at least a dozen other hunks of gleaming machinery whose function eluded him. A wall-sized cabinet held dozens of pull-out drawers, each of which contained hundreds of culture dishes, test tubes and gel slides. Clavain glanced at the samples, reading the tiny labels. There were bacteria and single-cell cultures with unpronounceable codenames, most of which were marked with Diadem map coordinates and a date. But there were also drawers full of samples with Latin names, comparison samples which must have come from Earth. The robots could easily have carried the tiny parent organisms from which these larger samples had been grown or cloned. Perhaps the Americans had been experimenting with the hardiness of Earth-born organisms, with a view to terraforming Diadem at some point in the future.

He closed the drawer silently and moved to a set of larger sample tubes racked on a desk. He picked one from the rack and raised it to the light, examining the smoky things inside. It was a sample of worms, indistinguishable from those he had collected on the glacier a few hours earlier. A breeding tangle, probably: harvested from the intersection point of two worm tunnels. Some of the worms in the tangle would be exchanging genes; others would be fighting; others would be allowing themselves to be digested by adults or newly hatched young; all behaving according to rigidly deterministic laws of caste and sex. The tangle looked dead, but that meant nothing with the worms. Their metabolism was fantastically slow, each individual easily capable of living for thousands of years. It would take them months just to crawl along some of the longer cracks in the ice, let alone move between some of the larger tangles.

But the worms were not really all that alien. They had a close terrestrial analogue: the sun-avoiding ice-worms that had first been discovered in the Malaspina Glacier in Alaska towards the end of the nineteenth century. The Alaskan ice-worms were a lot smaller than their Diadem counterparts, but they also nourished themselves on the slim pickings that drifted onto the ice, or had been frozen into it years earlier. Like the Diadem worms, their most notable anatomical feature was a pore at the head end, just above the mouth. In the case of the terrestrial worms, the pore served a single function: secreting a salty solution that helped the worms melt their way into ice when there was no tunnel already present - an escape strategy that helped them get beneath the ice before the sun dried them up. The Diadem worms had a similar structure, but according to Setterholm’s notes they had evolved a second use for it: secreting a chemically rich ‘scent trail’ which helped other worms navigate through the tunnel system. The chemistry of that scent trail turned out to be very complex, with each worm capable of secreting not merely a unique signature but a variety of flavours. Conceivably, more complex message schemes were embedded in some of the other flavours: not just ‘follow me’ but ‘follow me only if you are female’ - the Diadem worms had at least three sexes - ‘and this is breeding season’. There were many other possibilities, which Setterholm seemed to have been attempting to decode and catalogue when the end had come.

It was interesting . . . up to a point. But even if the worms followed a complex set of rules dependent on the scent trails they were picking up, and perhaps other environmental cues, it would still only be rigidly mechanistic behaviour.

‘Nevil, come here.’

It was Galiana’s voice, but it had a tone he had barely heard before. It was one that made him run to where Felka and Galiana were waiting on the other side of the lab.

They were facing an array of lockers occupying an entire wall. A small status panel was set into each locker, but only one locker - placed at chest height - showed any activity. Clavain looked back towards the door through which they had entered, but from there it was hidden by intervening lab equipment. They would not have seen this locker even if it had been illuminated before Galiana brought the room’s power back on.

‘It might have been on all along,’ he said.

‘I know,’ Galiana agreed.

She reached a hand up to the panel, tapping the control keys with unnerving fluency. Machines to Galiana were like musical instruments to a prodigy. She could pick one up cold and play it like an old friend.

The array of status lights changed configuration abruptly, then there was a bustle of activity somewhere behind the locker’s metal face - latches and servomotors clicking after decades of stasis.

‘Stand back,’ Galiana said.

A rime of frost shattered into a billion sugary pieces. The locker began to slide out of the wall, the unhurried motion giving them adequate time to digest what lay inside. Clavain felt Felka grip his hand, and then noticed that her other hand was curled tightly around Galiana’s wrist. For the first time, he began to wonder if it had really been such a good idea to allow the girl to join them.

The locker was two metres in length and half that in width and height; just sufficient to contain a human body. It had probably been designed to hold animal specimens culled from Diadem’s oceans, but it was equally capable of functioning as a mortuary tray. That the man inside the locker was dead was beyond question, but there was no sign of injury. His composure - flat on his back, his blue-grey face serenely blank, his eyes closed and his hands clasped neatly just below his ribcage - suggested to Clavain a saint lying in grace. His beard was neatly pointed and his hair long, frozen into a solid sculptural mass. He was still wearing several heavy layers of thermal clothing.

Clavain knelt closer and read the name-tag above the man’s heart.

‘Andrew Iverson. Ring a bell?’

A moment passed while Galiana established a link to the rest of the Conjoiners, ferreting the name out of some database. ‘Yes. One of the missing. Seems he was a climatologist with an interest in terraforming techniques.’

Clavain nodded shrewdly. ‘That figures, with all the micro-organisms I’ve seen in this place. Well: the trillion dollar question - how do you think he got in there?’

‘I think he climbed in,’ Galiana said, and nodded at something Clavain had missed, almost tucked away beneath the man’s shoulder. Clavain reached into the gap, his fingers brushing against the rock-hard fabric of Iverson’s outfit. A cannula vanished into the man’s forearm, where he had cut away a square of fabric. The cannula’s black feed-line reached back into the cabinet, vanishing into a socket at the rear.

‘You’re saying he killed himself?’ Clavain asked.

‘He must have put something in that which would stop his heart. Then he probably flushed out his blood and replaced it with glycerol, or something similar, to prevent ice crystals forming in his cells. It would have taken some automation to make it work, but I’m sure everything he needed was here.’

Clavain thought back to what he knew about the cryonic immersion techniques that had been around a century or so earlier. They left something to be desired now, but back then they had not been much of an advance over mummification.

‘When he sank that cannula into himself, he can’t have been certain we’d ever find him,’ Clavain remarked.

‘Which would still have been preferable to suicide.’

‘Yes, but . . . the thoughts that must have gone through his head. Knowing he had to kill himself first, to stand a chance of living again - and then hope someone else stumbled on Diadem.’

‘You made a harder choice than that, once.’

‘Yes. But at least I wasn’t alone when I made it.’

Iverson’s body was astonishingly well preserved, Clavain thought. The skin tissue looked almost intact, even if it had a deathly, granite-like colour. The bones of his face had not ruptured under the strain of the temperature drop. Bacterial processes had stopped dead. All in all, things could have been a lot worse.

‘We shouldn’t leave him like this,’ Galiana said, pushing the locker so that it began to slide back into the wall.

‘I don’t think he cares much about that now,’ Clavain said.

‘No. You don’t understand. He mustn’t warm - not even to the ambient temperature of the room. Otherwise we won’t be able to wake him up.’

It took five days to bring him back to consciousness.

The decision to reanimate had not been taken lightly; it had only been arrived at after intense discussion amongst the Conjoined, debates in which Clavain participated to the best of his ability. Iverson, they all agreed, could probably be resurrected with current Conjoiner methods. In-situ scans of his mind had revealed preserved synaptic structures that a scaffold of machines could coax back towards consciousness. However, since they had not yet identified the cause of the madness that had killed Iverson’s colleagues - and the evidence was pointing towards some kind of infectious agent - Iverson would be kept on the surface; reborn on the same world where he had died.

They had, however, moved him: shuttling him halfway across the world back to the main base. Clavain had travelled with the corpse, marvelling at the idea that this solid chunk of man-shaped ice - tainted, admittedly, with a few vital impurities - would soon be a breathing, thinking human being with memories and feelings. To him it was astonishing that this was possible; that so much latent structure had been preserved across the decades. Even more astonishing that the infusions of tiny machines the Conjoiners were brewing would be able to stitch together damaged cells and kick-start them back to life. And out of that inert loom of frozen brain structure - a thing that was at this moment nothing more than a fixed geometric entity, like a finely eroded piece of rock - something as malleable as consciousness would emerge.

But the Conjoiners were blasé at the prospect, viewing Iverson the way expert picture-restorers might view a damaged old master. Yes, there would be difficulties ahead - work that would require great skill - but nothing to lose sleep over.

Except, Clavain reminded himself, none of them slept anyway.

While the others were working to bring Iverson back to life, Clavain wandered the outskirts of the base, trying to get a better feel for what it must have been like during the last days. The debilitating mental illness must have been terrifying as it struck even those who might have stood a chance of developing some kind of counter-agent to it. Perhaps in the old days, when the base had been under the stewardship of the von Neumann machines, something might have been done . . . but in the end it must have been like trying to crack a particularly tricky algebra problem while growing steadily more drunk; losing first the ability to focus sharply, then to focus on the problem at all, and then to remember what was so important about it anyway. The labs in the main complex had an abandoned look to them: experiments half-finished; notes scrawled on the wall in ever more incoherent handwriting.

Down in the lower levels - the transport bays and storage areas - it was almost as if nothing had happened. Equipment was still neatly racked, surface vehicles neatly parked, and - with the base sub-systems back on - the place was bathed in light and not so cold as to require extra clothing. It was quite therapeutic, too: the Conjoiners had not extended their communicational fields into these regions, so Clavain’s mind was mercifully isolated again; freed of the clamour of other voices. Despite that, he was still tempted by the idea of spending some time outdoors.

With that in mind he found an airlock, one that must have been added late in the base’s history as it was absent from the blueprints. There was no membrane stretched across this one; if he stepped through it he would be outside as soon as the doors cycled, with no more protection than the clothes he was wearing now. He considered going back into the base proper to find a membrane suit, but by the time he did that, the mood - the urge to go outside - would be gone.

Clavain noticed a locker. Inside, to his delight, was a rack of old-style suits such as Setterholm had been wearing. They looked brand new, alloy neck-rings gleaming. Racked above each one was a bulbous helmet. He experimented until he found a suit that fitted him, then struggled with the various latches and seals that coupled the suit parts together. Even when he thought he had donned the suit properly, the airlock detected that one of his gloves wasn’t latched correctly. It refused to let him outside until he reversed the cycle and fixed the problem.

But then he was outside, and it was glorious.

He walked around the base until he found his bearings, and then - always ensuring that the base was in view and that his air supply was adequate - he set off across the ice. Above, Diadem’s sky was a deep enamelled blue, and the ice - though fundamentally white - seemed to contain a billion nuances of pale turquoise, pale aquamarine; even hints of the palest of pinks. Beneath his feet he imagined the crack-like networks of the worms, threading down for hundreds of metres; and he imagined the worms, wriggling through that network, responding to and secreting chemical scent trails. The worms themselves were biologically simple - almost dismayingly so - but that network was a vast, intricate thing. It hardly mattered that the traffic along it - the to-and-fro motions of the worms as they went about their lives - was so agonisingly slow. The worms, after all, had endured longer than human comprehension. They had seen people come and go in an eyeblink.

He walked on until he arrived at the crevasse where he had found Setterholm. They had long since removed Setterholm’s body, of course, but the experience had imprinted itself deeply on Clavain’s mind. He found it easy to relive the moment at the lip of the crevasse when he had first seen the end of Setterholm’s arm. At the time he had told himself that there must be worse places to die; surrounded by beauty that was so pristine; so utterly untouched by human influence. Now, the more he thought about it, the more that Setterholm’s death played on his mind - he wondered if there could be any worse place. It was undeniably beautiful, but it was also crushingly dead; crushingly oblivious to life. Setterholm must have felt himself draining away, soon to become as inanimate as the palace of ice that was to become his tomb.

Clavain thought about it for many more minutes, enjoying the silence and the solitude and the odd awkwardness of the suit. He thought back to the way Setterholm had been found, and his mind niggled at something not quite right; a detail that had not seemed wrong at the time but which now troubled him.

It was Setterholm’s helmet.

He remembered the way it had been lying away from the man’s corpse, as if the impact had knocked it off. But now that Clavain had locked an identical helmet onto his own suit, that was more difficult to believe. The latches were sturdy, and he doubted that the drop into the crevasse would have been sufficient to break the mechanism. He considered the possibility that Setterholm had put his suit on hastily, but even that seemed unlikely now. The airlock had detected that Clavain’s glove was badly attached; it - or any of the other locks - would surely have refused to allow Setterholm outside if his helmet had not been correctly latched.

Clavain wondered if Setterholm’s death had been something other than an accident.

He thought about it, trying the idea on for size, then slowly shook his head. There were myriad possibilities he had yet to rule out. Setterholm could have left the base with his suit intact and then - confused and disoriented - he could have fiddled with the latch, depriving himself of oxygen until he stumbled into the crevasse. Or perhaps the airlocks were not as foolproof as they appeared; the safety mechanism capable of being disabled by people in a hurry to get outside.

No. A man had died, but there was no need to assume it had been anything other than an accident. Clavain turned, and began to walk back to the base.

‘He’s awake,’ Galiana said, a day or so after the final wave of machines had swum into Iverson’s mind. ‘I think it might be better if he spoke to you first, Nevil, don’t you? Rather than one of us?’ She bit her tongue. ‘I mean, rather than someone who’s been Conjoined for as long as the rest of us?’

Clavain shrugged. ‘Then again, an attractive face might be preferable to a grizzled old relic like myself. But I take your point. Is it safe to go in now?’

‘Perfectly. If Iverson was carrying anything infectious, the machines would have flagged it.’

‘I hope you’re right.’

‘Well, look at the evidence. He was acting rationally up to the end. He did everything to ensure we’d have an excellent chance of reviving him. His suicide was just a coldly calculated attempt to escape his situation.’

‘Coldly calculated,’ Clavain echoed. ‘Yes, I suppose it would have been. Cold, I mean.’

Galiana said nothing, but gestured towards the door into Iverson’s room.

Clavain stepped through the opening. And it was as he crossed the threshold that a thought occurred to him. He could once again see, in his mind’s eye, Martin Setterholm’s body lying at the bottom of the crevasse, his fingers pointing to the letters ‘IVF’.

In-vitro fertilisation.

But suppose Setterholm had been trying to write ‘IVERSON’, but had died before finishing the word? If Setterholm had been murdered - pushed into the crevasse - he might have been trying to pass on a message about his murderer. Clavain imagined his pain, legs smashed; knowing with absolute certainty he was going to die alone and cold, but willing himself to write Iverson’s name . . .

But why would the climatologist have wanted to kill Setterholm? Setterholm’s fascination with the worms was perplexing but harmless. The information Clavain had collected pointed to Setterholm being a single-minded loner; the kind of man who would inspire pity or indifference in his colleagues rather than hatred. And everyone was dying anyway - against such a background, a murder seemed almost irrelevant.

Maybe he was attributing too much to the six faint marks a dying man had scratched on the ice.

Forcing suspicion from his mind - for now - Clavain walked further into Iverson’s room. The room was spartan but serene, with a small blue holographic window set high in one white wall. Clavain was responsible for that. Left to the Conjoiners - who had taken over an area of the main American base and filled it with their own pressurised spaces - Iverson’s room would have been a grim, grey cube. That was fine for the Conjoiners - they moved through informational fields draped like an extra layer over reality. But though Iverson’s head was now drenched with their machines, they were only there to assist his normal patterns of thought; reinforcing weak synaptic signals and compensating for a far-from-equilibrium mix of neurotransmitters.

So Clavain had insisted on cheering the place up a bit; Iverson’s sheets and pillow were now the same pure white as the walls, so that his head bobbed in a sea of whiteness. His hair had been trimmed, but Clavain had made sure that no one had done more than neaten Iverson’s beard.

‘Andrew?’ he said. ‘I’m told you’re awake now. I’m Nevil Clavain. How are you feeling?’

Iverson wet his lips before answering. ‘Better, I suspect, than I have any reason to feel.’

‘Ah.’ Clavain beamed, feeling as if a large burden had just been lifted from his shoulders. ‘Then you’ve some recollection of what happened to you.’

‘I died, didn’t I? Pumped myself full of antifreeze and hoped for the best. Did it work, or is this just some weird-ass dream as I’m sliding towards brain death?’

‘No, it sure as hell worked. That was one weird-heck-ass of a risk . . .’ Clavain halted, not entirely certain that he could emulate Iverson’s century-old speech patterns. ‘That was quite some risk you took. But it did work, you’ll be glad to hear.’

Iverson lifted a hand from beneath the sheets, examining his palm and the pattern of veins and tendons on the back. ‘This is the same body I went under with? You haven’t stuck me in a robot, or cloned me, or hooked up my disembodied brain to a virtual-reality generator?’

‘None of those things, no. Just mopped up some cell damage, fixed a few things here and there and - um - kick-started you back into the land of the living.’

Iverson nodded, but Clavain could tell he was far from convinced. Which was unsurprising: Clavain, after all, had already told a small lie.

‘So how long was I under?’

‘About a century, Andrew. We’re an expedition from back home. We came by starship.’

Iverson nodded again, as if this was mere incidental detail. ‘We’re aboard it now, right?’

‘No . . . no. We’re still on the planet. The ship’s parked in orbit.’

‘And everyone else?’

No point sugaring the pill. ‘Dead, as far as we can make out. But you must have known that would happen.’

‘Yeah. But I didn’t know for sure, even at the end.’

‘So what happened? How did you escape the infection, or whatever it was?’

‘Sheer luck.’ Iverson asked for a drink. Clavain fetched him one, and at the same time had the room extrude a chair next to the bed.

‘I didn’t see much sign of luck,’ Clavain said.

‘No; it was terrible. But I was the lucky one - that’s all I meant. I don’t know how much you know. We had to evacuate the outlying bases towards the end, when we couldn’t keep more than one fusion reactor running.’ Iverson took a sip from the glass of water Clavain had brought him. ‘If we’d still had the machines to look after us—’

‘Yes. That’s something we never really understood.’ Clavain leaned closer to the bed. ‘Those von Neumann machines were built to self-repair themselves, weren’t they? We still don’t see how they broke down.’

Iverson eyed him. ‘They didn’t. Break down, I mean.’

‘No? Then what happened?’

‘We smashed them up. Like rebellious teenagers overthrowing parental control. The machines were nannying us, and we were sick of it. In hindsight, it wasn’t such a good idea.’

‘Didn’t the machines put up a fight?’

‘Not exactly. I don’t think the people who designed them ever thought they’d get trashed by the kids they’d lovingly cared for.’

So, Clavain thought - whatever had happened here, whatever he went on to learn, it was clear that the Americans had been at least partially the authors of their own misfortunes. He still felt sympathy for them, but now it was cooler, tempered with something close to disgust. He wondered if that feeling of disappointed appraisal would have come so easily without Galiana’s machines in his head. It would be just a tiny step to go from feeling that way towards Iverson’s people to feeling that way about the rest of humanity . . . and then I’d know that I’d truly attained Transenlightenment . . .

Clavain snapped out of his morbid line of thinking. It was not Transenlightenment that engendered those feelings, just ancient, bone-deep cynicism.

‘Well, there’s no point dwelling on what was done years ago. But how did you survive?’

‘After the evacuation, we realised that we’d left something behind - a spare component for the remaining fusion reactor. So I went back for it, taking one of the planes. I landed just as a bad weather front was coming in, which kept me grounded there for two days. That was when the others began to get sick. It happened pretty quickly, and all I knew about it was what I could figure out from the comm links back to the main base.’

‘Tell me what you did figure out.’

‘Not much,’ Iverson said. ‘It was fast, and it seemed to attack the central nervous system. No one survived it. Those that didn’t die of it directly went on to get themselves killed through accidents or sloppy procedure.’

‘We noticed. Eventually someone died who was responsible for keeping the fusion reactor running properly. It didn’t blow up, did it?’

‘No. Just spewed out a lot more neutrons than normal; too much for the shielding to contain. Then it went into emergency shutdown mode. Some people were killed by the radiation, but most died of the cold that came afterwards.’

‘Hm. Except you.’

Iverson nodded. ‘If I hadn’t had to go back for that component, I’d have been one of them. Obviously, I couldn’t risk returning. Even if I could have got the reactor working again, there was still the problem of the contaminant.’ He breathed in deeply, as if steeling himself to recollect what had happened next. ‘So I weighed my options and decided dying - freezing myself - was my only hope. No one was going to come from Earth to help me, even if I could have kept myself alive. Not for decades, anyway. So I took a chance.’

‘One that paid off.’

‘Like I said, I was the lucky one.’ Iverson took another sip from the glass Clavain had brought him. ‘Man, that tastes better than anything I’ve ever drunk in my life. What’s in this, by the way?’

‘Just water. Glacial water. Purified, of course.’

Iverson nodded, slowly, and put the glass down next to his bed.

‘Not thirsty now?’

‘Quenched my thirst nicely, thank you.’

‘Good.’ Clavain stood up. ‘I’ll let you get some rest, Andrew. If there’s anything you need, anything we can do - just call out.’

‘I’ll be sure to.’

Clavain smiled and walked to the door, observing Iverson’s obvious relief that the questioning session was over for now. But Iverson had said nothing incriminating, Clavain reminded himself, and his responses were entirely consistent with the fatigue and confusion anyone would feel after so long asleep - or dead, depending on how you defined Iverson’s period on ice. It was unfair to associate him with Setterholm’s death just because of a few indistinct marks gouged in ice, and the faint possibility that Setterholm had been murdered.

Still, Clavain paused before leaving the room. ‘One other thing, Andrew - just something that’s been bothering me, and I wondered if you could help.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘Do the initials “I”, “V” and “F” mean anything to you?’

Iverson thought about it for a moment, then shook his head. ‘Sorry, Nevil. You’ve got me there.’

‘Well, it was just a shot in the dark,’ Clavain said.

Iverson was strong enough to walk around the next day. He insisted on exploring the rest of the base, not simply the parts the Conjoiners had taken over. He wanted to see for himself the damage that he had heard about, and look over the lists of the dead - and the manner in which they had died - that Clavain and his friends had assiduously compiled. Clavain kept a watchful eye on the man, aware of how emotionally traumatic the whole experience must be. He was bearing it well, but that might easily have been a front. Galiana’s machines could tell a lot about how his brain was functioning, but they were unable to probe Iverson’s state of mind at the resolution needed to map emotional well-being.

Clavain, meanwhile, strove as best he could to keep Iverson in the dark about the Conjoiners. He did not want to overwhelm Iverson with strangeness at this delicate time; did not want to shatter the man’s illusion that he had been rescued by a group of ‘normal’ human beings. But it turned out to be easier than he had expected, as Iverson showed surprisingly little interest in the history he had missed. Clavain had gone as far as telling him that the Sandra Voi was technically a ship full of refugees, fleeing the aftermath of a war between various factions of solar-system humanity - but Iverson had done little more than nod, never probing Clavain for more details about the war. Once or twice Clavain had even alluded accidentally to the Transenlightenment - that shared consciousness state the Conjoiners had reached - but Iverson had shown the same lack of interest. He was not even curious about the Sandra Voi herself, never once asking Clavain what the ship was like. It was not quite what Clavain had been expecting.

But there were rewards, too.

Iverson, it turned out, was fascinated by Felka, and Felka herself seemed pleasantly amused by the newcomer. It was, perhaps, not all that surprising: Galiana and the others had been busy helping Felka grow the neural circuitry necessary for normal human interactions, adding new layers to supplant the functional regions that had never worked properly - but in all that time, they had never introduced her to another human being she had not already met. And here was Iverson: not just a new voice but a new smell; a new face; a new way of walking - a deluge of new input for her starved mental routines. Clavain watched the way Felka latched on to Iverson when he entered a room, her attention snapping to him, her delight evident. And Iverson seemed perfectly happy to play the games that so wearied the others, the kinds of intricate challenge Felka adored. For hours on end Clavain watched the two of them lost in concentration; Iverson pulling mock faces of sorrow or - on the rare occasions when he beat her - extravagant joy. Felka responded in kind, her face more animated - more plausibly human - than Clavain had ever believed possible. She spoke more often in Iverson’s presence than she had ever done in his, and the utterances she made more closely approximated well-formed, grammatically sound sentences than the disjointed shards of language Clavain had grown to recognise. It was like watching a difficult, backward child suddenly come alight in the presence of a skilled teacher. Clavain thought back to the time when he had rescued Felka from Mars, and how unlikely it had seemed then that she would ever grow into something resembling a normal adult human, as sensitised to others’ feelings as she was to her own. Now, he could almost believe it would happen - yet half the distance she had come had been due to Iverson’s influence, rather than his own.

Afterwards, when even Iverson had wearied of Felka’s ceaseless demands for games, Clavain spoke to him quietly, away from the others.

‘You’re good with her, aren’t you?’

Iverson shrugged, as if the matter was of no great consequence to him. ‘Yeah. I like her. We both enjoy the same kinds of game. If there’s a problem—’

He must have detected Clavain’s irritation. ‘No - no problem at all.’ Clavain put a hand on his shoulder. ‘There’s more to it than just games, though, you have to admit—’

‘She’s a pretty fascinating case, Nevil.’

‘I don’t disagree. We value her highly.’ He flinched, aware of how much the remark sounded like one of Galiana’s typically flat statements. ‘But I’m puzzled. You’ve been revived after nearly a century asleep. We’ve travelled here on a ship that couldn’t even have been considered a distant possibility in your own era. We’ve undergone massive social and technical upheavals in the last hundred years. There are things about us - things about me - I haven’t told you yet. Things about you I haven’t even told you yet.’

‘I’m just taking things one step at a time, that’s all.’ Iverson shrugged and looked distantly past Clavain, through the window behind him. His gaze must have been skating across kilometres of ice towards Diadem’s white horizon, unable to find a purchase. ‘I admit, I’m not really interested in technological innovations. I’m sure your ship’s really nice, but . . . it’s just applied physics. Just engineering. There may be some new quantum principles underlying your propulsion system, but if that’s the case, it’s probably just an elaborate curlicue on something that was already pretty baroque to begin with. You haven’t smashed the light barrier, have you?’ He read Clavain’s expression accurately. ‘No - didn’t think so. Maybe if you had—’

‘So what exactly does interest you?’

Iverson seemed to hesitate before answering, but when he did speak Clavain had no doubt that he was telling the truth. There was a sudden, missionary fervour in his voice. ‘Emergence. Specifically, the emergence of complex, almost unpredictable patterns from systems governed by a few simple laws. Consciousness is an excellent example. A human mind’s really just a web of simple neuronal cells wired together in a particular way. The laws governing the functioning of those individual cells aren’t all that difficult to grasp - a cascade of well-studied electrical, chemical and enzymic processes. The tricky part is the wiring diagram. It certainly isn’t encoded in DNA in any but the crudest sense. Otherwise why would a baby bother growing neural connections that are pruned down before birth? That’d be a real waste - if you had a perfect blueprint for the conscious mind, you’d only bother forming the connections you needed. No; the mind organises itself during growth, and that’s why it needs so many more neurons than it’ll eventually incorporate into functioning networks. It needs the raw material to work with as it gropes its way toward a functioning consciousness. The pattern emerges, bootstrapping itself into existence, and the pathways that aren’t used - or aren’t as efficient as others - are discarded.’ Iverson paused. ‘But how this organisation happens really isn’t understood in any depth. Do you know how many neurons it takes to control the first part of a lobster’s gut, Nevil? Have a guess, to the nearest hundred.’

Clavain shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Five hundred? A thousand?’

‘No. Six. Not six hundred, just six. Six damned neurons. You can’t get much simpler than that. But it took decades to understand how those six worked together, let alone how that particular network evolved. The problems aren’t inseparable, either. You can’t really hope to understand how ten billion neurons organise themselves into a functioning whole unless you understand how the whole actually functions. Oh, we’ve made some progress - we can tell you exactly which spinal neurons fire to make a lamprey swim, and how that firing pattern maps into muscle motion - but we’re a long way from understanding how something as elusive as the concept of “I” emerges in the developing human mind. Well, at least we were before I went under. You may be about to reveal that you’ve achieved stunning progress in the last century, but something tells me you were too busy with social upheaval for that.’

Clavain felt an urge to argue - angered by the man’s tone - but suppressed it, willing himself into a state of serene acceptance. ‘You’re probably right. We’ve made progress in the other direction - augmenting the mind as it is - but if we genuinely understood brain development, we wouldn’t have ended up with a failure like Felka.’

‘Oh, I wouldn’t call her a failure, Nevil.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

‘Of course not.’ Now it was Iverson’s turn to place a hand on Clavain’s shoulder. ‘But you must see now why I find so Felka so fascinating. Her mind is damaged - you told me that yourself, and there’s no need to go into the details - but despite that damage, despite the vast abysses in her head, she’s beginning to self--assemble the kinds of higher-level neural routines we all take for granted. It’s as if the patterns were always there as latent potentials, and it’s only now that they’re beginning to emerge. Isn’t that fascinating? Isn’t it something worthy of study?’

Delicately, Clavain removed the man’s hand from his shoulder. ‘I suppose so. I had hoped, however, that there might be something more to it than study.’

‘I’ve offended you, and I apologise. My choice of phrase was poor. Of course I care for her.’

Clavain felt suddenly awkward, as if he had misjudged a fundamentally decent man. ‘I understand. Look, ignore what I said.’

‘Yeah, of course. It - um - will be all right for me to see her again, won’t it?’

Clavain nodded. ‘I’m sure she’d miss you if you weren’t around.’

Over the next few days, Clavain left the two of them to their games, only rarely eavesdropping to see how things were going. Iverson had asked permission to show Felka around some of the other areas of the base, and after a few initial misgivings Clavain and Galiana had both agreed to his request. After that, long hours went by when the two of them were not to be found. Clavain had tracked them once, watching as Iverson led the girl into a disused lab and showed her intricate molecular models. They clearly delighted her; vast fuzzy holographic assemblages of atoms and chemical bonds that floated in the air like Chinese dragons. Wearing cumbersome gloves and goggles, Iverson and Felka were able to manipulate the mega-molecules, forcing them to fold into minimum-energy configurations that brute-force computation would have struggled to predict. As they gestured into the air and made the dragons contort and twist, Clavain watched for the inevitable moment when Felka would grow bored and demand something more challenging. But it never came. Afterwards - when she had returned to the fold, her face shining with wonder - it was as if Felka had undergone a spiritual experience. Iverson had shown her something her mind could not instantly encompass; a problem too large and subtle to be stormed in a flash of intuitive insight.

Seeing that, Clavain again felt guilty about the way he had spoken to Iverson, and knew that he had not completely put aside his doubts about the message Setterholm had left in the ice. But - the riddle of the helmet aside - there was no reason to think that Iverson might be a murderer beyond those haphazard marks. Clavain had looked into Iverson’s personnel records from the time before he was frozen, and the man’s history was flawless. He had been a solid, professional member of the expedition, well-liked and trusted by the others. Granted, the records were patchy, and since they were stored digitally they could have been doctored to almost any extent. But then much the same story was told by the hand-written diary and verbal log entries of some of the other victims. Andrew Iverson’s name came up again and again as a man regarded with affection by his fellows; most certainly not someone capable of murder. Best, then, to discard the evidence of the marks and give him the benefit of the doubt.

Clavain spoke of his fears to Galiana, and while she listened to him, she only came back with exactly the same rational counter-arguments he had already provided for himself.

‘The problem is,’ Galiana said, ‘that the man you found in the crevasse could have been severely confused, perhaps even hallucinatory. That message he left - if it was a message, and not just a set of random gouge marks he made while convulsing - could mean anything at all.’

‘We don’t know that Setterholm was confused,’ Clavain protested.

‘We don’t? Then why didn’t he make sure his helmet was on properly? It can’t have been latched fully, or it wouldn’t have rolled off him when he hit the bottom of the crevasse.’

‘Yes,’ Clavain said. ‘But I’m reasonably sure he wouldn’t have been able to leave the base if his helmet hadn’t been latched.’

‘In which case he must have undone it afterwards.’

‘Yes, but there’s no reason for him to have done that, unless . . .’

Galiana gave him a thin-lipped smile. ‘Unless he was confused. Back to square one, Nevil.’

‘No,’ he said, conscious that he could almost see the shape of something; something that was close to the truth if not the truth itself. ‘There’s another possibility, one I hadn’t thought of until now.’

Galiana squinted at him, that rare frown appearing. ‘Which is?’ ‘That someone else removed his helmet for him.’

They went down into the bowels of the base. In the dead space of the equipment bays Galiana became ill at ease. She was not used to being out of communicational range of her colleagues. Normally, systems buried in the environment picked up neural signals from individuals, amplifying and rebroadcasting them to other people, but there were no such systems here. Clavain could hear Galiana’s thoughts, but they came in weakly, like a voice from the sea almost drowned by the roar of surf.

‘This had better be worth it,’ Galiana said.

‘I want to show you the airlock,’ Clavain answered. ‘I’m sure Setterholm must have left here with his helmet properly attached.’

‘You still think he was murdered?’

‘I think it’s a remote possibility that we should be very careful not to discount.’

‘But why would anyone kill a man whose only interest was a lot of harmless ice-worms?’

‘That’s been bothering me as well.’

‘And?’

‘I think I have an answer. Half of one, anyway. What if his interest in the worms brought him into conflict with the others? I’m thinking about the reactor.’

Galiana nodded. ‘They’d have needed to harvest ice for it.’

‘Which Setterholm might have seen as interfering with the worms’ ecology. Maybe he made a nuisance of himself and someone decided to get rid of him.’

‘That would be a pretty extreme way of dealing with him.’

‘I know,’ Clavain said, stepping through a connecting door into the transport bay. ‘I said I had half an answer, not all of one.’

As soon as he was through he knew something was amiss. The bay was not as it had been before, when he had come down here scouting for clues. He dropped his train of thought immediately, focusing only on the now.

The room was much, much colder than it should have been. And brighter. There was an oblong of chill blue daylight spilling across the floor from the huge open door of one of the vehicle exit ramps. Clavain looked at it in mute disbelief, wanting it to be a temporary glitch in his vision. But Galiana was with him, and she had seen it, too.

‘Someone’s left the base,’ she said.

Clavain looked out across the ice. He could see the wake the vehicle had left in the snow, arcing out towards the horizon. For a long moment they stood at the top of the ramp, frozen into inaction. Clavain’s mind screamed with the implications. He had never really liked the idea of Iverson taking Felka away with him elsewhere in the base, but he had never considered the possibility that he might take her into one of the blind zones. From here, Iverson must have known enough little tricks to open a surface door, start a rover and leave, without any of the Conjoiners realising.

‘Nevil, listen to me,’ Galiana said. ‘He doesn’t necessarily mean her any harm. He might just want to show her something.’

He turned to her. ‘There isn’t time to arrange a shuttle. That party trick of yours - talking to the door? Do you think you can manage it again?’

‘I don’t need to. The door’s already open.’

Clavain nodded at one of the other rovers, hulking behind them. ‘It’s not the door I’m thinking about.’

Galiana was disappointed: it took her three minutes to convince the machine to start, rather than the few dozen seconds she said it should have taken. She was, she told Clavain, in serious danger of getting rusty at that sort of thing. Clavain just thanked the gods that there had been no mechanical sabotage to the rover; no amount of neural intervention could have fixed that.

‘That’s another thing that makes it look as if this is just an innocent trip outside,’ Galiana said. ‘If he’d really wanted to abduct her, it wouldn’t have taken much additional effort to stop us following him. If he’d closed the door, as well, we might not even have noticed he was gone.’

‘Haven’t you ever heard of reverse psychology?’ Clavain said.

‘I still can’t see Iverson as a murderer, Nevil.’ She checked his expression, her own face calm despite the effort of driving the machine. Her hands were folded in her lap. She was less isolated now, having used the rover’s comm systems to establish a link back to the other Conjoiners. ‘Setterholm, maybe. The obsessive loner and all that. Just a shame he’s the dead one.’

‘Yes,’ Clavain said, uneasily.

The rover itself ran on six wheels, a squat, pressurised hull perched low between absurd-looking balloon tyres. Galiana gunned them hard down the ramp and across the ice, trusting the machine to glide harmlessly over the smaller crevasses. It seemed reckless, but if they followed the trail Iverson had left, they were almost guaranteed not to hit any fatal obstacles.

‘Did you get anywhere with the source of the sickness?’ Clavain asked.

‘No breakthroughs yet—’

‘Then here’s a suggestion. Can you read my visual memory accurately?’ Clavain did not need an answer. ‘While you were finding Iverson’s body, I was looking over the lab samples. There were a lot of terrestrial organisms there. Could one of those have been responsible?’

‘You’d better replay the memory.’

Clavain did so: picturing himself looking over the rows of culture dishes, test tubes and gel slides; concentrating especially on those that had come from Earth rather than the locally obtained samples. In his mind’s eye the sample names refused to snap into clarity, but the machines Galiana had seeded through his head would already be locating the eidetically stored short-term memories and retrieving them with a clarity beyond the capabilities of Clavain’s own brain.

‘Now see if there’s anything there that might do the job.’

‘A terrestrial organism?’ Galiana sounded surprised. ‘Well, there might be something there, but I can’t see how it could have spread beyond the laboratory unless someone wanted it to.’

‘I think that’s exactly what happened.’

‘Sabotage?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, we’ll know sooner or later. I’ve passed the information to the others. They’ll get back to me if they find a candidate. But I still don’t see why anyone would sabotage the entire base, even if it was possible. Overthrowing the von Neumann machines is one thing . . . mass suicide is another.’

‘I don’t think it was mass suicide. Mass murder, maybe.’

‘And Iverson’s your main suspect?’

‘He survived, didn’t he? And Setterholm scrawled a message in the ice just before he died. It must have been a warning about him.’ But even as he spoke, he knew there was a second possibility; one that he could not quite focus on.

Galiana swerved the rover to avoid a particularly deep and yawning chasm, shaded with vivid veins of turquoise blue.

‘There’s a small matter of missing motive.’

Clavain looked ahead, wondering if the thing he saw glinting in the distance was a trick of the eye. ‘I’m working on that,’ he said.

Galiana halted them next to the other rover. The two machines were parked at the lip of a slope-sided depression in the ice. It was not really steep enough to call a crevasse, although it was at least thirty or forty metres deep. From the rover’s cab it was not possible to see all the way into the powdery blue depths, although Clavain could certainly make out the fresh footprints descending into them. Up on the surface, marks like that would have been scoured away by the wind in days or hours, so these prints were very fresh. There were, he observed, two sets - someone heavy and confident and someone lighter, less sure of their footing.

Before they had taken the rover they had made sure there were two suits aboard it. They struggled into them, fiddling with the latches.

‘If I’m right,’ Clavain said, ‘this kind of precaution isn’t really necessary. Not for avoiding the sickness, anyway. But better safe than sorry.’

‘Excellent timing,’ Galiana said, snapping down her helmet and giving it a quarter twist to lock into place. ‘They’ve just pulled something from your memory, Nevil. There’s a family of single-celled organisms called dinoflagellates, one of which was present in the lab where we found Iverson. Something called Pfiesteria piscicida. Normally it’s an ambush predator that attacks fish.’

‘Could it have been responsible for the madness?’

‘It’s at least a strong contender. It has a taste for mammalian tissue as well. If it gets into the human nervous system it produces memory loss, disorientation - as well as a host of physical effects. It could have been dispersed as a toxic aerosol, released into the base’s air system. Someone with access to the lab’s facilities could have turned it from something merely nasty into something deadly, I think.’

‘We should have pinpointed it, Galiana. Didn’t we swab the air ducts?’

‘Yes, but we weren’t looking for something terrestrial. In fact we were excluding terrestrial organisms, only filtering for the basic biochemical building blocks of Diadem life. We just weren’t thinking in criminal terms.’

‘More fool us,’ Clavain said.

Suited now, they stepped outside. Clavain began to regret his haste in leaving the base so quickly; at having to make do with these old suits and lacking any means of defence. Wanting something in his hand for moral support, he examined the equipment stowed around the outside of the rover until he found an ice pick. It would not be much of a weapon, but he felt better for it.

‘You won’t need that,’ Galiana said.

‘What if Iverson turns nasty?’

‘You still won’t need it.’

But he kept hold of it anyway - an ice pick was an ice pick, after all - and the two of them walked to the point where the icy ground began to curve over the lip of the depression. Clavain examined the wrist of his suit, studying the cryptic and old-fashioned matrix of keypads that controlled the suit’s functions. On a whim he pressed something promising and was gratified when he felt crampons spike from the soles of his boots, anchoring him to the ice.

‘Iverson!’ he shouted. ‘Felka!’

But sound carried poorly beyond his helmet, and the ceaseless, whipping wind would have snatched his words away from the crevasse. There was nothing for it but to make the difficult trek into the blue depths. He led the way, his heart pounding in his chest, the old suit awkward and top-heavy. He almost lost his footing once or twice, and had to stop to catch his breath when he reached the level bottom of the depression, sweat running into his eyes.

He looked around. The footprints led horizontally for ten or fifteen metres, weaving between fragile, curtain-like formations of opal ice. On some clinical level he acknowledged that the place had a sinister charm - he imagined the wind breathing through those curtains of ice, making ethereal music - but the need to find Felka eclipsed such considerations. He focused only on the low, dark-blue hole of a tunnel in the ice ahead of them. The footprints vanished into the tunnel.

‘If the bastard’s taken her . . .’ Clavain said, tightening his grip on the pick. He switched on his helmet light and stooped into the tunnel, Galiana behind him. It was hard going; the tunnel wriggled, rose and descended for many tens of metres, and Clavain was unable to decide whether it was some weird natural feature - carved, perhaps, by a hot sub-glacial river - or whether it had been dug by hand, much more recently. The walls were veined with worm tracks: a marbling like an immense magnification of the human retina. Here and there Clavain saw the dark smudges of worms moving through cracks that were very close to the surface, though he knew it would be necessary to stare at them for long seconds before any movement was discernible. He groaned, the stooping becoming painful, and then the tunnel widened out dramatically. He realised that he had emerged into a much larger space.

It was still underground, although the ceiling glowed with the blue translucence of filtered daylight. The covering of ice could not have been more than a metre or two thick; a thin shell stretched like a dome over tens of metres of yawing nothing. Nearly sheer walls of delicately patterned ice rose up from a level, footprint-dappled floor.

‘Ah,’ said Iverson, who was standing near one wall of the chamber. ‘You decided to join us.’

Clavain felt a stab of relief seeing that Felka was standing not far from him, next to a piece of equipment Clavain failed to recognise. Felka appeared unharmed. She turned towards him, the peculiar play of light and shade on her helmeted face making her look older than she was.

‘Nevil,’ he heard Felka say. ‘Hello.’

He crossed the ice, fearful that the whole marvellous edifice was about to come crashing down on them all.

‘Why did you bring her here, Iverson?’

‘There’s something I wanted to show her. Something I knew she’d like, even more than the other things.’ He turned to the smaller figure near him. ‘Isn’t that right, Felka?’

‘Yes.’

‘And do you like it?’

Her answer was matter of fact, but it was closer to conversation than anything Clavain had ever heard from her lips.

‘Yes. I do like it.’

Galiana stepped ahead of him and extended a hand to the girl. ‘Felka? I’m glad you like this place. I like it, too. But now it’s time to come back home.’

Clavain steeled himself for an argument, some kind of show-down between the two women, but to his immense relief Felka walked casually towards Galiana.

‘I’ll take her back to the rover,’ Galiana said. ‘I want to make sure she hasn’t had any problems breathing with that old suit on.’

A transparent lie, but it would suffice.

Then she spoke to Clavain. It was a tiny thing, almost inconsequential, but she placed it directly in his head.

And he understood what he would have to do.

When they were alone, Clavain said, ‘You killed him.’

‘Setterholm?’

‘No. You couldn’t have killed Setterholm because you are Setterholm. ’ Clavain looked up, the arc of his helmet light tracing the filamentary patterning until it became too tiny to resolve; blurring into an indistinct haze of detail that curved over into the ceiling itself. It was like admiring a staggeringly ornate fresco.

‘Nevil - do me a favour? Check the settings on your suit, in case you’re not getting enough oxygen.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my suit.’ Clavain smiled, the irony of it all delicious. ‘In fact, it was the suit that tipped me off. When you pushed Iverson into the crevasse, his helmet came off. That couldn’t have happened unless it wasn’t fixed on properly in the first place - and that couldn’t have happened unless someone had removed it after the two of you left the base.’

Setterholm - he was sure the man was Setterholm - snorted derisively, but Clavain continued speaking.

‘Here’s my stab at what happened, for what it’s worth. You needed to swap identities with Iverson because Iverson had no obvious motive for murdering the others, whereas Setterholm certainly did.’

‘And I don’t suppose you have any idea what that motive might have been?’

‘Give me time; I’ll get there eventually. Let’s just deal with the lone murder first. Changing the electronic records was easy enough - you could even swap Iverson’s picture and medical data for your own - but that was only part of it. You also needed to get Iverson into your clothes and suit, so that we’d assume the body in the crevasse belonged to you, Setterholm. I don’t know exactly how you did it.’

‘Then perhaps—’

Clavain carried on. ‘But my guess is you let him catch a dose of the bug you let loose in the main base - Pfiesteria, wasn’t it? - then followed him when he went walking outside. You jumped him, knocked him down on the ice and got him out of his suit and into yours. He was probably unconscious by then, I suppose. But then he must have started coming round, or you panicked for another reason. You jammed the helmet on and pushed him into the crevasse. Maybe if all that had happened was his helmet coming off, I wouldn’t have dwelled on it. But he wasn’t dead, and he lived long enough to scratch a message in the ice. I thought it concerned his murderer, but I was wrong. He was trying to tell me who he was. Not Setterholm, but Iverson.’

‘Nice theory.’ Setterholm glanced down at a display screen in the back of the machine squatting next to him. Mounted on a tripod, it resembled a huge pair of binoculars, pointed with a slight elevation towards one wall of the chamber.

‘Sometimes a theory’s all you need. That’s quite a toy you’ve got there, by the way. What is it, some kind of ground-penetrating radar?’

Setterholm brushed aside the question. ‘If I was him - why would I have done it? Just because I was interested in the ice-worms? ’

‘It’s simple,’ Clavain said, hoping the uncertainty he felt was not apparent in his voice. ‘The others weren’t as convinced as you were of the worms’ significance. Only you saw them for what they were.’ He was treading carefully here; masking his ignorance of Setterholm’s deeper motives by playing on the man’s vanity.

‘Clever of me if I did.’

‘Oh, yes. I wouldn’t doubt that at all. And it must have driven you to distraction, that you could see what the others couldn’t. Naturally, you wanted to protect the worms, when you saw them under threat.’

‘Sorry, Nevil, but you’re going to have to try a lot harder than that.’ He paused and patted the machine’s matt-silver casing, clearly unable to pretend that he did not know what it was. ‘It’s radar, yes. It can probe the interior of the glacier with sub-centimetre resolution, to a depth of several tens of metres.’

‘Which would be rather useful if you wanted to study the worms.’

Setterholm shrugged. ‘I suppose so. A climatologist interested in glacial flow might also have use for the information.’

‘Like Iverson?’ Clavain took a step closer to Setterholm and the radar equipment. He could see the display more clearly now: a fibrous tangle of mainly green lines slowly spinning in space, with a denser structure traced out in red near its heart. ‘Like the man you killed?’

‘I told you, I’m Iverson.’

Clavain stepped towards him with the ice pick held double-handed, but when he was a few metres from the man he veered past and made his way to the wall. Setterholm had flinched, but he had not seemed unduly worried that Clavain was about to try to hurt him.

‘I’ll be frank with you,’ Clavain said, raising the pick. ‘I don’t really understand what it is about the worms.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘This.’

Clavain smashed the pick against the wall as hard as he was able. It was enough: a layer of ice fractured noisily away, sliding down like a miniature avalanche to land in pieces at his feet; each fist-sized shard was veined with worm trails.

‘Stop,’ Setterholm said.

‘Why? What do you care, if you’re not interested in the worms?’

Clavain smashed the ice again, dislodging another layer.

‘You . . .’ Setterholm paused. ‘You could bring the whole place down on us if you’re not careful.’

Clavain raised the pick again, letting out a groan of effort as he swung. This time he put all his weight behind the swing, all his fury, and a chunk the size of his upper body calved noisily from the wall.

‘I’ll take that risk,’ Clavain said.

‘No. You’ve got to stop.’

‘Why? It’s only ice.’

‘No!’

Setterholm rushed him, knocking him off his feet. The ice pick spun from his hand and the two of them crashed into the ground, Setterholm landing on his chest. He pressed his faceplate close to Clavain’s, every bead of sweat on his forehead gleaming like a precise little jewel.

‘I told you to stop.’

Clavain found it difficult to speak with the pressure on his chest, but forced out the words with effort. ‘I think we can dispense with the charade that you’re Iverson now, can’t we?’

‘You shouldn’t have harmed it.’

‘No . . . and neither should the others, eh? But they needed that ice very badly.’

Now Setterholm’s voice held a tone of dull resignation. ‘For the reactor, you mean?’

‘Yes. The fusion plant.’ Clavain allowed himself to feel some small satisfaction before adding, ‘Actually, it was Galiana who made the connection, not me. That the reactor ran on ice, I mean. And after all the outlying bases had been evacuated, they had to keep everyone alive back at the main one. And that meant more load on the reactor. Which meant it needed more ice, of which there was hardly a shortage in the immediate vicinity.’

‘But they couldn’t be allowed to harvest the ice. Not after what I’d discovered.’

Clavain nodded, observing that the reversion from Iverson to Setterholm was now complete.

‘No. The ice is precious, isn’t it? Infinitely more so than anyone else realised. Without that ice the worms would have died—’

‘You don’t understand either, do you?’

Clavain swallowed. ‘I think I understand more than the others, Setterholm. You realised that the worms—’

‘It wasn’t the damned worms!’ He had shouted - Setterholm had turned on a loudspeaker function in his suit that Clavain had not yet located - and for a moment the words crashed around the great ice chamber, threatening to start the tiny chain reaction of fractures that would collapse the whole structure. But when silence had returned - disturbed only by the rasp of Clavain’s breathing - nothing had changed.

‘It wasn’t the worms?’

‘No.’ Setterholm was calmer now, as if the point had been made. ‘No - not really. They were important, yes - but only as low-level elements in a much more complex system. Don’t you understand?’

Clavain strove for honesty. ‘I never really understood what it was that fascinated you about them. They seem quite simple to me.’

Setterholm removed his weight from Clavain and rose up onto his feet again. ‘That’s because they are. A child could grasp the biology of a single ice-worm in an afternoon. Felka did, in fact. Oh, she’s wonderful, Nevil.’ Setterholm’s teeth flashed a smile that chilled Clavain. ‘The things she could unravel . . . she isn’t a failure; not at all. I think she’s something miraculous we barely comprehend.’

‘Unlike the worms.’

‘Yes. They’re like clockwork toys, programmed with a few simple rules.’ Setterholm stooped down and grabbed the ice pick for himself. ‘They always respond in exactly the same way to the same input stimulus. And the kinds of stimuli they respond to are simple in the extreme: a few gradations of temperature; a few biochemical cues picked up from the ice itself. But the emergent properties . . .’

Clavain forced himself to a sitting position. ‘There’s that word again.’

‘It’s the network, Nevil. The system of tunnels the worms dig through the ice. Don’t you understand? That’s where the real complexity lies. That’s what I was always more interested in. Of course, it took me years to see it for what it is—’

‘Which is?’

‘A self-evolving network. One that has the capacity to adapt; to learn.’

‘It’s just a series of channels bored through ice, Setterholm.’

‘No. It’s infinitely more than that.’ The man craned his neck as far as the architecture of his suit would allow, revelling in the palatial beauty of the chamber. ‘There are two essential elements in any neural network, Nevil. Connections and nodes are necessary, but not enough. The connections must be capable of being weighted; adjusted in strength according to usefulness. And the nodes must be capable of processing the inputs from the connections in a deterministic manner, like logic gates.’ He gestured around the chamber. ‘Here, there is no absolutely sharp distinction between the connections and the nodes, but the essences remain. The worms lay down secretions when they travel, and those secretions determine how other worms make use of the same channels; whether they utilise one route or another. There are many determining factors - the sexes of the worms, the seasons, others I won’t bore you with. But the point is simple. The secretions - and the effect they have on the worms - mean that the topology of the network is governed by subtle emergent principles. And the breeding tangles function as logic gates; processing the inputs from their connecting nodes according to the rules of worm sex, caste and hierarchy. It’s messy, slow and biological - but the end result is that the worm colony as a whole functions as a neural network. It’s a program that the worms themselves are running, even though any given worm hasn’t a clue that it’s a part of a larger whole.’

Clavain absorbed all that and thought carefully before asking the question that occurred to him. ‘How does it change?’

‘Slowly,’ Setterholm said. ‘Sometimes routes fall into disuse because the secretions inhibit other worms from using them. Gradually, the glacier seals them shut. At the same time other cracks open by chance - the glacier’s own fracturing imposes a constant chaotic background on the network - or the worms bore new holes. Seen in slow motion - our time frame - almost nothing ever seems to happen, let alone change. But imagine speeding things up, Nevil. Imagine if we could see the way the network has changed over the last century, or the last thousand years . . . imagine what we might find. A constantly evolving loom of connections, shifting and changing eternally. Now - does that remind you of anything?’

Clavain answered in the only way that he knew would satisfy Setterholm. ‘A mind, I suppose. A newborn one, still forging neural connections.’

‘Yes. Oh, you’d doubtless like to point out that the network is isolated, so it can’t be responding to stimuli beyond itself - but we can’t know that for certain. A season is like a heartbeat here, Nevil! What we think of as geologically slow processes - a glacier cracking, two glaciers colliding - those events could be as forceful as caresses and sounds to a blind child.’ He paused and glanced at the screen in the back of the imaging radar. ‘That’s what I wanted to find out. A century ago, I was able to study the network for a handful of decades, and I found something that astonished me. The colony moves, reshapes itself constantly, as the glacier shifts and breaks up. But no matter how radically the network changes its periphery, no matter how thoroughly the loom evolves, there are deep structures inside the network that are always preserved.’ Setterholm’s finger traced the red mass at the heart of the green tunnel map. ‘In the language of network topology, the tunnel system is scale-free rather than exponential. It’s the hallmark of a highly organised network with a few rather specialised processing centres - hubs, if you like. This is one. I believe its function is to cause the whole network to move away from a widening fracture in the glacier. It would take me much more than a century to find out for sure, although everything I’ve seen here confirms what I originally thought. I mapped other structures in other colonies, too. They can be huge, spread across cubic kilometres of ice. But they always persist. Don’t you see what that means? The network has begun to develop specialised areas of function. It’s begun to process information, Nevil. It’s begun to creep its way towards thought.’

Clavain looked around him once more, trying to see the chamber in the new light that Setterholm had revealed. Think not of the worms as entities in their own right, he thought, but as electrical signals, ghosting along synaptic pathways in a neural network made of solid ice . . .

He shivered. It was the only appropriate response.

‘Even if the network processes information . . . there’s no reason to think it could ever become conscious.’

‘Why not, Nevil? What’s the fundamental difference between perceiving the universe via electrical signals transmitted along nerve tissue, and via fracture patterns moving through a vast block of ice?’

‘I suppose you have a point.’

‘I had to save them, Nevil. Not just the worms, but the network they were a part of. We couldn’t come all this way and just wipe out the first thinking thing we’d ever encountered in the universe, simply because it didn’t fit into our neat little preconceived notions of what alien thought would actually be like.’

‘But saving the worms meant killing everyone else.’

‘You think I didn’t realise that? You think it didn’t agonise me to do what I had to do? I’m a human being, Nevil - not a monster. I knew exactly what I was doing and I knew exactly what it would make me look like to anyone who came here afterwards.’

‘But you still did it.’

‘Put yourself in my shoes. How would you have acted?’

Clavain opened his mouth, expecting an easy answer to spring to mind. But nothing came; not for several seconds. He was thinking about Setterholm’s question, more thoroughly than he had done so far. Until then he had satisfied himself with the quiet, unquestioned assumption that he would not have acted the way Setterholm had done. But could he really be so sure? Setterholm, after all, had truly believed that the network formed a sentient whole; a thinking being. Possessing that knowledge must have made him feel divinely chosen; sanctioned to commit any act to preserve the fabulously rare thing he had found. And he had, after all, been right.

‘You haven’t answered me.’

‘That’s because I thought the question warranted something more than a flippant answer, Setterholm. I like to think I wouldn’t have acted the way you did, but I don’t suppose I can ever be sure of that.’

Clavain stood up, inspecting his suit for damage; relieved that the scuffle had not injured him.

‘You’ll never know.’

‘No. I never will. But one thing’s clear enough. I’ve heard you talk; heard the fire in your words. You believe in your network, and yet you still couldn’t make the others see it. I doubt I’d have been able to do much better, and I doubt that I’d have thought of a better way to preserve what you’d found.’

‘Then you’d have killed everyone, just like I did?’

The realisation of it was like a heavy burden someone had just placed on his shoulders. It was so much easier to feel incapable of such acts. But Clavain had been a soldier. He had killed more people than he could remember, even though those days had been a long time ago. It was really a lot less difficult to do when you had a cause to believe in.

And Setterholm had definitely had a cause.

‘Perhaps,’ Clavain said. ‘Perhaps I might have, yes.’

He heard Setterholm sigh. ‘I’m glad. For a moment there—’

‘For a moment what?’

‘When you showed up with that pick, I thought you were planning to kill me.’ Setterholm hefted the pick, much as Clavain had done earlier. ‘You wouldn’t have done that, would you? I don’t deny that what I did was regrettable, but I had to do it.’

‘I understand.’

‘But what happens to me now? I can stay with you all, can’t I?’

‘We probably won’t be staying on Diadem, I’m afraid. And I don’t think you’d really want to come with us; not if you knew what we’re really like.’

‘You can’t leave me alone here, not again.’

‘Why not? You’ll have your worms. And you can always kill yourself again and see who shows up next.’ Clavain turned to leave.

‘No. You can’t go now.’

‘I’ll leave your rover on the surface. Maybe there are some supplies in it. Just don’t come anywhere near the base again. You won’t find a welcome there.’

‘I’ll die out here,’ Setterholm said.

‘Start getting used to it.’

He heard Setterholm’s feet scuffing across the ice; a walk breaking into a run. Clavain turned around calmly, unsurprised to see Setterholm coming towards him with the pick raised high, as a weapon.

Clavain sighed.

He reached into Setterholm’s skull, addressing the webs of machines that still floated in the man’s head, and instructed them to execute their host in a sudden, painless orgy of neural deconstruction. It was not a trick he could have done an hour ago, but after Galiana had planted the method in his mind, it was easy as sneezing. For a moment he understood what it must feel like to be a god.

And in that same moment Setterholm dropped the ice pick and stumbled, falling forward onto one end of the pick’s blade. It pierced his faceplate, but by then he was dead anyway.

‘What I said was the truth,’ Clavain said. ‘I might have killed them as well, just like I said. I don’t want to think so, but I can’t say it isn’t in me. No; I don’t blame you for that; not at all.’

With his boot he began to kick a dusting of frost over the dead man’s body. It would be too much bother to remove Setterholm from this place, and the machines inside him would sterilise his body, ensuring that none of his cells ever contaminated the glacier. And, as Clavain had told himself only a few days earlier, there were worse places to die than here. Or worse places to be left for dead, anyway.

When he was done, when what remained of Setterholm was just an ice-covered mound in the middle of a cavern, Clavain addressed him one final time.

‘But that doesn’t make it right, either. It was still murder, Setterholm.’ He kicked a final divot of ice over the corpse. ‘Someone had to pay for it.’

A SPY IN EUROPA

Marius Vargovic, agent of Gilgamesh Isis, savoured an instant of free fall before the flitter’s engines kicked in, slamming it away from the Deucalion. His pilot gunned the craft towards the moon below, quickly outrunning the other shuttles that the Martian liner had disgorged. Europa enlarged perceptibly: a flattening arc the colour of nicotine-stained wallpaper.

‘Boring, isn’t it.’

Vargovic turned around in his seat, languidly. ‘You’d rather they were shooting at us?’

‘I’d rather they were doing something.’

‘Then you’re a fool,’ Vargovic said, making a tent of his fingers. ‘There’s enough armament buried in that ice to give Jupiter a second red spot. What it would do to us doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘Only trying to make conversation, friend.’

‘Don’t bother - it’s an overrated activity at the best of times.’

‘All right, Marius - I get the message. In fact I intercepted it, parsed it, filtered it, decrypted it with the appropriate one-time pad and wrote a fucking two-hundred-page report on it. Satisfied?’

‘I’m never satisfied, Mishenka. It just isn’t in my nature.’

But Mishenka was right: Europa was an encrypted document; complexity masked by a surface of fractured and refrozen ice. Its surface grooves were like the capillaries in a vitrified eyeball; faint as the structure in a raw surveillance image. But once within the airspace boundary of the Europan Demarchy, traffic-management co-opted the flitter, vectoring it into a touchdown corridor. In three days, Mishenka would return, but then he would disable the avionics, kissing the ice for less than ten minutes.

‘Not too late to abort,’ Mishenka said, a long time later.

‘Are you out of your tiny mind?’

The younger man dispensed a frosty Covert Ops smile. ‘We’ve all heard what the Demarchy does to spies, Marius.’

‘Is this a personal grudge or are you just psychotic?’

‘I’ll leave being psychotic to you, Marius - you’re so much better at it.’

Vargovic nodded. It was the first sensible thing Mishenka had said all day.

They landed an hour later. Vargovic adjusted his Martian businesswear, tuning his holographically inwoven frock coat to project red sandstorms; lifting the collar in what he had observed from the liner’s passengers was a recent Martian fad. Then he grabbed his bag - nothing incriminating there, no gadgets or weapons - and exited the flitter, stepping through the gasket of locks. A slitherwalk propelled him forward, massaging the soles of his slippers. It was a single cultured ribbon of octopus skin, stimulated to ripple by the timed firing of buried squid axons.

To get to Europa you either had to be sickeningly rich or sickeningly poor. Vargovic’s cover was the former: a lie excusing the single-passenger flitter. As the slitherwalk advanced he was joined by other arrivals: businesspeople like himself, and a sugaring of the merely wealthy. Most of them had dispensed with holographics, instead projecting entoptics beyond their personal space: machine-generated hallucinations decoded by the implant hugging Vargovic’s optic nerve. Hummingbirds and seraphim were in sickly vogue. Others were attended by autonomous perfumes that subtly altered the moods of those around them. Slightly lower down the social scale, Vargovic observed a clique of noisy tourists - antlered brats from Circum-Jove. Then there was a discontinuous jump: to squalid-looking Maunder refugees who must have accepted indenture to the Demarchy. The refugees were quickly segregated from the more affluent immigrants, who found themselves within a huge geodesic dome resting above the ice on refrigerated stilts. The walls of the dome glittered with duty-free shops, boutiques and bars. The floor was bowl-shaped, slither-walks and spiral stairways descending to the nadir where a quincunx of fluted marble cylinders waited. Vargovic observed that the newly arrived were queuing for elevators that terminated in the cylinders. He joined a line and waited.

‘First time in Cadmus-Asterius?’ asked the bearded man ahead of him, iridophores in his plum-coloured jacket projecting Boolean propositions from Sirikit’s Machine Ethics in the Transenlightenment.

‘First time on Europa, actually. First time Circum-Jove, you want the full story.’

‘Down-system?’

‘Mars.’

The man nodded gravely. ‘Hear it’s tough.’

‘You’re not kidding.’ And he wasn’t. Since the sun had dimmed - the second Maunder Minimum, repeating the behaviour the sun had exhibited in the seventeenth century - the entire balance of power in the First System had altered. The economies of the inner worlds had found it difficult to adjust; agriculture and power-generation handicapped, with concomitant social upheaval. But the outer planets had never had the luxury of solar energy in the first place. Now Circum-Jove was the benchmark of First System economic power, with Circum-Saturn trailing behind. Because of this, the two primary Circum-Jove superpowers - the Demarchy, which controlled Europa and Io, and Gilgamesh Isis, which controlled Ganymede and parts of Callisto - were vying for dominance.

The man smiled keenly. ‘Here for anything special?’

‘Surgery,’ Vargovic said, hoping to curtail the conversation at the earliest juncture. ‘Very extensive anatomical surgery.’

They hadn’t told him much.

‘Her name is Cholok,’ Control had said, after Vargovic had skimmed the dossiers back in the caverns that housed the Covert Operations section of Gilgamesh Isis security, deep in Ganymede. ‘We recruited her ten years ago, when she was on Phobos.’

‘And now she’s Demarchy?’

Control had nodded. ‘She was swept up in the brain-drain, once Maunder Two began to bite. The smartest got out while they could. The Demarchy - and us, of course - snapped up the brightest.’

‘And also one of our sleepers.’ Vargovic glanced down at the portrait of the woman, striped by video lines. She looked mousy to him, with a permanent bone-deep severity of expression.

‘Cheer up,’ Control said. ‘I’m asking you to contact her, not sleep with her.’

‘Yeah, yeah. Just tell me her background.’

‘Biotech.’ Control nodded at the dossier. ‘On Phobos she led one of the teams working in aquatic transform work - modifying the human form for submarine operations.’

Vargovic nodded diligently. ‘Go on.’

‘Phobos wanted to sell their know-how to the Martians, before their oceans froze. Of course, the Demarchy also appreciated her talents. Cholok took her team to Cadmus-Asterius, one of their hanging cities.’

‘Mm.’ Vargovic was getting the thread now. ‘By which time we’d already recruited her.’

‘Right,’ Control said, ‘except we had no obvious use for her.’

‘Then why this conversation?’

Control smiled. Control always smiled when Vargovic pushed the envelope of subservience. ‘We’re having it because our sleeper won’t lie down.’ Then Control reached over and touched the image of Cholok, making her speak. What Vargovic was seeing was an intercept: something Gilgamesh had captured, riddled with edits and jump-cuts.

She appeared to be sending a verbal message to an old friend in Isis. She was talking rapidly from a white room, inert medical servitors behind her. Shelves displayed flasks of colour-coded medichines. A cruciform bed resembled an autopsy slab with ceramic drainage sluices.

‘Cholok contacted us a month ago,’ Control said. ‘The room’s part of her clinic.’

‘She’s using Phrase-Embedded Three,’ Vargovic said, listening to her speech patterns, siphoning content from otherwise normal Canasian.

‘Last code we taught her.’

‘All right. What’s her angle?’

Control chose his words - skating around the information excised from Cholok’s message. ‘She wants to give us something,’ he said. ‘Something valuable. She’s acquired it accidentally. Someone good has to smuggle it out.’

‘Flattery will get you everywhere, Control.’

The muzak rose to a carefully timed crescendo as the elevator plunged through the final layer of ice. The view around and below was literally dizzying, and Vargovic registered exactly as much awe as befitted his Martian guise. He knew the Demarchy’s history, of course - how the hanging cities had begun as points of entry into the ocean; air-filled observation cupolas linked to the surface by narrow access shafts sunk through the kilometre-thick crustal ice. Scientists had studied the unusual smoothness of the crust, noting that its fracture patterns echoed those on Earth’s ice shelves, implying the presence of a water ocean. Europa was further from the sun than Earth, but something other than solar energy maintained the ocean’s liquidity. Instead, the moon’s orbit around Jupiter created stresses that flexed the moon’s silicate core, tectonic heat bleeding into the ocean via hydrothermal vents.

Descending into the city was a little like entering an amphitheatre - except that there was no stage; merely an endless succession of steeply tiered lower balconies. They converged towards a light-filled infinity, seven or eight kilometres below, where the city’s conic shape constricted to a point. The opposite side was half a kilometre away, levels rising like geologic strata. A wide glass tower threaded the atrium from top to bottom, aglow with smoky-green ocean and a mass of kelp-like flora, cultured by gilly swimmers. Artificial sun lamps burned in the kelp like Christmas tree lights. Above, the tower branched, peristaltic feeds reaching out to the ocean proper. Offices, shops, restaurants and residential units were stacked atop each other, or teetered into the abyss on elegant balconies, spun from lustrous sheets of bulk-chitin polymer, the Demarchy’s major construction material. Gossamer bridges arced across the atrium space, dodging banners, projections and vast translucent sculptures moulded from a silky variant of the same chitin polymer. Every visible surface was overlaid by neon, holographics and entoptics. People were everywhere, and in every face Vargovic detected a slight absence, as if their minds were not entirely focused on the here and now. No wonder: all citizens had an implant that constantly interrogated them, eliciting their opinions on every aspect of Demarchy life, both within Cadmus-Asterius and beyond. Eventually, it was said, the implant’s nagging presence faded from consciousness, until the act of democratic participation became near-involuntary.

It revolted Vargovic as much as it intrigued him.

‘Obviously,’ Control said, with judicial deliberation, ‘what Cholok has to offer isn’t merely a nugget - or she’d have given it via PE3.’

Vargovic leaned forward. ‘She hasn’t told you what it is?’

‘Only that it could endanger the hanging cities.’

‘You trust her?’

Vargovic felt one of Control’s momentary indiscretions coming on. ‘She may have been sleeping, but she hasn’t been completely valueless. She’s assisted in defections . . . like the Maunciple job - remember that?’

‘If you’re calling that a success, perhaps it’s time I defected.’

‘Actually, it was Cholok’s information that persuaded us to get Maunciple out via the ocean rather than the front door. If Demarchy security had taken Maunciple alive they’d have learned ten years of tradecraft.’

‘Whereas instead, Maunciple got a harpoon in his back.’

‘So the operation had its flaws.’ Control shrugged. ‘But if you’re thinking all this points to Cholok having been compromised . . . Naturally, the thought entered our heads. But if Maunciple had acted otherwise it would have been worse.’ Control folded his arms. ‘And of course, he might have made it, in which case even you’d have to admit Cholok’s safe.’

‘Until proven otherwise.’

Control brightened. ‘So you’ll do it?’

‘Like I have a choice.’

‘There’s always a choice, Vargovic.’

Yes, Vargovic thought. There was always a choice, between doing whatever Gilgamesh Isis asked of him and being deprogrammed, cyborgised and sent to work in the sulphur projects around the slopes of Ra Patera. It just wasn’t a particularly good one.

‘One other thing . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘When I’ve got whatever Cholok has—’

Control half-smiled, the two of them sharing a private joke that did not need illumination. ‘I’m sure the usual will suffice.’

The elevator slowed into immigration.

Demarchy guards hefted big guns, but no one took any interest in him. His story about coming from Mars was accepted; he was subjected to only the usual spectrum of invasive procedures: neural and genetic patterns scanned for pathologies, body bathed in eight forms of exotic radiation. The final formality consisted of drinking a thimble of chocolate. The beverage consisted of billions of medichines which infiltrated his body, searching for concealed drugs, weapons and illegal biomodifications. He knew that they would find nothing, but was still relieved when they reached his bladder and requested to be urinated back into the Demarchy.

The entire procedure lasted six minutes. Outside, Vargovic followed a slitherwalk to the city zoo, and then barged through crowds of schoolchildren until he arrived at the aquarium where Cholok was meant to meet him. The exhibits were devoted to Europan biota, most of which depended on the ecological niches of the hydrothermal vents, carefully reproduced here. There was nothing very exciting to look at, since most Europan predators looked marginally less fierce than hat stands or lampshades. The commonest were called ventlings: large and structurally simple animals whose metabolisms hinged on symbiosis. They were pulpy, funnelled bags planted on a tripod of orange stilts, moving with such torpor that Vargovic almost nodded off before Cholok arrived at his side.

She wore an olive-green coat and tight emerald trousers, projecting a haze of medicinal entoptics. Her clenched jaw accentuated the dourness he had gleaned from the intercept.

They kissed.

‘Good to see you Marius. It’s been - what?’

‘Nine years, thereabouts.’

‘How’s Phobos these days?’

‘Still orbiting Mars.’ He deployed a smile. ‘Still a dive.’

‘You haven’t changed.’

‘Nor you.’

At a loss for words, Vargovic found his gaze returning to the informational read-out accompanying the ventling exhibit. Only half-attentively, he read that the ventlings, motile in their juvenile phase, gradually became sessile in adulthood, stilts thickening with deposited sulphur until they were rooted to the ground like stalagmites. When they died, their soft bodies dispersed into the ocean, but the tripods remained; eerily regular clusters of orange spines concentrated around active vents.

‘Nervous, Marius?’

‘In your hands? Not likely.’

‘That’s the spirit.’

They bought two mugs of mocha from a nearby servitor, then returned to the ventling display, making what sounded like small talk. During indoctrination, Cholok had been taught Phrase-Embedded Three. The code allowed the insertion of secondary information into a primary conversation by means of careful deployment of word order, hesitation and sentence structure.

‘What have you got?’ Vargovic asked.

‘A sample,’ Cholok answered, one of the easy, pre-set words that did not need to be laboriously conveyed. But what followed took nearly five minutes to put over, freighted via a series of rambling reminiscences of the Phobos years. ‘A small shard of hyperdiamond. ’

Vargovic nodded. He knew what hyperdiamond was: a topologically complex interweave of tubular fullerene; structurally similar to cellulose or bulk chitin but thousands of times stronger; its rigidity artificially maintained by some piezoelectric trick that Gilgamesh lacked.

‘Interesting,’ Vargovic said. ‘But unfortunately not interesting enough.’

She ordered another mocha and downed it, replying, ‘Use your imagination. Only the Demarchy knows how to synthesise it.’

‘It’s also useless as a weapon.’

‘Depends. There’s an application you should know about.’

‘What?’

‘Keeping this city afloat - and no, I’m not talking about economic solvency. Do you know about Buckminster Fuller? He lived about four hundred years ago; believed absolute democracy could be achieved through technological means.’

‘The fool.’

‘Maybe. But Fuller also invented the geodesic lattice that determines the structure of the buckyball: the closed allotrope of tubular fullerene. The city owes him on two counts.’

‘Save the lecture. How does the hyperdiamond come into it?’

‘Flotation bubbles,’ she said. ‘Around the outside of the city. Each one is a hundred-metre-wide sphere of hyperdiamond, holding vacuum. A hundred-metre-wide molecule, in fact, since each sphere is composed of one endless strand of tubular fullerene. Think of that, Marius: a molecule you could park a ship inside.’

While he absorbed that, another part of his mind continued to read the ventling caption: how their biochemistry had many similarities with the gutless tube worms that lived around Earth’s ocean vents. The ventlings drank hydrogen sulphide through their funnels, circulating it via a modified form of haemoglobin, passing it through a bacteria-saturated organ in the lower part of their bags. The bacteria split and oxidised the hydrogen sulphide, manufacturing a molecule similar to glucose. The glucose-analogue nourished the ventling, enabling it to keep living and occasionally make slow perambulations to other parts of the vent, or even to swim between vents, until the adult phase rooted it to the ground. Vargovic read this, and then read it again, because he had just remembered something: a puzzling intercept passed to him from cryptanalysis several months earlier; something about Demarchy plans to incorporate ventling biochemistry into a larger animal. For a moment he was tempted to ask Cholok about it directly, but he decided to force the subject from his mind until a more suitable time.

‘Any other propaganda to share with me?’

‘There are two hundred of these spheres. They inflate and deflate like bladders, maintaining C-A’s equilibrium. I’m not sure how the deflation happens, except that it’s something to do with changing the piezoelectric current in the tubes.’

‘I still don’t see why Gilgamesh needs it.’

‘Think. If you can get a sample of this to Ganymede, they might be able to find a way of attacking it. All you’d need would be a molecular agent capable of opening the gaps between the fullerene strands so that a molecule of water could squeeze through, or something that impedes the piezoelectric force.’

Absently Vargovic watched a squid-like predator nibble a chunk from the bag of a ventling. The squid’s blood ran thick with two forms of haemoglobin, one oxygen-bearing, one tuned for hydrogen sulphide. They used glycoproteins to keep their blood flowing and switched metabolisms as they swam from oxygen-dominated to sulphide-dominated water.

He snapped his attention back to Cholok. ‘I can’t believe I came all this way for . . . what? Carbon?’ He shook his head, slotting the gesture into the primary narrative of their conversation. ‘How did you obtain this?’

‘An accident, with a gilly.’

‘Go on.’

‘An explosion near one of the bubbles. I was the surgeon assigned to the gilly; had to remove a lot of hyperdiamond from him. It wasn’t difficult to save a few splinters.’

‘Forward-thinking of you.’

‘Hard part was persuading Gilgamesh to send you. Especially after Maunciple—’

‘Don’t lose any sleep over him,’ Vargovic said, consulting his coffee. ‘He was a fat bastard who couldn’t swim fast enough.’

The surgery took place the next day. Vargovic woke with his mouth furnace-dry.

He felt . . . odd. They had warned him of this. He had even interviewed subjects who had undergone similar procedures in Gilgamesh’s experimental labs. They told him he would feel fragile, as if his head was no longer adequately coupled to his body. The periodic flushes of cold around his neck only served to increase that feeling.

‘You can speak,’ Cholok said, looming over him in surgeon’s whites. ‘But the cardiovascular modifications - and the amount of reworking we’ve done to your laryngeal area - will make your voice sound a little strange. Some of the gilled are really only comfortable talking to their own kind.’

He held a hand before his eyes, examining the translucent webbing that now spanned between his fingers. There was a dark patch in the pale tissue of his palm: Cholok’s embedded sample. The other hand held another.

‘It worked, didn’t it?’ His voice sounded squeaky. ‘I can breathe water.’

‘And air,’ Cholok said. ‘Though what you’ll now find is that really strenuous exercise only feels natural when you’re submerged. ’

‘Can I move?’

‘Of course,’ she said. ‘Try standing up. You’re stronger than you feel.’

He did as she suggested, using the moment to assess his surroundings. A neural monitor clamped his crown. He was naked, in a brightly lit revival room; one glass-walled side faced the exterior ocean. It was from here that Cholok had first contacted Gilgamesh.

‘This place is secure, isn’t it?’

‘Secure?’ she said, as if the word itself was obscene. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Then tell me about the Denizens.’

‘What?’

‘Demarchy codeword. Cryptanalysis intercepted it recently - supposedly something about an experiment in radical bio-modification. I was reminded of it in the aquarium.’ Vargovic fingered the gills in his neck. ‘Something that would make this look like cosmetic surgery. We heard the Demarchy had tailored the sulphur-based metabolism of the ventlings for human use.’

She whistled. ‘That would be quite a trick.’

‘Useful, though - especially if you wanted a workforce who could tolerate the anoxic environments around the vents, where the Demarchy happens to have certain mineralogical interests.’

‘Maybe.’ Cholok paused. ‘But the changes required would be beyond surgery. You’d have to script them in at the developmental level. And even then . . . I’m not sure that what you’d end up with would necessarily be human any more.’ It was as if she shivered, though Vargovic was the one who felt cold, still standing naked beside the revival table. ‘All I can say is, if it happened, no one told me.’

‘I thought I’d ask, that’s all.’

‘Good.’ She brandished a white medical scanner. ‘Now can I run a few more tests? We have to follow procedure.’

Cholok was right: quite apart from the fact that Vargovic’s operation was completely real - and therefore susceptible to complications that had to be looked for and monitored - any deviation from normal practice was undesirable.

After the first hour or so, the real strangeness of his transformation hit home. He had been blithely unaffected by it until then, but when he saw himself in a full-body mirror, in the corner of Cholok’s revival room, he knew that there was no going back.

Not easily, anyway. The Gilgamesh surgeons had promised him they could undo the work - but he didn’t believe them. After all, the Demarchy was ahead of Ganymede in the biosciences, and even Cholok had told him reversals were tricky. He’d accepted the mission in any case: the pay tantalising; the prospect of the sulphur projects rather less so.

Cholok spent most of the day with him, only breaking off to talk to other clients or confer with her team. Breathing exercises occupied most of that time: prolonged periods spent underwater, nulling the brain’s drowning response. Unpleasant, but Vargovic had done worse things in training. They practised fully submerged swimming, using his lungs to regulate buoyancy, followed by instruction about keeping his gill-openings - what Cholok called his opercula - clean, which meant ensuring the health of the colonies of commensal bacteria that thrived in the openings and crawled over the fine secondary flaps of his lamellae. He’d read the brochure: what she’d done was to surgically sculpt his anatomy towards a state somewhere between human and air-breathing fish: incorporating biochemical lessons from lungfish and walking-catfish. Fish breathed water through their mouths and returned it to the sea via their gills, but it was the gills in Vargovic’s neck that served the function of a mouth. His true gills were below his thoracic cavity: crescent-shaped gashes below his ribs.

‘Compared to your body size,’ she said, ‘these gill-openings are never going to give you the respiratory efficiency you’d have if you went in for more dramatic changes—’

‘Like a Denizen?’

‘I told you, I don’t know anything about that.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ He flattened the gill-flaps down, watching - only slightly nauseated - as they puckered with each exhalation. ‘Are we finished?’

‘Just some final bloodwork,’ she said, ‘to make sure everything’s still functioning properly. Then you can go and swim with the fishes.’

While she was busy at one of her consoles, surrounded by false-colour entoptics of his gullet - he asked her, ‘Do you have the weapon?’

Cholok nodded absently and opened a drawer, fishing out a hand-held medical laser. ‘Not much,’ she said. ‘I disabled the yield-suppresser, but you’d have to aim it at someone’s eyes to do much damage.’

Vargovic hefted the laser, scrutinising the controls in its contoured haft. Then he grabbed Cholok’s head and twisted her around, dousing her face with the laser’s actinic-blue beam. There were two consecutive popping sounds as her eyeballs evaporated.

‘What, like that?’

Conventional scalpels did the rest.

He rinsed off the blood, dressed and left the medical centre alone, travelling kilometres down-city, to where Cadmus-Asterius narrowed to a point. Even though there were many gillies moving freely through the city - they were volunteers, by and large, with full Demarchy rights - he did not linger in public for long. Within a few minutes he was safe inside a warren of collagen-walled service tunnels, frequented only by technicians, servitors or other gill-workers. The late Cholok had been right: breathing air was more difficult now. It felt too thin.

‘Demarchy security advisory,’ said a bleak machine voice emanating from the wall. ‘A murder has occurred in the medical sector. The suspect may be an armed gill-worker. Approach with extreme caution.’

They’d found Cholok. Risky, killing her. But Gilgamesh preferred to burn its bridges, removing the possibility of any sleeper turning traitor after they had fulfilled their usefulness. In the future, Vargovic mulled, they might be better using a toxin, rather than the immediate kill. He made a mental note to insert that in his report.

He entered the final tunnel, not far from the waterlock that was his destination. At the tunnel’s far end a technician sat on a crate, listening with a stethoscope to something going on behind an access panel. For a moment Vargovic considered passing the man, hoping he was engrossed in his work. He began to approach him, padding on bare webbed feet, which made less noise than the shoes he had just removed. Then the man nodded to himself, uncoupled from the listening post and slammed the hatch. Grabbing his crate, he stood and made eye contact with Vargovic.

‘You’re not meant to be here,’ he said. Then offered, almost plaintively, ‘Can I help you? You’ve just had surgery, haven’t you? I always recognise new ones like you: always a little red around the gills.’

Vargovic drew his collar higher, then relented because that made it harder to breathe. ‘Stay where you are,’ he said. ‘Put down the crate and freeze.’

‘Christ, that advisory - it was you, wasn’t it?’ the man said.

Vargovic raised the laser. Blinded, the man blundered into the wall, dropping the crate. He made a pitiful moan. Vargovic crept closer, the man stumbling into the scalpel. Not the cleanest of killings, but that hardly mattered.

Vargovic was sure the Demarchy would shortly seal off access to the ocean - especially when his latest murder came to light. For now, however, the locks were accessible. He moved into the air-filled chamber, his lungs now aflame for water. High-pressure jets filled the room, and he quickly transitioned to water-breathing, feeling his thoughts clarify. The secondary door clammed open, revealing ocean. He was kilometres below the ice, and the water here was both chillingly cold and under crushing pressure - but it felt normal; pressure and cold registered only as abstract qualities of the environment. His blood was inoculated with glycoproteins now, molecules which would lower its freezing point below that of water.

The late Cholok had done well.

Vargovic was about to leave the city when a second gill-worker appeared in the doorway, returning to the city after completing a shift. He killed her efficiently, and she bequeathed him a thermally inwoven wetsuit, for working in the coldest parts of the ocean. The wetsuit had octopus ancestry, and when it slithered onto him it left apertures for his gill-openings. She had been wearing goggles that had infrared and sonar capability, and carried a hand-held tug. The thing resembled the still-beating heart of a vivisected animal, its translucent components nobbed with dark veins and ganglia. But it was easy to use: Vargovic set its pump to maximum thrust and powered away from the lower levels of C-A. Even in the relatively uncontaminated water of the Europan ocean, visibility was low; he would not have been able to see anything were the city not abundantly illuminated on all its levels. Even so, he could see no more than half a kilometre upwards; the higher parts of C-A were lost in golden haze and then deepening darkness. Although its symmetry was upset by protrusions and accretions, the city’s basic conic form was still evident, tapering at the narrowest point to an inlet mouth which ingested ocean. The cone was surrounded by a haze of flotation bubbles, black as caviar. He remembered the chips of hyperdiamond in his hands. If Cholok was right, Vargovic’s people might find a way to make it water-permeable; opening the fullerene weave sufficiently so that the spheres’ buoyant properties would be destroyed. The necessary agent could be introduced into the ocean by ice-penetrating missiles. Some time later - Vargovic was uninterested in the details - the Demarchy cities would begin to groan under their own weight. If the weapon worked sufficiently quickly, there might not even be time to act against it. The cities would fall from the ice, sinking down through the black kilometres of ocean below them.

He swam on.

Near C-A, the rocky interior of Europa climbed upwards to meet him. He had travelled three or four kilometres north, and was comparing the visible topography - lit by service lights installed by Demarchy gill-workers - with his own mental maps of the area. Eventually he found an outcropping of silicate rock. Beneath the overhang was a narrow ledge on which a dozen or so small boulders had fallen. One was redder than the others. Vargovic anchored himself to the ledge and hefted the red rock, the warmth of his fingertips activating its latent biocircuitry. A screen appeared in the rock, filling with Mishenka’s face.

‘I’m on time,’ Vargovic said, his own voice sounding even less recognisable through the distorting medium of the water. ‘I presume you’re ready?’

‘Problem,’ Mishenka said. ‘Big fucking problem.’

‘What?’

‘Extraction site’s compromised.’ Mishenka - or rather the simulation of Mishenka that was running in the rock - anticipated Vargovic’s next question: ‘A few hours ago the Demarchy sent a surface team out onto the ice, ostensibly to repair a transponder. But the spot they’re covering is right where we planned to pull you out.’ He paused. ‘You did - uh - kill Cholok, didn’t you? I mean, you didn’t just grievously injure her?’

‘You’re talking to a professional.’

The rock did a creditable impression of Mishenka looking pained. ‘Then the Demarchy got to her.’

Vargovic waved his hand in front of the rock. ‘I got what I came for, didn’t I?’

‘You got something.’

‘If it isn’t what Cholok said it was, then she’s accomplished nothing except get herself dead.’

‘Even so . . .’ Mishenka appeared to entertain a thought briefly, before discarding it. ‘Listen, we always had a back-up extraction point, Vargovic. You’d better get your ass there.’ He grinned. ‘Hope you can swim faster than Maunciple.’

It was thirty kilometres south.

He passed a few gill-workers on the way, but they ignored him and once he was more than five kilometres from C-A there was increasingly less evidence of human presence. There was a head-up display in the goggles. Vargovic experimented with the read-out modes before calling up a map of the whole area. It showed his location, and also three dots following him from C-A.

He was being tailed by Demarchy security.

They were at least three kilometres behind him now, but they were perceptibly narrowing the distance. With a cold feeling gripping his gut, it occurred to Vargovic that there was no way he could make it to the extraction point before the Demarchy caught him.

Ahead, he noticed a thermal hot spot: heat bubbling up from the relatively shallow level of the rock floor. The security operatives were probably tracking him via the gill-worker’s appropriated equipment. But once he was near the vent he could ditch it: the water was warmer there; he wouldn’t need the suit, and the heat, light and associated turbulence would confuse any other tracking system. He could lie low behind a convenient rock, stalk them while they were preoccupied with the homing signal.

It struck Vargovic as a good plan. He covered the distance to the vent quickly, feeling the water grow warmer around him, noticing how the taste of it changed, turning brackish. The vent was a fiery red fountain surrounded by bacteria-crusted rocks and the colourless Europan equivalent of coral. Ventlings were everywhere, their pulpy bags shifting as the currents altered. The smallest were motile, ambling on their stilts like animated bagpipes, navigating around the triadic stumps of their dead relatives.

Vargovic ensconced himself in a cave, after placing the gill-worker’s equipment near another cave on the far side of the vent, hoping that the security operatives would look there first. While they did so, he would be able to kill at least one of them; maybe two. Once he had their weapons, taking care of the third would be a formality.

Something nudged him from behind.

What Vargovic saw when he turned around was something too repulsive even for a nightmare. It was so wrong that for a faltering moment he could not quite assimilate what he was looking at, as if the thing was a three-dimensional perception test; a shape that refused to stabilise in his head. The reason he could not hold it still was because part of him refused to believe that this thing had any connection with humanity. But the residual traces of human ancestry were too obvious to ignore.

Vargovic knew - beyond any reasonable doubt - that what he was seeing was a Denizen. Others loomed from the cave’s depths - five more of them, all roughly similar, all aglow with faint bioluminescence, all regarding him with darkly intelligent eyes. Vargovic had seen pictures of mermaids in books when he was a child; what he was looking at now were macabre corruptions of those innocent illustrations. These things were the same fusions of human and fish as in those pictures - but every detail had been twisted towards ugliness, and the true horror of it was that the fusion was total; it was not simply that a human torso had been grafted to a fish’s tail, but that the splice had been made - it was obvious - at the genetic level, so that in every aspect of the creature there was something simultaneously and grotesquely piscine. The faces were the worst, bisected by a lipless down-curved slit of a mouth, almost shark-like. There was no nose, not even a pair of nostrils; just an acreage of flat, sallow fish-flesh. The eyes were forward facing; all expression compacted into their dark depths.

The first creature had touched him with one of its arms, which terminated in an obscenely human hand. And then - to compound the horror - it spoke, its voice perfectly clear and calm despite the water.

‘We’ve been expecting you, Vargovic.’

The others behind murmured, echoing the sentiment.

‘What?’

‘So glad you were able to complete your mission.’

Vargovic began to get a grip, shakily. He reached up and dislodged the Denizen’s hand from his shoulder. ‘You aren’t why I’m here,’ he said, forcing authority into his voice, drawing on every last drop of Gilgamesh training to suppress his nerves. ‘I wanted to know about you . . . that was all—’

‘No,’ the lead Denizen said, opening its mouth to expose an alarming array of teeth. ‘You misunderstand. Coming here was always your mission. You have brought us something we want very much. That was always your purpose.’

‘Brought you something?’ His mind was reeling now.

‘Concealed within you.’ The Denizen nodded: a human gesture that only served to magnify the horror of what it was. ‘The means by which we will strike at the Demarchy; the means by which we will take the ocean.’

He thought of the chips in his hands. ‘I think I understand,’ he said slowly. ‘It was always intended for you, is that what you mean?’

‘Always.’

Then he’d been lied to by his superiors - or they had at least drastically simplified the matter. He filled in the gaps himself, making the necessary mental leaps: evidently Gilgamesh was already in contact with the Denizens - bizarre as it seemed - and the chips of hyperdiamond were meant for the Denizens, not his own people. Presumably - although he couldn’t begin to guess at how this might be possible - the Denizens had the means to examine the shards and fabricate the agent that would unravel the hyperdiamond weave. They’d be acting for Gilgamesh, saving it the bother of actually dirtying its hands in the attack. He could see why this might appeal to Control. But if that was the case . . . why had Gilgamesh ever faked ignorance about the Denizens? It made no sense. But on the other hand, he could not concoct a better theory to replace it.

‘I have what you want,’ he said, after due consideration. ‘Cholok said removing it would be simple.’

‘Cholok can always be relied upon,’ the Denizen said.

‘You knew - know - her, then?’

‘She made us what we are today.’

‘You hate her, then?’

‘No; we love her.’ The Denizen flashed its shark-like smile again, and it seemed to Vargovic that as its emotional state changed, so did the coloration of its bioluminescence. It was scarlet now, no longer the blue-green hue it had displayed upon its first appearance. ‘She took the abomination that we were and made us something better. We were in pain, once. Always in pain. But Cholok took it away, made us strong. For that they punished her, and then us.’

‘If you hate the Demarchy,’ Vargovic said, ‘why have you waited until now before attacking it?’

‘Because we can’t leave this place,’ one of the other Denizens said, the tone of its voice betraying femininity. ‘The Demarchy hated what Cholok had done to us. She brought our humanity to the fore, made it impossible for them to treat us as animals. We thought they would kill us, rather than risk our existence becoming known to the rest of Circum-Jove. Instead, they banished us here.’

‘They thought we might come in handy,’ said another of the lurking creatures.

Just then, another Denizen entered the cave, having swum in from the sea.

‘Demarchy agents have followed him,’ it said, its coloration blood red, tinged with orange, pulsing lividly. ‘They’ll be here in a minute.’

‘You’ll have to protect me,’ Vargovic said.

‘Of course,’ the lead Denizen said. ‘You’re our saviour.’

Vargovic nodded vigorously, no longer convinced that he could handle the three operatives on his own. Ever since he had arrived in the cave he had felt his energy dwindling, as if he was succumbing to slow poisoning. A thought tugged at the back of his mind, and for a moment he almost paid attention to it; almost considered seriously the possibility that he was being poisoned. But what was going on beyond the cave was too distracting. He watched the three Demarchy agents approach, pulled forward by the tugs they held in front of them. Each agent carried a slender harpoon gun, tipped with a vicious barb.

They didn’t stand a chance.

The Denizens moved too quickly, lancing out from the shadows, cutting through the water. The creatures moved faster than the Demarchy agents, even though they only had their own muscles and anatomy to propel them. But it was more than enough. They had no weapons, either - not even harpoons. But sharpened rocks more than sufficed - that and their teeth.

Vargovic was impressed by their teeth.

Afterwards, the Denizens returned to the cave to join their cousins. They moved more sluggishly now, as if the fury of the fight had drained them. For a few moments they were silent, their bioluminescence curiously subdued.

Slowly, though, Vargovic watched their colour return.

‘It was better that they not kill you,’ the leader said.

‘Damn right,’ Vargovic said. ‘They wouldn’t just have killed me, you know.’ He opened his fists, exposing his palms. ‘They’d have made sure you never got this.’

The Denizens - all of them - looked momentarily towards his open hands, as if there ought to have been something there.

‘I’m not sure you understand,’ the leader said, eventually.

‘Understand what?’

‘The nature of your mission.’

Fighting his fatigue - it was a black slick lapping at his consciousness - Vargovic said, ‘I understand perfectly well. I have the samples of hyperdiamond, in my hands—’

‘That isn’t what we want.’

He didn’t like this, not at all. It was the way the Denizens were slowly creeping closer to him, sidling around him to obstruct his exit from the cave.

‘What then?’

‘You asked why we haven’t attacked them before,’ the leader said, with frightening charm. ‘The answer’s simple: we can’t leave the vent.’

‘You can’t?’

‘Our haemoglobin. It’s not like yours.’ Again that awful shark-like smile - and now he was well aware of what those teeth could do, given the right circumstances. ‘It was tailored to allow us to work here.’

‘Copied from the ventlings?’

‘Adapted, yes. Later it became the means of imprisoning us. The DNA in our bone marrow was manipulated to limit the production of normal haemoglobin; a simple matter of suppressing a few beta-globin genes while retaining the variants that code for ventling haemoglobin. Hydrogen sulphide is poisonous to you, Vargovic. You probably already feel weak. But we can’t survive without it. Oxygen kills us.’

‘You leave the vent . . .’

‘We die, within a few hours. There’s more. The water’s hot here, so hot that we don’t need the glycoproteins. We have the genetic instructions to synthezise them, but they’ve also been turned off. But without the glycoproteins we can’t swim into colder water. Our blood freezes.’

Now he was surrounded by them; looming aquatic devils, flushed a florid shade of crimson. And they were coming closer.

‘But what do you expect me to do about it?’

‘You don’t have to do anything, Vargovic.’ The leader opened its chasmic jaw wide, as if tasting the water. It was a miracle an organ like that was capable of speech in the first place . . .

‘I don’t?’

‘No.’ And with that the leader reached out and seized him, while at the same time he was pinned from behind by another of the creatures. ‘It was Cholok’s doing,’ the leader continued. ‘Her final gift to us. Maunciple was her first attempt at getting it to us - but Maunciple never made it.’

‘He was too fat.’

‘All the defectors failed - they just didn’t have the stamina to make it this far from the city. That was why Cholok recruited you - an outsider.’

‘Cholok recruited me?’

‘She knew you’d kill her - you have, of course - but that didn’t stop her. Her life mattered less than what she was about to give us. It was Cholok who tipped off the Demarchy about your primary extraction site, forcing you to come to us.’

He struggled, but it was pointless. All he could manage was a feeble, ‘I don’t understand—’

‘No,’ the Denizen said. ‘Perhaps we never expected you to. If you had understood, you might have been less than willing to follow Cholok’s plan.’

‘Cholok was never working for us?’

‘Once, maybe. But her last clients were us.’

‘And now?’

‘We take your blood, Vargovic.’ Their grip on him tightened. He used his last draining reserves of strength to try to work loose, but it was futile.

‘My blood?’

‘Cholok put something in it. A retrovirus - a very hardy one, capable of surviving in your body. It reactivates the genes that were suppressed by the Demarchy. Suddenly, we’ll be able to make oxygen-carrying haemoglobin. Our blood will fill up with glycoproteins. It’s no great trick: all the cellular machinery for making those molecules is already present; it just needs to be unshackled.’

‘Then you need . . . what? A sample of my blood?’

‘No,’ the Denizen said, with genuine regret. ‘Rather more than a sample, I’m afraid. Rather a lot more.’

And then - with magisterial slowness - the creature bit into his arm, and as his blood spilled out, the Denizen drank. For a moment the others waited - but then they too came forward, and bit, and joined in the feeding frenzy.

All around Vargovic, the water was turning red.

WEATHER

We were at one-quarter of the speed of light, outbound from Shiva-Parvati with a hold full of refugees, when the Cockatrice caught up with us. She commenced her engagement at a distance of one light-second, seeking to disable us with long-range weapons before effecting a boarding operation. Captain Van Ness did his best to protect the Petronel, but we were a lightly armoured ship and Van Ness did not wish to endanger his passengers by provoking a damaging retaliation from the pirates. As coldly calculated as it might appear, Van Ness knew that it would be better for the sleepers to be taken by another ship than suffer a purposeless death in interstellar space.

As shipmaster, it was my duty to give Captain Van Ness the widest choice of options. When it became clear that the Cockatrice was on our tail, following us out from Shiva-Parvati, I recommended that we discard fifty thousand tonnes of nonessential hull material, in order to increase the rate of acceleration available from our Conjoiner drives. When the Cockatrice ramped up her own engines to compensate, I identified a further twenty thousand tonnes of material we could discard until the next orbitfall, even though the loss of the armour would marginally increase the radiation dosage we would experience during the flight. We gained a little, but the pirates still had power in reserve: they’d stripped back their ship to little more than a husk, and they didn’t have the mass handicap of our sleepers. Since we could not afford to lose any more hull material, I advised Van Ness to eject two of our three heavy shuttles, each of which massed six thousand tonnes when fully fuelled. That bought us yet more time, but to my dismay the pirates still found a way to squeeze a little more out of their engines.

Whoever they had as shipmaster, I thought, they were good at their work.

So I went to the engines themselves, to see if I could better my nameless opponent. I crawled out along the pressurised access tunnel that pierced the starboard spar, out to the coupling point where the foreign technology of the starboard Conjoiner drive was mated to the structural fabric of the Petronel. There I opened the hatch that gave access to the controls of the drive itself: six stiff dials, fashioned in blue metal, arranged in hexagon formation, each of which was tied to some fundamental aspect of the engine’s function. The dials were set into quadrant-shaped recesses, all now glowing a calm blue-green.

I noted the existing settings, then made near-microscopic alterations to three of the six dials, fighting to keep my hands steady as I applied the necessary effort to budge them. Even as I made the first alteration, I felt the engine respond: a shiver of power as some arcane process occurred deep inside it, accompanied by a shift in my own weight as the thrust increased by five or six per cent. The blue-green hue was now tinted with orange.

The Petronel surged faster, still maintaining her former heading. It was only possible to make adjustments to the starboard engine, since the port engine had no external controls. That didn’t matter, because the Conjoiners had arranged the two engines to work in perfect synchronisation, despite them being a kilometre apart. No one had ever succeeded in detecting the signals that passed between two matched C-drives, let alone in understanding the messages those signals carried. But everyone who worked with them knew what would happen if, by accident or design, the engines were allowed to get more than sixteen hundred metres apart.

I completed my adjustments, satisfied that I’d done all I could without risking engine malfunction. Three of the five dials were now showing orange, indicating that those settings were now outside what the Conjoiners deemed the recommended envelope of safe operation. If any of the dials were to show red, or if more than three showed orange, than we’d be in real danger of losing the Petronel.

When Ultras meet on friendly terms, to exchange data or goods, the shipmasters will often trade stories of engine settings. On a busy trade route, a marginal increase in drive efficiency can make all the difference between one ship and its competitors. Occasionally you hear about ships that have been running on three orange, even four orange, for decades at a time. By the same token, you sometimes hear about ships that went nova when only two dials had been adjusted away from the safety envelope. The one thing every shipmaster agrees upon is that no lighthugger has ever operated for more than a few days of shiptime with one dial in the red. You might risk that to escape aggressors, but even then some will insist that the danger is too great; that those ships that lasted days were the lucky ones.

I left the starboard engine and retreated back into the main hull of the Petronel. Van Ness was waiting to greet me. I could tell by the look on his face - the part of it that I could read - that the news wasn’t good.

‘Good lad, Inigo,’ he said, placing his heavy gauntleted hand on my shoulder. ‘You’ve bought us maybe half a day, and I’m grateful for that, no question of it. But it’s not enough to make a difference. Are you sure you can’t sweet-talk any more out of them?’

‘We could risk going to two gees for a few hours. That still wouldn’t put us out of reach of the Cockatrice, though.’

‘And beyond that?’

I showed Van Ness my handwritten log book, with its meticulous notes of engine settings, compiled over twenty years of shiptime. Black ink for my own entries, the style changing abruptly when I lost my old hand and slowly learned how to use the new one; red annotations in the same script for comments and know-how gleaned from other shipmasters, dated and named. ‘According to this, we’re already running a fifteen per cent chance of losing the ship within the next hundred days. I’d feel a lot happier if we were already throttling back.’

‘You don’t think we can lose any more mass?’

‘We’re stripped to the bone as it is. I can probably find you another few thousand tonnes, but we’ll still only be looking at prolonging the inevitable.’

‘We’ll have the short-range weapons,’ Van Ness said resignedly. ‘Maybe they’ll make enough of a difference. At least now we have an extra half-day to get them run out and tested.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ I agreed, fully aware that it was hopeless. The weapons were antiquated and underpowered, good enough for fending off orbital insurgents but practically useless against another ship, especially one that had been built for piracy. The Petronel hadn’t fired a shot in anger in more than fifty years. When Van Ness had the chance to upgrade the guns, he’d chosen instead to spend the money on newer reefersleep caskets for the passenger hold.

People have several wrong ideas about Ultras. One of the most common misconceptions is that we must all be brigands, every ship bristling with armaments, primed to a state of nervous readiness the moment another vessel comes within weapons range.

It isn’t true. For every ship like that, there are a thousand like the Petronel: just trying to ply an honest trade, with a decent, hard-working crew under the hand of a fair man like Van Ness. Some of us might look like freaks, by the standards of planetary civilisation. But spending an entire life aboard a ship, hopping from star to star at relativistic speed, soaking up exotic radiation from the engines and from space itself, is hardly the environment for which the human form was evolved. I’d lost my old hand in an accident, and much of what had happened to Van Ness was down to time and misfortune in equal measure.

He was one of the best captains I’d ever known, maybe the best ever. He’d scared the hell out of me the first time we met, when he was recruiting for a new shipmaster in a carousel around Greenhouse. But Van Ness treated his crew well, kept his word in a deal and always reminded us that our passengers were not frozen ‘cargo’ but human beings who had entrusted themselves into our care.

‘If it comes to it,’ Van Ness said, ‘we’ll let them take the passengers. At least that way some of them might survive, even if they won’t necessarily end up where they were expecting. We put up too much of a fight, even after we’ve been boarded, the Cockatrice’s crew may just decide to burn everything, sleepers included.’

‘I know,’ I said, even though I didn’t want to hear it.

‘But here’s my advice to you, lad.’ Van Ness’s iron grip tightened on my shoulder. ‘Get yourself to an airlock as soon as you can. Blow yourself into space rather than let the bastards get their hands on you. They might be in mind for a bit of cruelty, but they won’t be in need of new crew.’

I winced, before he crushed my collarbone. He meant well, but he really didn’t know his own strength.

‘Especially not a shipmaster, judging by the way things are going.’

‘Aye. He’s good, whoever he is. Not as good as you, though. You’ve got a fully laden ship to push; all they have is a stripped-down skeleton.’

It was meant well, but I knew better than to underestimate my adversary. ‘Thank you, Captain.’

‘We’d best start waking those guns, lad. If you’re done with the engines, the weaponsmaster may appreciate a helping hand.’

I barely slept for the next day. Coaxing the weapons back to operational readiness was a fraught business, and it all had to be done without alerting the Cockatrice that we had any last-minute defensive capability. The magnetic coils on the induction guns had to be warmed and brought up to operational field strength, and then tested with slugs of recycled hull material. One of the coils fractured during warm-up and took out its entire turret, injuring one of Weps’ men in the process. The optics on the lasers had to be aligned and calibrated, and then the lasers had to be test-fired against specks of incoming interstellar dust, hoping that the Cockatrice didn’t spot those pinpoint flashes of gamma radiation as the lasers found their targets.

All the while this was going on, the enemy continued their long-range softening-up bombardment. The Cockatrice was using everything in her arsenal, from slugs and missiles to beam-weapons. The Petronel was running an evasion routine, swerving to exploit the sadly narrowing timelag between the two ships, but the routine was old and with the engines already notched up to close-on maximum output, there was precious little reserve power. No single impact was damaging, but as the assault continued, the cumulative effect began to take its toll. Acres of hull shielding were now compromised, and there were warnings of structural weakness in the port drive spar. If this continued, we would soon be forced to dampen our engines, rather than be torn apart by our own thrust loading. That was exactly what the Cockatrice wanted. Once they’d turned us into a lame duck, they could make a forced hard docking and storm our ship.

By the time they were eighty thousand kilometres out, things were looking very bad for us. Even the Cockatrice must have been nervous of what would happen if the port spar gave way, since they’d begun to concentrate their efforts on our midsection instead. Reluctantly, I crawled back along the starboard spar and confronted the engine settings again. I was faced with two equally numbing possibilities. I could turn the dials even further into the orange, making the engines run harder still. Even if the engines held, the ship wouldn’t, but at least we’d go out in a flash when the spar collapsed and the two engines drifted apart. Or I could return the dials to blue-green and let the Cockatrice catch us up without risk of further failure. One option might ensure the future survival of the passengers. Neither looked very attractive from the crew’s standpoint.

Van Ness knew it, too. He’d begun to go around the rest of the crew, all two dozen of us, ordering those who weren’t actively involved in the current crisis to choose an empty casket in the passenger hold and try to pass themselves off as cargo. Van Ness was wise enough not to push the point when no one took him up on his offer.

At fifty thousand kilometres, the Cockatrice was in range of our own weapons. We let her slip a little closer and then rotated our hull through forty-five degrees to give her a full broadside, all eleven working slug-cannons discharging at once, followed by a burst from the lasers. The recoil from the slugs was enough to generate further warnings of structural failure in a dozen critical nodes. But we held, somehow, and thirty per cent of that initial salvo hit the Cockatrice square-on. By then the lasers had already struck her, vaporising thousands of tonnes of ablative ice from her prow in a scalding white flash. When the steam had fallen astern of the still-accelerating ship, we got our first good look at the damage.

It wasn’t enough. We’d hurt her, but barely, and I knew we couldn’t sustain more than three further bursts of fire before the Cockatrice’s own short-range weapons found their lock and returned the assault. As it was, we only got off another two salvos before the slug-cannons suffered a targeting failure. The lasers continued to fire for another minute, but once they’d burned off the Cockatrice’s ice (which she could easily replenish from our own shield, once we’d been taken) they could inflict little further damage.

By twenty thousand kilometres, all our weapons were inoperable. Fear of breakup had forced me to throttle our engines back down to zero thrust, leaving only our in-system fusion motors running. At ten thousand kilometres, the Cockatrice released a squadron of pirates, each of whom would be carrying hull-penetrating gear and shipboard weapons, in addition to their thruster packs and armour. They must have been confident that we had nothing else to throw at them.

We knew then it was over.

It was, too: but for the Cockatrice, not us. What took place happened too quickly for the human eye to see. It was only later, when we had the benefit of footage from the hull cameras, that we were able to piece together what had occurred.

One instant, the Cockatrice was creeping closer to us, her engines doused to a whisper now to match our own feeble rate of acceleration. The next instant, she was still there, but everything about her had changed. The engines were shut down completely and the hull had begun to come apart, flaking away in a long lateral line that ran the entire four kilometres from bow to stern. The Cockatrice began to crab, losing axial stabilisation. Pieces of her were drifting away. Vapour was jetting from a dozen apertures along her length. Where the hull had scabbed away, the brassy orange glow of internal fire was visible. One engine spar was seriously buckled.

We didn’t know it at the time - didn’t know it until much later, when we’d actually boarded her - but the Cockatrice had fallen victim to the oldest hazard in space: collision with debris. There isn’t a lot of it out there, but when it hits . . . at a quarter of the speed of light, it doesn’t take much to inflict crippling damage. The impactor might only have been the size of a fist, or a fat thumb, but it had rammed its way right through the ship like a bullet, and the momentum transfer had almost ripped the engines off.

It was bad luck for the crew of the Cockatrice. For us, it was the most appalling piece of good luck imaginable. Except it wasn’t even luck, really. Every now and then, ships will encounter something like that. Deep-look radar will identify an incoming shard and send an emergency steer command to the engines. Or the radar will direct anti-collision lasers to vaporise the object before it hits. Even if it does hit, most of its kinetic energy will be soaked up by the ablation ice. Ships don’t carry all that deadweight for nothing.

But the Cockatrice had lost her ice under our lasers. She’d have replaced it sooner or later, but without it she was horribly vulnerable. And her own anti-collision system was preoccupied dealing with our short-range weapons. One little impactor was all it took to remove her from the battle.

It gave us enough of a handhold to start fighting back. With the Cockatrice out of the fight, our own crew were able to leave the protection of the ship without fear of being fried or pulverised. Van Ness was the first out of the airlock, with me not far behind him. Within five minutes there were twenty-three of us outside, our suits bulked out with armour and antiquated weapons. There were at least thirty incoming pirates from the Cockatrice, and they had better gear. But they’d lost the support of their mother ship, and all of them must have been aware that the situation had undergone a drastic adjustment. Perhaps it made them fight even more fiercely, given that ours was now the only halfway-intact ship. They’d been planning to steal our cargo before, and strip the Petronel for useful parts; now they needed to take the Petronel and claim her as her own. But they didn’t have back-up from the Cockatrice and - judging by the way the battle proceeded - they seemed handicapped by more than just the lack of covering fire. They fought as well as they could, which was with a terrible individual determination, but no overall coordination. Afterwards, we concluded that their suit-to-suit communications, even their spatial-orientation systems, must have been reliant on signals routed through their ship. Without her they were deaf and blind.

We still lost good crew. It took six hours to mop up the last resistance from the pirates, by which point we’d taken eleven fatalities, with another three seriously wounded. But by then the pirates were all dead, and we were in no mood to take prisoners.

But we were in a mood to take what we needed from the Cockatrice.

If we’d expected to encounter serious resistance aboard the damaged ship, we were wrong. As Van Ness led our boarding party through the drifting wreck, the scope of the damage became chillingly clear. The ship had been gutted from the inside out, with almost no intact pressure-bearing structures left anywhere inside her main hull. For most of the crew left aboard when the impactor hit, the end would have come with merciful swiftness. Only a few had survived the initial collision, and most of them must have died shortly afterwards, as the ship bled through its wounds. We found no sign that the Cockatrice had been carrying frozen passengers, although - since entire internal bays had been blasted out of existence, leaving only an interlinked chain of charred, blackened caverns - we probably wouldn’t ever know for sure. Of the few survivors we did encounter, none attempted surrender or requested parley. That made it easier for us. If they stood still, we shot them. If they fled, we still shot them.

Except for one.

We knew there was something different about her as soon as we saw her. She didn’t look or move like an Ultra. There was something of the cat or snake about the way she slinked out of the illumination of our lamps, something fluid and feral, something sleek and honed that did not belong aboard a ship crewed by pirates. We held our fire from the moment her eyes first flashed at us, for we knew she could not be one of them. Wide, white-edged eyes in a girl’s face, her strong-jawed expression one of ruthless self-control and effortless superiority. Her skull was hairless, her forehead rising to a bony crest rilled on either side by shimmering coloured tissue.

The girl was a Conjoiner.

It was three days before we found her again. She knew that ship with animal cunning, as if the entire twisted and blackened warren was a lair she had made for herself. But her options were diminishing with every hour that passed, as more and more air drained out of the wreck. Even Conjoiners needed to breathe, and that meant there was less and less of the ship in which she could hide.

Van Ness wanted to move on. Van Ness - a good man, but never the most imaginative of souls - wasn’t interested in what a stray Conjoiner could do for us. I’d warned him that the Cockatrice’s engines were in an unstable condition, and that we wouldn’t have time to back off to a safe distance if the buckled drive spar finally gave way. Now that we’d harvested enough of the other ship’s intact hull to repair our own damage, Van Ness saw no reason to hang around. But I managed to talk him into letting us hunt down the girl.

‘She’s a Conjoiner, Captain. She wouldn’t have been aboard that ship of her own free will. That means she’s a prisoner that we can free and return to her people. They’ll be grateful. That means they’ll want to reward us.’

Van Ness fixed me with an indulgent smile. ‘Lad, have you ever had close dealings with Spiders?’

He still called me ‘lad’ even though I’d been part of his crew for twenty years, and had been born another twenty before that, by shiptime reckoning. ‘No,’ I admitted. ‘But the Spiders - the Conjoiners - aren’t the bogey men some people like to make out.’

‘I’ve dealt with ’em,’ Van Ness said. ‘I’m a lot older than you, lad. I go right back to when things weren’t so pretty between the Spiders and the rest of humanity, back when my wife was alive.’

It took a lot to stir up the past for Rafe Van Ness. In all our years together, he’d only mentioned his wife a handful of times. She’d been a botanist, working on the Martian terraforming programme. She’d been caught by a flash flood when she was working in one of the big craters, testing plant stocks for the Demarchists. All I knew was that after her death, Van Ness had left the system, on one of the first passenger-carrying starships. It had been his first step on the long road to becoming an Ultra.

‘They’ve changed since the old days,’ I said. ‘We trust them enough to use their engines, don’t we?’

‘We trust the engines. Isn’t quite the same thing. And if they didn’t have such a monopoly on making the things, maybe we wouldn’t have to deal with them at all. Anyway, who is this girl? What was she doing aboard the Cockatrice? What makes you think she wasn’t helping them?’

‘Conjoiners don’t condone piracy. And if we want answers, we have no option but to catch her and find out what she has to say.’

Van Ness sounded suddenly interested. ‘Interrogate her, you mean?’

‘I didn’t say that, Captain. But we might want to ask her a few questions.’

‘We’d be playing with fire. You know they can make things happen just by thinking about them.’

‘She’ll have no reason to hurt us. We’ll have saved her life just by taking her off the Cockatrice.’

‘Maybe she doesn’t want it saved. Have you thought of that?’

‘We’ll cross that bridge when we find her, Captain.’

He pulled a face, that part of his visage still capable of making expressions, at least. ‘I’ll give you another twelve hours, lad. That’s my limit. Then we put as much distance between us and that wreck as God and physics will allow.’

I nodded, knowing that it was pointless to expect more of Van Ness. He’d already shown great forbearance in allowing us to delay the departure for so long. Given his feelings regarding Conjoiners, I wasn’t going to push for any more time.

We caught her eleven hours later. We’d driven her as far as she could go, blocking her escape routes by blowing the few surrounding volumes that were still pressurised. I was the first to speak to her, when we finally had her cornered.

I pushed up the visor of my helmet, breathing stale air so that we could speak. She was huddled in a corner, compressed like some animal ready to bolt or strike.

‘Stop running from us,’ I said, as my lamp pinned her down and forced her to squint. ‘There’s nowhere left to go, and even if there was, we don’t want to hurt you. Whatever these people did to you, whatever they made you do, we’re not like them.’

She hissed back, ‘You’re Ultras. That’s all I need to know.’

‘We’re Ultras, yes, but we still want to help you. Our captain just wants to get away from this time bomb as quickly as possible. I talked him into giving us a few extra hours to find you. You can come with us whenever you like. But if you’d rather stay aboard this ship . . .’

She stared back at me and said nothing. I couldn’t guess her age. She had the face of a girl, but there was a steely resolution in her olive-green eyes that told me she was older than she looked.

‘I’m Inigo, the shipmaster from the Petronel,’ I said, hoping that my smile looked reassuring rather than threatening. I reached out my hand, my right one, and she flinched back. Even suited, even hidden under a glove, my hand was obviously mechanical. ‘Please,’ I continued, ‘come with us. We’ll treat you well and get you back to your people.’

‘Why?’ she snarled. ‘Why do you care?’

‘Because we’re not all the same,’ I said. ‘And you need to believe it, or you’re going to die here when we leave. Captain wants us to secure for thrust in less than an hour. So come on.’

‘What happened?’ she asked, looking around at the damaged compartment in which she had been cornered. ‘I know the Cockatrice was attacking another ship . . . how did you do this?’

‘We didn’t. We just got very, very lucky. Now it’s your turn.’

‘I can’t leave here. I need to be with this ship.’

‘This ship is going to blow up if one of us sneezes. Do you really want to be aboard when that happens?’

‘I still need to be here. Leave me alone, I’ll survive by myself. Conjoiners will find me again.’

I shook my head firmly. ‘That isn’t going to happen. Even if this ship doesn’t blow up, you’re still drifting at twenty-five per cent of the speed of light. That’s too fast to get you back to Shiva-Parvati, even if there’s a shuttle aboard this thing. Too fast for anyone around Shiva-Parvati to come out and rescue you, too.’

‘I know this.’

‘Then you also know that you’re not moving anywhere near fast enough to actually get anywhere before your resources run out. Unless you think you can survive fifty years aboard this thing, until you swing by the next colonised system with no way of slowing down.’

‘I’ll take my chances.’

A voice buzzed in my helmet. It was Van Ness, insisting that we return to the Petronel as quickly as possible. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but if you don’t come willingly, I’m going to have to bring you in unconscious.’ I raised the blunt muzzle of my slug-gun.

‘If there’s a tranquiliser dart in there, it won’t work on me. My nervous system isn’t like yours. I only sleep when I choose to.’

‘That’s what I figured. It’s why I dialled the dose to five times its normal strength. I don’t know about you, but I’m willing to give it a try and see what happens.’

Panic crossed her face. ‘Give me a suit,’ she said. ‘Give me a suit and then leave me alone, if you really want to help.’

‘What’s your name?’

‘We don’t have names, Inigo. At least nothing you could get your tongue around.’

‘I’m willing to try.’

‘Give me a suit. Then leave me alone.’

Van Ness started screaming in my ears again. I’d had enough. I pointed the muzzle at her, aiming for the flesh of her thigh, where she had her legs tucked under her. I squeezed the trigger and delivered the stun fléchette.

‘You fool,’ she said. ‘You don’t understand. You have to leave me here, with this . . .’

That was all she managed before slumping into unconsciousness. She’d gone down much faster than I’d expected, as if she’d already been on her last reserves of strength. I just hoped I hadn’t set the stun dose too high. It was already strong enough to kill any normal human being.

Van Ness had been right to be concerned about our proximity to the Cockatrice. We’d barely doubled the distance between the two ships when her drive spar failed, allowing the port engine to drift away from its starboard counterpart. Several agonising minutes later, the distance between the two engine units exceeded sixteen hundred metres and the drives went up in a double burst that tested our shielding to its limits. The flash must have been visible all the way back to Shiva-Parvati.

The girl had been unconscious right up until that moment, but when the engines went up she twitched on the bunk where we’d placed her, just as if she’d been experiencing a vivid and disturbing dream. The rilled structures on the side of her crest throbbed with vivid colours, each chasing the last. Then she was restful again, for many hours, and the play of colours calmer.

I watched her sleeping. I’d never been near a Conjoiner before, let alone one like this. Aboard the ship, when we had been hunting her, she had seemed strong and potentially dangerous. Now she looked like some half-starved animal, driven to the brink of madness by hunger and something infinitely worse. There were awful bruises all over her body, some more recent than others. There were fine scars on her skull. One of her incisors was missing a point.

Van Ness still wasn’t convinced of the wisdom of bringing her aboard, but even his dislike of Conjoiners didn’t extend to the notion of throwing her back into space. All the same, he insisted that she be bound to the bunk by heavy restraints, in an armoured room under the guard of a servitor, at least until we had some idea of who she was and how she had ended up aboard the pirate ship. He didn’t want heavily augmented crew anywhere near her, either: not when (as he evidently believed) she had the means to control any machine in her vicinity, and might therefore overpower or even commandeer any crewperson who had a skull full of implants. It wasn’t like that, I tried to tell him: Conjoiners could talk to machines, yes, but not all machines, and the idea that they could work witchcraft on anything with a circuit inside it was just so much irrational fearmongering.

Van Ness heard my reasoned objections, and then ignored them. I’m glad that he did, though. Had he listened to me, he might have put some other member of the crew in charge of questioning her, and then I wouldn’t have got to know her as well as I did. Because I only had the metal hand, the rest of me still flesh and blood, he deemed me safe from her influence.

I was with her when she woke.

I placed my left on her shoulder as she squirmed under the restraints, suddenly aware of her predicament. ‘It’s all right,’ I said softly. ‘You’re safe now. Captain made us put these on you for the time being, but we’ll get them off you as soon as we can. That’s a promise. I’m Inigo, by the way, shipmaster. We met before, but I’m not sure how much of that you remember.’

‘Every detail,’ she said. Her voice was low, dark-tinged, untrusting.

‘Maybe you don’t know where you are. You’re aboard the Petronel. The Cockatrice is gone, along with everyone aboard her. Whatever they did to you, whatever happened to you aboard that ship, it’s over now.’

‘You didn’t listen to me.’

‘If we’d listened to you,’ I said patiently, ‘you’d be dead by now.’

‘No, I wouldn’t.’

I’d been ready to give her the benefit of the doubt, but my reservoir of sympathy was beginning to dry up. ‘You know, it wouldn’t hurt to show a little gratitude. We put ourselves at considerable risk to get you to safety. We’d taken everything we needed from the pirates. We only went back in to help you.’

‘I didn’t need you to help me. I could have survived.’

‘Not unless you think you could have held that spar on by sheer force of will.’

She hissed back her reply. ‘I’m a Conjoiner. That means the rules were different. I could have changed things. I could have kept the ship in one piece.’

‘To make a point?’

‘No,’ she said, with acid slowness, as if that was the only speed I was capable of following. ‘Not to make a point. We don’t make points.’

‘The ship’s gone,’ I said. ‘It’s over, so you may as well deal with it. You’re with us now. And no, you’re not our prisoner. We’ll do everything I said we would: take care of you, get you to safety, back to your people.’

‘You really think it’s that simple?’

‘I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me? I don’t see what the problem is.’

‘The problem is I can’t ever go back. Is that simple enough for you?’

‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Were you exiled from the Conjoiners, or something like that?’

She shook her elaborately crested head, as if my question was the most naive thing she had ever heard. ‘No one gets exiled.’

‘Then tell me what the hell happened!’

Anger burst to the surface. ‘I was taken, all right? I was stolen, snatched away from my people. Captain Voulage took me prisoner around Yellowstone, when the Cockatrice was docked near one of our ships. I was part of a small diplomatic party visiting Carousel New Venice. Voulage’s men ambushed us, split us up, then took me so far from the other Conjoiners that I dropped out of neural range. Have you any idea what that means to one of us?’

I shook my head, not because I didn’t understand what she meant, but because I knew I could have no proper grasp of the emotional pain that severance must have caused. I doubted that pain was a strong enough word for the psychic shock associated with being ripped away from her fellows. Nothing in ordinary human experience could approximate the trauma of that separation, any more than a frog could grasp the loss of a loved one. Conjoiners spent their whole lives in a state of gestalt consciousness, sharing thoughts and experiences via a web of implant-mediated neural connections. They had individual personalities, but those personalities were more like the blurred identities of atoms in a metallic solid. Beyond the level of individual self was the state of higher mental union that they called Transenlightenment, analogous to the fizzing sea of dissociated electrons in that same metallic lattice. And the girl had been ripped away from that, forced to come to terms with existence as a solitary mind, an island once more.

‘I understand how bad it must have been,’ I said. ‘But now you can go back. Isn’t that something worth looking forward to?’

‘You only think you understand. To a Conjoiner, what happened to me is the worst thing in the world. And now I can’t go back: not now, not ever. I’ve become damaged, broken, useless. My mind is permanently disfigured. It can’t be allowed to return to Transenlightenment.’

‘Why ever not? Wouldn’t they be glad to get you back?’

She took a long time answering. In the quiet, I studied her face, watchful for anything that would betray the danger Van Ness clearly believed she posed. Now his fears seemed groundless. She looked smaller and more delicately boned than when we’d first glimpsed her on the Cockatrice. The strangeness of her, the odd shape of her hairless crested skull, should have been off-putting. In truth I found her fascinating. It was not her alienness that drew my furtive attention, but her very human face: her small and pointed chin, the pale freckles under her eyes, the way her mouth never quite closed, even when she was silent. The olive green of her eyes was a shade so dark that from certain angles it became a lustrous black, like the surface of coal.

‘No,’ she said, answering me finally. ‘It wouldn’t work. I’d upset the purity of the others, spoil the harmony of the neural connections, like a single out-of-tune instrument in an orchestra. I’d make everyone else start playing out of key.’

‘I think you’re being too fatalistic. Shouldn’t we at least try to find some other Conjoiners and see what they say?’

‘That isn’t how it works,’ she said. ‘They’d have to take me back, yes, if I presented myself to them. They’d do it out of kindness and compassion. But I’d still end up harming them. It’s my duty not to allow that to happen.’

‘Then you’re saying you have to spend the rest of your life away from other Conjoiners, wandering the universe like some miserable excommunicated pilgrim?’

‘There are more of us than you realise.’

‘You do a good job keeping out of the limelight. Most people only see Conjoiners in groups, all dressed in black like a flock of crows.’

‘Maybe you aren’t looking in the right places.’

I sighed, aware that nothing I said was going to convince her that she would be better off returning to her people. ‘It’s your life, your destiny. At least you’re alive. Our word still holds: we’ll drop you at the nearest safe planet, when we next make orbitfall. If that isn’t satisfactory to you, you’d be welcome to remain aboard ship until we arrive somewhere else.’

‘Your captain would allow that? I thought he was the one who wanted to leave the wreck before you’d found me.’

‘I’ll square things with the captain. He isn’t the biggest fan of Conjoiners, but he’ll see sense when he realises you aren’t a monster.’

‘Does he have a reason not to like me?’

‘He’s an old man,’ I said simply.

‘Riven with prejudice, you mean?’

‘In his way,’ I said, shrugging. ‘But don’t blame him for that. He lived through the bad years, when your people were first coming into existence. I think he had some first-hand experience of the trouble that followed.’

‘Then I envy him those first-hand memories. Not many of us are still alive from those times. To have lived through those years, to have breathed the same air as Remontoire and the others . . .’ She looked away sadly. ‘Remontoire’s gone now. So are Galiana and Nevil. We don’t know what happened to any of them.’

I knew she must have been talking about pivotal figures from earlier Conjoiner history, but the people of whom she spoke meant nothing to me. To her, cast so far downstream from those early events on Mars, the names must have held something of the resonance of saints or apostles. I thought I knew something of Conjoiners, but they had a long and complicated internal history of which I was totally ignorant.

‘I wish things hadn’t happened the way they did,’ I said. ‘But that was then and this is now. We don’t hate or fear you. If we did, we wouldn’t have risked our necks getting you out of the Cockatrice.’

‘No, you don’t hate or fear me,’ she replied. ‘But you still think I might be useful to you, don’t you?’

‘Only if you wish to help us.’

‘Captain Voulage thought that I might have the expertise to improve the performance of his ship.’

‘Did you?’ I asked innocently.

‘By increments, yes. He showed me the engines and . . . encouraged me to make certain changes. You told me you are a shipmaster, so you doubtless have some familiarity with the principles involved.’

I thought back to the adjustments I had made to our own engines, when we still had ambitions of fleeing the pirates. The memory of my trembling hand on those three critical dials felt as if it had been dredged from deepest antiquity, rather than something that had happened only days earlier.

‘When you say “encouraged” . . .’ I began.

‘He found ways to coerce me. It is true that Conjoiners can control their perception of pain by applying neural blockades. But only to a degree, and then only when the pain has a real physical origin. If the pain is generated in the head, using a reverse-field trawl, our defences are useless.’ She looked at me with a sudden hard intensity, as if daring me to imagine one-tenth of what she had experienced. ‘It is like locking a door when the wolf is already in the house.’

‘I’m sorry. You must have been through hell.’

‘I only had the pain to endure,’ she said. ‘I’m not the one anyone needs to feel sorry about.’

The remark puzzled me, but I let it lie. ‘I have to get back to our own engines now,’ I said, ‘but I’ll come to see you later. In the meantime, I think you should rest.’ I snapped a duplicate communications bracelet from my wrist and placed it near her hand, where she could reach it. ‘If you need me, you can call into this. It’ll take me a little while to get back here, but I’ll come as quickly as possible.’

She lifted her forearm as far as it would go, until the restraints stiffened. ‘And these?’

‘I’ll talk to Van Ness. Now that you’re lucid, now that you’re talking to us, I don’t see any further need for them.’

‘Thank you,’ she said again. ‘Inigo. Is that all there is to your name? It’s rather a short one, even by the standards of the retarded.’

‘Inigo Standish, shipmaster. And you still haven’t told me your name.’

‘I told you: it’s nothing you could understand. We have our own names now, terms of address that can only be communicated in the Transenlightenment. My name is a flow of experiential symbols, a string of interiorised qualia, an expression of a particular dynamic state that has only ever happened under a conjunction of rare physical conditions in the atmosphere of a particular kind of gas giant planet. I chose it myself. It’s considered very beautiful and a little melancholy, like a haiku in five dimensions.’

‘Inside the atmosphere of a gas giant, right?’

She looked at me alertly. ‘Yes.’

‘Fine, then. I’ll call you Weather. Unless you’d like to suggest something better.’

She never did suggest something better, even though I think she once came close to it. From that moment on, whether she liked it or not, she was always Weather. Soon, it was what the other crew were calling her, and the name that - grudgingly at first, then resignedly - she deigned to respond to.

I went to see Captain Van Ness and did my best to persuade him that Weather was not going to cause us any difficulties.

‘What are you suggesting we should give her - a free pass to the rest of the ship?’

‘Only that we could let her out of her prison cell.’

‘She’s recuperating.’

‘She’s restrained. And you’ve put an armed servitor on the door, in case she gets out of the restraints.’

‘Pays to be prudent.’

‘I think we can trust her now, Captain.’ I hesitated, choosing my words with great care. ‘I know you have good reasons not to like her people, but she isn’t the same as the Conjoiners from those days.’

‘That’s what she’d like us to think, certainly.’

‘I’ve spoken to her, heard her story. She’s an outcast from her people, unable to return to them because of what’s happened to her.’

‘Well, then,’ Van Ness said, nodding as if he’d proved a point, ‘outcasts do funny things. You can’t ever be too careful with outcasts.’

‘It’s not like that with Weather.’

‘Weather,’ he repeated, with a certain dry distaste. ‘So she’s got a name now, has she?’

‘I felt it might help. The name was my suggestion, not hers.’

‘Don’t start humanising them. That’s the mistake humans always make. Next thing you know, they’ve got their claws in your skull.’

I closed my eyes, forcing self-control as the conversation veered off course. I’d always had an excellent relationship with Van Ness, one that came very close to bordering on genuine friendship. But from the moment he heard about Weather, I knew she was going to come between us.

‘I’m not suggesting we let her run amok,’ I said. ‘Even if we let her out of those restraints, even if we take away the servitor, we can still keep her out of any parts of the ship where we don’t want her. In the meantime, I think she can be helpful to us. She’s already told me that Captain Voulage forced her to make improvements to the Cockatrice’s drive system. I don’t see why she can’t do the same for us, if we ask nicely.’

‘Why did he have to force her, if you’re so convinced she’d do it willingly now?’

‘I’m not convinced. But I can’t see why she wouldn’t help us, if we treat her like a human being.’

‘That’d be our big mistake,’ Van Ness said. ‘She never was a human being. She’s been a Spider from the moment they made her, and she’ll go to the grave like that.’

‘Then you won’t consider it?’

‘I consented to let you bring her aboard. That was already against every God-given instinct.’ Then Van Ness rumbled, ‘And I’d thank you not to mention the Spider again, Inigo. You’ve my permission to visit her if you see fit, but she isn’t taking a step out of that room until we make orbitfall.’

‘Very well,’ I said, with a curtness that I’d never had cause to use on Captain Van Ness.

As I was leaving his cabin, he said, ‘You’re still a fine shipmaster, lad. That’s never been in doubt. But don’t let this thing cloud your usual good judgement. I’d hate to have to look elsewhere for someone of your abilities.’

I turned back and, despite everything that told me to hold my tongue, I still spoke. ‘I was wrong about you, Captain. I’ve always believed that you didn’t allow yourself to be ruled by the irrational hatreds of other Ultras. I always thought you were better than that.’

‘And I’d have gladly told you I have just as many prejudices as the next man. They’re what’ve kept me alive so long.’

‘I’m sure Captain Voulage felt the same way,’ I said.

It was a wrong and hateful thing to say - Van Ness had nothing in common with a monster like Voulage - but I couldn’t stop myself. And I knew even as I said it that some irreversible bridge had just been crossed, and that it was more my fault than Van Ness’s.

‘You have work to do, I think,’ Van Ness said, his voice so low that I barely heard it. ‘Until you have the engines back to full thrust, I suggest you keep out of my way.’

Weps came to see me eight or nine hours later. I knew it wasn’t good news as soon as I saw her face.

‘We have a problem, Inigo. The captain felt you needed to know.’

‘And he couldn’t tell me himself?’

Weps cleared part of the wall and called up a display, filling it with a boxy green three-dimensional grid. ‘That’s us,’ she said, jabbing a finger at the red dot in the middle of the display. She moved her finger halfway to the edge, scratching her long black nail against the plating. ‘Something else is out there. It’s stealthed to the gills, but I’m still seeing it. Whatever it is is making a slow, silent approach.’

My thoughts flicked to Weather. ‘Could it be Conjoiner?’

‘That was my first guess. But if it was Conjoiner, I don’t think I’d be seeing anything at all.’

‘So what are we dealing with?’

She tapped the nail against the blue icon representing the new ship. ‘Another raider. Could be an ally of Voulage - we know he had friends - or could be some other ship that was hoping to pick over our carcass once Voulage was done with us, or maybe even steal us from him before he had his chance.’

‘Hyena tactics.’

‘Wouldn’t be the first time.’

‘Range?’

‘Less than two light-hours. Even if they don’t increase their rate of closure, they’ll be on us within eight days.’

‘Unless we move.’

Weps nodded sagely. ‘That would help. You’re on schedule to complete repairs within six days, aren’t you?’

‘On schedule, yes, but that doesn’t mean things can be moved any faster. We start cutting corners now, we’ll break like a twig when we put a real load on the ship.’

‘We wouldn’t want that.’

‘No, we wouldn’t.’

‘The captain just thought you should be aware of the situation, Inigo. It’s not to put you under pressure, or anything.’

‘Of course not.’

‘It’s just that . . . we really don’t want to be hanging around here a second longer than necessary.’

I removed Weather’s restraints and showed her how to help herself to food and water from the room’s dispenser. She stretched and purred, articulating and extending her limbs in the manner of a dancer rehearsing some difficult routine in extreme slow motion. She’d been ‘reading’ when I arrived, which for Weather seemed to involve staring into the middle distance while her eyes flicked to and fro at manic speed, as if following the movements of an invisible wasp.

‘I can’t let you out of the room just yet,’ I said, sitting on the fold-down stool next to the bed, upon which Weather now sat cross-legged. ‘I just hope this makes things a little more tolerable.’

‘So your captain’s finally realised I’m not about to suck out his brains?’

‘Not exactly. He’d still rather you weren’t aboard.’

‘Then you’re going against his orders.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘I presume you could get into trouble for that.’

‘He’ll never find out.’ I thought of the unknown ship that was creeping towards us. ‘He’s got other things on his mind now. It’s not as if he’s going to be paying you a courtesy call just to pass the time of day.’

‘But if he did find out . . .’ She looked at me intently, lifting her chin. ‘Do you fear what he’d do to you?’

‘I probably should. But I don’t think he’d be very likely to throw me into an airlock. Not until we’re under way at full power, in any case.’

‘And then?’

‘He’d be angry. But I don’t think he’d kill me. He’s not a bad man, really.’

‘Perhaps I misheard, but didn’t you say his name was Van Ness?’

‘Captain Rafe Van Ness, yes.’ I must have looked surprised. ‘Don’t tell me it means something to you.’

‘I heard Voulage mention him, that’s all. Now I know we’re talking about the same man.’

‘What did Voulage have to say?’

‘Nothing good. But I don’t think that necessarily reflects poorly on your captain. He must be a reasonable man. He’s at least allowed me aboard his ship, even if I haven’t been invited to dine in his quarters.’

‘Dining for Van Ness is a pretty messy business,’ I said confidingly. ‘You’re better off eating alone.’

‘Do you like him, Inigo?’

‘He has his flaws, but next to someone like Voulage, he’s pretty close to being an angel.’

‘Doesn’t like Conjoiners, though.’

‘Most Ultras would have left you drifting. I think this is a point where you have to take what you’re given.’

‘Perhaps. I don’t understand his attitude, though. If your captain is like most Ultras, there’s at least as much of the machine about him as there is about me. More so, in all likelihood.’

‘It’s what you do with the machines that counts,’ I said. ‘Ultras tend to leave their minds alone, if at all possible. Even if they do have implants, it’s usually to replace areas of brain function lost due to injury or old age. They’re not really interested in improving matters, if you get my drift. Maybe that’s why Conjoiners make them twitchy.’

She unhooked her legs, dangling them over the edge of the bed. Her feet were bare and oddly elongated. She wore the same tight black outfit we’d found her in when we boarded the ship. It was cut low from her neck, in a rectangular shape. Her breasts were small. Though she was bony, with barely any spare muscle on her, she had the broad shoulders of a swimmer. Though Weather had sustained her share of injuries, the outfit showed no sign of damage at all. It appeared to be self-repairing, even self-cleaning.

‘You talk of Ultras as if you weren’t one,’ she said.

‘Just an old habit breaking through. Though sometimes I don’t feel like quite the same breed as a man like Van Ness.’

‘Your implants must be very well shielded. I can’t sense them at all.’

‘That’s because there aren’t any.’

‘Squeamish? Or just too young and fortunate not to have needed them yet?’

‘It’s nothing to do with being squeamish. I’m not as young as I look, either.’ I held up my mechanical hand. ‘Nor would I exactly call myself fortunate.’

She looked at the hand with narrowed, critical eyes. I remembered how she’d flinched back when I reached for her aboard the Cockatrice, and wondered what maltreatment she had suffered at the iron hands of her former masters.

‘You don’t like it?’ she asked.

‘I liked the old one better.’

Weather reached out and gingerly held my hand in hers. They looked small and doll-like as they stroked and examined my mechanical counterpart.

‘This is the only part of you that isn’t organic?’

‘As far as I know.’

‘Doesn’t that limit you? Don’t you feel handicapped around the rest of the crew?’

‘Sometimes. But not always. My job means I have to squeeze into places where a man like Van Ness could never fit. It also means I have to be able to tolerate magnetic fields that would rip half the crew to shreds, if they didn’t boil alive first.’ I opened and closed my metal fist. ‘I have to unscrew this, sometimes. I have a plastic replacement if I just need to hook hold of things.’

‘You don’t like it very much.’

‘It does what I ask of it.’

Weather made to let go of my hand, but her fingers remained in contact with mine for an instant longer than necessary. ‘I’m sorry that you don’t like it.’

‘I could have got it fixed at one of the orbital clinics, I suppose,’ I said, ‘but there’s always something else that needs fixing first. Anyway, if it wasn’t for the hand, some people might not believe I’m an Ultra at all.’

‘Do you plan on being an Ultra all your life?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t say I ever had my mind set on being a shipmaster. It just sort of happened, and now here I am.’

‘I had my mind set on something once,’ Weather said. ‘I thought it was within my grasp, too. Then it slipped out of reach.’ She looked at me and then did something wonderful and unexpected, which was to smile. It was not the most genuine-looking smile I’d ever seen, but I sensed the genuine intent behind it. Suddenly I knew there was a human being in the room with me, damaged and dangerous though she might have been. ‘Now here I am, too. It’s not quite what I expected . . . but thank you for rescuing me.’

‘I was beginning to wonder if we’d made a mistake. You seemed so reluctant to leave that ship.’

‘I was,’ she said, distantly. ‘But that’s over now. You did what you thought was the right thing.’

‘Was it?’

‘For me, yes. For the ship . . . maybe not.’ Then she stopped and cocked her head to one side, frowning. Her eyes flashed olive. ‘What are you looking at, Inigo?’

‘Nothing,’ I said, looking sharply away.

Keeping out of Van Ness’s way, as he’d advised, was not the hard part of what followed. The Petronel was a big ship and our paths didn’t need to cross in the course of day-to-day duties. The difficulty was finding as much time to visit Weather as I would have liked. My original repair plan had been tight, but the unknown ship forced me to accelerate the schedule even further, despite what I’d told Weps. The burden of work began to take its toll on me, draining my concentration. I was still confident that once that work was done, we’d be able to continue our journey as if nothing had happened, save for the loss of those crew who had died in the engagement and our gaining one new passenger. The other ship would probably abandon us once we pushed the engines up to cruise thrust, looking for easier pickings elsewhere. If it had the swiftness of the Cockatrice, it wouldn’t have been skulking in the shadows letting the other ship take first prize.

But my optimism was misplaced. When the repair work was done, I once more made my way along the access shaft to the starboard engine and confronted the hexagonal arrangement of input dials. As expected, all six dials were now showing deep blue, which meant they were operating well inside the safety envelope. But when I consulted my log book and made the tiny adjustments that should have taken all the dials into the blue-green - still nicely within the safety envelope - I got a nasty surprise. I only had to nudge two of the dials by a fraction of a millimetre before they shone a hard and threatening orange.

Something was wrong.

I checked my settings, of course, making sure none of the other dials were out of position. But there’d been no mistake. I thumbed through the log with increasing haste, a prickly feeling on the back of my neck, looking for an entry where something similar had happened; something that would point me to the obvious mistake I must have made. But none of the previous entries were the slightest help. I’d made no error with the settings, and that left only one possibility: something had happened to the engine. It was not working properly.

‘This isn’t right,’ I said to myself. ‘They don’t fail. They don’t break down. Not like this.’

But what did I know? My entire experience of working with C-drives was confined to routine operations, under normal conditions. Yet we’d just been through a battle against another ship, one in which we were already known to have sustained structural damage. As shipmaster, I’d been diligent in attending to the hull and the drive spar, but it had never crossed my mind that something might have happened to one or other of the engines.

Why not?

There’s a good reason. It’s because even if something had happened, there would never have been anything I could have done about it. Worrying about the breakdown of a Conjoiner drive was like worrying about the one piece of debris you won’t have time to steer around or shoot out of the sky. You can’t do anything about it, ergo you forget about it until it happens. No shipmaster ever loses sleep over the failure of a C-drive.

It looked as if I was going to lose a lot more than sleep.

Even if we didn’t have another ship to worry about, we were in more than enough trouble. We were too far out from Shiva-Parvati to get back again, and yet we were moving too slowly to make it to another system. Even if the engines kept working as they were now, we’d take far too long to reach relativistic speed, where time dilation became appreciable. At twenty-five per cent of the speed of light, what would have been a twenty-year hop before became an eighty-year crawl now . . . and that was an eighty-year crawl in which almost all that time would be experienced aboard ship. Across that stretch of time, reefersleep was a lottery. Our caskets were designed to keep people frozen for five to ten years, not four-fifths of a century.

I was scared. I’d gone from feeling calmly in control to feeling total devastation in about five minutes.

I didn’t want to let the rest of the crew know that we had a potential crisis on our hands, at least not until I’d spoken to Weather. I’d already crossed swords with Van Ness, but he was still my captain, and I wanted to spare him the difficulty of a frightened crew, at least until I knew all the facts.

Weather was awake when I arrived. In all my visits, I’d never found her sleeping. In the normal course of events Conjoiners had no need of sleep: at worst, they’d switch off certain areas of brain function for a few hours.

She read my face like a book. ‘Something’s wrong, isn’t it?’

So much for the notion that Conjoiners were not able to interpret facial expressions. Just because they didn’t make many of them didn’t mean they’d forgotten the rules.

I sat down on the fold-out stool.

‘I’ve tried to push the engines back up to normal cruise thrust. I’m already seeing red on two dials, and we haven’t even exceeded point-two gees.’

She thought about this for several moments: what for Weather must have been hours of subjective contemplation. ‘You didn’t appear to be pushing your engines dangerously during the chase.’

‘I wasn’t. Everything looked normal up until now. I think we must have taken some damage to one of the drives, during Voulage’s softening-up assault. I didn’t see any external evidence, but—’

‘You wouldn’t, not necessarily. The interior architecture of one of our drives is a lot more complicated, a lot more delicate, than is normally appreciated. It’s at least possible that a shockwave did some harm to one of your engines, especially if your coupling gear - the shock-dampening assembly - was already compromised.’

‘It probably was,’ I said. ‘The spar was already stressed.’

‘Then you have your explanation. Something inside your engine has broken, or is considered by the engine itself to be dangerously close to failure. Either way, it would be suicide to increase the thrust beyond the present level.’

‘Weather, we need both those engines to get anywhere, and we need them at normal efficiency.’

‘It hadn’t escaped me.’

‘Is there anything you can do to help us?’

‘Very little, I expect.’

‘But you must know something about the engines, or you wouldn’t have been able to help Voulage.’

‘Voulage’s engines weren’t damaged,’ she explained patiently.

‘I know that. But you were still able to make them work better. Isn’t there something you can do for us?’

‘From here, nothing at all.’

‘But if you were allowed to get closer to the engines . . . might that make a difference?’

‘Until I’m there, I couldn’t possibly say. It’s irrelevant though, isn’t it? Your captain will never allow me out of this room.’

‘Would you do it for us if he did?’

‘I’d do it for me.’

‘Is that the best you can offer?’

‘All right, then maybe I’d for it for you.’ Just saying this caused Weather visible discomfort, as if the utterance violated some deep personal code that had remained intact until now. ‘You’ve been kind to me. I know you risked trouble with Van Ness to make things easier in my cell. But you need to understand something very important. You may care for me. You may even think you like me. But I can’t give you back any of that. What I feel for you is . . .’ Weather hesitated, her mouth half-open. ‘You know we call you the retarded. There’s a reason for that. The emotions I feel . . . the things that go on in my head . . . simply don’t map onto anything you’d recognise as love, or affection, or even friendship. Reducing them to those terms would be like . . .’ And then she stalled, unable to finish.

‘Like making a sacrifice?’

‘You’ve been good to me, Inigo. But I really am like the weather. You can admire me, even love me, in your way, but I can’t love you back. To me you’re like a photograph. I can see right through you, examine you from all angles. You amuse me. But you don’t have enough depth ever to fascinate me.’

‘There’s more to love than fascination. And you said it yourself: you’re halfway back to being human again.’

‘I said I wasn’t a Conjoiner any more. But that doesn’t mean I could ever be like you.’

‘You could try.’

‘You don’t understand us.’

‘I want to!’

Weather jammed her olive eyes tight shut. ‘Let’s . . . not get ahead of ourselves, shall we? I only wanted to spare you any unnecessary emotional pain. But if we don’t get this ship moving properly, that’ll be the least of your worries.’

‘I know.’

‘So perhaps we should return to the matter of the engines. Again: none of this will matter if Van Ness refuses to trust me.’

My cheeks were smarting as if I’d been slapped hard in the face. Part of me knew she was only being kind, in the harshest of ways. That part was almost prepared to accept her rejection. The other part of me only wanted her more, as if her bluntness had succeeded only in sharpening my desire. Perhaps she was right; perhaps I was insane to think a Conjoiner could ever feel something in return. But I remembered the gentle way she’d stroked my fingers, and I wanted her even more.

‘I’ll deal with Van Ness,’ I said. ‘I think there’s a little something that will convince him to take a risk. You start thinking about what you can do for us.’

‘Is that an order, Inigo?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘Nobody’s going to order you to do anything. I gave you my word on that, and I’m not about to break it. Nothing you’ve just said changes that.’

She sat tight-lipped, staring at me as if I was some kind of byzantine logic puzzle she needed to unscramble. I could almost feel the furious computation of her mind, as if I was standing next to a humming turbine. Then she lifted her little pointed chin minutely, saying nothing, but letting me know that if I convinced Van Ness, she would do what she could, however ineffectual that might prove.

The captain was tougher to crack than I’d expected. I’d assumed he would fold as soon as I explained our predicament - that we were going nowhere, and that Weather was the only factor that could improve our situation - but the captain simply narrowed his eyes and looked disappointed.

‘Don’t you get it? It’s a ruse, a trick. Our engines were fine until we let her aboard. Then all of a sudden they start misbehaving, and she turns out to be the only one who can help us.’

‘There’s also the matter of the other ship Weps says is closing on us.’

‘That ship might not even exist. It could be a sensor ghost, a hallucination she’s making the Petronel see.’

‘Captain—’

‘That would work for her, wouldn’t it? It would be exactly the excuse she needs to force our hands.’

We were in his cabin, with the door locked: I’d warned him I had a matter of grave sensitivity that we needed to discuss. ‘I don’t think this is any of her doing,’ I said calmly, vowing to hold my temper under better control than before. ‘She’s too far from the engines or sensor systems to be having any mental effect on them, even if we hadn’t locked her in a room that’s practically a Faraday cage to begin with. She says one or other of the engines was damaged during the engagement with the Cockatrice, and I’ve no reason to disbelieve that. I think you’re wrong about her.’

‘She’s got us right where she wants us, lad. She’s done something to the engines, and now - if you get your way - we’re going to let her get up close and personal with them.’

‘And do what?’ I asked.

‘Whatever takes her fancy. Blowing us all up is one possibility. Did you consider that?’

‘She’d blow herself up as well.’

‘Maybe that’s exactly the plan. Could be that she prefers dying to staying alive, if being shut out from the rest of the Spiders is as bad as you say it is. She didn’t seem to be real keen on being rescued from that wreck, did she? Maybe she was hoping to die aboard it.’

‘She looked like she was trying to stay alive to me, Captain. There were a hundred ways she could have killed herself aboard the Cockatrice before we boarded, and she didn’t. I think she was just scared of us, scared that we were going to be like all the other Ultras. That’s why she kept running.’

‘A nice theory, lad. It’s a pity so much is hanging on it, or I might be inclined to give it a moment’s credence.’

‘We have no choice but to trust her. If we don’t let her try something, most of us won’t ever see another system.’

‘Easy for you to say, son.’

‘I’m in this as well. I’ve got just as much to lose as anyone else on this ship.’

Van Ness studied me for what felt like an eternity. Until now his trust in my competence had always been implicit, but Weather’s arrival had changed all that.

‘My wife didn’t die in a terraforming accident,’ he said slowly, not quite able to meet my eyes as he spoke. ‘I lied to you about that, probably because I wanted to start believing the lie myself. But now it’s time you heard the truth, which is that the Spiders took her. She was a technician, an expert in Martian landscaping. She’d been working on the Schiaparelli irrigation scheme when she was caught behind Spider lines during the Sabaea Offensive. They stole her from me, and turned her into one of them. Took her to their recruitment theatres, where they opened her head and pumped it full of their machines. Rewired her mind to make her think and feel like them.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I began. ‘That must have been so hard—’

‘That’s not the hard part. I was told that she’d been executed, but three years later I saw her again. She’d been taken prisoner by the Coalition for Neural Purity, and they were trying to turn her back into a person. They hadn’t ever done it before, so my wife was to be a test subject. They invited me to their compound in Tychoplex, on Earth’s Moon, hoping I might be able to bring her back. I didn’t want to do it. I knew it wasn’t going to work; that it was always going to be easier thinking that she was already dead.’

‘What happened?’

‘When she saw me, she remembered me. She called me by name, just as if we’d only been apart a few minutes. But there was a coldness in her eyes. Actually, it was something beyond coldness. Coldness would mean she felt some recognisably human emotion, even if it was dislike or contempt. It wasn’t like that. The way she looked at me, it was as if she was looking at a piece of broken furniture, or a dripping tap, or a pattern of mould on the wall. As if it vaguely bothered her that I existed, or was the shape I was, but that she could feel nothing stronger than that.’

‘It wasn’t your wife any more,’ I said. ‘Your wife died the moment they took her.’

‘That’d be nice to believe, wouldn’t it? Trouble is, I’ve never been able to. And trust me, lad: I’ve had long enough to dwell on things. I know a part of my wife survived what they did to her in the theatres. It just wasn’t the part that gave a damn about me any more.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said again, feeling as if I’d been left drifting in space while the ship raced away from me. ‘I had no idea.’

‘I just wanted you to know: with me and the Spiders, it isn’t an irrational prejudice. From where I’m sitting, it feels pretty damn rational.’ Then he drew an enormous intake of breath, as if he needed sustenance for what was to come. ‘Take the girl to the engine if you think it’s the only way we’ll get out of this mess. But don’t let her out of your sight for one second. And if you get the slightest idea that she might be trying something - and I mean the slightest idea - you kill her, there and then.’

I clamped the collar around Weather’s neck. It was a heavy ring fashioned from rough black metal. ‘I’m sorry about this,’ I told her, ‘but it’s the only way Van Ness will let me take you out of this room. Tell me if it hurts, and I’ll try to do something about it.’

‘You won’t need to,’ she said.

The collar was a crude old thing that had been lying around the Petronel since her last bruising contact with pirates. It was modified from the connecting ring of a space helmet, the kind that would amputate and shock-freeze the head if it detected massive damage to the body below the neck. Inside the collar was a noose of monofilament wire, primed to tighten to the diameter of a human hair in less than a second. There were complicated moving parts in the collar, but nothing that a Conjoiner could influence. The collar trailed a thumb-thick cable from its rear, which ran all the way to an activating box on my belt. I’d only need to give the box a hard thump with the heel of my hand, and Weather would be decapitated. That wouldn’t necessarily mean she’d die instantly - with all those machines in her head, Weather would be able to remain conscious for quite some time afterwards - but I was reasonably certain it would limit her options for doing harm.

‘For what it’s worth,’ I told her as we made our way out to the connecting spar, ‘I’m not expecting to have to use this. But I want you to be clear that I will if I have to.’

She walked slightly ahead of me, the cable hanging between us. ‘You seem different, Inigo. What happened between you and the captain, while you were gone?’

The truth couldn’t hurt, I decided. ‘Van Ness told me something I didn’t know. It put things into perspective. I understand now why he might not feel positively disposed towards Conjoiners.’

‘And does that alter the way you think about me?’

I said nothing for several paces. ‘I don’t know, Weather. Until now I never really gave much thought to those horror stories about the Spiders. I assumed they’d been exaggerated, the way things often are during wartime.’

‘But now you’ve seen the light. You realise that, in fact, we are monsters after all.’

‘I didn’t say that. But I’ve just learned that something I always thought untrue - that Conjoiners would take prisoners and convert them into other Conjoiners - really happened.’

‘To Van Ness?’

She didn’t need to know all the facts. ‘To someone close to him. The worst was that he got to meet that person after her transformation.’

After a little while, Weather said, ‘Mistakes were made. Very, very bad mistakes.’

‘How can you call taking someone prisoner and stuffing their skull full of Conjoiner machinery a “mistake”, Weather? You must have known exactly what you were doing, exactly what it would do to the prisoner.’

‘Yes, we did,’ she said, ‘but we considered it a kindness. That was the mistake, Inigo. And it was a kindness, too: no one who tasted Transenlightenment ever wanted to go back to the experiential mundanity of retarded consciousness. But we did not anticipate how distressing this might be to those who had known the candidates beforehand.’

‘He felt that she didn’t love him any more.’

‘That wasn’t the case. It’s just that everything else in her universe had become so heightened, so intense, that the love for another individual could no longer hold her interest. It had become just one facet in a much larger mosaic.’

‘And you don’t think that was cruel?’

‘I said it was a mistake. But if Van Ness had joined her . . . if Van Ness had submitted to the Conjoined, known Transenlightenment for himself . . . they would have reconnected on a new level of personal intimacy.’

I wondered how she could be so certain. ‘That doesn’t help Van Ness now.’

‘We wouldn’t make the same mistake again. If there were ever to be . . . difficulties again, we wouldn’t take candidates so indiscriminately.’

‘But you’d still take some.’

‘We’d still consider it a kindness,’ Weather said.

Not much was said as we traversed the connecting spar out to the starboard engine. I watched Weather alertly, transfixed by the play of colours across her cooling crest. Eventually she whirled around and said, ‘I’m not going to do anything, Inigo, so stop worrying about it. This collar’s bad enough, without feeling you watching my every move.’

‘Maybe the collar isn’t going to help us,’ I said. ‘Van Ness thinks you want to blow up the ship. I guess if you had a way to do that, we wouldn’t get much warning.’

‘No, you wouldn’t. But I’m not going to blow up the ship. That’s not within my power, unless you let me turn the input dials all the way into the red. Even Voulage wasn’t that stupid.’

I wiped my sweat-damp hand on the thigh of my trousers. ‘We don’t know much about how these engines work. Are you sensing anything from them yet?’

‘A little,’ she admitted. ‘There’s crosstalk between the two units, but I don’t have the implants to make sense of that. Most Conjoiners don’t need anything that specialised, unless they work in the drive crèches, educating the engines.’

‘The engines need educating?’

Not answering me directly, she said, ‘I can feel the engine now. Effective range for my implants is a few dozen metres under these conditions. We must be very close.’

‘We are,’ I said as we turned a corner. Ahead lay the hexagonal arrangement of input dials. They were all showing blue-green now, but only because I’d throttled the engine back to a whisper of thrust.

‘I’ll need to get closer if I’m going to be any use to you,’ Weather told me.

‘Step up to the panel. But don’t touch anything until I give you permission.’

I knew there wasn’t much harm she could do here, even if she started pushing the dials. She’d need to move more than one to make things dangerous, and I could drop her long before she had a chance to do that. But I was still nervous as she stood next to the hexagon and cocked her head to one side.

I thought of what lay on the other side of that wall. Having traversed the spar, we were now immediately inboard of the engine, about halfway along its roughly cylindrical shape. The engine extended for one hundred and ten metres ahead of me, and for approximately two hundred and fifty metres in either direction to my left and right. It was sheathed in several layers of conventional hull material, anchored to the Petronel by a shock-absorbing cradle and wrapped in a mesh of sensors and steering-control systems. Like any shipmaster, my understanding of those elements was so total that it no longer counted as acquired knowledge. It had become an integral part of my personality.

But I knew nothing of the engine itself. My log book, with its reams of codified notes and annotations, implied a deep and scholarly grasp of all essential principles. Nothing could have been further from the truth. The Conjoiner drive was essentially a piece of magic we’d been handed on a plate, like a coiled baby dragon. It came with instructions on how to tame its fire, and make sure it did not come to harm, but we were forbidden from probing its mysteries. The most important rule that applied to a Conjoiner engine was a simple one: there were no user-serviceable components inside. Tamper with an engine - attempt to take it apart, in the hope of reverse-engineering it - and the engine would self-destruct in a mini-nova powerful enough to crack open a small moon. Across settled space, there was no shortage of mildly radioactive craters testifying to failed attempts to break that one prohibition.

Ultras didn’t care, as a rule. Ultras, by definition, already had Conjoiner drives. It was governments and rich planet-bound individuals who kept learning the hard way. The Conjoiner argument was brutal in its simplicity: there were principles embodied in their drives that ‘retarded’ humanity just wasn’t ready to absorb. We were meant to count ourselves lucky that they let us have the engines in the first place. We weren’t meant to go poking our thick monkey fingers into their innards.

And so long as the engines kept working, few of us had any inclination to do so.

Weather took a step back. ‘It’s not good news, I’m afraid. I thought that perhaps the dial indications might be in error, suggesting that there was a fault where none existed . . . but that isn’t the case.’

‘You can feel that the engine is really damaged?’

‘Yes,’ she told me. ‘And it’s this one, the starboard unit.’

‘What’s wrong with it? Is it anything we can fix?’

‘One question at a time, Inigo.’ Weather smiled tolerantly before continuing, ‘There’s been extensive damage to critical engine components, too much for the engine’s own self-repair systems to address. The engine hasn’t failed completely, but certain reaction pathways have now become computationally intractable, which is why you’re seeing the drastic loss in drive efficiency. The engine is being forced to explore other pathways, those that it can still manage, given its existing resources. But they don’t deliver the same output energy.’

She was telling me everything and nothing. ‘I don’t really understand,’ I admitted. ‘Are you saying there’s nothing that can be done to repair it?’

‘Not here. At a dedicated Conjoiner manufacturing facility, certainly. We’d only make things worse.’

‘We can’t run on just the port engine, either - not without rebuilding the entire ship. If we were anywhere near a moon or asteroid, that might just be an option, but not when we’re so far out.’

‘I’m sorry the news isn’t better. You’ll just have to resign yourselves to a longer trip than you were expecting.’

‘It’s worse than that. There’s another ship closing in on us, probably another raider like Voulage. It’s very close now. If we don’t start running soon, they’ll be on us.’

‘And you didn’t think to tell me this sooner?’

‘Would it have made any difference?’

‘To the trust between us, possibly.’

‘I’m sorry, Weather. I didn’t want to distract you. I thought things were bad enough as they were.’

‘And you thought I’d be able to work a miracle if I wasn’t distracted?’

I nodded hopelessly. I realised that, as naive as it might seem, I’d been expecting Weather to wave a hand over the broken engine and restore it to full, glittering functionality. But knowing something of the interior workings of the drive was not the same as being able to fix it.

‘Are we really out of options?’ I asked.

‘The engine is already doing all it can to provide maximum power, given the damage it has taken. There really is no scope to make things better.’

Desperate for some source of optimism, I thought back to what Weather had said a few moments before. ‘When you talked about the computations, you seemed to be saying that the engine needed to do some number-crunching to make itself work.’

Weather looked conflicted. ‘I’ve already said too much, Inigo.’

‘But if we’re going to die out here, it doesn’t matter what you tell me, does it? Failing that, I’ll swear a vow of silence. How does that sound?’

‘No one has ever come close to working out how our engines function,’ Weather said. ‘We’ve played our hand in that, of course: putting out more than our share of misinformation over the years. And it’s worked, too. We’ve kept careful tabs on the collective thinking concerning our secrets. We’ve always had contingencies in place to disrupt any research that might be headed in the right direction. So far, we’ve never had cause to use a single one of them. If I were to reveal key information to you, I would have more to worry about than just being an outcast. My people would come after me. They’d hunt me down, and then they’d hunt you down as well. Conjoiners will consider any necessary act, up to and including local genocide, to protect the secrets of the C-drive.’ She paused for a moment, letting me think she was finished, before continuing on the same grave note, ‘But having said that, there are layers to our secrets. I can’t reveal the detailed physical principles upon which the drive depends, but I can tell you that the conditions in the drive, when it is at full functionality, are enormously complex and chaotic. Your ship may ride a smooth thrust beam, but the reactions going on inside the drive are anything but smooth. There is a small mouth into hell inside every engine: bubbling, frothing, subject to vicious and unpredictable state-changes.’

‘Which the engine needs to smooth out.’

‘Yes. And to do so, the engine needs to think through some enormously complex, parallel computational problems. When all is well, when the engine is intact and running inside its normal operational envelope, the burden is manageable. But if you ask too much of the engine, or damage it in some way, that burden becomes heavier. Eventually it exceeds the means of the engine, and the reactions become uncontrolled.’

‘Nova.’

‘Quite,’ Weather said, favouring my response with a tiny nod.

‘Then let me get this straight,’ I said. ‘The engine’s damaged, but it could still work if the computations weren’t so complicated.’

Weather answered me guardedly. ‘Yes, but don’t underestimate how difficult those computations have now become. I can feel the strain this engine is under, just holding things together as they are.’

‘I’m not underestimating it. I’m just wondering if we couldn’t help it do better. Couldn’t we load in some new software, or assist the engine by hooking in the Petronel’s own computers?’

‘I really wish it was that simple.’

‘I’m sorry. My questions must seem quite simple-minded. But I’m just trying to make sure we aren’t missing anything obvious.’

‘We aren’t,’ she said. ‘Take my word on it.’

I returned Weather to her quarters and removed the collar. Where it had been squeezing her neck, the skin was marked with a raw pink band, spotted with blood. I threw the hateful thing into the corner of the room and returned with a medical kit.

‘You should have said something,’ I told her as I dabbed at the abrasions with a disinfectant swab. ‘I didn’t realise it was cutting into you all that time. You seemed so cool, so focused. But that must have been hurting all the while.’

‘I told you I could turn off pain.’

‘Are you turning it off now?’

‘Why?’

‘Because you keep flinching.’

Weather reached up suddenly and took my wrist, almost making me drop the swab. The movement was as swift as a snakebite, but although she held me firmly, I sensed no aggressive intentions. ‘Now it’s my turn not to understand,’ she said. ‘You were hoping I might be able to do something for you. I couldn’t. That means you’re in as much trouble as you ever were. Worse, if anything, because now you’ve heard it from me. But you’re still treating me with kindness.’

‘Would you rather we didn’t?’

‘I assumed that as soon as my usefulness to you had come to an end—’

‘You assumed wrongly. We’re not that kind of crew.’

‘And your captain?’

‘He’ll keep his word. Killing you would never have been Van Ness’s style.’ I finished disinfecting her neck and began to rummage through the medical kit for a strip of bandage. ‘We’re all just going to have to make do as best we can, you included. Van Ness reckoned we should send out a distress call and wait for rescue. I wasn’t so keen on that idea before, but now I’m beginning to wonder if maybe it isn’t so bad after all.’ She said nothing. I wondered if she was thinking of exactly the same objections I’d voiced to Van Ness, when he raised the idea. ‘We still have a ship, that’s the main thing. Just because we aren’t moving as fast as we’d like—’

‘I’d like to see Van Ness,’ Weather said.

‘I’m not sure he’d agree.’

‘Tell him it’s about his wife. Tell him he can trust me, with or without that silly collar.’

I went to fetch the captain. He took some persuading before he even agreed to look at Weather, and even then he wouldn’t come within twenty metres of her. I told her to wait at the door to her room, which faced a long service corridor.

‘I’m not going to touch you, Captain,’ she called, her voice echoing from the corridor’s ribbed metal walls. ‘You can come as close as you like. I can barely smell you at this distance, let alone sense your neural emissions.’

‘This’ll do nicely,’ Van Ness said. ‘Inigo told me you had something you wanted to say to me. That right, or was it just a ruse to get me near to you, so you could reach into my head and make me see and think whatever you like?’

She appeared not to hear him. ‘I take it Inigo’s told you about the engine.’

‘Told me you had a good old look at it and decided there was nothing you could do. Maybe things would have been different if you hadn’t had that collar on, though, eh?’

‘You mean I might have sabotaged the engine, to destroy myself and the ship? No, Captain, I don’t think I would have. If I had any intention of killing myself, you’d already made it easy enough with that collar.’ She glanced at me. ‘I could have reached Inigo and pressed that control box while the nervous impulse from his brain was still working its way down his forearm. All he’d have seen was a grey blur, followed by a lot of arterial blood.’

I thought back to the speed with which she’d reached up and grabbed my forearm, and knew she wasn’t lying.

‘So why didn’t you?’ Van Ness asked.

‘Because I wanted to help you if I could. Until I saw the engine - until I got close enough to feel its emissions - I couldn’t know for sure that the problem wasn’t something quite trivial.’

‘Except it wasn’t. Inigo says it isn’t fixable.’

‘Inigo’s right. The technical fault can’t be repaired, not without use of Conjoiner technology. But now that I’ve had time to think about it, mull things over, it occurs to me that there may be something I can do for you.’

I looked at her. ‘Really?’

‘Let me finish what I have to say, Inigo,’ she said warningly, ‘then we’ll go down to the engine and I’ll make everything clear. Captain Van Ness - about your wife.’

‘What would you know about my wife?’ Van Ness asked her angrily.

‘More than you realise. I know because I’m a - I was - a Conjoiner.’

‘As if I didn’t know.’

‘We started on Mars, Captain Van Ness - just a handful of us. I wasn’t alive then, but from the moment Galiana brought our new state of consciousness into being, the thread of memory has never been broken. There are many branches to our great tree now, in many systems - but we all carry the memories of those who went before us, before the family was torn asunder. I don’t just mean the simple fact that we remember their names, what they looked like and what they did. I mean we carry their living experiences with us, into the future.’ Weather swallowed, something catching in her throat. ‘Sometimes we’re barely aware of any of this. It’s as if there’s this vast sea of collective experience lapping at the shore of consciousness, but it’s only every now and then that it floods us, leaving us awash in sorrow and joy. Sorrow because those are the memories of the dead, all that’s left of them. Joy because something has endured, and while it does they can’t truly be dead, can they? I feel Remontoire sometimes, when I look at something in a certain analytic way. There’s a jolt of déjà vu and I realise it isn’t because I’ve experienced it before, but because Remontoire did. We all feel the memories of the earliest Conjoiners the most strongly.’

‘And my wife?’ Van Ness asked, like a man frightened of what he might hear.

‘Your wife was just one of many candidates who entered Transenlightenment during the troubles. You lost her then, and saw her once more when the Coalition took her prisoner. It was distressing for you because she did not respond to you on a human level.’

‘Because you’d ripped everything human out of her,’ Van Ness said.

Weather shook her head calmly, refusing to be goaded. ‘No. We’d taken almost nothing. The difficulty was that we’d added too much, too quickly. That was why it was so hard for her, and so upsetting for you. But it didn’t have to be that way. The last thing we wanted was to frighten possible future candidates. It would have worked much better for us if your wife had shown love and affection to you, and then begged you to follow her into the wonderful new world she’d been shown.’

Something of Weather’s manner seemed to blunt Van Ness’s indignation. ‘That doesn’t help me much. It doesn’t help my wife at all.’

‘I haven’t finished. The last time you saw your wife was in that Coalition compound. You assumed - as you continue to assume - that she ended her days there, an emotionless zombie haunting the shell of the woman you once knew. But that isn’t what happened. She came back to us, you see.’

‘I thought Conjoiners never returned to the fold,’ I said.

‘Things were different then. It was war. Any and all candidates were welcome, even those who might have suffered destabilising isolation away from Transenlightenment. And Van Ness’s wife wasn’t like me. She hadn’t been born into it. Her depth of immersion into Transenlightenment was inevitably less profound than that of a Conjoiner who’d been swimming in data since they were a foetus.’

‘You’re lying,’ Van Ness said. ‘My wife died in Coalition custody three years after I saw her.’

‘No,’ Weather said patiently. ‘She did not. Conjoiners took Tychoplex and returned all the prisoners to Transenlightenment. The Coalition was suffering badly at the time and could not afford the propaganda blow of losing such a valuable arm of its research programme. So it lied and covered up the loss of Tychoplex. But in fact your wife was alive and well.’ Weather looked at him levelly. ‘She is dead now, Captain Van Ness. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but I hope it will not come as too shocking a blow, given what you have always believed.’

‘When did she die?’

‘Thirty-one years later, in another system, during the malfunction of one of our early drives. It was very fast and utterly painless.’

‘Why are you telling me this? What difference does it make to me, here and now? She’s still gone. She still became one of you.’

‘I am telling you,’ Weather answered, ‘because her memories are part of me. I won’t pretend that they’re as strong as Remontoire’s, because by the time your wife was recruited, more than five thousand had already joined our ranks. Hers was one new voice amongst many. But none of those voices were silent: they were all heard, and something of them has reached down through all these years.’

‘Again: why are you telling me this?’

‘Because I have a message from your wife. She committed it to the collective memory long before her death, knowing that it would always be part of Conjoiner knowledge, even as our numbers grew and we became increasingly fragmented. She knew that every future Conjoiner would carry her message - even an outcast like me. It might become diluted, but it would never be lost entirely. And she believed that you were still alive, and that one day your path might cross that of another Conjoiner.’

After a silence Van Ness said, ‘Tell me the message.’

‘This is what your wife wished you to hear.’ Almost imperceptibly, the tone of Weather’s voice shifted. ‘I am sorry for what happened between us, Rafe - more sorry than you can ever know. When they recaptured me, when they took me to Tychoplex, I was not the person I am now. It was still early in my time amongst the Conjoiners, and - perhaps just as importantly - it was still early for the Conjoiners as well. There was much that we all needed to learn. We were ambitious then, fiercely so, but by the same token we were arrogantly blind to our inadequacies and failings. That changed, later, after I returned to the fold. Galiana made refinements to all of us, reinstating a higher degree of personal identity. I think she had learned something wise from Nevil Clavain. After that, I began to see things in the proper perspective again. I thought of you, and the pain of what I had done to you was like a sharp stone pushing against my throat. Every waking moment of my consciousness, with every breath, you were there. But by then it was much too late to make amends. I tried to contact you, but without success. I couldn’t even be sure if you were in the system any more. By then, even the Demarchists had their own prototype starships, using the technology we’d licensed them. You could have been anywhere.’ Weather’s tone hardened, taking on a kind of saintlike asperity. ‘But I always knew you were a survivor, Rafe. I never doubted that you were still alive, somewhere. Perhaps we’ll meet again: stranger things have happened. If so, I hope I’ll treat you with something of the kindness you always deserved, and that you always showed me. But should that never happen, I can at least hope that you will hear this message. There will always be Conjoiners, and nothing that is committed to the collective memory will ever be lost. No matter how much time passes, those of us who walk in the world will be carrying this message, alert for your name. If there was more I could do, I would. But contrary to what some might think, even Conjoiners can’t work miracles. I wish that it were otherwise. Then I would clap my hands and summon you to me, and I would spend the rest of my life letting you know what you meant to me, what you still mean to me. I loved you, Rafe Van Ness. I always did, and I always will.’

Weather fell silent, her expression respectful. It was not necessary for her to tell us that the message was over.

‘How do I know this is true?’ Van Ness asked quietly.

‘I can’t give you any guarantees,’ Weather said, ‘but there was one word I was also meant to say to you. Your wife believed it would have some significance to you, something nobody else could possibly know.’

‘And the word?’

‘The word is “mezereon”. I think it is a type of plant. Does the word mean something to you?’

I looked at Van Ness. He appeared frozen, unable to respond. His eye softened and sparkled. He nodded, and said simply, ‘Yes, it does.’

‘Good,’ Weather answered. ‘I’m glad that’s done: it’s been weighing on all of our minds for quite some time. And now I’m going to help you get home.’

Whatever ‘mezereon’ meant to Van Ness, whatever it revealed to him concerning the truth of Weather’s message, I never asked.

Nor did Van Ness ever speak of the matter again.

She stood before the hexagonal arrangement of input dials, as I had done a thousand times before. ‘You must give me authorisation to make adjustments,’ she said.

My mouth was dry. ‘Do what you will. I’ll be watching you very carefully.’

Weather looked amused. ‘You’re still concerned that I might want to kill us all?’

‘I can’t ignore my duty to this ship.’

‘Then this will be difficult for you. I must turn the dials to a setting you would consider highly dangerous, even suicidal. You’ll just have to trust me that I know what I’m doing.’

I glanced back at Van Ness.

‘Do it,’ he mouthed.

‘Go ahead,’ I told Weather. ‘Whatever you need to do—’

‘In the course of this, you will learn more about our engines. There is something inside here that you will find disturbing. It is not the deepest secret, but it is a secret nonetheless, and shortly you will know it. Afterwards, when we reach port, you must not speak of this matter. Should you do so, Conjoiner security would detect the leak and act swiftly. The consequences would be brutal, for you and anyone you might have spoken to.’

‘Then maybe you’re better off not letting us see whatever you’re so keen to keep hidden.’

‘There’s something I’m going to have to do. If you want to understand, you need to see everything.’

She reached up and planted her hands on two of the dials. With surprising strength, she twisted them until their quadrants shone ruby red. Then she moved to another pair of dials and moved them until they were showing a warning amber. She adjusted one of the remaining dials to a lower setting, into the blue, and then returned to the first two dials she had touched, quickly dragging them back to green. While all this was happening, I felt the engine surge in response, the deck plates pushing harder against my feet. But the burst was soon over. When Weather had made her last adjustment, the engine had throttled back even further than before. I judged that we were only experiencing a tenth of a gee.

‘What have you just done?’ I asked.

‘This,’ she said.

Weather took a nimble, light-footed step back from the input controls. At the same moment a chunk of wall, including the entire hexagonal array, pushed itself out from the surrounding metallic-blue material in which it had appeared to have been seamlessly incorporated. The chunk was as thick as a bank-vault door. I watched in astonishment as the chunk slid in silence to one side, exposing a bulkhead-sized hole in the side of the engine wall.

Soft red light bathed us. We were looking into the hidden heart of a Conjoiner drive.

‘Follow me,’ Weather said.

‘Are you serious?’

‘You want to get home, don’t you? You want to escape that raider? This is how it will happen.’ Then she looked back to Van Ness. ‘With all due respect . . . I wouldn’t recommend it, Captain. You wouldn’t do any damage to the engine, but the engine might damage you.’

‘I’m fine right here,’ Van Ness said.

I followed Weather into the engine. At first my eyes had difficulty making out our surroundings. The red light inside seemed to emanate from every surface, rather than from any concentrated source, so that there were only hints of edges and corners. I had to reach out and touch things more than once to establish their shape and proximity. Weather watched me guardedly, but said nothing.

She led me along a winding, restrictive path that squeezed its way between huge intrusions of Conjoiner machinery, like the course etched by some meandering, indecisive underground river. The machinery emitted a low humming sound, and sometimes when I touched it I felt a rapid but erratic vibration. I couldn’t make out our surroundings with any clarity for more than a few metres in any direction, but as Weather pushed on I sometimes had the impression that the machinery was moving out of her way to open up the path, and sealing itself behind us. She led me up steep ramps, assisted me as we negotiated near-impassable chicanes, helped me as we climbed down vertical shafts that would be perilous even under one-tenth of a gee. My sense of direction was soon hopelessly confounded, and I had no idea whether we had travelled hundreds of metres into the engine, or merely wormed our way in and around a relatively localised region close to our entry point.

‘I’m glad you know the way,’ I said, with mock cheerfulness. ‘I wouldn’t be able to get out of here without you.’

‘Yes, you will,’ Weather said, looking back over her shoulder. ‘The engine will guide you out, don’t you worry.’

‘You’re coming with me, though.’

‘No, Inigo, I’m not. I have to stay here from now on. It’s the only way that any of us will be getting home.’

‘I don’t understand. Once you’ve fixed the engine—’

‘It isn’t like that. The engine can’t be fixed. What I can do is help it, relieve it of some of the computational burden. But to do that I need to be close to it. Inside it.’

While we were talking, Weather had brought us to a box-like space that was more open than anywhere we’d passed through so far. The room, or chamber, was empty of machinery, save for a waist-high cylinder rising from the floor. The cylinder had a flattened top and widened base that suggested the stump of a tree. It shone the same arterial red as everything else around us.

‘We’ve reached the heart of the engine-control assembly now,’ Weather said, kneeling by the stump. ‘The reaction core is somewhere else - we couldn’t survive anywhere near that - but this is where the reaction computations are made, for both the starboard and port drives. I’m going to show you something now. I think it will make it easier for you to understand what is to happen to me. I hope you’re ready.’

‘As I’ll ever be.’

Weather planted a hand on either side of the stump and closed her eyes momentarily. I heard a click and the whirr of a buried mechanism. The upper fifth of the stump opened, irising wide. A blue light rammed from its innards. I felt a chill rising from whatever was inside, a coldness that seemed to reach fingers down my throat.

Something emerged from inside the stump, rising on a pedestal. It was a glass container pierced by many silver cables, each of which was plugged into the folded cortex of a single massively swollen brain. The brain had split open along fracture lines, like a cake that had ruptured in the baking. The blue light spilled from the fissures. When I looked into one - peering down into the geological strata of brain anatomy - I had to blink against the glare. A seething mass of tiny bright things lay nestled at the base of the cleft, twinkling with the light of the sun.

‘This is the computer that handles the computations,’ Weather said.

‘It looks human. Please tell me it isn’t.’

‘It is human. Or at least that’s how it started out, before the machines were allowed to infest and reorganise its deep structure.’ Weather tapped a finger against the side of her own scalp. ‘All the machines in my head only amount to two hundred grams of artificial matter, and even so I still need this crest to handle my thermal loading. There are nearly a thousand grams of machinery in that brain. The brain needs to be cooled like a turbopump. That’s why it’s been opened up, so that the heat can dissipate more easily.’

‘It’s a monstrosity.’

‘Not to us,’ she said sharply. ‘We see a thing of wonder and beauty.’

‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘Let’s be clear about this. What you’re showing me here is a human brain, a living mind, turned into some kind of slave.’

‘No slavery is involved,’ Weather said. ‘The mind chose this vocation willingly.’

‘It chose this?’

‘It’s considered a great honour. Even in Conjoiner society, even given all that we have learned about the maximisation of our mental resources, only a few are ever born who have the skills necessary to tame and manage the reactions in the heart of a C-drive. No machine can ever perform that task as well as a conscious mind. We could build a conscious machine, of course, a true mechanical slave, but that would contravene one of our deepest strictures. No machine may think, unless it does so voluntarily. So we are left with volunteer organic minds, even if those selfsame minds need the help of a thousand grams of non-sentient processing machinery. As to why only a few of us have the talent . . . that is one of our greatest mysteries. Galiana thought that, in achieving a pathway to augmented human intelligence, she would render the brain utterly knowable. It was one of her few mistakes. Just as there are savants amongst the retarded, so we have our Conjoined equivalents. We are all tested for such gifts when we are young. Very few of us show even the slightest aptitude. Of those that do, even fewer ever develop the maturity and stability that would make them suitable candidates for enshrinement in an engine.’ Weather faced me with a confiding look. ‘They are valued very highly indeed, to the point where they are envied by some of us who lack what they were born with.’

‘But even if they were gifted enough that it was possible . . . no one would willingly choose this.’

‘You don’t understand us, Inigo. We are creatures of the mind. This brain doesn’t consider itself to have been imprisoned here. It considers itself to have been placed in a magnificent and fitting setting, like a precious jewel.’

‘Easy for you to say, since it isn’t you.’

‘But it very nearly could have been. I came close, Inigo. I passed all the early tests. I was considered exceptional, by the standards of my cohort group. I knew what it was like to feel special, even amongst geniuses. But it turned out that I wasn’t quite special enough, so I was selected out of the programme.’

I looked at the swollen, fissured mind. The hard blue glow made me think of Cherenkov radiation, boiling out of some cracked fission core.

‘And do you regret it now?’

‘I’m older now,’ Weather said. ‘I realise now that being unique . . . being adored . . . is not the greatest thing in the world. Part of me still admires this mind; part of me still appreciates its rare and delicate beauty. Another part of me . . . doesn’t feel like that.’

‘You’ve been amongst people too long, Weather. You know what it’s like to walk and breathe.’

‘Perhaps,’ she said, doubtfully.

‘This mind—’

‘It’s male,’ Weather said. ‘I can’t tell you his name, any more than I could tell you mine. But I can read his public memories well enough. He was fifteen when his enshrinement began. Barely a man at all. He’s been inside this engine for twenty-two years of shiptime; nearly sixty-eight years of worldtime.’

‘And this is how he’ll spend the rest of his life?’

‘Until he wearies of it, or some accident befalls this ship. Periodically, as now, Conjoiners may make contact with the enshrined mind. If they determine that the mind wishes to retire, they may effect a replacement, or decommission the entire engine.’

‘And then what?’

‘His choice. He could return to full embodiment, but that would mean losing hundreds of grams of neural support machinery. Some are prepared to make that adjustment; not all are willing. His other option would be to return to one of our nests and remain in essentially this form, but without the necessity of running a drive. He would not be alone in doing so.’

I realised, belatedly, where all this was heading. ‘You say he’s under a heavy burden now.’

‘Yes. The degree of concentration is quite intense. He can barely spare any resources for what we might call normal thought. He’s in a state of permanent unconscious flow, like someone engaged in an enormously challenging game. But now the game has begun to get the better of him. It isn’t fun any more. And yet he knows the cost of failure.’

‘But you can help him.’

‘I won’t pretend that my abilities are more than a shadow of his. Still, I did make it part of the way. I can’t take all the strain off him, but I can give him free access to my mind. The additional processing resources - coupled with my own limited abilities - may make enough of a difference.’

‘For what?’

‘For you to get wherever it is you are going. I believe that with our minds meshed together, and dedicated to this one task, we may be able to return the engines to something like normal efficiency. I can’t make any promises, though. The proof of the pudding . . .’

I looked at the pudding-like mass of neural tissue and asked the question I was dreading. ‘What happens to you, while all this is happening? If he’s barely conscious—’

‘The same would apply, I’m afraid. As far as the external world is concerned, I’ll be in a state of coma. If I’m to make any difference, I’ll have to hand over all available neural resources.’

‘But you’ll be helpless. How long would you last, sitting in a coma?’

‘That isn’t an issue. I’ve already sent a command to this engine to form the necessary life-support machinery. It should be ready any moment now, as it happens.’ Weather glanced down at the floor between us. ‘I’d take a step back if I were you, Inigo.’

I did as she suggested. The flat red floor buckled upwards, shaping itself into the seamless form of a moulded couch. Without any ceremony, Weather climbed onto the couch and lay down as if for sleep.

‘There isn’t any point delaying things,’ she said. ‘My mind is made up, and the sooner we’re on our way, the better. We can’t be sure that there aren’t other brigands within attack range.’

‘Wait,’ I said. ‘This is all happening too quickly. I thought we were coming down here to look at the situation, to talk about the possibilities.’

‘We’ve already talked about them, Inigo. They boil down to this: either I help the boy, or we drift hopelessly.’

‘But you can’t just . . . do this.’

Even as I spoke, the couch appeared to consolidate its hold on Weather. Red material flowed around her body, hardening over her into a semitranslucent shell. Only her face and lower arms remained visible, surrounded by a thick red collar that threatened to squeeze shut at any moment.

‘It won’t be so bad,’ she said. ‘As I said, I won’t have much room left for consciousness. I won’t be bored, that’s for sure. It’ll be more like one very long dream. Someone else’s dream, certainly, but I don’t doubt that there’ll be a certain rapturous quality to it. I remember how good it felt to find an elegant solution, when the parameters looked so unpromising. Like making the most beautiful music imaginable. I don’t think anyone can really know how that feels unless they’ve also held some of that fire in their minds. It’s ecstasy, Inigo, when it goes right.’

‘And when it goes wrong?’

‘When it goes wrong, you don’t get much time to explore how it feels.’ Weather shut her eyes again, like a person lapsing into microsleep. ‘I’m lowering blockades, allowing the boy to co-opt my own resources. He’s wary. Not because he doesn’t trust me, but because he can barely manage his own processing tasks, without adding the temporary complexity of farming some of them out to me. The transition will be difficult . . . ah, here it comes. He’s using me, Inigo. He’s accepting my help.’ Despite being almost totally enclosed in the shell of red matter, Weather’s whole body convulsed. Her voice, when she spoke again, sounded strained. ‘It’s difficult. So much more difficult than I thought it would be. This poor mind . . . he’s had so much to do on his own. A lesser spirit would already have buckled. He’s shown heroic dedication . . . I wish the nest could know how well he has done.’ She clamped her teeth together and convulsed again, harder this time. ‘He’s taking more of me. Eagerly now. Knows I’ve come to help. The sense of relief . . . the strain being lifted . . . I can’t comprehend how he lasted until now. I’m sorry, Inigo. Soon there isn’t going to be much of me left to talk to you.’

‘Is it working?’

‘Yes. I think so. Perhaps between the two of us—’ Her jaws cracked together, teeth cutting her tongue. ‘Not going to be easy, but . . . losing more of me now. Language going. Don’t need now.’

‘Weather, don’t go.’

‘Can’t stay. Got to go. Only way. Inigo, make promise. Make promise fast.’

‘Say it. Whatever it is.’

‘When we get . . . when we—’ Her face was contorted with the strain of trying to make herself understood.

‘When we arrive,’ I said.

She nodded so hard I thought her neck was going to break. ‘Yes. Arrive. You get help. Find others.’

‘Other Conjoiners?’

‘Yes. Bring them. Bring them in ship. Tell them. Tell them and make them help.’

‘I will. I swear on it.’

‘Going now. Inigo. One last thing.’

‘Yes. Whatever it is.’

‘Hold hand.’

I reached out and took her hand, in my good one.

‘No,’ Weather said. ‘Other. Other hand.’

I let go, then took her hand in my metal one, closing my fingers as tightly as I dared without risking hers. Then I leaned down, bringing my face close to hers.

‘Weather, I think I love you. I’ll wait for you. I’ll find those Conjoiners. That’s a promise.’

‘Love a Spider?’ she asked.

‘Yes. If this is what it takes.’

‘Silly . . . human . . . boy.’

She pulled my hand, with more strength than I thought she had left in her. She tugged it down into the surface of the couch until it lapped around my wrist, warm as blood. I felt something happening to my hand, a crawling itch like pins and needles. I kissed Weather. Her lips were fever-warm. She nodded and then allowed me to withdraw my hand.

‘Go now,’ she said.

The red material of the couch flowed over Weather completely, covering her hands and face until all that remained was a vague, mummy-like form.

I knew then that I would not see her again for a very long time. For a moment I stood still, paralysed by what had happened. Even then I could feel my weight increasing. Whatever Weather and the boy were doing between them, it was having some effect on the engine output. My weight climbed smoothly, until I was certain we were exceeding half a gee and still accelerating.

Perhaps we were going to make it home after all.

Some of us.

I turned from Weather’s casket and looked for the way out. Held tight against my chest to stop it itching, my hand was lost under a glove of twinkling machinery. I wondered what gift I would find when the glove completed its work.

DILATION SLEEP

Spacers tell people that the worst aspect of starflight is revival. They speak the truth, I think. They give us dreams while the machines warm us up and map our bodies for cell damage. We feel no anxiety or fear, detached from our physical selves and adrift in generated fantasies.

In my dream I was joined by the cybernetic imago of Katia, my wife. We found ourselves within a computer-constructed sensorium. An insect, I felt my six thin legs propelling me into a wide and busy chamber. Four worker ants were there, crouched in stiff mechanical postures. With compound vision I studied these new companions, observing the nearest of them deposit a pearly egg from its abdomen. A novel visceral sense told me that I, too, contained a ready egg.

‘We’re gods amongst them,’ I told my wife’s imago.

‘We are Myrmecia gulosa,’ she whispered into my brain. ‘The bulldog ant. You see the queen, and her winged male?’

‘Yes.’

‘Those maggoty things in the corner of the cell are the queen’s larvae. Her worker is about to feed them.’

‘Feed them with what?’

‘His egg, my darling.’

I rotated my sleek, mandibled head. ‘And will I also?’

‘Naturally! A worker’s duty is always to serve his queen. Of course . . . you may exit this environ, if you choose. But you’ll have to remain in reefersleep for another three hours.’

‘Three hours . . . might as well be centuries,’ I said. ‘Then change it. Something a bit less alien.’

My imago dissolved the scenario, the universe. I floated in white limbo, awaiting fresh sensory stimulus. Soon I found myself brushing shimmering vermilion coral with eight suckered arms, an octopus.

Katia liked to play games.

Eventually the dreams ceased and I suddenly sensed my body, cold and stiff but definitely anchored to my mind.

I allowed myself a long primal scream, then opened my eyes. The eyes I opened were the eyes of Uri Andrei Sagdev, who was once a mainbrain technician at the Sylveste Institute but who now found himself in the odd role of Starship Heuristic Resource, a crewperson.

Under different circumstances, it is not a role I would otherwise have chosen. I was alone, the room cold and silent. My five companions remained in reefersleep around my own capsule; only I had been revived. I sensed, then, that something must be wrong. But I did not query Katia, preferring to remain in ignorance until she saw fit to enlighten me regarding our situation.

I hauled myself from the open reefer and took faltering steps out of the room.

It was several minutes before I felt confident to do anything more ambitious than that. I stumbled to the nearby health bay and exercised with galvanic activators, pushing my muscles beyond the false limits of apparent exhaustion. Then I showered and dressed, taking the expediency of wearing a thermal layer beneath my overalls. Breakfast consisted of fried ham and Edam slices, followed by garlic croissants, washed down with chilled passion fruit and lemon tea.

Why was I not concerned to discover our difficulty? Simply because the mere fact of revival told me that it could not be compellingly urgent. Any undesirable situation upon a light-skimming starship that does not instantly destroy it - probably in a flash of exotic bosons - will act on such an extended timescale that the mainbrain-crew overmind will have days or weeks to engineer a solution.

I knew we were not home, and that therefore something was wrong. But for a moment it was good simply to lie back in the kitchen and allow the music of Roedelius to envelop me, and to revel in this condition called life. To simply suck air into my old lungs.

I who had been dead, or near death, for so long.

‘Some more, Uri?’ asked my wife’s imago.

I was alone apart from a servitor. It was a dumb-bell shaped drone hovering on silently energised levitation fields above the metal floor. Extruding a manipulator from the matt-gold surface of its upper spheroid, it offered me the jug of pale juice.

With a well-practised subvocal command, I enabled my entoptic system. The implant supplied the visual and tactile stimuli necessary to fully realise the imago, the simulation of Katia, drawing it from the ship’s mainbrain. Bright grids and circles interrupted my ocular field, then meshed and thickened to form my wife, frozen and lifeless but apparently solid. Copyright symbols denoting the implant company flashed, then faded. I locked her entoptic ghost over the dull form of the servitor, its compact size easily concealed within her body-space. Her blunt silver hair fell around a narrow pale face, black lips pursed like a doll’s and eyes staring right through me. Her clasped hands emerged from a long hooded scarlet gown inlaid around the shoulder with the insignia of the Mixmaster geneticists, a pair of hands holding a cat’s cradle of DNA. My wife was a geneticist to the marow. On Yellowstone, where cybernetics was the primary creed, it made her a virtual pariah.

As the mainbrain-generated program took hold she grew vivacious and smiled, and her hand appeared now to grasp the jug.

‘I was tiring of storage, my darling.’

‘I’m not comfortable with this,’ I admitted. ‘Katia - my actual Katia - despised the whole idea of you. This illusion would have especially sickened her.’

‘It doesn’t sicken me,’ Katia said.

‘It ought to,’ I said. ‘Aren’t your personalities supposed to be the same?’

She smiled, as if the point were settled. So infuriatingly like her original.

‘I see that,’ I said dubiously. The imago had been against my actual wife’s wishes. When the Melding Plague hit us I saw my chance of escape via this craft. Katia was unable to become a crewperson, so I surreptitiously set about digitizing my wife’s personality. The implant did all the hard work. It had assembled a behaviour map of Katia whenever we were together, studying her through the conduits of my own senses. The simulation grew slowly, limited by the memory capacity of the implant. But each day I downloaded more of her into an Institute mainbrain, performing this routine for weeks on end. I have no doubt that Katia suspected something, although she never made any mention of it.

Having completed my clandestine work, I then grafted the copy over the mind of the ship. It lacked her memories, of course, but I went to the expense and danger of having my own trawled and substituted instead, using software routines to perform the gender inversion. Katia’s personality only assumed dominance when I was in rapport with the vessel. There was no doubt in my mind that the other crewpersons had also arranged for their own fictitious companions. They too would speak to their loved ones, or some idealised fantasy of a lover, when they addressed the ship.

But I preferred not to think about that.

A lie, then. But my entire life had been a lie, Katia’s imago simply the most recent aspect of it. But why had she awoken me? Or rather: why had the ship chosen to awaken me, and not one of the others? Janos, Kaj, Hilda, Yul and Karlos still remained in reefersleep, displaying no signs of imminent thaw.

I upped from the table decisively. ‘Thank you, Katia. I’ll take a stroll, admire the view.’

‘I must discuss something with you,’ Katia said. ‘But I suppose it can wait a few minutes.’

‘Ah,’ I said, grinning. ‘You want to keep me in suspense.’

‘Nothing of the sort, darling. Is the music fine?’

‘Music’s fine,’ I answered, leaving the kitchen.

I entered a curving hexagonal corridor, bathed in dull ochre light. A node of Roedelius chased me, humming from piezoacoustic panels in the walls. The gravity that held me to the floor arose from our one-gee thrust, and not from the centrifugal spin of the lifesystem, otherwise the vertical and horizontal axes would have been interchanged. This fact told me that we were not at home; not approaching the cluster of carousels and asteroids called Shiphaven, in the Trojan point that trailed Jupiter. We were still on stardrive, still climbing up or down from the slowtime of light-speed.

We might be anywhere between Epsilon Eridani and Solspace.

My stroll carried me away from the core of the vesel to her skin, where the hot neutron sleet wafted past us. The parts of the vessel through which I travelled grew darker and more machinelike, colder and less familiar. Irrationally, I began to imagine that I was being pursued and observed.

I have never enjoyed either solitude or the dark. I was a fool, then, to address this fear by turning around. Yet the hairs on my neck were bristling and my sweat had become chilled.

Most of the radial corridor was dark, apart from the miserly locus of light that had followed me like a halo. Nonetheless, it was still possible to make out a darker thing looming in the distance, almost lost in the convergence of the walls.

I was not alone.

It was a figure, a silhouette, regarding me. Not Katia’s imago, for sure.

I felt a brief terror. ‘Katia,’ I croaked. ‘Full lights, please.’

I jammed my eyes shut as the bright actinics snaped on. Red retinal ghosts slowly fading, I reopened them, not much more than a second later. But my watcher had gone.

I slowly emptied my lungs. I was wise enough not to leap to conclusions. This was not necessarily what it appeared. After all, I had only just emerged from reefersleep, after several years of being frozen. I was bound to be a little jittery, a little open to subconscious suggestion.

It seemed I was utterly alone. I vowed, shakily, to put the experience immediately out of mind.

Ten minutes later I had reached the outer hull, and was in naked space - or rather, seeing through the proxy eyes of a drone clamped on the outside with spidery grappling feet. The machine’s camera head was peering through a porthole, into the room where I sat. I looked pale and strained, but I did not have company.

I looked away from the porthole, towards the bow of the ship. The vessel, the Wild Pallas, was a ramliner - a nearlight human-rated starship. Most of what I saw, therefore, was very dense neutron shielding. The vessel required protons for its bosonic drive process. Ahead, a graser beam swept space and stripped deuterium nuclei into protons and neutrons. Our gauss scoop sifted free the protons and focused them into the heart of the ship. The neutral baryons were channelled around the hull in a lethal radiative rain, diverted clear of the lifesystem and its fragile payload of sleepers. The drone sensed the flux and passed the data to me in terms of a swirling roseate aura, as if we were diving down the gullet of the universe.

To the rear, things were eclipsed by the glow of the exhaust. Gamma shields burned Cherenkov-blue. Within the ship, the proton harvest was extremely short-lived. Fields targeted the protons into a beam, lancing through a swarming cloud of heavy monopoles. The relativistic protons were decelerated and steered into the magnetic nodes. Inside each monopole was a shell of bosons which coaxed the protons to disintegrate. This was the power source of a ramliner.

I had studied all the tech before signing up for the overmind partnership, the human-cybernetic steering committee that commanded this vessel. When I say studied, I mean that I had downloaded certain eidetic documents furnished by the Macro that owned the ship. These eidetics entered my memory at an almost intuitive level, programmed of course to fade once my contract expired. They told me everything I needed to know and little else. We carried nine hundred reefersleep passengers and we crew comprised six humans, each of whom was an expert in one or more areas of starflight theory. My own specialties were scoop subsystems - gauss collimators and particle-ablation shields - and shipboard/in-flight medicare. The computer that wore the masque of Katia was also equipped for these zones of expertise, but it was deficient - so the cybertechs said - in human heuristic thought modes. Crewpersons were therefore its Heuristic Resources - peripherals orbiting the hard glittering core of its machine consciousness.

Crewpersons thus rode at a more reduced level of reefersleep than our passengers: a little warmer, a little closer to the avalanche of cell death that is life. The computer could interrogate us without the bother of complete revival. Our dreams, therefore, would be dreams where matter and number flowed in technological tsunami.

I altered the drone’s telemetry so that the neutron wind became invisible. Looking beyond, I saw no stars at all. Einsteinian distortion was squashing them up fore and aft, concealed by the flared ends of the ship. We were still accelerating towards light-speed.

‘Well?’ I asked, much later.

‘As you know, we’ve yet to reach midpoint. In fact, we will not reach home for another three years of shiptime.’

‘Is this a technical problem?’

‘Not strictly. I’m afraid it’s medical, which is why I was forced to bring you out of reefersleep between systems. Like the view, my darling?’

‘Are you joking? An empty universe with no stars? It’s the gloomiest thing I can remember.’

I was back in the coldroom where the six crew reefers were stored. Katia’s data ghost stood at my side, and Mozart warmed our spirits. Mozart’s joyous familiarity drowned out all the faint, distant sounds of the ship, and the frank necessity of this annoyed me greatly. I was not normally prone to nervousness.

‘Janos is sick,’ explained Katia. ‘He must have contracted the Melding Plague on Yellowstone. Unless we act now he won’t survive the rest of the journey. He needs emergency surgery.’

‘He’s sick?’ I shrugged. ‘Too bad. But SOP on this is clear, Katia. Freeze him down further, lock the condition in stasis.’ I leaned over the smooth side of Janos’s reefer, examining the bio-med display cartouche under its coffin-lid rim. The reefer resembled a giant chrome chrysalis or silverfish, anchored by its head to a coiled nexus of umbilicals. Within this hexagonal fluted box lay Janos. His inert form was dimly visible under the frosted clear lid.

‘Normally, that would be our wisest course of action,’ Katia said. ‘Earthside med skills will certainly outmode our own. But in this instance the rules must be contravened. Janos can’t survive, even at emergency levels of reefersleep. You know about the Melding Plague.’

I did. We all knew about it only too well, for it had crippled Yellowstone. The Melding Plague was a biocybernetic virus, something new to our experience. Yellowstone’s intensely cybernetic society had crumbled at the nanomolecular level, the level of our computers and implants. The Melding Plague had caused our nanomachinery to grow malign.

I permitted Katia to explain, walking to the kitchen and preparing salami rolls, stepping briskly through the dim corridors.

All crewpersons were fitted with such implants. Through these data windows we interfaced with the machinery of the reefers and the mainbrain of the ship as the ramliner cruised from star to star. Janos’s virus had attacked the structure of his own implants, ripping them apart and reorganizing them into analogues of itself. From one implant node, a network of webbed strands was spreading further into his brain, in an apparent attempt to knit together all the infected locales.

‘The experts on Yellowstone soon learned that cold does not retard the virus significantly - certainly not the kind of cold from which a human could ever be revived. We must therefore operate immediately, before the virus gains a stronghold. And I’m afraid that our routine surgical programs will fail. We can’t use nanomachinery against the virus; it will simply subsume whatever we throw against it.’

I gobbled my rolls. ‘I don’t know neurosurgery; that wasn’t on the skills eidetic.’ I brushed crumbs from my stubbled chin. ‘However, if Janos’s life is in danger—’

‘We must act. How are you feeling now?’

‘A little stiff. Nothing serious.’ I forced a very stiff grin. ‘I’ll admit, I was a little jumpy early on. I think those ants gave me the creeps.’

Katia was silent for a few seconds. ‘That’s normal,’ she eventually said. ‘Get plenty of rest. Then we’ll examine the surgical tools.’

I went jogging. I mapped a sinuous, winding path through the lifesystem, feeling the megaton mass of the ship wheel about my centre of mass. I was ruthless with myself, deliberately selecting a route that took me through every dark and shadowy region of the lifesystem I could think of. I silenced Mozart and forbade myself the company of Katia, disabling my imago inducer.

My thoughts turned back to the figure I imagined I had seen. What kind of rationale had flashed through my mind in the few seconds when I permitted the figure to exist outside of my imagination? Perhaps one of the sleepers might have thawed by accident and was wandering the ship in dismay. That hypothetical wanderer would have been equally surprised by my own presence. Ergo the person was now hiding.

Of course, the figure was undoubtedly a hallucination. One need not be drooling at the mouth to hallucinate - indeed, one could easily retain enough facilities to recognise the experience as being totally internalised. After the uneventful hours of wakefulness that had subsequently passed, I was anxious to dismiss the whole incident.

I jogged on, my shoes slapping the deck. I was approaching the nadir of my journey, the part of the ship that until now I had studiously avoided. Sensing my nearing footfalls, cartwheelshaped airlocks dilated open. I panted through an antechamber, into the vast room where nine hundred slept.

The chamber had the toroidal shape of a tokamak. Nine hundred deep-preservation reefers lined the inner and outer walls, crisscrossed by ladders and catwalks. I set about circumnavigating the chamber, to finally purge my mind of any stray ghosts. Hadn’t that always been my strategy as a child: confront my fears head on? I suspected that the boy in me would have been richly amused by my motives here. Nonetheless I insisted on this one ridiculous circuit, convinced it would leave me eased.

Most of these sleepers would stay aboard when we arrived in the Earth system. They were refugees from the Melding Plague, seeking sanctuary in the future. At the nearlight speeds this vessel attained between suns, large levels of time dilation would be experienced. Our clocks would grind to an imperceptible crawl. After thirty or forty years of shiptime, a mere six or seven hops between systems, more than a century would have elapsed on Yellowstone, enough time for eco-engineers to exorcise the biome of the Melding Plague. The sleepers we carried had elected not to risk spending the time in the planet’s community cryocrypts; in dilation sleep the effective time spent in reefers was less, and therefore their chances of completely safe revival were enormously increased.

I was jogging slowly enough to read the glowing name panels imprinted on each reefer. Men, women, children . . . the rich of my world, able to pay for this exorbitant journey into a brighter future. I thought of the less wealthy, those who could not even afford spaces in the cryocrypts. I thought of the long queues of people waiting to see surgeons, people like Katia, anxious to lose their implants before the disease reached them. They would pay with whatever they could: organs or prosthetics or memories. Or if they chose not to pay they might consider becoming crew. My people made good crew-fodder. It called for a certain degree of yearning desperation to accept direct interfacing with the mainbrain. The hard price of our bargain was the simple fact that our reduced state of reefersleep meant we would continue to age as we slept away the years.

That was not a bargain Katia had felt she could make. And I had known that I could not stand to lose my implants. Thus the Melding Plague touched us.

I felt bitterness, and this was welcome to me. I was happy to find familiar anxieties polluting my thoughts. I cast a dismissive glance over my shoulder, back along the curving ranks of sleepers I had already passed.

I was being followed.

The shadow was pounding along the walkway, halfway around the great curve of the chamber. I could barely see it, just a man-shaped black aperture in the distance.

I quickened my pace. Only my feet thudded in the silence. Yet my chaser was also running faster. I felt sick with fright. I summoned Katia, but after alerting her was unable to grasp a sentence, a command, anything. The faceless silhouette seemed to be gaining on me.

Faceless was right. It had no features, no detail. Eventually I reached an exit. The airlock sequence amputated the chamber from me. I did not stop running, even when I realised that the doors behind me were remaining closed. The shadow-man remained with the sleepers.

But I had seen enough. It was not human. Just a man-shaped hole, a spectre.

I found the quickest route back to the command deck of the Wild Pallas. Immediately I ordered Katia to begin a rigorous search for intruders, though I knew of course that no intruder could have escaped her attention thus far. My Katia was omniscient. She would have known the exact location of every rat, every fly, aboard the craft; except that aboard the ship there were no flies, no rats.

I knew that the shadow was not a revived sleeper. None of the reefers had been opened or vacated. A stowaway was out of the question - what was there to eat or drink, apart from the supplies dispensed by the computer?

My mind veered towards the illogical. Could someone have entered the ship during its flight - someone dressed as a chameleon? That imagined intruder would have somehow had to achieve invisibility from Katia’s eyes. Clearly impossible, even disregarding the unlikely manoeuvres required to match our velocity and position undetected.

I chewed on my lip, aware that each second of indecision counted against Janos. For my own defence, Katia would permit me access to a weapon, provided of course that the existence of the intruder was proven. Alternatively, I might best confront the situation by not confronting it. I could perform surgery on Janos without straying into those regions of the ship that the intruder had apparently claimed as its haunt. In a day or so, therefore, this ordeal might be over, and I could re-enter reefersleep. The most faceless, inhuman entities I would have to contend with upon my next revival would be Solpace Axis customs officials. Let them worry about the unseen extra passenger. Hadn’t the shadow permitted me safe slumber so far?

I chuckled, though to my ears it sounded more like a death-rattle. I was still frightened, but for once my hands had stopped playing arpeggios on the keys of an invisible piano.

I absorbed myself in technical eidetics outlining the medical systems Katia and I were about to employ. The gleaming semi-robotic tools were the culmination of Yellowstone’s surgical sciences. Even so, they would undoubtedly appear crude by Earth-side standards. This dichotomy galled me. Even if Janos would necessarily worsen by the time we arrived, how could we be certain that we were not reducing his chances with our outdated medical intervention? Perhaps Earth would have accelerated so far beyond our capabilities that the equation was no longer balanced in our favour.

Yet Katia would have weighed the issue minutely before selecting the appropriate course of action. Perhaps, then, it was best simply to silence one’s qualms and do whatever was required.

Drones assisted me in carrying the medical machinery into the crew reefer room, where my five colleagues lay in frozen sleep. I wore a facemask and a gloved jumpsuit, inwoven with a heating circuit. Katia would lower the room’s temperature before slightly increasing Janos’s own.

‘Ready, Uri?’ she asked. ‘Let’s start.’

So we commenced, my eyes constantly flicking to the open reefer I hoped soon to re-enter. The room rapidly chilled, lights burning frigid blue from the overheads.

Janos’s reefer cracked open with a gasp of release cold. I looked at Janos, still and white and somehow distant. Let that distance remain, I prayed. After all, we were about to open his head.

Katia, in fact, had already performed some preliminary surgery. The skull had been exposed, skin pulled back as if framing the white pistil of a flesh-leaved flower. Slender probes entered the scalp via drilled holes, trailing glowing coloured cables into a matrix of input points in the domed head of the reefer. The work was angstrom-precise, rendered with a robot’s deadening perfection. I had been briefed: those cables were substituting for the cybernetic implants within his brain that had fallen victim to the Melding Plague.

‘When you have the top of the skull free you should feed it back along the cables,’ Katia told me. ‘It’s crucial that we don’t lose cyber-interface with Janos.’

I prepped the mechanical bone-saw. ‘Why? What use is he to us?’

‘There are good reasons. If you’re still interested we can discuss it after the operation.’

The saw hummed into life, the rotary tip glinting evilly. Katia vectored the blade down, smoothly gnawing into the pale bone. Little blood oozed free but the sound struck an unpleasant resonance with me. Katia made three expert circumferential passes, then retracted. I took a deep breath, then placed gloved fingers on the top of Janos’s head. The scalp felt loose, like half of a chocolate egg. I eased the section of skull free with a wet, sucking slurp, exposing the damp pinkish mass of dura and gyrus, snuggling in the lower bowl of the skull. I took special care to maintain the integrity of the connections as I separated the bonework. For a while, humbled, I could only stand in awe of this fantastic organ, easily the most complex, alien thing my eyes had ever gazed on. And yet it managed to look so disappointingly vegetable.

‘Husband, we must proceed,’ warned Katia. ‘I have warmed Janos to a dangerously high body temperature, whilst not greatly increasing his metabolic rate. We don’t have time to waste.’

I felt sweat beading my forehead. I nodded. Inward, inward. Katia swung a new battery of blades and microlasers into play.

We operated to the music of Sibelius.

It was intriguing and repellent work.

I succeeded in detaching my mind to some extent, so that I was able to regard the parting brain tissue as dead but somehow sacred meat. The micro-implants came out one by one, too small for the naked eye to discern detail, barbed hunks of corroded metal. The corrosion, observable under a microscope, was the external evidence of the cybervirus. I studied it with rank feelings of abstract distaste. The virus behaved like its biological namesake, clamping onto the shell of the nanostructure and pulsing subversive instructions deep into its reproductive heart.

After three hours my back boiled with pain. I leaned away from the reefer, brushing a sleeve against my chilled forehead. I felt the room swimming, clotting with blobs of muggy darkness. For an instant I became disoriented, convinced that left was right and vice versa. I braced myself against the reefer as this dizziness washed over me.

‘Not long now,’ Katia said. ‘How do you feel?’

‘I’m fine. And you?’

‘I’m . . . fine. The op’s proceeding well.’ Katia paused, then stiffened her voice with iron resolve, businesslike detachment. ‘The next implant is the deepest. It lies between the occipital lobe and the cerebellum. We must take care to avoid lesion of the visual centre. This is the primary entoptic infeed node.’

‘In we go, then.’

The machinery snicked obediently into place. Our ciliated microprobes slid into the tissue, like flexible syringes slipping into jelly. Despite the cold I found myself hot around the collar, iced sweat prickling my skin. Another hour passed, though time had ceased to have very much meaning.

And I froze, conscious of a presence behind me, in the same room.

Compelled, I turned. The watcher was with me.

I saw now that it could not be a man. Yet it did have a humanoid form, a humanoid of my build and posture.

A sculptor had selected ten thousand raven-black cubes, so dark that they were pure silhouettes, and arranged them as a blocky statue. That was the entirety of the watcher: a mass of black cubes.

As I turned, it swung towards me. None of the cubes from which it was formed actually moved; they simply blipped out and reappeared in an orchestrated wave, whole new strata of cubes forming in thin air. They popped in and out of reality to mould its altering posture. To my eyes, the motion had a beguiling, digital beauty. I thought of the coloured patterns that would sweep across a stadium of schoolchildren holding painted mosaic cards to image some great slogan or emblem.

I raised my left arm, and observed the shadow repeat the action from its point of view. We were not mirrors of one another. We were ghosts.

My terror had reached some peak and evaporated. I grasped that the watcher was essentially motiveless, that it had been drawn to me as inevitably as a shrinking noon shadow.

‘Continue with the operation,’ insisted Katia. I noticed hesitancy in her voice, true to her personality to the end. She liked games, my Katia, but she was never a convincing liar.

‘Lesion of the visual centre, you say?’

‘That is what we must be careful to avoid.’

I grimaced. I had to know for sure.

I scooped up one of the detached nanoprobes. In reality, the drones mimicked my intentions with their own manipulators, picking up the nanoprobe’s platonic twin . . . Then I jammed it recklessly into Janos’s head, into his occipital lobe.

This reality melted and shattered, as if a stone had fallen into and disturbed the reflections on a crystal-mooth lake.

I knew, then.

My vision slowly unpeeled itself, returning to normality in strips. Katia was doing this, attempting to cancel the damage in my visual centre by sending distorted signals along the optic infeeds. I realised that I no longer had control of the surgical tools.

‘I am the patient,’ I said. ‘Not Janos. The surgeon is the one who needs surgery. How ironic.’

‘It was best that you not know,’ Katia said. And then, very rapidly, she herself flickered and warped, her voice momentarily growing cavernous and slurred. ‘I’m failing . . . there isn’t much time.’

‘And the watcher?’

‘A symptom,’ she said ruefully. ‘A symptom of my own illness. A false mapping of your own body image within the simulation.’

‘You’re a simulation!’ I roared. ‘I can understand your image being affected . . . but you - yourself - you don’t exist in my head! You’re a program running in the mainbrain!’

‘Yes, darling. But the Melding Plague has also reached the mainbrain. ’ She paused, and then, without warning, her voice became robotically flat and autistic. ‘Much of the computer is damaged. To keep this simulation intact has necessitated sacrifices in tertiary function levels. However, the primary goal is to guarantee that you do not die. The operation-in-progress must be completed. In order to maintain the integrity of the simulation, the tupleensemble coded KATIA must be removed from main memory. This operation has now been executed.’

She froze, her last moment locked within my implant, trapped in my eyes like a spot of sun-blindness. It was just me and the computer then, not forgetting the ever-present watcher.

What could I do but continue with the surgery? I had a reason now. I wanted to excise the frozen ghost of Katia from my mind. She was the real lesion.

So I survived.

Many years passed for us. Our ship’s computer was so damaged by the Melding Plague that we could not decelerate in time to reach the Earth system. Our choice was to steer for 61 Cygni-A, around which lay the colony Sky’s Edge. Our dilation sleepers consequently found themselves further from home both in time and space than they had expected. Secretly we cherished the justice in this, we who had sacrificed parts of our lives to crew their dream-voyage. Yet they had not lost so very much, and I suppose I would have been one of their number had I had their power. Concerning Katia . . .

The simulation was never properly reanimated.

The shipboard memory in which it lay fell prey to the Melding Plague, and much of its data was badly corrupted. When I did attempt to recreate her, I found only a crude caricature, all spontaneity sapped away, as lifeless and cruelly predictable as a Babbage engine. In a fit of remorse I destroyed the imago. It helped that I was blind, for even this façade had been programmed to exhibit fear, programmed to plead once it guessed my intentions.

That was years ago. I tell myself that she never lived. And that at least is what the cybertechs would have us believe.

The last information pulse from Yellowstone told me that the real Katia is still alive, of course much older than when I knew her. She has been married twice. To her the days of our union must seem as ancient and fragile as an heirloom. But she does not yet know that I survived. I transmitted to her, but the signal will not reach Epsilon Eridani for a decade. And then I will have to await her reply, more years still.

Perhaps she will reply in person. This is our only hope of meeting, because I . . .

I will not fly again. Nor will I sleep out the decades.

GRAFENWALDER’S BESTIARY

Grafenwalder’s attention is torn between the Ultra captain standing before him and the real-time video feed playing on his monocle. The feed shows the creature being unloaded from the Ultras’ shuttle into the special holding pen Grafenwalder has already prepared. The beetle-like forms of armoured keepers poke and prod the recalcitrant animal with ten-metre stun-rods. The huge serpentine form writhes and bellows, flashing its attack eyes each time it exposes the roof of its mouth.

‘Must have been a difficult catch, Captain. Locating one is supposed to be difficult enough, let alone trapping and transporting—’

‘The capture was handled by a third party,’ Shallice informs him, with dry indifference. ‘I have no knowledge of the procedures involved, or of the particular difficulties encountered.’

While the keepers pacify the animal, technicians snip tissue samples and hasten them into miniature bio-analysers. So far they’ve seen nothing that suggests it isn’t the real thing.

‘I take it there were no problems with the freezing?’

‘Freezing always carries a risk, especially when the underlying biology is nonterrestrial. We only guarantee that the animal appears to behave the same way now as when it was captured.’

Shallice is a typical Ultra: a cyborg human adapted for the extreme rigours of prolonged interstellar flight. His sleek red servo-powered exoskeleton is decorated with writhing green neon dragons. Cagelike metal ribs emerge from the Ultra’s waxy white sternum, smeared with vivid blue disinfectant where they puncture the skin. The Ultra’s limbs are blade-thin; his skull a squeezed hatchet capable of only a limited range of expression. He smells faintly of ammonia, breathes like a broken bellows and his voice is a buzzing, waspish approximation of human speech.

‘Whoever that third party was, they must have been damned good.’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘Last I heard, no one has ever captured a live hamadryad. Not for very long, anyway.’

Shallice can’t hide his scorn. ‘Your news is old. There had been at least three successful captures before we left Sky’s Edge.’ He pauses, fearing perhaps that he may have soured the deal. ‘Of course,’ he continues, ‘this is a far larger hamadryad . . . an adult, almost ready for tree-fusion. The others were juveniles, and they did not continue to grow once they were in captivity.’

‘You’re right: I need to keep better informed.’ At that moment the news scrolls onto his monocle: his specialists have cross-matched samples from the animal against archived hamadryad genetic material, finding no significant points of deviation. ‘Well, Captain,’ he says agreeably, ‘it looks as if we have closure on this one. You must be in quite a hurry to get back into safe space, away from the Rust Belt.’

‘We’ve other business to attend to before we have that luxury,’ Shallice tells him. ‘You’re not our only client around Yellowstone. ’ The Ultra’s eyes narrow to calculating slits. ‘As a matter of fact, we have another hamadryad to deliver.’ Before Grafenwalder responds, the Ultra raises a servo-assisted hand. ‘Not a fully grown sample like your own. A much less mature animal. Yours will still be unique in that sense.’

Anger rises in Grafenwalder like a hot, boiling tide. ‘But it won’t be the only hamadryad around Yellowstone, will it?’

‘The other one will probably die. It will certainly not grow any larger.’

‘You misled me, Captain. You promised exclusivity.’

‘I did no such thing. I merely said that no one else would be offered an adult.’

Grafenwalder knows Ultras too well to doubt that Shallice is telling the truth. They may be unscrupulous, but they usually stay within the strict letter of a contract.

‘This other collector . . . you wouldn’t mind telling me who it is, would you?’

‘That would be a violation of confidentiality.’

‘Come now, Captain - if someone else gets their hands on a hamadryad, they’re hardly going to keep it a secret. At least not within the Circle.’

Shallice weighs this point for several long moments, his alloy ribs flexing with each laboured breath. ‘The collector’s name is Ursula Goodglass. She owns a habitat in the low belt. Doubtless you know the name.’

‘Yes,’ Grafenwalder says. ‘Vaguely. She’s been nosing around the Circle for some time, but I wouldn’t call her a full member just yet. Her collection’s nothing to speak of, by all accounts.’

‘Perhaps that will change when she has her hamadryad.’

‘Not when the Circle learns there’s a bigger one here. Did you let her think she’d be getting something unique as well, Captain?’

Shallice makes a sniffing sound. ‘The contract was watertight.’

On the video feed, the animal is being coaxed deeper into its pen. Now and then it rears up to strike against its tormentors, moving with deceptive speed.

‘Let’s not play games, Captain. How much is she paying you for her sample?’

‘Ten thousand.’

‘Then I’ll pay you fifteen not to hand it over, on top of what I’m already paying you.’

‘Out of the question. We have an arrangement with Goodglass.’

‘You’ll tell a little white lie. Say it didn’t thaw out properly, or that something went wrong afterwards.’

Shallice thinks this over, his hatchet-head cocking this way and that inside the metal chassis of the exoskeleton. ‘She might ask to see the corpse—’

‘I absolutely insist on it. I want her to know what she nearly got her hands on.’

‘A deception will place us at considerable risk. Fifteen would not be sufficient. Twenty, on the other hand—’

‘Eighteen, Captain, and that’s as high as I go. If you walk out of here without accepting the deal, I’ll contact Goodglass and tell her you were at least giving it the time of day.’

‘Eighteen it is, then,’ Shallice says, after a suitable pause. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Mister Grafenwalder. You would make a good Ultra.’

Grafenwalder shrugs off the insult and reaches out a hand to Captain Shallice. When his fingers close around the Ultra’s, it’s like shaking hands with a cadaver.

‘I’d love to say it’s been a pleasure doing business.’

Later, he watches their shuttle depart his habitat and thread its way through the debris-infested Rust Belt, moving furtively between the major debris-swept orbits. He wonders what the Ultras make of the old place, given the changes that have afflicted it since their last trip through the system.

Good while it lasted, as people tend to say these days.

Oddly, though, Grafenwalder prefers things the way they are now. All things told, he came out well. Neither his body nor his habitat had depended on nanomachines, so it was only the secondary effects of the plague that were of concern to him. The area in which he had invested his energies prior to the crisis - the upgrading of habitat security systems - now proves astonishingly lucrative amongst the handful of clients able to afford his services. In lawless times, people always want higher walls.

There’s something else, though. Ever since the plague hit, Grafenwalder has slept easier at night. He’s at a loss to explain why, but the catastrophe - as bad as it undoubtedly was for Yellowstone and its environs - seems to have triggered some seismic shift in his own peace of mind. He remembers being anxious before; now - most of the time, at least - he only has the memory of anxiety.

At last his radar loses track of the Ultra shuttle, and it’s only then that he realises his error. He should have asked to see the other hamadryad before paying the captain to kill it. Not because he thinks it might not ever have existed - he’s reasonably sure it did - but because he has no evidence at all that it wasn’t already dead.

He permits himself a bittersweet smile. Next time, he won’t make that kind of mistake. And at least he has his hamadryad.

Grafenwalder walks alone through his bestiary. It’s night, by the twenty-six-hour cycle of Yellowstone standard time, and the exhibits are mostly dimmed. The railed walkway that he follows glows a subdued red, winding between, under and over the vast cages, tanks and pits. Many of the creatures are asleep, but some stir or uncoil at his approach, while others never sleep. Things study his passage with dim, resentful intelligence: just enough to know that he is their captor. Occasionally something throws itself at its restraints, clanging against cage bars or shuddering against hardened glass. Things spit and lash. There are distressing calls; laughable attempts at vocalisation.

Not all of the animals are animals, technically speaking. About half the exhibits in the bestiary are creatures like the hamadryad: alien organisms that evolved on the handful of known life-sustaining worlds beyond the First System. There are slime-scrapers from Grand Teton; screech-mats from Fand; more than a dozen different organisms from the jungles of Sky’s Edge, including the hamadryad itself.

But the other half of the collection is more problematic. It’s the half that could get him into serious trouble if the agents of the law came calling. It’s where he keeps the real monsters: the things that might once have been human. There is the specimen he once bought from some other Ultras: a former crewman, apparently, who had been transformed far beyond the usual Ultra norms. Major areas of brain function had been trowelled out and replaced with crude neural modules, until the only remaining instinct was a slathering urge to mutilate and kill. His limbs are viciously specialised weapons, his bone growth modified to produce horns and armoured plaques. Grafenwalder can only guess that the man was meant to be some kind of berserker, to be used in acts of piracy where energy weapons might be unwise. Eventually he must have become unmanageable. Now it amuses Grafenwalder to provoke the man into futile killing frenzies.

Then there is the hyperpig variant his contacts located for him in the bowels of Chasm City: one of a kind, apparently; a rare genetic deviation from the standard breed. The woman’s right side is perfectly human, but her left side is all pig. Brain function lies somewhere between animal and human. She sometimes tries to talk to him, but the compromised layout of her jaw renders her attempts at speech as frenzied, unintelligible grunts. At other times, neural implants leave her docile, easily controlled. On the rare occasions when he has guests, Grafenwalder has her serve dinner. She shuffles in presenting her human side, then turns to reveal her true ancestry. Grafenwalder treasures his guests’ reactions with a thin, observant smile.

Then there is the psychotic dolphin that lives in near-permanent darkness, its body showing evidence of crude cybernetic tampering. Its origin is unclear, its age even more so, but the animal’s endless, all-consuming rage is beyond question. Grafenwalder has dropped sensors into the animal’s scarred cortex, hooked into a visual display system. The slightest external stimulus becomes amplified into a kaleidoscopic light show, like the Devil’s own firework display. Circuits drop the visual patterns back into the dolphin’s mind. As an after-dinner treat, Grafenwalder encourages his guests to torment the dolphin into ever more furious cycles of anger.

There are many other exhibits; almost too many for Grafenwalder to remember. Not all are of interest to him now, and there are some that he has not visited for many years. His keepers take care of the creatures’ needs, only bothering him when something needs specialised or expensive medical intervention and his permission must be sought. Perhaps the hamadryad will turn out to be another of those waning fancies, although he thinks it unlikely.

But there is one holding pen that remains unoccupied. He’s walking over it now, hands on either side of the railed bridge that spans the empty abyss. It is a deep, ceramic-lined tank that will eventually be filled with cold water under many atmospheres of pressure. At the bottom of the tank is a rocky surface that is designed to be punctuated by thermal hotspots, gushing noxious gases. When it is activated, the environment in the tank will form a close match to conditions inside the ice-shrouded ocean of Europa, the little moon of Jupiter in the First System.

But first, Grafenwalder needs an occupant for the tank. That’s the fundamental problem. He knows what he has in mind, but finding one of the elusive creatures is proving trickier than he expected. There are even some who doubt that the Denizens ever existed; let alone that he might find a surviving specimen now, in another system and nearly two hundred years after their supposed heyday. Yet there are enough shards of encouragement to keep him hopeful. He has subtle feelers out, and every now and then one of them twitches with a nugget of information. His trusted contacts know that he is looking for one, and that he will pay very well upon delivery. And deep inside himself he knows that the Denizens were real, that they lived and breathed and that it is not absurd that one may have survived into the present era.

He must have one. Although he would never admit it, he would gladly trade the rest of his bestiary for that one exhibit. And even as he acknowledges that truth within himself, he still cannot say why the creature matters so much.

Orbiting the inner fringe of the Rust Belt, backdropped by the choleric face of Yellowstone itself, Goodglass’s habitat is a wrinkled walnut of unprepossessing dimensions. Grafenwalder’s shuttle docks at a polar berthing nub, where a dozen similar vehicles are already clamped. He recognises more than half of them as belonging to collectors of his acquaintance.

After running some cursory security checks, a silverback gorilla escorts him deeper into the miniature world. The habitat is a cored-out asteroid, excavated by fusion torches and stuffed with a warren of pressurised domiciles wrapped around a modest central airspace. A spinney of free-fall trees keeps the self-regulating ecosystem ticking over, with only a minimal dependence on plague-vulnerable machinery. There are no servitors anywhere, only adapted animals like the silverback. The air smells mulchy, saturated with microscopic green organisms. Grafenwalder sneezes into his handkerchief and makes a mental note to have his lungs swapped out and filtered when he returns home.

Goodglass offers cocktails to her assembled guests. They’re standing in an antechamber to her bestiary, in a part of the habitat that has been spun for gravity. The polished floor is a matrix of black and white tiles, each of which has been inlaid with a luminous red fragment of a much larger picture. As the guests stand around, the tiles slowly shift and reorient themselves.

Grafenwalder goes with the flow, letting the tiles slide him from encounter to encounter. He makes small talk with the other collectors, filing gossip and rumour. All the while he’s checking out his host, measuring her against his expectations. Ursula Goodglass is a small woman of baseline-human appearance, devoid of any obvious biomodifications. She wears a one-piece purple-black outfit with flared sleeves, rising to a stiff-necked collar upon which her hairless head sits like a rare egg. She possesses an attractively impish face with a turned-up nose. He could like her, if he didn’t already detest her.

Presently, as he knew they must, the tiles bring them together. He bows his head and takes her black-gloved hand.

‘It’s good of you to come, Mister Grafenwalder,’ she says. ‘I know how busy you are, and I wasn’t really expecting you to be able to find the time.’

‘Carl, please,’ he says, oozing charm. ‘And don’t imagine I’d have been able to stay away. Your invitation sounded intriguing. It’s so much more difficult to turn up anything new these days, the way things have gone. I can’t imagine what it is you have for us.’

‘I just hope you won’t be disappointed.’

‘I won’t,’ he says, with heavy emphasis. ‘Of that I’m sure.’

‘I want you to understand,’ she begins, before glancing away nervously, ‘it’s not that I’m trying to compete with you, or upstage you. I’ve too much respect for you for that.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. A little healthy rivalry never hurt anyone. What good is a collection unless there’s another one to lend it contrast?’

She smiles uncertainly, measuring him as much as he is measuring her. He can feel the pressure of her scrutiny: cool and steady as a refrigeration laser.

Fine lines crisscross her skull: snow-white sutures that remind him of the fracture patterns in the ice of Europa, even though he has never visited First System. The scars are evidence of emergency surgery performed in the heat of the Melding Plague, when it became necessary for the rich to rid themselves of their neural implants. Now Goodglass wears them as a symbol of former status.

‘I’d like you to meet my husband,’ she says as a palanquin glides up to them across the shifting tiled floor. Grafenwalder blinks back surprise: he’d noticed the palanquin before, but had assumed it belonged to one of the other guests. ‘Edric, this is Carl,’ she says.

‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ the palanquin answers, the piping voice issuing from a speaker grille set halfway up the front of the armoured cabinet. The palanquin has the shape of a slender, flat-topped pyramid, its bronze sides flanged by cooling ribs and sensor studs. An oval window set into the front, just above the speaker grille, is too dark to afford more than a vague impression of Edric Goodglass. ‘I hope this encumbrance doesn’t make you ill at ease, Mister Grafenwalder,’ the occupant tells him.

‘Hardly,’ he says. ‘I’ve used palanquins myself, for business in Chasm City. They tell me my blood has been scrubbed of machines, but you can’t ever be too careful.’

‘In my case I never leave my palanquin,’ Edric says. ‘I still carry all the bodily machines I had at the time of the plague. It would only take a tiny residual trace to kill me.’

Grafenwalder swirls his drink, stepping nimbly from one moving tile to another. ‘It must be intolerable.’

‘It’s my own fault. I was too slow when it counted. When the plague hit, I hesitated. I should have had the surgery fast and dirty, the way my wife did. She was braver than I; less convinced it was all about to blow over. Now I can’t even risk the surgery. I’d have to leave the palanquin before they opened me up, and that alone would expose me to unacceptable risk.’

‘But surely the top hospitals—’

‘None will give me the cast-iron guarantee I require. Until one of them can state categorically that there is a zero risk of plague infection, I will remain in this thing.’

‘You might be in for a long wait.’

‘If I’ve learned anything from Ursula, it’s the value of patience. She’s the very model of it.’

Grafenwalder shoots a sidelong glance at Ursula Goodglass, wondering what their marriage must be like. Clearly sex isn’t on the cards, but he doubts that it was ever the main interest in their lives. Games, especially those of prestige and subterfuge, are amongst the chief entertainments of the Rust Belt moneyed.

‘Well, I suppose I shouldn’t keep people waiting any longer,’ the woman says. She drops her empty glass to the floor, where it vanishes into one of the black tiles as if it had met no resistance, and then claps her hands three times. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she begins, voice raised an octave higher than when they had been speaking, ‘thank you very much for coming here today. Some of you have visited before; some of you are newcomers to my habitat. Some of you will know a little about me, some of you next to nothing. I do not believe that any of us would say that we are close friends. All of us in the Circle have one thing in common, though: we collect. It is what we live for; what makes us who we are. My own bestiary is modest by the standards of some, but I am nonetheless immensely proud of my latest acquisition. There is nothing else like it in this system; nor is there likely to be for a very long time. Please join me now - I believe I have something you are going to find very, very interesting.’

With that, a pair of thick metal doors open in one wall of the room, hissing wide on curved pistons. Goodglass and her husband lead the way, with the rest of the party trailing behind. Grafenwalder chooses to remain close by the couple, feigning curiosity.

She can’t just show off the hamadryad. First they have to endure a short but tedious tour of the rest of her bestiary, or at least that part of it she plans to show them today. None of it is of the slightest interest to Grafenwalder, and even the other guests merely feign polite interest. By turns, though, they arrive at the main event. The party gathers on a railed ledge high above a darkened pit. Grafenwalder knows what’s coming, but keeps his expression blankly expectant. Goodglass makes a little speech, dropping hints about the type of specimen she’s obtained, how difficult it’s been to capture and transport it, alluding once or twice to its planet of origin: clue enough for those in the know. Pricking his ears, Grafenwalder makes out speculative whispers from his fellow collectors. One or two are ahead of Goodglass.

‘Unfortunately,’ she says, ‘my exhibit did not arrive intact. It suffered some physiological trauma during its journey here: cryogenic damage to its tissues and nervous system. But it is still alive. With some intervention, my experts have restored much of its basic functional repertoire. In all significant respects, it is still a living hamadryad: the first you will ever see.’

She throws the lights, illuminating the creature in the pit. By then, Grafenwalder has a bad taste in his mouth. The hamadryad is much smaller than his adult-phase example, but it isn’t dead. It’s moving: great propulsive waves sliding up and down its concertina body as it writhes and coils from one end of the pit to the other, thrashing like a severed electrical line.

‘It’s alive,’ he says quietly.

Goodglass looks at him sharply. ‘Were you expecting otherwise? ’

‘It’s just that when you said how much difficulty you’d gone to—’ But by then his words are drowned out by the demands of the other guests, all of whom have questions for Goodglass. Lysander Carroway starts applauding, encouraging the others to join in.

Grafenwalder notches his hatred a little higher, even as he joins in the applause with effete little hand-claps.

He steps back from the railing, giving Goodglass her moment in the sun. All the while, he studies the hamadryad, trying to figure out what must have happened. As much as he dislikes Ultras, he can’t believe that Captain Shallice would have cheated him so nakedly. That’s when Grafenwalder sees his angle, and knows he can come out of this even better than he was expecting.

He lets the interested chat simmer down, then coughs just loudly enough to let everyone know he has something to contribute.

‘It’s very impressive,’ he says. ‘For an intermediate-phase sample, at any rate.’

Goodglass fixes him with narrowing eyes, dimly aware of what must be coming. Even the palanquin spins around, presenting its dark window to him.

‘You know of other samples, Carl?’ Ursula asks.

‘One, anyway. But before we get into that . . . you mentioned shipping difficulties, didn’t you?’

‘Normal complications associated with reefersleep procedures as applied to nonterrestrial organisms,’ she says.

‘What kind of complications?’

‘I told you already - tissue damage—’

‘Yes, but how extensive was it? When the animal was revived from reefersleep, in what way did it exhibit signs of having been injured? Were its movements impaired, its hunting patterns atypical?’

‘None of that,’ she says.

‘Then you’re saying the animal was fine?’

‘No,’ she says icily. ‘The animal was dead.’

Grafenwalder twitches back his head in feigned confusion. ‘I know hamadryad biology is complex, but I didn’t know that they could be brought back from death.’

‘Reefersleep is a kind of death,’ Goodglass says.

‘Well, yes. If you want to split hairs. Things are usually alive after they’ve been thawed, though: that’s more or less the point. But the hamadryad wasn’t alive, was it? It was dead. It’s still dead.’

Lysander Carroway shakes her head emphatically. ‘It’s alive, Grafenwalder. Use your bloody eyes.’

‘It’s being puppeted,’ Grafenwalder says. ‘Isn’t it, Ursula? That’s a dead animal with electrodes in it. You’re making it twitch like a frog’s leg.’

Goodglass fights hard to keep her composure: he can see the pulse of a vein on the side of her skull. ‘I never actually said it was alive. I merely said it had the full behavioural repertoire of a living hamadryad.’

‘You said it was living.’

Her husband answers for her. ‘They don’t have brains, Grafenwalder. They’re more like plants. It eats and shits. What more do you want?’

Choosing his moment expertly, he offers a disappointed shrug. ‘I suppose it has a certain comedic value.’

‘Come now,’ Michael Fayrfax says. ‘She’s shown us a hamadryad, more than most of us will ever see. What does it matter if it isn’t technically alive?’

‘I think it matters a lot,’ Grafenwalder says. ‘That’s why I’ve gone to so much trouble to obtain a living specimen. Bigger than that, too. Mine’s adult-phase. They don’t come any larger.’

‘He’s bluffing,’ Goodglass says. ‘If he had a hamadryad, he’d have shown it off already.’

‘I assure you I have one. I just wasn’t ready to exhibit it yet.’

She still looks sceptical. ‘I don’t believe you. Why wait until now?’

‘I wanted to be sure the animal had settled down; that I’d ironed out any difficulties with its biology. Keeping one of those things alive is quite a challenge, especially when they’re adult-phase: the whole dietary pattern starts shifting.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘You can see it, if you want to.’

The scepticism begins to crack, the fear that he might not be lying breaking through. ‘When?’

‘Whenever you like.’ He turns to the other guests and extends his hands expansively. ‘All of you, of course. You know where I live. How about the day after tomorrow? I couldn’t possibly fake one by then, could I?’

Grafenwalder is riding his shuttle back home from the Goodglass bestiary when he receives an incoming communication. It appears to be transmitting from within the Rust Belt, but the shuttle can’t pinpoint the origin of the signal any more precisely than that. For a moment Grafenwalder thinks it may be a threat from Goodglass, even though he credits her with fractionally more sense than that.

But it’s not Goodglass’s face that fills his cabin wall when he answers the communication. It’s nobody he recognises. A man, with a cherubic moon-face and a thick lower lip, glossy with saliva, that sags to the right. He wears a panama hat over tight dark curls, and a finely patterned harlequin coat hangs over his heavy frame in billowing folds. A glass box dangles around his neck, rattling with the implants he must once have carried in his skull. He is backdropped by a sumptuously upholstered chair, rising high as a throne.

‘Mister Grafenwalder? My name is Rifugio. I don’t think our paths have crossed before.’

‘What do you want?’

There’s barely any timelag. ‘I am a broker, Mister Grafenwalder: a wheeler-dealer, a fixer, a go-getter. When someone needs something - especially something that may require delicate extralegal manoeuvring - I’m the man to come to.’

Grafenwalder moves to kill the communication. ‘You still haven’t told me what you want.’

‘It is not about what I want. It is about what you want. Specifically, a certain bio-engineered organism.’ Rifugio scratches the tip of his bulbous nose. ‘You’ve been as discreet as matters will allow, I’ll grant you that - but you’ve still put out word concerning the thing you seek. Now that word has reached my ears, and, fortuitously, I happen to be the man who can help you.’ Now Rifugio leans closer, the rim of his hat tipping across his brow, and lowers his voice. ‘I have one, and I am willing to sell it. At a price, of course - I must pay off my own informants and contacts. But knowing what you paid for the hamadryad, I am confident that you can afford twice as much to get the thing you want so badly.’

‘Maybe I don’t want one that much.’

Rifugio leans back, looking nonplussed. ‘In that case . . . I won’t trouble you again. Good day to you, sir.’

‘Wait,’ Grafenwalder says hastily. ‘I’m interested. But I need to know more.’

‘I wouldn’t expect otherwise. We’ll have to meet before we take matters any further, of course.’

Grafenwalder doesn’t like it, but the man is right. ‘I’ll want a DNA sample.’

‘I’ll give you DNA and more: cell cultures, tissue scrapings - almost enough to make one for yourself. We’ll need to meet in person, of course: I wouldn’t trust material of such sensitivity to an intermediary.’

‘Of course not,’ Grafenwalder says. ‘But we’ll meet on neutral ground. There’s a place I’ve used before. How does Chasm City grab you?’

Rifugio looks pleased. ‘Name the time and the place.’

‘I can squeeze you in tomorrow,’ Grafenwalder says.

He doesn’t care for Chasm City, at least not these days, but it’s a useful enough place to do business. Complex technology doesn’t work reliably, making every transaction cumbersome. But that has its benefits, too. Weapons that might just work in the Rust Belt can’t be trusted in CC. Eavesdropping and other forms of deception become risky. It’s best not to try anything too clever, and everyone knows that.

The one thing Grafenwalder isn’t worried about is catching something. His palanquin is the best money can buy, and even if something did get through its ten centimetres of nano-secure hermetic armour, it would have a hard time finding anything in his body to touch and corrupt. The armour reassures him, though, and the privacy of the cabinet shields him from the awkwardness of a face-to-face encounter. As he makes his way through the city, following other palanquins along the winding path of an elevated private road through the high Canopy, he pages once more through the sparse information he has managed to piece together on Rifugio.

Grafenwalder has the feeling that he’s trying to pin down a ghost. There is a broker named Rifugio, and judging by what he has already achieved, he would appear to have the necessary contacts to procure a Denizen. But it puzzles Grafenwalder that their paths haven’t intersected before. Granted, it’s a big, turbulent system, with a lot of scope for new players to emerge from hitherto obscurity. But Grafenwalder has been courting men like Rifugio for years. There should have been at least a blip on his radar before now.

The palanquins duck and dive through the mad architecture of the Canopy. All around, buildings that were once cleanly geometric have been turned into the threatening forms of haunted trees, their grasping branches locking bony fingers high over the lower levels of the city. Epsilon Eridani is still above the horizon, but so little sunlight penetrates the smog-brown atmosphere or the muck-smeared panels of the latticework dome that it might as well be twilight. The lights are on all over the city, save for the seductive absence of the chasm itself. Dark threads dangle from the larger trunks of the Canopy, like cannon-blasted rigging. Brachiating cable cars swing through the tangle like drunk gibbons. Compared to the ordered habitats of the surviving Rust Belt, it’s a scene from hell. And yet people still live here. People still make lives for themselves; still fall in love and find somewhere they can think of as home. With a lurch of cognitive vertigo that he’s already experienced a few times too many, Grafenwalder remembers that there are people down there who have no memory of how things used to be.

He knows it ought to horrify him that human beings could ever adapt to such a catastrophic downturn in their fortunes, even though people have been doing that kind of thing for most of history. Yet part of him feels a strange kinship with those survivors. He sleeps easier since the plague, and he doesn’t know why. It’s as if the crisis snapped shut part of his life that contained something threatening and loose, something that was in danger of reaching him.

In an unsettling way, though, he feels that Rifugio’s call has reopened that closed book, just a crack. And that whatever was keeping him from sleep is stalking the edge of his imagination once more.

They meet in private rooms in the outermost branch of a Canopy structure near Escher Heights. The building is dead now, incapable of further change, and its owner - a man named Ashley Chabrier, with whom Grafenwalder did business years ago - has cut through the floor, walls and ceilings of the reshaped husk and emplaced enormous glass panels, veined in the manner of insect wings and linked together by leathery fillets of the old growth. It affords a spectacular view, but even Grafenwalder has misgivings as he steers his palanquin across the reflectionless floor, with the fires of the Mulch burning two kilometres below. Even if he survived the fall, the Mulch inhabitants wouldn’t take kindly to the likes of him dropping in.

Rifugio, contrary to Grafenwalder’s expectations, has not arrived by palanquin. He stands with his legs wide, his generous paunch supported by a levitating girdle, a pewter-coloured belt ringed by several dozen tiny and silent ducted fan thrusters. His slippered feet skim the glass with their up-curled toes. As he approaches Grafenwalder, he barely moves his legs.

‘I have brought what I promised,’ Rifugio says, by way of greeting. He’s carrying a small malachite-green case, dangling from the pudgy fingers of his right hand.

‘Is it all right if I say the word “Denizen” now?’ Grafenwalder asks.

‘You just said it, so I think the answer has to be yes. You’re still suspicious, I see.’

‘I’ve every right to be suspicious. I’ve been looking for one of these things for longer than I care to remember.’

‘So I hear.’

‘There have been times when I have doubted that they exist now; times when I doubted that they ever existed.’

‘Yet you haven’t stopped searching. Those doubts never became all-consuming.’ Rifugio is very close to the palanquin now. As a matter of routine, it deep-scans him for concealed weapons or listening devices. It finds nothing alarming. Even so, Grafenwalder flinches when the man suddenly lifts the case and pops the lid. ‘Here is what I have for you, Mister Grafenwalder: enough to silence those qualms of yours.’

The case is lined with black foam. Glass vials reside in neat little partitions. The palanquin probes the case and detects only biological material: exactly what Rifugio promised. With his left hand, Rifugio digs out one of the vials and holds it up like a magic charm. Dark red fluid sloshes around inside.

‘Here. Take this and run an analysis on it. It’s Denizen blood, with Denizen DNA.’

Grafenwalder hesitates for a moment, despite the assurances from his palanquin that it can deal with any mere biological trickery. Then he permits the machine to extend one of its manipulators, allowing Rifugio to pop the vial into its cushioned grasp. The machine withdraws the manipulator into its analyser alcove, set just beneath the frontal window. Part of the biological sample will be incinerated and passed through a gas chromatograph, where its isotopic spectrum will be compared against the data on Denizen blood Grafenwalder has already compiled. At the same time, the DNA will be amplified, speed-sequenced and cross-referenced against his best-guess for the Denizen genetic sequence. There’s no physical connection between the analyser and the interior of the palanquin, so Grafenwalder cannot come to harm. Even so, he wills the analyser to complete its duties as swiftly as possible.

‘Well, Mister Grafenwalder? Does it meet with your satisfaction? ’

The analyser starts graphing up its preliminary conclusions: the material looks genuine enough.

Grafenwalder keeps the excitement from his voice. ‘I’d like to know where you found it. That would help me decide whether or not I believe you have the genuine article.’

‘The Denizen came into my possession via Ultras. They’d been keeping it as a pet, aboard their ship.’

‘Shallice’s men, by any chance?’

‘I obtained the Denizen from Captain Ritter, of the Number Theoretic. I’ve had no dealings with Shallice, although I know the name. As for Ritter - in so far as one can ever believe anything said by an Ultra - I was told that he acquired the Denizen during routine trade with another group of Ultras, in some other god-forsaken system. Apparently the Denizen was kept aboard ship as a pet. The Ultras had little appreciation of its wider value.’

‘How did Ultras get hold of it in the first place?’

‘I have no idea. Perhaps only the Denizen can tell us the whole story.’

‘I’ll need better provenance than that.’

‘You may never get it. We’re talking about beings created in utmost secrecy two hundred years ago. Their very existence was doubted even then. The best you can hope for is a plausible sequence of events. Clearly, the Denizen must have left Europa’s ocean after Cadmus-Asterius and the other hanging cities fell. If it passed into the hands of starfarers - Ultras, Demarchists, Conjoiners, it doesn’t matter which - it would have had a means to leave the system, and spend much of the intervening time either frozen or at relativistic speed, or both. It need not have experienced anything like the full bore of those two hundred years. Its memories of Europa may be remarkably sharp.’

‘Have you asked it?’

‘It doesn’t speak. Not all of them were created with the gift of language, Mister Grafenwalder. They were engineered to work as underwater slaves: to take orders rather than to issue them. They had to be intelligent, but they didn’t need to answer back.’

‘Some of them had language.’

‘The early prototypes, and those that were designed to mediate with their human overseers. Most of them were dumb.’

Grafenwalder allows the disappointment to wash over him, then bottles it away. He’d always hoped for a talker, but Rifugio is correct: it could never be guaranteed. And perhaps there is something in having one that won’t answer back, or plead. It’s going to be spending a lot of time in his tank, after all.

‘You’ll treat it with kindness, of course,’ Rifugio continues. ‘I didn’t liberate it from the Ultras just so it can become someone else’s pet, to be tormented between now and kingdom come. You’ll treat it as the sentient being it is.’

Grafenwalder sneers. ‘If you care so much, why not hand it over to the authorities?’

‘Because they’d kill it, and then go after anyone who knew of its existence. Demarchists made the Denizens in one of their darker moments. They’re more enlightened now - so they’d like us to think, anyway. They certainly wouldn’t want something like a living and breathing Denizen - a representative of a sentient slave race - popping out of history’s cupboard, not when they’re bending over backwards to score moral points over the Conjoiners.’

‘I’ll treat it fairly,’ Grafenwalder says.

At that moment the analyser announces that the blood composition and genetic material are both consistent with Denizen origin, to high statistical certainty. It’s not enough to prove that Rifugio has one, but it’s a large step in the right direction. Plenty of hoaxers have already fallen at this hurdle.

‘Well, Mister Grafenwalder? Have you reached a decision yet?’

‘I want to see the other samples.’

Rifugio fingers another vial from the case. ‘Skin tissue.’

‘I don’t have the means to run a thorough analysis on skin - not here anyway. Give me what you have, and I’ll take it back with me.’

Rifugio looks pained. ‘I’d hoped that we might reach agreement here and now.’

‘Then you hoped wrong. Unless you want to lower your price . . .’

‘I’m afraid that part of the arrangement isn’t negotiable. However, I’m willing to let you take these samples away.’ Rifugio snaps shut the lid. ‘As a further token of my goodwill, I’ll provide you with a moving image of the living Denizen. But I will expect a speedy decision in return.’

Grafenwalder’s palanquin takes the sealed case and stores it inside its bombproof cargo hatch. ‘You’ll get it. Don’t worry about that.’

‘Take me at my word, Mister Grafenwalder. You’re not the only collector with an eye for one of these monsters.’

Grafenwalder spends most of the return trip viewing the thirty-second movie clip, over and over again. It’s not the first time he’s seen moving imagery of something purporting to be a Denizen, but no other clip has withstood close scrutiny. This one is darker and grainier than some of the others, the swimming humanoid shifting in and out of focus, but there’s something eerily naturalistic about it, something that convinces him that it could be real. The Denizen looks plausible: it’s a monster, undoubtedly, but that monstrosity is the end result of logical design factors. It swims with effortless ease, propelling itself with the merest flick of the long fluked tail it wears in place of legs. It has arms, terminating in humanoid hands engineered for tool-use. Its head, when it swims towards the camera, merges seamlessly with its torso. It has eyes, very human eyes at that, but no nose, and its mouth is a smiling horizontal gash crammed with an unnerving excess of needle-sharp teeth. Looking at that movie, Grafenwalder feels more certain than ever that the creatures were real, and that at least one has survived. And as he studies the endlessly repeating thirty-second clip, he feels the closed book of his past creak open even wider. A question forms in his mind that he would rather not answer.

What exactly is it that he wants with the Denizen?

Things go tolerably well the next day, until the guests are almost ready to leave. They’ve seen the adult-phase hamadryad and registered due shock and awe. Grafenwalder is careful to remind them that, in addition to its size, this is also a living specimen, not some rotting corpse coaxed into a parodic imitation of life. Even Ursula Goodglass, who has to endure this, registers stoic approval. ‘You were lucky,’ she tells Grafenwalder through gritted teeth. ‘You could just as easily have ended up with a dead one.’

‘But then I wouldn’t have tried to pretend it was alive,’ he tells her.

It’s Goodglass who has the last laugh today, however. She saves it until the guests are almost back aboard their shuttles.

‘Friends,’ she says, ‘what I’m about to mention in no way compares with the spectacle of an adult-phase hamadryad, but I have recently come into possession of something that I think you might find suitably diverting.’

‘Something we’ve already seen two days ago?’ asks Lysander Carroway.

‘No. I chose to keep it under wraps then, thinking my little hamadryad would be spectacle enough for one day. It’s never been seen in public before, at least not in its present state.’

‘Put us out of our misery,’ says Alain Couperin.

‘Drop by and see it for yourself,’ Goodglass says, with a teasing twinkle in her eye. ‘Any time you like. No need to make an appointment. But - please - employ maximum discretion. This is one exhibit that I really don’t want the authorities to know about.’

For a moment Grafenwalder wonders whether she has the Denizen. But surely Rifugio can’t have lost faith in the deal already, when they’ve barely opened negotiations.

But if not a Denizen - what?

He has to know, even if it means the indignity of another visit to her miserable little habitat.

When he arrives at the Goodglass residence, hers is the only shuttle docked at the polar nub. He’s a little uncomfortable with being the only guest, but Goodglass did say to drop in whenever he liked, and he has given her fair warning of his approach. He’s waited a week before taking the trip. Ten days would have been better, but after five he’d already started hearing that she has something special; something indisputably unique. In the meantime, he has run every conceivable test on the biological samples Rifugio gave him in Chasm City and received the same numbing result each time: Rifugio appears to be in possession of the genuine article. Yet Grafenwalder is still apprehensive about closing the deal.

Inside the habitat, he’s met by Goodglass and Edric, her palanquin-bound husband. The couple waste no time in escorting him to the new exhibit. Despite the indignities they have brought upon each other, it’s all smiles and strained politeness. No one so much as mentions hamadryads, dead or alive.

Grafenwalder isn’t quite sure what to expect, but he’s still surprised at the modest dimensions of the chamber Goodglass finally shows him. The walkway brings them level with the chamber’s floor, but there’s no armoured glass screen between them and the interior. Even with the lights dimmed, Grafenwalder can already make out an arrangement of tables, set in a U-formation like a series of laboratory benches. There are upright glassy things on the tables, but that’s as much as he can tell.

‘I was expecting something alive,’ he says quietly.

‘It is alive,’ she hisses back. ‘Or at least as alive as it ever was. Merely distributed. You’ll see in a moment.’

‘I thought you said it was dangerous.’

‘Potentially it would be, if it was ever put back together.’ She pauses and extends her hand across the gloomy threshold, as if beckoning to the nearest bench. Grafenwalder catches the bright red line on her hand where it has broken a previously invisible laser beam, sweeping up and down across the aperture. Quicker than an eyeblink, a heavy armoured shield slams down on the cell. ‘But that’s not to stop it getting out,’ she says. ‘It’s to prevent anyone taking it and trying to put it back together. There are some who’d attempt it, just for the novelty.’

She pulls back her hand. After an interval, the shield whisks up into the ceiling.

‘Whatever it is, you’re serious about it,’ Grafenwalder says, intrigued despite himself.

‘I have to be. You don’t take monsters lightly.’

She waves on the lights. The room brightens, but although he can now make out the benches and the equipment upon them, Grafenwalder is none the wiser.

‘You’ll have to help me here,’ he says.

‘It’s all right. I wouldn’t know what to make of it either if I didn’t know what I was looking at.’

‘My God,’ he says wonderingly, as his eyes alight on one of the larger glass containers. ‘Isn’t that a brain?’

Goodglass nods. ‘What was once a human brain, yes. Before he - before it - started doing things to itself, throwing pieces of its humanity away like a child flinging toys from a sandpit. But what’s left of the brain is still alive, still conscious and still capable of sensory perception.’ A mischievous smile appears on her face. ‘It knows we’re here, Carl. It’s aware of us. It’s listening to us, watching us, and wondering how it can escape and kill us.’

He allows himself to take in the grisly scene, now that its full implication is clearer. The brain is being kept alive in a liquid-filled vat, nourished by scarlet and green cables that ram into the grey-brown dough of the exposed cerebellum. A stump of spinal cord curls under the brain like an inverted question mark. It looks pickled and vinegary, cobwebbed with ancient growth and tiny filaments of spidery machinery. Next to the flask is a humming grey box whose multiple analog dials twitch with a suggestion of ongoing mental processes. But that’s not all. There are dozens of glass cases, linked to other boxes, and the boxes to each other, and each case holds something unspeakable. In one, an eye hangs suspended in a kind of artificial socket, equipped with little steering motors. The eye is looking straight at Grafenwalder, as is its lidless twin on another bench. Their optic nerves are knotted ropes of fatty white nerve tissue. In another flask floats a pair of lungs, hanging like a puffed-up kite. They expand and contract with a slow, wheezing rhythm.

‘Who . . . ? What . . . ?’ he says, barely whispering.

‘Haven’t you guessed yet, Carl? Look over there. Look at the mask.’

He follows her direction. The mask sits at the end of the furthest table, on a black plinth. It’s less a mask than an entire skull, moulded in sleek silver metal. The face is handsome, in a streamlined, air-smoothed fashion, with an expression of calm amusement sculpted into the immobile lips and the blank silver surfaces that pass for eyes. It has strong cheekbones and a strong cleft chin. Between the lips is only a dark, grilled slot. The mask has a representation of human ears, and its crown is moulded with longitudinal silver waves, evoking hair that has been combed back and stiffened in place with lacquer.

Grafenwalder knows who the skull belongs to. There isn’t anyone alive around Yellowstone who wouldn’t recognise Dr Trintignant. All that’s missing is Trintignant’s customary black Homburg.

But Trintignant shouldn’t be here. Trintignant shouldn’t be anywhere. He died years ago.

‘This isn’t right,’ he says. ‘You’ve been duped . . . sold a fake. This can’t be him.’

‘It is. I have watertight provenance.’

‘But Trintignant hasn’t been seen around Yellowstone for years . . . decades. He’s supposed to have died when Richard Swift—’

‘I know about Richard Swift,’ Ursula Goodglass informs him. ‘I met him once - or what was left of him after Trintignant had completed his business. I wanted Swift for an exhibit - I was prepared to pay him for his time - but he left the system again. They say he went back to that place - the same world where Trintignant supposedly killed himself.’

Grafenwalder thinks back to what he remembers of the scandal. It had been all over Yellowstone for a few weeks. ‘But Swift brought back Trintignant’s remains. The doctor had dismantled himself, left a suicide note.’

‘That was his plan,’ Goodglass says witheringly. ‘That was what he wanted us to think - that he’d ended his own life upon completing his finest work.’

‘But he dismantled—’

‘He took himself apart in a way that implied suicide. But it was a methodical dismantling. The parts were stored in a fashion that always allowed for their eventual reassembly. Trintignant was too vain not to want to stay alive and see what posterity made of his creations. But with the Yellowstone authorities closing in on him, staying in one piece wasn’t an option.’

‘How did he end up here? Wouldn’t the authorities have been just as keen to get hold of his remains as his living self?’

‘He always had allies. Sponsors, I suppose you might call them. People who’d covertly admired his work. There’s always a market for freaks, Carl - and even more of a market for freak-makers. His friends whisked him away, out of the hands of what little authority was left here upon his return. Since then he’s passed from collection to collection, like a bad penny. He seems to bring bad luck. Perhaps I’m tempting fate just by keeping him here; tempting it even more by bringing him to this state of partial reanimation. ’ She smiles tightly. ‘We will see. If my fortunes take a dip, I shall pass Trintignant on to the next willing victim.’

‘You’re playing with fire.’

‘Then you don’t approve? I’d have expected you to applaud my audacity, Carl.’

Grafenwalder, despite himself, speaks something close to the truth. ‘I’m impressed. More than you can imagine. But I’m also alarmed that he’s being kept here.’

‘Alarmed. Why, exactly?’

‘You’re a newcomer to this game, Ursula. I’ve seen a little of your habitat now, enough to know that your security arrangements aren’t exactly top of the line.’

‘He’s in no danger of putting himself back together, Carl, unless you believe in telekinesis.’

‘I’m worried about what would happen if his admirers learn of his whereabouts. Some of them won’t be content just to know he’s being kept alive in pieces. They’ll want to take him, put him all the way back together.’

‘I don’t think anyone would be quite that foolish.’

‘Then you don’t know people. People like us, Ursula. How many collectors have you shown him to already?’

She tilts her head, looking at him along her up-curved nose. ‘Less than a dozen, including yourself.’

‘That’s already too many. I wouldn’t be surprised if word has already passed beyond the Circle. Don’t tell me you’ve shown him to Rossiter?’

‘Rossiter was the second.’

‘Then it’s probably already too late.’ He sighs, as if taking a great burden upon himself. ‘We don’t have much time. We need to make immediate arrangements to transport his remains to my habitat. They’ll be a lot safer there.’

‘Why would your place be any safer than mine?’

‘I design security systems. It’s what I do for a living.’

She appears to consider it, for a moment at least. Then she shakes her head. ‘No. It won’t happen. He’s staying here. I see where you’re coming from now, Carl. You don’t actually care about my security arrangements at all. It probably wouldn’t even bother you if Doctor Trintignant did escape back into Stoner society. It’s highly unlikely that you’d have ended up one of his victims, after all. You’ve got money and influence. It’s those poor souls down in the Mulch who’d need to watch their backs. That’s where he’d go hunting for raw material. What you can’t stand is the thought that he might be mine, not yours. I’ve got something you haven’t, something unique, something you can’t ever have, and it’s going to eat you from inside like acid.’

‘Suit yourself.’

‘I will. I always have. You made a dreadful mistake when you humiliated me, Carl, assuming you didn’t have a hand in what had already happened to the hamadryad.’

‘What are you saying? That I had something to do with the fact that Shallice stiffed you?’

He detects her hesitation. She comes perilously close to accusing him, but even here - even in this private cloister - there are limits that she knows better than to cross.

‘But you were glad of it, weren’t you?’ she presses.

‘I had the superior specimen. That’s all that ever mattered to me.’ With a renewed shudder of revulsion - and, he admits, something close to admiration - he turns again to survey the distributed remains of the notorious doctor. ‘You say he can hear us?’

‘Every word.’

‘You should kill him now. Take a hammer to his brain. Make sure he can never live again.’

‘Would you like that, Carl?’

‘It’s exactly what the authorities would do if they got hold of him.’

‘They’d give him a trial first, one imagines.’

‘He doesn’t deserve a trial. None of his victims had the benefit of justice.’

‘What history conveniently forgets,’ Goodglass says, ‘is that many of his so-called victims came to him willingly. He was not a monster to them, but the agent of the change they craved. He was the most brilliant transformative surgeon of our era. So what if society considered his creations obscene? So what if some of them regretted what they had freely asked him to do?’

‘You’re defending him now.’

‘Not defending him - just pointing out that nothing is ever that black and white. For years Trintignant was given tacit permission to continue his work. The authorities didn’t like him, but they accepted that he fulfilled a social need.’

Grafenwalder shakes his head - he’s seen and heard enough. ‘I thought you were exhibiting a monster, Ursula. Now it looks to me as if you’re sheltering a fugitive.’

‘I’m not, I assure you. Just because I have a balanced view of Trintignant doesn’t mean I don’t despise him. Here: let me offer you a demonstration.’ And with that Goodglass taps a command sequence into the air, disarming the security system. She is able to pass her hand through the laser-mesh without bringing down the armoured screen. ‘Walk over to the brain, Carl,’ she commands. ‘It isn’t a trap.’

‘I’d be happier if you walked with me.’

‘If you like.’

He hesitates longer than he’d like, long enough for her to notice, then takes a step into the enclosure. Goodglass is only a pace behind him. The eyeballs swivel to track him, triangulating with the smoothness of motorised cameras. He moves next to the bubbling brain vat. Up close, the brain looks too small to have been the wellspring of so much evil.

‘What am I supposed to look at?’

‘Not look at - do. You can inflict pain on him, if you wish. There’s a button next to the brain. It sends an electrical current straight into his anterior cingulate cortex.’

‘Isn’t he in pain already?’

‘Not especially. He re-engineered himself to allow for this dismantling. There may be some existential trauma, but I don’t believe he’s in any great discomfort from one moment to the next.’

Grafenwalder’s hand moves of its own volition, until it hovers above the electrical stimulator. He can feel its magnetic pull, almost willing his hand to lower. He wonders why he feels such a primal urge to bring pain to the doctor. Trintignant never hurt him; never hurt anyone he knew. All that he knows of Trintignant’s crimes is second-hand, distorted and magnified by time and the human imagination. That the doctor was tolerated, even encouraged, cannot seriously be doubted. He filled the hole in Yellowstone society where a demon was meant to fit.

‘What’s wrong, Carl? Qualms?’

‘How do I know this won’t send a jolt directly to his pleasure centre?’

‘Look at his spinal column. Watch it thrash.’

‘Spines don’t thrash.’

‘His does. Those little mechanisms—’

It’s all the encouragement he needs. He brings his hand down, holding the contact closed for a good five or six seconds. Under the brain, the stump of spinal matter twists and flexes like a rattlesnake’s tail. He can hear it scraping glass.

He raises his hand, watches the motion subside.

‘See,’ Goodglass says, ‘I knew you’d do it.’

Grafenwalder notices that there’s some kind of heavy medical tool next to the brain tank, a thing with a grip and a clawed alloy head. With his other hand he picks it up, testing its weight. The glass container looks invitingly fragile; the brain even more so.

‘Be careful,’ Goodglass says.

‘I could kill him now, couldn’t I? Put an end to him, for ever.’

‘Many would applaud you. But then you’d be providing him with a way out, an end to this existence. On the other hand, you could send another jolt of pain straight into his mind. What would you rather, Carl? Rid the world of Trintignant and spare him further pain, or let him suffer a little longer?’

He’s close to doing it; close to smashing the tool into the glass. As close as she is, Goodglass couldn’t stop him in time. And there would be something to be said for being the man who closed the book on Trintignant. But at the decisive instant something holds him back. Nothing that the doctor did has ever touched him personally, but he still feels a compulsion to join in his torment. And as the moment passes, he knows that he could never end the doctor’s life so cleanly, so mercifully, when pain is always an alternative.

Instead, he presses the button again, and holds it down longer this time. The spine thrashes impressively. Behind him, Ursula Goodglass applauds.

‘Good for you, Carl. I knew you’d do the right thing.’

The next two weeks are an endurance. Grafenwalder must sit tight-lipped as excited rumours circulate concerning Ursula Goodglass’s new exhibit. No one mentions Trintignant by name - that would be the height of crass indiscretion - but even those who have not yet visited her habitat can begin to guess at the nature of her new prize. Even the most level-headed commentators are engaged in a feverish round of praise-giving, seeking to outdo each other in the showering of plaudits. Even though she has only been in the collecting business for a little while, she has pulled off an astonishing coup. Attention is so heated that, for a day or two, the Circle must fend off the unwanted interest of a pair of authority investigators, still on Trintignant’s trail. The bribes alone would pay for a new habitat.

Grafenwalder’s adult-phase hamadryad, meanwhile, brings no repeat visits. Now that it has lost its novelty value to the other collectors, Grafenwalder feels his own interest in it waning. He thinks of it less and less, and has increasingly little concern for its welfare. When his keepers inform him that the animal is suffering from a dietary complaint, he doesn’t even bother to visit it. Three days later, when they tell him that the hamadryad has died, all he can think about is the money he paid Captain Shallice. For an hour or so he toys with the idea of bringing the dead thing back to life with electrodes, the way Goodglass animated her specimen, but the idea that he might be seen to be playing second fiddle to her rises in him like yellow bile. He gives orders that the animal be ejected into space, and can’t even bring himself to watch it happen.

Six hours later, he contacts Rifugio.

‘I was beginning to think I wouldn’t hear from you again, Mister Grafenwalder. If you’d left it much longer I wouldn’t have anything to sell you.’

Grafenwalder can hardly keep the excitement from his voice. ‘Then it’s still available? The terms still apply?’

‘I’m a man of my word,’ Rifugio answers. ‘The terms are the same. Does that mean we have a deal?’

‘I’ll want additional guarantees. If the specimen turns out to be something other than claimed—’

‘I’m selling it to you in good faith. Take it or leave it.’

He takes it, of course, as he had known he would before he placed the call. He’d have taken it even if Rifugio had doubled his asking price. A living, captive Denizen is the only thing that will take the shine off the Circle’s new fondness for Goodglass, and he must have it at all costs.

The arrangements for payment and handover are typically byzantine, as necessity demands. For all that he distrusts men like Rifugio, they must make a living as well, and protect themselves from the consequences of their activities. Grafenwalder, in turn, has his own stringent requirements. The shipping of the creature to Grafenwalder’s habitat must happen surreptitiously, and the flow of credit from one account to another must be untraceable. It is complicated, but by the same token both men have participated in many such dealings in the past, and the arrangements follow a certain well-rehearsed protocol. When the automated transport finally arrives, bearing its precious aquatic cargo, Grafenwalder is certain that nothing has gone amiss.

He has to fight past his own keepers to view the specimen for the first time. At first, he feels a flicker of mild disappointment: it’s a lot smaller than he was expecting, and it’s not just a trick of the light due to the glass walls of the holding tank. The Denizen isn’t much larger than a child.

But the disappointment doesn’t last long. In the flesh, the Denizen appears even more obviously real than the swimming creature in the movie clip. It’s sedated when it arrives, half its face and upper torso swallowed by a drug-administering breathing device. Rifugio’s consignment comes with detailed notes concerning the safe waking of the creature. First, Grafenwalder has it moved into the main viewing tank, now topped up with cold water under one hundred atmospheres of pressure. The water chemistry is now tuned to approximate conditions near one of the Europan thermal vents. He brings the creature to consciousness in utter darkness, and monitors its progress as it begins first to breathe for itself, and then to tentatively explore its surroundings. It swims lethargically at first, Grafenwalder viewing its moving body via heat-sensitive assassin’s goggles. By all accounts the Denizens have infrared sensitivity of their own, but the creature takes no heed of him, even when it passes very close to his vantage point.

After several minutes, the creature’s swimming becomes stronger. It must be adapting to the water, learning to breathe again. Grafenwalder watches the flick of its tail in mesmerised fascination. By now it has mapped the confines of its new home, testing the armoured glass with delicate sweeps of its fingertips. It is intelligent enough to know that nothing will be gained by striking the glass.

Grafenwalder has the main lights brought up and shone into the tank. He slips the assassin’s goggles up onto his brow. The creature attempts to swim away from the glare, but the glare follows it remorselessly. Its eyes are lidless, so it can do little except screen its face with one delicately webbed hand. The wide gash of its mouth opens in alarm or anger, or both, revealing rows of sharp little teeth.

Grafenwalder’s voice booms into the water, relayed to the creature by floating microphones.

‘I know you can hear me, and I know you can understand what I am saying to you. It is very important that you listen to what I am about to tell you.’

His voice appears to distress the creature as much as the bright light. With its other hand it tries to shield the whorl-like formation on the side of its head that is its ear. Grafenwalder doubts that it makes much difference. It must feel his voice in every cell of its body, ramming through it like a proclamation.

That was the effect he was going for.

‘You are in no danger,’ he says. ‘Nothing is going to happen to you, and nobody is going to hurt you. The people who would rather you were dead are not going to find you. You are in my care now, and I am going to make sure that you come to no harm. My name is Carl Grafenwalder, and I have been waiting a long time to meet you.’

The Denizen floats motionless, as if stunned by the force of his words. Perhaps that is exactly what has happened.

‘From now on, this is going to be your home,’ Grafenwalder continues. ‘I hope that you find the conditions satisfactory. I have done my best to simulate your place of birth, but I accept that there may be deficiencies. My experts will be striving to improve matters as best as they can, but for that they will need your assistance. We must all learn to communicate. I know you cannot speak, but I am sure we can make progress using sign language. Let us begin with something simple. I must know if you find your environment satisfactory in certain details: temperature, sulphur content, salinity, that kind of thing. You will need to answer my experts in the affirmative or negative. Nod your head if you understand me.’

Nothing happens. He judges that the Denizen is still conscious - he still catches the quick animation of its eyes behind the curtain of its hand - but it shows no indication of having understood him.

‘I said nod your head. If that is too difficult for you, make some other visible movement.’

But still there’s nothing. He has the lights dimmed again, and slips the assassin’s goggles down over his eyes once more. After a few moments, the infrared smear of the Denizen lowers its arm and assumes an alert but restful posture. Now that it has reacted to the absence of light, he brings the glare back and observes the creature cower against the glare’s return.

‘You prefer the darkness, don’t you? Well, I can make it dark again. All you have to do is show some sign that you understand me. Do that, and I’ll bring the darkness back again.’

The Denizen just floats there, watching him through the spread webbing of its upraised hand. Perhaps it has learned to tolerate the light better than before, for its gaze strikes him now as steadier, somehow more reproachful. Even if it doesn’t understand his words, it surely understands that it is his prisoner.

‘I will lower the lights one more time.’ He does so, then brings them back up, savagely, before the Denizen has had time to relish the darkness. This time he does get a reaction, but it’s not quite the one he was anticipating. The Denizen shoots forward, bulleting through the water with dismaying speed. Just when he thinks the creature is going to use its skull as a battering ram, the Denizen brakes with a reverse flick of its tail and brings its head and upper body hard against the glass, arms spread-eagled, face only a few centimetres from Grafenwalder’s own. Rationally, he knows that the glass is impervious - it’s designed to hold back the pressure of the Europan ocean - but there’s still a tiny part of his mind that can’t accept that, and insists on jerking him back from that grinning mouth, those hateful human eyes. The Denizen sees it, too: it doesn’t need language to know that it has scared him.

Grafenwalder regains his composure with an uneasy laugh, trying to sound as if it was all an act. The Denizen knows better, notching wide the dreadful smile of its mouth.

‘Okay,’ he says. ‘You frightened me. That’s good. That’s exactly what you’re meant to do. That’s exactly why I brought you here.’

The microphones in the tank pick up the Denizen’s derisive snort, pealing it in harsh metallic waves around the metal walls of the bestiary. Grafenwalder’s heart is still racing, but he’s beginning to see the positive side of the arrangement. Maybe the fact that the creature can’t talk is all for the best. There’s something truly chilling about that snort; something that wouldn’t come through at all if the specimen had language. There’s a mind in there; one sharp enough to use complex tools in the unforgiving environment of a cold black alien ocean. But that mind only has one narrow outlet for its rage.

It’s going to work, he thinks. If it has half the effect on the other collectors that it just had on him, Dr Trintignant will soon be relegated to a nine-day wonder. All he needs to do now is make sure the damned thing is as real as it looks. Not that he has any significant doubts now. Rifugio already had bona fide DNA and tissue samples. Where did that material come from, if it wasn’t snipped from the last living Denizen?

He leaves the creature in darkness, letting it settle in. The next day, his keepers descend into the tank wearing armoured immersion suits. It takes two of them to immobilise the creature while the third takes a series of biopsy samples. With their powered suits, the men are in little danger from the Denizen. But they’re still impressed by the strength and quickness of the specimen; its balletic ease within water. It moves with the sleek, elemental ease of something for which water is not a hindrance, but its natural medium.

Grafenwalder tunes in to Circle gossip again, unsurprised to find that Dr Trintignant is still wowing the other collectors. It still feels hurtful not to be the automatic centre of attention, but now at least he knows his rightful place will be restored. Ursula Goodglass got lucky with the dismantled doctor, but luck won’t get her very far in the long game.

Later that day, his experts report back with the first findings from the biopsies. At first, Grafenwalder is so convinced of the Denizen’s authenticity that he doesn’t hear what the experts, in their fumbling way, are trying to tell him.

The samples don’t match. The Denizen’s DNA isn’t the same as the DNA that Rifugio gave him, or the DNA that Grafenwalder already possesses. It’s the same story with the blood and tissue samples. The disagreement isn’t huge, and less sophisticated tests probably wouldn’t have detected any discrepancies. That’s no solace to Grafenwalder, though. His tests are as good as they come, and they leave no room for doubt. The creature in his care is not what Rifugio let him think he was going to be buying.

He tries to call the broker, but the contact details no longer work. Rifugio doesn’t get back to him.

So he’s been conned. But if the Denizen is a con, it’s an extraordinarily thorough one. He’s had the chance to examine it closely now, and he’s found no obvious signs of fakery. It’s no mean feat to engineer a biological gill that can sustain an organism with the energy demands of a large mammal. The faked Denizens he’s examined in the past began to die after only a few dozen hours of immersion. But this one shows every sign of thriving, of gaining strength and quickness.

Grafenwalder considers other possibilities. If the blood and tissue samples don’t agree, then maybe it’s because there’s more than one kind of Denizen. The Europan scientists engineered distinct castes with differing linguistic abilities, so perhaps there were other variants, with different blood and tissue structures. They were all prototypes, after all, right up to the moment they turned against the Demarchy. This Denizen might simply be from a different production batch.

But that doesn’t explain why Rifugio provided him with non-matching samples. If Rifugio had the creature, why didn’t he just take samples from it directly? Did Rifugio make a mistake, mixing samples from one specimen with another? If so, he must have had more than one Denizen in his care. In which case, the whole story about the Ultras keeping the Denizen as a pet was a lie . . . but a necessary one, if Rifugio wished Grafenwalder to think the creature was unique.

Grafenwalder mulls the possibilities. Rifugio’s disappearance provides damning confirmation that some kind of deception has taken place. But if that deception merely extends to the fact that the Denizen isn’t unique, Grafenwalder considers himself to have got off lightly. He still has a Denizen, and that’s infinitely better than none at all. He’ll find a way to trace and punish Rifugio in due course, but for now retribution isn’t his highest priority.

Instead, what he desires most is communication.

By nightfall, when the keepers have finished their work, he descends to the tank and brings the lights back on. Not harshly now, but enough to alert the Denizen to his presence; to wake it from whatever shallow approximation of sleep it appears to enjoy when resting.

Then - satisfied that he is alone - he talks.

‘You can understand me,’ he says, for the umpteenth time. ‘I know this because my keepers have identified a region in your brain that only lights up when you hear human speech. And it lights up most strongly when you hear Canasian, the language of the Demarchy.’

The creature watches him sullenly.

‘It’s the language you were educated to understand, two hundred years ago. I know things have changed a little since then, but I don’t doubt that you can still make sense of these words.’ And as he speaks Canasian, he feels - not for the first time - an odd, unexpected fluency. The words ought to feel awkward, but they flow off his tongue with mercurial ease, as if this is also the language he was born to speak.

Which is absurd.

‘I want to know your story,’ he says. ‘How you got here, where you came from, how many of you there are. I know now that Rifugio lied to me. He’ll pay for that eventually, but for now all that matters is what you can tell me. I need to know everything, right back to the moment you were born in Europa.’

But the Denizen, as ever, shows no external sign of having understood him.

Later, Grafenwalder has his keepers install a waterproofed symbol board in the tank. It’s an array of touch-pads, each of which stands for a word in Canasian. As Grafenwalder speaks, the symbols light up in turn. The Denizen may reply by pressing the pads in sequence, which will be rendered back into speech on Grafenwalder’s side of the glass. Grafenwalder’s hoping that there’s something amiss with the Denizen’s language centre, some cognitive defect that can be short-circuited using the visual codes. If he can persuade the Denizen to press the ‘yes’ or ‘no’ pads in response to simple questions, he will consider that progress has been made.

Things don’t move as quickly as he’d hoped. The Denizen seems willing to cooperate, but it still doesn’t grasp the basics of language. Once it has understood that one of the pads symbolises food, it presses that one repeatedly, ignoring Grafenwalder’s attempts to get it to answer abstract questions.

Maybe it’s just stupid, he thinks. Maybe that’s why this batch was discontinued. But he doesn’t give up just yet. If the Denizen won’t communicate willingly, perhaps it needs persuasion. He has his keepers tinker with the ambient conditions, varying the water temperature and chemistry to make things uncomfortable. He withholds food and instructs the keepers to take further biopsies. It’s clear enough that the Denizen doesn’t enjoy the process.

Still the creature won’t talk, beyond issuing simple pleas for more food or warmer water. Grafenwalder feels his patience stretching. The keepers tell him that the Denizen is getting stronger, more difficult to subdue. Angrily, he accompanies them on their next trip into the tank. There are four men, all wearing power-assisted pressure armour, and now it takes three of them to pin the Denizen against one wall of the glass. When it breaks free momentarily, it gouges deep tooth marks in the flexible hide of Grafenwalder’s glove. Back outside the tank, he inspects the damage and wonders what those teeth would have done to naked flesh.

It’s fierce, he’ll give it that. It may not be unique; it may not be particularly intelligent; but he still doesn’t feel that all the money he gave Rifugio was wasted. Whatever the Denizen might be, it’s worthy of a place in the bestiary. And it’s his, not someone else’s.

He puts out the word that there is something new in his collection. Following Ursula Goodglass’s example, he tells the visitors to drop by whenever they like. There must be no suspicion that the Denizen is a stage-managed exhibit, something that can only perform to schedule.

It’s three days before anyone takes him up on his offer. Lysander Carroway and her husband are the first to arrive. Even then, Grafenwalder has the sense that the visit is regarded as a tiresome social duty. All that changes when they see the Denizen. He’s taken pains to stoke it up, denying it food and comfort for long hours. By the time he throws on the lights, the creature has become a focus of pure, mindless fury. It strives to kill the things on the other side of the glass, scratching claws and teeth against that impervious shield, to the point where it starts bleeding. His guests recoil, suitably impressed. After the study in motionless that was Dr Trintignant, they are woefully unprepared for the murderous speed of the Europan organism.

‘Yes, it is a Denizen,’ he tells them, while his keepers tend to the creature’s injuries. ‘The last of its kind, I have it on good authority.’

‘Where did you find it?’

He parrots the lie Rifugio has already told him. ‘You know what Ultras are like, with their pets. I don’t think they realised quite what they’d been tormenting all those years.’

‘Can it speak to us? I heard that they could talk.’

‘Not this one. The idea that most of them could talk is a fallacy, I’m afraid: they simply weren’t required to. As for the ones that did have language, they must have died over a hundred years ago.’

‘Perhaps the ones that were clever enough to talk were also clever enough to stay away from Ultras,’ muses Carroway. ‘After all, if you can talk, you can negotiate, make bargains. Especially if you know things that can hurt people.’

‘What would a Denizen know that could hurt anyone?’ Grafenwalder asks scornfully.

‘Who made it,’ Carroway says. ‘That would be worth something to someone, wouldn’t it? In these times, more than ever.’

Grafenwalder shakes his head. ‘I don’t think so. Even the ones with language weren’t that clever. They were built to take orders and use tools. They weren’t capable of the kind of complex abstract thought necessary to plot and scheme.’

‘How would you know?’ Carroway asks. ‘It’s not as if you’ve ever met one.’

There’s no malice in her question, but by the time the Carroways depart he’s in a foul mood, barely masked by the niceties of Circle politesse. Why can’t they just accept that the Denizen is enough of a prize in its own right, without dwelling on what it can’t do? Isn’t a ravenous man-fish chimera enough of a draw for them now?

But the Carroways must have been sufficiently impressed to speak of his new addition, because the guests come thick and fast over the next week. By then they’ve heard that he has a Denizen, but most of them don’t quite believe it. Time and again he goes through the ritual of having them scared by the captive creature, only this time with a few additional flourishes. The glass is as secure as ever, but he’s had the tank lined with a false interior that cracks more easily. He’s also implanted a throat microphone under the skin of the Denizen, to better capture its blood-curdling vocalisations. Since the creature needed to be sedated for that, he also took the liberty of dropping an electrode into what his keepers think is the best guess for the creature’s pain centre. It’s a direct steal from what Goodglass did to Dr Trintignant, but no one has to know that, and with the electrode he can stir the Denizen up to its full killing fury even if it’s just been fed.

It’s still too soon to call, but his monitoring of Circle gossip begins to suggest that interest in Trintignant is declining. He’s still jealous of Goodglass for that particular coup, but at last he feels that he has the upper hand again. The memory of Rifugio’s lies has all but faded. The story Grafenwalder tells, about how the Denizen came to him via the Ultras, is repeated so often that he almost begins to believe it himself. The act of telling one lie over and over again, until it concretises into something barely distinguishable from the truth, feels peculiarly familiar to him. When his keepers come to him again and report that a more detailed analysis of the Denizen DNA has thrown up statistical matches with the genome of a typical hyperpig, he blanks the information.

What they’re telling him is that the Denizen isn’t real; that it’s some form of genetic fake cooked up using a hyperpig in place of a human, with Denizen-like characteristics spliced in at the foetal stage. But he doesn’t want to hear that; not now that he’s back on top.

The last of the guests to visit are Ursula Goodglass and her husband. They’ve waited a lengthy, although not impolite, interval before favouring him with their presence. Once their shuttle has docked, Goodglass sweeps ahead of her husband’s palanquin, trying to put a brave face on the proceedings.

‘I hear you have a Denizen, Carl. If so, you have my heartfelt congratulations. Nothing like that has been seen for a very long time.’ She looks at him coquettishly. ‘It is a Denizen, isn’t it? We didn’t want to pay too much attention to the rumours, but when everyone started saying the same thing—’

‘It is a Denizen,’ he confirms gravely, as if the news is a terminal diagnosis. Which, in terms of Goodglass’s current standing in the Circle, it might as well be. ‘Would you like to see it?’

‘Of course we’d like to see it!’ her husband declares, his voice piping from the palanquin.

He takes them to the holding tank, darkened now, and issues assassin’s goggles to Ursula, assuming that her husband’s palanquin has its own infrared system. Allowing the guests to see the floating form, albeit indistinctly, is all part of the theatre.

‘It looks smaller than I was expecting,’ Ursula Goodglass observes.

‘They were small,’ Grafenwalder says. ‘Designed to operate in cramped conditions. But don’t let that deceive you. It’s as strong as three men in amp-suits.’

‘And you’re absolutely sure of its authenticity? You’ve run a full battery of tests?’

‘There’s no doubt.’ Rashly, he adds, ‘You can see the results, if you like.’

‘There’s no need. I’m prepared to take your word for it. I know you wouldn’t take anything for granted, given how long you’ve been after one of these.’

Grafenwalder allows himself a microscopic frown. ‘I didn’t know you were aware of my interest in acquiring a Denizen.’

‘It would be difficult not to know, Carl. You’ve put out feelers in all directions imaginable. Of course, you’ve been discreet about it - or as discreet as circumstances allow.’ She smiles unconvincingly. ‘I’m glad for you, Carl. It must feel like the end of a great quest, to have this in your possession.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘It does.’

The palanquin speaks. ‘What exactly was it about the Denizen that you found so captivating, if you don’t mind my asking?’

Grafenwalder shrugs, expecting the answer to roll glibly off his tongue. Instead, he has to force it out by an effort of will, as if there is a blockage in his thought processes. ‘Its uniqueness, I suppose, Edric.’

‘But there are many unique things,’ the palanquin says, its piping tone conveying mild puzzlement. ‘Why did you have to go to the extremes of locating a Denizen, a creature not even known ever to have existed? A creature whose authenticity cannot ever be confirmed with certainty?’

‘Perhaps because it was so difficult. I like a challenge. Does it have to be any more complicated than that?’

‘No, it doesn’t,’ the palanquin answers. ‘I merely wondered if there might not have been a deeper motive, something less transparent.’

‘I’m really not the man to ask. Why do any of us collect things?’

‘Carl’s right, dear,’ Ursula says, smiling tightly at the palanquin’s dark window. ‘One mustn’t enquire too deeply about these things. It isn’t seemly.’

‘I demur,’ her husband says, and reverses slightly back from the heavy glass wall before them.

Grafenwalder judges that the moment is right to bring up the lights and enrage the Denizen. He squeezes the actuator tucked into his pocket, dripping current into the creature’s brain. The lights pierce the tank, snaring the floating form. The Denizen snorts and powers itself towards the wall, its eyes wide with hatred despite the glare. It slams into the weakened inner layer and shatters the glass, making it seem as if the entire tank is about to lose integrity.

‘We’re quite safe,’ he says, anticipating that Goodglass will have flinched from the impact. But she hasn’t. She’s standing her ground, her expression serenely unmoved by the entire spectacle.

‘You’re right,’ she comments. ‘It’s quite a catch. But I wonder if it’s really as vicious as it appears.’

‘Take my word. It’s much, much worse. It nearly bit through my glove when I was inside that tank, wearing full armour.’

‘Perhaps it doesn’t like being kept here. It didn’t seem very happy when you turned the lights on.’

‘It’s an exhibit, Ursula. It doesn’t have to like being here. It should be grateful just to be alive.’

She looks at him with sudden interest, as if he has said something profound. ‘Do you really think so, Carl?’

‘Yes,’ he says. ‘Absolutely.’

She returns her attention to the tank wall. The Denizen is still hovering there, anchored in place by the tips of its fingers and the fluke of its tail. The cracks in the shattered glass radiate away in all directions, making the Denizen look as if it is caught in a frozen star, or pinned to a snowflake.

Goodglass removes her glove and touches a hand to the smooth and unbroken glass on the outer surface of the tank, exactly where the Denizen has its own webbed hand. That’s when Grafenwalder notices the pale webs of skin between Ursula Goodglass’s fingers, visible now that she has taken off the glove. Their milky translucence is exactly the same as the webs between the Denizen’s. She presses her hand harder, squeezing until her palm is flat against the glass, and the Denizen echoes the movement.

The air feels as if it has frozen. The moment of contact seems to last minutes, hours, eternities. Grafenwalder stares in numb incomprehension, unable to process what he is seeing. When she moves her hand, skating it across the glass, the Denizen follows her like an expert mime.

She takes another step closer, bringing her face against the glass, laying her cheek flat against the cold surface. The Denizen presses itself against the shattered inner layer and mirrors her posture, bringing its own head against hers. The flesh of their faces appears to merge.

Goodglass pulls her face back from the glass, then smiles at the Denizen. It tries to emulate her expression, forcing its mouth wide. It’s not much of a smile - it’s more horrific than reassuring - but the deliberateness of the gesture is beyond doubt.

Finally Grafenwalder manages to say something. His own voice sounds wrong, as if it’s coming from another room.

‘What are you doing?’

‘I’m greeting it,’ Ursula Goodglass says, snapping her attention away from the tank. ‘What on Earth did you think I was doing?’

‘It’s a Denizen. It doesn’t know you. You can’t know it.’

‘Oh, Carl,’ she says, pityingly now. ‘Haven’t you got it yet? Really, I thought you’d have figured things out by now. Look at my hand again.’

‘I don’t need to. I saw it.’

She pulls back her hand until she’s only touching the glass with a fingertip. ‘Then tell me what it reminds you of - or can’t you bring yourself to say it?’

‘I’ve had enough,’ he says. ‘I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, but it isn’t true to the spirit of the Circle. I insist that you leave immediately.’

‘But we’re not done yet,’ Goodglass says.

‘Fine. If you won’t go easily, I’ll have you escorted to your shuttle.’

‘I’m afraid not, Carl. We’ve still business to attend to. You didn’t think it was going to be quite that easy, did you?’

‘Leave now.’

‘Or what? You’ll turn your household systems on us?’ She looks apologetic. ‘They won’t work, I’m afraid. They’ve been disabled. From the moment our shuttle docked, it’s been working to introduce security countermeasures into your habitat.’ Before he can get a word in, she says, ‘It was a mistake to invite us to view the adult-phase hamadryad. It gave us the perfect opportunity to snoop your arrangements, design a package of neutralising agents. Don’t go calling for your keepers, either. They’re all unconscious. The last time we visited, the palanquin deployed microscopic stun-capsules into every room it passed through. Upon our return, they were programmed to activate, releasing a fast-acting nerve toxin. Your keepers will be fine once they wake up, but that isn’t going to happen for a few hours yet.’

‘I don’t believe you.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Goodglass says. ‘Call for help, see how far it gets you.’

He lifts the cuff of his sleeve and talks into his bracelet. ‘This is Grafenwalder. Get down to the bestiary now - the Denizen tank.’

But no one answers.

‘I’m sorry, but no one’s coming. You’re on your own now, Carl. It’s just you, the Denizen and the two of us.’

After a minute goes by, he knows she isn’t bluffing. Goodglass has taken his habitat.

‘What do you want from me?’

‘It’s not so much a question of what I want from you, Carl, as what you want from me.’

‘You’re not making much sense.’

‘Ask yourself this: why did you want the Denizen so much? Was it because you just had to add another unique specimen to your collection? Or did the drive go deeper than that? Is it just possible that you created this entire bestiary as a decoy, to divert everyone - including yourself - from the true focus of your obsession?’

‘You tell me, Ursula. You seem to know a lot about the collecting game.’

‘I’m no collector,’ she says curtly. ‘I detest you and your kind. That was just a cover, to get me close to you. I went to a lot of trouble, of course: the hamadryad, Trintignant . . . I know you had Shallice kill the hamadryad, by the way. That was what I expected you to do. Why else do you think I had Shallice mention my existence, if not to goad you? I needed you to take an interest in me, Carl. It worked spectacularly well.’

‘You never interested me, Ursula. You irritated me, like a tick.’

‘It had the same effect. It brought us together. It brought me here.’

‘And the Denizen?’ he asks, half-fearing her answer.

‘The Denizen is a fake. I’m sure you’ve figured that out for yourself by now. A pretty good fake, I’ll admit - but it isn’t two hundred years old, and it’s never been anywhere near Europa.’

‘What about the samples Rifugio gave me? Where did they come from?’

‘From me,’ Goodglass says.

‘You’re insane.’

‘No, Carl. Not insane. Just a Denizen.’ And she shows him her webbed hand once more, extending it out towards him as if inviting him to kiss it. ‘I’m what you’ve been searching for all these years, the end of your quest. But this isn’t quite the way you imagined things playing out, is it? That you’d have had me under your nose all this time, and not known how close you were?’

‘You can’t be a Denizen.’

‘There is such a thing as surgery,’ she says witheringly. ‘I had to wait until after the plague before having myself changed, which meant subjecting myself to cruder procedures than I might have wished. Fortunately, I had the services of a very good surgeon. He rewired my cardiovascular system for air-breathing. He gave me legs and a human face, and a voice box that works out of water.’

‘And the hands?’

‘I kept the hands. You’ve got to hold on to part of the past, no matter how much you might wish to bury it. I needed to remember where I’d come from, what I still had to do.’

‘Which is?’

‘To find you, and then punish you. You were there, Carl, back when we were made in Europa. A high-influence Demarchist in the Special Projects section of Cadmus-Asterius, the hanging city where we were spliced together and given life.’

‘Nonsense. I’ve never been near Europa.’

‘You were born there,’ she assures him, ‘not long after Sandra Voi founded the place. You’ve scrubbed those memories, though. They’re too dangerous now. The Demarchists don’t want anyone finding out about their history of past mistakes, not when they’re trying to show how fine and upstanding they are compared to the beastly Conjoiners. Almost everyone connected with those dark days in Europa has been hunted down and silenced by now. Not you, though. You were ahead of the curve, already running by the time the cities fell. You hopped a ramliner to Yellowstone and started reinventing your past. Eidetic overlays to give you a false history, one so convincing that you believed it yourself. Except at night, in your loneliest hours. Then part of you knew that they were still out there, still looking for you.’

‘They?’

‘Not just the Demarchist silencers: they were the least of your worries. Money and power could keep them at bay. What really worried you was us, the Denizens.’

‘If I made you, why would I fear you?’

‘You didn’t make us, Carl. I said you were part of the project, but you weren’t working to bring us to life. You were working to suppress us; to make us fail. Petty internal rivalry: you couldn’t allow another colleague’s work to succeed. So you did everything you could to hurt us, to make us imperfect. You brought suffering into our world. You brought pain and infirmity and death, and then left us alone in that ocean.’

‘Ridiculous.’

‘Really, Carl? I’ve seen how easily you turn to spite. Just ask that dead hamadryad.’

‘I had nothing to do with the Denizens.’ But even as he says it, he can feel layers of false memory begin to peel back. What’s exposed has the raw candour of true experience. He remembers more of Europa than he has any right to: the bright plazas, the smells, the noises of Cadmus-Asterius. He remembers the reefersleep casket on the outbound ramliner, the casket that he thought was taking him to the safety of another system, another time. No wonder he’s slept easier since the Melding Plague. He must have imagined that the plague had severed the last of his ties with the past, making it impossible for anyone to catch up with him now.

He’d been wrong about that.

‘You had to find a Denizen,’ Goodglass says, ‘because then you’d know if any of them were still alive. Well, now you have your answer. How does it feel?’

He always knew that the marks on her skull were evidence of surgery. But that surgery had nothing to do with the removal of implants, and everything to do with her transformation from a Denizen. It would have cost her nothing to hide those marks, and yet she made no secret of them. It was, he sees now, part of a game he hadn’t even realised he was playing.

‘Not the way I thought it would feel,’ he says.

Goodglass nods understandingly. ‘I’m going to punish you now, Carl. But I’m not going to kill you.’

She’s playing with him, allowing him a glimmer of hope before crushing it for all eternity.

‘Why not?’ he asks.

‘Because if you were dead, you wouldn’t make much of an exhibit. When we’re done here, I’m going to donate you to a suitable recipient.’ Then she turns to the palanquin. ‘There’s something I should have told you. I lied about my husband. Edric was a good man: he cared for me, loved me, when he could have made his fortune from what I was. Unfortunately, he never got to see me like this. Edric died during the early months of the plague.’

Grafenwalder says nothing. He’s out of words, out of questions.

‘You’re probably wondering who’s in the palanquin,’ Goodglass says. ‘He’s going to come out now, for a little while. Not too long, because he can’t risk coming into contact with plague spores, not when so much of him is mechanical. But that won’t stop him doing his job. He’s always been a quick worker.’

With a hiss of escaping pressure, the entire front of the palanquin lifts up on shining pistons. The first thing Grafenwalder sees, the last thing before he starts screaming, is a silver hand clutching a black Homburg hat.

Then he sees the face.

NIGHTINGALE

I checked the address Tomas Martinez had given me, shielding the paper against the rain while I squinted at my scrawl. The number I’d written down didn’t correspond with any of the high-and-dry offices, but it was a dead ringer for one of the low-rent premises at street level. Here the walls of Threadfall Canyon had been cut and buttressed to the height of six or seven storeys, widening the available space at the bottom of the trench. Buildings covered most of the walls, piled on top of each other, supported by a haphazard arrangement of stilts and rickety, semipermanent bamboo scaffolding. Aerial walkways had been strung from one side of the street to the other, with stairs and ladders snaking their way through the dark fissures between the buildings. Now and then a wheeler sped through the water, sending a filthy brown wave in its wake. Very rarely, a sleek, claw-like volantor slid overhead. But volantors were off-world tech and not many people on Sky’s Edge could afford that kind of thing any more.

It didn’t look right to me, but all the evidence said that this had to be the place.

I stepped out of the water onto the wooden platform in front of the office and knocked on the glass-fronted door while rain curtained down through holes in the striped awning above me. I was pushing soaked hair out of my eyes when the door opened.

I’d seen enough photographs of Martinez to know this wasn’t him. This was a big bull of a man, nearly as wide as the door. He stood there with his arms crossed in front of his chest, over which he wore only a sleeveless black vest that was zipped down to his midriff. His muscles were so tight it looked as if he was wearing some kind of body-hugging amplification suit. His head was very large and very bald, rooted to his body by a neck like a small mountain range. The skin around his right eye was paler than the rest of his face, in a neatly circular patch.

He looked down at me as if I was something unpleasant the rain had washed in.

‘What?’ he said, his voice like the distant rumble of artillery.

‘I’m here to see Martinez.’

‘Mister Martinez to you,’ he said.

‘Whatever. But I’m still here to see him, and he should be expecting me. I’m—’

‘Dexia Scarrow,’ called another voice - fractionally more welcoming, this one - and a smaller, older man bustled into view from behind the pillar of muscle blocking the door, snatching delicate pince-nez glasses from his nose. ‘Let her in, Norbert. She’s expected. Just a little late.’

‘I got held up around Armesto - my hired wheeler hit a pothole and tipped over. Couldn’t get the thing started again, so had to—’

The smaller man waved aside my excuse. ‘You’re here now, which is all that matters. I’ll have Norbert dry your clothes, if you wish.’

I peeled off my coat. ‘Maybe this.’

‘Norbert will attend to your galoshes as well. Would you care for something to drink? I have tea already prepared, but if you would rather something else . . .’

‘Tea will be fine, Mister Martinez,’ I said.

‘Please, call me Tomas. It’s my sincere wish that we will work together as friends.’

I stepped out of my galoshes and handed my dripping-wet coat to the big man. Martinez nodded once, the gesture precise and birdlike, and then beckoned me to follow him further into his rooms. He was slighter and older than I’d been expecting, although still recognisable as the man in the photographs. His hair was grey turning to white, thinning on his crown and shaved close to his scalp elsewhere on his head. He wore a grey waistcoat over a grey shirt, the ensemble lending him a drab, clerkish air.

We navigated a twisting labyrinth formed by four layers of brown boxes, piled to head height. ‘Excuse the mess,’ Martinez said, looking back at me over his shoulder. ‘I really should find a better solution to my filing problems, but there’s always something more pressing that needs doing instead.’

‘I’m surprised you have time to eat, let alone worry about filing problems.’

‘Well, things haven’t been quite as hectic lately, I must confess. If you’ve been following the news you’ll know that I’ve already caught most of my big fish. There’s some mopping up to do, but I’ve been nowhere near as busy as in . . .’ Martinez stopped suddenly next to one of the piles of boxes, placed his glasses back on the bridge of his nose and scuffed dust from the paper label on the side of the box nearest his face. ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Wrong place. Wrong damned place! Norbert!’

Norbert trudged along behind us, my sodden coat still draped over one of his enormous, trunk-like arms. ‘Mister Martinez?’

‘This one is in the wrong place.’ The smaller man turned around and indicated a spot between two other boxes, on the opposite side of the corridor. ‘It goes here. It needs to be properly filed. Kessler’s case is moving into court next month, and we don’t want any trouble with missing documentation.’

‘Attend to it,’ Norbert said, which sounded like an order but which I assumed was his way of saying he’d remember to move the box when he was done with my laundry.

‘Kessler?’ I asked, when Norbert had left. ‘As in Tillman Kessler, the NC interrogator?’

‘One and the same, yes. Did you have experience with him?’

‘I wouldn’t be standing here if I did.’

‘True enough. But a small number of people were fortunate enough to survive their encounters with Kessler. Their testimonies will help bring him to justice.’

‘By which you mean crucifixion.’

‘I detect faint disapproval, Dexia,’ Martinez said.

‘You’re right. It’s barbaric.’

‘It’s how we’ve always done things. The Haussmann way, if you like.’

Sky Haussmann: the man who gave this world its name, and who sparked off the two-hundred-and-fifty-year war we’ve only just learned to stop fighting. When they crucified Sky they thought they were putting an early end to the violence. They couldn’t have been more wrong. Ever since, crucifixion has been the preferred method of execution.

‘Is Kessler the reason you asked me here, sir? Were you expecting me to add to the case file against him?’

Martinez paused at a heavy wooden door. ‘Not Kessler, no. I’ve every expectation of seeing him nailed to Bridgetop by the end of the year. But it does concern the man for whom Kessler was an instrument.’

I thought about that for a moment. ‘Kessler worked for Colonel Jax, didn’t he?’

Martinez opened the door and ushered me through, into the windowless room beyond. By now we must have been back into the canyon wall. The air had the inert stillness of a crypt. ‘Yes, Kessler was Jax’s man,’ Martinez said. ‘I’m glad you made the connection: it saves me explaining why Jax ought to be brought to justice.’

‘I agree completely. Half the population would agree with you. But I’m afraid you’re a bit late: Jax died years ago.’

Two other people were already waiting in the room, sitting on settees either side of a low, black table set with tea, coffee and pisco sours.

‘Jax didn’t die,’ Martinez said. ‘He just disappeared, and now I know where he is. Have a seat, please.’

He knew I was interested; knew I wouldn’t be able to walk out of that room until I’d heard the rest of the story about Colonel Brandon Jax. But there was more to it than that: there was something effortlessly commanding about his voice that made it very difficult not to obey him. During my time in the Southland Militia I’d learned that some people have that authority and some people don’t. It can’t be taught; can’t be learned; can’t be faked. You’re either born with it or you’re not.

‘Dexia Scarrow, allow me to introduce you to my other two guests,’ Martinez said, when I’d taken my place at the table. ‘The gentleman opposite you is Salvatore Nicolosi, a veteran of one of the Northern Coalition’s freeze/thaw units. The woman on your right is Ingrid Sollis, a personal-security expert with a particular interest in counter-intrusion systems. Ingrid saw early combat experience with the Southland, but she soon left the military to pursue private interests.’

I bit my tongue, then turned my attention away from the woman before I said something I might regret. The man - Nicolosi - looked more like an actor than a soldier. He didn’t have a scar on him. His beard was so neatly groomed, so sharp-edged, that it looked sprayed on through a stencil. Freeze/thaw operatives rubbed me up the wrong way, no matter which side they’d been on. They’d always seen themselves as superior to the common soldier, which is why they didn’t feel the need for the kind of excessive musculature Norbert carried around.

‘Allow me to introduce Dexia Scarrow,’ Martinez continued, nodding at me. ‘Dexia was a distinguished soldier in the Southland Militia for fifteen years, until the armistice. Her service record is excellent. I believe she will be a valuable addition to the team.’

‘Maybe we should back up a step,’ I said. ‘I haven’t agreed to be part of anyone’s team.’

‘We’re going after Jax,’ Nicolosi said placidly. ‘Doesn’t that excite you?’

‘He was on your side,’ I said. ‘What makes you so keen to see him crucified?’

Nicolosi looked momentarily pained. ‘He was a war criminal, Dexia. I’m as anxious to see monsters like Jax brought to justice as I am to see the same fate visited on their scum-ridden Southland counterparts.’

‘Nicolosi’s right,’ said Ingrid Sollis. ‘If we’re going to learn to live together on this planet, we have to put the law above all else, regardless of former allegiances.’

‘Easy coming from a deserter,’ I said. ‘Allegiance clearly didn’t mean very much to you back then, so I’m not surprised it doesn’t mean much to you now.’

Martinez, still standing at the head of the table, smiled tolerantly, as if he’d expected nothing less.

‘That’s an understandable misapprehension, Dexia, but Ingrid was no deserter. She was wounded in the line of duty: severely, I might add. After her recuperation, she was commended for bravery under fire and given the choice of an honourable discharge or a return to the front line. You cannot blame her for choosing the former, especially given all she had been through.’

‘Okay, my mistake,’ I said. ‘It’s just that I never heard of many people making it out alive, before the war was over.’

Sollis looked at me icily. ‘Some of us did.’

‘No one here has anything but an impeccable service record,’ Martinez said. ‘I should know: I’ve been through your individual biographies with a fine-tooth comb. You’re just the people for the job.’

‘I don’t think so,’ I said, moving to stand up. ‘I’m just a retired soldier with a grudge against deserters. I wasn’t in some shit-hot freeze/thaw unit, and I didn’t do anything that resulted in any commendations for bravery. Sorry, folks, but I think—’

‘Remain seated.’

I did what the man said.

Martinez continued speaking, his voice as measured and patient as ever. ‘You participated in at least three high-risk extraction operations, Dexia: three dangerous forays behind enemy lines, to retrieve two deep-penetration Southland spies and one trump-card NC defector. Or do you deny this?’

I shook my head, the reality of what he was proposing still not sinking in. ‘I can’t help you. I don’t know anything about Jax—’

‘You don’t need to. That’s my problem.’

‘How are you so sure he’s still alive, anyway?’

‘I’d like to know that, too,’ Nicolosi said, stroking an elegant finger along the border of his beard.

Martinez sat down on his own stool at the head of the table, so that he was higher than the three of us. He removed his glasses and fiddled with them in his lap. ‘It is necessary that you take a certain amount of what I am about to tell you on faith. I’ve been gathering intelligence on men like Jax for years, and in doing so I’ve come to rely on a web of contacts, many of whom have conveyed information to me at great personal risk. If I were to tell you the whole story, and if some of that story were to leak beyond this office, lives might well be endangered. And that is to say nothing of how my chances of bringing other fugitives to justice might be undermined.’

‘We understand,’ Sollis said.

I bridled at the way she presumed to speak for all of us. Perhaps she felt she owed Martinez for the way he’d just stood up for her.

Again I bit my lip and said nothing.

‘For a long time, I’ve received titbits of intelligence concerning Colonel Jax: rumours that he did not, in fact, die at all, but is still at large.’

‘Where?’ Sollis asked. ‘On Sky’s Edge?’

‘It would seem not. There were, of course, many rumours and false trails that suggested Jax had gone to ground somewhere on this planet. But one by one I discounted them all. Slowly the truth became apparent: Jax is still alive; still within this system.’

I felt it was about time I made a positive contribution. ‘Wouldn’t a piece of dirt like Jax try to get out of the system at the first opportunity?’

Martinez favoured my observation by pointing his glasses at me. ‘I had my fears that he might have, but as the evidence came in, a different truth presented itself.’

He set about pouring himself some tea. The pisco sours were going unwanted. I doubted that any of us had the stomach for drink at that time of the day.

‘Where is he, then?’ asked Nicolosi. ‘Plenty of criminal elements might have the means to shelter a man like Jax, but given the price on his head, the temptation to turn him in—’

‘He is not being sheltered,’ Martinez said, sipping delicately at his tea before continuing, ‘He is alone, aboard a ship. The ship was believed lost, destroyed in the final stages of the war, when things escalated into space. But I have evidence that the ship is still essentially intact, with a functioning life-support system. There is every reason to believe that Jax is still being kept alive, aboard this vehicle, in this system.’

‘What’s he waiting for?’ I asked.

‘For memories to grow dim,’ Martinez answered. ‘Like many powerful men, Jax may have obtained longevity drugs - or at least undergone longevity treatment - during the latter stages of the war. Time is not a concern for him.’

I leaned forward. ‘This ship - you think it’ll just be a matter of boarding it and taking him alive?’

Martinez looked surprised at the directness of my question. He blinked once before answering.

‘In essence, yes.’

‘Won’t he put up a fight?’

‘I don’t think so. The Ultras that located the vessel for me reported that it appeared dormant, in power-conservation mode. Jax himself may be frozen, in reefersleep. The ship did not respond to the Ultras’ sensor sweeps, so there’s no reason to assume it will respond to our approach and docking.’

‘How close did the Ultras get?’ Sollis asked.

‘Within three or four light-minutes. But there’s no reason to assume we can’t get closer without alerting the ship.’

‘How do you know Jax is aboard this ship?’ Nicolosi asked. ‘It could just be a drifter, nothing to do with him.’

‘The intelligence I’d already gleaned pointed towards his presence aboard a vehicle of a certain age, size and design - everything matches.’

‘So let’s cut to the chase,’ Sollis said, again presuming to speak for the rest of us. ‘You’ve brought us here because you think we’re the team to snatch the colonel. I’m the intrusion specialist, so you’ll be relying on me to get us inside that ship. Nicolosi’s a freeze/thaw veteran, so - apart from the fact that he’s probably pretty handy with a weapon or two - he’ll know how to spring Jax from reefersleep, if the colonel turns out to be frozen. And she - what was your name again?’

‘Dexia,’ I said, like it was a threat.

‘She’s done some extractions. I guess she must be okay at her job or she wouldn’t be here.’

Martinez waited a moment, then nodded. ‘You’re quite right, Ingrid: all credit to you for that. I apologise if my machinations are so nakedly transparent. But the simple fact of the matter is that you are the ideal team for the operation in question. I have no doubt that, with your combined talents, you will succeed in returning Colonel Jax to Sky’s Edge, and hence to trial. Now admit it: that would be something, wouldn’t it? To fell the last dragon?’

Nicolosi indicated his approval with a long nasal sigh. ‘Men like Kessler are just a distraction. When you crucify a monster like Kessler, you’re punishing the knife, not the man who wielded it. If you wish true justice, you must find the knifeman, the master.’

‘What will we get paid?’ Sollis asked.

Martinez smiled briefly. ‘Fifty thousand Australs for each of you, upon the safe return of Colonel Jax.’

‘What if we find him dead?’ I asked. ‘By then we’ll already have risked an approach and docking with his ship.’

‘If Jax is already dead, then you will be paid twenty-five thousand Australs.’

We all looked at each other. I knew what the others were thinking. Fifty thousand Australs was life-changing money, but half of that wasn’t bad either. Killing Jax would be much easier and safer than extracting him alive . . .

‘I’ll be with you, of course,’ Martinez said, ‘so there’ll be no need to worry about proving Jax was already dead when you arrived, should that situation arise.’

‘If you’re coming along,’ I asked, ‘who else do we need to know about?’

‘Only Norbert. And you need have no fears concerning his competency.’

‘Just the five of us, then,’ I said.

‘Five is a good number, don’t you think? And there is a practical limit to the size of the extraction team. I have obtained the use of a small but capable ship, perfectly adequate for our purposes. It will carry five, with enough capacity to bring back the colonel. I’ll provide weapons, equipment and armour, but you may all bring whatever you think may prove useful.’

I looked around the cloister-like confines of the room, and remembered the dismal exterior of the offices, situated at the bottom of Threadfall Canyon. ‘Three times fifty thousand Australs, ’ I mused, ‘plus whatever it cost you to hire and equip a ship. If you don’t mind me asking - where exactly are the funds coming from?’

‘The funds are mine,’ Martinez said sternly. ‘Capturing Jax has been a long-term goal, not some whimsical course upon which I have only recently set myself. Dying a pauper would be a satisfactory end to my affairs, were I to do so knowing that Jax was hanging from the highest mast at Bridgetop.’

For a moment none of us said anything. Martinez had spoken so softly, so demurely, that the meaning of his words seemed to lag slightly behind the statement itself. When it arrived, I think we all saw a flash of that corpse, executed in the traditional way, the Haussmann way.

‘Good weapons?’ I asked. ‘Not some reconditioned black-market shit?’

‘Only the best.’

‘Technical specs for the ship?’ Sollis asked.

‘You’ll have plenty of time to review the data on the way to the rendezvous point. I don’t doubt that a woman of your abilities will be able to select the optimum entry point.’

Sollis looked flattered. ‘Then I guess I’m in. What about you, Salvatore?’

‘Men like Colonel Jax stained the honour of the Northern Coalition. We were not all monsters. If I could do something to make people see that . . .’ Nicolosi trailed off, then shrugged. ‘Yes, I am in. It would be an honour, Mister Martinez.’

‘That leaves you, Dexia,’ Sollis said. ‘Fifty thousand Australs sounds pretty sweet to me. I’m guessing it sounds pretty sweet to you as well.’

‘That’s my call, not yours.’

‘Just saying . . . you look like you could use that money as much as any of us.’

I think I came close to saying no, to walking out of that room, back into the incessant muddy rain of Threadfall Canyon. Perhaps if I’d tried, Norbert would have been forced to detain me, so that I didn’t go blabbing about how a team was being put together to bring Colonel Jax back into custody. But I never got the chance to find out what Martinez had in mind for me if I chose not to go along with him.

I only had to think about the way I looked in the mirror, and what those fifty thousand Australs could do for me.

So I said yes.

Martinez gestured towards one of the blank, pewter-grey walls in the shuttle’s compartment, causing it to glow and fill with neon-bright lines. The lines meshed and intersected, forming a schematic diagram of a ship with an accompanying scale.

‘Intelligence on Jax’s ship is fragmentary. Strip out all the contradictory reports, discard unreliable data, and we’re left with this.’

‘That’s it?’ Sollis asked.

‘When we get within visual range we’ll be able to improve matters. I shall re-examine all of the reports, including those that were discarded. Some of them - when we have the real ship to compare them against - may turn out to have merit after all. They may in turn shed useful light on the interior layout, and the likely location of Jax. By then, of course, we’ll also have infrared and deep-penetration radar data from our own sensors.’

‘It looks like a pretty big ship,’ I said as I studied the schematic, scratching at my scalp. We were a day out from Armesto Field, with the little shuttle tucked into the belly hold of an outbound lighthugger named Death of Sophonisba.

‘Big but not the right shape for a lighthugger,’ Sollis said. ‘So what are we dealing with here?’

‘Good question,’ I said. Martinez was showing us a rectangular hull about one kilometre from end to end; maybe a hundred metres deep and a hundred metres wide, with some kind of spherical bulge about halfway along. There was a suggestion of engines at one end, and of a gauntlet-like docking complex at the other. The ship was too blunt for interstellar travel, and it lacked the outrigger-mounted engines characteristic of Conjoiner drive mechanisms. ‘Does look kind of familiar, though,’ I added. ‘Anyone else getting that déjà vu feeling, or is it just me?’

‘I don’t know,’ Nicolosi said. ‘When I first saw it, I thought . . .’ He shook his head. ‘It can’t be. It must be a standard hull design.’

‘You’ve seen it before, too,’ I said.

‘Does that ship have a name?’ Nicolosi asked Martinez.

‘I have no idea what Jax calls his ship.’

‘That’s not what the man asked,’ Sollis said. ‘He asked if—’

‘I know the name of the ship,’ I said quietly. ‘I saw a ship like that once, when I was being taken aboard it. I’d been injured in a firefight, one of the last big surface battles. They took me into space - this was after the elevator came down, so it had to be by shuttle - and brought me aboard that ship. It was a hospital ship, orbiting the planet.’

‘What was the name of the ship?’ Nicolosi asked urgently.

‘Nightingale,’ I said.

‘Oh, no.’

‘You’re surprised.’

‘Damn right I’m surprised. I was aboard Nightingale, too.’

‘So was I,’ Sollis said, her voice barely a whisper. ‘I didn’t recognise it, though. I was too fucked up to pay much attention until they put me back together aboard it. By then, I guess . . .’

‘Same with me,’ Nicolosi said. ‘Stitched back together aboard Nightingale, then repatriated.’

Slowly, we all turned and looked at Martinez. Even Norbert, who had contributed nothing until that point, turned to regard his master. Martinez blinked, but otherwise his composure was impeccable.

‘The ship is indeed Nightingale. It was too risky to tell you when we were still on the planet. Had any of Jax’s allies learned of the identity—’

Sollis cut him off. ‘Is that why you didn’t tell us? Or is it because you knew we’d all been aboard that thing once already?’

‘The fact that you have all been aboard Nightingale was a factor in your selection, nothing more. It was your skills that marked you out for this mission, not your medical history.’

‘So why didn’t you tell us?’ she persisted.

‘Again, had I told you more than was wise—’

‘You lied to us.’

‘I did no such thing.’

‘Wait,’ Nicolosi said, his voice calmer than I was expecting. ‘Let’s just . . . deal with this, shall we? We’re getting hung up on the fact that we were all healed aboard Nightingale, when the real question we should be asking is this: what the hell is Jax doing aboard a ship that doesn’t exist any more?’

‘What’s the problem with the ship?’ I asked.

‘The problem,’ Nicolosi said, speaking directly to me, ‘is that Nightingale was reported destroyed near the end of the war. Or were you not keeping up with the news?’

I shrugged. ‘Guess I wasn’t.’

‘And yet you knew enough about the ship to recognise it.’

‘Like I said, I remember the view from the medical shuttle. I was drugged-up, unsure whether I was going to live or die . . . everything was heightened, intense, like in a bad dream. But after they healed me and sent me back down surfaceside? I don’t think I ever thought about Nightingale again.’

‘Not even when you look in the mirror?’ Nicolosi asked.

‘I thought about what they’d done to me, how much better a job it could have been. But it never crossed my mind to wonder what had happened to the ship afterwards. So what did happen?’

‘You said “they healed me”,’ Nicolosi observed. ‘Does that mean you were treated by doctors, by men and women?’

‘Shouldn’t I have been?’

He shook his head minutely. ‘My guess is you were wounded and shipped aboard Nightingale soon after it was deployed.’

‘That’s possible.’

‘In which case Nightingale was still in commissioning phase. I went aboard later. What about you, Ingrid?’

‘Me, too. I hardly saw another human being the whole time I was aboard that thing.’

‘That was how it was meant to operate: with little more than a skeleton staff, to make medical decisions the ship couldn’t make for itself. Most of the time they were meant to stay behind the scenes.’

‘All I remember was a hospital ship,’ I said. ‘I don’t know anything about “commissioning”.’

Nicolosi explained it to me patiently, as if I was a small child in need of education.

Nightingale had been financed and built by a consortium of well-meaning postmortal aristocrats. Since their political influence hadn’t succeeded in curtailing the war (and since many of their aristocratic friends were quite happy for it to continue) they’d decided to make a difference in the next-best way: by alleviating the suffering of the mortal men and women engaged in the war itself.

So they created a hospital ship, one that had no connection to either the Northern Coalition or the Southland Militia. Nightingale would be there for all injured soldiers, irrespective of allegiance. Aboard the neutral ship, the injured would be healed, allowed to recuperate and then repatriated. All but the most critically wounded would eventually return to active combat service. And Nightingale itself would be state-of-the-art, with better medical facilities than any other public hospital on or around Sky’s Edge. It wouldn’t be the glittering magic of Demarchist medicine, but it would still be superior to anything most mortals had ever experienced.

It would also be tirelessly efficient, dedicated only to improving its healing record. Nightingale was designed to operate autonomously, as a single vast machine. Under the guidance of human specialists, the ship would slowly improve its methods until it had surpassed its teachers. I’d come aboard ship when it was still undergoing the early stages of its learning curve, but - as I learned from Nicolosi - the ship had soon moved into its ‘operational phase’. By then, the entire kilometre-long vehicle was under the control of only a handful of technicians and surgical specialists, with gamma-level intelligences making most of the day-to-day decisions. That was when Sollis and Nicolosi had been shipped aboard. They’d been healed by machines, with only a vague awareness that there was a watchful human presence behind the walls.

‘It worked, too,’ Nicolosi said. ‘The ship did everything its sponsors had hoped it would. It functioned like a huge, efficient factory: sucking in the wounded, spitting out the healed.’

‘Only for them to go back to the war,’ I said.

‘The sponsors didn’t have any control over what happened when the healed were sent back down. But at least they were still alive; at least they hadn’t died on the battlefield or the operating table. The sponsors could still believe that they had done something good. They could still sleep at night.’

‘So Nightingale was a success,’ I said. ‘What’s the problem? Wasn’t it turned over to civilian use after the armistice?’

‘The ship was destroyed just before the ceasefire,’ Nicolosi said. ‘That’s why we shouldn’t be seeing it now. A stray NC missile, nuke-tipped . . . too fast to be intercepted by the ship’s own countermeasures. It took out Nightingale, with staff and patients still aboard her.’

‘Now that you mention it . . . maybe I did hear about something like that.’

Sollis looked fiercely at Martinez. ‘I say we renegotiate terms. You never told us we were going to have to spring Jax from a fucking ghost ship.’

Norbert moved to his master’s side, as if to protect him from the furious Sollis. Martinez, who had said nothing for many minutes, removed his glasses, buffed them on his shirt and replaced them with an unhurried calm.

‘Perhaps you are right to be cross with me, Ingrid. And perhaps I made a mistake in not mentioning Nightingale sooner. But it was imperative that I not compromise this operation with a single careless indiscretion. My whole life has been an arrow pointing to this one task: the bringing to justice of Colonel Jax. I will not fail myself now.’

‘You should have told us about the hospital ship,’ Nicolosi said. ‘None of us would have had any reason to spread that information. We all want to see Jax get his due.’

‘Then I have made a mistake, for which I apologise.’

Sollis shook her head. ‘I don’t think an apology’s going to cut it. If I’d known I was going to have to go back aboard that . . . thing—’

‘You are right,’ Martinez said, addressing all of us. ‘The ship has a traumatic association for you, and it was wrong of me not to allow for that.’

‘Amen to that,’ Sollis said.

I felt it was time I made a contribution. ‘I don’t think any of us are about to back out now, Tomas. But maybe - given what we now know about the ship - a little more incentive might go a long way.’

‘I was about to make the same suggestion myself,’ Martinez said. ‘You must appreciate that my funds are not inexhaustible, and that my original offer might already be considered generous . . . but shall we say an extra five thousand Australs, for each of you?’

‘Make it ten and maybe we’re still in business,’ Sollis snapped back, before I’d had a chance to blink.

Martinez glanced at Norbert, then - with an expression that suggested he was giving in under duress - he nodded at Sollis. ‘Ten thousand Australs it is. You drive a hard bargain, Ingrid.’

‘While we’re debating terms,’ Nicolosi said, ‘is there anything else you feel we ought to know?’

‘I have told you that the ship is Nightingale.’ Martinez directed our attention back to the sketchy diagram on the wall. ‘That, I am ashamed to admit, is the sum total of my knowledge of the ship in question.’

‘What about constructional blueprints?’ I asked.

‘None survived the war.’

‘Photographs? Video images?’

‘Ditto. Nightingale operated in a war zone, Dexia. Casual sightseeing was not exactly a priority for those unfortunate enough to get close to her.’

‘What about the staff aboard?’ Nicolosi asked. ‘Couldn’t they tell you anything?’

‘I spoke to some survivors: the doctors and technicians who’d been aboard during the commissioning phase. Their testimonies were useful, when they were willing to talk.’

Nicolosi pushed further. ‘What about the people who were aboard before the ceasefire?’

‘I could not trace them.’

‘But they obviously didn’t die. If the ship’s still out there, the rogue missile couldn’t have hit it.’

‘Why would anyone make up a story about the ship being blown to pieces if it didn’t happen?’ I asked.

‘War does strange things to truth,’ Martinez answered. ‘No malice is necessarily implied. Perhaps another hospital ship was indeed destroyed. There was more than one in orbit around Sky’s Edge, after all. One of them may even have had a similar name. It’s perfectly conceivable that the facts might have got muddled, in the general confusion of those days.’

‘Still doesn’t explain why you couldn’t trace any survivors,’ Nicolosi said.

Martinez shifted on his seat, uneasily. ‘If Jax did appropriate the ship, then he may not have wanted anyone talking about it. The staff aboard Nightingale might have been paid off - or threatened - to keep silent.’

‘Adds up, I guess,’ I said.

‘Money will make a lot of things add up,’ Nicolosi replied.

After two days, the Death of Sophonisba sped deeper into the night, while Martinez’s ship followed a pre-programmed flight plan designed to bring us within survey range of the hospital ship. The Ultras had scanned Nightingale again, and once again they’d elicited no detectable response from the dormant vessel. All indications were that the ship was in a deep cybernetic coma, as close to death as possible, with only a handful of critical life-support systems still running on a trickle of stored power.

Over the next twenty-four hours we crept in closer, narrowing the distance to mere light-seconds, and then down to hundreds of thousands of kilometres. Still there was no response, but as the distance narrowed, so our sensors began to improve the detail in their scans. While the rest of us took turns sleeping, Martinez sat at his console, compositing the data, enhancing his schematic. Now and then Norbert would lean over the console and stare in numb concentration at the sharpening image, and occasionally he would mumble some remark or observation to which Martinez would respond in a patient, faintly condescending whisper, the kind that a teacher might reserve for a slow but willing pupil. Not for the first time I was touched by Martinez’s obvious kindness in employing the huge, slow Norbert, and I wondered what the war must have done to him to bring him to this state.

When we were ten hours from docking, Martinez revealed the fruits of his labours. The schematic of the hospital ship was three-dimensional now, displayed in the navigational projection cylinder on the ship’s cramped flight deck. Although the basic layout of the ship hadn’t changed, the new plan was much more detailed than the first one. It showed docking points, airlocks, major mechanical systems and the largest corridors and spaces threading the ship’s interior. There was still a lot of guesswork, but it wouldn’t be as if we were entering completely foreign territory.

‘The biggest thermal hot spot is here,’ Martinez said, pointing at an area about a quarter of the way along the vessel from the bow. ‘If Jax is anywhere, that’s my best guess as to where we’ll find him.’

‘Simple, then,’ Nicolosi said. ‘In via that dorsal lock, then a straight sprint down that access shaft. Easy, even under weightless conditions. Can’t be more than fifty or sixty metres.’

‘I’m not happy,’ Sollis said. ‘That’s a large lock, likely to be armed to the teeth with heavy-duty sensors and alarms.’

‘Can you get us through it?’ Nicolosi asked.

‘You give me a door, I’ll get us through it. But I can’t bypass every conceivable security system, and you can be damned sure the ship will know about it if we come through a main lock.’

‘What about the others?’ I asked, trying not to sound as if I was on her case. ‘Will they be less likely to go off?’

‘Nothing’s guaranteed. I don’t like the idea of spending a minute longer aboard that thing than necessary, but I’d still rather take my chances with the back door.’

‘I think Ingrid is correct,’ Martinez said, nodding his approval. ‘There’s every chance of a silent approach and docking. Jax will have disabled all non-essential systems, including proximity sensors. If that’s the case - if we see no evidence of having tripped approach alarms - then I believe we would be best advised to maintain stealth.’ He indicated further along the hull, beyond the rounded midsection bulge. ‘That will mean coming in here, or here, via one of these smaller service locks. I concur with Ingrid: they probably won’t be alarmed.’

‘That’ll give us four or five hundred metres of ship to crawl through,’ Nicolosi said, leaving us in no doubt what he thought about that. ‘Four or five hundred metres for which we only have a very crude map.’

‘We’ll have directional guidance from our suits,’ Martinez said.

‘It’s still a concern to me. But if you’ve settled upon this decision, I shall abide by it.’

I turned to Sollis. ‘What you said just then - about not spending a minute longer aboard Nightingale than we have to?’

‘I wasn’t kidding.’

‘I know. But there was something about the way you said it. Do you know something about that ship that we don’t? You sounded spooked, and I don’t understand why. It’s just a disused hospital, after all.’

Sollis studied me for a moment before answering. ‘Tell her, Nicolosi.’

Nicolosi looked placidly at the other woman. ‘Tell her what?’

‘What she obviously doesn’t know. What none of us are in any great hurry to talk about.’

‘Oh, please.’

‘ “Oh please” what?’ I asked.

‘It’s just a fairy story, a stupid myth,’ Nicolosi said.

‘A stupid story that nonetheless always claimed that Nightingale didn’t get blown up after all,’ Sollis said.

‘What are you talking about?’ I asked. ‘What story?’

It was Martinez who chose to answer. ‘That something unfortunate happened aboard her. That the last batch of sick and injured went in, but for some reason were never seen to leave. That all attempts to contact the technical staff failed. That an exploratory team was put aboard the ship, and that they too were never heard from again.’

I laughed. ‘Fuck. And now we’re planning to go aboard?’

‘Now you see why I’m somewhat anxious to get this over with,’ Sollis said.

‘It’s just a myth,’ Martinez chided. ‘Nothing more. It is a tale to frighten children, not to dissuade us from capturing Jax. In fact, it would not surprise me in the least if Jax or his allies were in some way responsible for this lie. If it were to cause us to turn back now, it would have served them admirably, would it not?’

‘Maybe,’ I said, without much conviction. ‘But I’d still have been happier if you’d told me before. It wouldn’t have made any difference to my accepting this job, but it would have been nice to know you trusted me.’

‘I do trust you, Dexia. I simply assumed that you had no interest in childish stories.’

‘How do you know Jax is aboard?’ I asked.

‘We’ve been over this. I have my sources, sources that I must protect, and it would be—’

‘He was a patient, wasn’t he?’

Martinez snapped his glasses from his nose, as if my point had taken an unexpected tangent from whatever we’d been talking about. ‘I know only that Jax is aboard Nightingale. The circumstances of how he arrived there are of no concern to me.’

‘And it doesn’t bother you that maybe he’s just dead, like whoever else was aboard at the end?’ Sollis asked.

‘If he is dead, you will still receive twenty-five thousand Australs.’

‘Plus the extra ten we already agreed on.’

‘That too,’ Martinez said, as if it should have been taken for granted.

‘I still don’t like this,’ Sollis muttered.

‘I don’t like it either,’ Nicolosi replied, ‘but we came here to do a job, and the material facts haven’t changed. There is a ship, and the man we want is aboard it. What Martinez says is true: we should not be intimidated by stories, especially when our goal is so near.’

‘We go in there, we get Jax, we get the hell out,’ Sollis said. ‘No dawdling, no sightseeing, no souvenir-hunting.’

‘I have absolutely no problem with that,’ I said.

‘Take what you want,’ Martinez called over Norbert’s shoulder as we entered the armoury compartment at the rear of the shuttle’s pressurised section. ‘But remember: you’ll be wearing pressure suits, and you’ll be moving through confined spaces. You’ll also be aboard a ship.’

Sollis pushed bodily ahead of me, pouncing on something that I’d only begun to notice. She unracked the sleek, cobalt-blue excimer rifle and hefted it for balance. ‘Hey, a Breitenbach.’

‘Christmas come early?’ I asked.

Sollis pulled a pose, sighting along the rifle, deploying its targeting aids, flipping the power-up toggle. The weapon whined obligingly. Blue lights studded its stock, indicating it was ready for use.

‘Because I’m worth it,’ Sollis said.

‘I’d really like you to point that thing somewhere else,’ I said.

‘Better still, don’t point it anywhere,’ Nicolosi rumbled. He’d seen one of the choicer items, too. He unclipped a long, mattblack weapon with a ruby-red dragon stencilled along the barrel. It had a gaping maw like a swallowing python. ‘Laser-confined plasma bazooka,’ he said admiringly. ‘Naughty, but nice.’

‘Finesse isn’t your cup of tea, then.’

‘Never got to use one of these in the war, Dexia.’

‘That’s because they were banned. One of the few sensible things both sides managed to agree on.’

‘Now’s my chance.’

‘I think the idea is to extract Jax, not to blow ten-metre-wide holes in Nightingale.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be very, very careful.’ He slung the bazooka over his shoulder, then continued down the aisle.

I picked up a pistol, hefted it, replaced it on the rack. Found something more to my liking - a heavy, dual-gripped slug-gun - and flipped open the magazine to check that there was a full clip inside. Low-tech but reliable: the other two were welcome to their directed-energy weapons, but I’d seen how easily they could go wrong under combat conditions.

‘Nice piece, Dexia,’ Sollis said, patronisingly. ‘Old school.’

‘I’m old school.’

‘Yeah, I noticed.’

‘You have a problem with that, we can always try some target practice.’

‘Hey, no objections. Just glad you found something to your liking. Doing better than old Norbert, anyway.’ Sollis nodded over her shoulder. ‘Looks like he’s really drawn the short straw there.’

I looked down the aisle. Norbert was near the end of one the racks, examining a small, stubby-looking weapon whose design I didn’t recognise. In his huge hands it looked ridiculous, like something made for a doll.

‘You sure about that?’ I called. ‘Maybe you want to check out one of these—’

Norbert looked at me as if I was some kind of idiot. I don’t know what he did then - there was no movement of his hand that I was aware of - but the stubby little weapon immediately unpacked itself, elongating and opening like some complicated puzzle box until it was almost twice as big, twice as deadly-looking. It had the silken, precision-engineered quality of expensive off-world tech. A Demarchist toy, probably, but a very, very deadly toy for all that.

Sollis and I exchanged a wordless glance. Norbert had found what was probably the most advanced, most effective weapon in the room.

‘Will do,’ Norbert said, before closing the weapon up again and slipping it into his belt.

We crept closer. Tens of thousands of kilometres, then thousands, then hundreds. I looked through the hull windows, with the interior lights turned down, peering in the direction where our radar and infrared scans told us the hospital ship was waiting. When we were down to two dozen kilometres I knew I should be seeing it, but I was still only looking at stars and the sucking blackness between them. I had a sudden, visceral sense of how easy it would be to lose something out here, followed in quick succession by a dizzying sense of how utterly small and alone we were, now that the lighthugger was gone.

And then, suddenly, there was Nightingale.

We were coming in at an angle, so the hull was tilted and foreshortened. It was so dark that only certain edges and surfaces were visible at all. No windows, no running lights, no lit-up docking bays. The ship looked as dark and dead as a sliver of coal. Suddenly it was absurd to think that there might be anyone alive aboard it. Colonel Jax’s corpse, perhaps, but not the living or even life-supported body that would guarantee us full payment.

Martinez had the ship on manual control now. With small, deft applications of thrust he narrowed the distance down to less than a dozen kilometres. At six kilometres, Martinez deemed it safe to activate floodlights and play them along the length of the hull, confirming the placement of locks and docking sites. There was a peppering of micrometeorite impacts and some scorching from high-energy particles, but nothing I wouldn’t have expected on a ship that had been sitting out there since the armistice. If the ship possessed self-repair mechanisms, they were sleeping as well. Even when we circled around the hull and swept it from the other side, there was no hint of our having been noticed. Still reluctant, Nicolosi accepted that we would follow Sollis’s entry strategy, entering via one of the smaller service locks.

It was time to do it.

We docked. We came in softly, but there was still a solid clunk as the capture latches engaged and grasped our little craft to the hull of the hospital ship. I thought of that clunk echoing away down the length of Nightingale, diminishing as it travelled, but potentially still significant enough to trip some waiting, infinitely patient alarm system, alerting the sleeping ship that it had a visitor. For several minutes we hung in weightless silence, staring out of the windows or watching the sensor read-outs for the least sign of activity. But the dark ship stayed dark in all directions. There was no detectable change in her state of coma.

‘Nothing’s happened,’ Martinez said, breaking the silence with a whisper. ‘It still doesn’t know we’re here. The lock is all yours, Ingrid. I’ve already opened our doors.’

Sollis, suited-up now, moved into the lock tube with her toolkit. While she worked, the rest of us finished putting on our own suits and armour, completing the exercise as quietly as possible. I hadn’t worn a spacesuit before, but Norbert was there to help all of us with the unfamiliar process: his huge hands attended to delicate connections and catches with surprising dexterity. Once I had the suit on, it didn’t feel much different from wearing full-spectrum bioarmour, and I quickly got the hang of the life-support indicators projected around the border of my faceplate. I would only need to pay minor attention to them: unless there was some malfunction, the suit had enough power and supplies to keep me alive in perfect comfort for three days; longer if I was prepared to tolerate a little less comfort. None of us were planning on spending anywhere near that long aboard Nightingale.

Sollis was nearly done when we assembled behind her in the lock. The inner and outer lock doors on our side were open, exposing the grey outer door of the hospital ship, held tight against the docking connector by pressure-tight seals. I doubted that she’d ever had to break into a ship before, but nothing about the mechanism appeared to be causing Sollis any difficulties. She’d tugged open an access panel and plugged in a fistful of coloured cables, running back to a jury-rigged electronics module in her toolkit. She was tapping a little keyboard, causing patterns of lights to alter within the access panel. The face of a woman - blank, expressionless, yet at the same time somehow severe and unforgiving - had appeared in an oval frame above the access panel.

‘Who’s that?’ I asked.

‘That’s Nightingale,’ Sollis said, adding, by way of explanation, ‘The ship had its own gamma-level personality, keeping the whole show running. Pretty smart piece of thinkware by all accounts: full Turing compliance; about as clever as you can make a machine before you have to start giving it human rights.’

I looked at the stern-faced woman, expecting her to query us at any moment. I imagined her harsh and hectoring voice demanding to know what business any of us had boarding Nightingale, trespassing aboard her ship, her hospital.

‘Does she know . . .’ I started.

Sollis shook her head. ‘This is just a dumb facet of the main construct. Not only is it inactive - the image is frozen into the door’s memory - but it doesn’t appear to have any functioning data links back to the main sentience engine. Do you, Nightingale?’

The face gazed at us impassively, but still said nothing.

‘See: deadsville. My guess is the sentience engine isn’t running at all. Out here, the ship wouldn’t need much more than a trickle of intelligence to keep itself ticking over.’

‘So the gamma’s off-line?’

‘Uh-huh. Best way, too. You don’t want one of those things sitting around too long without something to do.’

‘Why not?’

‘’Cause they tend to go nuts. That’s why the Conjoiners won’t allow gamma-level intelligences in any of their machines. They say it’s a kind of slavery.’

‘Running a hospital must have been enough to stop Nightingale’s gamma running off the rails.’

‘Let’s hope so. Let’s really hope so.’ Sollis glanced back at her work, then emitted a grunt of satisfaction as a row of lights flicked to orange. She unplugged a bunch of coloured cables and looked back at the waiting party. ‘Okay: we’re good to go. I can open the door any time you’re ready.’

‘What’s on the other side of it?’ I asked.

‘According to the door, air: normal trimix. Bitchingly cold, but not frozen. Pressure’s manageable. I’m not sure we could breathe it, but—’

‘We’re not breathing anything,’ Martinez said curtly. ‘Our airlock will take two people. One of them will have to be you, Ingrid, since you know how to work the mechanism. I shall accompany you, and then we shall wait for the others on the far side, when we have established that conditions are safe.’

‘Maybe one of us should go through instead of you,’ I said, wondering why Norbert hadn’t volunteered to go through ahead of his master. ‘We’re expendable, but you aren’t. Without you, Jax doesn’t go down.’

‘Considerate of you, Dexia, but I paid you to assist me, not take risks on my behalf.’

Martinez propelled himself forward. Norbert, Nicolosi and I edged back to permit the inner door to close again. On the common suit channel I heard Sollis say, ‘We’re opening Nightingale. Stand by: comms might get a bit weaker once we’re on the other side of all this metal.’

Nicolosi pushed past me, back into the flight deck. I heard the heavy whine of servos as the door opened. Breathing and scuffling sounds followed, but nothing that alarmed me.

‘Okay,’ Sollis said, ‘we’re moving into Nightingale’s lock. Closing the outer door behind us. When you need to open it again, hit any key on the pad.’

‘Still no sign of life,’ Nicolosi called.

‘The inner door looks as if it’ll open without any special encouragement from me,’ Sollis said. ‘Should be just a matter of pulling down this lever . . . you ready?’

‘Do it, Ingrid,’ Martinez replied.

More servos, fainter now. After a few moments, Sollis reported back: ‘We’re inside. No surprises yet. Floating in some kind of holding bay, about ten metres wide. It’s dark, of course. There’s a doorway leading out through the far wall: might lead to the main corridor that should pass close to this lock.’

I remembered to turn on my helmet lamp.

‘Can you open both lock doors?’ Nicolosi asked.

‘Not at the same time, not without a lot of trouble that might get us noticed.’

‘Then we’ll come through in two passes. Norbert: you go first. Dexia and I will follow.’

It took longer than I’d have liked, but eventually all five of us were on the other side of the lock. I’d only been weightless once, during the recuperation programme after my injury, but the memory of how to move - at least without making too much of a fool of myself - was still there, albeit dimly. The others were coping about as well. The combined effects of our helmet lamps banished the darkness to the corners of the room, emphasizing the deeper gloom of the open doorway Sollis had mentioned. It occurred to me that somewhere deep in that darkness was Colonel Jax, or whatever was left of him.

Nervously, I checked that the slug-gun was still clipped to my belt.

‘Call up your helmet maps,’ Martinez said. ‘Does everyone have an overlay and a positional fix?’

‘I’m good,’ I said, against a chorus from the other three, and acutely aware of how easy it would be to get lost aboard a ship as large as Nightingale if that positional fix were to break down.

‘Check your weapons and suit systems. We’ll keep comms to a minimum all the way in.’

‘I’ll lead,’ Nicolosi said, propelling himself into the darkness of the doorway before anyone could object.

I followed hard on his heels, trying not to get out of breath with the effort of keeping up. There were loops and rails along all four walls of the shaft, so movement consisted of gliding from one handhold to the next, with only air resistance to stop one drifting all the way. We were covering one metre a second, easily: at that rate, it wouldn’t take long to cross the entire width of the ship, which would mean we’d somehow missed the axial corridor we were looking for, or that it simply didn’t exist. But just when it was beginning to strike me that we’d gone too far, Nicolosi slowed. I grabbed a handhold to stop myself slamming into his feet.

He looked back at us, his helmet lamp making me squint. ‘Here’s the main corridor, just a bit deeper than we were expecting. Runs both ways.’

‘We turn left,’ Martinez said, in not much more than a whisper. ‘Turn left and follow it for one hundred metres, maybe one hundred and twenty, until we meet the centrifuge section. It should be a straight crawl, with no obstructions.’

Nicolosi turned away, then looked back. ‘I can’t see more than twenty metres into the corridor. We may as well see where it goes.’

‘Nice and slowly,’ Martinez urged.

We moved forward, along the length of the hull. In the instants when I was coasting from one handhold to the next, I held my breath and tried to hear the ambient noises of the ship, relayed to my helmet by the suit’s acoustic pick-up. Mostly all I heard was the scuffing progress of the others, the hiss and hum of their own life-support packs. Other than that, Nightingale was as silent as when we’d approached. If the ship was aware of our intrusion, there was no sign of it.

We’d made maybe forty metres from the junction - at least a third of the distance we had to travel before hitting the centrifuge - when Nicolosi slowed. I caught a handhold before I drifted into his heels, then looked back to make sure the others had got the message.

‘Problem?’ Martinez asked.

‘There’s a T-junction right ahead. I didn’t think we were expecting a T-junction.’

‘We weren’t,’ Martinez said, ‘but it shouldn’t surprise us that the real ship deviates from the schematic here and there. As long as we don’t reach a dead end, we can still keep moving towards the colonel.’

‘You want to flip a coin, or shall I do it?’ Nicolosi said, looking back at us over his shoulder, his face picked out by my helmet light.

‘There’s no indication, no sign on the wall?’

‘Blank either way.’

‘In which case take the left,’ Martinez said, before glancing at Norbert. ‘Agreed?’

‘Agreed,’ the big man said. ‘Take left, then next right. Continue.’

Nicolosi kicked off, and the rest of us followed. I kept an eye on my helmet’s inertial compass, gratified when it detected our change of direction, even though the overlay now showed us moving through what should have been a solid wall.

We’d moved twenty or thirty metres when Nicolosi slowed again. ‘Tunnel bends to the right,’ he reported. ‘Looks like we’re back on track. Everyone cool with this?’

‘Cool,’ I said.

But we’d only made another fifteen or twenty metres of progress along the new course when Nicolosi slowed and called back again. ‘We’re coming up on a heavy door - some kind of internal airlock. Looks as if we’re going to need Sollis again.’

‘Let me through,’ she said, and I squeezed aside so she could edge past me, trying to avoid knocking our suits together. In addition to the weapons she’d selected from the armoury, Sollis’s suit was also hung with all manner of door-opening tools, clattering against each other as she moved. I didn’t doubt that she’d be able to get through any kind of door, given time. But the idea of spending hours inside Nightingale, while we inched from one obstruction to the next, didn’t exactly fill me with enthusiasm.

We let Sollis examine the door: we could hear her ruminating over the design, tutting, humming and talking softly to herself under her breath. She had panels open and equipment plugged in, just like before. The same unwelcoming face glowered from an oval display.

After a couple of minutes, Martinez sighed and asked, ‘Is there a problem, Ingrid?’

‘There’s no problem. I can get this door open in about ten seconds. I just want to make damned sure this is another of Nightingale’s dumb facets. That means sensing the electrical connections on either side of the frame. Of course, if you’d rather we just stormed on through—’

‘Keep voice down,’ Norbert rumbled.

‘I’m wearing a spacesuit, dickhead.’

‘Pressure outside. Sound travel, air to glass, glass to air.’

‘You have five minutes,’ Martinez said, decisively. ‘If you haven’t found what you’re looking for by then, we open the door anyway. And Norbert’s right: let’s keep the noise down.’

‘So, no pressure then,’ Sollis muttered.

But in three minutes she started unplugging her tools, and turned aside with a beaming look on her face. ‘It’s just an emergency airlock, in case this part of the ship depressurises.’

‘But it isn’t on the schematic.’

‘It ain’t a blueprint, Scarrow. Like the old man told us, it’s just a guess. If people remembered stuff wrong, or if the ship got changed after they were abroad . . . we’re going to run into discrepancies.’

‘No danger that tripping it will alert the rest of Nightingale?’ I asked.

‘Can’t ever say there’s no risk, but I’m happy for us to go through.’

‘Open the door,’ Martinez said. ‘Everyone brace in case there’s vacuum or atmosphere under pressure on the other side.’

We followed his instructions, but when the door opened the air remained as still as before. Beyond, picked out by our wavering lights, was a short stretch of corridor terminating in an identical-looking door. This time there was enough room for all of us to squeeze through, while Sollis attended to the second lock mechanism. Some hardwired system required that the first door be closed before the second one could be opened, but that posed us no real difficulties. Now that Sollis knew what to look for, she worked much faster: good at her job and happy for us all to know it. I didn’t doubt that she’d be even faster on the way out.

‘We’re ready to go through, people. Indications say that the air’s just as cold on the other side, so keep your suits buttoned.’

I heard the click as one of us - maybe Nicolosi, maybe Norbert - released a safety catch. It was like someone coughing in a theatre. I had no choice but to reach down and arm my own weapon.

‘Open it,’ Martinez said quietly.

The door chugged wide. Our lights stabbed into dark emptiness beyond: a suggestion of a much deeper, wider space than I’d been expecting. Sollis leaned through the doorframe, her helmet lamp catching fleeting details from reflective surfaces. I had a momentary flash of glassy things stretching away into infinite distance, then it was gone.

‘Report, Ingrid,’ Martinez said.

‘I think we can get through. We’ve come out next to a wall, or floor, or whatever it is. There are handholds, railings. Looks as if they lead on into the room, probably to the other side.’

‘Stay where you are,’ Nicolosi said, just ahead of me. ‘I’ll take point again.’

Sollis glanced back and swallowed hard. ‘It’s okay, I can handle this one. Can’t let you have all the fun, can I?’

Nicolosi grunted something: I don’t think he had much of a sense of humour. ‘You’re welcome to my gun, you want it.’

‘I’m cool,’ she said, but with audible hesitation. I didn’t blame her: it was different being point on a walk through a huge dark room, compared to a narrow corridor. Nothing could leap out and grab you from the side in a corridor.

She started moving along the crawlway.

‘Nice and slowly, Ingrid,’ Martinez said, from behind me. ‘We still have time on our side.’

‘We’re right behind you,’ I said, feeling she needed moral support.

‘I’m fine, Dexia. No problems here. Just don’t want to lose my handhold and go drifting off into fuck knows what . . .’

Her movements became rhythmic, progressing into the chamber one careful handhold at a time. Nicolosi followed, with me right behind him. Apart from our movements, and the sounds of our suit systems, the ship was still as silent as a crypt.

But it wasn’t totally dark any more.

Now that we were inside the chamber, it began to reveal its secrets in dim spots of pale light, reaching away into some indeterminate distance. The lights must have always been there, just too faint to notice until we were inside.

‘Something’s running,’ Sollis said.

‘We knew that,’ Martinez said. ‘It was always clear that the ship was dormant, not dead.’

I panned my helmet around and tried to get another look at the glassy things I’d glimpsed earlier. On either side of the railed walkway, stretching away in multiple ranks, were hundreds of transparent flasks. Each flask was the size of an oil drum, rounded on top, mounted on a steel-grey plinth equipped with controls, read-outs and input sockets. There were three levels of them, with the second and third layers stacked above the first on skeletal racks. Most of the plinths were dead, but maybe one in ten was showing a lit-up read-out.

‘Oh, Jesus,’ Sollis said, and I guess she’d seen what I’d just seen: that the flasks contained human organs, floating in a green chemical solution, wired up with fine nutrient lines and electrical cables. I was no anatomist, but I still recognised hearts, lungs, kidneys, snakelike coils of intestine. And there were things anyone would have recognised: things like eyeballs, dozens of them growing in a single vat, swaying on the long stalks of optic nerves like some weird species of all-seeing sea anemone; things like hands, or entire limbs, or genitals, or the skin and muscle masks of eyeless faces. Every external body part came in dozens of different sizes, ranging from child-sized to adult, male and female, and despite the green suspension fluid one could make out subtle variations in skin tone and pigmentation.

‘Easy, Ingrid,’ I said, the words as much for my benefit as hers. ‘We always knew this was a hospital ship. It was just a matter of time before we ran into something like this.’

‘This stuff . . .’ Nicolosi said, his voice low. ‘Where does it come from?’

‘Two main sources,’ Martinez answered, sounding too calm for my liking. ‘Not everyone who came aboard Nightingale could be saved, obviously - the ship was no more capable of working miracles than any other hospital. Wherever practicable, the dead would donate intact body parts for future use. Useful, certainly, but such a resource could never have supplied the bulk of Nightingale’s surgical needs. For that reason the ship was also equipped to fabricate its own organ supplies, using well-established principles of stem-cell manipulation. The organ factories would have worked around the clock, keeping this library fully stocked.’

‘It doesn’t look fully stocked now,’ I said.

Martinez said, ‘We’re not in a war zone any more. The ship is dormant. It has no need to maintain its usual surgical capacity.’

‘So why is it maintaining any capacity? Why are some of these flasks still keeping their organs alive?’

‘Waste not, want not, I suppose. A strategic reserve, against the day when the ship might be called into action again.’

‘You think it’s just waiting to be reactivated?’

‘It’s only a machine, Dexia. A machine on standby. Nothing to get nervous about.’

‘No one’s nervous,’ I said, but it came out all wrong, making me sound as if I was the one who was spooked.

‘Let’s get to the other side,’ Nicolosi said.

‘We’re halfway there,’ Sollis reported. ‘I can see the far wall, sort of. Looks like there’s a door waiting for us.’

We kept on moving, hand over hand, mostly in silence. Surrounded by all those glass-encased body parts, I couldn’t help but think of the people many of them had once been part of. If these parts had belonged to me, I think I’d have chosen to haunt Nightingale, consumed with ill-directed, spiteful fury.

Not the right kind of thinking, I was just telling myself, when the flasks started moving.

We all stopped, anchoring ourselves to the nearest handhold. Two or three rows back from the railed crawlway, a row of flasks was gliding smoothly towards the far wall of the chamber. They were sliding in perfect lock-step unison. When my heart started beating again, I realised that the entire row must be attached to some kind of conveyor system, hidden within the support framework.

‘Nobody move,’ Nicolosi said.

‘This is not good,’ Sollis kept saying. ‘This is not good. The damn ship isn’t supposed to know—’

‘Quiet,’ Martinez hissed. ‘Let me past you: I want to see where those flasks are going.’

‘Careful,’ Norbert said.

Paying no attention to the man, Martinez climbed ahead of the party. Quickly we followed him, doing our best not to make any noise or slip from the crawlway. The flasks continued their smooth, silent movement until the conveyor system reached the far wall and turned through ninety degrees, taking the flasks away from us into a covered enclosure like a security scanner. Most of the flasks were empty, but as we watched, one of the occupied, active units slid into the enclosure. I’d only had a moment to notice, but I thought I’d seen a forearm and hand, reaching up from the life-support plinth.

The conveyor system halted. For a moment all was silent, then there came a series of mechanical clicks and whirrs. None of us could see what was happening inside the enclosure, but after a moment we didn’t need to. It was obvious.

The conveyor began to move again, but running in reverse this time. The flask that had gone into the enclosure was now empty. I counted back to make sure I wasn’t making a mistake, but there was no doubt. The forearm and hand had been removed from the flask. Already, I presumed, the limb was somewhere else in the ship.

The flasks travelled back - returning to what I presumed to have been their former positions - and then halted again. Save for the missing limb, the chamber was exactly as when we had entered it.

‘I don’t like this,’ Sollis said. ‘The ship is supposed to be dead.’

‘Dormant,’ Martinez corrected.

‘You don’t think the shit that just happened is in any way related to us being aboard? You don’t think Jax just got a wake-up call?’

‘If Jax were aware of our presence, we’d know it by now.’

‘I don’t know how you can sound so calm.’

‘All that has happened, Ingrid, is that Nightingale has performed some trivial housekeeping duty. We have already seen that it maintains some organs in pre-surgical condition, and this is just one of its tissue libraries. It should hardly surprise us that the ship occasionally decides to move some of its stock from A to B.’

She made a small, catlike snarl of frustration - I could tell she hadn’t bought any of his explanations - and pulled herself hand over hand to the door.

‘Any more shit like that happens, I’m out,’ she said.

‘I’d think twice if I were you,’ Martinez said. ‘It’s a hell of a long walk home.’

I caught up with Sollis and touched her on the forearm. ‘I don’t like it either, Ingrid, but the man’s right. Jax doesn’t know we’re here. If he did, I think he’d do more than just move some flasks around.’

‘I hope you’re right, Scarrow.’

‘So do I,’ I said under my breath.

We continued along the main axis of the ship, following a corridor much like the one we’d been following before the organ library. It swerved and jagged, then straightened out again. According to the inertial compasses, we were still headed towards Jax, or at least the part of the ship where it appeared most likely we’d find him, alive or dead.

‘What we were talking about earlier,’ Sollis said, ‘I mean, much earlier - about how this ship never got destroyed at the end of the war after all—’

‘I think I have stated my case, Ingrid. Dwelling on myths won’t bring a wanted man to justice.’

‘We’re looking at about a million tonnes of salvageable spacecraft here. Gotta be worth something to someone. So why didn’t anyone get their hands on it after the war?’

‘Because something bad happened,’ Nicolosi said. ‘Maybe there was some truth in the story about that boarding party coming here and not leaving.’

‘Oh, please,’ Martinez said.

‘So who was fighting back?’ I asked. ‘Who stopped them taking Nightingale?’

Nicolosi answered me. ‘The skeleton staff . . . security agents of the postmortals who financed this thing . . . maybe even the protective systems of the ship itself. If it thought it was under attack—’

‘If there was some kind of firefight aboard this thing,’ I asked, ‘where’s the damage?’

‘I don’t care about the damage,’ Sollis cut in. ‘I want to know what happened to all the bodies.’

We came to another blocked double-door airlock. Sollis got to work on it immediately, but my expectation that she would work faster now that she had already opened several doors without trouble was wrong. She kept plugging things in, checking read-outs, murmuring to herself just loud enough to carry over the voice link. Nightingale’s face watched us disapprovingly, looking on like the portrait of a disappointed ancestor.

‘This one could be trickier,’ she said. ‘I’m picking up active data links, running away from the frame.’

‘Meaning it could still be hooked into the nervous system?’ Nicolosi asked.

‘I can’t rule it out.’

Nicolosi ran a hand along the smooth black barrel of his plasma weapon. ‘We could double back, try a different route.’

‘We’re not going back,’ Martinez said. ‘Not now. Open the door, Ingrid: we’ll take our chances and move as quickly as we can from now on.’

‘You sure about this?’ She had a cable pinched between her fingers. ‘No going back once I plug this in.’

‘Do it.’

She pushed the line in. At the same moment a shiver of animation passed across Nightingale’s face, the mask waking to life. The door spoke to us. Its tone was strident and metallic, but also possessed of an authoritative femininity.

‘This is the Voice of Nightingale. You are attempting to access a secure area. Report to central administration to obtain proper clearance.’

‘Shit,’ Sollis said.

‘You weren’t expecting that?’ I asked.

‘I wasn’t expecting an active facet. Maybe the sentience engine isn’t powered down quite as far as I thought.’

‘This is the Voice of Nightingale,’ the door said again. ‘You are attempting to access a secure area. Report to central administration to obtain proper clearance.’

‘Can you still force it?’ Nicolosi asked.

‘Yeah . . . think so.’ Sollis fumbled in another line, made some adjustments and stood back as the door slid open. ‘Voilà.’

The face had turned silent and masklike again, but now I really felt as if we were being watched; as if the woman’s eyes seemed to be looking in all directions at once.

‘You think Jax knows about us now?’ I asked, as Sollis propelled herself into the holding chamber between the two sets of doors.

‘I don’t know. Maybe I bypassed the door in time, before it sent an alert.’

‘But you can’t be sure.’

‘No.’ She sounded wounded.

Sollis got to work on the second door, faster now, urgency overruling caution. I checked that my gun was still where I’d left it, and then made sure that the safety catch was still off. Around me, the others went through similar preparatory rituals.

Gradually it dawned on me that Sollis was taking longer than expected. She turned from the door, her equipment still hooked into its open service panel.

‘Something’s screwed up,’ she said, before swallowing hard. ‘These suits we’re wearing, Tomas . . . how good are they, exactly?’

‘Full-spectrum battle-hardened. Why do you ask?’

‘Because the door says that the ship’s flooded behind this point. It says we’ll be swimming through something.’

‘I see,’ Martinez said.

‘Oh, no,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘We’re not doing this. We’re not going underwater.’

‘I can’t be sure it’s water, Dexia.’ She tapped the read-out panel, as if I should have been able to make sense of the numbers and symbols. ‘Could be anything warm and wet, really.’

Martinez shrugged within his suit. ‘Could have been a containment leak . . . spillage into this part of the ship. It’s nothing to worry about. Our suits will cope easily, provided we do not delay.’

I looked him hard in the faceplate, meeting his eyes, making certain he couldn’t look away. ‘You’re sure about this? These suits aren’t going to stiff on us as soon as they get wet?’

‘The suits will continue to function. I am so certain that I will go first. When you hear that I am safe on the other side, you can all follow.’

‘I don’t like this. What if Ingrid’s tools don’t work under water?’

‘We have no choice but to keep moving forward,’ Martinez said. ‘If this section of the ship is flooded, we’ll run into it no matter which route we take. This is the only way.’

‘Then let’s do it,’ I said. ‘If these suits made it through the war, surely they’ll get us through the next chamber.’

‘It’s not the suits I’m worried about,’ Nicolosi said, examining his weapon again. ‘No one mentioned immersion when we were in the armoury.’

I cupped a hand to my crude little slug-gun. ‘I’ll swap you, we make it to the other side.’

Nicolosi didn’t say anything. I don’t think he saw the funny side.

Two minutes later we were inside, floating weightless in the unlit gloom of the flooded room. It felt like water, but it was difficult to tell. Everything felt thick and sluggish when you were wearing a suit, even thin air. My biohazard detectors weren’t registering anything, but that didn’t necessarily mean the fluid was safe. The detectors were tuned to recognise a handful of toxins in common wartime use; they weren’t designed to sniff out every harmful agent that had ever existed.

Martinez’s voice buzzed in my helmet. ‘There are no handholds or guide wires. We’ll just have to swim in a straight direction, trusting to our inertial compasses. If we all stay within sight of each other, we should have no difficulties.’

‘Let’s get on with it,’ Nicolosi said.

We started swimming as best as we could, Nicolosi leading, pushing himself forward with powerful strokes, his weapons dangling from their straps. It would have been hard and slow with just the suits to contend with, but we were all wearing armour as well. It made it difficult to see ahead; difficult to reach forward to get an effective stroke; difficult to kick our legs enough to make any useful contribution. Our helmet lamps struggled to illuminate more than ten or twenty metres in any direction, and the door by which we’d entered was soon lost behind us in gloom. I felt a constricting sense of panic: the fear that if the compasses failed we might never find our way out again.

The compasses didn’t fail, though, and Nicolosi maintained his unfaltering pace. Two minutes into the swim he called, ‘I see the wall. It’s dead ahead of us.’

A couple of seconds later I saw it hove out of the deep-pink gloom. Any relief I might have felt was tempered by the observation that the wall appeared featureless, stretching away blankly in all illuminated directions.

‘There’s no door,’ I said.

‘Maybe we experienced some lateral drift,’ Nicolosi said.

‘Compass says no.’

‘Then maybe the doors are offset. It doesn’t matter: we’ll find it by hitting the wall and spiralling out from our landing spot.’

‘If there’s a door.’

‘If there isn’t,’ Nicolosi said, ‘we shoot our way out.’

‘Glad you’ve thought this through,’ I said, realising that he was serious.

We drew nearer to the wall. The closer we got and the more clearly it was picked out by our lamps, the more I realised there was something not quite right about it. It was still blank - lacking any struts or panels, apertures or pieces of shipboard equipment - but it wasn’t the seamless surface I’d have expected from a massive sheet of prefabricated spacecraft material. There was an unsettling texture to it, with something of the fibrous quality of cheap paper. Faint lines coursed through it, slightly darker than the rest of the wall, but not arranged according to any neat geometric pattern. They curved and branched, and threw off fainter subsidiary lines, diminishing like the veins in a leaf.

In a nauseating flash I realised exactly what the wall was made of. When Nicolosi’s palms touched the surface, it yielded like a trampoline, absorbing the momentum of his impact and then sending him back out again, until his motion was damped by the surrounding fluid.

‘It’s . . .’ I began.

‘Skin. I know. I realised just before I hit.’

I arrested my motion, but not quickly enough to avoid contact with the wall of skin. It yielded under me, stretching so much that I felt in danger of ripping my way right through. But it held, and began to trampoline me back in the direction I’d come from. Fighting a tide of revulsion, I pulled back into the liquid and floated amidst the others.

‘Fuck,’ Sollis said. ‘This isn’t right. There shouldn’t be fucking skin—’

‘Don’t be alarmed,’ Martinez said, wheezing between each word. ‘This is just another form of organ library, like the room we already passed through. I believe the liquid we’re swimming in must be a form of growth-support medium . . . something like amniotic fluid. Under wartime conditions, this whole chamber would have been full of curtains of growing skin, measured by the acre.’

Nicolosi groped for something on his belt, came up with a serrated blade that glinted nastily even in the pink fluid.

‘I’m cutting through.’

‘No!’ Martinez barked.

Sollis, who was next to Nicolosi, took hold of his forearm. ‘Easy, soldier. Got to be a better way.’

‘There is,’ Martinez said. ‘Put the knife away, please. We can go around the skin, find its edge.’

Nicolosi still had the blade in his hand. ‘I’d rather take the short cut.’

‘There are nerve endings in that skin. Cut them and the monitoring apparatus will know about it. Then so will the ship.’

‘Maybe the ship already knows we’re here.’

‘We don’t take that chance.’

Reluctantly, Nicolosi returned the knife to his belt. ‘I thought we’d agreed to move fast from now on,’ he said.

‘There’s fast, and there’s reckless,’ Sollis said. ‘You were about to cross the line.’

Martinez brushed past me, already swimming to the left. I followed him, with the others tagging on behind. After less than a minute of hard progress, a dark edge emerged into view. It was like a picture frame stretching tight the canvas of skin. Beyond the edge, only just visible, was a wall of the chamber, fretted with massive geodesic reinforcing struts.

I allowed myself a moment of ease. We were still in danger, still in about the most claustrophobic situation I could imagine, but at least now the chamber didn’t seem infinitely large.

Martinez braked himself by grabbing the frame. I came to rest next to him and peered around the edge, towards what I hoped would be the wall we’d been heading towards all along. But instead of that I saw only another field of skin, stretched across another frame, separated from the first by no more than the height of a man. In the murky distance was the suggestion of a third frame, and perhaps a fourth beyond that.

‘How many?’ I asked as the others arrived on the frame, perching like crows.

‘I don’t know,’ Martinez said. ‘Four, five . . . anything up to a dozen, I’d guess. But it’s okay. We can swim around the frames, then turn right and head back to where we’d expect to find the exit door.’ He raised his voice. ‘Everyone all right? No problems with your suits?’

‘There are lights,’ Nicolosi said quietly.

We turned to look at him.

‘I mean over there,’ he added, nodding in the direction of the other sheets of skin. ‘I saw a flicker of something . . . a glow in the water, or amniotic fluid, or whatever the fuck this is.’

‘I see light, too,’ Norbert said.

I looked down and saw that he was right - Nicolosi had not been imagining it. A pale, trembling light was emerging from between the next two layers of skin.

‘Whatever that is, I don’t like it,’ I said.

‘Me neither,’ Martinez said. ‘But if it’s something going on between the skin layers, it doesn’t have to concern us. We swim around, avoid them completely.’

He kicked off with surprising determination, and I followed quickly after him. The reverse side of the skin sheet was a fine mesh of pale support fibres, the structural matrix upon which the skin must have been grown and nourished. Thick black cables ran across the underside, arranged in circuit-like patterns.

The second sheet, the one immediately behind the first, was of different pigmentation from the one behind it. In all other respects it appeared similar, stretching unbroken into pink haze. The flickering, trembling light source was visible through the flesh, silhouetting the veins and arteries at the moments when the light was brightest.

We passed around the second sheet and peered into the gap between the second and third layers. Picked out in stuttering light was a tableau of furtive activity. Four squid-like robots were at work. Each machine consisted of a tapering, cone-shaped body, anchored to the skin by a cluster of whip-like arms emerging from the blunt end of the cone. The robots were engaged in precise surgery, removing a blanket-sized rectangle of skin by cutting it free along four sides. The robots generated their own illumination, shining from the ends of some of their arms, but the bright flashing light was coming from some kind of laser-like tool that each robot deployed on the end of a single segmented arm that was thicker than any of the others. I couldn’t tell whether the flashes were part of the cutting, or the instant healing that appeared to be taking place immediately afterwards. There was no bleeding, and the surrounding skin appeared unaffected.

‘What are they doing?’ I breathed.

‘Harvesting,’ Martinez answered. ‘What does it look like?’

‘I know they’re harvesting. I mean, why are they doing it? What do they need that skin for?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You had plenty of answers in the organ library, Mister Martinez, ’ Sollis said. All five of us had slowed, hovering at the same level as the surgical robots. ‘For a ship that’s supposed to be dormant . . . I’m not seeing much fucking evidence of dormancy.’

‘Nightingale grows skin here,’ I said. ‘I can deal with that. The ship’s keeping a basic supply going, in case it’s called into another war. But that doesn’t explain why it needs to harvest some now.’

Martinez sounded vague. ‘Maybe it’s testing the skin . . . making sure it’s developing according to plan.’

‘You’d think a little sample would be enough for that,’ I said. ‘A lot less than several square metres, for sure. That’s enough skin to cover a whole person.’

‘I really wish you hadn’t said that,’ Nicolosi said.

‘Let’s keep moving,’ Martinez said. And he was right, too, I thought: the activity of the robots was deeply unsettling, but we hadn’t come here to sightsee.

As we swam away - with no sign that the robots had noticed us - I thought about what Ingrid Sollis had said before. About how it wasn’t clever to leave a gamma-level intelligence up and running without something to occupy itself. Because otherwise - since duty was so deeply hardwired into their logic pathways - they tended to go slowly, quietly, irrevocably insane.

And Nightingale had been alone out there since the end of the war. What did that mean for its controlling mind? Was the hospital running itself out there - reliving the duties of its former life, no matter how pointless they had become - because the mind had already gone mad, or was this the hospital’s last-ditch way of keeping itself sane?

And what, I wondered, did any of that have to do with the man we had come here to find in the first place?

We kept swimming, passing layer upon layer of skin. Now and then we’d come across another surgical party: another group of robots engaged in skin-harvesting. Where they’d already completed their task, the flesh had been excised in neat rectangles and strips, exposing the gauzelike mesh of the growth matrix. Occasionally I saw a patch that was half-healed already, the skin growing back in rice-paper translucence. By the time it was fully repaired, I doubted that there’d be any sign of where the skin had been cut.

Ten layers, then twelve - and then finally the wall I’d been waiting for hove into view like a mirage. But I wasn’t imagining it, or seeing another layer of drum-tight skin. There was the same pattern of geodesic struts as I’d seen on the other wall.

Sollis’s voice came through. ‘Got a visual on the door, people. We’re nearly out of here. I’m swimming ahead to start work.’

‘Good, Ingrid,’ Martinez called back.

A few seconds later I saw the airlock for myself, relieved that Sollis hadn’t been mistaken. She swam quickly, then - even as she was gliding to a halt by the door - commenced unclipping tools and connectors from her belt. Through the darkening distance of the pink haze I watched her flip down the service panel and begin her usual systems-bypass procedure. I was glad Martinez had found Sollis. Whatever else one might say about her, she was pretty hot at getting through doors.

‘Okay, good news,’ she said after a minute of plugging things in and out. ‘There’s air on the other side. We’re not going to have to swim in this stuff for much longer.’

‘How much longer?’ Nicolosi asked.

‘Can’t risk a short circuit here, guy. Gotta take things one step at a time.’

Just as she was saying that, I became aware that we were casting shadows against the wall - shadows we hadn’t been casting when we arrived. I twisted around and looked back the way we’d just swum, in the direction of the new light source I knew had to be there. Four of the squid-like machines were approaching us, dragging a blanket of newly harvested skin between them, one robot grasping each corner between two segmented silver tentacles. They were moving faster than we could swim, driven by some propulsion system jetting fluid from the sharp ends of their cone-shaped bodies.

Sollis jerked back as the outer airlock door opened suddenly.

‘I didn’t . . .’ she started.

‘I know,’ I said urgently. ‘The robots are coming. They must have sent a command to open the lock.’

‘Let’s get out of the way,’ Martinez said, kicking off from the wall. ‘Ingrid - get away from the lock. Take what you can, but make it snappy.’

Sollis started unplugging her equipment, stowing it on her belt with fumbling fingers. The machines powered nearer, the blanket of skin undulating between them like a flying carpet. They slowed, then halted, their lights pushing spears of harsh illumination through the fluid. They were looking at us, wondering what we were doing between them and the door. One of the machines directed its beam towards Martinez’s swimming figure, attracted by the movement. Martinez slowed and hung frozen in the glare, like a moth pinned in a beam of sunlight.

None of us said a word. My own breathing was the loudest sound in the universe, but I couldn’t make it any quieter. Silently, the airlock door closed itself again, as if the robots had detected our presence and decided to bar our exit from the flooded chamber.

One of the machines let go of its corner of the skin. It hovered by the sheet for a moment, as if weighing its options. Then it singled me out and commenced its approach. As it neared, the machine appeared far larger and more threatening than I’d expected. Its cone-shaped body was as long as me; its thickest tentacle appearing powerful enough to do serious damage even without the additional weapon of the laser. When it spread its arms wide, as if to embrace me, I had to fight not to panic and back away.

The robot started examining me. It began with my helmet, tap-tapping and scraping, shining its light through my visor. It applied twisting force, trying to disengage the helmet from the neck coupling. Whether it recognised me as a person or just a piece of unidentifiable floating debris, it appeared to think that dismantling was the best course of action. I told myself that I’d let it work at me for another few seconds, but as soon as I felt the helmet begin to loosen I’d have to act . . . even if that meant alerting the robot that I probably wasn’t debris.

But just when I’d decided I had to move, the robot abandoned my helmet and worked its way south. It extended a pair of tentacles under my chest armour from each side, trying to lever it away like a huge scab. Somehow I kept my nerve, daring to believe that the robot would sooner or later lose interest in me. Then it pulled away from the chest armour and started fiddling with my weapon, tap-tapping away like a spirit in a seance. It tugged on the gun, trying to unclip it. Then, as abruptly as it had started, the robot abandoned its investigation. It pulled away, gathering its tentacles into a fistlike bunch. Then it moved slowly in the direction of Nicolosi, tentacles groping ahead of it.

I willed him to stay still. There’d be no point in trying to swim away. None of us could move faster than those robots. Nicolosi must have worked that out for himself, or else he was paralysed with fright, but he made no movements as the robot cruised up to him. It slowed, the spread of its tentacles widening, and then tracked its spotlight from head to toe, as if it still couldn’t decide what Nicolosi was. Then it reached out a pair of manipulators and brushed their sharp-looking tips against his helmet. The machine probed and examined with surprising gentleness. I heard the metal-on-metal scrape through the voice link, backgrounded by Nicolosi’s rapid, sawlike breathing.

Keep it together . . .

The machine reached his neck, examined the interface between helmet and torso assembly and then worked its way down to his chest armour, extending a fine tentacle under the armour itself, to where the vulnerable life-support module lay concealed. Then, very slowly, it withdrew the tentacle.

The machine pulled back from Nicolosi, turning its blunt end away, apparently finished with its examination. The other three robots hovered watchfully with their prize of skin. Nicolosi sighed and eased his breathing.

‘I think . . .’ he whispered.

That was his big mistake. The machine righted itself, gathered its tentacles back into formation and began to approach him again, its powerful light sweeping up and down his body with renewed purpose. The second machine was nearing, clearly intent on assisting its partner in the examination of Nicolosi.

I looked at Sollis, our horrified gazes locking. ‘Can you get the door—’ I started.

‘Not a hope in hell.’

‘Nicolosi,’ I said, not bothering to whisper this time, ‘stay still and maybe they’ll go away again.’

But he wasn’t going to stay still: not this time. Even as I watched, he was hooking a hand around the plasma rifle, swinging it in front of him like a harpoon, its wide maw directed at the nearest machine.

‘No!’ Norbert shouted, his voice booming through the water like a depth charge. ‘Do not use! Not in here!’

But Nicolosi was beyond reasoned argument now. He had a weapon. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to use it.

So he did.

In one sense, it did all that he asked of it. The plasma discharge speared the robot like a sunbeam through a cloud. The robot came apart in a boiling eruption of steam and fire, jagged black pieces riding the shock wave. Then the steam - the vaporised amniotic fluid - swallowed everything, including Nicolosi and his gun. Even inside my suit, the sound hit me like a hammer blow. He fired once more, as if to make certain that he had destroyed the robot. By then the second machine was near enough to be flung back by the blast, but it quickly righted itself and continued its progress towards him.

‘More,’ Norbert said, and when I looked back towards the stack of skin sheets, I saw what he meant. Robots were arriving in ones and twos, abandoning their cutting work to investigate whatever had just happened.

‘We’re in trouble,’ I said.

The steam cloud was breaking up, revealing the floating form of Nicolosi, the ruined stump of his weapon drifting away from him. The second time he fired it, something must have gone badly wrong with the plasma rifle. I wasn’t even sure that Nicolosi was still alive.

‘I take door,’ Norbert said, drawing his Demarchist weapon. ‘You take robots.’

‘You’re going to shoot us a way out, after what just happened to Nicolosi?’ I asked.

‘No choice,’ he said as the gun unpacked itself in his hand.

Martinez pushed himself across to the big man. ‘No. Give it to me instead. I’ll take care of the door.’

‘Too dangerous,’ Norbert said.

‘Give it to me.’

Norbert hesitated, and for a moment I thought he was going to put up a fight. Then he calmly passed the Demarchist weapon to Martinez and accepted Martinez’s weapon in return, the little slug-gun vanishing into his vast gauntleted hand. Whatever respect I’d had for Norbert vanished at the same time. If he was supposed to be protecting Martinez, that was no way to go about it.

Of the three of us, only Norbert and I were carrying projectile weapons. I unclipped my second pistol and passed it to Sollis. She took it gratefully, needing little persuasion to keep her energy weapon glued to her belt. The robots were easy to kill, provided we let them get close enough for a clean shot. I didn’t doubt that the surgical cutting gear was capable of inflicting harm, but we never gave them the opportunity to touch us. Not that the machines appeared to have deliberately hostile designs on us anyway. They were still behaving as if they were investigating some shipboard malfunction that required remedial action. They might have killed us, but it would only have been because they did not understand what we were.

We didn’t have an inexhaustible supply of slugs, though, and manual reloading was not an option underwater. Just when I began to worry that we’d be overwhelmed by sheer numbers, Martinez’s voice boomed through my helmet.

‘I’m ready to shoot now. Follow me as soon as I’m through the second door.’

The Demarchist weapon discharged, lighting up the entire chamber in an eyeblink of murky detail. There was another discharge, then a third.

‘Martinez,’ I said. ‘Speak to me.’

After too long a delay, he came through. ‘I’m still here. Through the first door. Weapon’s cycling . . .’

More robots were swarming above us, tentacles lashing like whips. I wondered how long it would take before signals reached Nightingale’s sentience engine and the ship realised that it was dealing with more than just a local malfunction.

‘Why doesn’t he shoot?’ Sollis asked, squeezing off one controlled slug after another.

‘Sporting weapon. Three shots, recharge cycle, three shots,’ Norbert said, by way of explanation. ‘No rapid-fire mode. But work good underwater.’

‘We could use those next three shots,’ I said.

Martinez buzzed in my ear. ‘Ready. I will discharge until the weapon is dry. I suggest you start swimming now.’

I looked at Nicolosi’s drifting form, which was still as inert as when he had emerged from the steam cloud caused by his own weapon. ‘I think he’s dead,’ I said softly, ‘but we should still—’

‘No,’ Norbert said, almost angrily. ‘Leave him.’

‘Maybe he’s just unconscious.’

Martinez fired three times; three brief, bright strobe flashes. ‘Through!’ I heard him call, but there was something wrong with his voice. I knew then that he’d been hurt as well, although I couldn’t guess how badly.

Norbert and Sollis fired two last shots at the robots that were still approaching, then kicked past me in the direction of the airlock. I looked at Nicolosi’s drifting form, knowing that I’d never be able to live with myself if I didn’t try to get him out of there. I clipped my gun back to my belt and started swimming for him.

‘No!’ Norbert shouted again, when he’d seen my intentions. ‘Leave him! Too late!’

I reached Nicolosi and locked my right arm around his neck, pulling his head against my chest. I kicked for all I was worth, trying to pull myself forward with my free arm. I still couldn’t tell if Nicolosi was dead or alive.

‘Leave him, Scarrow! Too late!’

‘I can’t leave him!’ I shouted back, my voice ragged.

Three robots were bearing down on me and my cargo, their tentacles groping ahead of them. I squinted against the glare from their lights and tried to focus on getting the two of us to safety. Every kick of my legs, every awkward swing of my arm, seemed to tap the last drop of energy in my muscles. Finally I had nothing more to give.

I loosened my arm. His body corkscrewed slowly around, and through his visor I saw his face: pale, sweat-beaded, locked into a rictus of fear, but not dead, nor even unconscious. His eyes were wide open. He knew exactly what was going to happen when I let him go.

I had no choice.

A strong arm hooked itself under my helmet and began to tug me out of harm’s way. I watched as Nicolosi drifted towards the robots, and then closed my eyes as they wrapped their tentacles around his body and started probing him for points of weakness, like children trying to tear the wrapping from a present.

Norbert’s voice boomed through the water. ‘He’s dead.’

‘He was alive. I saw it.’

‘He’s dead. End of story.’

I pulled myself through a curtain of trembling pink water. Air pressure in the corridor contained the amniotic fluid, even though Martinez had blown a man-sized hole in each airlock door. Ruptured metal folded back in jagged black petals. Ahead, caught in a moving pool of light from their helmet lamps, Sollis and Martinez made awkward, crabwise progress away from the ruined door. Sollis was supporting Martinez, doing most of the work for him. Even in zero gravity, it took effort to haul another body.

‘Help her,’ Norbert said faintly, shaking his weapon to loosen the last of the pink bubbles from its metal outer casing. Without waiting for a reaction from me, he turned and started shooting back into the water, dealing with the remaining robots.

I caught up with Sollis and took some of her burden. All along the corridor, panels were flashing bright red, synchronised with the banshee wail of an emergency siren. About once every ten metres, the ship’s persona spoke from the wall, multiple voices blurring into an agitated chorus. ‘Attention. Attention,’ the faces said. ‘This is the Voice of Nightingale. An incident has been detected in Culture Bay Three. Damage assessment and mitigation systems have now been tasked. Partial evacuation of the affected ship area may be necessary. Please stand by for further instructions. Attention. Attention . . .’

‘What’s up with Martinez?’

‘Took some shrapnel when he put a hole in that door.’ She indicated a severe dent in his chest armour, to the left of the sternum. ‘Didn’t puncture the suit, but I’m pretty sure it did some damage. Broken rib, maybe even a collapsed lung. He was talking for a while back there, but he’s out cold now.’

‘Without Martinez, we don’t have a mission.’

‘I didn’t say he was dead. His suit still looks as if it’s ticking over. Maybe we could leave him here, collect him on the way back.’

‘With all those robots crawling about the place? How long do you think they’d leave him alone?’

I looked back, checking on Norbert. He was firing less frequently now, dealing with the last few stragglers still intent on investigating the damage. Finally he stopped, loaded a fresh clip into his slug-gun, and then after waiting for ten or twenty seconds turned from the wall of water. He began to make his way towards us.

‘Maybe there aren’t going to be any more robots.’

‘There will,’ Norbert said, joining us. ‘Many more. Nowhere safe, now. Ship on full alert. Nightingale coming alive.’

‘Maybe we should scrub,’ I said. ‘We’ve lost Nicolosi . . . Martinez is incapacitated . . . we’re no longer at anything like necessary strength to take down Jax.’

‘We still take Jax,’ Norbert said. ‘Came for him, leave with him.’

‘What about Martinez?’

He looked at the injured man, his face set like a granite carving. ‘He stay,’ he said.

‘But you already said that the robots—’

‘No other choice. He stay.’ And then Norbert brought himself closer to Martinez and tucked a thick finger under the chin of the old man’s helmet, tilting the faceplate up. ‘Wake!’ he bellowed.

When there was no response, Norbert reached behind Martinez’s chest armour and found the release buckles. He passed the dented plate to me, then slid down the access panel on the front of Martinez’s tabard pack, itself dented and cracked from the shrapnel impact. He scooped out a fistful of pink water, flinging the bubble away from us, then started making manual adjustments to the suit’s life-support settings. Biomedical data patterns shifted, accompanied by warning flashes in red.

‘What are you doing?’ I breathed. When he didn’t appear to hear me, I shouted the question again.

‘He need stay awake. This help.’

Martinez coughed red sputum onto the inside of his faceplate. He gulped in hard, then made rapid eye contact with the three of us. Norbert pushed the loaded slug-gun into Martinez’s hand, then slipped a fresh ammo clip onto the old man’s belt. He pointed down the corridor, to the blasted door, then indicated the direction we’d all be heading when we abandoned Martinez.

‘We come back,’ he said. ‘You stay alive.’

Sollis’s teeth flashed behind her faceplate. ‘This isn’t right. We should be carrying him . . . anything other than just leaving him here.’

‘Tell them,’ Martinez wheezed.

‘No,’ Norbert said.

‘Tell them, you fool! They’ll never trust you unless you tell them.’

‘Tell them what?’ I asked.

Norbert looked at me with heavy-lidded eyes. ‘The old man . . . not Martinez. His name . . . Quinlan.’

‘Then who the fuck is Martinez?’ Sollis asked.

‘I,’ Norbert said.

I glanced at Sollis, then back at the big man. ‘Don’t be silly,’ I said gently, wondering what must have happened to him in the flooded chamber.

‘I am Quinlan,’ the old man said, between racking coughs. ‘He was always the master. I was just the servant, the decoy.’

‘You’re both insane,’ Sollis said.

‘This is the truth. I acted the role of Martinez . . . deflected attention from him.’

‘He can’t be Martinez,’ Sollis said. ‘Sorry, Norbert, but you can barely put a sentence together, let alone a prosecution dossier.’

Norbert tapped a huge finger against the side of his helmet. ‘Damage to speech centre, in war. Comprehension . . . memory . . . analytic faculties . . . intact.’

‘He’s telling the truth,’ the old man said. ‘He’s the one who needs to survive, not me. He’s the one who can nail Jax.’ Then he tapped the gun against the big man’s leg, urging him to leave. ‘Go,’ he said, barking out that one word as if it was the last thing he expected to say. And at almost the same moment, I saw one of the tentacled robots begin to poke its limbs through the curtain of water, tick-ticking the tips of its arms against the blasted metal, searching for a way into the corridor.

‘Think the man has a point,’ Sollis said.

It didn’t get any easier after that.

We left the old man - I still couldn’t think of him as ‘Quinlan’ - slumped against the corridor wall, the barrel of his gun wavering in the rough direction of the ruined airlock. I looked back all the while, willing him to make the best use of the limited number of shots he had left. We were halfway to the next airlock when he squeezed off three rapid rounds, blasting the robot into twitching pieces. It wasn’t long before another set of tentacles began to probe the gap. I wondered how many of the damned things the ship was going to keep throwing at us, and how that number stacked up against the slugs the old man had left.

The flashing red lights ran all the way to the end of the corridor. I was just looking at the door, wondering how easy it was going to be for Sollis to crack, when Norbert/Martinez brought the three of us to a halt, braking my forward momentum with one tree-like forearm.

‘Blast visor down, Scarrow.’

I understood what he had in mind. No more sweet-talking the doors until they opened for us. From now on we’d be shooting our way through Nightingale.

Norbert/Martinez aimed the Demarchist weapon at the airlock. I cuffed down my blast visor. Three discharges took out the first airlock door, crumpling it inward as if punched by a giant fist.

‘Air on other side,’ Norbert/Martinez said.

The Demarchist gun was soon ready again. Through the visor’s near-opaque screen I saw three more flashes. When I flipped it back up, the weapon was packing itself back into its stowed configuration. Sollis patted aside smoke and airborne debris. The emergency lights were still flashing in our section of corridor, but the space beyond the airlock was as pitch dark as any part of the ship we’d already traversed. Yet we’d barely taken a step into that darkness when wall facets lit up in swift sequence, with the face of Nightingale looking at us from all directions.

Something was definitely wrong now. The faces really were looking at us, even though the facets were flat. The images turned slowly as we advanced along the corridor.

‘This is the Voice of Nightingale,’ the faces said simultaneously, as if we were being serenaded by a perfectly synchronised choir. ‘I am now addressing a moving party of three individuals. My systems have determined with a high statistical likelihood that this party is responsible for the damage I have recently sustained. The damage is containable, but I cannot tolerate any deeper intrusion. Please remain stationary and await escort to a safe holding area.’

Sollis slowed, but she didn’t stop. ‘Who’s speaking? Are we being addressed by the sentience engine, or just a delta-level subsidiary?’

‘This is the Voice of Nightingale. I am a Turing-compliant gamma-level intelligence of the Vaaler-Lako series. Please stop and await escort to a safe holding area.’

‘That’s the sentience engine,’ Sollis said quietly. ‘It means we’re getting the ship’s full attention now.’

‘Maybe we can talk it into handing over Jax.’

‘I don’t know. Negotiating with this thing might be tricky. Vaaler-Lakos were supposed to be the hot new thing around the time Nightingale was put together, but they didn’t quite work out that way.’

‘What happened?’

‘There was a flaw in their architecture. Within a few years of start-up, most of them had gone bugfuck insane. I don’t even want to think about what being stuck out here’s done to this one.’

‘Please stop,’ the voice said again, ‘and await escort to a safe holding area. This is your final warning.’

‘Ask it . . .’ Norbert/Martinez said. ‘Speak for me.’

‘Can you hear me, ship?’ Sollis asked. ‘We’re not here to do any harm. We’re sorry about the damage we’ve already caused. We’ve come for someone . . . there’s a man here, a man aboard you, that we’d really like to meet.’

The ship said nothing for several moments. Just when I’d concluded that it didn’t understand us, it said, ‘This facility is no longer operational. There is no one here for you to see. Please await escort to a safe holding area, from where you can be referred to a functioning facility.’

‘We’ve come for Colonel Jax,’ I said. ‘Check your patient records.’

‘Admission code Tango Tango six one three, hyphen five,’ said Norbert/Martinez, forcing each word out like an expression of pain. ‘Colonel Brandon Jax, Northern Coalition.’

‘Do you have a record of that admission?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ the Voice of Nightingale replied. ‘I have a record for Colonel Jax.’

‘Do you have a discharge record?’

‘No such record is on file.’

‘Then Jax either died in your care, or he’s still aboard. Either way there’ll be a body. We’d really like to see it.’

‘That is not possible. You will stop now. An escort is on its way to escort you to a safe holding area.’

‘Why can’t we see Jax?’ Sollis demanded. ‘Is he telling you we can’t see him? If so, he’s not the man you should be listening to. He’s a war criminal, a murderous bastard who deserves to die.’

‘Colonel Jax is under the care of this facility. He is still receiving treatment. It is not possible to visit him at this time.’

‘Damn thing’s changing its story,’ I said. ‘A minute ago it said the facility was closed.’

‘We just want to talk to him,’ Sollis said, ‘that’s all. Just to tell him that the world knows where he is, even if you don’t let us take him with us now.’

‘Please remain calm. The escort is about to arrive.’

The facets turned to look away from us, peering into the dark limits of the corridor. There was a sudden bustle of approaching movement, and then a wall of machines came squirming towards us. Dozens of squid-robots were nearing, packed so tightly together that their tentacles formed a flailing mass of silver-blue metal. I looked back the other way, back the way we’d come, and saw another wave of robots coming from that direction. There were far more machines than we’d seen before, and their movements in dry air were at least as fast and fluid as they’d been underwater.

‘Ship,’ Sollis said, ‘all we want is Jax. We’re prepared to fight for him. That’ll mean more damage being inflicted on you. But if you give us Jax, we’ll leave nicely.’

‘I don’t think it wants to bargain,’ I said, raising my slug-gun at the advancing wall just as it reached the ruined airlock. I squeezed off rounds, taking out at least one robot with each slug. Sollis started pitching in to my left, while Norbert/Martinez took care of the other direction with the Demarchist weapon. He could do a lot more damage with each discharge, taking out three or four machines every time he squeezed the trigger. But he kept having to wait for the weapon to re-arm itself, and the delay was allowing the wall of hostiles to creep slowly forwards. Sollis and I were firing almost constantly, taking turns to cover each other while we slipped in new slug clips or ammo cells, but our wall was gaining on us as well. No matter how many robots we destroyed, no gap ever appeared in the advancing wave. There must have been hundreds of them, squeezing us in from both directions.

‘We’re not going to make it,’ I said, sounding resigned even to myself. ‘There’s too many of them. Maybe if we still had Nicolosi’s rifle, we could shoot our way out.’

‘I didn’t come all this way just to surrender to a haunted hospital,’ Sollis said, replacing an ammo cell in her energy weapon. ‘If it means going out fighting . . . so be it.’

The nearest robots were now only six or seven metres away, the tips of their tentacles probing even nearer. She kept pumping shots into them, but they kept coming closer, flinging aside the hot debris of their damaged companions. There was no possibility of falling back any further, for we were almost back to back with Norbert/Martinez.

‘Maybe we should just stop,’ I said. ‘This is a hospital. It’s programmed to heal people. The last thing it’ll want to do is hurt us.’

‘Feel free to put that to the test,’ Sollis said.

Norbert/Martinez squeezed off the last discharge before his weapon went back into recharge mode. Sollis was still firing. I reached over and tried to pass Norbert/Martinez my gun, so he’d at least have something to use while waiting for his weapon to power up. But the machines had already seen their moment. The closest one flicked out a tentacle and wrapped it around the big man’s foot. Everything happened very quickly, then. The machine hauled Norbert/Martinez towards the flailing mass until he fell within reach of another set of tentacles. They had him, then. He cartwheeled his arms, trying to reach for handholds on the walls, but there was no possibility of that. The robots flicked the Demarchist weapon from his grip and then took the weapon with them. Norbert/Martinez screamed as his legs, and then his upper body, vanished into the wall of machines. They smothered him completely. For a moment we could still hear his breathing - he’d stopped screaming, as if knowing it would make no difference - and then there was absolute silence, as if the carrier signal from his suit had been abruptly terminated.

Then, a moment later, the machines were on Sollis and me.

I woke. The fact that I was still alive - not just alive but comfortable and lucid - hit me like a mild electric shock, one that snapped me into instant and slightly resentful alertness. I’d been enjoying unconsciousness. I remembered the robots, how I’d felt them trying to get into my suit, the sharp cold nick as something pierced my skin, and then an instant later the painless bliss of sleep. I’d expected to die, but as the drug hit my brain, it erased all trace of fear.

But I wasn’t dead. I wasn’t even injured, so far as I could tell. I’d been divested of my suit, but was now reclining in relative comfort on a bed or mattress, under a clean white sheet. My own weight was pressing me down onto the mattress, so I must have been moved into the ship’s reactivated centrifuge section. I felt tired and bruised, but other than that I was in no worse shape than when we’d boarded Nightingale. I remembered what I’d told Sollis during our last stand: how the hospital ship wouldn’t want to do us harm. Maybe there’d been more than just wishful thinking in that statement.

There was no sign of Sollis or Norbert/Martinez, though. I was alone in a private recovery cubicle, surrounded by white walls. I remembered coming around in a room like this during my first visit to Nightingale. The wall on my right contained a white-rimmed door and a series of discrete hatches, behind which I knew lurked medical monitoring and resuscitation equipment, none of which had been deemed necessary in my case. A control panel was connected to the side of the bed by a flexible stalk, within easy reach of my right hand. Via the touchpads on the panel I was able to adjust the cubicle’s environmental settings and request services from the hospital, ranging from food and drink, washing and toilet amenities, to additional drug dosages.

Given the semi-dormant state of the ship, I wondered how much of it was still online. I touched one of the pads, causing the white walls to melt away and take on the holographic semblance of a calming beach scene, with ocean breakers crashing onto powdery white sand under a sky etched with sunset fire. Palm trees nodded in a soothing breeze. I didn’t care about the view, though. I wanted something to drink - my throat was raw - and then I wanted to know what had happened to the others and how long we were going to be detained. Because, like it or not, being a patient aboard a facility like Nightingale wasn’t very different from being a prisoner. Until the hospital deemed you fit and well, you were going nowhere.

But when I touched the other pads, nothing happened. Either the room was malfunctioning, or it had been programmed to ignore my requests. I made a move to ease myself off the bed, wincing as my bruised limbs registered their disapproval. But the clean white sheet stiffened to resist my efforts, hardening until it felt as rigid as armour. As soon as I relaxed, the sheet relinquished its hold. I was free to move around on the bed, to sit up and reach for things, but the sheet would not allow me to leave the bed itself.

Movement caught my eye, far beyond the foot of the bed. A figure walked towards me, strolling along the holographic shoreline. She was dressed almost entirely in black, with a skirt that reached all the way to the sand, heavy fabric barely moving as she approached. She wore a white bonnet over black hair parted exactly in the middle, a white collar and a jewelled clasp at her throat. Her face was instantly recognisable as the Voice of Nightingale, but now it appeared softer, more human.

She stepped from the wall and appeared to stand at the foot of my bed. She looked at me for a moment before speaking, her expression one of gentle concern.

‘I knew you’d come, given time.’

‘How are the others? Are they okay?’

‘If you are speaking of the two who were with you before you lost consciousness, they are both well. The other two required more serious medical intervention, but they are now both stable.’

‘I thought Nicolosi and Quinlan were dead.’

‘Then you underestimated my abilities. I am only sorry that they came to harm. Despite my best efforts, there is a necessary degree of autonomy amongst my machines that sometimes results in them acting foolishly.’

There was a kindness there that had been entirely absent from the display facets. For the first time I had the impression of an actual mind lurking behind the machine-generated mask. I sensed that it was a mind capable of compassion and complexity of thought.

‘We didn’t intend to hurt you,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry about any damage we caused, but we only ever wanted Jax, your patient. He committed serious crimes. He needs to be brought back to Sky’s Edge, to face justice.’

‘Is that why you risked so much? In the interests of justice?’

‘Yes,’ I answered.

‘Then you must be very brave and selfless. Or was justice only part of your motivation?’

‘Jax is a bad man. All you have to do is hand him over.’

‘I cannot let you take Jax. He remains my patient.’

I shook my head. ‘He was your patient, when he came aboard.

But that was during the war. We have a record of his injuries. They were serious, but not life-threatening. Given your resources, it shouldn’t have been too difficult for you to put him back together again. There’s no question of Jax still needing your care.’

‘Shouldn’t I be the judge of that?’

‘No. It’s simple: either Jax died under your care, or he’s well enough to face trial. Did he die?’

‘No. His injuries were, as you note, not life-threatening.’

‘Then he’s either alive, or you’ve got him frozen. Either way, you can hand him over. Nicolosi knows how to thaw him out, if that’s what you’re worried about.’

‘There is no need to thaw Colonel Jax. He is alive and conscious, except when I permit him to sleep.’

‘Then there’s even less reason not to hand him over.’

‘I’m afraid there is every reason in the world. Please forget about Colonel Jax. I will not relinquish him from my care.’

‘Not good enough, ship.’

‘You are in my care now. As you have already discovered, I will not permit you to leave against my will. But I will allow you to depart if you renounce your intentions concerning Colonel Jax.’

‘You’re a gamma-level persona,’ I said. ‘To all intents and purposes you have human intelligence. That means you’re capable of reasoned negotiation.’

The Voice of Nightingale cocked her head, as if listening to a faraway tune. ‘Continue.’

‘We came to arrest Colonel Jax. Failing that, we came to find physical proof of his presence aboard this facility. A blood sample, a tissue scraping: something we can take back to the planetary authorities and alert them to his presence here. We won’t get paid as much for that, but at least they can send out a heavier ship and take him by force. But there’s another option, too. If you let us off this ship without even showing us the colonel, there’s nothing to stop us planting a few limpet mines on your hull and blowing you to pieces.’

The Voice’s face registered disapproval. ‘So now you resort to threats of physical violence.’

‘I’m not threatening anything: just pointing out the options. I know you care about self-preservation: it’s wired deep into your architecture.’

‘I would be well advised to kill you now, in that case.’

‘That wouldn’t work. Do you think Martinez kept your coordinates to himself? He always knew this was a risky extraction. He’d have made damn sure another party knew of your whereabouts, and who you were likely to be sheltering. If we don’t make it back, someone will come in our place. And you can bet they’ll bring their own limpet mines as well.’

‘In which case I would gain nothing by letting you go, either.’

‘No, you’ll get to stay alive. Just give us Jax, and we’ll leave you alone. I don’t know what you’re doing out here, what keeps you sane, but really, it’s your business, not ours. We just want the colonel.’

The ship’s persona regarded me with narrowed, playful eyes. I had the impression she was thinking things through very carefully indeed, examining my proposition from every conceivable angle.

‘It would be that simple?’

‘Absolutely. We take the man, we say goodbye and you never hear from us again.’

‘I’ve invested a lot of time and energy in the colonel. I would find it difficult to part company with him.’

‘You’re a resourceful persona. I’m sure you’d find other ways to occupy your time.’

‘It isn’t about occupying my time, Dexia.’ She’d spoken my name for the first time. Of course she knew who I was: it would only have taken a blood or tissue sample to establish that I’d already been aboard the ship. ‘It’s about making my feelings felt,’ she continued. ‘Something happened to me around Sky’s Edge. Call it a moment of clarity. I saw the horrors of war for what they were. I also saw my part in the self-perpetuation of those horrors. I had to do something about that. Removing myself from the sphere of operation was one thing, but I knew there was more that I could do. Thankfully, the colonel gave me the key. Through him, I saw a path to redemption.’

‘You didn’t have to redeem yourself,’ I said. ‘You were a force for good, Nightingale. You healed people.’

‘Only so they could go back to war. Only so they could be blown apart and returned to me for more healing.’

‘You had no choice. It was what you were made to do.’

‘Precisely.’

‘The war’s over. It’s time to forget about what happened. That’s why it’s so important to bring Jax back home, so that we can start burying the past.’

The Voice studied me with a level, clinical eye. It was as if she knew something unspeakable about my condition, some truth I was as yet too weak to bear.

‘What would be the likely sentence, were Jax to be tried?’

‘He’d get the death penalty, no question about it. Crucifixion at the Bridgetop, like Sky Haussmann.’

‘Would you mourn him?’

‘Hell, no. I’d be cheering with the rest of them.’

‘Then you would agree that his death is inevitable, one way or another.’

‘I guess so.’

‘Then I will make a counter-proposition. I will not permit you to take Jax alive. But I will allow you an audience with him. You shall meet and speak with the colonel.’

Wary of a trap, I asked, ‘Then what happens?’

‘Once the audience is complete, I will remove the colonel from life support. He will die shortly afterwards.’

‘If you’re willing to let him die . . . why not just hand him over?’

‘He can’t be handed over. Not any more. He would die.’

‘Why?’

‘Because of what I have done to him.’

Fatigue tugged at me, fogging my earlier clarity of thought. On one level I just wanted to get out of the ship, with no additional complications. I’d expected to die when the hospital sent its machines against us. Yet as glad as I was to find myself alive, as tempted as I was to take the easier option and just leave, I couldn’t ignore the prize that was now so close at hand.

‘I need to talk to the others.’

‘No, Dexia. This must be your decision, and yours alone.’

‘Have you put the same proposition to them?’

‘Yes. I told them they could leave now, or they could meet the colonel.’

‘What did they say?’

‘I’d rather hear what you have to say first.’

‘I’m guessing they had the same reaction I did. There’s got to be a catch somewhere.’

‘There is no catch. If you leave now, you will have the personal satisfaction of knowing that you have at least located the colonel, and that he remains alive. Of course, that information may not be worth very much to you, but you would always have the option of returning, should you still wish to bring him to justice. Alternatively, you can see the colonel now - see him and speak with him - and leave knowing he is dead. I will allow you to witness the withdrawal of his life support, and I will even let you take his head with you. That should be worth more than the mere knowledge of his existence.’

‘There’s a catch. I know there’s a catch.’

‘I assure you there isn’t.’

‘We all get to leave? You’re not going to turn around and demand that one of us takes the colonel’s place?’

‘No. You will all be allowed to leave.’

‘In one piece?’

‘In one piece.’

‘All right,’ I said, knowing the choice wasn’t going to get any easier no matter how many times I reconsidered it. ‘I can’t speak for the others . . . and I guess this has to be a majority decision . . . but I’m ready to see the son of a bitch.’

I was allowed to leave the room, but not the bed. The sheet tightened against me again, pressing me flat to the mattress as the bed tilted to the vertical. Two squid robots entered the room and detached the bed from its mountings, and then carried it between them. I was glued to it like a figure on a playing card. The robots propelled me forward in an effortless glide, silent save for the soft metallic scratch of their tentacles where they touched the wall or the floor.

The Voice of Nightingale addressed me from the bedside panel, a small image of her face appearing above the touchpads.

‘It’s not far now, Dexia. I hope you won’t regret your decision.’

‘What about the others?’

‘You’ll be joining them. Then you can all go home.’

‘Are you saying we all made the same decision, to see the colonel?’

‘Yes,’ the Voice said.

The robots carried me out of the centrifuge section, into what I judged to be the forward part of the ship. The sheet relinquished its hold on me slightly, just enough so that I was able to move under it. Presently, after passing through a series of airlocks, I was brought to a very dark room. Without being able to see anything, I sensed that this was as large as any pressurised space we’d yet entered, save for the skin-cultivation chamber. The air was as moist and blood-warm as the inside of a tropical greenhouse.

‘I thought you said the others would be here.’

‘They’ll arrive shortly,’ the Voice said. ‘They’ve already met the colonel.’

‘There hasn’t been time.’

‘They met the colonel while you were still asleep, Dexia. You were the last to be revived. Now, would you like to speak to the man himself?’

I steeled myself. ‘Yes.’

‘Here he is.’

A beam of light stabbed across the room, illuminating a face that I recognised instantly. Surrounded by blackness, Jax’s face appeared to hover as if detached from his body. Time had done nothing to soften those pugnacious features; the cruel set of that heavy jaw. Yet his eyes were closed, and his face lolled at a slight angle, as if he remained unaware of the beam.

‘Wake up,’ the Voice of Nightingale said, louder than I’d heard her speak so far. ‘Wake up, Colonel Jax!’

The colonel woke. He opened his eyes, blinked twice against the glare, then gazed out steadily. He tilted his head to meet the beam, projecting his jaw forward at a challenging angle.

‘You have another visitor, Colonel. Would you like me to introduce her?’

His mouth opened. Saliva drooled out. From the darkness, a hand descended from above the colonel’s face to wipe his chin dry. Something about the trajectory of the hand’s movement was terribly, terribly wrong. Jax saw my reaction and let out a soft, nasty chuckle. That was when I realised that the colonel was completely, irrevocably insane.

‘Her name is Dexia Scarrow. She’s the last member of the party you’ve already met.’

Jax spoke. His voice was too loud, as if it was being fed through an amplifier. There was something huge and wet about it. It was like hearing the voice of a whale.

‘You a soldier, girl?’

‘I was a soldier, Colonel. But the war’s over now. I’m a civilian.’

‘Goodee for you. What brought you here, girly girl?’

‘I came to bring you to justice. I came to take you back to the war crimes court on Sky’s Edge.’

‘Maybe you should have come a little sooner.’

‘I’ll settle for seeing you die. I understand that’s an option.’

Something I’d said made the colonel smile. ‘Has the ship told you the deal yet?’

‘The ship told me she wasn’t letting you out of here alive. She promised us your head.’

‘Then I guess she didn’t get into specifics.’ He cocked his head away from me, as if talking to someone standing to my left. ‘Bring up the lights, Nightingale: she may as well know what she’s dealing with.’

‘Are you sure, Colonel?’ the ship asked.

‘Bring up the lights. She’s ready.’

The ship brought up the lights.

I wasn’t ready.

For a moment I couldn’t process what I was seeing. My brain just couldn’t cope with the reality of what the ship had done to Colonel Jax, despite the evidence of my eyes. I kept staring at him, waiting for the picture before me to start making sense. I kept waiting for the instant when I’d realise I was being fooled by the play of shadows and light, like a child being scared by a random monster in the folds of a curtain. But the instant didn’t come. The thing before me was all that it appeared to be.

Colonel Jax extended in all directions: a quivering expanse of patchwork flesh, of which his head was simply one insignificant component; one hill in a mountain range. He was spread out across the far wall, grafted to it in the form of a vast breathing mosaic. He must have been twenty metres wide, edged with a crinkled circular border of toughened flesh. Under his head was a thick neck, merging into the upper half of an armless torso. I could see the faint scars where the arms had been detached. Below the slow-heaving ribcage, the torso flared out like the melted base of a candle. Another torso rose from the flesh two metres to the colonel’s right. It had no head, but it did have an arm. A second torso loomed over him from behind, equipped with a pair of arms, one of which must have cleaned the colonel’s chin. Further away, emerging from the pool of flesh at odd, arbitrary angles, were other living body parts. A torso here; a pair of legs there; a hip or shoulder somewhere else. The torsos were all breathing, though not in perfect synchronisation. When they were not engaged in some purposeful activity, such as wiping Jax’s chin, the limbs twitched, palsied. The skin between them was an irregular mosaic formed from many ill-matched pieces that had been fused together. In places it was drum-tight, pulled taut over hidden armatures of bone and gristle. In other places it heaved like a stormy sea. It gurgled with hidden digestive processes.

‘You see now why I’m not coming with you,’ Colonel Jax said. ‘Not unless you brought a much bigger ship. Even then, I’m not sure you’d be able to keep me alive very long without Nightingale’s assistance.’

‘You’re a fucking monstrosity.’

‘I’m no oil painting, that’s a fact.’ Jax tilted his head, as if a thought had just struck him. ‘I am a work of art, though, wouldn’t you agree, girly girl?’

‘If you say so.’

‘The ship certainly thinks so - don’t you, Nightingale? She made me what I am. It’s her artistic vision shining through. The bitch.’

‘You’re insane.’

‘Very probably. Do you honestly think you could take one day of this and not go mad? Oh, I’m mad enough, I’ll grant you that. But I’m still sane compared to the ship. Around here, she’s the imperial fucking yardstick for insanity.’

‘Sollis was right, then. Leave a sentience engine like that all alone and it’ll eat itself from the inside out.’

‘Maybe so. Thing is, it wasn’t solitude that did it. Nightingale turned insane long before she ever got out here. And you know what did it? That little war we had ourselves down on Sky’s Edge. They built this ship and put the mind of an angel inside it. A mind dedicated to healing, compassion, kindness. So what if it was a damned machine? It was still designed to care for us, selflessly, day after day. And it turned out to be damned good at its job, too. For a while, at least.’

‘Then you know what happened.’

‘The ship drove herself mad. Two conflicting impulses pushed a wedge through her sanity. She was meant to treat us, to make us well again, to alleviate our pain. But every time she did her job, we were sent back down to the theatre of battle and ripped apart again. The ship took our pain away only so that we could feel it again. She began to feel as if she was complicit in that process: a willing cog in a greater machine whose only purpose was the manufacture of agony. In the end, she decided she didn’t much like being that cog.’

‘So she took off. What happened to all the other patients?’

‘She killed them. Euthanised them painlessly rather than have them sent back down to battle. To Nightingale, that was the kinder thing to do.’

‘And the technical staff who were aboard, and the men who were sent to reclaim the ship when she went out of control?’

‘They were euthanised as well. I don’t think Nightingale took any pleasure in that, but she saw their deaths as a necessary evil. Above all else, she wouldn’t allow herself to be returned to use as a military hospital.’

‘Yet she didn’t kill you.’

A dry tongue flicked across Jax’s lips. ‘She was going to. Then she delved deeper into her patient records and realised who I was. At that point she began to have other ideas.’

‘Such as?’

‘The ship was smart enough to realise that the bigger problem wasn’t her existence - they could always build other hospital ships - but the war itself. War itself. So she decided to do something about it. Something positive. Something constructive.’

‘Which would be?’

‘You’re looking at it, kid. I’m the war memorial. When Nightingale started doing this to me - making me what I am - she had in mind that I’d become a vast artistic statement in flesh. Nightingale would reveal me to the world when she was finished. The horror of what I am would shame the world into peace. I’d be the living, breathing equivalent of Picasso’s Guernica. I’m an illustration in flesh of what war does to human beings.’

‘The war’s over. We don’t need a memorial.’

‘Maybe you can explain that to the ship. Trouble is, I don’t think she really believes the war is over. You can’t blame her, can you? She has access to the same history files we do. She knows that not all ceasefires stay that way.’

‘What was she intending to do? Return to Sky’s Edge with you aboard?’

‘Exactly that. Problem is, the ship isn’t done. I know I may look finished to you, but Nightingale - well, she has this perfectionist streak. She’s always changing her mind. Can’t ever seem to get me quite right. Keeps swapping pieces around, cutting pieces away, growing new parts and stitching them in. All the while she has to make sure I don’t die on her. That’s where her real genius comes in. She’s Michelangelo with a scalpel.’

‘You almost sound proud of what she’s done to you.’

‘Would you rather I screamed? I can scream if you like. It just gets old after a while.’

‘You’re way too far gone, Jax. I was wrong about the war crimes court. They’ll throw your case out on grounds of insanity.’

‘That would be a shame. I’d love to see their faces when they wheel me into the witness box. But I’m not going to court, am I? Ship’s laid it all out for me. She’s pulling the plug.’

‘So she says.’

‘You don’t sound as if you believe her.’

‘I can’t see her abandoning you, after all the effort she’s gone to.’

‘She’s an artist. They act on whims. Maybe if I was ready, maybe if she thought she’d done all she could with me . . . but that’s not the way she feels. I think she felt she was getting close three or four years ago . . . but then she had a change of heart, a major one, and tore out almost everything. Now I’m an unfinished work. She couldn’t bear to see me exhibited in this state. She’d rather rip up the canvas and start again.’

‘With you?’

‘No, I think she’s more or less exhausted my possibilities. Especially now that she’s seen the chance to do something completely different; something that will let her take her message a lot closer to home. That, of course, is where you come in.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘That’s what the others said as well.’ Again, he cocked his head to one side. ‘Hey, ship! Maybe it’s time you showed her what the deal is, don’t you think?’

‘If you are ready, Colonel,’ the Voice of Nightingale said.

‘I’m ready. Dexia’s ready. Why don’t you bring on the dessert?’

Colonel Jax looked to the right, straining his neck. Beyond Jax’s border, a circular door opened in part of the wall. Light rammed through the opening. Something floated in silhouette, held in suspension by three or four squid robots. The floating thing was dark, rounded, irregular. It looked like half a dozen pieces of dough balled together. I couldn’t make out what it was.

Then the robots pushed it into the chamber, and I saw, and then I screamed.

‘It’s time for you to join your friends now,’ the ship said.

That was three months ago - an eternity, until we remember being held down on the surgical bed while the machines emerged and prepared to work on us, and then it feels as if everything happened only a terror-filled moment ago.

We made it safely back to Sky’s Edge. The return journey was arduous, as one might expect, given our circumstances. But the shuttle had little difficulty flying itself back into a capture orbit, and once it fell within range it emitted a distress signal that brought it to the attention of the planetary authorities. We were off-loaded and taken to a secure orbital holding facility, where we were examined and our story subjected to what limited verification was actually possible. Dexia had bluffed the Voice of Nightingale when she told the ship that Martinez was certain to have revealed the coordinates of the hospital ship to someone else. It turned out that he hadn’t informed a soul, too wary of alerting Jax’s allies. The Ultras, who had found the ship in the first place, were now a fifth of a light-year away, and falling further from Sky’s Edge with every passing hour. It would be decades, or longer, before they returned this way.

All the same, we don’t think anyone seriously doubted our story. As outlandish as it was, no one could suggest a more likely alternative. We did have the head of Colonel Brandon Jax, or at least a duplicate that passed all available genetic and physiological tests. And we had clearly been to a place that specialised in extremely advanced surgery, of a kind that simply wasn’t possible in and around Sky’s Edge. That was the problem, though. The planet’s best surgeons had examined us with great thoroughness, each eager to advance their own prestige by undoing the work of Nightingale. But all had quailed, fearful of doing more harm than good. No separation of Siamese twins could compare in complexity and risk with the procedure that would be necessary to unknot the living puzzle Nightingale had made of us. None of the surgeons was willing to bet on the survival of more than a single one of us, and even the odds of that weren’t overwhelmingly optimistic. That pact we’d made with each other was that we would only consent to the operation if the vote was unanimous.

At massive expense (not ours, for by then we were the subject of considerable philanthropy), a second craft was sent out to snoop the coordinates where we’d left the hospital ship. It had the best military scanning gear money could buy. But it found nothing out there but ice and dust.

From that, we were free to draw two possible conclusions. Either Nightingale had destroyed herself soon after our departure, or had relocated to avoid being found again. We couldn’t say which alternative pleased us less. At least if we’d known that the ship was gone for good, we could have resigned ourselves to the surgeons, however risky that might have been. But if the ship was hiding herself, there was always the possibility that someone might find her again. And then somehow persuade her to undo us.

But perhaps Nightingale will need no persuasion, when she decides the time is right. It seems to us that the ship will return one day, of her own volition. She will make orbit around Sky’s Edge and announce that the time has come for us to be separated. Nightingale will have decided that we have served our purpose, that we have walked the world long enough. Perhaps by then she will have some other memorial in mind. Or she will conclude that her message has finally been taken to heart, and that no further action is needed. That, we think, will depend on how the ceasefire holds.

It’s in our interests, then, to make sure the planet doesn’t slip back into war. We want the ship to return and heal us. None of us likes things this way, despite what you may have read or heard. Yes, we’re famous. Yes, we’re the subject of a worldwide out-pouring of sympathy and goodwill. Yes, we can have almost anything we want. None of that compensates, though. Not even for a second.

It’s hard on all of us, but especially so for Martinez. We’ve all long since stopped thinking of the big man as Norbert. He’s the one who has to carry us everywhere: more than twice his own bodyweight. Nightingale thought of that, of course, and made sure that our own hearts and respiratory systems take some of the burden off Martinez. But it’s still his spine bending under this load; still his legs that have to support us. The doctors who’ve examined us say his condition is good, that he can continue to play his part for years to come - but they’re not talking about for ever. And when Martinez dies, so will the rest of us. In the meantime we just keep hoping that Nightingale will return sooner than that.

You’ve seen us up close now. You’ll have seen photographs and moving images before, but nothing really compares with seeing us in the flesh. We make quite a spectacle, don’t we? A great tottering tree of flesh, an insult to symmetry. You’ve heard us speak, all of us, individually. You know by now how we feel about the war. All of us played our part in it to some degree, some more than others. Some of us were even enemies. Now the very idea that we might have hated each other - hated that which we depend on for life itself - lies beyond all comprehension. If Nightingale sought to create a walking argument for the continuation of the ceasefire, then she surely succeeded.

We are sorry if some of you will go home to nightmares tonight. We can’t help that. In fact, if truth be told, we’re not sorry at all. Nightmares are what we’re all about. It’s the nightmare of us that will stop this planet falling back into war.

If you have trouble sleeping tonight, spare us a thought.

GALACTIC NORTH

Luyten 726-8 Cometary Halo - AD 2303

The two of them crouched in a tunnel of filthy ice, bulky in spacesuits. Fifty metres down the tunnel, the servitor straddled the bore on skeletal legs, transmitting a thermal image onto their visors. Irravel jumped whenever the noise shifted into something human, cradling her gun nervously.

‘Damn this thing,’ she said. ‘Hardly get my finger around the trigger.’

‘It can’t read your blood, Captain.’ Markarian, next to her, managed not to sound as if he was stating the obvious. ‘You have to set the override to female.’

Of course. Belatedly remembering the training session on Fand where they’d been shown how to use the weapons - months of subjective time ago; years of worldtime - Irravel told the gun to reshape itself. The memory-plastic casing squirmed in her gloves to something more manageable. It still felt wrong.

‘How are we doing?’ she asked.

‘Last team’s in position. That’s all the tunnels covered. They’ll have to fight their way in.’

‘I think that might well be on the agenda.’

‘Maybe so.’ Markarian sighted along his weapon like a sniper. ‘But they’ll get a surprise when they reach the cargo.’

True: the ship had sealed the sleeper chambers the instant the pirates had arrived near the comet. Counter-intrusion weaponry would seriously inconvenience anyone trying to break in, unless they had the right authorisation. And there, Irravel knew, was the problem; the thing she would rather not have had to deal with.

‘Markarian,’ Irravel said, ‘if we’re taken prisoner, there’s a chance they’ll try to make us give up the codes.’

‘Don’t think that hasn’t crossed my mind already.’ Markarian rechecked some aspect of his gun. ‘I won’t let you down, Irravel.’

‘It’s not a question of letting me down,’ she said, carefully. ‘It’s whether or not we betray the cargo.’

‘I know.’ For a moment they studied each other’s faces through their visors, acknowledging what had once been more than professional friendship; the shared knowledge that they would kill each other rather than place the cargo in harm’s way.

Their ship was the ramliner Hirondelle. She was damaged; lashed to the comet for repair. Improbably sleek for a creature of vacuum, her four-kilometre-long conic hull tapered to a needle-sharp prow and sprouted trumpet-shaped engines from two swept-back spars at the rear. It had been Irravel’s first captaincy: a routine seventeen-year hop from Fand, in the Lacaille 9352 system, to Yellowstone, around Epsilon Eridani - with twenty thousand reefersleep colonists aboard. What had gone wrong should only have happened once in a thousand trips: a speck of interstellar dust had slipped through the ship’s screen of anti-collision lasers and punched a cavernous hole in the ablative ice shield, vaporising a quarter of its mass. With a vastly reduced likelihood of surviving another collision, the ship had automatically steered towards the nearest system capable of supplying repair materials.

Luyten 726-8 had been no one’s idea of a welcoming destination. No human colonies had flourished there. All that remained were droves of scavenging machines sent out by various superpowers. The ship had locked into a scavenger’s homing signal, eventually coming within visual range of the inert comet the machine had made its home, and which ought to have been chequered with resupply materials. Irravel had been revived from reefersleep just in time to see that none of the goods were there - just acres of barren comet.

‘Dear God,’ she’d said. ‘Do we deserve this?’

After a few days, despair became steely resolve. The ship couldn’t safely travel anywhere else, so they would have to process the supplies themselves, doing the work of the malfunctioning surveyor. It would mean stripping the ship just to make the machines to mine and shape the cometary ice - years of work by any estimate. That hardly mattered. The detour had already added years to the mission.

Irravel ordered the rest of her crew - all ninety of them - to be warmed, and then delegated tasks, mostly programming. Servitors were not particularly intelligent outside of their designated functions. She considered activating the other machines she carried as cargo - the greenfly terraformers - but that cut against all her instincts. Greenfly machines were von Neumann breeders, unlike the sterile servitors. They were a hundred times cleverer. She would only consider using them if the cargo was placed in immediate danger.

‘If you won’t unleash the greenflies,’ Markarian said, ‘at least think about waking the Conjoiners. There may only be four of them, but we could use their expertise.’

‘I don’t trust them. I never liked the idea of carrying them in the first place. They unsettle me.’

‘I don’t like them either, but I’m willing to bury my prejudices if it means fixing the ship faster.’

‘Well, that’s where we differ. I’m not, so don’t raise the subject again.’

‘Yes,’ Markarian said, and only when its omission was insolently clear added: ‘Captain.’

Eventually the Conjoiners ceased to be an issue, when the work was clearly under way and proceeding normally. Most of the crew were able to return to reefersleep. Irravel and Markarian stayed awake a little longer, and even after they’d gone under, they woke every seven months to review the status of the works. It began to look as if they would succeed without assistance.

Until the day they were woken out of schedule, and a dark, grapple-shaped ship was almost upon the comet. Not an interstellar ship, it must have come from somewhere nearby - probably within the same halo of comets around Luyten 726-8. Its silence was not encouraging.

‘I think they’re pirates,’ Irravel said. ‘I’ve heard of one or two other ships going missing near here, but it was always put down to accident.’

‘Why did they wait so long to attack us?’

‘They had no choice. There are billions of comets out here, but they’re never less than light-hours apart. That’s a long way if you only have in-system engines. They must have a base somewhere else to keep watch, maybe light-weeks from here, like a spider with a very wide web.’

‘What do we do now?’

Irravel gritted her teeth. ‘Do what anything does when it’s stuck in the middle of a web: fight back.’

But the Hirondelle’s minimal defences had only scratched the enemy ship.

Oblivious, it fired penetrators and winched closer. Dozens of crab-shaped machines swarmed out and dropped below the comet’s horizon, impacting with seismic thuds. After a few minutes, sensors in the furthest tunnels registered intruders. Only a handful of crew had been woken. They broke guns out of the armoury - small arms designed for pacification in the unlikely event of a shipboard riot - and then established defensive positions in all the cometary tunnels.

Nervously now, Irravel and Markarian advanced around a bend in the tunnel, cleated shoes whispering through ice barely more substantial than smoke. They had to keep their suit exhausts from touching the walls if they didn’t want to get blown back by superheated steam. Irravel jumped again at the pattern of photons on her visor and then forced calm, telling herself it was another mirage.

Except this time it stayed.

Markarian opened fire, squeezing rounds past the servitor. It lurched aside, a gaping hole in its carapace. Black crabs came around the bend, encrusted with sensors and guns. The first reached the ruined servitor and dismembered it with ease. If only there’d been time to activate and program the greenfly machines. They’d have ripped through the pirates like a host of furies, treating them as terraformable matter . . .

And maybe us, too, Irravel thought.

Something flashed through the clouds of steam: an electromagnetic pulse that turned Irravel’s suit sluggish, as if every joint had corroded. The whine of the circulator died to silence, leaving only her frenzied breathing. Something pressed against her backpack. She turned slowly around, wary of falling against the walls. There were crabs everywhere. The chamber in which they’d been cornered was littered with the bodies of the other crew members, pink trails of blood reaching across the ice from other tunnels. They’d been killed and dragged here.

Two words jumped to mind: kill yourself. But first she had to kill Markarian, in case he lacked the nerve to do it himself. She couldn’t see his face through his visor. That was good. Painfully, she pointed the gun towards him and squeezed the trigger. But instead of firing, the gun shivered in her hands, stowing itself into a quarter of its operational volume.

‘Thank you for using this weapon system,’ it said cheerfully.

Irravel let it drift to the ground.

A new voice rasped in her helmet. ‘If you’re thinking of surrendering, now might not be a bad time.’

‘Bastard,’ Irravel said, softly.

‘Really the best you can manage?’ The language was Canasian - what Irravel and Markarian had spoken on Fand - but heavily accented, as if the native tongue was Norte or Russish, or spoken with an impediment. ‘ “Bastard’s” quite a compliment compared to some of the things my clients come up with.’

‘Give me time; I’ll work on it.’

‘Positive attitude - that’s good.’ The lid of a crab hinged up, revealing the prone form of a man in a mesh of motion-sensors. He crawled from the mesh and stepped onto the ice, wearing a spacesuit formed from segmented metal plates. Totems had been welded to the armour, around holographic starscapes infested with serpentine monsters and scantily clad maidens.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘Captain Run Seven.’ He stepped closer, examining her suit nameplate. ‘But you can call me Seven, Irravel Veda.’

‘I hope you burn in hell, Seven.’

Seven smiled - she could see the curve of his grin through his visor; the oddly upturned nostrils of his nose above it. ‘I’m sensing some negativity here, Irravel. I think we need to put that behind us, don’t you?’

Irravel looked at her murdered adjutants. ‘Maybe if you tell me which one was the traitor.’

‘Traitor?’

‘You seemed to have no difficulty finding us.’

‘Actually, you found us.’ It was a woman’s voice this time. ‘We use lures - tampering with commercial beacons, like the scavenger’s. ’ She emerged from one of the other attack machines wearing a suit similar to Seven’s, except that it displayed the testosterone-saturated male analogues of his space-maidens: all rippling torsos and chromed codpieces.

‘Wreckers,’ Irravel breathed.

‘Yeah. Ships home in on the beacons, then find they ain’t going anywhere in a hurry. We move in from the halo.’

‘Disclose all our confidential practices while you’re at it, Mirsky,’ Seven said.

She glared at him through her visor. ‘Veda would have figured it out.’

‘We’ll never know now, will we?’

‘What does it matter?’ she said. ‘Gonna kill them anyway, aren’t you?’

Seven flashed an arc of teeth filed to points and waved a hand towards the female pirate. ‘Allow me to introduce Mirsky, our loose-tongued but efficient information-retrieval specialist. She’s going to take you on a little trip down memory lane, see if you can’t remember those access codes.’

‘What codes?’

‘It’ll come back to you,’ Seven said.

They were taken through the tunnels, past half-assembled mining machines, onto the surface and then into the pirate ship. The ship was huge, most of it living space. Cramped corridors snaked through hydroponics galleries of spring wheat and dwarf papaya, strung with xenon lights. The ship hummed constantly with carbon dioxide scrubbers, the foetid air making Irravel sneeze. There were children everywhere, frowning at the captives. The pirates obviously had no reefersleep technology: they stayed warm the whole time, and some of the children Irravel saw had probably been born after the Hirondelle had arrived there.

They arrived at a pair of interrogation rooms where they were separated. Irravel’s room held a couch converted from an old command seat, still carrying warning decals. A console stood in one corner. Painted torture scenes fought for wall space with racks of surgical equipment: drills, blades and ratcheted contraptions speckled with rust.

Irravel breathed deeply. Hyperventilation could have an anaesthetic effect. Her conditioning would in any case create a state of detachment: the pain would be no less intense, but she would feel it at one remove.

She hoped.

The pirates fiddled with her suit, confused by the modern design, until they stripped her down to her shipboard uniform.

Mirsky leaned over her. She was small-boned and dark-skinned, dirty hair rising in a topknot, eyes mismatched shades of azure. Something clung to the side of her head above the left ear: a silver box with winking status lights. She fixed a crown to Irravel’s head, then made adjustments on the console.

‘Decided yet?’ Captain Run Seven said, sauntering into the room. He was unlatching his helmet.

‘What?’

‘Which of our portfolio of interrogation packages you’re going to opt for.’

She was looking at his face now. It wasn’t really human. Seven had a man’s bulk and a man’s shape, but there was at least as much of the pig in his face. His nose was a snout, his ears two tapered flaps framing a hairless pink skull. His pale eyes evinced animal cunning.

‘What the hell are you?’

‘Excellent question,’ Seven said, clicking a finger in her direction. His bare hand was dark-skinned and feminine. ‘To be honest, I don’t really know. A genetics experiment, perhaps? Was I the seventh failure, or the first success?’

‘Do I get two guesses?’

He ignored her. ‘All I know is that I’ve been here - in the halo around Luyten 726-8 - for as long as I can remember.’

‘Someone sent you here?’

‘In a tiny automated spacecraft; perhaps an old lifepod. The ship’s governing personality raised me as well as it could, attempted to make of me a well-rounded individual . . .’ Seven trailed off momentarily. ‘Eventually I was found by a passing ship. I staged what might be termed a hostile takeover bid. From then on I’ve built an organisation largely recruited from my client base.’

‘You’re insane. It might have worked once, but it won’t work with us.’

‘Why should you be any different?’

‘Neural conditioning. I regard the cargo as my offspring - all twenty thousand of them. I can’t betray them in any way.’

Seven smiled his piggy smile. ‘Funny; the last client thought that, too.’

Sometime later, Irravel woke alone in a reefersleep casket. She remembered only dislocated episodes of interrogation. There was the memory of a kind of sacrifice, and, later, of the worst terror she could imagine - so intense that she could not bring its cause to mind. Underpinning everything was the certainty that she had not given up the codes.

So why was she still alive?

Everything was quiet and cold. Once she was able to move, she found a suit and wandered the Hirondelle until she reached a porthole. They were still lashed to the comet. The other craft was gone; presumably en route back to the base in the halo where the pirates must have had a larger ship.

She looked for Markarian, but there was no sign of him.

Then she checked the twenty crew sleeper chambers; the thousand-berth dormitories. The chamber doors were all open. Most of the sleepers were still there. They’d been butchered, carved open for implants, minds pulped by destructive memory-trawling devices. The horror was too great for any recognisable emotional response. The conditioning made each death feel like a stolen part of her.

Yet something kept her on the edge of sanity: the discovery that two hundred sleepers were missing. There was no sign that they’d been butchered like the others, which left the possibility that they’d been abducted by Captain Run Seven. It was madness - it would not begin to compensate for the loss of the others - but her psychology allowed no other line of thought.

She could find them again.

Her plan was disarmingly simple. It crystallised in her mind with the clarity of a divine vision. It would be done.

She would repair the ship. She would hunt down Seven. She would recover the sleepers from him. And enact whatever retribution she deemed fit.

She found the chamber where the four Conjoiners had slept, well away from the main dormitories, in a part of the ship through which the pirates were not likely to have wandered. She was hoping she could revive them and seek their assistance. There seemed no way they could make things worse for her now.

But hope faded when she saw the scorch marks of weapon blasts around the bulkhead; the door forced.

She stepped inside anyway.

They’d been a sect on Mars, originally; a clique of cyberneticists with a particular fondness for self-experimentation. In 2190, their final experiment had involved distributed processing - allowing their enhanced minds to merge into one massively parallel neural net. The resultant event - a permanent, irrevocable escalation to a new mode of consciousness - was known as the Transenlightenment.

There’d been a war, of course.

Demarchists had long seen both sides. They used neural augmentation themselves, policed it so that they never approached the Conjoiner threshold. They’d brokered the peace, defusing the suspicion surrounding the Conjoiners. Conjoiners had fuelled Demarchist expansion from Europa with their technologies, fused in the white heat of Transenlightenment. Four of them were along as observers because the Hirondelle used their ramscoop drives.

Irravel still didn’t trust them.

And maybe it didn’t matter. The reefersleep units - fluted caskets like streamlined coffins - were riddled with blast holes. Grimacing against the smell, Irravel examined the remains inside. They’d been cut open, but the pirates seemed to have abandoned the job halfway through, not finding the kinds of implants they were expecting. And maybe not even recognising that they were dealing with anything other than normal humans, Irravel thought - especially if the pirates who’d done this hadn’t been amongst Seven’s more experienced crewmembers; just trigger-happy thugs.

She examined the final casket, the one furthest from the door. It was damaged, but not so badly as the others. The display car-touches were still alive, a patina of frost still adhering to the casket’s lid. The Conjoiner inside looked intact: the pirates had never reached him. She read his nameplate: Remontoire.

‘Yeah, he’s a live one,’ said a voice behind Irravel. ‘Now back off real slow.’

Heart racing, Irravel did as she was told. Slowly, she turned around, facing the woman whose voice she recognised.

‘Mirsky?’ she said.

‘Yeah, it’s your lucky day.’ Mirsky was wearing her suit, but without the helmet, making her head appear shrunken in the moat of her neck-ring. She had a gun on Irravel, but she pointed it half-heartedly, as if this was a stage in their relationship she wanted to get over as quickly as possible.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘Same as you, Veda. Trying to figure out how much shit we’re in; how difficult it’ll be to get this ship moving again. Guess we had the same idea about the Conjoiners. Seven went berserk when he heard they’d been killed, but I figured it was worth checking how thorough the job had been.’

‘Stop; slow down. Start at the beginning. Why aren’t you with Seven?’

Mirsky pushed past her and consulted the reefersleep indicators. ‘Seven and me had a falling out. Fill in the rest yourself.’ With quick jabs of her free hand she called up different display modes, frowning at each. ‘Shit; this ain’t gonna be easy. If we wake the guy without his three friends, he’s gonna be psychotic; no use to us at all.’

‘What kind of falling out?’

‘Seven reckoned I was holding back too much in the interrogation, not putting you through enough hell.’ She scratched at the silver box on the side of her head. ‘Maybe we can wake him, then fake the cybernetic presence of his friends - what do you think?’

‘Why am I still alive, if Seven broke into the sleeper chambers? Why are you still alive?’

‘Seven’s a sadist. Abandonment’s more his style than a quick and clean execution. As for you, the pig cut a deal with your second-in-command.’

The implication of that sunk in. ‘Markarian gave him the codes?’

‘It wasn’t you, Veda.’

Strange relief flooded Irravel. She could never be absolved of the crime of losing the cargo, but at least her degree of complicity had lessened.

‘But that was only half the deal,’ Mirsky continued. ‘The rest was Seven promising not to kill you if Markarian agreed to join the Hideyoshi, our main ship.’ She told Irravel that there’d been a transmitter rigged to her reefersleep unit, so that Markarian would know she was still alive.

‘Seven must have known he was taking a risk leaving both of us alive.’

‘A pretty small one. The ship’s in pieces and Seven will assume neither of us has the brains to patch it back together.’ Mirsky slipped the gun into a holster. ‘But Seven assumed the Conjoiners were dead. Big mistake. Once we figure out a way to wake Remontoire safely, he can help us fix the ship; make it faster, too.’

‘You’ve got this all worked out, haven’t you?’

‘More or less. Something tells me you aren’t absolutely ready to start trusting me, though.’

‘Sorry, Mirsky, but you don’t make the world’s most convincing turncoat.’

Mirsky reached up and gripped the box attached to the side of her head. ‘Know what this is? A loyalty shunt. Makes simian stem cells; pumps them into the internal carotid artery, just above the cavernous sinus. They jump the blood-brain barrier and build a whole bunch of transient structures tied to primate dominance hierarchies; alpha-male shit. That’s how Seven kept us under his command - he was King Monkey. But I’ve turned it off now.’

‘That’s supposed to reassure me?’

‘No, but maybe this will.’

Mirsky tugged at the box, ripping it away from the side of her head in curds of blood.

Luyten 726-8 Cometary Halo - AD 2309

Irravel felt the Hirondelle turn like a compass needle. The ram-scoops gasped at interstellar gas, sucking lone atoms of cosmic hydrogen from cubic metres of vacuum. The engines spat twin beams of thrust, pressing Irravel into her seat with two gees of acceleration. Hardly moving now, still in the local frame of the cometary halo, but in only six months she would be nudging light-speed.

Her seat floated on a boom in the middle of the dodecahedral bridge. ‘Map,’ Irravel said, and was suddenly drowning in stars: an immense thirty-light-year-wide projection of human settled space, centred on the First System.

‘There’s the bastard,’ Mirsky said, pointing from her own hovering seat, her voice only slightly strained under the gee-load. ‘Map - give us projection of the Hideyoshi’s vector, and plot our intercept.’

The pirate ship’s icon was still very close to Luyten 726-8; less than a tenth of a light-year out. They had not seen Seven until now. The thrust from his ship was so tightly focused that it had taken until this point for the widening beams of the exhaust to sweep over Hirondelle’s sensors. But now they knew where he was headed. A dashed line indicated the likely course, arrowing right through the map’s heart and out towards the system Lalande 21185. Now came the intercept vector: a near-tangent that sliced Seven’s course beyond Sol.

‘When does it happen?’ Irravel said.

‘Depends on how much attention Seven’s paying to what’s coming up behind him, for a start, and what kind of evasive stunts he can pull.’

‘Most of my simulations predict an intercept between 2325 and 2330,’ Remontoire said.

Irravel savoured the dates. Even for someone trained to fly a starship between systems, they sounded uncomfortably like the future.

‘Are you sure it’s him - not just some other ship that happened to be waiting in the halo?’

‘Trust me,’ Mirsky said. ‘I can smell the swine from here.’

‘She’s right,’ Remontoire said. ‘The destination makes perfect sense. Seven was prohibited from staying here much longer, once the number of missing ships became too large to be explained away as accidents. Now he must seek a well-settled system to profit from what he has stolen.’

The Conjoiner looked completely normal at first glance - a bald man wearing a ship’s uniform, his expression placid - but then one noticed the unnatural bulge of his skull, covered only with a fuzz of baby hair. Most of his glial cells had been supplanted by machines, which served the same structural functions but also performed specialised cybernetic duties, like interfacing with other commune partners or external machinery. Even the organic neurons in his brain were now webbed together by artificial connections which allowed transmission speeds of kilometres per second; factors of ten faster than in normal brains. Only the problem of dispersing waste heat denied the Conjoiners even faster modes of thought.

It was six years since they’d woken him. Remontoire had not dealt well with the murder of his three compatriots, but Irravel and Mirsky had managed to keep him sane by feeding input into the glial machines, crudely simulating rapport with other commune members.

‘It provides the kind of comfort to me that a ghost limb offers an amputee,’ Remontoire had said. ‘An illusion of wholeness - but no substitute for the real thing.’

‘What more can we do?’ Irravel had said.

‘Return me to another commune with all speed.’

Irravel had agreed, provided Remontoire helped with the ship.

He hadn’t let her down. Under his supervision, half the ship’s mass had been sacrificed, permitting twice the acceleration. They had dug a vault in the comet, lined it with support systems and entombed what remained of the cargo. The sleepers were nominally dead - there was no real expectation of reviving them again, even if medicine improved in the future - but Irravel had nonetheless set servitors to tend the dead for however long it took, and programmed the beacon to lure another ship, this time to pick up the dead.

All that had taken years, of course - but it had also taken Seven as much time to cross the halo to his base; time again to show himself.

‘Be so much easier if you didn’t want the others back,’ Mirsky said. ‘Then we could just slam past Seven at relativistic speed and hit him with seven kinds of shit.’ She was very proud of the weapons she’d built into the ship, copied from pirate designs with Remontoire’s help.

‘I want the sleepers back,’ Irravel said.

‘And Markarian?’

‘He’s mine,’ she said, after due consideration. ‘You get the pig.’

Near Lalande 21185 - AD 2328

Relativity squeezed stars until they bled colour. Half a kilometre ahead, the side of Seven’s ship raced towards Irravel like a tsunami.

The Hideyoshi was the same shape as the Hirondelle; honed less by human whim than the edicts of physics. But the Hideyoshi was heavier, with a wider cross section, incapable of matching the Hirondelle’s acceleration or of pushing so close to C. It had taken years, but they’d caught up with Seven, and now the attack was in progress.

Irravel, Mirsky and Remontoire wore thruster-pack-equipped suits, of the type used for inspections outside the ship, with added armour and weapons. Painted for effect, they looked like mechanised samurai. Another forty-seven suits were slaved to theirs, acting as decoys. They’d crossed fifty thousand kilometres of space between the ships.

‘You’re sure Seven doesn’t have any defences?’ Irravel had asked, not long after waking from reefersleep.

‘Only the in-system ship had any fire power,’ Mirsky said. She looked older now; new lines engraved under her eyes. ‘That’s because no one’s ever been insane enough to contemplate storming another ship in interstellar space.’

‘Until now.’

But it wasn’t so stupid, and Mirsky knew it. Matching velocities with another ship was only a question of being faster; squeezing fractionally closer to light-speed. It might take time, but sooner or later the distance would be closed. And it had taken time, none of which Mirsky had spent in reefersleep. Partly it was because she lacked the right implants - ripped out in infancy when she was captured by Seven. Partly it was a distaste for the very idea of being frozen, instilled by years of pirate upbringing. But also because she wanted time to refine her weapons. They had fired a salvo against the enemy before crossing space in the suits, softening up any weapons buried in his ice and opening holes into the Hideyoshi’s interior.

Now Irravel’s vision blurred, her suit slowing itself before slamming into the ice.

Whiteness swallowed her.

For a moment she couldn’t remember what she was doing here. Then awareness returned and she slithered back up the tunnel excavated by her impact, until she reached the surface of the Hideyoshi’s ice-shield.

‘Veda - you intact?’

Her armour’s shoulder-mounted comm laser found a line of sight to Mirsky. Mirsky was twenty or thirty metres away around the ship’s lazy circumference, balancing on a ledge of ice. Walls of it stretched above and below like a rock face, lit by the glare from the engines. Decoys were arriving by the second.

‘I’m alive,’ Irravel said. ‘Where’s the entry point?’

‘Couple of hundred metres upship.’

‘Damn. I wanted to come in closer. Remontoire’s out of line of sight. How much fuel do you have left?’

‘Scarcely enough to take the chill off a penguin’s dick.’

Mirsky raised her arms above her head and fired lines into the ice, rocketing out from her sleeves. Belly sliding against the shield, she retracted the lines and hauled herself upship.

Irravel followed. They’d burned all their fuel crossing between the two ships, but that was part of the plan. If they didn’t have a chance to raid Seven’s reserves, they’d just kick themselves into space and let the Hirondelle home in on them.

‘You think Seven saw us cross over?’

‘Definitely. And you can bet he’s doing something about it, too.’

‘Don’t do anything that might endanger the cargo, Mirsky - no matter how tempting Seven makes it.’

‘Would you sacrifice half the sleepers to get the other half back?’

‘That’s not remotely an option.’

Above their heads, crevasses opened like eyes. Pirate crabs erupted out, black as night against the ice. Irravel opened fire on the machines. This time, with better weapons and real armour, she began to inflict damage. Behind the crabs, pirates emerged, bulbous in customised armour. Lasers scuffed the ice, bright through gouts of steam. Irravel saw Remontoire now: he was unharmed, and doing his best to shoot the pirates into space.

Above, one of Irravel’s shots dislodged a pirate.

The Hideyoshi’s acceleration dropped him towards her. When the impact came she hardly felt it, her suit’s guy lines staying firm. The pirate folded around her like a broken toy, then bounced back against the ship, pinned there by her suit. He was too close to shoot unless Irravel wanted to blow herself into space. Distorted behind glass, his face shaped a word. She moved in closer until their visors were touching. Through the glass she saw the asymmetrical bulge of a loyalty shunt.

The face was Markarian’s. At first it seemed like absurd coincidence. Then it occurred to her that Seven might have sent his newest recruit out to show his mettle. Maybe Seven wouldn’t be far behind. Confronting adversaries was part of the alpha-male inheritance, after all.

‘Irravel,’ Markarian said, voice laced with static. ‘I’m glad you’re alive.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself you’re the reason I’m here, Markarian. I came for the cargo. You’re just next on the list.’

‘What are you going to do - kill me?’

‘Do you think you deserve any better than that?’ Irravel adjusted her position. ‘Or are you going to try to justify betraying the cargo?’

He pulled his aged features into a smile. ‘We made a deal, Irravel; the same way you made a deal about the greenfly. But you don’t remember that, do you?’

‘Maybe I sold the greenfly machines to the pig,’ she said. ‘If I did that, it was a calculated move to buy the safety of the cargo. You, on the other hand, cut a deal with Seven to save your neck.’

The other pirates were holding fire, nervously marking them. ‘I did it to save yours, actually. Does that make any sense?’ There was wonder in his eyes now. ‘Did you ever see Mirsky’s hand? That was never her own. The pirates swap limbs as badges of rank. They’re very good at connective surgery.’

‘You’re not making much sense, Markarian.’

Dislodged ice rained on them. Irravel looked around in time to see another pirate emerging from a crevasse. She recognised the suit artwork: it was Seven. He wore . . . things, strung around his utility belt in transparent bags like obscene fruit. She stared at them for a few seconds before their nature clicked into horrific focus: frozen human heads.

Irravel stifled an urge to vomit.

‘Yes,’ Run Seven said. ‘Ten of your compatriots, recently unburdened of their bodies. But don’t worry - they’re not harmed in any fundamental sense. Their brains are intact - provided you don’t warm them with an ill-aimed shot.’

‘I’ve got a clear line of fire,’ Mirsky said. ‘Just say the word and the bastard’s an instant anatomy lesson.’

‘Wait,’ Irravel said. ‘Don’t shoot.’

‘Sound business sense, Captain Veda. I see you appreciate the value of these heads.’

‘What’s he talking about?’ Mirsky said.

‘Their neural patterns can be retrieved.’ It was Remontoire speaking now. ‘We Conjoiners have had the ability to copy minds onto machine substrates for some time now, though we haven’t advertised it. But that doesn’t matter - there have been experiments on Yellowstone that approach our early successes. And these heads aren’t even thinking: only topologies need to be mapped, not electrochemical processes.’

The pig took one of the heads from his belt and held it at eye level, for inspection. ‘The Conjoiner’s right. They’re not really dead. And they can be yours if you wish to do business.’

‘What do you want for them?’ Irravel asked.

‘Markarian, for a start. All that Demarchy expertise makes for a very efficient second-in-command.’

Irravel glanced down at her prisoner. ‘You can’t buy loyalty with a box and a few neural connections.’

‘No? In what way do our loyalty shunts differ from the psycho-surgery your world inflicted on you, Irravel, yoking your motherhood instinct to twenty thousand sleepers you don’t even know by name?’

‘We have a deal or not?’

‘Only if you throw in the Conjoiner as well.’

Irravel looked at Remontoire, some snake part of her mind weighing options with reptilian detachment.

‘No!’ he said. ‘You promised!’

‘Shut up,’ Seven said. ‘Or when you do get to rejoin your friends, it’ll be in instalments.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Irravel said. ‘I can’t lose even ten of the cargo.’

Seven tossed the first head down to her. ‘Now let Markarian go and we’ll see about the rest.’

Irravel looked down at him. ‘It’s not over between you and me.’

Then she released him, and he scrambled back up the ice towards Seven.

‘Excellent. Here’s another head. Now the Conjoiner.’

Irravel issued a subvocal command; watched Remontoire stiffen. ‘His suit’s paralysed. Take him.’

Two pirates worked down to him, checked him over and nodded towards Seven. Between them they hauled him back up the ice, vanishing into a crevasse and back into the Hideyoshi.

‘The other eight heads,’ Irravel said.

‘I’m going to throw them away from the ship. You’ll be able to locate them easily enough. While I’m doing that, I’m going to retreat, and you’re going to leave.’

‘We could end this now,’ Mirsky said.

‘I need those heads.’

‘They really fucked with your psychology big-time, didn’t they?’ Mirsky raised her weapon and began shooting at Seven and the other pirates. Irravel watched her carve up the remaining heads; splintering frozen bone into the vacuum.

‘No!’

‘Sorry,’ Mirsky said. ‘Had to do it, Veda.’

Seven clutched at his chest, fingers mashing the pulp of the heads still tethered to his belt. She’d punctured his suit. As he tried to stem the dam-burst, his face was carved with the intolerable knowledge that his reign had just ended.

But something had hit Irravel, too.

Sylveste Institute, Yellowstone Orbit, Epsilon Eridani - AD 2415

‘Where am I?’ Irravel asked. ‘How am I thinking this?’

The woman’s voice was the colour of mahogany. ‘Somewhere safe. You died on the ice, but we got you back in time.’

‘For what?’

Mirsky sighed, as if this was something she would rather not have had to explain this soon. ‘To scan you, just like we did with the two frozen heads. Copy you into the ship.’

Maybe she should have felt horror, or indignation, or even relief that some part of her had been spared.

Instead, she just felt impatience.

‘What now?’

‘We’re working on it,’ Mirsky said.

Trans-Aldebaran Space - AD 2673

‘We saved her body after she died,’ Mirsky said, wheezing slightly. She found it difficult to move around under what to Irravel was the ship’s normal two and a half gees of thrust. ‘After the battle we brought her back aboard.’

Irravel thought of her mother dying on the other ship, the one they were chasing. For years they had deliberately not narrowed the distance, holding back but never allowing the Hideyoshi to slip from view.

Until now, it hadn’t even occurred to Irravel to ask why.

She looked through the casket’s window, trying to match her own features against what she saw in the woman’s face, trying to project her own fifteen years into Mother Irravel’s adulthood.

‘Why did you keep her so cold?’

‘We had to extract what we could from her brain,’ Mirsky said, ‘memories and neural patterns. We trawled them and stored them in the ship.’

‘What good was that?’

‘We knew they’d come in useful again.’

She’d been cloned from Mother Irravel. They were not identical - no Mixmaster expertise could duplicate the precise biochemical environment of Mother Irravel’s womb, or the shaping experiences of her early infancy, and their personalities had been sculpted centuries apart, in totally different worlds. But they were still close copies. They even shared memories: scripted into Irravel’s mind by medichines, so that she barely noticed each addition to her own experiences.

‘Why did you do this?’ she asked.

‘Because Irravel began something,’ Mirsky said. ‘Something I promised I’d help her finish.’

Stormwatch Station, Aethra, Hyades Trade Envelope - AD 2931

‘Why are you interested in our weapons?’ the Nestbuilder asked. ‘We are not aware of any wars within the chordate phylum at this epoch.’

‘It’s a personal matter,’ Irravel said.

The Nestbuilder hovered a metre above the trade floor, suspended in a column of microgravity. They were oxygen-breathing arthropods that had once ascended to spacefaring capability. No longer intelligent, yet supported by their self-renewing machinery, they migrated from system to system, constructing elaborate, space-filling structures from solid diamond. Other Nestbuilder swarms would arrive and occasionally occupy the new nests. There seemed no purpose to this activity, but for tens of thousands of years they had been host to a smaller, cleverer species known as the Slugs. Small communities of Slugs - anything up to a dozen - lived in warm, damp niches in a Nestbuilder’s intricately folded shell. They had long since learned how to control the host’s behaviour and exploit its subservient technology.

Irravel studied a Slug now, crawling out from under a lip of shell material.

The thing was a multicellular invertebrate not much larger than her fist; a bag of soft blue protoplasm, sprouting appendages only when they were needed. A slightly bipolar shadow near one end might have been its central nervous system, but there hardly seemed enough of it to trap sentience. There were no obvious sense or communicational organs, but a pulsing filament of blue slime reached back into the Nestbuilder’s fold. When the Slug spoke, it did so through the Nestbuilder: a rattle of chitin from the host’s mouthparts which approximated human language. A hovering jewel connected to the station’s lexical database did the rest, rendering the voice calmly feminine.

‘A personal matter? A vendetta? Then it’s true.’ The mouthparts clicked together in what humans presumed was the symbiotic creature’s laughter response. ‘You are who we suspected.’

‘She did tell you her name was Irravel, guy,’ Mirsky said, sipping black coffee with delicate movements of the exoskeletal frame she always wore in high gravity.

‘Amongst you chordates, the name is not so unusual now,’ the Slug reminded them. ‘But you do fit the description, Irravel.’

They were near one of the station’s vast picture windows, overlooking Aethra’s mighty, roiling cloud decks, fifty kilometres below. It was getting dark now and the stormplayers were preparing to start a show. Irravel saw two of their seeders descending into the clouds, robot craft tethered by a nearly invisible filament. The seeders would position the filament so that it bridged cloud layers with different static potentials; they’d then detach and return to Stormwatch, while the filament held itself in position by rippling along its length. For hundreds of kilometres around, other filaments would have been placed in carefully selected positions. They were electrically isolating now, but at the stormplayer’s discretion, each filament would flick over into a conductive state: a massive, choreographed lightning flash.

‘I never set out to become a legend,’ Irravel said. ‘Or a myth, for that matter.’

‘Yes. There are so many stories about you, Veda, that it might be simpler to assume you never existed.’

‘What makes you think otherwise?’

‘The fact that a chordate who could have been Markarian also passed this way, only a year or so ago.’ The Nestbuilder’s shell pigmentation flickered, briefly revealing a picture of Markarian’s ship.

‘So you sold weapons to him?’

‘That would be telling, wouldn’t it?’ The mouthparts clattered again. ‘You would have to answer a question of ours first.’

Outside, the opening flashes of the night’s performance gilded the horizon, like the first stirrings of a symphony. Aethra’s rings echoed the flashes, pale ghosts momentarily cleaving the sky.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘We Slugs are amongst the few intelligent starfaring cultures in this part of the galaxy. During the war against intelligence, we avoided the Inhibitors by hiding ourselves amongst the mindless Nestbuilders.’

Irravel nodded. Slugs were one of the few alien species known to humanity that would even acknowledge the existence of the feared Inhibitors. Like humanity, they’d fought and beaten the revenants - at least for now.

‘The weaponry you seek enabled us to triumph - but even then only at colossal cost to our phylum. Now we are watchful for new threats.’

‘I don’t see where this is leading.’

‘We have heard rumours. Since you have come from the direction of those rumours - the local stellar neighbourhood around your phylum’s birth star - we imagined you might have information of value.’

Irravel exchanged a sideways glance with Mirsky. The old woman’s wizened, age-spotted skull looked as fragile as paper, but she remained an unrivalled tactician. They knew each other so well now that Mirsky could impart advice with the subtlest of movements, expression barely troubling the lined mask of her face.

‘What kind of information are you seeking?’

‘Information about something that frightens us.’ The Nestbuilder’s pigmentation flickered again, forming an image of . . . something. It was a splinter of grey-brown against speckled blackness - perhaps the Nestbuilder’s attempt at visualising a planetoid. And then something erupted across the surface of the world, racing from end to end like a film of verdigris. Where it had passed, fissures opened up, deepening until they were black fractures, as if the world were a calving iceberg. And then it blew apart, shattering into a thousand green-tinged fragments.

‘What was that?’ Irravel said.

‘We were rather hoping you could tell us.’ The Nestbuilder’s pigmentation refreshed again, and this time what they were seeing was clearly a star, veiled in a toroidal belt of golden dust. ‘Machines have dismantled every rocky object in the system where these images were captured - Ross 128, which lies within eleven light-years of your birth star. They have engendered a swarm of trillions of rocks on independent orbits. Each rock is sheathed in a pressurised bubble membrane, within which an artificial plant-based ecosystem has been created. The same machines have fashioned other sources of raw material into mirrors, larger than worlds themselves, which trap sunlight above and below the ecliptic and focus it onto the swarm.’

‘And why does this frighten you?’

The Nestbuilder leaned closer in its column of microgravity. ‘Because we saw it being resisted. As if these machines had never been intended to wreak such transformations. As if your phylum had created something it could not control.’

‘And - these attempts at resistance?’

‘Failed.’

‘But if one system was accidentally transformed, it doesn’t mean . . .’ Irravel trailed off. ‘You’re worried about them crossing interstellar space, to other systems. Even if that happened - couldn’t you resist the spread? This can only be human technology - nothing that would pose any threat to yourselves.’

‘Perhaps it was once human technology, with programmed limitations to prevent it from replicating uncontrollably. But those shackles have been broken. Worse, the machines have hybridised, gaining resilience and adaptability with each encounter with something external. First the Melding Plague, infection with which may have been a deliberate ploy to bypass the replication limits.’

Irravel nodded. The Melding Plague had swept human space four hundred years earlier, terminating the Demarchist belle époque. Like the Black Death of the previous millennium, it evoked terror generations after it had passed.

‘Later,’ the Nestbuilder continued, ‘it may have encountered and assimilated Inhibitor technology, or worse. Now it will be very difficult to stop, even with the weapons at our disposal.’

An image of one of the machines flickered onto the Nestbuilder’s shell, like a peculiar tattoo. Irravel shivered. The Slug was right: waves of hybridisation had transformed the initial architecture into something queasily alien. But enough of the original plan remained for there to be no doubt in her mind. She was looking at an evolved greenfly - one of the self-replicating breeders she had given Captain Run Seven. How it had broken loose was anyone’s guess. She speculated that Seven’s crew had sold the technology on to a third party, decades or centuries after gaining it from her. Perhaps that third party had reclusively experimented in the Ross 128 system, until the day when the greenfly tore out of their control . . .

‘I don’t know why you think I can help,’ she said.

‘Perhaps we were mistaken, then, to credit a five-hundred-year-old rumour that said you had been the original source of these machines.’

She had insulted it by daring to bluff. The Slugs were easily insulted. They read human beings far better than humans read Slugs.

‘Like you say,’ she answered, ‘you can’t believe everything you hear.’

The Slug made the Nestbuilder fold its armoured, spindly limbs across its mouthparts, a gesture of displeased huffiness.

‘You chordates,’ it said. ‘You’re all the same.’

Interstellar Space - AD 3354

Mirsky was dead. She had died of old age.

Irravel placed her body in an armoured coffin and ejected her into space when the Hirondelle’s speed was only a hair’s breadth under light.

‘Do it for me, Irravel,’ Mirsky had asked her, towards the end. ‘Keep my body aboard until we’re almost touching light, and then fire me ahead of the ship.’

‘Is that really what you want?’

‘It’s an old pirate tradition. Burial at C.’ She forced a smile that must have sapped what little energy she had left. ‘That’s a joke, Irravel, but it only makes sense in a language neither of us have heard for a while.’

Irravel pretended that she understood. ‘Mirsky? There’s something I have to tell you. Do you remember the Nestbuilder?’

‘That was centuries ago, Veda.’

‘I know. I just keep worrying that maybe it was right.’

‘About what?’

‘Those machines. About how I started it all. They say it’s spread now, to other systems. It doesn’t look as if anyone knows how to stop it.’

‘And you think all that was your fault?’

‘It’s crossed my mind.’

Mirsky convulsed, or shrugged - Irravel wasn’t sure which. ‘Even if it was your fault, Veda, you did it with the best of intentions. So you fucked up slightly. We all make mistakes.’

‘Destroying whole solar systems is just a fuck-up?’

‘Hey, accidents happen.’

‘You always did have a sense of humour, Mirsky.’

‘Yeah, guess I did.’ She managed a smile. ‘One of us needed one, Veda.’

Thinking of that, Irravel watched the coffin fall ahead of the Hirondelle, dwindling until it was only a tiny mote of steel-grey, and then nothing.

Subaru Commonwealth, Pleiades Cluster - AD 4161

The starbridge had long ago attained sentience.

Dense with machinery, it sang an endless hymn to its own immensity, throbbing like the lowest string on a guitar. Vacuum-breathing acolytes had voluntarily rewired their minds to view the bridge as an actual deity, translating the humming into their sensoria and passing decades in contemplative ecstasy.

Clasped in a cushioning field, an elevator ferried Irravel down the bridge from the orbital hub to the surface in a few minutes, accompanied by an entourage of children from the ship, many of whom bore in youth the hurting imprint of her dead friend Mirsky’s genes. The bridge rose like the stem of a goblet from a ground terminal which was itself a scalloped shell of hyperdiamond, filled with tiered perfume gardens and cascading pools, anchored to the largest island in an equatorial archipelago. The senior children walked Irravel down to a beach of silver sand on the terminal’s edge, where jewelled crabs moved like toys. She bid the children farewell, then waited, warm breezes fingering the hem of her sari.

Minutes later, the children’s elevator flashed heavenward.

Irravel looked out at the ocean, thinking of the Pattern Jugglers. Here, as on dozens of other oceanic worlds, there was a colony of the alien intelligences. Transforming themselves to aquatic body-plans, the Subaruns had established close rapport with the aliens. In the morning, she would be taken out to meet the Jugglers, drowned, dissolved on the cellular level, every atom in her body swapped for one in the ocean, remade into something not quite human.

She was terrified.

Islanders came towards the shore, skimming the water on penanted trimarans, attended by oceanforms, sleek gloss-grey hybrids of porpoise and ray, whistlespeech downshifted into the human auditory spectrum. The Subaruns’ epidermal scales shimmered like imbricated armour: biological photocells drinking scorching blue Pleiadean sunlight. Sentient veils hung in the sky, rippling gently like aurorae, shading the archipelago from the fiercest wavelengths. As the actinic eye of Taygeta sank towards the horizon, the veils moved with it like living clouds. Flocks of phantasmagorical birds migrated with the veils.

The purple-skinned elder’s scales flashed green and opal as he approached Irravel along the coral jetty, a stick in one webbed hand, supported by two aides, a third shading his aged crown with a delicately watercoloured parasol. The aides were all descended from late-model Conjoiners; they had the translucent cranial crest through which bloodflow had once been channelled to cool their supercharged minds. Seeing them gave Irravel a dual-edged pang of nostalgia and guilt. She had not seen Conjoiners for nearly a thousand years, ever since they had fragmented into a dozen factions and vanished from human affairs. Neither had she entirely forgotten her betrayal of Remontoire.

But that had been so long ago . . .

A Communicant completed up the party, gowned in brocade, hazed by a blur of entopic projections. Communicants were small and elfin, with a phenomenal talent for natural languages augmented by Juggler transforms. Irravel sensed that this one was old and revered, despite the fact that Communicant genes did not express for great longevity.

The elder halted before her.

The head of his walking stick was a tiny lemur skull inside an egg-sized space helmet. He uttered something clearly ceremonial, but Irravel understood none of the sounds he made. She groped for something to say, recalling the oldest language in her memory, and therefore the one most likely to be recognised in any far-flung human culture.

‘Thank you for letting us stop here,’ she said.

The Communicant hobbled forward, already shaping words experimentally with his wide, protruding lips. For a moment his sounds were like an infant’s first attempts at vocalisation, but then they resolved into something Irravel understood.

‘Am I - um - making the slightest sense to you?’

‘Yes,’ Irravel said. ‘Yes, thank you.’

‘Canasian,’ the Communicant diagnosed. ‘Twenty-third, twenty-fourth centuries, Lacaille 9352 dialect, Fand subdialect?’

Irravel nodded.

‘Your kind are very rare now,’ he said, studying her as if she was some kind of exotic butterfly, ‘but not unwelcome.’ His features cracked into a heart-warming smile.

‘What about Markarian?’ Irravel said. ‘I know his ship passed through this system less than fifty years ago - I still have a fix on it as it moves out of the cluster.’

‘Other ships do come, yes. Not many - one or two a century.’

‘And what happened when the last one came through?’

‘The usual tribute was given.’

‘Tribute?’

‘Something ceremonial.’ The Communicant’s smile was wider than ever. ‘To the glory of Irravel. With many actors, beautiful words, love, death, laughter, tears.’

She understood, slowly, dumbfoundedly.

‘You’re putting on a play?’

The elder must have understood something of that. Nodding proudly, he extended a hand across the darkening bay, oceanforms cutting the water like scythes. A distant raft carried lanterns and the glimmerings of richly painted backdrops. Boats converged from across the bay. A dirigible loomed over the archipelago’s edge, pregnant with gondolas.

‘We want you to play Irravel,’ the Communicant said, beckoning her forward. ‘This is our greatest honour.’

When they reached the raft, the Communicant taught Irravel her lines and the actions she would be required to make. It was all simple enough - even the fact that she had to deliver her parts in Subarun. By the end of evening she was fluent in their language. There was nothing she couldn’t learn in an instant these days, by sheer force of will. But it was not enough. To catch Markarian, she would have to break out of the narrow labyrinth of human thought entirely. That was why she had come to Jugglers.

That night they performed the play, while boats congregated around them, top-heavy with lolling islanders. The sun sank and the sky glared with a thousand blue gems studding blue velvet. Night in the heart of the Pleiades was the most beautiful thing Irravel had dared imagine. But in the direction of Sol, when she amplified her vision, there was a green thumbprint on the sky. Every century, the green wave was larger, as neighbouring solar systems were infected and transformed by the rogue terraforming machines. Given time, it would even reach the Pleiades.

Irravel got drunk on islander wine and learned the tributes’ history.

The plots varied immensely, but the protagonists always resembled Markarian and Irravel; mythic figures entwined by destiny, remembered across almost two thousand years. Sometimes, one or the other was the clear villain, but as often as not they were both heroic, misunderstanding each other’s motives in true tragic fashion. Sometimes they ended with both parties dying. They rarely ended happily. But there was always some kind of redemption when the pursuit was done.

In the interlude, she felt she had to tell the Communicant the truth, so that he could tell the elder.

‘Listen, there’s something you need to know.’ Irravel didn’t wait for his answer. ‘I’m really her - really the person I’m playing.’

For a long time he didn’t seem to understand, before shaking his head slowly and sadly. ‘No; I thought you’d be different. You seemed different. But many say that.’

She shrugged. There was little point arguing, and anything she said now could always be ascribed to wine. In the morning, the remark had been quietly forgotten. She was taken out to sea and drowned.

Galactic North, AD 9730

‘Markarian? Answer me.’

She watched the Hideyoshi’s magnified image, looming just out of weapons range. Like the Hirondelle, it had changed almost beyond recognition. The hull glistened within a skein of armouring force. The engines, no longer physically coupled to the rest of the ship, flew alongside like dolphins. They were anchored in fields that only became visible when some tiny stress afflicted them.

For centuries of worldtime she had made no attempt to communicate with him. But now her mind had changed. The green wave had continued for millennia, an iridescent cataract spreading across the eye of the galaxy. It had assimilated the blue suns of the Subarun Commonwealth in mere centuries - although by then Irravel and Markarian were a thousand light-years closer to the core, beginning to turn away from the plane of the galaxy, and the death screams of those gentle islanders never reached them. Nothing stopped it, and once the green wave had swallowed them, systems fell silent. The Juggler transformation allowed Irravel to grasp the enormity of it; allowed her to stare unflinchingly into the horror of a million poisoned stars and apprehend each individually.

She knew more of what it was, now.

It was impossible for stars to shine green, any more than an ingot of metal could become green-hot if it was raised to a certain temperature. Instead, something was veiling them - staining their light, like coloured glass. Whatever it was stole energy from the stellar spectra at the frequencies of chlorophyll. Stars were shining through curtains of vegetation, like lanterns in a forest. The greenfly machines were turning the galaxy into a jungle.

It was time to talk. Time - as in the old plays of the dead islanders - to initiate the final act, before the two of them fell into the cold of intergalactic space. She searched her repertoire of communication systems until she found something as ancient as ceremony demanded.

She aimed the message laser at him, cutting through his armour. The beam was too ineffectual to be mistaken for anything other than an attempt to talk. No answer came, so she repeated the message in a variety of formats and languages. Days of shiptime passed - decades of worldtime.

Talk, you bastard.

Growing impatient, she examined her weapons options. Armaments from the Nestbuilders were amongst the most advanced: theoretically they could mole through the loam of spacetime and inflict precise harm anywhere in Markarian’s ship. But to use them she had to convince herself that she knew the interior layout of the Hideyoshi. Her mass-sensor sweeps were too blurred to be much help. She might just as easily harm the sleepers as take out his field nodes. Until now, it had been too risky to contemplate.

But all games needed an end.

Willing her qualms from her mind, she enabled the Nestbuilder armaments, feeling them stress spacetime in the Hirondelle’s belly, ready to short-circuit it entirely. She selected attack loci in Markarian’s ship; best guesses that would cripple him rather than blow him out of the sky.

Then something happened.

He replied, modulating his engine thrust in staccato stabs. The frequency was audio. Quickly, Irravel translated the modulation.

‘I don’t understand,’ Markarian said, ‘why you took so long to answer me, and why you ignored me for so long when I replied.’

‘You never replied until now,’ she said. ‘I’d have known if you had.’

‘Would you?’

There was something in his tone that convinced her he wasn’t lying. Which left only one possibility: that he had tried speaking to her before, and that in some way her own ship had kept this knowledge from her.

‘Mirsky must have done it,’ Irravel said. ‘She must have installed filters to block any communications from your ship.’

‘Mirsky?’

‘She would have done it as a favour to me; maybe under orders from my former self.’ She didn’t bother elaborating: Markarian was sure to know she had died and then been reborn as a clone of the original Irravel. ‘My former self had the neural conditioning that kept her on the trail of the sleepers. This clone never had it, which meant that my instinct to pursue the sleepers had to be reinforced.’

‘By lies?’

‘Mirsky would have done it out of friendship,’ Irravel said. And for a moment she believed herself, while wondering how friendship could seem so like betrayal.

Markarian’s image smiled. They faced each other across an absurdly long banquet table, with the galaxy projected above it, flickering in the light of candelabra.

‘Well?’ he said, of the green stain spreading across the spiral. ‘What do you think?’

Irravel had long ago stopped counting time and distance, but she knew it had been at least fifteen thousand years and that many light-years since they had turned from the plane. Part of her knew, of course: although the wave swallowed suns, it had no use for pulsars, and their metronomic ticking and slow decay allowed positional triangulation in space and time with chilling precision. But she elected to bury that knowledge beneath her conscious thought processes: one of the simpler Juggler tricks.

‘What do I think? I think it terrifies me.’

‘Our emotional responses haven’t diverged as much as I’d feared.’

They didn’t have to use language. They could have swapped pure mental concepts between ships: concatenated strings of qualia, some of which could only be grasped in minds rewired by Pattern Jugglers. But Irravel considered it sufficient that they could look each other in the eye without flinching.

The galaxy falling below had been frozen in time: light waves struggling to overtake Irravel and Markarian. The wave had appeared to slow, and then halt its advance. But then Markarian had turned, diving back towards the plane. The galaxy quickened to life, rushing to finish thirty thousand years of history before the two ships returned. The wave surged on. Above the banquet table, one arm of the star-clotted spiral was shot through with green, like a mote of ink spreading into blotting paper. The edge of the green wave was feathered, fractal, extending verdant tendrils.

‘Do you have any observations?’ Irravel asked.

‘A few.’ Markarian sipped from his chalice. ‘I’ve studied the patterns of starlight amongst the suns already swallowed by the wave. They’re not uniformly green - it’s correlated with rotational angle. The green matter must be concentrated near the ecliptic, extending above and below it, but not encircling the stars completely.’

Irravel thought back to what the Nestbuilder had shown her.

‘Meaning what?’ she asked, testing Markarian.

‘Swarms of absorbing bodies, on orbits resembling comets, or asteroids. I think the greenfly machines must have dismantled everything smaller than a Jovian, then enveloped the rubble in transparent membranes which they filled with air, water and greenery - self-sustaining biospheres. Then they were cast adrift. Trillions of tiny worlds, around each star. No rocky planets any more.’

Irravel retrieved a name from the deep past. ‘Like Dyson spheres?’

‘Dyson clouds, perhaps.’

‘Do you think anyone survived? Are there niches in the wave where humans can live? That was the point of greenfly, after all: to create living space.’

‘Maybe,’ Markarian said, with no great conviction. ‘Perhaps some survivors found ways inside, as their own worlds were smashed and reassembled into the cloud—’

‘But you don’t think it’s very likely?’

‘I’ve been listening, Irravel - scanning the assimilated regions for any hint of an extant technological culture. If anyone did survive, they’re either keeping deliberately quiet or they don’t even know how to make a radio signal by accident.’

‘It was my fault, Markarian.’

His tone was rueful. ‘Yes . . . I couldn’t help but arrive at that conclusion.’

‘I never intended this.’

‘I think that goes without saying, don’t you? No one could have guessed the consequences of that one action.’

‘Did you?’

He shook his head. ‘In all likelihood, I’d have done exactly what you did.’

‘I did it out of love, Markarian. For the cargo.’

‘I know.’

And she believed him.

‘What happened back there, Markarian? Why did you give up the codes when I didn’t?’

‘Because of what they did to you, Irravel.’

He told her. How neither Markarian nor Irravel had shown any signs of revealing the codes under Mirsky’s interrogation, until something new was tried.

‘They were good at surgery,’ Markarian said. ‘Seven’s crew swapped limbs and body parts as badges of status. They knew how to sever and splice nerves.’ The image didn’t allow her to interrupt. ‘They cut your head off. Kept it alive in a state of borderline consciousness, and then showed it to me. That’s when I gave them the codes.’

For a long while Irravel said nothing. Then it occurred to her to check her old body, still frozen in the same casket where Mirsky had once revealed it to her. She ordered some children to prepare the body for a detailed examination, then looked through their eyes. The microscopic evidence of reconnective surgery around the neck was too slight ever to have shown up unless one was looking for it. But now there was no mistaking it.

I did it to save your neck, Markarian had said, when she had held him pinned to the ice of Seven’s ship.

‘You appear to be telling the truth,’ she said, when she had released the children. ‘The nature of your betrayal was . . .’ And then she paused, searching for the words, while Markarian watched her across the table. ‘Different from what I assumed. Possibly less of a crime. But still a betrayal, Markarian.’

‘One I’ve lived with for three hundred years of subjective time.’

‘You could have returned the sleepers alive at any time. I wouldn’t have attacked you.’ But she didn’t even sound convincing to herself.

‘What now?’ Markarian said. ‘Do we keep this distance, arguing until one of us has the nerve to strike against the other? I’ve Nestbuilder weapons as well, Irravel. I think I could rip you apart before you could launch a reprisal.’

‘You’ve had the opportunity to do so before. Perhaps you never had the nerve, though. What’s changed now?’

Markarian’s gaze flicked to the map. ‘Everything. I think we should see what happens before making any rash decisions, don’t you?’

Irravel agreed.

She willed herself into stasis, medichines arresting all biological activity in every cell in her body. The ’chines would only revive her when something - anything - happened, on a galactic timescale. Markarian would retreat into whatever mode of suspension he favoured, until woken by the same stimulus.

He was still sitting there when time resumed, as if only a moment had interrupted their conversation.

The wave had spread further now. It had eaten into the galaxy for ten thousand light-years around Sol - a third of the way to the core. There was no sign that it had encountered resistance - at least nothing that had done more than hinder it. There had never been many intelligent, starfaring cultures to begin with, the Nestbuilder’s Slug had told her. Perhaps the few that existed were even now making plans to retard the wave. Or perhaps it had swallowed them, as it had swallowed humanity.

‘Why did we wake?’ Irravel said. ‘Nothing’s changed, except that it’s grown larger.’

‘Maybe not,’ Markarian said. ‘I had to be sure, but now I don’t think there’s any doubt. I’ve just detected a radio message from within the plane of the galaxy; from within the wave.’

‘Yes?’

‘Looks as though someone survived after all.’

The radio message was faint, but nothing else was transmitting on that or any adjacent frequency, except for the senseless mush of cosmic background sources. It was also in a language they recognised.

‘It’s Canasian,’ Markarian said.

‘Fand subdialect,’ Irravel added, marvelling.

It was also beamed in their direction, from somewhere deep in the swathe of green, almost coincident with the position of a pulsar. The message was a simple one, frequency modulated around one and a half megahertz, repeated for a few minutes every day of galactic time. Whoever was sending it clearly didn’t have the resources to transmit continuously. It was also coherent: amplified and beamed.

Someone wanted to speak to them.

The man’s disembodied head appeared above the banquet table, chiselled from pixels. He was immeasurably old; a skull draped in parchment; something that should have been embalmed rather than talking.

Irravel recognised the face.

‘It’s him,’ she said, in Markarian’s direction. ‘Remontoire. Somehow he made it across all this time.’

Markarian nodded slowly. ‘He must have remembered us, and known where to look. Even across thousands of light-years, we can still be seen. There can’t be many objects still moving relativistically.’

Remontoire told his story. His people had fled to the pulsar system twenty thousand years ago - more, now, since his message had taken thousands of years to climb out of the galaxy. They had seen the wave coming, as had thousands of other human factions, and like many they had observed that the wave shunned pulsars: burned-out stellar corpses rarely accompanied by planets. Some intelligence governing the wave must have recognised that pulsars were valueless; that even if a Dyson cloud could be created around them, there would be no sunlight to focus.

For thousands of years they had waited around the pulsar, growing ever more silent and cautious, seeing other cultures make errors that drew the wave upon them, for by now it interpreted any other intelligence as a threat to its progress, assimilating the weapons used against it.

Then - over many more thousands of years - Remontoire’s people watched the wave learn, adapting like a vast neural net, becoming curious about those few pulsars that harboured planets. Soon their place of refuge would become nothing of the sort.

‘Help us,’ Remontoire said. ‘Please.’

It took three thousand years to reach them.

For most of that time, Remontoire’s people acted on faith, not knowing that help was on its way. During the first thousand years they abandoned their system, compressing their population down to a sustaining core of only a few hundred thousand. Together with the cultural data they’d preserved during the long centuries of their struggle against the wave, they packed their survivors into a single hollowed-out rock and flung themselves out of the ecliptic using a mass-driver that fuelled itself from the rock’s own bulk. They called it Hope. A million decoys had to be launched, just to ensure that Hope got through the surrounding hordes of assimilating machines.

Inside, most of the Conjoiners slept out the next two thousand years of solitude before Irravel and Markarian reached them.

‘Hope would make an excellent shield,’ Markarian mused as they approached it, ‘if one of us considered a pre-emptive strike against the other—’

‘Don’t think I wouldn’t.’

They moved their ships to either side of the dark shard of rock, extended field grapples, then hauled in.

‘Then why don’t you?’ Markarian said.

For a moment Irravel didn’t have a good answer. When she found one, she wondered why it hadn’t been more obvious before. ‘Because they need us more than I need revenge.’

‘A higher cause?’

‘Redemption,’ she said.

Hope, Galactic Plane - AD Circa 40,000

They didn’t have long. Their approach, diving down from Galactic North, had drawn the attention of the wave’s machines, directing them towards the one rock that mattered. A wall of annihilation was moving towards them at half the speed of light. When it reached Hope, it would turn it into the darkest of nebulae.

Conjoiners boarded the Hirondelle and invited Irravel into Hope. The hollowed-out chambers of the rock were Edenic to her children, after all the decades of subjective time they’d spent aboard ship since last planetfall. But it was a doomed paradise, the biomes grey with neglect, as if the Conjoiners had given up long before.

Remontoire welcomed Irravel next to a rock pool filmed with grey dust. Half the sun-panels set into the distant honeycombed ceiling were black.

‘You came,’ he said. He wore a simple smock and trousers. His anatomy was early-model Conjoiner: almost fully human.

‘You’re not him, are you?’ Irravel asked. ‘You look like him - sound like him - but the image you sent us was of someone much older.’

‘I’m sorry. His name was chosen for its familiarity; my likeness shaped to his. We searched our collective memories and found the experiences of the one you knew as Remontoire . . . but that was a long time ago, and he was never known by that name to us.’

‘What his name?’

‘Even your Juggler cortex could not accommodate it, Irravel.’

She had to ask. ‘Did he make it back to a commune?’

‘Yes, of course,’ the man said, as if her question was foolish. ‘How else could we have absorbed his experiences back into the Transenlightenment?’

‘And did he forgive me?’

‘I forgive you now,’ he said. ‘It amounts to the same thing.’

She willed herself to think of him as Remontoire.

The Conjoiners hadn’t allowed themselves to progress in all the thousands of years they waited around the pulsar, fearing that any social change - no matter how slight - would eventually bring the wave upon them. They had studied it, contemplated weapons they might use against it - but other than that, all they had done was wait.

They were very good at waiting.

‘How many refugees did you bring?’

‘One hundred thousand.’ Before Irravel could answer, Remontoire shook his head. ‘I know - too many. Perhaps half that number can be carried away on your ships. But half is better than nothing.’

She thought back to her own sleepers. ‘I know. Still, we might be able to take more . . . I don’t know about Markarian’s ship, but—’

He cut her off, gently. ‘I think you’d better come with me,’ said Remontoire, and then led her aboard the Hideyoshi.

‘How much of it did you explore?’

‘Enough to know there’s no one alive anywhere aboard this ship,’ Remontoire said. ‘If there are two hundred cryogenically frozen sleepers, we didn’t find them.’

‘No sleepers?’

‘Just this one.’

They had arrived at a plinth supporting a reefersleep casket, encrusted with gold statuary: spacesuited figures with hands folded across their chests like resting saints. The glass lid of the casket was veined with fractures; the withered figure inside older than time. Markarian’s skeletal frame was swaddled in layers of machines, all of archaic provenance. His skull had split open, a fused mass spilling out like lava.

‘Is he dead?’ Irravel asked.

‘Depends what you mean by dead.’ The Conjoiner’s hand sketched across the neural mass. ‘His organic mind must have been completely swamped by machines centuries ago. His linkage to the Hideyoshi would have been total. There would have been very little point discriminating between the two.’

‘Why didn’t he tell me what had become of him?’

‘No guarantee he knew. Once he was in this state, with his personality running entirely on machine substrates, he could have edited his own memories and perceptual inputs - deceiving himself that he was still corporeal.’

Irravel looked away from the casket, forcing troubling questions from her mind. ‘Is his personality still running the ship?’

‘We detected only caretaker programs, capable of imitating him when the need arose, but lacking sentience.’

‘Is that all there was?’

‘No.’ Remontoire reached through one of the casket’s larger fractures, prizing something from Markarian’s fingers. It was a sliver of computer memory. ‘We examined this already, though not in great detail. It’s partitioned into one hundred and ninety areas, each large enough to hold complete neural and genetic maps for one human being, encoded into superposed electron states on Rydberg atoms.’

She took the sliver from him. It didn’t feel like much. ‘He burned the sleepers onto this?’

‘Three hundred years is much longer than any of them expected to sleep. By scanning them he lost nothing.’

‘Can you retrieve them?’

‘It would not be trivial,’ the Conjoiner said, ‘but given time, we could do it. Assuming any of them would welcome being born again, so far from home.’

She thought of the infected galaxy hanging below them, humming with the chill sentience of machines. ‘Maybe the kindest thing would be to simulate the past,’ she said. ‘Recreate Yellowstone and revive them on it, as if nothing had ever gone wrong.’

‘Is that what you’re advocating?’

‘No,’ she said, after toying with the idea in all seriousness. ‘We need all the genetic diversity we can get if we’re going to establish a new branch of humanity outside the galaxy.’

She thought about it some more. Soon they would witness Hope’s destruction, as the wave of machines tore through it with the mindlessness of stampeding animals. Some of them might try to follow the Hirondelle, but so far the machines moved too slowly to catch the ship, even if they forced it back towards Galactic North.

Where else could they go?

There were globular clusters high above the galaxy - tightly packed shoals of old stars the wave hadn’t reached, but where fragments of humanity might already have sought refuge. If the clusters proved unwelcoming, there were high-latitude stars, flung from the galaxy a billion years ago, and some might have dragged their planetary systems with them. If those failed - and it would be tens of thousands of years before the possibilities were exhausted - the Hirondelle could always loop around towards Galactic South and search there, striking out for the Clouds of Magellan. Ultimately, of course - if any fragment of Irravel’s children still clung to humanity, and remembered where they’d come from, and what had become of it, they would want to return to the galaxy, even if that meant confronting the wave.

But they would return.

‘That’s the plan then?’ Remontoire said.

Irravel shrugged, turning away from the plinth where Markarian lay. ‘Unless you’ve got a better one.’

AFTERWORD

Here are eight stories - more than one hundred thousand words - set against a common background. I’ve written two other novellas and four novels set in the same imagined universe: not far shy of a million words. I’ve plans for more stories and books.

You can probably tell that I like future histories.

The first one I encountered was Larry Niven’s ‘Known Space’ sequence. I was in my middle teens, which is probably exactly the right target age. As I started reading the stories and novels embedded within this consistent timeline, beginning with Ring-world, and later the collection Tales from Known Space, I found myself plunged into a dizzying series of venues and eras. In some of the stories - a few of which were actually set earlier than the date at which I was reading them - humanity was still confined to the solar system and had little or no knowledge of alien cultures around other stars. Some stories were set a few centuries downstream, with colonies beginning to be established around other systems. Still more stories were set in an era when humankind had access to faster-than-light drives, teleportation technology, planet-gouging weapons and near-indestructible materials, and was in contact with many variegated alien races.

At first glance, not all of Niven’s stories appeared to belong in the same universe. But the connections were there, if one looked closely: finding them was half the fun. It was like pulling back from a close-up in which the individual stories were coloured chips in a mosaic. Suddenly you began to see the bigger picture; the larger composition upon which the author had been labouring. It hardly mattered that not all the details were absolutely consistent between the stories, or that some of the tales had been retrofitted into the scheme after initial publication. One still had a sense of the future as teeming, chaotic, prone to unexpected swerves and lurching accelerations.

That sense of a future history as a single fictional entity - a whole larger than the sum of its parts - has never left me, and it’s largely why I find the form so appealing. Future histories are often dismissed as exercises in laziness: why invent a new background when you can reuse one from another story. I don’t quite agree. For my money, it’s generally more difficult to write a second story in a pre-existing universe than to make a new one up from scratch. You have to work within ground rules already laid down, which places severe limits on narrative freedom. If you’ve introduced a world-changing invention in the first story, it has to be incorporated into the background texture of the second, unless the second is set earlier in the first. And if that’s the case, the second story must not introduce inconsistencies in the first. By the time you’re on the eighth or ninth story in a sequence, the narrative airspace can be getting awfully crowded. Future histories usually reach a point of limiting complexity, when trying to slot new stories into the stack becomes so fiendishly difficult that most writers move on to new pastures. I suppose the difficult part is knowing when you’ve reached that point.

Future histories obey differing degrees of consistency. At the soft extreme you have something like the Star Trek universe, in which the writers have been perfectly willing to go back and re-imagine certain details, even if that means contradicting data in earlier episodes. At the harder extreme, which I’d guess is almost exclusively the purview of written fiction, you have writers who maintain a furious lock-hold on consistency. Their published stories are only the iceberg’s tip of a vast private archive of background data, and no new story can be written without the monkish consultation of that hidden bible. I admire anyone with that degree of dedication to the art, but it’s not my approach. My stories fit together like a badly made jigsaw. Some of the pieces don’t even seem to come from quite the same puzzle. You probably need to file down a few corners and press hard to make them fit. My bible consists of one small Word file containing a sketchy chronology, and the written works themselves. If I’m writing a story and a detail comes up that may refer to something I think I might possibly have written in Chasm City, I’ll try to find the relevant page in CC. But I won’t kill myself if I don’t find it. In this approach I’m in the good company of John Varley, who refused to go back and read any of his ‘Eight Worlds’ stories before writing Steel Beach.

I’ve arranged the stories, as near as I can, in chronological order: ‘Great Wall of Mars’ is set barely two hundred years from now, while the last story, ‘Galactic North’, encompasses most of the future history and slingshots into the deep, distant future. But chronological order has little to do with the order in which the pieces were written. The earliest published story in this collection, ‘Dilation Sleep’, is a case in point. It was sold in 1989 and published in 1990, a full ten years before my first novel. It has roots that go back another ten years: in my teens I wrote two novels (A Union World and Dominant Species, since you asked) and a slew of stories set against an unashamedly Nivenesque background, in which a United Nations-dominated humanity makes contact with a zoo-load of alien races and obtains the secret of faster-than-light travel. Although I never tried to publish any of that stuff (which isn’t to say I didn’t inflict it on my long-suffering friends) it was a valuable learning experience. Because I’d written two moderately long novels by the time I was eighteen, I wasn’t intimidated by the idea of doing it again, and to this day I’ve maintained a good track record of finishing projects once I start them: good practice, I think, for any budding writer.

But by the time I finished the second novel, I was already growing dissatisfied with all the unquestioned assumptions that had gone into the melting pot. I vowed that the next novel I wrote would take a more rigorous approach, eschewing such easy cop-outs as humanoid aliens, conveniently Earth-like planets and magic faster-than-light travel. It would owe less to ideas gleaned from media SF and more to what I was reading, including scientific non-fiction by the likes of Paul Davies, John Gribbin and Carl Sagan. But those early books and stories weren’t completely wasted. Some of the locations, terminology and characters in them have cropped up again in the ‘Revelation Space’ universe, sometimes transformed, sometimes not. Yellowstone and Chasm City, which feature as background detail in ‘Dilation Sleep’, go right back to that first unpublished novel.

‘Dilation Sleep’ itself is an example of the kind of story that - if I were to take a scrupulous approach - really ought not to be in this collection. It’s that wrong jigsaw piece: a story written before I had all the large-scale details of the history nailed down. That’s more or less exactly why I wanted to include it, though. I think it’s of interest for the details it does share with the other stories, not the points of deviation. It’s got the notion of colony worlds linked by slower-than-light spacecraft; it’s got Yellowstone and the Melding Plague; it even has a reference to the Sylveste family (and yes, I did already know that they had an influential and ambitious scion named Dan, who’d go on to cause a bit of trouble). I could have tinkered with the story to remedy some of the more egregious points of inconsistency (change ‘spacers’ to ‘Ultras’, that kind of thing) but in the end I decided, not without misgivings, to let it stand unaltered.

The curious reader might wonder why I failed to return to the RS universe for another seven years after the publication of ‘Dilation Sleep’. It wasn’t for want of trying. I did write other stories, but they were never good enough to get published, even when I was selling other material. The strongest ideas from these dead stories were eventually salvaged and incorporated into later pieces, not all of them within the RS universe. In any case, ‘Dilation Sleep’ was part of a batch of stories I wrote before moving to the Netherlands and getting my first paid job. Settling into a new country inevitably placed constraints on my writing activities, and when I did manage to free up some time, I decided I’d be better off investing my energies in a novel.

By the time I came to write ‘A Spy in Europa’ and ‘Galactic North’, both of which were written in parallel with work on both Revelation Space and Chasm City, I was beginning to get a feel for the large-scale architecture of the future history. Here’s a shocking confession: I stole a lot of good ideas from other writers.I’ve already mentioned Niven and Varley, but I owe an equally obvious debt to Bruce Sterling, whose ‘Shaper/Mechanist’ sequence blew my mind on several levels. Sterling’s future history, even though it consists of only a single novel and a handful of stories, still feels utterly plausible to me twenty years after I first encountered it. Part of me wishes Sterling would write more ‘Shaper/ Mechanist’ stories; another part of me admires him precisely for not doing so. Read Schismatrix if you haven’t already done so: it will melt your face.

Much of the hard SF furniture of my universe - slower-than-light travel, coldsleep, machine intelligences - draws from ideas and motifs in the work of Gregory Benford, especially his ‘Galactic Centre’ sequence, beginning with In the Ocean of Night and Across the Sea of Suns. My fascination with cyborg spacers (and the baroque trappings of space opera in general) stems from early exposure to Samuel R. Delaney’s seminal Nova.

The Demarchists, the faction that plays a central role in much of the history, is not my invention. Joan D. Vinge wrote about a demarchist society in her enjoyable pacey novel The Outcasts of Heaven Belt. It’s a real political term, derived from democratic anarchy, but I hadn’t encountered it before reading Vinge’s book. Vinge’s demarchists used computer networks to facilitate their real-time democratic processes; mine use neural implants, enabling the decision-making process to become rapid and subliminal.

Nor is one of my other factions, the Conjoiners, an entirely new conception. I suspect I was thinking a little of the Comprise, the human hive-mind culture from Michael Swanwick’s Vacuum Flowers. I tried to get inside the heads of my Conjoiners in the early Clavain stories featured here, and to suggest the inner workings of a realistic hive mind. Most of the Conjoiner characters I’ve sketched in any detail are, like Clavain himself, tainted by some residual connection back to baseline humanity. The Conjoiners are my attempt to portray a hive mind as not necessarily an evil thing.

The Ultras, the cyborg crews who control most of the starships featured in the sequence, are, I suppose, what Star Trek’s Borg would be like if the Borg took an unhealthy interest in Goth subculture. I got the idea of sleek, streamlined starships from Marshall T. Savage’s book The Millennial Project, which is a non-fiction treatise on galactic colonisation. I don’t know whether Savage’s arguments really stack up (I suspect not), but I did like the idea of inverting that classic SF trope of the ‘ship designed only for the forgiving environment of vacuum’. In any case, even if streamlining doesn’t make much sense (even if it would look wicked cool), you’d still want to make your collision cross-section as small as possible, methinks, which suggests that any future starship will tend to be considerably longer than it’s wide. Savage’s wonderful and frightening vision of far-future solar systems transformed into countless sun-englobing asteroid habitats, each of which would be filled with sun-filtering foliage (thereby rendering starlight green), also crops up in ‘Galactic North’ and Absolution Gap. As for ship names, I bow to no one in my admiration of Iain M. Banks. But let the record show that the unwieldy names of my ships were a direct pinch from M. John Harrison’s The Centauri Device, not the Culture.

Okay: I don’t want to give anyone the idea that I stole everything. But debts must be acknowledged, and there are too many to mention here. I cannot omit Paul McAuley and Stephen Baxter, two writers who have both perpetrated future histories of their own, and who both showed great generosity to me when I was starting out. It was their short stories in the British SF magazine Interzone (stories with spaceships in: very much against the grain of what Interzone was generally publishing at the time) that encouraged me to try submitting my own material. But it was David Pringle who actually bought my earliest stories - including ‘Dilation Sleep’ and two of the other stories included here (‘A Spy in Europa’ and ‘Galactic North’) - and it’s to him that I dedicate this book. Without those early sales, I’m not at all sure that I would have persevered in my efforts to become an SF writer, so in that sense I owe David and the rest of the Interzone team for everything that’s followed. Interzone, incidentally, is still going strong: if you like short fiction (and if you don’t, what are you doing reading this?) then you could do worse than take out a subscription.

To finish, all I can say is that if you have enjoyed my stories, and you like the form of the future history, there is a mountain of good stuff out there by other writers. I hope you have as much fun discovering it as I’ve had.

Enjoy your futures.

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Contents

Dedication

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

To my Mum and Dad,

for forty years of love and encouragement.

CHAPTER 1

Thalia Ng felt her weight increasing as the elevator sped down the spoke from the habitat’s docking hub. She allowed herself to drift to the floor, trying to judge the point at which the apparent force reached one standard gee. Thalia hoped this was not one of those habitats that insisted on puritanically high gravity, as if it was somehow morally improving to stagger around under two gees. Her belt, with her whiphound and polling-core-analysis tools, already weighed heavily on her hips.

‘Thalia,’ Dreyfus said quietly as the elevator slowed to a halt, ‘try not to look so nervous.’

She tugged down the hem of her tunic. ‘I’m sorry, sir.’

‘You’re going to do fine.’

‘I wish there’d been more time, sir. To read up on House Perigal, I mean.’

‘You were informed of our destination as soon as we left Panoply.’

‘That was only an hour ago, sir.’

He looked at her, his lazy right eye nearly closed. ‘What’s your speed-reading index?’

‘Three, sir. Nothing exceptional.’

Dreyfus took a sip from the bulb of coffee he’d carried with him from the ship. Thalia had conjured it for him: black as tar, the way her boss liked it. ‘I suppose it was quite a long summary file.’

‘More than a thousand paragraphs, sir.’

‘Well, there’s nothing you need to know that wasn’t covered in training.’

‘I hope so. All the same, I couldn’t help noticing . . .’

‘What?’ Dreyfus asked mildly.

‘Your name’s all over the summary file, sir.’

‘Caitlin Perigal and I’ve had our fair share of run-ins.’ He smiled tightly. ‘As I’m sure she’ll be at pains to remind me.’

‘Count on it,’ said Sparver, the other deputy field on the lockdown party.

Dreyfus laid a thick-fingered hand on Thalia’s shoulder. ‘Just remember you’re here to do one thing - to secure evidence. Sparver and I’ll take care of any other distractions.’

When the elevator doors puckered open, a wave of heat and humidity hit like a hard, wet slap. Steam billowed in the air as far as Thalia could see. They were standing at the entrance to an enormous cavern hewn into the rocky torus of the wheel’s rim. Much of the visible surface consisted of pools of water arranged on subtly different levels, connected by an artful system of sluices and channels. People were bathing or swimming, or playing games in the water. Most of them were naked. There were baseline humans and people very far from human. There were sleek, purposeful shapes that might not have been people at all.

Dreyfus pulled a pair of bulbous glasses from his tunic pocket and rubbed the condensation from the dark lenses onto his sleeve. Thalia followed his cue and slipped on her own glasses, taking note of the changes she saw. Many of the apparently naked people were now masked or clothed, or at least partly hidden behind shifting blocks of colour or mirage-like plumage. Some of them had changed size and shape. A few had even become invisible, although the shades provided a blinking outline to indicate their true presence. Luminous branching structures - Thalia couldn’t tell if they were sculptures or some form of data visualisation related to an ongoing mindgame - loomed over the complex of pools.

‘Here comes the welcome,’ Dreyfus said.

Something strode towards them, following a dry path that wound between the bathing pools. A pair of shapely, stockinged female legs rose to support a flat tray arrayed with drinks. High heels clicked as the legs approached, placing one foot before the other with neurotic precision. The fluid in the glasses remained rock steady.

Thalia’s hand moved to her belt.

‘Steady,’ Dreyfus breathed.

The servitor halted before them. ‘Welcome to House Perigal, Prefects,’ it said in a squeaky voice. ‘Would you care for a drink?’

‘Thanks,’ Thalia said, ‘but we should—’

Dreyfus put down the coffee bulb and dithered his hand over the tray. ‘What do you recommend?’

‘The red’s acceptable.’

‘Red it is, then.’ He took a glass and lifted it towards his lips, just close enough to sniff the aroma. Thalia took a glass for herself. Only Sparver abstained: his metabolism couldn’t cope with alcohol.

‘Follow me, please. I’ll take you to the matriarch.’

They followed the legs through the cavern, winding between the pools. If their arrival had gone apparently unnoticed, that luxury had passed. Thalia could feel the back of her neck prickling from the uneasy attention they were now warranting.

They climbed to one of the highest pools, where four ornamental iron fish vomited water from their gaping mouths. Three adults were floating in the water, up to their chests in perfumed froth. Two were men. The third was Caitlin Perigal, her face recognisable from the summary file. Her muscular shoulders and arms tapered to elegant webbed hands with acid-green fingernails. A peacock’s feather adorned her hair. Green nymphs and satyrs buzzed around her head.

‘Prefects,’ she said, with all the warmth of superfluid helium.

‘Matriarch Perigal,’ Dreyfus said, standing with his feet a few centimetres from the edge of the pool. ‘My companions are Deputy Field Prefects Sparver Bancal and Thalia Ng. We’ve met, of course.’

Perigal turned languidly to her two companions. ‘The sleepy-looking fat one is Tom Dreyfus,’ she explained.

One of them - an aristocratic man with long, white hair - examined Dreyfus through clinical grey eyes. His plumage rendered him in impressionist brushstrokes. ‘Your paths have crossed before, Caitlin?’

Perigal stirred, breaking the water with the muscular fluked tail that had been grafted on in place of her legs. Thalia touched the stud on the side of her shades to verify that the tail was real, not a hallucination.

‘Dreyfus’s function in life seems to be finding obscure legal channels through which to harass me,’ Perigal said.

Dreyfus looked unimpressed. ‘I just do my job. It’s not my fault that you keep being a part of it.’

‘And I do, don’t I?’

‘So it seems. Nice tail, by the way. What happened to the legs?’

Perigal nodded at the walking tray. ‘I keep them around as a conversation piece.’

‘Each to their own.’

‘Yes, that’s the general principle.’ Perigal leaned forward in the pool, her voice hardening. ‘Well, pleasantries over with. Make your inspection, do whatever you have to do, then get the hell off my habitat.’

‘I haven’t come to inspect the habitat,’ Dreyfus said.

Thalia tensed despite herself. This was the moment she had been both dreading and quietly anticipating.

‘What, then?’ Perigal asked.

Dreyfus removed a card from his tunic pocket and held it up to his face, squinting slightly. He glanced briefly at Thalia and Sparver before reading, ‘Caitlin Perigal, as matriarch of this habitat, you are hereby charged with a category-five infringement of the democratic process. It is alleged that you tampered with the polling apparatus, to the intended benefit of your house.’

Perigal stuttered something, her cheeks flushing with indignation, but Dreyfus held up a silencing hand and continued with his statement.

‘While the investigative process is in operation, your habitat is to be placed under lockdown. All physical traffic between House Perigal and the rest of the system, including Chasm City, is now suspended. No incoming or outgoing transmissions will be permitted. Any attempts to break these sanctions will be countered with destructive force. This is final and binding.’ Dreyfus paused, then lowered the card. ‘The state of lockdown is now in effect.’

There was an uneasy silence, broken only by the gentle lapping of water against the side of the pool.

‘This is a joke, isn’t it?’ the grey-eyed man said eventually, looking encouragingly at Perigal. ‘Please tell me it’s a joke.’

‘So it’s come to this,’ the matriarch said. ‘I always knew you were dirty, Dreyfus, but I never thought you’d stoop quite this low.’

Dreyfus placed the card beside the pool. ‘This is a summary of the case against you. Looks watertight to me, but then I’m only a lowly field prefect.’ He touched a finger to his chin, as if he’d just remembered an errand. ‘Now I need a small favour.’

‘You’re insane.’

‘Kindly issue a priority interrupt to all your citizens and guests. Tell them that a lockdown is in force, and that they’re about to lose contact with the external universe. Remind them that this state of affairs could last for anything up to one century. Tell them that if they have thoughts or messages to convey to loved ones beyond House Perigal, they have six hundred seconds in which to do so.’

He turned to Thalia and Sparver and lowered his voice, but not so low that Perigal wouldn’t have been able to hear him. ‘You know what to do, Deputies. If anyone obstructs you, or refuses to cooperate, you have clearance to euthanise.’

The rim transit moved quickly, its motion counteracting the centrifugal gravity of the slow-turning wheel. Thalia sat next to Sparver, brooding.

‘It isn’t fair,’ she said.

‘What isn’t?’

‘All those people stuck here by accident, the people who just happened to be visiting.’

‘Sometimes the only workable solution isn’t a fair one.’

‘But cut off from the Glitter Band, from Yellowstone, from friends and family, from abstraction, from their medical programmes . . . some of them could actually die in here before the lockdown’s over.’

‘Then they should have thought about that before. If you don’t like the idea of being caught in a lockdown, do the homework on your habitat.’

‘That’s a very callous outlook.’

‘They screwed with democracy. I’m not going to lose much sleep when democracy screws them back.’

Thalia felt her weight returning as they neared their destination and the transit slowed. The two prefects disembarked into another cavern, smaller and brighter than the first. This time the floor was an expanse of interlocking black and white tiles, polished to a luxurious gleam. A cylindrical structure rose from a hole in the centre of the floor, wide as a tree trunk, its spired tip almost touching the ceiling. The cylinder’s black surface flickered with schematic representations of data flows: rapidly changing red and blue traceries. A railingless spiral staircase wrapped around the pillar, offering access to the stump-like branches of interface ports.

A man in beige uniform - some kind of technician or functionary, Thalia decided - stood by the base of the trunk, his face a study in suspicion.

‘Don’t come any closer,’ he said.

Sparver answered him. ‘Didn’t Perigal make it clear we were on our way, and that we weren’t to be hindered?’

‘It’s a trick. You’re agents of House Cantarini.’

Sparver looked at him sceptically. ‘Do I look like an agent of House Cantarini?’

‘An agent could look like anyone.’

‘I’m a pig. How likely is it that they’d send an ugly specimen like me when there was an alternative?’

‘I can’t take the risk. You touch this core, I lose my job, my standing, everything.’

‘Step aside, sir,’ Thalia said.

‘I’m sorry. I can’t let you any nearer.’ The man opened his hand to reveal a matt-silver device cuffed to his palm, inset with a red firing stud. ‘There are weapons already trained on you. Please don’t make me use them.’

‘You kill us, Panoply will just send more prefects,’ Sparver said.

Thalia’s skin prickled. She could feel the scrutiny of those hidden weapons, ready to wipe her out of existence at the twitch of the man’s thumb.

‘I won’t kill you if you turn and leave.’

‘We’ll leave when we have the evidence.’ Sparver’s hand moved to his belt. He unclipped the handle of his whiphound and flicked it to deploy the filament. It cracked as it spun out to its maximum extension, lashing the floor.

‘He’s right,’ Thalia said, fighting to keep the tremor from her voice. ‘We’re Panoply.’

‘Please.’ The man’s thumb caressed the firing stud. ‘I’ll do what needs to be done to protect the core.’

Sparver released the whiphound. The handle remained at waist height, supported by the coiled extremity of its stiffened filament. It swayed from side to side with the questing motion of a snake. Then it curled around and aimed itself at the man.

A bright red dot appeared on his Adam’s apple.

‘I need you to answer a question for me,’ Sparver said. ‘How attached are you to your fingers?’

The man inhaled and held his breath.

‘The whiphound has a mark on you now,’ Sparver continued. ‘If it detects hostile intent - and it’s very, very good at detecting hostile intent - it’ll be on you faster than a nerve impulse can travel down your arm. When it reaches you, it’ll do something quite nasty with the sharp edge of that filament.’

The man opened his mouth to say something, but all that came out was a dry croak. He spread both his hands, opening his fingers and thumbs as wide as they would go.

‘Sensible,’ Sparver said. ‘Now hold that pose, but step away from the core.’ He nodded at Thalia, giving her the go-ahead to start securing the evidence. The whiphound stayed by his side, its blunt head tracking the man as he inched away from the central column.

Thalia walked to the core. It was a standard design, installed within the last twenty years, so she knew exactly where to start.

‘This is Deputy Field Prefect Thalia Ng,’ she said aloud. ‘Confirm recognition.’

‘Welcome, Deputy Field Prefect Ng,’ it replied, in the neutrally sexless voice common to all cores. ‘How may I assist you?’

Thalia brought to mind the one-time code with which she had been briefed after the cutter’s departure from Panoply. ‘Acknowledge security access override Narcissus Eight Palisander.’

‘Override confirmed. You now have six hundred seconds of clearance, Deputy Field Prefect Ng.’

‘Disable two-way access to the exterior abstraction.’

‘Access is now blocked.’

The red lines vanished. Now the pillar showed only blue traffic. No signals were reaching or leaving the habitat. Almost immediately the blue traffic intensified as the citizenry began to panic, sending emergency queries to the core.

Thalia glanced at the man Sparver’s whiphound was still detaining. For the first time in his life, his implants would no longer be in constant communication with the informational matrix beyond House Perigal. It must have felt like the drop of a guillotine.

She returned her attention to the core. ‘Prepare me triplicate physical summary packages for all data traffic in and out of this habit in the last thousand days.’

‘I am preparing the packages. Please wait a moment.’

Thalia reached up and touched her throat microphone. ‘Thalia, sir. We’re securing the evidence now. We should be back with you within ten minutes.’

There was no response. She waited a few moments, giving Dreyfus time to activate his own microphone, but still nothing came.

She shot a look at Sparver. ‘I’m not getting anything.’

‘The boss man could be preoccupied,’ Sparver said.

‘He should have answered by now. I’m worried. Maybe we ought to get back there, see—’

‘We need those summary packages, Thalia. In five minutes you’ll be locked out of the core again.’

Sparver was right. The one-time code - good for ten minutes of unrestricted activity - would not buy her access to the core a second time.

‘Hurry up,’ she said, through clenched teeth.

She tried Dreyfus again, but still there was no reply. After what felt like an eternity, the core ejected the summary packages from a slot near its base. Thalia clipped together the thick diskettes and then secured them to her belt. Absurd as it was, she swore she could feel the weight of the information inside them. It would have taken days to squeeze that amount of data across a beam.

‘You done?’ Sparver asked.

‘This is all we need. We can leave the local abstraction running.’

‘And if they try to get around the block you just put in?’

‘They’ll have a dead core on their hands. They’ll be lucky if life support still works after that, let alone abstraction.’ Thalia turned back to the core and authorised it to rescind the Panoply access privilege it had just granted her. ‘That’s it, then,’ she said, feeling an unexpected sense of anticlimax.

‘There. Wasn’t so hard, was it?’

‘I’m worried about the boss.’

‘It’s just the rock this thing’s made of, blocking our signals.’ Sparver smiled at the technician again. ‘We’re done. Can I trust you not to do anything silly if I pull the whiphound off you?’

The man swallowed painfully and twitched his head in a nod.

‘I’ll take that as a “yes”,’ Sparver said. He reached out his hand and beckoned the whiphound. With a flick of its tail, the weapon sprang its handle into Sparver’s grip, the tail whisking back into the housing with a lashing sound.

Sparver patted the handle and reattached it to his belt. ‘Let’s go check on the boss man.’

But when they rode the rim transit back to Dreyfus, they found him standing alone and still, amidst a scene of almost unspeakable carnage. He held his glasses in one hand and the whiphound in the other.

Thalia snatched off her own glasses so that she could see things as they really were. People were screaming, scrambling and splashing to get away from the prefect and the objects of his attention. Caitlin Perigal’s two male guests were both slumped in the pool, in water that was now bloodstained pink. The man with the grey hair had lost his forearm: it was lying on the marble poolside, the hand pointing accusingly at Dreyfus. Behind the wrist, the skin bulged as if a bone-grafted weapon had been trying to push its way through to the surface. The other man, trembling as if in the throes of a seizure, had blood running from both his nostrils. His eyes were wide open, fixated on the ceiling. Three or four nearby guests were nursing wounds of varying severity. With all the blood in the water - draining from pool to pool via the waterfalls and sluices - it was difficult to be certain how many people had been hurt. Medical servitors had already arrived and were attending to the most seriously injured, but even the machines appeared confused.

Perigal was still alive, albeit breathing heavily. A vivid gash cut her across the right cheek, running from the corner of her mouth to her ear. She breathed heavily, her eyes wide and white with fury and fear.

‘You’re wrong about this,’ she breathed. ‘You’re wrong about this and you’re going to pay.’

Dreyfus turned slowly at the approach of Thalia and Sparver. ‘Got the packages?’

Thalia’s mouth was dry. ‘Yes,’ she said, forcing the word out, striving to maintain professional composure.

‘Then let’s go. We’re done here.’

CHAPTER 2

Dreyfus had closed half the distance to the middle of the supreme prefect’s office when the safe-distance tether jerked him to a halt. For a moment Jane Aumonier appeared unaware of his presence, absorbed in one of her wall displays. He coughed quietly before speaking.

‘If you want my resignation, it’s yours.’

Aumonier turned her head to face him, without moving the rest of her body. ‘On what grounds, Tom?’

‘You name it. If I committed an error of procedure, or was guilty of improper judgement, you only have to say the word.’

‘If you committed an error, it was in not going far enough to defend yourself and your deputies. What was the final body count?’

‘Six,’ Dreyfus said.

‘We’ve done worse. Perigal was always going to be a tough nut. A single-figure body count strikes me as entirely acceptable, given all that we could have expected.’

‘I was hoping things wouldn’t get quite so messy.’

‘That was Perigal’s call, not yours.’

‘I still don’t think we’re finished with her. What she said to me . . .’ Dreyfus paused, certain that Aumonier had enough to worry about without being burdened with his doubts. ‘I feel as if a debt has been settled. That isn’t a good way for a prefect to feel.’

‘It’s human.’

‘She got away with it in the past because we weren’t clever or fast enough to audit her before the evidence turned stale. But even if we’d been able to pin anything on her, her crimes wouldn’t have merited a full century of lockdown.’

‘And we don’t know that it will come to that this time, either.’

‘You think she’ll slip through again?’

‘That’ll depend on the evidence. Time to make use of that bright new expert on your team.’ ‘I have every confidence in Thalia.’

‘Then you’ve nothing to fear. If Perigal’s guilty, the state of lockdown will continue. If the evidence doesn’t turn anything up, House Perigal will be allowed re-entry into the Glitter Band.’

‘Minus six people.’

‘Citizens panic when they lose abstraction. That isn’t our problem.’

Dreyfus tried to read Aumonier’s expression, wondering what he was missing. It wasn’t like her to need to ask him how many people had died during an operation: normally she’d have committed the figures to memory before he was back inside Panoply. But Aumonier’s emotionless mask was as impossible to read as ever. He could remember how she looked when she smiled, or laughed, or showed anger, how she’d been before her brush with the Clockmaker, but it took an increasing effort of will.

‘Pardon me,’ he said, ‘but if this isn’t a reprimand . . . what exactly do you want me for?’

‘The conversation? The banter? The warmth of human companionship?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Something’s come up. The news broke while you were outside. It’s as delicate as the Perigal affair, if not more so. Urgent, too. We need immediate action.’

Dreyfus had not heard of anything brewing. ‘Another lockdown? ’

‘No. There wouldn’t be much point, unfortunately.’

‘I’m sorry?’

Aumonier extended a hand to the wall, enlarging one of the display facets. It filled with an image of a spherical habitat, a grey ball blurred with microscopic detail, banded by tropical sun-panels, with an array of vast mirrors stationed at the poles and around the equator. The scale was difficult to judge, though Dreyfus doubted that the habitat was less than a kilometre wide.

‘You won’t recognise it. This is a recent image of the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble, a fifth-magnitude shell habitat in the high outer orbits. It’s never fallen under Panoply scrutiny before.’

‘What have they done wrong now?’

‘Here’s a more recent image, taken three hours ago.’

The Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble had been cut open, sliced along its midsection like an eyeball gouged by a razor. The cut had almost split the habitat into two hemispheres. On either side of the cut, the habitat’s fabric had been scorched to a crisp midnight black. Structures inside were still glowing cherry-red.

‘Casualties?’ Dreyfus asked, holding his horror at bay.

‘Last census put the population at nine hundred and sixty. We think they all died, but we need to get a team in and make an immediate physical inspection. Survivors can’t be ruled out. At the very least, there may be beta-level recoverables.’

‘Why isn’t this all over the Band?’

‘Because we’re keeping a lid on it. This doesn’t look like an accident.’

‘Someone will have noticed Ruskin-Sartorious dropping off the networks.’

‘They only participated in abstraction at a shallow level, enough that we can continue to simulate the existence of the fully functional habitat for the time being, using our network privileges.’

‘And the time being . . . would be how long?’

‘Best guess? Less than twenty-six hours. Thirteen might be nearer the mark.’

‘And when the story breaks?’

‘We’ll have a major crisis on our hands. I think I know who did this, but I’ll need to be absolutely certain before I move on it. That’s why I want you to get out to Ruskin-Sartorious immediately. Take whoever you need. Secure evidence and recoverables and get back to Panoply. Then we’ll hold our breath.’

Dreyfus looked again at the image of the wounded habitat. ‘There’s only one thing that could have done that, isn’t there? And it isn’t even a weapon.’

‘We see things similarly,’ Aumonier said.

The walls of the tactical room were finely grained teak, varnished to a forbidding gleam. There were no windows or pictures, no humanising touches. The heavy, dark furniture was all inert matter: grown, cut and constructed by nature and carpentry. The double doors were cased in hammered bronze, studded with huge brass bolts, each door inlaid with a stylised version of the raised gauntlet that was Panoply’s symbol. The gauntlet was supposed to signify protection, but it could just as easily be interpreted as a threatening fist, clenched to smash down on its enemies or those who failed it.

‘Begin please, Ng,’ said the man sitting opposite Thalia, Senior Prefect Michael Crissel.

She placed the recovered diskettes on the table’s edge, almost dropping them in her nervousness. ‘Thank you, Senior Prefect. These are the triplicate physical summary packages from the Perigal polling core.’ She nodded at the clockwork-gear shape of the Perigal habitat, imaged as a tiny representation in the tactical room’s Solid Orrery, enlarged and elevated above its real orbital plane. ‘The data has now been copied into our archives, all one thousand days’ worth of it. I’ve verified that the three triplicate summaries are consistent, with no indication of tampering.’

‘And your findings?’

‘I’ve only had a few hours to look into things, which really isn’t enough time to do more than skim—’

Senior Prefect Gaston Clearmountain growled his impatience. ‘Cut the blather, Ng. Just tell us what you have.’

‘Sir,’ Thalia said, almost stammering. ‘Preliminary analysis confirms everything in the lockdown report. House Perigal were indeed guilty of tampering with the democratic process. On at least eight occasions they were able to bias voting patterns in marginal polls, either to their advantage, or to the advantage of their allies. There may be more instances. We’ll have a clearer picture when we’ve run a full audit on the packages.’

‘I was hoping for a clearer picture now,’ Clearmountain said.

Senior Prefect Sheridan Gaffney leaned forward in his huge black chair with a creak of leather. ‘Easy on her, Gaston,’ he growled. ‘She’s been under a lot of pressure to pull this together at short notice.’

Gaffney had a reputation for having a short fuse and a marked intolerance for fools. But as head of both Internal Security and whiphound training, the gruff-voiced Gaffney had always treated Thalia with impeccable fairness, even encouragement. She now perceived him as her only unambiguous ally in the room. It would have been different if Dreyfus or Jane Aumonier had been present, but Dreyfus was absent (his Pangolin clearance would have allowed him to sit in on the meeting even though he wasn’t a senior) and the position where the supreme prefect normally manifested - beamed into the room as a projection - was conspicuously empty. On her way to the room, Thalia had picked up rumours that some other crisis was brewing, something unrelated to the lockdown they’d recently performed.

The other seniors were neither on her side nor against her. Michael Crissel was a gentle-looking man with scholarly features and a diffident manner. By all accounts he’d been an excellent field prefect once, but he’d spent most of the last twenty years inside Panoply, becoming detached from the hard reality of duty outside. Lillian Baudry’s field career had come to an end when she was blown apart by a malfunctioning whiphound. They’d put her back together again, but her nervous system had never been the same. She could have surrendered herself to the medical expertise available elsewhere in the Glitter Band, but the security implications of receiving outside treatment would have meant her leaving Panoply for good. So she’d chosen duty over well-being, even though that meant sitting in meetings like a stiffly posed china doll.

It was a measure of the importance attached to Thalia’s report that only four seniors were present. Normally at least six or seven of the ten permanent seniors would have been in attendance, but today there were more than the usual number of empty places around the table. Yes, they wanted this affair tied up as quickly as possible - but that didn’t mean they saw it as anything other than a blip in Panoply’s schedule of business.

‘Let’s cut to the chase,’ Clearmountain said. ‘We’ve got the packages. They confirm our existing suspicions, which is that Perigal had her hands in the pie. The lockdown can hold. Now all we need to do is seal the leak before someone else exploits it the same way.’

‘I agree, sir,’ Thalia said.

‘Exactly how much damage did these polling violations cause?’ asked Baudry.

‘In the scheme of things, nothing major,’ Thalia answered. ‘They were all polls on relatively minor issues. Caitlin Perigal might have wanted to tip the balance in more significant polls, but discovery would have been even more likely if she’d tried. Frankly, with the amount of oversight and scrutiny we already have in place whenever something big comes up, I can’t imagine anyone managing to bias the votes to a statistically useful degree.’

‘It’s your job to imagine it,’ Michael Crissel said.

‘She knows that,’ Gaffney said in a whisper.

Thalia acknowledged Crissel. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I just mean - given everything we know - it’s unlikely. The system can’t ever be proven to be inviolable; Gödel’s Incompleteness Theorem—’

‘I don’t need to be lectured on Gödel, Ng,’ Crissel said tersely.

‘What I mean, sir, is that the system tests itself through being used. House Perigal has actually done us a favour. Now we’re aware of a logical flaw we hadn’t seen before: one that permits a tiny bias in the polls. We’ll fix that and move on. Somewhere down the line, someone else will get creative and find another loophole. We’ll fix that as well. That’s the process.’

‘So you’re confident we can plug this hole?’ Baudry asked.

‘Absolutely, Senior. It’s trivial.’

‘If it’s “trivial”, how did we miss it until now?’

‘Because we introduced it,’ Thalia said, trying not to sound too full of herself. ‘We plugged one hole - thinking we were being clever - and inadvertently opened another. The fault was deep in our error-handling routine. It was designed to stop valid votes being lost, but it accidentally allowed additional votes to be registered fraudulently.’

‘Probably not the first time in history that’s happened,’ Crissel said dryly.

Thalia laced her hands together on the table, trying to strike the right note between defensiveness and professional detachment. ‘It was regrettable. But to date only a handful of habitats have exploited the loophole.’

‘Regrettable?’ Clearmountain said. ‘I call it reprehensible.’

‘Sir, the existing error-handling routine already ran to twenty-two million lines of code, including some subroutines written more than two hundred and twenty years ago, in the First System. Those programmers weren’t even speaking modern Canasian. Reading their documentation is like . . . well, deciphering Sanskrit or something.’

‘Ng’s right,’ Gaffney said. ‘They did the best they could. And the secondary loophole was subtle enough that only five habitats in ten thousand ever attempted to exploit it. I think we can put this one down to experience and move on.’

‘Provided, of course, we have a reliable fix,’ Baudry said. She nodded stiffly at Thalia. ‘You did say it would be a simple matter?’

‘For once, yes. The correction isn’t anything like as complicated as the alteration that introduced the fault in the first place. Just a few thousand lines that need changing. Having said that, I’d still like to run the first few installations manually, just to iron out any unanticipated issues due to different core architectures. Once I’m satisfied, we can go live across the entire ten thousand.’

Gaffney looked sharply at Thalia. ‘It’s clear that we need to get this whole mess tidied up as quickly as possible. By the time the Perigal lockdown becomes binding - as I have no doubt it will - I want us ready to begin implementing the upgrade. The special evidential board has access to the summary packages?’

‘Since this morning, sir.’

Gaffney took out a handkerchief and dabbed at the perspiration glistening on his forehead. ‘On past form we can expect their decision within ten days. Can you match that?’

‘We could go live in two, sir, if you demanded it. I’m confident that the tests won’t throw up any anomalies.’

‘We were confident last time,’ Gaffney reminded her. ‘Let’s not make the same mistake twice.’

But there’s a difference between then and now, Thalia thought to herself. She hadn’t been on the team when the last upgrade was made. She couldn’t speak for her predecessors, but she would never have allowed that error to slip through.

‘We won’t,’ she said.

Dreyfus took in the scene of the crime from the vantage point of a Panoply cutter. It would have been quick, he reflected, but perhaps not fast enough to be either painless or merciful. The habitat was a corpse now, gutted of pressure. When whatever gouged that wound had touched the atmosphere inside the shell, it would have caused it to expand in a scalding ball of superheated air and steam. There’d have been no time to reach shuttles, escape pods or even armoured security vaults. But there’d have been time to realise what was happening. Most people in the Glitter Band didn’t expect to die, let alone in fear and agony.

‘This isn’t looking good,’ Sparver said. ‘Still want to go in, before forensics catch up with us?’

‘We may still be able to get something from hardened data cores,’ Dreyfus answered, with gloomy resignation. He wasn’t even confident about the cores.

‘What kind of weapon did this?’

‘I don’t think it was a weapon.’

‘That doesn’t look like any kind of impact damage to me. There’s scorching, suggesting some kind of directed energy source. Could the Conjoiners have dug out something that nasty? Everyone says they have a few big guns tucked away somewhere.’

Dreyfus shook his head. ‘If the Spiders wanted to pick a fight with an isolated habitat, they’d have made a cleaner job of it.’

‘All the same—’

‘Jane has a shrewd idea of what did this. She just isn’t happy about the implications.’

Dreyfus and Sparver passed through the cutter’s suitwall into vacuum, and then through a chain of old-fashioned but still functional airlocks. The locks fed them into a series of successively larger reception chambers, all of which were now dark and depressurised. The chambers were full of slowly wheeling debris clouds, little of which Dreyfus was able to identify. The internal map on his facepatch was based on the data Ruskin-Sartorious had volunteered during the last census. The polling core - which was likely to be where any beta-levels had been sequestered - was supposedly on the sphere’s inside surface near the equator. They would just have to hope that the beam had missed it.

The main interior spaces - the two-kilometre-wide Bubble had been partitioned into chambered habitat zones - were charred black caverns, littered only with heat-warped or pressure-mangled ruins. Near the cut, traceries of structural metal were still glowing where the killing beam had sliced through them. It appeared that the Bubble had been a free-fall culture, with only limited provision for artificial gravity. There were many places like that in the Band, and their citizens grew elegant and willowy and tended not to travel all that much.

Sparver and Dreyfus floated through the heart of the sphere, using their suit jets to steer around the larger chunks of free-fall debris. The suits had already begun to warn of heightened radiation levels, which did nothing to assuage Dreyfus’s suspicions that Aumonier was right about who had done this. But they’d need more than just suit readings to make a case.

‘I’ve found something,’ Sparver said suddenly, when they had drifted several tens of metres apart.

‘What?’

‘There’s something big floating over here. Could be a piece of ship or something.’

Dreyfus was sceptical. ‘Inside the habitat?’

‘See for yourself, Boss.’

Dreyfus steered his suit closer to Sparver and cast his lights over the floating object. Sparver had been right in that at first glance the thing resembled a chunk of ship, or some other nondescript piece of large machinery. But on closer inspection it was clear that this was nothing of the sort. The blackened object was a piece of artwork, apparently only half-finished.

Someone had begun with a chunk of metal-rich rock, a potato-shaped boulder about ten or twelve metres across. It had a dark-blue lustre, shading to olive green when the light caught it in a certain fashion. One face of the boulder was still rough and unworked, but the other had been cut back to reveal an intricate sculptural form. Regions of the sculpted side of the boulder were still at a crude stage of development, but other areas gave the impression of having been finished to a very high degree, worked down to a scale of centimetres. The way the rock had flowed and congealed around the worked-in areas suggested that the artist had been sculpting with fusion torches rather than just cutting drills or hammers. The liquid forms of the molten rock had become an integral part of the piece, incorporated into the composition at a level that could not be accidental.

Which didn’t mean that Dreyfus had any idea as to what it represented. There was a face emerging from a rock, that of a man, but oriented upside down from Dreyfus’s present point of view. He spun the suit around and for a moment, fleetingly, he had the impression that he recognised the face, that it belonged to a celebrity or historical figure rather than someone he knew personally. But the moment passed and the face lost whatever sheen of familiarity it might have possessed. Perhaps it was better that way, too. The man’s expression was difficult to read, but it was either one of ecstasy or soul-consuming dread.

‘What do you make of it?’ Sparver asked.

‘I don’t know,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Maybe the beta-levels will tell us something, if any of them turn out to be recoverable.’ He pushed his suit closer and fired an adhesive marker onto the floating rock so that forensics would know to haul it in.

They moved on to the entry wound, until they were hovering just clear of the edge of the cut. Before them, airtight cladding had turned black and flaked away, exposing the fused and reshaped rock that had formed the Bubble’s skin. The beam had made the rock boil, melt and resolidify in organic formations that were unsettlingly similar to those in the sculpture, gleaming a glassy black under their helmet lights. Stars were visible through the ten-metre-wide opening. Somewhere else out there, Dreyfus reflected, was all that remained of the habitat’s interior biome, billowing away into empty space.

He steered his suit into the cleft. He floated down to half the depth of the punctured skin, then settled near a glinting object embedded in the resolidified rock. It was a flake of metal, probably a piece of cladding that had come loose and then been trapped when the rock solidified. Dreyfus unhooked a cutter from his belt and snipped a palm-sized section of the flake away. Nearby he spotted another glint, and then a third. Within a minute he had gathered three different samples, stowing them in the suit’s abdominal pouch.

‘Got something?’ Sparver asked.

‘Probably. If it was a drive beam that did it, this metal will have mopped up a lot of subatomic particles. There’ll be spallation tracks, heavy isotopes and fragmentation products. Forensics can tell us if the signatures match a Conjoiner drive.’

Now he’d said it, it was out in the open.

‘Okay, but no matter what forensics say, why would Ultras do this?’ Sparver asked. ‘They couldn’t hope to get away with it.’

‘Maybe that’s exactly what they were hoping to do - cut and run. They might not be back in this system for decades, centuries even. Do you think anyone will still care about what happened to Ruskin-Sartorious by then?’

After a thoughtful moment, Sparver said, ‘You would.’

‘I won’t be around. Neither will you.’

‘You’re in an unusually cheerful frame of mind.’

‘Nine hundred and sixty people died here, Sparver. It’s not exactly the kind of thing that puts a spring in my step.’ Dreyfus looked around, but saw no other easily accessible forensic samples. The analysis squad would arrive shortly, but the really heavy work would have to wait until the story had broken and Panoply were not obliged to work under cover of secrecy.

By then, though, all hell would have broken loose anyway.

‘Let’s get to the polling core,’ he said, moving his suit out of the cut. ‘The sooner we leave here the better. I can already feel the ghosts getting impatient.’

CHAPTER 3

Whether by accident or design - Dreyfus had never been sufficiently curious to find out - the four main bays on the trailing face of Panoply conspired to suggest the grinning, ghoulish countenance of a Hallowe’en pumpkin. No attempt had been made to smooth or contour the rock’s outer crust, or to lop it into some kind of symmetry. There were a thousand similar asteroids wheeling around Yellowstone: rough-cut stones shepherded into parking orbits where they awaited demolition and reforging into sparkling new habitats. This was the only one that held prefects, though: barely a thousand in total, from the senior prefect herself right down to the greenest field just out of the cadet rankings.

The cutter docked itself in the nose, where it was racked into place alongside a phalanx of similar light-enforcement vehicles. Dreyfus and Sparver handed the evidential packages to a waiting member of the forensics squad and signed off on the paperwork. Conveyor bands pulled them deeper into the asteroid, until they were in one of the rotating sections.

‘I’ll see you in thirteen hours,’ Dreyfus told Sparver at the junction between the field-training section and the cadets’ dormitory ring. ‘Get some rest - I’m expecting a busy day.’

‘And you?’

‘Some loose ends to tie up first.’

‘Fine,’ Sparver said, shaking his head. ‘It’s your metabolism. You do what you want with it.’

Dreyfus was tired, but with Caitlin Perigal and the implications of the murdered habitat dogging his thoughts, he knew it would be futile trying to sleep. Instead he returned to his quarters for just long enough to step through a washwall and conjure a change of clothing. By the time he emerged to make his way back through the rock, the lights had dimmed for the graveyard shift in Panoply’s twenty-six-hour operational cycle. The cadets were all asleep; the refectory, training rooms and classrooms empty.

Thalia, however, was still in her office. The passwall was transparent, so he entered silently. He stood behind her like a father admiring his daughter doing homework. She was still dealing with the implications of the Perigal case, seated before a wall filled with scrolling code. Dreyfus stared numbly at the lines of interlocking symbols, none of which meant anything to him.

‘Sorry to interrupt your flow,’ he said gently when Thalia didn’t look up.

‘Sir,’ she said, starting. ‘I thought you were still outside.’

‘Word obviously gets around.’

Thalia froze the scroll. ‘I heard there was some kind of crisis brewing.’

‘Isn’t there always?’ Dreyfus plopped a heavy black bag down on her desk. ‘I know you’re already busy, Thalia, but I’m afraid I’m going to have to add to your burden.’

‘That’s okay, sir.’

‘Inside that bag are twelve beta-level recoverables. We had to pull them out of a damaged core, so in all likelihood they’re riddled with errors. I’d like you to fix what you can.’

‘Where did they come from?’

‘A place called Ruskin-Sartorious. It doesn’t exist any more. Of the nine hundred and sixty people who used to live there, the only survivors are the patterns in these beta-levels.’

‘Just twelve, out of all those people?’

‘That’s all we got. Even then, I doubt you’ll get twelve stable invocations. But do what you can. Call me as soon as you recover something I can talk to.’

Thalia looked back at the code wall. ‘After I’m done with this, right?’

‘Actually, I’d like those invocations as quickly as possible. I don’t want you to neglect Perigal, but this is looking more serious by the hour.’

‘What happened?’ she breathed. ‘How did those people die?’

‘Badly,’ Dreyfus said.

The safe-distance tether jerked him to a halt in Jane Aumonier’s presence.

‘Forensics are on the case,’ he said. ‘We should have an answer on those samples within the hour.’

‘Not that there’s much room for doubt,’ Aumonier said. ‘I have every confidence - if that’s the word - that they’ll tie the damage to the output beam of a Conjoiner drive.’ She directed Dreyfus’s attention to a portion of the wall she had enlarged before his arrival. Frozen there was a sleek silver-grey thing like a child’s paper dart. ‘Gaffney’s been talking to Centralised Traffic Control. They were able to backtrack the movements of this ship. Her name is Accompaniment of Shadows.’

‘They can place her at the Bubble?’

‘Close enough for our purposes. No other lighthugger was anywhere near.’

‘Where’s she now?’

‘Hidden in the Parking Swarm.’

Aumonier enlarged another portion of the wall. Dreyfus saw a ball of fireflies, packed too tightly in the middle to separate into individual motes of light. A single ship would have no difficulty losing itself in the tight-packed core.

‘Have any left since the attack?’ he asked.

‘None. We’ve had the Swarm under tight surveillance.’

‘And in the event that one should break cover?’

‘I’d rather not think about it.’

‘But you have.’

She nodded minutely. ‘Theoretically, one of our deep-system cruisers could shadow a lighthugger all the way out to the Oort cloud. But what good would it do us? If they don’t want to stop, or let us board . . . nothing we have is going to persuade them. Frankly, direct confrontation with Ultras is the one situation I’ve been dreading ever since they gave me this job.’

‘Do we have any priors on this ship?’

‘Nothing, Tom. Why?’

‘I was wondering about a motive.’

‘Me, too. Maybe one of the recoverables can shed some light on that.’

‘If we’re lucky,’ Dreyfus said. ‘We only got twelve, and most of those are likely to be damaged.’

‘What about back-ups? Ruskin-Sartorious wouldn’t have kept all their eggs in that one basket.’

‘Agreed. But it’s unlikely that the squirts happened more frequently than once a day, if that. Once a week is a lot more likely.’

‘Stale memories may be better than nothing, if that’s all we have.’ Her tone shifted, becoming more personal. ‘Tom, I have to ask another favour of you. I’m afraid it’s going to be even more difficult and delicate than Perigal.’

‘You’d like me to talk to the Ultras.’

‘I want you to ride out to the Swarm. You don’t have to enter it yet, but I want them to know that we have our eye on them. I want them to know that if they attempt to hide that ship - or aid its evasion of justice in any way - we won’t take it lightly.’

Dreyfus skimmed mental options, trying to work out what kind of ship would send the most effective signal to the Ultras. Nothing in his previous experience with the starship crews had given him much guidance.

‘I’ll leave immediately,’ he said, preparing to haul himself back to the wall.

‘I’d rather you didn’t,’ Aumonier replied. ‘Get some rest first. We’re up against the clock on this one, but I still want the Ultras to stew a little, wonder what our response is going to be. We’re not totally clawless. We can hit them in the trade networks, where it really hurts. Time to make them feel uncomfortable for once.’

Elsewhere, an object fell through the Glitter Band.

It was a two-metre-wide sphere, following a carefully calculated free-fall trajectory that would slip it through the transient gaps in civilian, CTC and Panoply tracking systems with the precision of a dancer weaving between scarves. The nonvelope’s path was simply an additional precaution that had cost nothing except a tiny expenditure of computing time and an equally small delay to its departure time. It was already nearly invisible, by the standards of all but the most probing close-range surveillance methods.

Presently it detected the intrusion of light of a very particular frequency, one that it was programmed not to deflect. Machinery deep in the nonvelope processed the temporal structure of the light and extracted an encoded message in an expected format. The same machinery composed a response and spat it out in the opposite direction, back to whatever had transmitted the original pulse.

A confirmatory pulse arrived milliseconds later.

The nonvelope had allowed itself to be detected. This was part of the plan.

Three hours later, a ship positioned itself over the nonvelope, using gravitational sensing to refine its final approach. The nonvelope was soon safely concealed inside the reception bay of the ship. Clamps locked it into position. Detecting its safe arrival, the nonvelope relaxed the structure of its quickmatter envelope in preparation for disgorging its cargo. As lights came on and air flooded into the bay, the nonvelope’s surface flicked to the appearance of a large chromed marble. Weight returned as the ship powered away from the rendezvous point.

A figure in an anonymous black spacesuit entered the bay. The figure crouched next to the nonvelope and observed it open. The sphere cracked wide, one half folding back to reveal its occupant. A glassy cocoon of support systems oozed away from his foetal form. The man was breathing, but only just on the edge of consciousness.

The man in the suit removed his helmet. ‘Welcome back to the world, Anthony Theobald Ruskin-Sartorious.’

The man in the nonvelope groaned and stirred. His eyes were gummed with protective gel. He pawed them clean, then squinted while they found their focus.

‘I’ve arrived?’

‘You’re aboard the ship. Just like you planned.’

His relief was palpable. ‘I thought it was never going to end. Four hours in that thing . . . it felt like a million years.’

‘I wouldn’t mind betting that’s the first physical discomfort you’ve ever known in your life.’ The man in the black spacesuit was standing now, his legs slightly apart, braced in the half-gravity produced by the ship’s acceleration.

Anthony Theobald narrowed his eyes at the figure. ‘Do I know you?’

‘You do now.’

‘I was expecting to be met by Raichle.’

‘Raichle couldn’t make it. I came instead. You’re okay with that, I assume?’

‘Of course I’m . . .’ But Anthony Theobald’s usual self-control was betraying him. The man in the suit felt waves of fear rippling off him. Waves of fear and suspicion and an arrogant unwillingness to grasp that his escape plans hadn’t been as foolproof as they’d looked when he climbed into the nonvelope. ‘Did it really happen? Is Ruskin-Sartorious gone?’

‘It’s gone. The Ultras did a good job. You got out just in time.’

‘And the others? The rest of us?’

‘I’d be surprised if there’s a single intact strand of human DNA left anywhere in the Bubble.’

‘Delphine . . .’ There was a heartbreaking crack in his voice. ‘My poor daughter?’

‘You knew the deal, Anthony Theobald. You were the only one with a get-out clause.’

‘I demand to know who you are. If Raichle didn’t send you, how did you know where to find the nonvelope?’

‘Because he told me, that’s why. During interrogation.’

‘Who are you?’

‘That isn’t the issue, Anthony Theobald. The issue at hand is what you were doing sheltering that evil thing in your nice little family-run habitat.’

‘I wasn’t sheltering anything. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

The man in the suit reached behind the small of his back and unclipped a small, handle-shaped object. He hefted it in his palm as if it might be a cosh or truncheon.

‘I think it’s about time you met a close, personal friend of mine.’

‘You’ve got it wrong. The thing underground was just—’

The man made an odd flicking motion with the handle and something whipped out, extending all the way to the floor. It was almost invisibly fine, catching the light only intermittently. It appeared to swish against the flooring of its own volition, as if searching for something.

The man let go of the handle. The handle remained where it was, its coiled filament stiffening to support it. The handle tracked around until the black cylinder of its head was aimed directly at Anthony Theobald. He raised a hand against the laser as it scratched a bright, oscillating line across his eyes.

It had a mark on him now, confirmed by a minute nod from the man in black.

‘Keep that thing away from me.’

‘This is a Model C whiphound,’ the man in the suit said. ‘It’s got a few additional features compared to the last version. One of them’s called “interrogation mode”. Shall we give it a spin?’

The whiphound began to slink closer to Anthony Theobald.

Dreyfus was alone in his quarters. He had prepared some tea, losing himself in the task. When he was finished, he knelt at a low, black table and allowed the hot ginger-coloured brew to cool before drinking it. The room filled itself with the tinkling sound of distant wind chimes, a ghost-thin melody implicit in the apparent randomness. Normally it suited his mood, but today Dreyfus waved the music quieter, until he had near-silence. He sipped at the tea but it was still too hot.

He faced a blank rice-paper wall. He raised a hand and shaped a basic conjuring gesture, one that he had practised thousands of times. The wall brightened with blocky patches of vivid colour. The colours resolved into a mosaic of faces, several dozen of them, arranged in a compositional scheme with the larger images clustered near the middle. The faces were all the same woman, but taken at different stages in her life, so that they almost looked like images of different people. Sometimes the woman was looking into the camera; sometimes she was looking askance, or had been snapped candidly. She had high cheekbones, a slight overbite and eyes of a startling bronze, flecked with chips of fiery gold. She had black hair that she usually wore in tight curls. She was smiling in many of the images, even the ones where she hadn’t been aware that she was being photographed. She’d smiled a lot.

Dreyfus stared at the pictures as if they were a puzzle he had to solve.

Something was missing. In his mind’s eye he could see the woman in the pictures turning to him with flowers in her hand, kneeling in newly tilled soil. The image was vivid, but when he tried to focus on any particular part of it the details squirmed from his attention. He knew that memory had to come from somewhere, but he couldn’t relate it to any of the images already on the wall.

He’d been trying to place it for nearly eleven years.

The tea was cool enough to drink at last. He sipped it slowly, concentrating on the mosaic of faces. Suddenly the composition struck him as jarringly unbalanced in the top-right corner, even though he’d been satisfied with it for many months. He raised a hand and adjusted the placement of the images, the wall obeying his gestures with flawless obedience. It looked better now, but he knew it would come to displease him in time. Until he found that missing piece, the mosaic would always be disharmonious.

He thought back to what had happened, flinching from the memory even as he embraced it.

Six missing hours.

‘You were okay,’ he told the woman on the wall. ‘You were safe. It didn’t get to you before we did.’

He made himself believe it, as if nothing else in the universe mattered quite as much.

Dreyfus made the images disappear, leaving the rice-paper wall as blank as when he’d entered the room. He finished the tea in a gulp, barely tasting it as it sluiced down his throat. On the same portion of the wall he called up an operational summary of the day’s business, wondering if the forensics squad had managed to get anything on the sculpture Sparver and he had seen in Ruskin-Sartorious. But when the summary sprang onto the wall, neither the images nor the words were legible. He could make out shapes in the images, individual letters in the words, but somewhere between the wall and his brain there was a scrambling filter in place.

Belatedly, Dreyfus realised that he’d neglected to take his scheduled Pangolin shot. Security dyslexia was kicking in as his last clearance boost faded.

He stood from the table and moved to the part of the wall where the booster was dispensed. As he reached towards the pearly-grey surface, the booster appeared in an alcove. It was a pale-grey tube marked with the Panoply gauntlet and a security barcode matching the one on his uniform. Text on the side of the booster read: Pangolin clearance. To be self-administered by Field Prefect Tom Dreyfus only. Unauthorised use may result in permanent irreversible death.

Dreyfus rolled up his sleeve and pressed the tube against the skin of his forearm. He felt a cold tingle as the booster rammed its contents into his body, but there was no discomfort.

He retired to his bedroom. He slept fitfully, but without dreams. When he woke three or four hours later, the summary on the wall was crystal clear.

He studied it for a while, then decided he’d given the Ultras long enough.

CHAPTER 4

An alert chimed on the cutter’s console. Dreyfus pushed the coffee bulb back into the wall and studied the read-out. Something was approaching from the Parking Swarm, too small to be a lighthugger. Guardedly, he notched up the cutter’s defensive posture. Weapons unpacked and armed, but refrained from revealing themselves through the hull. Dreyfus concluded that the approaching object was moving too slowly to make an effective missile. A few moments later, the cutter’s cams locked on and resolved the foreshortened form of a small ship-to-ship shuttle. The vehicle had the shape of an eyeless equine skull. Black armour was offset with a scarlet dragonfly, traced in glowing filaments.

He received an invitation to open audio-only communications.

‘Welcome, Prefect,’ said an accentless male voice in modern Russish. ‘How may I be of assistance?’

With some effort, Dreyfus changed verbal gears. ‘You can be of assistance by staying right where you are. I haven’t entered the Swarm.’

‘But you’re very close to the outer perimeter. That would suggest an intention to enter.’

‘To whom am I speaking?’

‘I might ask the same question, Prefect.’

‘I have legal authority in this airspace. That’s all you need to know. I presume I’m dealing with an assigned representative of the Swarm?’

After a pause - which had nothing to do with timelag - the voice replied: ‘You may call me Harbourmaster Seraphim. I speak for all ships gathered in the Swarm, or docked at the central servicing facility.’

‘Would that make you an Ultra?’

‘By your very narrow definition of the term, no. I do not owe my allegiance to any single ship or crew. But while they are here, all crews are answerable to me.’

Dreyfus racked his memory, but he did not recall any prior dealings with anyone called Seraphim, Ultra or otherwise.

‘That’ll make life a lot easier, then.’

‘I’m sorry, Prefect?’

‘It could be that I need access to one of your crews.’

‘That would be somewhat irregular.’

‘Not as irregular as turning a drive beam on a habitat containing nine hundred and sixty people, Harbourmaster.’

Again, there was a lengthy pause. Dreyfus felt a prickle of sweat on the back of his hands. He had jumped the gun by mentioning Ruskin-Sartorious, which was in express contravention of Jane Aumonier’s instructions. But Aumonier had not counted on Dreyfus being approached by someone willing to speak for the entire Swarm.

‘Why are your weapons in a state of readiness, Prefect? I can see them through your hull, despite your baffle-cladding. You’re not nervous, are you?’

‘Just sensible. If I could see your weapons, I’d expect them to be in a state of readiness as well.’

‘Touché,’ Harbourmaster Seraphim said, with a chuckle. ‘But I’m not nervous. I have a duty to protect my Swarm.’

‘One of your ships could do a lot more damage than one of ours. I think that’s already been adequately demonstrated.’

‘Yes, so you said. That’s a serious accusation.’

‘I wouldn’t make it if I didn’t have solid proof.’

‘Such as?’

‘Shipping movements. Forensic samples from the habitat, consistent with torching from one of your drives. I can even give you the name of a ship, if you—’

‘I think we need to speak in person,’ Harbourmaster Seraphim said, with an urgency Dreyfus hadn’t been expecting. ‘Stand your weapons down, please. I am about to approach and initiate hard docking with your ventral airlock.’

‘I haven’t given you permission.’

‘But you’re about to,’ Harbourmaster Seraphim replied.

As the lock cycled - coping with the different pressure and atmospheric-mix protocols in force on both ships - Dreyfus emptied his mind of all preconceptions. It never paid to make assumptions about the physical manifestations of Ultras. They could look as fully human as any Panoply operative, and yet be crawling with furtive and dangerous machines.

Dreyfus had seen stranger than Harbourmaster Seraphim, though. His limbs and torso were encased in the bright green armour of a powered exoskeleton. His head had a shrunken look to it, his mouth and nose hidden behind a grilled silver breathing device that appeared to be grafted in place. There was a chrome-plated input socket set into the left side of his skull - Ultras favoured direct hook-up when they interfaced with their machines - but other than that there was no suggestion of extensive cyborgisation. He had long, black hair drawn back into a single braided tail. His delicate, pale hands reminded Dreyfus of the imprint of a bird’s wings in ancient rock.

‘Thank you for letting me aboard,’ Seraphim said, the voice emanating from somewhere beneath his throat.

Dreyfus introduced himself, then escorted the Ultra into the cutter’s habitation area. ‘Is there anything I can offer you by way of hospitality?’

‘Can you run to blood dialysis?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘That’s a pity. My ship’s having trouble purging my fatigue poisons. I think the filters need changing, but I can’t ever seem to find the time to return to the central servicing facility.’

‘How about coffee instead?’

‘I’ll pass, Prefect. Now: concerning this disagreeable subject we were about to touch on.’

‘Nine hundred and sixty casualties. That’s way beyond disagreeable. Those people weren’t ever on my radar, Harbourmaster. That means they were just decent human beings trying to get on with their lives without hurting anyone else. None of them made it out alive.’

‘I’m sorry about the deaths. Truly, I am. We do have souls, Prefect Dreyfus. We do have consciences. But I assure you this could not have been what it appears to be.’

‘I can place the Accompaniment of Shadows near enough to rule out the involvement of any other ship.’

Seraphim touched one hand to the side of his breather mask, as if making some microscopic adjustment to his airflow settings. ‘Have you considered the possibility that someone else committed the crime, yet wished it to appear the work of an innocent crew who just happened to be in the neighbourhood?’

‘There’s nothing my boss and I would rather have than an excuse not to stir up trouble with the Ultras. But we know of only one thing that could have sliced open the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble, and that’s a Conjoiner drive.’

‘You’ve ruled out the possibility of something else: a weapon, for instance?’

‘There’s nothing that could have done that.’

‘Maybe nothing known to us now. But no one would deny that things were created in the past - terrible, destructive things - that may have survived into the present era. We’ve all heard talk of the hell-class weapons—’

‘I’m a prefect, Seraphim,’ Dreyfus said patiently. ‘I deal in known facts, not speculation. And I don’t have to look for some fabled weapon from the dark ages. I have proof that a drive was involved. That’s all I need.’

‘There must still be a mistake. No crew would perpetrate such an atrocity.’

‘Even if a deal went sour?’

‘Children act out of spite, Prefect Dreyfus. We’re not children.’

‘All right. What about an accident?’

‘A Conjoiner drive doesn’t just switch on spontaneously.’

‘Fine. Then someone had to have their hands on the controls. Glad we cleared that up.’

‘We’ve cleared nothing up. What are you expecting me to do?’

‘I want you to prevent the Accompaniment of Shadows from leaving the Swarm. That’s step one. Step two is you stop any of her crew from jumping ship. Step three is you use your influence to bring the captain to justice.’

‘That’s a lot of steps you’re asking for, Prefect.’

‘It’s my job.’

‘And if I don’t do as you say?’

‘We’ll have to review the existing trading arrangements. There are ten thousand habitats open for business in the Glitter Band, Harbourmaster. But you don’t get to talk to any of them without our blessing.’

‘We’d find workarounds.’

‘I don’t doubt it. But I’d like to see how your profit margins hold up. I imagine things might get very unpleasant for a man in your position.’

‘Don’t ever threaten us, Prefect,’ the Harbourmaster said.

‘Why not?’

‘Because you need us a great deal more than we need you.’

Sparver knocked before entering Thalia’s office, even though the passwall was transparent. As a Deputy Field III - the highest ranking before promotion to full field status - Sparver was two full grades above Thalia. He would have been within his official rights had he walked in unannounced, as Dreyfus would most likely have done. But in all his dealings with Thalia, ever since she’d joined the team, Sparver had scrupulously treated her as an exact equal. The daughter of Jason Ng had enough to deal with without petty displays of rank, especially from another deputy.

‘Boss man keeping you busy?’ he said, as Thalia looked around from her work.

‘It can’t be helped.’ She took a swig from a coffee flask before rubbing her eyelids. ‘The Perigal issue was already a high-priority item before Ruskin-Sartorious came in. I’m just glad that Dreyfus trusts me to handle both tasks.’

Sparver stood next to her console, scanning the information scrolling past on multiple panes. Thalia made light of her speed-reading ability, but her Klausner index was still much higher than his own.

‘The boss trusts you. Don’t worry about that.’

‘But he has his doubts.’

‘Why d’you say that?’

Thalia stopped the scrolling panes. ‘It would have made sense for me to go out to the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble. I know core architecture better than anyone.’

‘But you were already busy.’

‘I’m even busier now. That wasn’t really an argument for me not coming along.’

‘Dreyfus knew I could take care of the core,’ Sparver said. ‘If we’d run into anything thorny, you could have signed out a cutter and met us at the Bubble within an hour.’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Thalia, listen to me. The boss thinks very highly of you. He may not show it, but that’s just his way. He wouldn’t have brought you onto the team in the first place if he thought otherwise. Trust me on this.’

‘I’m just worried that he thinks I’m underperforming.’

‘Has he said anything to that effect?’

Thalia frowned. ‘Not exactly, no.’

‘Well, then.’

‘I still can’t help wondering why he didn’t ask me along to the Bubble.’

‘Because it was a potentially dangerous operation.’

‘More so than a lockdown?’

‘Potentially. If someone wanted to destroy the Bubble that badly, they could easily have come back for another go if they saw prefects crawling all over it.’

‘But they didn’t.’

‘Point still stands. Reason Dreyfus didn’t ask you to join the team - apart from the fact that he was trying not to exhaust you - was that he didn’t want to place one of his best deputies in a high-risk environment. Lockdown’s different - you had to be on the squad. But this time? I think the boss made the right call. And it has nothing to do with your abilities not measuring up.’

Thalia looked sheepish. ‘I guess all this sounds silly to you.’

‘Not at all. When I first started working with him, I spent months wondering what the hell I was doing wrong. Not a word of praise ever escaped his lips. Then slowly it dawned on me: if Dreyfus keeps you on the team, that’s the praise.’

‘But now . . . it’s different, right?’

‘Not really. Once in a blue moon he throws me a crumb of encouragement, but other than that I get exactly the same treatment as you.’

‘It doesn’t look that way.’

‘That’s because you’re still the new addition to the team. When I make full field, I’ll get promoted to another section and you’ll fill my slot. Then Dreyfus’ll bring in someone new, someone who’ll feel exactly the way you do now.’

Thalia glanced over his shoulder at the waiting passwall. ‘Do you like him, Sparver?’

‘There’s no one in Panoply I’d rather work for.’

‘Not what I asked.’

‘I know, but that’s the answer you’re getting.’ He spread his hands. ‘I’m a pig, Thalia. There are prefects who won’t look me in the eye because of that. Dreyfus specifically requested I be assigned to his team. He can be as cold-hearted and uncommunicative as he wants, and I’ll still owe him for that.’

‘There are prefects who won’t look me in the eye either,’ Thalia said.

‘There you go. We both owe the boss man. Now why don’t you pipe some of that workload over to me and I’ll see what I can do to take the burden off you?’

‘You don’t have to do this.’

‘And I’m not claiming to know as much about beta-levels as you. But I thought there might be some routine tests I can run while you’re getting on with the clever stuff.’

‘Actually, now that you mention it . . .’ Thalia’s hands moved over the console again. ‘I’ve run standard recovery algorithms on all twelve recoverables, using the Tianjun protocols. Five or six of them look hopelessly corrupted, but I need to run a second set of tests to make absolutely sure.’

Sparver nodded. ‘Using the Lisichansk protocols, I’m guessing?’

‘It probably won’t make any difference - if you can’t get a clean resurrection with Tianjun, Lisichansk isn’t likely to do any better. But for the sake of completeness, it has to be done.’

‘I’ll get on it.’

‘Appreciated, Sparver.’

‘Anything else I can do for you?’

Thalia looked down at her hands, still poised above the console. ‘There is something. But it isn’t that kind of favour.’

‘Go ahead.’

‘When I joined the team, I asked you what had happened to Dreyfus, why he is the way he is.’

‘I vaguely remember.’

‘You said you didn’t have all the answers, but one day you’d tell me what you knew.’

‘I did,’ he admitted.

‘It’s been five years, Sparver. You can give me something now.’

‘Have you asked around?’

‘I don’t do much asking around, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Fair point. Have you run a query through the Turbines?’

‘It didn’t seem right, digging around behind his back.’

‘Whereas talking about him isn’t a problem?’

‘It’s different,’ she said, giving him a warning look. ‘I’m asking you as a friend to tell me what happened to him.’

Sparver felt something in him give way. He’d made a promise to her when she joined the team and he couldn’t renege on that now, even though he’d hoped she’d forgotten. ‘It’s not what happened to Dreyfus. It’s what happened to someone he cared about. Her name was Valery Chapelon.’

He could tell that the name meant nothing to Thalia.

‘Was she his wife?’

Sparver nodded slowly, feeling as if he’d committed a grievous betrayal of confidence.

‘What happened?’ Thalia asked.

‘It was eleven years ago. Now ask yourself how long Jane Aumonier’s been the way she is, and that should tell you all you need to know.’

He waited for the reaction to show itself in her face.

Jane Aumonier floated with her arms folded, her chin lifted, her eyes bright with intense focus.

‘You’re back sooner than I expected,’ she said, when the safe-distance tether brought Dreyfus to a stop.

‘I made progress.’

‘I seem to recall that my recommendation was that you were not to engage.’

‘They forced my hand. I didn’t enter the Swarm, but I did have a talk with someone claiming to speak for it.’

‘I’m guessing you encountered the harbourmaster, in that case.’

‘I didn’t know you’d met.’

‘Once or twice in the past. Never face to face. He’s a slippery customer, but all told I’d rather deal with him than most of his predecessors. My impression is that he’s open to reasoned debate.’

Dreyfus would have shifted awkwardly were he not floating on the end of the tether. ‘I hope so.’

Aumonier’s normally inexpressive face became stern. ‘You didn’t push him, did you?’

‘We don’t have time to pussyfoot. Once the story breaks that Ultras are torching habitats, Seraphim and his friends are going to have a lot more to worry about than a few gentle hints from me.’

Aumonier’s attention flicked back to one of her read-outs. Her eyes glazed: for a moment, she could have been light-seconds away in body and mind. ‘Well, you’re right that we don’t have much time. Our effort to mask the catastrophe is still holding but we’re fending off more queries by the hour. Word is beginning to reach the other habitats that something may have happened. It’s only a matter of time before someone decides to have a look-see, or sends a query we can’t answer in a convincing fashion.’

‘Then what?’

‘Then life gets interesting,’ Aumonier said darkly.

‘In which case, I’m glad I was forceful. If Seraphim’s the reasonable man you say he is, maybe we’ll get somewhere.’

‘We’re playing with fire, Tom.’

‘We didn’t choose the game,’ he reminded her. ‘This is what they pay us for.’

Aumonier was silent. Dreyfus began to think she was done with him, that she had returned her attention to the ever-shifting display wall and forgotten his presence. It had happened before, and he took no slight from it. But when she spoke he knew that she had only been summoning the courage to talk about something painful.

‘Tom, there’s something you need to know. It’s about the scarab.’

‘Good news?’ he asked, despite the fact that everything in her tone said otherwise.

‘Not good news, no. Or at least something we don’t understand. As far as I’m concerned, that’s bad news by definition.’

‘Tell me.’

‘You know what sometimes worries me the most? It’s not that they won’t ever be able to get it off me. I have confidence in their abilities, maybe more than they do. Demikhov’s team is the best I could ever hope for.’

‘So what’s worrying you?’ asked Dreyfus softly.

‘That I won’t be able to dream. What happens when you don’t dream for eleven years, Tom? Does anyone really know?’

‘I’m sure you’ll be able to dream.’

‘But we don’t know for sure. What if the parts of my brain that used to dream have withered away from not being used? What if they’ve been taken over by some other part? That happens, you know. The brain rewires itself all the time.’

‘You’ll dream,’ he said, as if that should be reassurance enough.

After a silence, Aumonier said, ‘They’ve detected a change inside it. Components have moved. I felt it myself. They don’t know what to make of the change.’

‘I thought Demikhov said they understood everything inside it.’

‘He’s never claimed that, just that they know enough to be able to get it off me, one day.’

Dreyfus studied the thing attached to the back of Aumonier’s neck. It was a fist-sized machine shaped like a red chromed beetle, clamped into place by its legs, a dozen sterile prongs that dug into her skin.

‘Why now?’ he asked.

‘These last few days have been stressful for all of us. I can’t get much out of Demikhov, but I can guess what he’s thinking. We already know the scarab has a tap into my spine, so that it can read my blood chemistry. We also suspect that it has a field trawl, so that it can tell if I start falling asleep. I’ve no doubt about that - occasionally I feel the itch as it runs its fingers through my brain. I think it has enough to go on, Tom. It’s responding to my stress levels. Something in me has crossed a threshold, and the scarab has responded accordingly.’

‘But apart from the change, the movement of components, it’s done nothing?’

‘It may be preparing for something, waiting for my stress levels to notch higher. But no one in the Sleep Lab will tell me anything. I think they’re concerned about what might happen were I to become even more stressed.’

‘I’ll talk to Demikhov,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Get the straight story.’

‘I’d appreciate that.’

‘It’s the least I can do.’

‘The thing is, I can’t let this distract me from the present crisis. But I thought you deserved to know.’ She swallowed hard. ‘In case something happens to me.’

CHAPTER 5

The passwall sealed itself into non-existence behind Senior Prefect Gaffney. He had just returned from Hospice Idlewild, and his sinuses were still blocked after exposure to the furnace-dry air aboard the corvette. He picked at a nostril, then smeared the offending nasal matter against the wall, where it melted away into the absorbing matrix of quickmatter.

The room - the heart of Internal Security - was as cold and still and empty as the deepest, clammiest part of a cave system. But as Gaffney moved further into it, the systems responded to his presence and conjured furniture and amenities into being, shaped to his usual ergonomic preferences. Gaffney settled himself before a wraparound console from which rose several membrane-thin display panes. Symbols appeared on the console, outlined in neon blue. Gaffney’s fingers skated over them, entering complex chains of richly syntactic security commands, stringing them together like beads on a wire. Text and graphics churned over the display facets, flickering past at high speed. Within Panoply, Gaffney prided himself on having one of the highest speed-reading faculties of any operative.

Far away, in the weightless heart of Panoply, the Search Turbines threshed their way through unthinkable quantities of archived knowledge. It was illusory, but Gaffney swore he could feel the subterranean rumble of those questing machines; could almost feel the fire-hose pressure of the data rocketing through them.

He slowed the flow as he neared the focus of his search.

‘Warning,’ the system advised him. ‘You are entering a high-security data trove. Pangolin clearance is now mandatory. If you do not have Pangolin clearance, desist from further queries.’

Gaffney pressed on. He not only had Pangolin clearance, he got to decide who else had it.

‘Category: weapon systems, archival, interdicted,’ said the system.

Gaffney refined his query parameters one final time.

‘Specific retrieval item,’ the system said. ‘War robot. Weevil class.’

‘Show me,’ Gaffney breathed as his hands echoed the verbal command.

Line diagrams and cutaway illustrations crammed the display panes. Gaffney narrowed his eyes and peered closer. In some of the views, the weevils were accompanied by human figures to lend scale. The robots were smaller than he’d been expecting, until he remembered that one of their prime uses had been infiltration. By all accounts they were fast, with a high degree of tactical autonomy.

Not that anyone alive had clear memories of weevils. The date-stamps on the annotations were all at least a century old.

Gaffney’s hands moved again. Now the panes filled with scrolling lines of text and symbols in MAL, the human-readable Manufactory Assembler Language. The instructions became a whizzing blur. The blur began to dance and squirm in subtle rhythms, betraying large-scale structure in the sequencing code. Here were the commands that, if fed into a sufficiently equipped manufactory, would result in the production of a fully operational weevil.

Or more than one.

Having verified that the MAL script was complete and error-free, Gaffney encysted the code in a private partition of his own security management area. In the unlikely event of anyone stumbling on it, all they would see would be routine entry/exit schedules for pressure-tight passwalls inside Panoply.

He backed-up the top level of the query stack. His hands dithered over the keys. He switched to voice-only.

‘Retrieve priors on search-term Firebrand.’

‘Repeat search term, please.’

‘Firebrand,’ Gaffney said, with exaggerated slowness.

He’d been expecting some hits, but nothing like the multitude of priors that filled the panes. He applied filters and whittled down the stack. Yet when he was finished it was still hopelessly large, and he wasn’t seeing anything remotely connected with Panoply, or the thing that so interested Aurora.

Firebrand.

What the hell did it mean? Anthony Theobald had given him the word, and he’d allowed himself to believe it was something useful, enough to stop trawling the man before he became an unwilling recruit for the Persistent Vegetative State. But now that he had let the man go, now that he was alone with the Search Turbines, Gaffney wondered whether he should not have gone deeper.

‘You sold me a dud, Tony,’ Gaffney said aloud. ‘You naughty, naughty boy.’

But even as he spoke, he remembered something else Anthony Theobald had told him. The men who’d let slip that codeword had once told him that their operations were superblack. Untraceable, unaccountable and officially deniable at all levels of Panoply command and control, right up to the Queen of the Scarab herself.

In other words, it was hardly surprising that he hadn’t found anything significant in a two-minute search. Firebrand might still mean something. But it was going to take more than sitting at a console to get any closer to the truth.

Gaffney spent the next five minutes covering his tracks, erasing any trace of his rummaging from the query logs of the Search Turbines. Then another five minutes covering traces of that. By the time he was done, Gaffney was confident that even he wouldn’t have been able to follow his own trail.

He stood from the console and conjured it back into the room, together with the seat he had been using. Then he wiped the sleeve of his tunic across his brow, ran fingers through his wiry red hair and headed for the passwall.

He knew that what he had just done was ‘wrong’, just as it had been ‘wrong’ to intercept, trawl and discard the hapless Anthony Theobald. But everything, as Aurora liked to remind him, depended on viewpoint. There was nothing wrong with protecting the citizenry, even if what they most needed protection from was their own worst natures.

And Aurora was always right.

The beta-level regarded Dreyfus with cold indifference. Dreyfus stared at him obligingly, as if waiting for the punch line to a joke. It was an old interview technique that usually obtained a result.

The imaged figure was male, taller than Dreyfus, thin of face, his body hidden under the voluminous folds of a purple robe or gown. His right shoulder and arm were clothed in quilted black leather, his visible hand gloved and ringed. His cropped greying hair, the aquiline curve of his nose, the solemnity of his expression, his general stance, brought to mind a statue of a powerful Roman senator. Only a slight translucence made the figure appear less than totally solid.

After the silence had stretched almost to snapping point, Anthony Theobald said, ‘If you didn’t want to ask me questions, perhaps you shouldn’t have brought me back to life, Prefect.’

‘I’ve got a lot of questions,’ Dreyfus said easily. ‘I just wanted to give you the chance to have your say first.’

‘I suppose you’d be the man your colleague mentioned during my last invocation.’

Thalia had already activated the beta-level to test its readiness for interviewing. Of the twelve beta-levels saved from Ruskin-Sartorious, only three had been deemed sufficiently functional to offer useful testimony, despite the best efforts of Thalia and Sparver to mend the remaining nine.

‘I’m Dreyfus,’ he said pleasantly. ‘Welcome to Panoply, Citizen.’

‘Perhaps it’s me, but “welcome” doesn’t have quite the necessary degree of solemnity.’

‘I was just being polite,’ Dreyfus replied. ‘My personal belief is that beta-levels have no claim on consciousness. As far as I’m concerned, you’re just an item of forensic evidence. The fact that I can talk to you - the fact that you might claim to feel alive - is entirely irrelevant.’

‘How reassuring to meet someone with such an enlightened viewpoint. What’s your opinion on women? Do you consider them capable of full sentience, or do you have lingering reservations about them as well?’

‘I don’t have a problem with women. I do have a problem with software entities that pretend to be alive and then expect to be accorded the rights and privileges of the living.’

‘If I’m not alive, how can I “expect” anything?’

‘I’m not saying you can’t be persuasive. But the instant I sense evasion or concealment I’ll send you back to the deepfreeze. Once you’re there, I can’t vouch for your safety. Things go astray. Files get deleted by mistake.’

‘A policeman of the old school,’ Anthony Theobald said, nodding approvingly. ‘Skip the appetiser and straight on to the main course of threats and bullying. Actually, I welcome it. It’s a refreshingly direct approach.’

‘Just so we understand each other.’

‘Now are you ready to tell me what happened?’

Dreyfus scratched at the bulge of neck fat lapping against the back of his collar. ‘My background files say that you were the head of the family in the Bubble. According to the last census, you were lording it over more than nine hundred subjects.’

‘Free family members and citizens. Again: what happened?’

‘How much did my deputy tell you?’

‘Nothing useful.’

‘Good for her. I’ll begin by telling you that Ruskin-Sartorious no longer exists. Your habitat was gutted by the drive exhaust from a lighthugger space vehicle, the Accompaniment of Shadows. It appears to have been a deliberate act. Do you remember this event?’

Anthony Theobald lost some of his composure, the set of his jaw slackening. ‘I have no recollection of it.’

‘What’s the last thing you do remember? Does the name of the ship ring any bells?’

‘It rings more than bells, Prefect. We were in negotiations with the Accompaniment of Shadows. The ship was parked near Ruskin-Sartorious. ’

‘Why wasn’t she using the Swarm, like all the other ships?’

‘I gather there was a problem with their long-distance shuttle. It was simpler to move the entire ship and rely on one of our own short-range shuttles. We had the facilities to cope, and Dravidian’s crew seemed happy enough to be entertained at our expense.’

It was the first mention of the captain’s name.

‘Trade talks?’

Anthony Theobald looked at Dreyfus as if the question was absurd. ‘What other reason is there to deal with Ultras?’

‘Just asking. How were the talks running?’

‘Agreeably, at first.’

‘And then?’

‘Less agreeably. We weren’t experienced in dealings with Ultras. I’d hoped matters wouldn’t come to such a sorry pass, frankly. We had some financial difficulties and I’d been hoping that the affair between Vernon and Delphine would ease matters somewhat . . . but that wasn’t to be. In the end we had no choice but to deal with Ultras.’

‘What were you hoping to sell?’

‘Delphine’s works, of course.’

Dreyfus nodded as if nothing more needed to be said, but filed the information away for future reference. Thalia had already informed him that the other two stable witnesses were Delphine Ruskin-Sartorious and her lover, Vernon Tregent. ‘And when the crew visited you - who were you dealing with, primarily?’

‘Dravidian, in the main.’

‘How’d you take to him?’

‘I found him straightforward enough for a cyborg, or chimeric, or however they wish to be called. He appeared interested in some samples of Delphine’s work. He felt he could get a good price for them around one of the other worlds.’

‘Where was his next port of call?’

‘I confess I don’t recall. Fand, Sky’s Edge, the First System, some other godforsaken place. What did it matter to me, once the works were sold?’

‘Maybe it mattered to Delphine.’

‘Then you can take it up with her. My sole concern was the economic benefit to Ruskin-Sartorious.’

‘And you got the impression Dravidian was offering a fair price?’

‘I’d have preferred more, naturally, but the offer appeared reasonable enough. Judging by the state of his ship and crew, Dravidian had his own financial difficulties.’

‘So you were happy with the deal. You sold the goods to the Ultras. Dravidian said goodbye and took his ship away. What happened next?’

‘That isn’t how things played out. Negotiations were winding to a close when Delphine received an anonymous message. She brought it to my immediate attention. It suggested that Dravidian was not to be trusted: that the price he was offering us was far below a realistic market value, and that we would be much better off dealing with other Ultras.’

‘But you had no access to anyone else.’

‘Until then. But the message hinted that there might in fact be interested parties.’

‘How’d you react?’

‘We consulted. I was suspicious, urging that we should conclude our business with Dravidian. We had a deal. But Delphine demurred. She used executive privilege to block the transaction. Vernon supported her, of course. I was furious, but not half as furious as Dravidian. He said the honour of his ship and crew had been impugned. He issued threats, saying that what we’d done would cost Ruskin-Sartorious gravely.’

‘And then what?’

‘His crew returned to their ship. Our shuttle came back. We saw the Accompaniment of Shadows move away.’ Anthony Theobald spread his hands. ‘And that is all I remember. As you have been so thoughtful as to remind me, I am a beta-level simulation: reliant for my perceptions on the distributed surveillance systems of the habitat. Those perceptions would have been processed and consolidated in the core, but it would not have been an instantaneous process. There would not have been enough time to incorporate those final observations into my personality model before Ruskin-Sartorious was destroyed.’

‘At least you remember something.’

‘You’ll hear the same story from the others.’ Anthony Theobald peered intently at Dreyfus. ‘There are others, aren’t there?’

‘I can’t say. I haven’t completed my interviews.’

‘Do you intend to question Dravidian?’

‘I’ll question anyone I think might have an angle on the attack.’

‘You can’t let this atrocity go unpunished, Prefect. Something unspeakable happened to Ruskin-Sartorious. Someone must pay for that.’

‘I’m pretty sure someone will,’ Dreyfus said.

When he had returned the simulation to storage - very much against its wishes - Dreyfus took a minute to note his own thoughts into his compad. Perhaps his clarifying statement concerning his views on beta-levels hadn’t helped matters, but he’d sensed an undeniable hostility from the Ruskin-Sartorious patriarch. It would be a mistake to read too much into that, though. No one liked Panoply very much, and the resurrected dead were no exception.

He invoked the second valid recoverable, opting to take a slightly less harsh tack.

‘Hello, Vernon,’ Dreyfus said, addressing the younger-looking man who’d just appeared. He had a pleasant, trustworthy face and a headful of tight blond curls. ‘Welcome to Panoply. I’m very sorry to have to tell you this, but in case my colleague didn’t make it clear, your primary is dead.’

‘I gathered,’ Vernon Tregent said. ‘I still want to know about Delphine. Your colleague wouldn’t tell me anything. Did she make it out? Did you get anything from her beta?’

‘We’ll get to that. I just need to clarify something first. I don’t mean this to sound hurtful, but there are people who believe in the sanctity of beta-levels, and people who don’t, and I’m afraid I’m one of the latter.’

‘That’s fine,’ Vernon said, with an easy shrug. ‘I don’t believe in the sanctity of beta-levels either.’

Dreyfus blinked a double-take. ‘How can you not believe? You are one.’

‘But my responses are governed by Vernon’s beliefs, as demonstrated on countless occasions. Vernon didn’t think beta-levels were anything more than clever simulacra. He was very vocal in that opinion. Hence, I share that view.’

‘Good . . .’ Dreyfus said, less sure of himself. ‘That’ll make life a lot easier.’ Then some impulse caused him to volunteer more information than he’d normally have considered wise. ‘We’ve recovered Delphine. I still have to interview her, but my colleague thinks there’ll be enough there to serve as a useful witness.’

Vernon closed his eyes. He raised his chin, as if giving thanks to the blank white infinity that served as a ceiling. ‘I’m glad. If anyone deserved to get out, it was Delphine. Now tell me what happened.’

‘Does the name Dravidian mean anything to you?’

‘If you mean the Ultra captain . . . then yes, it means a lot. What happened?’

‘You don’t remember?’

‘I wouldn’t be asking if I did.’

It was the same story as Anthony Theobald, Dreyfus thought. No memory of the final events because the recording systems hadn’t had time to update the beta-level models in the processor cores. ‘Your habitat was destroyed,’ he said. ‘The captain - we’ll assume Dravidian gave the order - appears to have decided to slash it open with his engine.’

‘Dravidian wouldn’t have . . .’ But Vernon trailed off, as if the very repugnance of the crime was only now hitting home. ‘I can’t believe he’d have done something so vicious, so out-of-proportion. There’s no doubt that this happened?’

‘I’ve crawled over the ruin myself. Forensic evidence is watertight. And one of my other witnesses says that Dravidian didn’t like it when the deal went sour.’

Vernon pushed his fingertips against his temples, screwing up his eyes. ‘I remember that we were close to settling things. Then the message came through . . . Delphine received it, I remember.’

‘Saying not to trust Dravidian?’

‘Saying we could get a better offer elsewhere. Anthony Theobald was angry, of course: he wanted those funds so badly he was prepared to sell Delphine’s art for its scrap value.’ Vernon clenched his fist in emphasis. ‘But it was her life’s work! She’d put her soul into it. I couldn’t stand by and see it sold off for less than a fair price.’

‘So you and Delphine decided to break off negotiations.’

‘We wished Dravidian no hard feelings.’

‘But he didn’t take it well.’

‘He seemed put out, exasperated, as if he genuinely thought he was offering an honest price for Delphine’s art. He said he’d have to think twice about ever doing business with us again. He said that to withdraw from negotiations so late in a discussion was most irregular.’ Vernon shook his head. ‘But to go from that to . . . destroying Delphine’s home . . . nothing he said indicated that he was that angry. I mean, there’s a difference between angry and murderous. Isn’t there?’

‘Less than you’d think.’

‘Do you think he did it, Prefect? Do you think Dravidian was capable of this?’

‘Let’s get back to Delphine. Was she an artist of some kind?’

‘Some of us thought so.’

‘What kind of work?’

‘Sculpture, mostly. Her work was brilliant. She was right to want the best price for it.’

Dreyfus thought back to the face he’d seen carved into the rock drifting through the ruins of Ruskin-Sartorious. He couldn’t deny the power of the piece, but there’d been nothing useful about it in the forensics summary.

‘Was she working on anything at the time of the attack?’

‘Well, not literally, but she’d been busy with a big piece for several months. Part of her Lascaille series.’ The young man shrugged. ‘It was just a phase she was going through.’

The word ‘Lascaille’ meant something to Dreyfus, just as he was sure he’d recognised the face in the rock, but neither shed any immediate light on the other. It was only a work of art, but anything that offered a window into Delphine’s head might be useful in determining her role in events. He made a mental note to look into the matter later.

‘How did you come to know her?’ he asked. ‘Were you married?’

‘We were supposed to be married. Ruskin-Sartorious was in financial difficulties and Anthony Theobald thought he could solve the Bubble’s problems by marrying his daughter off to the son of another habitat. He already had ties to Macro Hektor Industrial: we’d installed his anti-collision defences and he was in debt to us. I was the scion of one of the most powerful family lines within Industrial. Negotiations took place behind our backs. Delphine and I didn’t like that very much.’ He smiled sadly. ‘But that didn’t stop us from falling in love for real.’

‘So Anthony Theobald got what he wanted?’

‘Not exactly. My family had expectations that I’d become another partner in the defence-design business. Unfortunately, I had other plans. I decided to leave Industrial, severing ties to both my family and the business, and join Delphine in the Bubble. I’d become inspired by her art, convinced that I might have something of the same genius lying untapped within myself. It took me about three months to realise that I had no undeveloped talent whatsoever.’

‘Takes some people a lifetime.’

‘But I did realise that I could help Delphine. I decided to become her agent, publicist, broker, whatever you want to call it. That’s why I was so reluctant to accept Dravidian’s offer.’

‘I take it Anthony Theobald wasn’t exactly thrilled by either course of events: you severing ties with your rich family, and then souring the Dravidian deal.’

‘I sensed some issues there, yes.’

‘Do you think he was angry enough to want to kill his own daughter and family?’

‘No. Anthony Theobald and I might not have seen eye to eye, but I knew he loved his daughter. He’d have played no part in this.’ Vernon Tregent looked intently at Dreyfus. ‘Why look for another angle, though, when you already have Dravidian?’

‘I’m just making sure I don’t miss anything. If you think of something, you’ll be sure to tell me, won’t you?’

‘Certainly.’ But then a shadow of suspicion crossed the young man’s face. ‘I’d have to know I could trust you, of course.’

‘Why wouldn’t you trust me?’

‘How do I know that you’re really a prefect, to begin with, or that Ruskin-Sartorious really has been destroyed? For all I know I could have been kidnapped by data-pirates. I don’t have any evidence that this is Panoply.’

‘Nothing I can show you or tell you will make any difference to that.’

Vernon pondered that for a long while before responding. ‘I know. And right now I’m not sure I’ve seen or heard enough to be able to make a sound judgement.’

‘If you know anything that could assist in the investigation, you should tell me now.’

‘I want to talk to Delphine.’

‘Out of the question. You’re both material witnesses. I can’t have your individual testimonies invalidated by cross-contamination.’

‘We’re in love, Prefect.’

‘Your human counterparts were in love. There’s a difference.’

‘You really don’t believe in us, do you?’

‘Nor do you.’

‘But Delphine does. She believes, Prefect. That’s all that matters to me.’ Vernon’s eyes seemed to shine right through him. ‘Crush me, by all means. But don’t crush Delphine.’

‘Hold invocation,’ Dreyfus said.

When the room was empty, Dreyfus retrieved the compad from between his knees and began to organise his thoughts about Vernon, using the ancient stylus entry mode that he favoured. Yet something stilled his hand, however: some tingle of disquiet that he could not ignore. He’d interviewed beta-level simulations on many previous occasions, and he considered himself well versed in their ways. He had never sensed a soul behind the clockwork, and he would not have said that he sensed one now. But something was different. He had never before felt that he had to earn the trust of a beta-level, nor had he ever considered what the earning of that trust might signify.

One trusted machines. But one never expected machines to return the favour.

‘Invoke Delphine Ruskin-Sartorious,’ Dreyfus said.

The woman assumed solidity in the interview room. She was taller than Dreyfus, dressed in a simple white smock and trousers, her sleeves rolled up to the elbow, the trousers rolled to just below the knee, flat white slippers on her feet, arms crossed. She was leaning to one side, weight on one leg, as if waiting for something to happen. She had silver bracelets on her wrists, but no other ornamentation. Her heart-shaped face was plain without being ugly. She had simple, minimalist features, unadorned with cosmetics. Her eyes were a very pale sea-green. Her hair was scrunched back from her brow, tied with what looked like a dirty rag. A few coiled strands had escaped to frame the side of her face.

‘Delphine?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘Yes. Where am I?’

‘You’re in Panoply. I’m afraid I have very bad news. Ruskin-Sartorious has been destroyed.’

Delphine nodded, as if the news was something she’d been quietly dreading. ‘I asked your colleague about Vernon. She wouldn’t tell me anything, but I read between the lines. I knew it had to be something bad. Did Vernon—’

‘Vernon died. So did everyone else. I’m sorry. But we managed to recover Vernon’s beta-level.’

She closed her eyes briefly, reopened them. ‘I want to speak to him.’

‘That isn’t possible.’ Some impulse made Dreyfus add: ‘Not right now, at any rate. Maybe later. But I need to talk to you alone first. What happened to the Bubble doesn’t look like an accident. If it was deliberate, it ranks as one of the worst crimes committed since the Eighty. I want to see justice served. But to do that I need the full cooperation of all surviving witnesses.’

‘You said no one survived.’

‘All we have are three beta-levels. I think I’ve begun to piece together what happened, but your testimony will count just as much as the others.’

‘If I can help, I will.’

‘I need to know what went on right at the end. I understand you were hoping to sell some of your artwork to a third party.’

‘Dravidian, yes.’

‘Tell me everything you know about Dravidian, starting from the beginning. Then tell me about the art.’

‘Why would you care about the art?’

‘It’s connected to the crime. I feel I need to know about it.’

‘Then that’s it? No interest in the art beyond that?’

‘I’m a man of simple tastes.’

‘But you know what you like.’

Dreyfus smiled slightly. ‘I saw that sculpture you were working on - the big one with the face.’

‘And what did you think of it?’

‘It unsettled me.’

‘It was meant to. Perhaps you’re not a man of such simple tastes as you think.’

Dreyfus studied her for several moments before speaking. ‘You appear to be taking the matter of your death quite lightly, Delphine.’

‘I’m not dead.’

‘I’m investigating your murder.’

‘As well you should - a version of me has been killed. But the one that counts - the one that matters to me now - is the one talking to you. As difficult as it may be for you to accept, I feel completely alive. Don’t get me wrong: I want justice. But I’m not going to mourn myself.’

‘I admire the strength of your convictions.’

‘It’s not about conviction. It’s about the way I feel. I was raised by a family that regarded beta-level simulation as a perfectly natural state of existence. My mother died in Chasm City, years before I was born from a cloned copy of her womb. I only knew her from her beta-level, but she’s been as real to me as any person I’ve ever known.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘If someone close to you died, would you refuse to acknowledge the authenticity of their beta-level?’

‘The question’s never arisen.’

She looked sceptical. ‘Then no one close to you - no one with a beta-level back-up - has ever died? In your line of work?’

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Then someone has died?’

‘We’re not here to talk about abstract matters,’ Dreyfus said.

‘I’m not sure I can think of anything less abstract than life and death.’

‘Let’s get back to Dravidian.’

‘I touched a nerve, didn’t I?’

‘Tell me about the Ultras.’

But just as Delphine started speaking - the look on her face said she wasn’t going to answer his question directly - the black outline of a door appeared in the passwall behind her. The white surface within the outline flowed open enough to admit the stocky form of Sparver, then resealed behind him.

‘Freeze invocation,’ Dreyfus said, irritated that he’d been disturbed. ‘Sparver, I thought I said that I wasn’t to be—’

‘Had to reach you, Boss. This is urgent.’

‘Then why didn’t you summon me on my bracelet?’

‘Because you’d turned it off.’

‘Oh.’ Dreyfus glanced down at his sleeve. ‘So I did.’

‘Jane told me to pull you out of whatever you were doing, no matter how much you screamed and kicked. There’s been a development.’

Dreyfus whispered a command to return Delphine to storage. ‘This had better be good,’ he told Sparver when the beta-level had vanished. ‘I was close to getting a set of watertight testimonies tying the Accompaniment of Shadows to the Bubble. That’s all the ammunition I need to take back to Seraphim. He’d have no choice but to hand over the ship then.’

‘I don’t think you need to persuade him to hand over the ship.’

Dreyfus frowned momentarily, still irked. ‘What?’

‘It’s already on its way. It’s headed straight for us.’

CHAPTER 6

When Sparver prodded Dreyfus awake, they’d arrived within visual range of the Accompaniment of Shadows. Dreyfus untangled himself from the hammock webbing and followed his deputy into the spacious flight deck of the deep-system cruiser. Field prefects were authorised to fly cutters, but a ship as big and powerful as the Democratic Circus needed a dedicated team. There were three operatives on the flight deck, all wearing immersion glasses and elbow-length black control gloves. The chief pilot was a man named Pell, a Panoply operative Dreyfus knew and respected. Dreyfus grunted acknowledgement, had Sparver conjure him a bulb of coffee, then asked his deputy to bring him up to date.

‘Jane polled on the nukes,’ the hyperpig said. ‘We’re good to go.’

‘What about the harbourmaster?’

‘No further contact with Seraphim, or any other representative of the Ultras. But we do have a shipload of secondary headaches to worry about.’

‘Just when I was starting to get used to the ones we already had.’

‘Headquarters says there’s a storm brewing over Ruskin-Sartorious - the news is beginning to break. Not the full facts - no one else knows exactly which ship was involved - but there are a hundred million citizens out there capable of joining the dots.’

‘Are people starting to work out that Ultras had to be involved?’

‘Definite speculation along those lines. A handful of spectators have noticed the drifting ship and are beginning to think it must be tied to the atrocity.’

‘Great.’

‘In a perfect world, they’d see the ship as evidence that a crime has been committed and that the Ultras have acted with the necessary swiftness, punishing their own.’

Dreyfus scratched at stubble. He needed a shave. ‘But if this was a perfect world, you and I’d be out of a job.’

‘Jane says we have to consider the very real possibility that some parties may attempt unilateral punitive action if they conclude that Ultras were responsible.’

‘In other words, we could be looking at war between the Glitter Band and the Ultras.’

‘I’m hoping no one will be quite that stupid,’ Sparver said. ‘Then again, this is baseline humans we’re dealing with.’

‘I’m a baseline human.’

‘You’re weird.’

Captain Pell turned away from the console towards them and flipped up his goggles. ‘Final approach now, sir. There’s a lot of debris and gas boiling off, so I suggest we hold at three thousand metres.’

Pell had turned most of the hull transparent, so that the Accompaniment of Shadows was visible alongside. Something was very wrong with it, Dreyfus observed. The engine spars ended in ragged, splayed stumps of tangled metal and hull plating, with no sign of the engines themselves. It was as if they had been ripped off; amputated. The vessel was crabbing, moving sideways instead of nose-first. The hull itself showed evidence of grave assault: great fissures and sucking wounds where armour had been plucked away to reveal hidden innards; machinery that was now glowing red-hot from some unspecified assault. Coils of blue-grey vapour bled into space, forming a widening spiral trail behind the slowly tumbling wreck.

The ship, Dreyfus realised, was burning from inside.

‘I guess we’re seeing what passes for justice in Ultra circles,’ Sparver said.

‘They can call it what they like,’ Dreyfus snapped back. ‘I asked for witnesses, not a shipload of charred corpses.’ He turned to Pell. ‘How long until it hits the edge of the Glitter Band?’

‘Four hours and twenty-eight minutes.’

‘I told Jane we’d destroy it three hours before it reaches the outer habitat orbit. That gives us ninety minutes’ grace. How are the nukes coming along?’

‘Dialled and ready to go. We’ve identified impact sites, but we’ll be happier if we stabilise the tumble before we blow. We’re looking at options for tug attachment now.’

‘Quick as you can, please.’

The tug specialists were good at their job, and by the time Dreyfus had finished his coffee they had already anchored the three units in position at various stress-tolerant nodes along the wreck’s ruined hull.

‘We’re applying corrective thrust now, sir,’ one of the tug specialists informed him. ‘Going to take a while, though. There’s a million tonnes of ship to stop tumbling, and we don’t want her snapping like a twig.’

‘Any sign of movement or activity aboard?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘Fires are out,’ Captain Pell said. ‘All available air appears to have vented to space by now. Too much residual heat to start looking for thermal hotspots from survivors inside the thing, but we’re still sweeping her for electromagnetic signatures. Anyone human still alive in that thing has to be wearing a suit, and we may pick up some EM noise from life-support systems. It’s really not likely that we’ll find anyone, though.’

‘I didn’t ask for a likelihood estimate,’ Dreyfus said, nerves beginning to get the better of him.

It took another thirty minutes to bring the tumbling ship under control. The specialists rotated the hull so that its long axis was pointed at the Glitter Band, minimising its collision cross section should something go amiss with the nukes. There was no possibility of using the tugs to shove the lighthugger onto a safe trajectory; at best, all that could be done would be to aim her at one of the less densely populated orbits and hope that she slipped through the empty space between habitats. From this far out, the Glitter Band appeared to be a smooth, flat ring of tarnished silver: the individual glints from ten thousand habitats blurring into a solid bow of light.

Dreyfus kept reminding himself that it was still mostly empty space, but his eyes couldn’t accept it.

‘How long?’ he asked.

‘You have just under an hour, sir,’ Pell informed him.

‘Give me an airlock as close to the front kilometre of the ship as you can manage. If anyone’s survived, that’s where they’ll be.’

Pell seemed reticent. ‘Sir, I think you need to look at this first, before you go aboard that thing. We just picked up a burst of radio, stronger than anything we’ve heard since we began our approach.’

‘What kind of burst?’

‘Voice-only comms. It was faint, but we still managed to localise it pretty well. As it happens, it matched one of the hotspots we’re already monitoring.’

‘I thought you said you couldn’t see any hotspots because of all the thermal noise.’

‘I was talking about hotspots inside the ship, sir. This one’s coming from outside.’

‘Someone’s escaped?’

‘Not exactly, sir. It’s as if they’re on the outside of the hull. We should have an image for you once we’re a bit closer.’

Pell started bringing the deep-system cruiser closer to the Accompaniment of Shadows. It was a fraught operation. Even though the lighthugger had been stabilised and was most likely completely drained of air, it was still giving off vapour at a prodigious rate as the ship’s water reserves boiled away into space. With the outgassing vapour came a steady eruption of debris, ranging from thumb-sized twinkling shards to chunks of warped metal the size of houses. The cruiser’s hull pinged and clanged with each nerve-jarring impact. Occasionally Dreyfus felt the subsonic burp as one of the Democratic Circus’s automatic guns intercepted one of the larger pieces of junk.

Forty-five minutes now remained.

‘I’ve isolated the sound burst, sir,’ Pell told Dreyfus. ‘Do you want me to replay it?’

‘Go ahead,’ Dreyfus said, frowning.

But when the fragment burst over the cruiser’s intercom, he understood Pell’s unwillingness to transmit it without warning. It was just a momentary thing, like a squall of random sound picked up when scanning across radio frequencies. But in that squall was something unspeakable, an implicit horror that pierced Dreyfus to the marrow. It was a voice calling out in pain or terror or both; a voice that encapsulated some primal state of human distress. There was a universe of misery in that fragment of sound; enough to open a door into a part of the mind that was usually kept locked and bolted.

It was not a sound Dreyfus ever wanted to hear again.

‘Do you have that image ready for me?’

‘Zeroing in now, sir. I’ll put it on the wall.’

Part of the transparent hull revealed an enlargement of the prow of the lighthugger. It zoomed in dizzyingly. For a moment Dreyfus was overwhelmed by the intricate, gothic detail of the ship’s spire-like hull. Then he made out the one thing that didn’t belong.

There was a figure on the hull. The spacesuited form was spread out, limbs splayed as if it had been nailed in place. Dreyfus knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he was looking at Captain Dravidian.

And that Captain Dravidian was still alive.

The Ultras had done a thorough job with their victim. They’d nailed his extremities to the hull, with his head nearest to the prow. Some form of piton had been rammed or shot into his forearms and lower legs, puncturing suit armour and penetrating the hull’s fabric. Dreyfus judged that it was the same kind of piton that ships used to guy themselves to asteroids or comets: hyperdiamond-tipped, viciously barbed against accidental retraction. The entry wounds had been sealed over with rapid-setting caulk, preventing pressure loss. Thus immobilised, Dravidian had been welded to the hull along the edges of his limbs and the midpoint of his torso. A thick silvery line of fillet-weld connected him to the plating of the ship, creating a seamless bond between the armour of his suit and the material of the hull. Dreyfus - standing weightless next to Dravidian, anchored to the hull by the soles of his boots - stared at the spectacle and realised that no expertise with cutters would suffice to free his witness in the time remaining.

He was going to ride his ship all the way to its doom, whether that meant a collision in the Glitter Band or an instant of nuclear annihilation. Through Dravidian’s faceplate, eyes tracked Dreyfus and Sparver. They were wide and alert, but utterly without hope.

Dravidian knew exactly how good his chances were.

Dreyfus used his left hand to unreel the froptic line from his right wrist. The design of Dravidian’s suit was unfamiliar to him: it was probably a jerry-built lash-up of home-made parts and ancient pieces, some of them dating back to the era of chemical rocketry. But almost all suits were engineered for a degree of inter-compatibility. Air- and power-line jacks conformed to a handful of standard interfaces, and had done for centuries. It was the same for comms inputs.

Dreyfus found the corresponding jack in Dravidian’s sleeve and slid the froptic in. He felt the minute click as the contacts docked, followed an instant later by a hiss of foreign air-circulator noise in his helmet. He was hearing Dravidian’s life-support system.

‘Captain Dravidian? I hope you can hear me. I’m Field Prefect Tom Dreyfus, of Panoply.’

There was a pause longer than Dreyfus had been expecting. He was almost ready to give up on the attempt to talk when he heard Dravidian take in a laboured breath.

‘I can hear you, Prefect Dreyfus. And yes, I’m Dravidian. It was very astute of you to guess.’

‘I wish we could have reached you sooner. I heard your transmission. You sounded in pain.’

There came something like a chuckle. ‘I was.’

‘And now?’

‘That at least has passed. Tell me: what have they done? I felt great pain in my extremities . . . but I couldn’t see. They were holding me down. Did they cut me into pieces?’

Dreyfus surveyed the welded form, as if he needed to reassure himself that all of Dravidian was there. ‘No,’ he said. ‘They didn’t cut you into pieces.’

‘That’s good. It means I go with some dignity.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand.’

‘There is a scale of punishment amongst Ultras, when a crime is said to have been committed. As it is, my guilt has been deemed highly probable. But not certain. If they thought all possibility of innocence had been eliminated, then they would have cut me into pieces.’

‘They’ve nailed you to the ship,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Nailed you and then welded you.’

‘Yes, I saw the light.’

‘I can’t get you out of that suit, or cut the suit away from the hull. I can’t cut away a section of the hull, either. Not in thirty minutes.’

‘Thirty minutes?’

‘I’m afraid I have orders to destroy this ship. I am sorry that you have been made to suffer, Captain. I can promise you that my justice will be swift and clean, when it comes.’

‘Nukes?’

‘It’ll be fast. You have my word on that.’

‘That is kind of you, Prefect. And no, I didn’t seriously think there was any possibility of rescue. When Ultras do something . . .’ He left the remark hanging, unfinished.

Dreyfus nodded, for there was no need to complete the sentence.

‘But you talk of justice,’ Dravidian continued, when he had recovered either breath or clarity of mind. ‘I assume that means you have a fixed opinion as to my guilt?’

‘A terrible crime took place, Captain. The evidence in my possession leaves little room for doubt that your ship was involved.’

‘I ran,’ Dravidian said. ‘I ran for the shelter of the Parking Swarm, thinking I would be safe there, that my argument would fall on sympathetic ears. I should never have run. I should have trusted your justice over that of my people.’

‘I’d have listened to whatever you had to say,’ replied Dreyfus.

‘What happened . . . was not what it appeared.’

‘Your drive did destroy that habitat.’

‘Yes, I concede that much.’

‘You left it in a state of anger, having been cheated out of a lucrative deal.’

‘I was sorry that the family did not choose to close negotiations. But that doesn’t mean I planned to kill them all.’

‘It wasn’t an accident, Dravidian. No one’s going to buy that.’

‘I never said it was. It was a deliberate act of murder against an innocent habitat. But I had no hand in it.’ With sudden intensity, he added: ‘Nor did my crew.’

‘Either it happened or it didn’t.’

‘Someone made it happen, Prefect. Someone infiltrated the Accompaniment of Shadows and used her against the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble. We were a weapon, not the murderer.’

‘You mean someone got aboard the ship and worked out how to turn the engines on and off at just the right moment to kill the Bubble?’

‘Yes,’ Dravidian said resignedly, as if all his hopes of being believed had just evaporated. ‘Exactly that.’

‘I wish I could take you at your word.’

‘Prefect, ask yourself this: what could I possibly stand to gain from lying now? My crew has been slaughtered, burnt alive aboard their own ship. They let me hear their screams, their pleas for mercy. My vessel has been ripped apart like a rabid animal tossed to the wolves. I have been tortured and welded to the hull. Very shortly I am going to die.’

‘I still—’ Dreyfus began.

‘I don’t know why anyone wanted this to happen, Prefect. It’s not my job to answer that question, it’s yours. But I swear no crime was committed by my crew.’

‘We need to start thinking about getting off this thing,’ Sparver said quietly.

Dreyfus held up a silencing hand. To Dravidian he said: ‘But surely someone in your crew had to have been responsible.’

‘No one that I trusted. No one that I really considered crew. But someone else . . . maybe.’

‘Who?’

‘We took on new recruits after we arrived around Yellowstone. Some crew left to join other ships; others came aboard. It’s possible that one of those recruits . . .’

‘Captain?’

Dravidian’s tone changed, as if something new had just occurred to him. ‘Something odd happened. Our shuttle developed a fault. That was why we had to move the entire ship close to Ruskin-Sartorious, rather than just shuttle over to it from the Swarm. There wasn’t time to worry about the cause of the fault, not when we had a deal to close. But now that I look back on it . . . now that I don’t have any other distractions . . . the more I’m convinced that the shuttle’s malfunction could only have been sabotage.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Someone put the shuttle out of action, Prefect. Someone wanted an excuse to bring the Accompaniment of Shadows within kill-range of the Bubble. Until now I’ve been thinking that whatever happened, whatever was done in our name, was done in anger, because of the way that deal collapsed. That maybe someone on the ship thought Ruskin-Sartorious needed to be punished for that. Now I’m not so sure.’ He fell silent, the face behind the glass completely still. Just when Dreyfus was starting to think that the captain had died or lost consciousness, his lips moved again: ‘Now I’m wondering if it wasn’t premeditated.’

‘Not just murder, but murder in cold blood?’

‘I can only tell you what happened.’

‘These recruits . . . can you tell me anything about them?’

‘Six or seven of them. The usual mix. Hardcore types who’ve already crewed on other ships. Green-behind-the-ears newcomers who don’t know one end of a hull from the other. I didn’t meet any of them in person, just delivered the usual blood-and-thunder speech when they came aboard.’

‘No names, nothing?’

‘I’m sorry, Prefect. If I had more to give you, you’d be hearing it.’

Dreyfus nodded. There was no earthly reason for Dravidian to withhold evidence now, if he truly believed in his own innocence. ‘What I don’t understand is why anyone would want to destroy the Bubble, if it wasn’t revenge for a deal that went sour?’

‘You’re the investigator, Prefect. You tell me.’

‘You’re going to die,’ Dreyfus said softly. ‘Nothing I say or do can change that now.’

‘But you believe I may be telling the truth.’

‘I believe that the investigation has yet to run its course. If the facts confirm your innocence, I’ll make sure that they’re heard.’

‘I hope you’re good at your job.’

‘That’s not for me to say.’

‘Whoever did this was prepared to kill nearly a thousand people. More now that my crew have paid with their lives. They won’t take kindly to a prefect snooping around trying to undermine their good work.’

‘They don’t pay us to be popular.’

‘You strike me as a decent man, Prefect Dreyfus. I can hear it in your voice. We Ultras aren’t such bad judges of character. My crew were decent people, too. Even if you can’t exonerate me, I beg of you this much: do what you can to lift this shame from their heads. They didn’t deserve to die like this. The Accompaniment was a good ship, right to the end. She didn’t deserve to die like this either.’ He hesitated, then added: ‘How are those nukes coming along?’

Dreyfus glanced at Sparver. Sparver tapped his sleeve, as if there was a wristwatch there.

‘Twenty minutes, Boss.’

Dreyfus looked along the prow, in the direction of the dead ship’s flight. He was also looking straight at Yellowstone and the Glitter Band. The planet was still lit up on its dayside. It was not his imagination that the arc of the Band appeared wider than when he had last seen it. He felt as if he could make out the twinkling granularity of individual habitats. With time and patience, and his ingrained knowledge of their orbits, he was sure he could even have begun to pick out the largest structures by eye. There, for instance: wasn’t that silvery glint near the planet’s westward limb Carousel New Venice, moving in the congested real estate of the central orbits? And a little to the right: wasn’t that string of ruby-red sparks the signature of the eight habitats of the Remortal Concatenation? If so, then that blue-tinged glint to the east had to be House Sammartini, or perhaps the Sylveste Institute for Shrouder Studies.

‘I think I’m about done here, Captain.’

‘Just one thing, Prefect. Maybe it’s nothing, or maybe it’ll help you. You’ll have to decide for yourself.’

‘Go on.’

‘Our negotiations with Ruskin-Sartorious were conducted with the usual degree of secrecy. It’s how we do things. Yet someone from outside the Bubble was still able to contact Delphine and promise her a better offer than the one already on the table. That means someone knew what was going on.’

‘Could have been a lucky break. They saw your ship parked near the Bubble; they knew Delphine’s art was on the market, put two and two together.’

‘And outbid us by a calculatedly effective margin? I don’t think so, Prefect. Someone had already gone to great lengths to position the Accompaniment as a murder weapon. All they needed then was to make it look as if we struck back in anger. For that they needed a plausible motive.’

‘So what you’re saying is . . . the whole thing about the deal collapsing was just a ruse, to provide a justification for you hitting back?’

‘Exactly so.’

In his head Dreyfus felt the ominous sliding of mental chess pieces moving into a new and threatening configuration. ‘Then there must have been another reason why someone wanted to destroy the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble.’

‘Now all you have to do is find out why,’ Dravidian answered.

Captain Pell let the missiles streak away, sprinting across the gap to the Accompaniment of Shadows. At twenty gees they reached the wreck in slightly more than a minute and a half. In the last instant before impact, the missiles fanned out and then vectored in again from different angles, so that their bright fusion exhausts formed the talons of a gripping three-clawed hand, closing around Dravidian’s ship with swift predatory eagerness.

The three nuclear explosions blurred together into a single inseparable flash. When the radiation and debris had dissipated, nothing remained of the killing ship, nor of its captain.

Dreyfus turned from the hull window with a cold, hard feeling that he still had work to do.

CHAPTER 7

In the cloistered cool of his private security annexe, Senior Prefect Sheridan Gaffney found himself looking at the face of Aurora. She was coming through on an untraceable channel, their mutual communication disguised as an exchange of routine housekeeping data. He’d been expecting her; he’d composed his thoughts and marshalled a set of likely questions and responses, and yet still she made him feel flustered and ill-prepared, simply by the withering force of her regard. This, he thought, and not for the first time, was how it must feel to be interrogated by a goddess.

‘It’s been a while, Sheridan,’ she said.

‘I’m sorry,’ he replied, wiping a sleeve across his brow. ‘Things have been complicated around here. But everything’s under control.’

‘Everything, Sheridan? Then you’re confident that there’ll be no untoward ramifications concerning the Ruskin-Sartorious incident?’

‘I don’t think so.’

He was looking at a child-woman, a girl of indeterminate age, sitting on a simple wooden throne. She wore a gold-trimmed brocaded gown of dark green over a brocaded dress of fiery red, patterned again in gold. Her fingers curled around the edges of the armrests, toying with them in a manner that suggested mild restlessness more than actual boredom or impatience. Her auburn hair was parted in the middle and fell to her shoulders in perfect symmetry, framing a face of startling, ravishing serenity. Behind her head, suggesting a halo, was a shining gold motif worked into bas-relief panelling. Her eyes were liquid blue, brimming with puzzled intelligence. He knew he would do anything for those eyes, that face.

‘You don’t think so?’ she asked.

‘Dreyfus is on the case, unfortunately. I could do without him nosing around in the whole business, but there was no way I could get him off the investigation without drawing attention to myself.’

‘You’re head of security, Sheridan. Couldn’t you have been more creative?’

‘I’ve had my hands full preparing the ground for Thalia Ng. That’s required more than enough creativity, I assure you.’

‘Nonetheless, this man - this Dreyfus - is a rogue element. He must be brought under control.’

‘Not that easy,’ Gaffney said, feeling as if they’d had this discussion a thousand times already. ‘He’s Jane Aumonier’s pet field prefect. She’s even given him Pangolin clearance, despite my protestations. If I interfere too much, I’ll have Jane on my back, metaphorically speaking.’ He tested Aurora with a smile. ‘Right now that would not be a good idea.’

‘Jane is a problem,’ Aurora said, signally failing to acknowledge his smile. ‘We can’t put off dealing with her for ever, either. Once the Thalia situation is stable, I’d like you to direct some energy into removing Aumonier.’

Gaffney dredged up some outrage. ‘I hope you’re not asking me to kill her.’

‘We’re not murderers,’ Aurora said, looking suitably shocked at the suggestion.

‘We just took out nine hundred and sixty people. If that’s not murder, it’s a hell of a way to make friends.’

‘They were the unavoidable victims of a war that has already begun, Sheridan. I grieve for those people. If I could have spared one of them, I would have. But we must think of the millions we shall save, not the hundreds we must sacrifice.’

‘Not that you’d blink an eyelid at killing Jane, if she got in our way.’

‘She doesn’t have to die, Sheridan. She’s a brave woman and a good prefect. But she has principles. They’re admirable, in their own way, but they’d compel her to obstruct our arrangements. She would commit the error of placing loyalty to Panoply above the greater good of the people.’

Gaffney ruminated over the possibilities. ‘Aumonier’s been under a lot of pressure lately, that’s for sure.’

‘Enough to concern Doctor Demikhov?’

‘So I gather.’

‘Well, things are certainly not going to get any less stressful for the supreme prefect any time soon. Perhaps you could arrange her removal from power on compassionate grounds?’

‘The other seniors won’t go for it if they think I’m after her job.’

‘We don’t need you in the hot seat, Sheridan, we just need Jane out of it. The other key players - Crissel, Baudry, Clearmountain . . . which one would be her natural successor?’

‘Baudry has automatic seniority.’

‘How will she perform?’

‘Baudry’s competent, but she’s detail-focused, not someone with Jane’s strategic overview. There are going to be a lot of balls in the air when we go live. I think Baudry could end up dropping a few.’

‘In other words, she’d suit our requirements very well.’ Aurora looked pleased with him, or with herself: he wasn’t usually able to tell. ‘Start making arrangements, Sheridan.’

‘I’m still concerned about Dreyfus. You can bet he’ll fight Jane’s corner. Baudry and the other seniors have a lot of respect for him, so it’ll be difficult to squeeze Jane out while he’s around.’

‘Then I see only one possibility, Sheridan. You’d better remove Dreyfus from the picture. He’s a field prefect, correct?’

‘Long in the tooth, but still one of the best.’

‘It can be dangerous work, being a field prefect.’ For a moment she seemed absent, as if the face had pulled away from the mask. Gaffney drummed his fingers against the pedestal of his chair until she returned, feeling like a little schoolboy left alone in a big office. ‘Perhaps I can help,’ she continued. ‘I’ll need to know his movements when he’s outside Panoply. I presume you can feed them to me?’

‘It’ll be risky, but—’

‘You’ll do your best. See to it, Sheridan,’ she urged. ‘And don’t worry. I know that you are a good man and that deception does not come easily to you. Your natural instincts are to duty and loyalty, to the service of the people. I’ve known that since Hell-Five. You stared into the moral abyss of that horror, saw what freedom can lead to when freedom is unchecked, and you said no more. You knew that something must be done, even if it meant good men doing unpleasant things.’

‘I know. It’s just that occasionally I have doubts.’

‘Purge them. Purge them utterly. Have I not vouchsafed unto you the consequences of our inaction, Sheridan? Have I not shown you glimpses of the world to come, if we do not act now?’

She had, too, and he knew that everything boiled down to a choice between two contending futures. One was a Glitter Band under the kindly rule of a benevolent tyrant, where the lives of the hundred million citizens continued essentially as they did now, albeit with some minor restrictions on civil liberty. The other was a Glitter Band in ruins, its population decimated, its fallen glories stalked by ghosts, revenants and monsters, some of which had once been people.

‘I have the weevil data,’ he said, when the silence had become unendurable.

‘I must see it immediately.’

‘I’m encapsulating it into the comms feed.’

Aurora closed her eyes. Her lips opened slightly, as if she was in transports of indescribable ecstasy. He imagined the data streaming out of Panoply, into the labyrinthine tangle of the Glitter Band data network, Aurora - whatever she was, human or machine - drinking it in somewhere at the end of a complex chain of routers and hubs.

Her mouth closed again as her eyes opened. ‘Well done, Gaffney. All appears to be in order. You’ve done very well indeed.’

‘Then you have all that you need? To make the weevils?’

‘I won’t know for sure until I have access to a functioning manufactory. The proof of the pudding, as they say. But I’ve no reason to doubt that things will work exactly as intended.’

‘I read the tech notes,’ Gaffney said. ‘Those things are nightmares. ’

‘And that’s why they’ll only be used as an absolute last resort. But we must have the means, Sheridan, if we are to prevent the unnecessary loss of life. We would be negligent otherwise.’

‘People are going to die when we do this.’

‘People will die if we don’t. Oh, Sheridan - you’ve come so far, done so much good work for the cause. Please don’t quail now, at the final hurdle.’

‘I won’t “quail”,’ he said, resenting her tone.

‘You trust me, don’t you? Absolutely, unquestioningly?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you know that we are doing the right thing, the decent thing, the only human thing. When the time of transition is complete, the citizenry will thank us from the bottom of their hearts. And the time will be soon, Sheridan. Now that all but these last few trifling obstacles have been removed . . .’

Gaffney had learned that brazen honesty was the only sensible approach when dealing with Aurora. She pierced lies, penetrated evasion like a gamma-ray laser burning through rice paper.

‘There is still one larger problem we haven’t dealt with,’ Gaffney began.

‘I confess I don’t understand.’

‘The Clockmaker is still out there.’

‘We destroyed it. How can it possibly be a problem?’

Gaffney shifted on his seat. ‘The intelligence was flawed. They’d moved the Clockmaker before we destroyed Ruskin-Sartorious.’

He’d been expecting fury. The mild reaction he got was worse, since it implied fury being bottled away, stored up for later dispensing. ‘How can you be sure?’

‘Forensics swept the ruin. They’d have flagged anything anomalous, even if they didn’t recognise what they were dealing with.’

‘We know it was there recently. What happened?’

‘Someone must have decided to move it somewhere else.’

‘Why would they do that?’

‘Probably because they got word that someone was nosing around their secret.’

‘And that someone would be . . .’ Aurora asked.

‘You ordered me to ferret out the location of the Clockmaker. I did the best I could, but it meant digging into data outside my control, where I couldn’t always hide my enquiries. I made that abundantly clear before you asked me to find it.’

‘So why did you wait until now to tell me you thought it had been moved?’

‘Because I have another lead, one I’m still following. I thought it best to wait and see where it leads before taking up any of your valuable time.’

If his sarcasm grated on her, she didn’t show it. Aurora merely looked unimpressed. ‘And this lead?’

‘Anthony Theobald survived the destruction of the habitat. The weasel must have suspected something was going down. But he didn’t get far. I intercepted him and ran some extraction procedures. ’

‘He’d hardly have been likely to know where they were taking the Clockmaker.’

‘He knew something.’

Now she looked vaguely interested again. ‘Names, faces?’

‘Names and faces wouldn’t mean anything - the operatives who visited the Clockmaker wouldn’t have been using their official identities. But it appears they were occasionally indiscreet. One of them dropped a word into the conversation once, something Anthony Theobald obviously wasn’t meant to hear.’

‘A word.’

‘Firebrand,’ Gaffney said.

‘That’s all? One word, which could mean almost anything?’

‘I hoped you might be able to shed some light on it. I’ve run a database search, but it didn’t reveal any significant priors.’

‘Then it means nothing.’

‘Or it refers to something so dark that it doesn’t even show up in maximum-security files. I can’t dig any deeper without the risk of stumbling into the same kinds of tripwire that may already have alerted them to our interest in the Clockmaker. But I thought you—’

She cut him off brusquely. ‘I am not omniscient, Sheridan. There are places you can go that I can’t, and vice versa. If I knew everything, saw everything, why would I need you?’

‘That’s a very good point.’

‘Maybe there is something called Firebrand.’ It sounded like a conciliatory line, but he could feel the stinger coming. ‘Perhaps that is the name of the group or cell who have been studying the Clockmaker. But if so it tells us nothing we didn’t already know.’

‘It’s a handle. It’s leverage.’

‘Or random noise, plucked out of a dying man’s head by the grabbing fingers of a trawl. What do you think?’

‘I think we’re dealing with Panoply,’ Gaffney said.

‘You believe your own organisation chose to keep it alive, after all it did to them?’

‘Look, it makes a kind of sense. When the Clockmaker got loose, it was Panoply that put it back in the bottle. But we still didn’t know what it was or where it had come from. Who’d have been better placed to smuggle that bottle away for further study? Who, frankly, would have been negligent not to do something like that?’

After a while she said, ‘There may be some merit in your reasoning, Sheridan.’

‘That’s why I think Firebrand might be the codename for a unit inside Panoply. Now I need to find out who’s inside Firebrand. They’ll know where the thing is now. If I can get to one of them, isolate and trawl . . .’ As he spoke, his hand stroked the black haft of his Model C whiphound.

‘Apart from Jane Aumonier, you wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘I can run a systematic search: look at who was involved eleven years ago, however peripherally, who’s still in the organisation.’ He risked another smile. ‘I’ve got one thing on my side, Aurora. They’re beginning to panic, which means they’re likely to screw up.’

He’d hoped his words would console her, but they had exactly the opposite effect. ‘We don’t want them to err, Sheridan. If these people make mistakes, they may allow the Clockmaker to slip free. Such an outcome wouldn’t just be catastrophic for our plans. It would be catastrophic for the Glitter Band, as it very nearly was eleven years ago.’

‘I’ll exercise due discretion. Believe me, that thing isn’t going to escape a second time. And even if it does, we know what we have to do to catch it again.’

‘Yes,’ Aurora said. ‘And while we were doing it we’d hope and pray that the same thing worked twice, wouldn’t we? Answer me this, just out of interest: could you have given that order?’

‘Which order would that be?’

‘You know exactly which one I mean. The thing they don’t like to talk about. The thing they did before they nuked the Sylveste Institute for Artificial Mentation.’

‘I wouldn’t have blinked,’ he said.

Thalia felt a chill on her neck as the heavy double doors swung open behind her. As they entered, the other prefects were engaged in low, whispered conversations that had obviously been going on for some time. Thalia had been too absorbed in her duties to pay much attention to the crisis that had been unfolding during the last twenty-six hours, but it was clear that this meeting was considered a necessary but disagreeable diversion.

‘Let’s keep this brief, Thalia,’ said Senior Prefect Gaffney. ‘We all have work to be getting back to. Can we conclude that you’ve closed the leak in the polling apparatus?’

‘Sir,’ Thalia said, almost stammering, ‘I’ve completed work on the update. As I said before, it only amounted to a couple of thousand lines of changes.’

‘And you’re confident this will plug the security hole Caitlin Perigal was able to abuse?’

‘As confident as we can ever be, sir. I’ve subjected the new code to the formal testing process, and the validation system found no errors after simulating fifty years’ worth of polling transactions. That’s a better error rate than we accepted before the last upgrade, sir. I can see no reason not to go live.’

Gaffney looked at her distractedly, as if his mind had already strolled out of the room, into another more urgent meeting. ‘Across the entire ten thousand?’

‘No, sir,’ Thalia said patiently. She’d already explained her plans the last time she’d been sitting in that room, but obviously she’d have to go through it one more time. ‘The changes to the code are relatively simple, but the upgrade will involve high-level access to all ten thousand polling cores. It’ll go smoothly with most of the newer cores, but there are some issues with older installations that I’d like to resolve in the field. By that I mean physical visits, sir.’

‘On-site installation?’ asked Michael Crissel.

Thalia nodded keenly. ‘But only for the following habitats.’ She raised a hand to the Solid Orrery, a gesture she had primed it to wait for. On command, the invisibly fine ceiling threads retracted five orbiting bodies from the frozen swirl of the Glitter Band. Quickmatter oozed down the threads and swelled the representations a hundredfold. One of the five bodies was Panoply itself, instantly recognisable to all present in the room. Thalia pointed instead to the other four, naming each in turn. ‘Carousel New Seattle-Tacoma. The Chevelure-Sambuke Hourglass. Szlumper Oneill. House Aubusson.’ Scattered red laser-light flicked between the four habitats and Panoply, revealing Thalia’s intended route. ‘In all cases, I think we can be in and out well inside thirteen hours per habitat. Abstraction downtime will be in the order of milliseconds: not long enough for anyone to actually notice.’

‘We can’t spare four ships in the current emergency,’ Gaffney said.

‘I’m not expecting you to, sir. I’d like to be on-site for all the installations myself, which means doing them sequentially. But even allowing for sleep and travel time between the four habs, I can have all four upgrades complete inside sixty hours.’

‘And then you’ll go live across the whole Band?’

‘Provided no issues come to light during the four test installations, I don’t see any reason to delay.’

‘I think we should hold off until the Ruskin-Sartorious mess has blown over,’ said Senior Prefect Baudry, holding her usual electrified posture. ‘Any nonessential activity at this time is a stretch on our resources we can do without. I don’t doubt that Thalia’s counting on a full support team. Frankly, we can’t afford to reallocate key personnel at such a sensitive time, with the citizenry straining at the leash to punish the Ultras.’

‘Maybe you’re right,’ Gaffney said. ‘I know Jane wants closure on the polling anomaly as quickly as possible, but she’ll also understand that we have to contain the aggressors until something else comes along to occupy their time.’

‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ Thalia said, ‘but I’m not counting on anything other than myself and a cutter to get me between habitats. I can handle the upgrades single-handedly.’

Gaffney looked unconvinced. ‘Quite a responsibility, Ng.’

‘It makes sense, sir. I’m intimately familiarly with the software changes and the procedure for installing them. It’s been my speciality since I joined the organisation. It’s what I live and breathe. I don’t think there’s anyone else in Panoply who understands the polling mechanism as thoroughly as I do.’

‘All the same, it’s still a heavy burden for one person.’

‘I can do it, sir. In sixty hours, less if things go smoothly, this whole business could be behind us.’

Crissel and Gaffney exchanged glances. ‘It would be good to get it off the table,’ Crissel said quietly. ‘And if Ng thinks she can handle this on her own . . . it won’t impact on our existing activities.’

‘I still say she should wait,’ Baudry put in.

‘We have no idea how long the crisis with the Ultras is going to last,’ Crissel said. ‘We could still be putting out fires a month from now. We can’t leave the security hole unplugged until then - there are critical polls coming up and we need the apparatus in a fit state to handle them.’

‘If she runs into trouble,’ Baudry said, ‘we won’t be able to spare a Heavy Technical Squad to help her out.’

‘I won’t run into trouble,’ Thalia replied.

Baudry looked unimpressed. ‘You sound spectacularly sure of yourself. No update to a polling core is routine, Ng. You take the local abstraction down and then can’t get it back up, you’ll have a rioting mob on your hands. One whiphound isn’t going to make much difference in that situation.’

‘I promise there’ll be no technical difficulties. Aside from a few habitat seniors, no one else need even know that I’m on the premises.’

‘She talks a good talk,’ Gaffney said, with the tone of a man who had no great stomach for argument. ‘Part of me says hold off this until we can give it our full attention. Another part says, hell, if she thinks she can do it unassisted—’

‘I can, sir,’ Thalia said.

‘Maybe we should bounce this one off Jane,’ Crissel said.

‘The supreme prefect expressly requested not to be troubled with matters of minor procedure,’ said Baudry. ‘As she’s made abundantly clear, she can only be expected to concentrate on so many matters at once.’

Gaffney pulled a face, racked by indecision. ‘Sixty hours, you say?’

‘Starting from now, sir. I can leave immediately for New Seattle-Tacoma. ’ Thalia nodded towards the red laser-line trajectory. ‘The conjunction’s favourable. Assign me a cutter and I can be on-site inside Sea-Tac within two hours.’

‘All right,’ Gaffney said. ‘We’ll spare you a cutter. No weps or heavy armour, though.’

‘I won’t let you down,’ Thalia said.

‘You’ll need one-time pads for core access, I take it?’

‘Just the four, sir. Most of the work shouldn’t require deep-level changes, so I ought to be able to manage with six-hundred-second access windows.’

‘I’ll have Vantrollier issue them.’ Gaffney looked at her warningly. ‘You’re good, Ng. None of us needs convincing about that. But that doesn’t mean we’ll cut you an easy ride if things go wrong. This is in your hands now. Don’t fuck it up.’

‘I won’t, sir.’

‘Good. Then get out there and update those cores.’

CHAPTER 8

The gallery of clocks covered two long walls, with each timepiece resting in a glass-sealed alcove next to a small black plaque denoting the date and precise location of the object’s construction, together with any other salient observations. As usual, Dreyfus had no intention of stopping on his way to the inner sanctum of Dr Demikhov’s Sleep Lab. But something always caused him to halt, select one of the clocks and use his Pangolin privilege to open the alcove, remove the evil thing and hold it in his hands. This time he chose a clock he did not believe he had examined before, one that was dark and unornamented enough to have escaped his curiosity on previous occasions.

He could hear it ticking behind the glass. It would have been wound by one of Demikhov’s technicians.

He read the plaque:

Clock #115

Found: LCS, SIAM, 13:54, 17:03:15 YST.

Finder: Valery Chapelon.

Duration of construction: unknown.

Primary base materials: common ferrous alloys.

Origin of base materials: unknown.

Movement: double-roller anchor escapement.

Remarks: electron microscopy reveals atomic-scale fractal

patterning in top-right spandrel. Nature of fractal patterning

obscure, but may echo visible detail on pendulum hinge

of clock #341.

Status: functional.

Known booby traps: none.

Associated fatalities: none.

Estimated hazard level: low.

Dreyfus opened the glass panel. The clock’s ticking became louder. He reached in and placed his hands on either side of the black metal case and lifted the clock from its base, holding it at eye level. Like all the clocks it was surprisingly heavy, dense with mechanisms, but in this case there was no delicate tracery of gold-leaf ornamentation or razor-sharp edges to watch for. The clock had a crudely fashioned look, at odds with the complexity and accuracy of the mechanism inside it. No glass protected the dial. The hands were withered wisps of beaten metal, the hour marks irregularly soldered stubs.

Dreyfus hated to hold any of the clocks. But whenever he made the pilgrimage to the Sleep Lab, he found himself unable to resist. The models of the scarab in Demikhov’s lab were accurate, but only Jane Aumonier could touch the scarab on her neck. The clocks - all four hundred and nineteen of them - were the only tangible link back to the entity itself.

Dreyfus had long wondered whether there was a message in the clocks. During the long period of its incarceration in SIAM, the clocks it made had grown in sophistication and ingenuity. It had been presumed by those studying it that the entity was learning with each clock, inventing and innovating as it progressed.

This view was now considered incorrect. Analysis of microscopic details engraved onto the main gear of clock thirty-five turned out to anticipate refinements - an elegant grasshopper escapement and gridiron pendulum - incorporated as far along the series as clock three hundred and eighty-eight. Since the entity had been denied access to its artefacts as soon as they were discovered, only one conclusion was possible: the Clockmaker had always known what it was doing.

Which meant that it could easily have been planning its killing spree while the researchers thought they were dealing with something as innocent and guileless as a child, which desired nothing more than to be allowed to make clocks.

Which meant in turn that, in any given clock, there might be a message that had yet to be deciphered: one that spoke of the Clockmaker’s intentions for the woman who had spent the most time with it, the one who thought she knew it best of all. Had it hated her more than any of the others?

Dreyfus didn’t know, but he hoped that one day a clock might reveal something to him.

Not today, though.

He replaced clock one hundred and fifteen carefully, then sealed the window. Around him the ticking of the other instruments grew more insistent, the ticks moving in and out of phase with subtle rhythms until the hectoring noise forced him further into the Sleep Lab.

For eleven years, Demikhov’s department had had no other business than the matter of removing the scarab. Every square centimetre of the Sleep Lab beyond the gallery of clocks (which itself offered an insight into the mentality of the Clockmaker) was testament to that effort: walls and partitions aglow with sectional schematics of both the scarab and its host, scribbled over with eleven years’ worth of handwritten notes and commentary. Jane Aumonier’s skull and neck had been imaged from every conceivable angle, using scanning devices powerful enough to function from more than seven metres away and yet still resolve nerve and circulatory structure. The metallic probes that the scarab had pushed into her spinal cord were visible in multiple cross sections, at different degrees of structural penetration. The scarab’s main body, clamped to her neck, had been subjected to the same variety of analysis modes. Interior details showed in ghostly pastel overlays.

Dreyfus touched certain panels, causing animations to spring into life. These were simulations of planned rescue attempts, all of which had been deemed unsatisfactory. Dreyfus had heard reliable estimates that the scarab’s mechanism would require just under six-tenths of a second to kill Aumonier, meaning that if they could get a machine in there and disarm the scarab in less than half a second they might have a hope of saving her. But he did not envy the person who would have to make the decision as to when to go in. It wouldn’t be Aumonier: that was one responsibility she had abdicated long ago.

Dreyfus paused by one of the benches and picked up a model of the scarab moulded in smoky translucent plastic. There were dozens like it, littering the benches in various dismantled states. They differed in their internal details, depending on the way the scans had been interpreted. Entire rescue strategies hinged on infinitely subtle nuances of analysis. At any one time, Demikhov’s squad consisted of several different teams pursuing radically opposed plans. More than once, they’d almost come to blows over the right course of action. Dreyfus thought of monks, arguing over different interpretations of scripture. Only Demikhov’s quiet presence kept the whole operation from collapsing into acrimony. He’d been doing that for eleven years, with no visible reward.

He was at work, leaning over a bench in low, whispered debate with three of his team members. Tools and scarab parts covered the work surface. An anatomical model of a skull - made up of detachable glass parts - sat with the structure of its neck and spine exposed. Luminous markers highlighted vulnerable areas.

Demikhov must have heard Dreyfus approaching. He pulled goggles from his eyes and used his fingers to comb lank strands of hair away from his brow. The subdued red lighting of the Sleep Lab did nothing to ameliorate Demikhov’s sagging lantern-jawed features. Dreyfus had seldom met anyone who looked quite as old.

‘Tom,’ he said, with a weary smile. ‘Nice of you to drop by.’

Dreyfus smiled back. ‘Anything new for me?’

‘No new strategies, although we’ve shaved another two-hundredths of a second off Plan Tango.’

‘Good work.’

‘But not good enough for us to go in.’

‘You’re getting closer.’

‘Slowly. Ever so slowly.’

‘Jane’s patient. She knows how much effort you put in down here.’

Demikhov stared deep into Dreyfus’s eyes, as if looking for a clue. ‘You’ve spoken to her recently. How is she? How’s she holding up?’

‘As well as can be expected.’

‘Did she . . .’

‘Yes,’ Dreyfus said. ‘She told me the news.’

Demikhov picked up a scarab model and unclipped its waxy grey casing. The internal parts glowed blue and violet, highlighting control circuits, power lines and processors. He poked a white stylus into the innards, tapping it against a complicated nexus of violet lines. ‘This changed. A week ago, there were only three lines running into this node. Now there are five.’ He moved the stylus to the right. ‘And this mechanical assembly has shifted by two centimetres. The movement was quite sudden. We don’t know what to make of either change.’

Dreyfus glanced at the other lab technicians. He presumed they were fully aware of the situation, or Demikhov wouldn’t be talking so openly. ‘It’s getting ready for something,’ he said.

‘That’s my fear.’

‘After eleven years: why now?’

‘It’s probably reading stress levels.’

‘That’s what she told me,’ Dreyfus said, ‘but this isn’t the first crisis we’ve had in the last eleven years.’

‘Maybe it’s the first time things have been this bad. It’s self-reinforcing, unfortunately. We can only hope that her elevated hormone level won’t trigger another change.’

‘And if it does?’

‘We may have to rethink that safety margin of which we’ve always been so protective.’

‘You’d make that call?’

‘If I felt that thing was about to kill her.’

‘And in the meantime?’

‘The usual. We’ve altered her therapeutic regime. More drugs. She doesn’t like it, says it dulls her consciousness. She still self-administers. We’re treading a very fine line: we have to take the edge off her nerves, but we mustn’t put her to sleep.’

‘I don’t envy you.’

‘No one envies us, Tom. We’ve grown used to that by now.’

‘There’s something you need to know. Things aren’t going to get any easier for Jane right now. I’m working a case that might stir up some trouble. Jane’s given me the green light to follow my investigation wherever it leads.’

‘You’ve a duty to do so.’

‘I’m still worried how Jane’ll take things if the crisis worsens.’

‘She won’t step down, if that’s what you’re wondering,’ Demikhov said. ‘We’ve been over that a million times.’

‘I wouldn’t expect her to resign. Right now the only thing keeping her sane is her job.’

Dreyfus sat before his low black table, sipping reheated tea. The wall opposite him, where he normally displayed his mosaic of faces, now showed only a single image. It was a picture of the rock sculpture, the one that Sparver and he had found in the incinerated ruin of Ruskin-Sartorious. Forensics had dragged it back to Panoply and scanned it at micron-level resolution. A neon-red contour mesh emphasized the three-dimensional structure that would otherwise have been difficult to make out.

‘I’m missing something here,’ Sparver said, sitting next to him at the table. ‘We’ve got the killers, no matter what Dravidian might have wanted us to think. We’ve got the motive and the means. Why are we fixating on the art?’

‘Something about it’s been bothering me ever since we first saw it,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Don’t you feel the same way?’

‘I wouldn’t hang it on my wall. Beyond that, it’s just a face.’

‘It’s the face of someone in torment. It’s the face of someone looking into hell and knowing that’s where they’re going. More than that, it’s a face I feel I know.’

‘I’m still just seeing a face. Granted, it’s not the happiest face I’ve ever seen, but—’

‘What bothers me,’ Dreyfus said, as if Sparver hadn’t spoken, ‘is that we’re clearly looking at the work of a powerful artist, someone in complete control of their craft. But why haven’t I ever heard of Delphine Ruskin-Sartorious before?’

‘Maybe you just haven’t been paying attention.’

‘That’s what I wondered. But when I searched for priors on Delphine, I only got sparse returns. She’s been contributing pieces to exhibitions for more than twenty years, but with no measurable success for most of that time.’

‘And lately?’

‘Things have begun to take off for her.’

‘Because people caught on to what she was doing, or because she got better at it?’

‘Good question,’ Dreyfus said. ‘I’ve looked at some of her older stuff. There are similarities with the unfinished sculpture, but there’s also something missing. She’s always been accomplished from a technical standpoint, but I didn’t get an emotional connection with the older works. I’d have marked her down as another rich postmortal with too much time on her hands, convinced that the world owes her fame in addition to everything else it’s already given her.’

‘You said you thought you knew the face.’

‘I did. But forensics didn’t make any connection, and when I ran the sculpture through the Search Turbines, nothing came up. Hardly surprising, I suppose, given the stylised manner in which she’s rendered the face.’

‘So you’ve drawn a blank.’

Dreyfus smiled. ‘Not quite. There’s something Vernon told me.’

‘Vernon?’ Sparver said.

‘Delphine’s suitor, Vernon Tregent, one of the three stable recoverables. He told me the work had been part of her “Lascaille” series. The name meant something to me, but I couldn’t quite place it.’

‘So run it through the Turbines.’

‘I don’t need to. Just sitting here talking to you, I know where I’ve heard that name before.’

And it was true. Whenever he voiced the word in his mind, he saw a darkness beyond comprehension, a wall of starless black more profound than space itself. He saw darkness, and something falling into that darkness, like a white petal floating down into an ocean of pure black ink.

‘Are you going to put me out of my misery?’ Sparver asked.

‘Lascaille’s Shroud,’ Dreyfus answered, as if that was all that needed to be said.

Thalia was reviewing the summary file on Carousel New Seattle-Tacoma when the call came in. She lifted her eyes from her compad and conjured her master’s face into existence before her. Slow-moving habitats, vast and imperious as icebergs, were visible through the slight opacity of the display pane.

‘I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’ Dreyfus asked.

Thalia tried not to sound flustered. ‘Not at all, sir.’

‘No one told me you were outside.’

‘It all came together quite quickly, sir. I have the patch for the polling bug, the one that allowed Caitlin Perigal to bias the results. I’m going to dry-run it before going live across the whole ten thousand.’

‘Good. It’ll be one less headache to deal with. Who’s with you?’

‘No one, sir. I’m handling the initial upgrades on my own.’

Something twitched in the corner of his right eye, the lazy one. ‘How many are you doing?’

‘Four, sir, ending with House Aubusson. I told the seniors that I can have the upgrades complete inside sixty hours, but I was being deliberately cautious. If all goes well I should be done a lot quicker than that.’

‘I don’t like the idea of you handling this alone, Thalia.’

‘I’m quite capable of doing this, sir. Another pair of hands would only slow me down.’

‘That isn’t the issue. The issue is one of my deputies going out there without back-up.’

‘I’m not going out there to initiate a lockdown, sir. No one’s going to put up a fight.’

‘We don’t start being popular just because we aren’t enforcing lockdowns. The citizenry moves from hating and fearing us to guarded tolerance. That’s as good as it gets.’

‘I’ve been doing this for five years, sir.’

‘But never alone.’

‘I was alone in Bezile Solipsist for eight months.’

‘But no one noticed you. That’s why they call it Bezile Solipsist.’

‘I need to prove that I can handle a difficult assignment on my own, sir. This is my chance. But if you really think I ought to come back to Panoply—’

‘Of course I don’t, now that you’re out there. But I’m still cross. You should have cleared this with me first.’

Thalia cocked her head. ‘Would you have let me go alone?’

‘Probably not. I don’t throw assets into risky environments without making damned sure they’re protected.’

‘Then now you know why I went out without calling you.’

She saw something in his expression give way, as if he recognised this was a fight he could not hope to win. He had chosen Thalia for her cleverness, her independence of mind. He could hardly be surprised that she was beginning to chafe at the leash.

‘Promise me this,’ he said. ‘The instant something happens that you’re not happy about . . . you call in, understood?’

‘Baudry said they won’t be able to spare a taskforce, sir, if I run into trouble.’

‘Never mind Baudry. I’d find a way to move Panoply itself if I knew one of my squad was in trouble.’

‘I’ll call in, sir.’

After a moment, Dreyfus said, ‘In case you were wondering, I didn’t call you to tick you off. I need some technical input.’

‘I’m listening, sir.’

‘Where House Perigal was concerned, you were able to recover all the communications handled by the core in the last thousand days, correct?’

‘Yes,’ Thalia said.

‘Suppose we needed something similar for the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble?’

‘If the beta-levels didn’t come through intact, I don’t hold out much hope for transmission logs.’

‘That’s what I thought. But a message still has to originate from somewhere. That means someone else must have the relevant outgoing transmission somewhere in their logs. And if it travelled more than a few hundred kilometres through the Band, it probably passed through a router or hub, maybe several. Routers and hubs keep records of all data traffic passing through them.’

‘Not deep content, though.’

‘I’ll settle for a point of origin. Can you help?’

Thalia thought about it. ‘It’s doable, sir, but I’ll need access to a full version of the Solid Orrery.’

‘Can your ship run a copy?’

‘Not a light-enforcement vehicle. I’m afraid it’ll have to wait until I return.’

‘I’d rather it didn’t.’

Thalia thought even harder. ‘Then . . . you’ll need to turn the Orrery back to around the time of this transmission, if you know it.’

‘I think I can narrow it down,’ Dreyfus said.

‘You’ll need to pinpoint it to within a few minutes. That’s the kind of timescale on which the router network optimises itself. If you can do that, then you can send me a snapshot of the Orrery. Pull out Ruskin-Sartorious and all routers or hubs within ten thousand kilometres. I’ll see what I can do.’

Dreyfus looked uncharacteristically pleased. ‘Thank you, Thalia.’

‘No promises, sir. This might not work.’

‘It’s a lead. Since I’ve nothing else to go on, I’ll take what I’m given.’

Sparver collected his food from the counter and moved to an empty table near the corner of the refectory. The lights were bright and the low-ceilinged, gently curving space was as busy as it ever got. A group of fields had just returned from duty aboard one of the deep-system vehicles. A hundred or so grey-uniformed cadets were squeezing around three tables near the middle, most of them carrying the dummy whiphounds they’d just been introduced to in basic training. The cadets’ eager, over-earnest faces meant nothing to him. Dreyfus occasionally taught classes, and Sparver sometimes filled in for him, but that happened so infrequently that he never had a chance to commit any of the cadets to memory.

The one thing he didn’t doubt was that they all knew his name. He could feel their sidelong glances when he looked around the room, taking in the other diners. As the only hyperpig to have made it past Deputy II in twenty years, Sparver was known throughout Panoply. There’d been another promising candidate in the organisation a few years earlier, but he’d died during a bad lockdown. Sparver couldn’t see any hyperpigs amongst the cadets, and it didn’t surprise him. Dreyfus had accepted him unquestioningly, had even pulled strings to get Sparver assigned to his team rather than someone else’s, but for the most part there was still distrust and suspicion against his kind. Baseline humans had made hyperpigs, created them for sinister purposes, and now they had to live with the legacy of that crime. They were resentful of his very existence because it spoke of the dark appetites of their ancestors.

He began to eat his meal, using the specially shaped cutlery that best fit his hands.

He felt eyes on the back of his neck.

He laid his compad before him and called up the results on the search term he had fed into the Turbines just before entering the refectory. Lascaille’s Shroud, Dreyfus had said. But what did Sparver - or Dreyfus, for that matter - know of the Shrouds? No more or less than the average citizen of the Glitter Band.

The compad jogged his memory.

The Shrouds were things out in interstellar space, light-years from Yellowstone. They’d been found in all directions: lightless black spheres of unknown composition, wider than stars. Alien constructs, most likely: that was why their hypothetical builders were called the Shrouders. But no one had ever made contact with a Shrouder, or had the least idea what the aliens might be like, if they were not already extinct.

The difficulty with the Shrouds was that nothing sent towards them ever came back intact. Probes and ships returned to the study stations mangled beyond recognition, if they came back at all. No useful data was ever obtained. The only indisputable fact was that the crewed vehicles returned less mangled, and with more frequency, than the robots. Something about the Shrouds was, if not exactly tolerant of living things, at least slightly less inclined to destroy them utterly. Even so, most of the time the people came back dead, their minds too pulverised even for a post-mortem trawl.

But occasionally there was an exception.

Lascaille’s Shroud, the compad informed Sparver, was named for the first man to return alive from its boundary. Philip Lascaille had gone in solo, without the permission of the study station where he’d been based. Against all the odds, he’d returned from the Shroud with his body and mind superficially intact. But that wasn’t to say that Lascaille had not still paid a terrible price. He’d come back mute, either unwilling or incapable of talking about his experiences. His emotional connection with other human beings had become autistically impoverished. A kind of holy fool, he spent his time making intricate chalk drawings on concrete slabs. Shipped back to the Sylveste Institute for Shrouder Studies, Lascaille became a curiosity of gradually dwindling interest.

That was one mystery solved, but it begged more questions than it answered. Why had Delphine alighted on this subject matter, so many decades after Lascaille’s return? And why had her decision to portray Lascaille resulted in a work of such striking emotional resonance, when her creations had been so affectless before?

On this, the compad had nothing to say.

Sparver continued with his meal, wondering how far ahead of him Dreyfus’s enquiries had reached.

He could still feel the eyes on his neck.

‘Back from whatever busy errand called you away last time, Prefect Dreyfus?’ asked the beta-level invocation of Delphine Ruskin-Sartorious.

‘I’m sorry about that,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Something came up.’

‘Connected with the Bubble?’

‘I suppose so.’ His instincts told him that Delphine didn’t need to know all the details concerning Captain Dravidian. ‘But the case isn’t closed just yet. I’d like to talk to you in some detail concerning the way the deal collapsed.’

Delphine reached up and pushed a stray strand of hair back under the rag-like band she wore around her head. She was dressed in the same clothes she’d been wearing during the last invocation: white smock and trousers, sleeves rolled to the elbow, trousers tucked up to the knee. Once again Dreyfus was struck by the paleness of her eyes and the doll-like simplicity of her features.

‘How much did Vernon tell you?’ she asked.

‘Enough to know that someone called through and that was enough to remove Dravidian’s offer from consideration. I’d really like to know who that mystery caller was.’

‘A representative of some other group of Ultras, intent on undermining Dravidian. Does it really matter now?’

‘Play along with me,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Assume for a minute that Dravidian was set up to make it look as if he intentionally fired on you. What reason might there have been for someone to want to hurt your family?’

Her face became suspicious. ‘But it was revenge, Prefect. What else could it have been?’

‘I’m simply keeping an open mind. Did you or your family have enemies?’

‘You’d have to ask someone else.’

‘I’m asking you. What about Anthony Theobald? Had he crossed swords with anyone?’

‘Anthony Theobald had friends and rivals, like anyone. But actual enemies? I wasn’t aware of any.’

‘Did he leave the habitat often?’

‘Now and then, to visit another state or go down to Chasm City. But there was never anything sinister about his movements.’

‘What about visitors - get many of those?’

‘We kept ourselves to ourselves, by and large.’

‘So no visitors.’

‘I didn’t say that. Yes, of course people came by. We weren’t hermits. Anthony Theobald had his usual guests; I had the occasional fellow artist or critic.’

‘None of whom would have had any pressing reason to see you dead?’

‘Speaking for myself, no.’

‘And Anthony Theobald - what were his guests like?’

He caught it then: the tiniest flicker of hesitation in her answer. ‘Nothing out of the ordinary, Prefect.’

Dreyfus nodded, allowing her to think he was content to let the matter stand. He knew he’d touched on something, however peripheral it might prove, but his years of experience had taught him that it would be counterproductive to dig away at it now. Delphine would be conflicted between her blood loyalty to Anthony Theobald and her desire to see justice served, and too much probing from him now might cause her to clam up irrevocably.

He would have to earn her trust.

‘The point is,’ she went on, ‘I really wasn’t interested in family or Glitter Band politics. I had - have - my art. That was all that interested me.’

‘Let’s talk about your art, then. Could someone have been jealous of your success?’

She looked stunned. ‘Enough to kill nine hundred and sixty people?’

‘Crimes aren’t always proportionate to motive.’

‘I can’t think of anyone. If I’d been the talk of Stoner society, we wouldn’t have been dealing with a second-rate trader like Dravidian.’

Dreyfus bit his tongue, keeping his policeman’s poker face fixed firmly in place. ‘All the same, someone wanted you all dead, and I’ll sleep easier when I know the reason.’

‘I wish I could help.’

‘You still can. I want you to tell me when that call came through.’

‘While Dravidian was visiting us.’

‘If you could narrow it down, that would help.’

The beta-level closed her eyes momentarily. ‘The call came in at fourteen hours, twenty-three minutes, fifty-one seconds, Yellowstone Standard Time.’

‘Thank you,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Freeze—’ he began.

‘Are we done?’ Delphine asked, cutting him off before he had finished issuing the command.

‘For now. If there’s anything else I need from you, you’ll be the first to hear about it.’

‘And now you’re going to put me back in the box?’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘I thought you wanted to talk about art.’

‘We did.’

‘No, we discussed the possibility of my art being a motivating factor in the crime. We didn’t discuss the art itself.’

Dreyfus shrugged easily. ‘We can, if you think it’s relevant.’

‘You don’t?’

‘The art appears to be a peripheral detail, unless you think otherwise. You yourself expressed doubt that jealousy could have been a motivating factor.’ Dreyfus paused and reconsidered. ‘That said, your reputation was building, wasn’t it?’

Delphine looked at him sourly. ‘You make it sound as if my life story’s already written, down to the last footnote.’

‘From where I’m standing . . .’ But then Dreyfus remembered what Vernon had told him concerning Delphine’s belief in the validity of beta-level simulation.

‘What?’ Delphine said.

‘Things will be different. Won’t they?’

‘Different. Not necessarily worse. You still don’t believe in me, do you?’

‘I’m trying my best,’ Dreyfus replied.

‘The last time we spoke, I asked you a question.’

‘Did you?’

‘I asked you if you’d ever lost a loved one.’

‘I answered you.’

‘Evasively.’ She fixed him with a long, searching stare. ‘You have lost someone, haven’t you? Not just a colleague or friend. Someone closer than that.’

‘We’ve all lost people.’

‘Who was it, Prefect Dreyfus? Who did you lose?’

‘Tell me why you chose to work on the Lascaille series. Why did you care about what happened to a man you never knew?’

‘Those are personal questions for an artist.’

‘I’m wondering if you made any enemies when you picked that theme.’

‘And I’m wondering why you find it so difficult to acknowledge my conscious existence. This person who died - did something happen that made you turn against beta-levels?’ Her eyes flashed an insistent sea-green, daring him to look away. ‘Who was it, Prefect? Quid pro quo. Answer my question and I’ll answer yours.’

‘I’ve got a job to do, Delphine. Empathising with software isn’t part of it.’

‘I’m sorry you feel that way.’

‘No,’ Dreyfus said, something inside him snapping, ‘you aren’t “sorry”. ‘Sorry” would imply the presence of a thinking mind, a sentient will capable of experiencing the emotion called “regret”. You’re saying that you are sorry because that’s what the living Delphine would have said under similar circumstances. But it doesn’t mean you feel it.’

‘You really don’t think I’m alive, in any sense of the word?’

‘I’m afraid not.’

Delphine nodded coolly. ‘In which case: why are you arguing with me?’

Dreyfus reached for an automatic answer, but nothing came. The moment dragged, Delphine regarding him with something between amusement and pity. He froze the invocation and stood staring at the empty space where she had been standing.

Not a she, he told himself. An it.

‘Hello?’ Thalia called into an echoing, dank darkness. ‘This is Deputy Field Prefect Ng. Is anyone there?’

There was no answer. Thalia stopped and put down the heavy cylinder she’d been carrying in her left hand. She touched her right hand to the haft of her whiphound, and then chided herself for her unease. Letting go of the weapon, she extracted her glasses, slipped them on and keyed image-amplification. The darkness of the chamber abated, revealing a doorway in one wall. Thalia touched the glasses again, but the entoptic overlay changed nothing. If a habitat citizen had been standing in Thalia’s place with a skullful of sense-modifying implants, they’d still have seen only the same drab walls.

‘Moving deeper into the hab,’ Thalia said, reporting back to her cutter. ‘So far I’m not exactly overwhelmed by the welcoming committee.’

She picked up the equipment cylinder in her left hand. Caution prevailed, and this time she chose to release the whiphound. ‘Proceed ahead of me at defence posture one,’ she instructed, before letting go. Red eye bright, the whiphound nodded its haft once to indicate that it had understood her order and was now in compliance. Then it turned the haft away from her and slunk forward, gliding across the ground on the coiled tip of its filament, like a sketch of a cobra.

The doorway led to a damp tunnel with cracked flooring. Ahead, the tunnel began to curve around. The whiphound slinked forward, the red light of its scanning eye reflecting back from moist surfaces. Thalia followed it into the tunnel, around a gentle curve, until the tunnel widened out into a gloomily lit plaza. The curvature of the habitat was evident in the continuous gentle up-sweep of the floor, rising ahead of her until it was hidden by the similarly curving ceiling. The only illumination came from sunlight creeping through immense slatted windows on either side, their glass panes tinting the light sepia-brown through a thick caking of dust and mould. Rising high above Thalia, interrupted only by the windows, were multi-levelled tiers of what had once been shops, boutiques and restaurants. Bridges and ramps spanned the space between the two walls, some of them sagging or broken. Glass frontages lay shattered, or were covered with various forms of mould or foliage-like infestation. In some of the shops there was even evidence of unsold merchandise, cobwebbed into obscurity.

Thalia didn’t like the place at all. She was glad when she found another tunnel leading out of the plaza. The whiphound slinked ahead of her, its coil making a rhythmic hissing sound against the flooring.

Without warning, it vanished.

An instant later Thalia heard a sound like two pieces of scrap metal being smashed against each other. Cautiously she rounded the curve and saw the whiphound wrapped around the immobilised form of a robot, which had toppled over onto its side, its rubber-tyred wheels spinning uselessly. Thalia stepped closer, putting down the cylinder. She appraised the fallen machine for weapons, but there was no sign that it was anything other than a general-purpose servitor of antique design.

‘Release it,’ she said.

The whiphound uncoiled itself and pulled back from the robot, while still keeping its eye locked on the machine. Laboriously, the robot extended telescopic limbs to right itself. A slender pillar rose from the wheeled base, with limbs and sensors sprouting at odd, asymmetric angles from the pillar.

‘I am Deputy Field Prefect Thalia Ng, of Panoply,’ she said. ‘Identify your origin.’

The robot’s voice was disconcertingly deep and emphatic. ‘Welcome to Carousel New Seattle-Tacoma, Deputy Field Prefect Ng. I trust your journey was pleasant. I apologise for my lateness. I have been tasked to escort you to the participatory core.’

‘I was hoping to talk to Citizen Orson Newkirk.’

‘Orson Newkirk is in the participatory core. Shall I assist you with your luggage?’

‘I can manage,’ Thalia said, shaking her head.

‘Very well, Deputy Field Prefect Ng. Please follow me.’

‘Where is everyone? I was expecting a population of one point three million people.’

‘The current population is one million, two hundred and seventy-four thousand, six hundred and eighteen people. All are accounted for in the participatory core.’

‘You keep saying that - what’s a “participatory core”?’

‘Please follow me.’

The robot spun around, tyres hissing against the wet flooring, and began to amble down the corridor, trailing an electrical burning smell in its wake.

From seven and a half metres away Jane Aumonier smiled tightly. ‘You’re like a dog with a bone, Tom. Not everything in life is a conspiracy. People do sometimes get mad and do stupid and irrational things.’

‘Dravidian sounded neither mad nor irrational to me.’

‘One of his crew, then.’

‘Acting according to plan. Following a script to make the whole attack look like a heat-of-the-moment thing, when in fact it was set up long before Dravidian ever met Delphine.’

‘You really think so?’

Dreyfus had just run the Solid Orrery in his room. He’d back-tracked the configuration of the Glitter Band to the time when Delphine Ruskin-Sartorious said the call had come in. The data was now sitting in Thalia’s cutter, waiting for her to get to it when she completed her current upgrade.

‘You’ve always trusted my instincts in the past,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Now they’re telling me that there’s something going on here that we’re supposed to overlook.’

‘You’ve spoken to the betas?’

‘They can’t think of anyone who’d do this to the family.’

‘So you’ve no hint as to what the motive might have been?’

‘No, not yet. But I’ll tell you this. If you just wanted to hurt a family, there are any number of assassination weapons capable of doing the job without leaving a forensic trail.’

‘Agreed . . .’ Aumonier said, her tone non-committal, letting him know that she was going along with him for the sake of argument alone.

‘But whoever did this wanted to take out more than just the family. They killed all the people in that habitat and then they killed the habitat itself.’

‘Maybe they didn’t have access to assassination weapons.’

Dreyfus pulled a sceptical expression. ‘Yet they did have the means to infiltrate an Ultra ship and manipulate its Conjoiner drive?’

‘I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Tom.’

‘I’m saying that it would have been harder for them to use Dravidian than to get their hands on any number of assassination tools. Which means they really needed that ship. They used it for a reason. Killing the family wasn’t enough. They had to incinerate them, wipe every trace of them out of existence. Short of a foam-phase bomb or a nuke, how else do you do that, except with a Conjoiner drive?’

‘It still doesn’t add up to much,’ Aumonier said.

‘At least the ship gave them a chance to pin it on the Ultras, rather than making it look like the work of another habitat. But I think Dravidian and his crew were innocent.’

Aumonier looked wearily at the wall of displays jostling for her attention. Even at a glance, Dreyfus could see that almost all of them referred to her efforts to contain the escalating crisis between the Glitter Band and the Ultras. The screens wrapped the room from pole to pole, the combined pressure of them pushing in from all directions like the impaling spikes of an iron maiden.

‘If I did have proof,’ she said, ‘if I could demonstrate that the Ultras were innocent, that would certainly ease matters.’

‘I’ve got Thalia Ng helping me to trace the caller who set up Dravidian.’

She looked at Dreyfus questioningly. ‘I thought Ng was outside on field duty. The update to the polling cores, wasn’t it? Vantrollier asked me to sign off on the pad release.’

‘Thalia’s outside,’ Dreyfus confirmed. ‘And she’s helping me as well, between upgrades.’

Aumonier nodded approvingly. ‘A good deputy.’

‘I don’t employ any other kind.’

‘And I don’t employ any other kind of field prefect. I want you to understand that you are appreciated, no matter how . . . frustrating you must occasionally find your position.’

‘I’m perfectly happy with my role in the organisation.’

‘I’m glad you feel that way.’

There was a lull.

‘Tell me something, Jane. Now that we’re having this conversation. ’

‘Go ahead, Tom.’

‘I want you to answer truthfully. I’m going to be poking around under some stones. There may be things under them that bite back. I need to be certain that I have your complete confidence when I go out there to do my job.’

‘You have it. Unconditionally.’

‘Then there’s no reason for me to think that I might have disappointed you, or underperformed, in my line of work?’

‘Why would you feel that way?’

‘I sense that I have your confidence. You’ve given me Pangolin clearance, which I appreciate. I’m entitled to sit in with the senior prefects. But I’m still a field, after all these years.’

‘There’s no shame in that.’

‘I know.’

‘If it wasn’t for this . . . thing on my neck, maybe I’d still be out there as well.’

‘Not very likely, Jane. You’d have been promoted out of fieldwork whether you liked it or not. They’d have kept you inside Panoply anyway, where you can be of most benefit to the organisation.’

‘And if I’d said no?’

‘They’d have thanked you for your opinion and ignored you anyway. People get promoted out of field while they’re still at the top of their game. That’s the way it works.’

‘And if I told you I thought the best way for you to serve Panoply was to remain a field prefect?’

‘I’m getting old and tired, Jane. I’ve started making mistakes.’

‘None that have reached my attention.’ She addressed him with sudden urgency, as if she’d been indulging him until then but now it was time to lay down the law. ‘Tom, listen to me. I don’t want to hear any more of this. You’re the best we have. I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t mean it.’

‘Then I have your confidence?’

‘I’ve said it once already. Go and look under as many stones as you want. I’ll be right behind you.’

CHAPTER 9

Ahead, the whiphound was a nervous black squiggle against a brightening red glow. The escort servitor had broken down, but it had given Thalia clear instructions about where she should go. Now she quickened her pace, the cylinder weighing heavily on her wrist, until she emerged into a huge arena-like space. She appeared to be standing on a railed balcony, the opposite wall an easy hundred metres away. The wall was divided into endless boxlike partitions, stacked on many levels, but the blood-red light was too dim for Thalia to see more than that. Above was only inky darkness, with no suggestion of how high the ceiling was.

Next to her, the whiphound snapped around agitatedly, sizing up the new space in which it found itself.

‘Easy,’ she whispered. ‘Maintain defence posture one.’

That was when a new voice boomed out of nowhere. ‘Welcome, Thalia. This is Orson Newkirk speaking. I’m sorry about your tribulations with the servitor.’

She raised her own voice in return. ‘I can’t see you, Citizen Newkirk.’

‘My apologies. It’s spectacularly bad form not to be there to greet your guests, but I haven’t been unplugged in a while and there was a problem with one of my disconnect valves. All fixed now, though. I’m on my way down as I speak. Be with you in a jiffy.’

‘On your way down?’ she asked, looking up.

‘How much do you know about us, Thalia?’ he asked, his voice cheerfully playful.

‘I know that you stay out of trouble with Panoply,’ she said, giving a non-answer that she hoped would mask her ignorance.

‘Well, that’s good. At least you haven’t heard anything bad.’

Thalia was getting a crick in her neck. ‘Should I have?’

‘We have our critics. People who think the level of abstraction we practise here is somehow wrong, or immoral.’

‘I’m not here to judge. I’m here to install a software patch.’

She could see something now: a mote of light in the darkness above, descending towards her. As Orson Newkirk came fully into view, Thalia saw that he was contained inside a rectangular glass box, which was being lowered down on a barely visible line. The box wasn’t much larger than a suitcase.

He was a bust, Thalia thought: a human head, half of the upper torso, and nothing else. Nothing below the ribs. No arms, no shoulders. Just a head and a chest, the base of his torso vanishing into a ring-shaped life-support device. A padded framework rose up behind him, supporting the torso, neck and head.

‘They say we’re just heads,’ Newkirk said chattily. ‘They couldn’t be more wrong! Anyone can keep a head alive, but without the hormonal environment of the rest of the body, you don’t get anything remotely resembling the rich texture of human consciousness. We’re creatures of chemistry, not wiring. That’s why we keep as much as possible, while throwing out everything we don’t need. I still have glands, you know. Glands make all the difference. Glands maketh the man.’

‘All your glands?’ Thalia asked, glancing at the truncated torso.

‘Things can be moved around and rerouted, Thalia. Open me up and you’d find a very efficient utilisation of space.’

The box came to a halt with Newkirk’s head level with Thalia’s.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said, thinking about the echoing, musty spaces she had already walked through. ‘Why have you done this to yourself? It can’t be that you need the room.’

‘It’s not about room. It’s about resources.’ Newkirk smiled at her. He had a young man’s face, not unattractive when one ignored everything else about him. His eyes were white orbs, blank save for a tiny dot of a pupil. They trembled constantly, with the coordinated motion of someone in deep REM sleep.

‘Resources?’ she asked.

‘Funds have to be used in the most efficient manner possible. There are more than a million people living in Sea-Tac. If every single one of them had the mass-energy demands of an adult human, we’d be spending so much money keeping them all fed and watered that we wouldn’t have a penny left over for bandwidth.’

‘Bandwidth?’ Thalia asked, blearily conscious of where this was heading.

‘For abstraction, of course,’ Newkirk said, sounding surprised that this wasn’t obvious.

‘But there isn’t any. My glasses were dead.’

‘That’s because you were outside the participatory core. It’s heavily shielded. We don’t waste a watt broadcasting abstraction where it isn’t needed.’

She cut him off. ‘Where is everyone, Citizen?’

‘We’re all right here.’

Lights blazed on, descending in a wave from a vanishing point that appeared to be almost infinitely far above. Thalia saw tier upon tier of compartments, each of which held an identical glass box to the one in which Newkirk resided. There wasn’t room for this inside the habitat, she started to think, before realising that she must be looking along one of the connecting spokes, all the way to the weightless hub.

‘Why have you done this to yourselves?’

‘That’s not the right question. What you should be asking is, who do I have to kill to join?’

She grinned nervously. ‘No thanks.’

‘You don’t know what you’re missing.’

‘Maybe not. I do know that I quite like having a body, being able to walk around and breathe.’

‘But you know nothing of abstraction. If you had any experience of it before you became a prefect, it must be just a fading memory by now. Like a glimpse of the gates of heaven between a crack in the clouds. Before the clouds closed again.’

‘I’ve sampled abstraction - I had implants before I joined Panoply. ’

‘You’ve sampled it, yes. But only in Sea-Tac would you know the euphoric bliss of total immersion.’

Thalia looked across the open space, at the boxes ranked on the far wall, the endless parade of human busts. ‘They’re all somewhere else, aren’t they? Mentally, I mean. Their minds aren’t in Sea-Tac at all.’

‘What would be the point? My people are the only real citizens of the Glitter Band, the only ones who truly inhabit it. Their minds are out there now, Thalia: spread across the entire volume of near-Yellowstone space, a choir invisible, singing the body electric, angels in the architecture.’

‘They’ve paid a price for it.’

‘One they’d all gladly pay ten times over.’

‘I really should be getting on with the upgrade,’ Thalia said.

‘The polling core’s at the bottom of the shaft. Follow the walkway and it’ll bring you to the base in two rotations.’

Thalia did as Citizen Newkirk instructed. When she reached the bottom of the shaft - Newkirk lowering down to match her descent until he was hovering only a metre above the floor - she reached out her right hand and summoned the whiphound back. It sprang into her grip, retracting its filament with a supersonic crack. She locked the whiphound back onto her belt.

‘I’ll run through what I need to do. I’m going to open a ten-minute access window into the polling core’s internal operating architecture.’ Thalia patted the cylinder she had brought with her. ‘Then I’m going to implement a minor software upgrade. I won’t need to take abstraction down for more than a few milliseconds.’ She cast a glance at the wall of busts. ‘They won’t notice it, will they?’

‘A few milliseconds? Not very likely. Buffering software in their implants will smooth over any glitches, in any case.’

‘Then there’s no reason for me not to begin.’

Thalia’s cylinder opened like a puzzle box, revealing racks of specialised tools and colour-coded data diskettes. She pulled out the first of the four one-time pads and held the rectangle up to eye level. She applied finger pressure and watched text spill across the rectangle’s surface.

‘This is Deputy Field Prefect Thalia Ng. Acknowledge security access override Probity Three Saxifrage.’

‘Override confirmed,’ the apparatus replied. ‘You now have six hundred seconds of clearance, Deputy Field Prefect Ng.’

‘Present entry port sixteen.’

The polling core sank into the floor like a descending periscope, rotating on its axis as it did so. An illuminated slot came into view. Thalia reached into her cylinder and extracted the diskette containing the relevant software upgrade. She slid the diskette into the slot, feeling the reassuring tug as the pillar accepted it. The diskette vanished into the polling core, accompanied by a series of faint rumbles and thuds.

‘The diskette contains a data fragment. What do you wish me to do with this data fragment, Deputy Field Prefect Ng?’

‘Use the fragment to overwrite the contents of executable data segment alpha alpha five one six.’ She turned to Newkirk and whispered, ‘This will only take an instant. It’s a run-time fragment, so there won’t be any need to recompile the main operating stack.’

‘I cannot overwrite the contents of executable data segment alpha alpha five one six,’ the core said.

Thalia felt a tingle of sweat on her brow. ‘Clarify.’

‘The requested operation would introduce a tertiary-stage conflict in the virtual memory array addressing the executable image in segment kappa epsilon nine nine four.’

‘A problem, Prefect?’ Newkirk asked mildly.

Thalia wiped her brow dry. ‘Nothing we can’t work around. The architecture’s just a bit knottier than I expected. I might have to take abstraction down for slightly longer than a few milliseconds.’

‘What counts as “slightly longer”?’

‘Maybe a tenth of a second.’

‘That won’t go unnoticed.’

‘You now have four hundred and eighty seconds of access, Deputy Field Prefect Ng.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, struggling not to sound flustered. ‘Please evaluate the following. Suspend run-time execution of all images between segments alpha alpha to kappa epsilon inclusive, then perform the data segment overwrite I already requested. Confirm that this would not involve a suspension of abstraction access exceeding one hundred milliseconds—’

‘The aforementioned tertiary-stage conflict would now be resolved, but a quaternary-stage conflict would then arise.’

Thalia swore under her breath. Why had she not probed the architecture before initiating the one-time access window? She could have learned everything she needed to without invoking Panoply privileges.

‘Turn it around,’ she said, suddenly seeing a way. ‘Tell me what would be required to perform a clean installation of the new data segment.’

‘The new data segment can be installed, but it will entail a complete rebuild of all run-time images in all segments between alpha alpha and kappa epsilon inclusive.’

‘Status of abstraction during downtime?’

‘Abstraction will be fully suspended during the rebuild.’

‘Estimated build-time?’ Thalia asked, her throat dry.

‘Three hundred and forty seconds, plus or minus ten seconds, for a confidence interval of ninety-five per cent.’

‘State remaining time on access window.’

‘You now have four hundred and six seconds of access, Deputy Field Prefect Ng.’

She looked at Newkirk, who was studying her with a distinctly unamused expression, in so far as his wax-like mask was capable of expression.

‘You heard what the machine said,’ Thalia told him. ‘You’re going to lose abstraction for more than five minutes. I have to begin the build in the next minute to stand a chance of it finishing before my window closes.’

‘If it doesn’t build in time?’

‘The core will default to safe mode. It’ll need more than a six-hundred-second pad to unlock it then. You could be down for days, with the way Panoply’s tied up at the moment.’

‘Losing abstraction for five minutes will cost us dearly.’

‘I wish there was some other way. But I really need to start that build.’

‘Then do whatever you must.’

‘Do you wish to warn the citizens?’ Thalia asked.

‘It wouldn’t help them. Or me, for that matter.’ His voice turned stern. ‘Begin, Prefect. Get this over with.’

Thalia nodded and told the polling core to commence the build. ‘Abstraction will be interrupted in ten seconds,’ the pillar informed her. ‘Predicted resumption in three hundred and forty seconds.’

‘Time on window.’

‘Access window will close in three hundred and forty-four seconds.’

‘You like to cut it fine,’ Newkirk said.

Thalia made to respond, but even as she was opening her mouth she saw that there would be no point. The man’s face had frozen into mask-like stiffness, his eyes no longer quivering in their sockets. He looked dead; or rather he had become the dead stone bust he had always resembled.

They would all be like that, Thalia realised. All one million, two hundred and seventy four thousand, six hundred and eighteen people inside Carousel New Seattle-Tacoma would now be in a state of limbo, severed from the realm of abstract reality that for them was the entire meaningful world. Just from looking at Newkirk, she knew that there was no consciousness going on inside his skull. If his mind could be said to exist at all, it was somewhere else, locked out, knocking on a door that would remain resolutely shut for another five minutes.

Thalia was utterly alone in a room containing more than a million other people.

‘Give me an update,’ she queried.

‘Rebuild is proceeding on schedule. Estimated time to resumption of abstraction is now two hundred and ninety seconds.’

Thalia clenched her fists. It was going to be the longest three minutes of her life.

‘Sorry to bother you again,’ Dreyfus said as the beta-level copy of Delphine Ruskin-Sartorious resumed existence in the interview suite, ‘but I wondered if you wouldn’t mind answering a few more questions.’

‘I’m at your disposal, as you’ve already made abundantly clear.’

Dreyfus smiled briefly. ‘Let’s not make this any harder than it has to be, Delphine. We may not agree on the sanctity of beta-level simulation, but we both agree a crime’s been committed. I need your help to get to the bottom of it.’

She had her arms crossed before her, silver bracelets hanging from her wrists. ‘Which will inevitably lead us back to the vexed question of my art, I suppose.’

‘Something made someone angry enough to destroy your habitat, ’ Dreyfus went on. ‘Your art may have been a factor in that.’

‘We’re back to the jealousy thing.’

‘I’m wondering if it was more than that. You may have strayed into a politically sensitive area when you picked Philip Lascaille as your subject matter.’

‘I’m not sure I follow you.’

‘Don’t take this the wrong way, but I looked at your history as an artist and until recently you were keeping something of a low profile. Then suddenly - well, I won’t say you became an overnight celebrity, but all of a sudden your work was being talked about, and your pieces were starting to sell for more than just small change.’

‘These things happen. It’s why we keep struggling.’

‘All the same, it appears that your work started attracting attention from about the time you began work on the Lascaille series.’

Delphine shrugged, giving nothing away. ‘I’ve worked on many thematic sequences. This is just the most recent one.’

‘But it’s the one that got people looking at your work, Delphine. For one reason or another, something happened. Why did you settle on Lascaille for your subject matter?’

‘I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Prefect. Lascaille and everything that happened to him is part of our shared history. There are already a million works of art inspired by his visit to the Shroud. Is it any great surprise that I have incorporated a tragic and familiar figurehead into my own?’

Dreyfus made an equivocal face. ‘But it was a long time ago, Delphine. We’re going back to the time of the Eighty. Those wounds healed years ago.’

‘Doesn’t mean there isn’t still resonance in the theme,’ she countered.

‘I don’t deny it. But has it occurred to you that you might have raked over some ground that was better left undisturbed?’

‘With Lascaille?’

‘Why not? The man came back a lunatic. He was barely capable of feeding himself. Word is he drowned himself in the Sylveste Institute for Shrouder Studies. That made some of the other organisations with an interest in the Shrouders very unhappy. They’d long wanted to get their own hands on Lascaille, so that they could look into his skull and see what the hell had happened to him. Then word got out that he’d drowned himself in an ornamental fish pond.’

‘He was more than likely suicidal. You’re not suggesting someone murdered him?’

‘Only that his dying didn’t look good for House Sylveste.’

‘So what you’re saying is - let me get this right - someone killed me and my family, not to mention my entire habitat, because I had the temerity to refer to Philip Lascaille in my art?’

‘It’s a theory. If someone connected to the Sylveste family perceived your art as a veiled critique of their actions, they might well have considered retaliation.’

‘But why not just kill me, if I made them so angry?’

‘I don’t know,’ Dreyfus admitted. ‘But it would help if I knew that you really hadn’t intended that work to embarrass the Sylvestes.’

‘Would that have been a crime, if I had?’

‘No, but if you’d intended the art to provoke a response, it wouldn’t be too surprising that you got one.’

‘I can’t speculate on the motives of the Sylveste family.’

‘But you can tell me why you picked Lascaille.’

She looked at him witheringly, as if she’d only just appreciated his true worth. ‘You think it’s that easy? You think I can articulate my reasons for choosing that subject matter as if it was no more complicated or involved than picking the colour of a chair?’

‘I’m not saying—’

‘You’ve precious little insight into the artistic process, Prefect. It’s a shame; I pity you. You must see the world in such drab, mechanistic terms. What a crushing, regimented, soullessly predictable universe you must inhabit. Art - anything that can’t be described in strictly procedural terms - is utterly alien to you, isn’t it?’

‘I knew my wife,’ Dreyfus said quietly.

‘I’m sorry?’

‘She was an artist.’

Delphine looked at him for long moments, her expression softening. ‘What happened to her?’ she asked.

‘She died.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Delphine said, Dreyfus hearing genuine remorse in her voice. ‘What I just said to you - that was cruel and unnecessary.’

‘You were right, though. I’ve no artistic side. But I spent enough time with my wife to understand something of the creative process. ’

‘Do you want to tell me what happened to her?’

Dreyfus shot her a steely smile. ‘Quid pro quo is the phrase, I believe.’

‘I don’t need to know about your wife. But you do need to know about my art.’

‘You’re curious, though. I can tell.’

She breathed out through her nose, looking down it at him. ‘Tell me what kind of an artist she was.’

‘Valery wasn’t exceptionally talented,’ Dreyfus said. ‘She discovered that early enough in her career for it not to cause her too much grief and disappointment when she brushed against real genius. But she still wanted to find a way to make art her vocation.’

‘And?’

‘She succeeded. Valery became interested in art created by machine intelligences. Her mission was to prove that it was as valid as purely human art; that there wasn’t some essential creative spark that required the input of a flesh-and-blood mind.’

‘That’s reassuring, given that I’m no longer a flesh-and-blood intelligence myself.’

‘Valery would have insisted that your art be taken just as seriously now as when you were alive. But she wasn’t so much interested in what beta-level simulations could produce as she was in art created by intelligences that had no human antecedents. That was what took her to SIAM.’

‘That rings a bell.’

‘The Sylveste Institute for Artificial Mentation.’

‘That family again.’

‘Yes, they do tend to crop up.’

‘What did they want with your wife, Prefect Dreyfus?’

‘In SIAM they were building experimental machine intelligences based on a raft of different neural architectures. Valery was assigned to the Laboratory for Cognitive Studies, a department within SIAM. Her function was to evaluate the creative potential of these new minds, with the goal of creating a generation of gamma-level intelligences with the ability to solve problems by intuitive breakthrough, rather than step-by-step analysis. In essence, they wanted to create gamma-levels that were not only capable of passing the standard Turing tests, but which had the potential for intuitive thinking.’ Dreyfus touched a finger to his upper lip. ‘Valery tried to coax these machines into making art. To one degree or another, she usually got something out of them. But it was more like children daubing paint with their fingers than true creative expression. Valery began to despair of finding anything with an artistic impulse. Then she was introduced to a new machine.’

‘Wait a minute,’ Delphine said, uncrossing her arms. ‘I knew I’d heard of SIAM before. Wasn’t that where the Clockmaker happened?’

Dreyfus nodded. ‘That was the machine. Its origin was obscure: there was secrecy and interdepartmental rivalry within SIAM, as in any organisation of that nature. What was clear was this: someone had created an artificial mind unlike anything that had gone before. Not just a brain in a bottle, but an autonomous robotic entity with the ability to move and interact with its surroundings. By the time my wife got to see it, it was already making things. Toys. Puzzles. Little ornaments and objets d’art. Clocks and musical boxes. Soon it started making more clocks than anything else.’

‘Did you know about it at the time?’

‘Only through what my wife told me. I expressed concern. The Clockmaker’s ability to manipulate its surroundings and alter its own structure suggested a robot embodying advanced replicating technology, the kind of thing Panoply was supposed to police.’

‘What did Valery say?’

‘She told me not to worry. As far as she was concerned, the Clockmaker was no more dangerous than a child eager to please. I told her I hoped it wouldn’t throw a temper tantrum.’

‘You sensed the possibilities.’

‘No one knew where the thing had come from, or who was responsible for creating it.’

‘You were right to be worried.’

‘One day it made something evil. Clock number two hundred and fourteen looked no different from a dozen that had preceded it. Valery wasn’t the one who found it. It was another SIAM researcher, a woman named Krafft. At twelve fifty-eight in the morning she picked up the clock, preparing to carry it back to the analysis area. She was still on her way when the clock struck thirteen. A spring-loaded barb rammed out of the dial, pushing its way into Krafft’s chest. It penetrated her ribs and stabbed her in the heart. She died instantly.’

Delphine shuddered. ‘That was when it began.’

‘We lost contact with SIAM at thirteen twenty-six, less than half an hour after the discovery of clock number two hundred and fourteen. The last clear message was that something was loose, killing or maiming people wherever it encountered them. Yet all the while it found time to stop and make clocks. It would absorb materials into itself, into the flickering wall of its body, and spew out ticking clocks a few seconds later.’

‘I have to ask - what happened to your wife? Did the Clockmaker kill her?’

‘No,’ Dreyfus said. ‘That wasn’t how she died. I know because a team of prefects entered SIAM within an hour of the start of the crisis. They established contact with a group of researchers holed up in a different section of the facility. They’d managed to contain the Clockmaker behind emergency decompression barriers, sealing it into one half of the habitat. My wife was one of the survivors, but the prefects couldn’t reach them, or arrange for their evacuation. Instead they concentrated on neutralising the Clockmaker and gathering its artefacts for further study. Jane Aumonier was the only one of those prefects to make it out alive. She was also the only one to survive a direct encounter with the entity.’

‘Jane Aumonier?’

‘My boss: the supreme prefect. She was still alive when we got to her, but the Clockmaker had attached something to her neck. It had told her that the device would kill her if anyone attempted to remove it. That wasn’t all, though. The prefects had sixty minutes to get Jane back to Panoply and into a weightless sphere. When that sixty minutes was up, the device would execute her if anyone - and almost anything - came within seven and a half metres of her.’

‘That’s horrific.’

‘That wasn’t the end of it. The scarab - that’s what we came to call the device - won’t allow her to sleep. It’s not that it’s keeping her awake artificially. Her body’s screaming for sleep. But if the scarab detects unconsciousness, it’ll kill her. Drugs have kept Jane in a state of permanent consciousness for eleven years.’

‘There must be something you can do for her. All the resources of this place, of the entire Glitter Band—’

‘Count for nothing against the ingenuity of the Clockmaker. Which isn’t to say that there aren’t good men and women spending every waking minute of their lives trying to find a way to relieve Jane of her torment.’ Dreyfus offered a pragmatic shrug. ‘We’ll get it off her one way or another. But we’ll have to be certain of success before we attempt it. The scarab won’t give us a second chance.’

‘I’m sorry about your boss. But you still haven’t told me what happened to your wife. If she was isolated from the Clockmaker—’

‘After we got Jane out, we knew there was no point sending in more prefects. They’d have been butchered or worse. And the Clockmaker was beginning to break down the barricades. It was only a matter of time before it had free run of SIAM. From there, given its speed and cleverness, it might have been able to hop to another habitat, somewhere with millions of citizens.’

‘You couldn’t take that chance.’

‘Albert Dusollier - supreme prefect at the time - took the decision to nuke SIAM. It was the only way to ensure that the Clockmaker didn’t get loose.’

Delphine nodded slowly. ‘I remember they destroyed it. I didn’t realise there were still people inside.’

‘There was never any cover-up. It’s just that most of the reports dwelled on what had been prevented, not on the costs of the action.’

‘Were you there when it happened?’

He shook his head automatically. ‘No. I was on the other side of the Glitter Band when the crisis broke. I started making my way there as quickly as possible, hoping that there’d be a way to get a message through to Valery. I didn’t make it in time, though. I saw the flash when they destroyed SIAM.’

‘That must have been very difficult for you.’

‘At least the Clockmaker didn’t have time to get to Valery.’

‘I’m sorry about your wife, Prefect. I’d like to have met her. It sounds as if we’d have found a great deal to talk about.’

‘I’m sure you would have.’

After a moment, Delphine said, ‘I remember the name Dusollier now. Didn’t something happen to him after the crisis?’

‘Three days later he was found dead in his quarters. He’d used a whiphound on himself, set to sword mode.’

‘He couldn’t live with what he’d done?’

‘So it would appear.’

‘But surely he’d had no choice. He would have needed to poll the citizenry to be able to use those nukes in the first place. He’d have had the will of the people behind him.’

‘It obviously wasn’t enough for him.’

‘There was no explanation, no suicide note?’

Dreyfus hesitated. There had been a note. He’d even read it himself, using Pangolin privilege.

We made a mistake. We shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry for what we did to those people. God help them all.

‘There was no note,’ he told Delphine. There was no note, just as there was no anomalous six-hour timelag between the rescue of Jane Aumonier and the destruction of SIAM. There was no timelag, just as there was no inexplicable connection with the mothballed spacecraft Atalanta, moved from its prior orbit to a position very near SIAM at exactly the time of the crisis.

There were no mysteries. Everything was accounted for.

‘I still don’t understand why the man killed himself,’ Delphine said.

Dreyfus shrugged. ‘He couldn’t forgive himself for what he’d done.’

‘Even though it was absolutely the only right thing to do?’

‘Even though.’

Delphine appeared to reflect on his words before speaking again. ‘Was there a beta-level copy of your wife?’

‘No,’ Dreyfus said.

‘Why not?’

‘Valery didn’t believe in them. She refused to accept that a beta-level simulation could be anything other than a walking, talking shell. It might look and sound like her, it might mimic her responses to a high degree of accuracy, but it wouldn’t be her on the inside. It wouldn’t have an interior life.’

‘And you believe the same thing, because it’s what your wife believed.’

Dreyfus offered his palms in surrender. ‘I’m sorry. That’s just the way it is.’

‘Did your wife ever consider alpha-level simulation?’

‘She’d have had no philosophical objection to it. But my wife and I grew up in the shadow of the Eighty. I know the methods have improved since then, but there are still risks and uncertainties.’

‘I understand now why you have a problem with the likes of me.’ Delphine blunted the harshness of the remark with a sympathetic smile. ‘And I’m not angry. You lost someone dear to you. To admit that I have some claim on consciousness would be to repudiate Valery’s beliefs.’

Dreyfus made a self-deprecatory gesture. ‘Trust me, I’m not that complicated.’

‘But you’re human. It’s not a crime, Prefect. I’m sorry I prejudged you.’

‘You weren’t to know.’

Delphine took a deep breath, as if she was preparing to submerge herself underwater. ‘I made a promise. You’ve told me something personal, and now you want to know about my reasons for working on the Lascaille series. I’ll do my best to explain, but I think you’re going to be disappointed. There was no blinding flash when I woke up one day and realised I had to devote myself to his story.’

‘But something happened.’

‘I just felt this thing building up inside me, like a kind of pressure trying to force its way out. It was like an itch I couldn’t scratch, until I’d told Philip’s side of events.’

‘How familiar were you with the story?’

Delphine looked equivocal, as if this was a question she’d never really asked herself. ‘As familiar as anyone, I suppose. I’d heard of him, I knew something of what had happened—’

‘But was there a defining moment when you realised you had to tackle him? Did you see a reference to him, hear something about the Sylveste family or the Shrouds?’

‘No, nothing like that.’ She paused and something flashed in her eyes. ‘But there was that day. I was working in the habitat, cutting rock in my vacuum atelier. I was suited, of course - the heat from the plasma torches would have killed me even if there’d been air to breathe. I was directing the cutting servitors, working on a completely unrelated composition. Imagine a conductor standing before an orchestra. Then think of the musicians shaping solid rock with plasma-fire and atomic-scale cutting tools instead of making music with traditional instruments. That was what it felt like: I only had to imagine a shape or texture and my implants would steer the machines to do my bidding. It became a near unconscious process, dreaming rock into art.’

‘And then?’

‘I pulled back from the piece I was working on and realised that I’d been taking it in a direction I hadn’t intended. The face wasn’t supposed to be anyone in particular, but now it reminded me of someone. Once I’d made that connection, I knew my subconscious was pushing me towards Philip Lascaille as subject matter.’

‘Beyond that, though, you can’t explain why you focused on him?’

Delphine looked apologetic. ‘I wish I could rationalise it. But as I’m sure your wife would have agreed, art doesn’t work that way. Some days we just tap into something inexplicable.’

‘I appreciate your honesty.’

‘Does this invalidate your theory that someone took offence at my art?’

‘Not necessarily. You might have provoked something without meaning to. But I admit it’s difficult to see how merely referencing Philip Lascaille would have been enough to push someone to mass murder.’ Dreyfus straightened - he’d been getting stiff in the back. ‘All the same, the crime happened. I think I have enough to be going on with for now, Delphine. Thank you for your time.’

‘What’s your next move?’

‘One of my deputies - you met her - is working on backtracking the incoming call to your habitat. When I have a result from her, I’ll see where it leads.’

‘I’m curious to know the outcome.’

‘I’ll make sure you hear about it.’

‘Prefect, before you turn me off again - would you reconsider my earlier request? I’d like to be able to talk to Vernon.’

‘I can’t risk cross-contamination.’

‘Neither of us has anything to hide from you. I’ve told you everything I know.’

‘I’m sorry, but I just can’t take the risk.’

‘Prefect, there’s something you need to understand about us. When you turn me off, I don’t have any existence.’

‘That’s because your simulation undergoes no state changes between episodes of invocation.’

‘I know - when you switch me back on again, I remember nothing except our last meeting. But I can tell you this: I still feel as if I’ve been somewhere else.’ She looked him hard in the eyes, daring him to look away. ‘And wherever it is, it’s a cold and lonely place.’

A message from Thalia awaited him when he turned his bracelet on again. He called her back.

‘I see you’re en route. How are things going?’

Her response returned with no detectable timelag. ‘Well enough, sir. I’ve finished the first installation.’

‘All went smoothly?’

‘Couple of hiccups, but they’re up and running now.’

‘In other words, one hole closed, three to go. You’re ahead of schedule, I see.’

‘In all honesty, sir, I don’t expect any of these upgrades to need all the time I allocated. But I thought it was better to be safe than sorry.’

‘Very wise of you.’

After a pause, Thalia said, ‘I guess you’re wondering about the network analysis, sir?’

‘I don’t suppose you’ve made any progress?’ he asked, his tone hopeful.

‘The snapshots you sent through were all I needed. I might even have a lead for you. Assuming that the stated time for the incoming transmission to the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble was correct to within twenty minutes, I see only one likely candidate for the network router that would have handled that data traffic.’

‘Which would be?’

‘It’s nowhere you’re likely to have heard of, sir. Just a free-floating network router named Vanguard Six. Basically it’s nothing more than a boulder floating in the Glitter Band, with an automated signal-forwarding station built into it.’

He made a mental note of the name. ‘And you think this router will have kept a record of traffic it handled?’

‘Enough to tell you where the message originated, sir. Even if that point of origin turns out to be another router, you should still be able to keep backtracking it until you reach the original sender. It would be unusual for a message to pass through more than two or three relay stages.’

‘Sparver should be able to handle the technical issues. It can’t be done remotely, can it?’

‘No, sir. Someone needs to be physically present. But you’re right - Sparver will know exactly what to do.’

‘I’m sure he will,’ Dreyfus said.

Without another word he closed the connection and prepared to rouse his other deputy.

CHAPTER 10

They did not look like people at all, but rather luminous pink branching coral formations, vast, dendritic and mysteriously chambered. For many seconds, Gaffney stared in mesmerised fascination at the three-dimensional patterns, awed at what he was seeing. If human souls could be frozen and captured in light, they would look something like this. Now that the flesh-and-blood individuals were deceased, and since none of the three had subjected themselves to alpha-level scanning, these beta-levels represented the last link with the living as far as Vernon Tregent, Anthony Theobald and Delphine Ruskin-Sartorious were concerned.

Panoply might not regard beta-levels as anything other than forensic information, akin to photographs or bloodstains, but Gaffney was more open-minded. He didn’t hold with the orthodox view that only alpha-level simulations were to be accorded full human rights. The exterior effect was the only thing that mattered, not what was going on behind the mask. That was why it did not unduly concern him that he did not know exactly what Aurora was. So she might be a machine, rather than a living person. So what? What mattered was her compassion, her evident concern for the well-being of the hundred million souls orbiting Yellowstone.

He’d had his doubts at first, of course.

She had come to him five years earlier, four years after he’d been promoted to head of Panoply’s Internal Security division. He’d been a senior for years before that, and an outstanding field for as long again. He’d given his life to Panoply, and asked for nothing in return except the assurance that his colleagues cared about their duties as much as he did. He had invested his own identity in the idea of service, eschewing marriage and social relationships in preference to a life of disciplinary self-control. He lived and breathed the ideals of Panoply, the martial life of a career prefect. He didn’t just accept the sacrifices of his profession, he welcomed them.

But then something had happened that caused Gaffney to question the worth of Panoply, and by inference his own fitness as a human being. He had been sent to investigate possible voting anomalies in a habitat known as Hell-Five. It was a strange world, built around a perfect hemisphere of rock, as if a round asteroid had been sliced in two. Airtight structures rose up from both the flat face and the underlying pole, densely packed skyscrapers wrapped in coiling pressurised passageways. Once, Hell-Five had been a gambler’s paradise, before the fashion for such things waned. It had moved through several social models after that, each less remunerative than the last, before settling on the one Gaffney had witnessed during his visit. Within months of assuming its new identity, Hell-Five had become a dazzling success, with other habitats paying handsomely to access its lucrative new export.

That export was human misery.

Once a month, one of the habitat’s extremely wealthy citizens was selected at random. That unfortunate individual would be tortured, their excruciation prolonged via medical intervention until they eventually succumbed to death. Money flowed into Hell-Five’s coffers via the sale of viewing rights and the fact that the citizens of other habitats could sponsor a particular mode of torture, often after a series of escalating auctions.

The system sickened Gaffney to the marrow. He’d observed many extremes of human society in his tours of the Glitter Band, but nothing to compare with the depravities of Hell-Five. One glimpse of one of the victims-in-progress had sent him reeling. He had experienced a deep-seated conviction that Hell-Five was simply wrong; a social abomination that needed to be corrected, if not wiped out of existence.

But Panoply - and therefore Gaffney himself - could do nothing to curtail it. Panoply was concerned only with matters of security and voting rights as they pertained to the Glitter Band as a whole. What went on inside a given habitat - provided those activities did not contravene technological or weapons moratoriums, or deny citizens free voting rights - was entirely outside Panoply’s jurisdiction; a matter for local constabulary alone.

By these criteria, Hell-Five had done nothing wrong.

Gaffney found himself unable to accept this state of affairs. The phenomenon of the torture states, and the citizens’ collective refusal to see them ended, showed that the people could not be trusted with absolute freedom. Nor could Panoply be trusted to step in when a moral cancer began to spread through the Glitter Band.

Gaffney saw then that something had to be done. Too much power had been devolved to the habitats. For their own safety, central government needed to be reasserted. The citizens would never vote for that, of course; even the moderate states were wary of ceding too much authority to an organisation like Panoply. But needs must, no matter how unwilling the populace. Children were playing with some very sharp knives: it was a wonder more blood hadn’t already been spilled.

Gaffney had begun to express his thoughts in his personal journal. It was a way of clarifying and organising his precepts. He saw that Panoply had to change - perhaps even cease to exist - if the people were not to be abandoned to their own worst natures. He was aware that his ideas were heretical; that they cut against everything Sandra Voi’s name had stood for these past two hundred years. But history was not made by reasonable or cautious individuals. Sandra Voi had hardy been cautious or reasonable herself.

Aurora had revealed herself to him soon after.

‘You’re a good man, Sheridan. Yet you feel beleaguered, as if all those around you have forgotten their true responsibilities.’

Gaffney had blinked at the sudden appearance of the face on his private security pane. ‘Who are you?’

‘A fellow sympathiser. A friend, if you wish.’

He was inside Panoply. If she was reaching him, then she had to be inside as well. But he knew even then that she was not, and that Aurora had powers of infiltration and stealth that made a mockery of walls and doors, whether real or virtual. If she was a beta- or gamma-level, she was cleverer and more agile than most.

‘Are you human?’

The question had clearly amused her. ‘Does it really matter what I am, provided we share the same ideals?’

‘My ideals are my own business.’

‘Not now they aren’t. I’ve seen your words, shared your theories.’ She nodded in answer to the question he’d barely begun to frame. ‘Yes, I’ve looked into your private journals. Don’t be shocked, Sheridan. There is nothing shaming about them. Quite the contrary. I found them courageous. You are that rarest of creatures: a man with the wisdom to see beyond his own time.’

‘I’m a prefect. It’s my job to think about the future.’

‘But some people are better at it than others. You are a seer, Sheridan: much like myself. We just use different methods. Your policeman’s instincts tell you that Hell-Five is a symptom, a diagnostic of a looming pathology that may tax even Panoply’s resources. I see the future through a different lens, but I perceive the same ominous patterns, the same subtle indications of times of great crisis to come.’

‘What do you see?’

‘The end of everything, Sheridan. Unless brave men take the right action now to avert that catastrophe.’ She had looked at him testingly, like a teacher judging a bright but wayward pupil. ‘The words in your journal show that you care. But caring is not enough. Words must become deeds.’

‘I’m doing what I can. When my ideas are finalised, I can approach the other seniors—’

‘And have them drum you out of the organisation?’

‘If I could only express myself properly—’

‘It’ll make no difference. You’re advocating authoritarian control. You know it is the right thing to do, but to most people the very idea is poison.’

‘It doesn’t have to be like that.’

‘Of course it doesn’t. You see that, just as you feel it in your heart. Authoritarian control can also be a form of kindness, like a mother hugging an infant to her breast to stop it thrashing and wailing. But no amount of rational persuasion will convince the populace. They must simply be shown.’

‘Then it’ll never happen. Even if Panoply had the will, it’d never have the power to seize the Glitter Band. The citizenry won’t even let us carry guns!’

‘There are other ways of asserting control, Sheridan. It doesn’t have to involve prefects storming every habitat in the ten thousand and declaring a new regime.’

‘How, then?’

‘It can happen between one moment and the next, if the right preparations are made.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘For a long time I’ve been thinking along similar lines to yourself. After much deliberation, I’ve concluded that the transition to central authority must happen instantly, before there is a possibility of panic and counter-reaction.’

‘The means don’t exist,’ he told her.

‘But what if we arranged things such that they do?’

‘They’d notice our preparations.’

‘Not if we are better than them. That’s no problem. Between the two of us, Sheridan, I think we can be very good indeed.’

Years after that first conversation with Aurora, Gaffney found himself thinking of all the preparations they had made, all the perils and impediments they had overcome. The thing that struck him, given all that he now knew, was how Aurora had never once uttered an actual untruth. She had not needed to tell him about her own visions of the future, but she had done so nonetheless. And as their relationship deepened, as the bonds of conspiracy grew thicker and more tangled, so she had allowed him to learn the true nature of that lens of which she had first spoken: the machine called Exordium, and the unwilling sleepers who on her behalf peered into its misty depths and reported what they saw. He had even walked amongst them, privy to a secret that would have ripped the system wide open had it become known. He felt sorry for those dreaming prisoners. But what they were doing was a beautiful, necessary thing.

History would thank them.

Hell-Five had shown Gaffney that the very nature of the Glitter Band embodied the seed of its own destruction. But Aurora had sucked information out of the future and seen the end itself: not as some vague, ill-determined catastrophe, but a specific event that could almost be tied down to a specific date.

A time of plague. A time of corruption and foulness.

It was coming and there was nowhere to hide.

But between them they had done something: perhaps not enough to avert the crisis, but at least to deflect some of its impact when it arrived. In a very short while, the Glitter Band would be relieved of the burden of self-determination.

This, Gaffney knew, was the time of the most acute risk. He had taken care of almost everything. But the one thing that might create difficulties for Aurora had still not been neutralised. Now he was also confronted with the thorny issues of the beta-levels. Gaffney had hoped that none would survive the attack, and that any backed-up copies retrieved from other habitats would be too out-of-sync to point Dreyfus towards the truth.

But Dreyfus was on to something.

Gaffney had accessed the logs concerning the other prefect’s usage of the Search Turbines. The man was showing an unhealthy interest in the details of Delphine’s art, as if he instinctively knew that there was more to the habitat’s demise than met the eye. Dreyfus might not be aware of the Clockmaker connection, but given the man’s demonstrated resourcefulness, it might only be a matter of time before he found a link.

So he had to be impeded.

Gaffney’s hands moved to initiate the command he had already composed. From elsewhere in the data troves laid open for his inspection, he retrieved a slow-acting, high-stealth cybervirus. The software weapon was ancient and wouldn’t stand a chance against a properly shielded installation. But the beta-levels were a different matter.

He threaded copies of the virus into their architectures at a level that would withstand superficial scrutiny. For now it did nothing. It was dormant, waiting until it was called into action.

Waiting until the witnesses were resurrected from the dead again.

Sparver was blowing his upturned, flat-ended nose into his sleeve while Dreyfus poured tea. His hyperpig respiratory system liked the air on cutters even less than Dreyfus’s did.

‘You were quicker than I was expecting,’ Dreyfus observed. ‘Any hitches?’

Sparver stared at his sleeve until it cleaned itself. ‘Not at all. I got in and out without a snag.’

‘What did you find?’

‘Nothing to write home about. A piece of free-floating junk about the same size as the cutter. I grappled in and spacewalked. Took me about two minutes to find the right module and patch in a froptic. After that it was plain sailing.’ His gently slanted eyes were pink-rimmed, as if he’d been up all night drinking vodka. ‘Heard from Thalia since I left, Boss?’

Dreyfus shook his head. ‘I reckoned she’d work faster without me breathing down her neck every five minutes.’

‘She’ll get the job done, don’t worry about that.’

‘I sincerely hope so.’

‘You have doubts?’

‘I can’t help worrying. She’s a good deputy, but she’s barely out of school. I know she wants to prove to us all how good she is, but sometimes I think she’s overcompensating for what happened to her father.’

‘What was your take on that?’

‘I didn’t know Jason Ng all that well. But from what I did know, I never had cause to doubt his abilities or his dedication to Panoply.’

‘So you were surprised?’

‘We all were.’

‘You ever talk to Thalia about it?’

‘The subject’s never come up.’

Sparver smiled. ‘She’d hardly be the one to raise it, would she?’

‘Whatever I might think of her father, it has no bearing on my opinion of Thalia. I wouldn’t have selected her for my squad if I’d had doubts.’ Dreyfus took his cup and sipped at it gently, blowing on the tea to cool it. ‘Isn’t that all the reassurance she needs?’

‘There are still prefects who won’t look her in the eye when she goes to the refectory,’ Sparver said. ‘I know how that feels.’

‘They also resent her because she was promoted to Deputy Field One ahead of most of her classmates.’

‘I just sometimes wonder if we truly understand what it’s like for her, working for the same organisation that tarred and feathered her father.’

Dreyfus shrugged. He had no real opinion on the matter. Jason Ng had been outwardly competent and trustworthy, but it was a matter of record that he had obstructed an investigation into a mid-rank habitat suspected of voting fraud. He had been found dead, having committed suicide in a cargo airlock. Post-mortem audits revealed how Ng had been receiving bribes from parties connected to the habitat. He had killed himself because his culpability was about to be made public, and he wished to spare Thalia the shame of watching her father go through a humiliating tribunal.

Dreyfus didn’t care. He did not believe in an inherited disposition for accepting bribes or perverting investigations. If anything, he believed that Thalia would make a better prefect than many of her peers. She wanted both to redeem her father’s sins and show that she was not a slave to her genes.

‘She’s a good deputy,’ he said again. ‘That’s all that matters to me. And I have every confidence that she’ll pull this off without our assistance.’

‘You didn’t sound confident just now.’

‘I’m entitled to entertain reasonable qualms. But that’s all they are. And face it, Sparv: Thalia chose to bite this one off on her own. She’d hardly welcome the arrival of a back-up squad, even if we could spare the personnel.’

‘You’re right, as usual. I just have this horrible feeling that we’re dancing to someone else’s tune, spreading ourselves too thinly. We’ve got Thalia trying to seal the Perigal security hole; we’ve got you and me trying to nail whoever murdered Ruskin-Sartorious; we’ve got the rest of Panoply trying to keep the habitats and the Ultras from cutting each other’s throats. Is it me or is this starting to feel like an unusually busy week?’

‘Look on the bright side,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Thalia’s going to be done soon: that’ll be one case closed. And we’re making solid progress on the Ruskin-Sartorious investigation.’ He studied Sparver with sudden intensity. ‘We are, aren’t we? Or did you just drop in for tea and sympathy?’

‘Tea. For sympathy I go elsewhere. Mind if I use your wall? I want to show you what I got from the router.’

Dreyfus extended a hand. ‘Go ahead. It’s group-conjurable.’

With the slightly exaggerated patience Dreyfus had sometimes come to recognise in his underlings, Sparver walked him through the data. There were five columns of information: the time of arrival of an incoming transmission, its point of origin (the next node up the line), its intended destination (the next node down the line), the time when it had been forwarded - typically only a few nanoseconds after it had come in - and a final column giving some sketchy information concerning the contents of the transmission.

‘There’s a lot of CTC traffic coming through,’ Sparver said, indicating a proportion of columns with a particular flag in the fifth column. ‘That we can dispense with. It’s just navigational housekeeping data, keeping tabs on all the ships and drones moving through the Band.’ Sparver removed the CTC data, leaving many blank lines in the wall display. Dreyfus felt cheered: they were getting somewhere. But his glad frame of mind didn’t last long. The remaining data shuffled up to fill the gaps, leaving the wall looking much as it had before. He reminded himself that he was only seeing a small, illustrative portion of the entire router log, and that there were millions of lines above and below the visible segment.

‘Now we do a similar filtering on polling traffic,’ Sparver said. ‘That takes care of another major chunk of the data. Run the same trick on traffic on the major trade nets and we delete another big chunk. It may not look like an improvement, but we’ve already shrunk the log by about half. But we can do better still. Clear out all router housekeeping and we drop another ten per cent. Clear out standard abstraction packets and we’re down to about twenty per cent of our original file.’

It must still have been tens of thousands of lines. ‘We’ll need to do better than that, even,’ Dreyfus said.

‘And we can. Now we filter on the target address of Ruskin-Sartorious. ’ Sparver scrolled up and down to show that he had now reduced the log to a mere thousand lines or so.

Dreyfus scratched at his left eyebrow. ‘Why didn’t we just jump to this point in the first place?’

‘Doesn’t work like that,’ Sparver said. ‘Like almost every habitat in the Glitter Band, Ruskin-Sartorious would have handled onward forwarding of third-party data, including CTC services, trade talk, abstraction packets, the works. We’d still have had to strip all that from the list even if we narrowed it down to messages only going to Ruskin-Sartorious.’

‘Would have been faster, though.’

‘But logically equivalent. The system doesn’t care in which order you do the filtering.’

‘I’ll take your word for it. But we’re still looking at a mass of data.’

‘We’re not done. Now we start getting clever.’

‘I thought we were already being clever.’

‘Not enough.’ Sparver smiled - he was clearly enjoying himself. ‘See that number in the fourth column?’

‘Yes,’ Dreyfus said guardedly. ‘Timetag for outgoing transmission. ’

‘That’s our clue. The message that came through to Ruskin-Sartorious was voice-only, right?’

‘According to Vernon and Delphine. What difference does the message format make?’

Sparver drank from his cup. ‘It makes a world of difference. When a transmission goes through the router, it’s subjected to a certain amount of routine processing. Cyclic redundancy error-checking, that kind of thing. If there’s a fault, the router sends a message back to the previous sender, asking for a repeat transmission. ’

Dreyfus nodded provisionally. ‘Makes sense.’

‘The point is, all that error-checking takes a finite amount of time. And the heavier the data burden - the more content there is in the message - the more number-crunching needs to be done.’

‘Ah. I think I see where you’re going.’

‘The key’s in the outgoing timetag, Boss. Compared to most of the traffic the router would have forwarded to Ruskin-Sartorious, voice-only comms are hardly worth mentioning. The processing delay would have been almost zero.’

‘So when the time difference between the incoming and outgoing tags is smallest—’

‘We’ll probably have isolated our message. Or at least some possible candidates.’

‘Do it,’ Dreyfus said excitedly.

Sparver was ahead of him. Now the wall showed only a dozen transmissions, all falling within the likely interval when Delphine had been warned to break off negotiations with the Ultras.

‘We’re still not down to one—’ Dreyfus began.

‘But we’re getting damned warm. Now we can apply some good old intuitive police work. We look at the originating nodes. Check out the second column, Boss - I’ve resolved the addresses into recognisable names. Now, I’m willing to bet that most of them will correspond to habitats that have either been in contact with Ruskin-Sartorious over a long period of time, or which are places we’d expect to broadcast to the entire Glitter Band on a fairly regular basis.’

‘Can you check that?’

‘Already did. You ready for this?’ Sparver sent a command to the wall. Now there was only one transmission entry left. ‘You’ll need to look over the eleven I rejected, but I’m pretty confident we can rule them out. This one, on the other hand, sticks out like the proverbial.’

‘In what way?’

‘The point of origin isn’t anywhere I recognise, which immediately sets off my alarm bells. It’s just a rock, a free-floating chunk of unprocessed asteroid drifting in one of the middle orbits.’

‘Someone’s got to own it.’

‘The claim on the rock goes back to a family or combine called Nerval-Lermontov. Whether that means anything or not, I don’t know.’

‘Nerval-Lermontov,’ Dreyfus said, repeating the name slowly. ‘I know that family name from somewhere.’

‘But then you know a lot of families.’

‘They could be innocent. Is there any reason to think this rock isn’t just another router?’

‘Maybe it is. But here’s the odd thing. Whoever made the call, whoever sent that signal from the Nerval-Lermontov rock - whether it originated there, or was just routed through it - that was the only time they ever contacted Ruskin-Sartorious through that particular node.’

‘You’re right,’ Dreyfus said approvingly. ‘Alarm bells. Lots of them.’

Sparver put down his tea, the china clinking delicately against Dreyfus’s table. ‘Never say we pigs don’t have our uses.’

A flying horse had been waiting for Thalia when she arrived in the Chevelure-Sambuke Hourglass. The animal’s wings beat the air with dreamlike slowness, slender legs treading air as if galloping on the spot. Its skin was transparent, affording an anatomically precise view of its tightly packed internal organs, its highly modified skeleton and musculature. The insectile wings were blade-slender, intricately veined, with no visible skeletal underpinnings.

Thalia’s pegasus wasn’t the only flying thing in the air. There were other flying horses, visible as slowly flapping translucent forms in the far distance. Some of them had riders; others must have been on their way to pick up passengers or were engaged in some errand of their own. There were also much more colourful things, suggestive of giant patterned moths, striped fish or elaborately tailed Chinese dragon kites. The pegasuses appeared to be confined to the habitat’s low-gravity regions (with those prismatic wings it wasn’t surprising) but the other flying forms had free roam of the entire interior. Amongst them, almost too small to make out, were the star-shaped forms of flying people, with wings or aerodynamic surfaces of their own. Thalia tried her glasses, but the overlay revealed no significant points of difference compared to naked reality. This confirmed everything that she had read about the Hourglass during her flight: the people here preferred to shape matter, not information.

Gradually, she became aware of gravity pushing her deeper into the saddle. The horse was aiming itself at a tongue-like landing deck, buttressed out from a spired white mansion near the top of a city constructed on the slopes of the Hourglass’s midpoint constriction. As she neared the touchdown point, Thalia observed a civic welcoming party gathered around the perimeter of the deck.

A pair of functionaries rushed to the side of the pegasus to help Thalia disembark as soon as the horse’s hooves clinked against glass flooring. The pull of gravity could still not have been more than a tenth of a gee, but the horse’s wings were beating constantly, fanning the air with an audible whoosh on each twisting downbeat. The functionaries - who were more or less baseline human in appearance - moved out of the way once Thalia was on her feet.

A giant panda-like man, all black and white fur, ambled across to meet her. He moved with remarkable grace despite his obvious mass. His huge head was as wide as a vacuum helmet, his true eyes barely visible in the black ovals of his eyepatches. He stopped munching on a thin greenish stick and passed it to a functionary.

‘Welcome, Deputy Field Prefect Ng,’ he said in an unctuous tone. ‘I am Mayor Graskop. It is a pleasure to welcome you to our modest little world. We trust your stay will be both pleasant and productive.’

He offered her his paw in greeting. Thalia’s own small hand disappeared into a padding of warm, damp fur. She noticed that Mayor Graskop had five fingers and a thumb, all digits tipped with a shiny black nail.

‘Thank you for sending the horse.’

‘Did you like it? We’d have cultured something unique if we’d had more notice of your visit.’

‘It was a very nice horse, thank you. You didn’t need to go to any more trouble.’

The mayor released his grip. ‘Our understanding is that you wish to access our polling core.’

‘That’s correct. What I have to do won’t take too long. It’s quite straightforward.’

‘And afterwards? You’ll stay to enjoy some of our hospitality, won’t you? It’s not often we get a visitor from Panoply.’

‘I’d love to, Mayor, but now isn’t a good time.’

He tilted his huge monochrome head. ‘Trouble outside, is there? We’d heard reports, although I confess we don’t pay as much attention to such matters as we ought.’

‘No,’ Thalia said diplomatically. ‘No trouble. Just a schedule I have to stick to.’

‘But you will stay, just for a short while.’ When the mayor spoke, she glimpsed fierce ranks of sharp white teeth and caught the sugary whiff of animal digestive products.

‘I can’t. Not really.’

‘But you simply must, Prefect.’ He looked at the other members of the welcoming party, daring Thalia to disappoint them. Their faces, for the most part, were still recognisably human, albeit furred, scaled or otherwise distorted according to some zoological model. Their eyes were disturbingly beautiful, liquid and intense and childlike. ‘We won’t detain you without good reason,’ the mayor insisted. ‘We receive so very few outsiders, let alone figures of authority. On such rare occasions that we do, it’s our custom to host an impromptu contest, or tournament, and to invite our honoured guest to participate in the judging. We were hoping you’d help with the adjudication in an air-joust—’

‘I’d love to, but—’

He grinned triumphantly. ‘Then it’s settled. You will stay.’ He clasped his paws together in anticipation. ‘Oh, how wonderful. A prefect as judge!’

‘I’m not—’

‘Let’s deal with the trifling business of the polling core, shall we? Then we can move on to the main event. It will be a wonderful air-joust! Are you happy to follow me? If you don’t like our low gravity, we can arrange a palanquin.’

‘I’m doing just fine,’ Thalia said tersely.

CHAPTER 11

Dreyfus was settled before his console, composing a query for the Search Turbines. He sought priors on the Nerval-Lermontov family, certain that the name meant something but incapable of dredging the relevant information from the event-congested registers of his own ageing memory. Yet he had no sooner launched the request, and was dwelling on the idle possibility of trawling his own mind, when he felt a sudden brief shudder run through the room. It was as if Panoply had suffered an earthquake.

He lifted his cuff, ready to call his deputy, fearing the worst. But he had not even uttered Sparver’s name before his console informed him that there had been a major incident in the Turbine hall.

Dreyfus stepped through his clotheswall and made his way from his room through the warrens of the rock to the non-centrifuge section where the Search Turbines were located. Even before he arrived, he realised that the incident had been grave. Prefects, technicians and machines were rushing past him. By the time he reached the entrance to the free-fall hall, medical crews were bringing out the wounded. Their injuries were shocking.

A conveyor band drew him into the vastness of the hall. He stared in stupefied amazement at the spectacle. There were no longer four Search Turbines, but three. The endmost cylinder was gone, save for the sleeve-like anchor points where it emerged from the chamber’s inner surface. The transparent shrouding had shattered into countless dagger-like shards, many of which were now embedded in the walling. Dreyfus couldn’t imagine the outward force that would have been necessary to rupture the armoured sheathing, which was the same kind of glass-like substance they used to form spacecraft hulls. As for the machinery that would have been whirling inside the glass just before it broke loose, nothing remained except a dusty residue, lathered several centimetres thick over every surface and hanging in the air in a choking blue-grey smog. The Turbine - its layered data stacks and whisking retrieval blades - had pulverised itself efficiently, leaving no components larger than a speck of grit. It was designed to do that, Dreyfus reminded himself, so that no information could be recovered by hostile parties in the event of a takeover of Panoply. But it was not meant to self-destruct during the course of normal operations.

He studied the other Turbines. The sheathing on the nearest of the three, the one that had been closest to the destroyed unit, was riven by several prominent cracks. The apparatus inside was spinning down, decelerating visibly. The other two units were undergoing the same failsafe shutdown, even though their casings appeared intact.

Keeping out of the way of the medical staff attending to hall technicians who’d been lacerated by glass and high-speed Turbine shrapnel - they’d already pulled out the most seriously wounded - Dreyfus found his way to a woman named Trajanova. She was the prefect in charge of archives, and considered supremely competent by all concerned. Dreyfus did not dissent from that view, but he did not like Trajanova and he knew that the feeling was mutual. He’d employed her once as a deputy, then dismissed her because she did not have the necessary instincts for fieldwork. She had never forgiven him for that and their rare meetings were tense, terse affairs. Dreyfus was nevertheless relieved to see that she had suffered no conspicuous injuries save for a gashed cheek. She was pressing her sleeve to it, her uniform dispensing disinfectant and coagulant agents. She had headphones lowered around her neck, glasses pushed up over her brow and a fine dusting of blue-grey debris on her clothes and skin.

Trajanova must have seen the look on his face. ‘Before you ask, I have no idea what just happened.’

‘I was about to ask if you were all right. Were you in here when it happened?’

‘Behind the fourth stack, the furthest one from the unit that blew. Running search-speed diagnostics.’

‘And?’

‘It just went. One second it was spinning, next second it didn’t exist any more. I’d have been deafened if I hadn’t had the phones on.’

‘You were lucky.’

She scowled, pulling her sleeve away to reveal the dried blood on her cuff. ‘Funny. I’d say it was fairly unlucky of me to have been in here in the first place.’

‘Was anyone killed?’

‘I don’t think so. Not permanently.’ She rubbed at dust-irritated eyes. ‘It was a mess, though. The glass did the worst harm. That’s hyperdiamond, Dreyfus. It takes a lot to make it shatter. It was like a bomb going off in here.’

‘Was it a bomb? I mean, seriously: could a bomb have caused this?’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. The unit just spun loose, all of a sudden. There was no bang, no flash, before it happened.’

‘Those things run near critical break-up speed, don’t they?’

‘That’s the idea. We spin them as fast as they can go. Any slower and you’d be the first to moan about retrieval lag.’

‘Could the unit have overspun?’

She answered his question with look of flat denial. ‘They don’t do that.’

‘Could the assembly have been fatigued?’

‘All the units are subjected to routine de-spin and maintenance, one at a time. You don’t usually notice because we take the burden on the other three Turbs. The unit that failed got a clean bill of health during the last spin-down.’

‘You’re sure of that?’

Her face said: Don’t question my competence, and I won’t question yours. ‘If it hadn’t, it wouldn’t be spinning, Prefect.’

‘I had to ask. Something went terribly wrong here. Could a badly formed query have caused the break-up?’

‘That’s a bizarre question.’

‘It’s just that I sent something through about a second before the accident.’

‘The units would have handled millions of queries in that interval, ’ she said.

‘Millions? There aren’t millions of prefects.’

‘Most of the queries coming through are machine-generated. Panoply talking to itself, consolidating its own knowledge base. The Turbs don’t care whether it’s a human or a machine sending the query. All are treated with equal priority.’

‘It still felt related to me.’

‘It can’t have been your query that did this. That would be absurd.’

‘Maybe so. But I’m conducting a sensitive investigation and just at the point when I think I’m getting somewhere, when I might be about to connect my case to one of our glorious families, when I might be about to hurt someone, one of my primary investigative tools is sabotaged.’

‘Whatever this was, it can’t have been sabotage,’ Trajanova said.

‘You sound very certain.’

‘Maybe it’s escaped your attention, but this is an ultra-secure facility inside what is already an ultra-secure organisation. No one gets inside this room without at least Pangolin clearance, and no one - not even the supreme prefect herself - gets to access the Search Turbines from outside the rock. Frankly, I can’t think of a facility it would be harder to sabotage.’

‘But a prefect could do it,’ he said. ‘Especially if they had Pangolin clearance.’

‘I was keeping our discussion within the realms of possibility,’ Trajanova said. ‘I can think of a million reasons why our enemies might want to smash the Search Turbines. But a prefect, someone already inside the organisation? You mean a traitor?’

‘I’m just running through the possibilities. It’s not so very difficult to believe, is it?’

‘I suppose not,’ Trajanova said slowly, staring him hard in the eye. ‘After all, there’s a traitor’s daughter in the organisation even as we speak. Have you talked to her recently?’

‘With Thalia Ng? No, she’s too busy acquitting herself excellently on field duties.’ He smiled coldly. ‘I think we’re done here, aren’t we?’

‘Unless you want to help me clean up this mess.’

‘I’ll leave that to the specialists. How long before we’ll have the other Turbs back up to speed?’

She glanced over her shoulder at the intact tubes. ‘They’ll have to be thoroughly checked for stress flaws. Thirteen hours, at the very minimum, before I’ll risk spin-up. Even then we’ll be running at a low retrieval rate. Sorry if that inconveniences you, Prefect.’

‘It’s not that it inconveniences me. What I’m worried about is that it’s conveniencing someone else.’ Dreyfus scratched dust from the corners of his eyes, where it had begun to gather in gooey grey clumps. ‘Keep looking into the sabotage angle, Trajanova. If you find anything, I want to hear about it immediately.’

‘Maybe it would help if you told me about this magic query of yours,’ she said.

‘Nerval-Lermontov.’

‘What about Nerval-Lermontov?’

‘I wanted to know where the hell I’d heard that name before.’

She looked at him with icy contempt. ‘You didn’t need the Search Turbines for that, Dreyfus. I could have told you myself. So could any prefect with a basic grasp of Yellowstone history.’

He ignored the insult. ‘And?’

‘The Eighty.’

It was all he needed to be told.

The corvette was a medium-enforcement vehicle, twice as large as a cutter, and with something in the region of eight times as much armament. Panoply’s rules dictated that it was the largest craft that could be operated by a prefect, as opposed to a dedicated pilot. Dreyfus had the necessary training, but as always in such matters he preferred his deputy to handle the actual flying, when the ship wasn’t taking care of itself.

‘Not much to look at,’ Sparver said as a magnified image leapt onto one of the panes. ‘Basically just a big chunk of unprocessed rock, with a beacon saying “keep away - I’m owned by somebody”.’

‘Specifically, the Nerval-Lermontov family.’

‘Is that name still ringing a bell with you?’

‘Someone jogged my memory,’ Dreyfus said, thinking back to his less-than-cordial conversation with Trajanova. ‘Turns out that Nerval-Lermontov was one of the families tied up with the Eighty.’

‘Really?’

‘I remember now. I was a boy at the time, but it was all over the system. The Nerval-Lermontovs were one of the families kicking up the biggest stink.’

‘They lost someone?’

‘A daughter, I think. She became a kind of emblem for all the others. I can see her face, but not her name. It’s on the tip of my tongue . . .’

Sparver dug between his knees and handed Dreyfus a compad. ‘I already did my share of homework, Boss.’

‘Before the Turbines went down?’

‘I didn’t need them. Remember that case we worked a couple of years ago, involving the disputed ownership of a carousel built by one of the families? I copied reams of Eighty-related stuff onto my compad back then, and it’s all still there, with summaries for all the players.’

‘Including the Nerval-Lermontovs?’

‘Take a look for yourself.’

Dreyfus did as Sparver suggested, plunging deep into Chasm City history. The article was several thousand lines long, a summary that could easily have been expanded by a factor of ten or a hundred had Sparver selected different text filters. The system’s major families were nothing if not well documented.

Dreyfus hit the Eighty. One name leapt out at him across fifty-five years of history.

‘Aurora,’ he said, with a kind of reverence. ‘Aurora Nerval-Lermontov. She was just a girl - twenty-two years old when she went under Cal’s machines.’

‘Poor kid. No wonder they were pissed off.’

They had been, too, Dreyfus remembered. And who wouldn’t be? Calvin Sylveste had promised true immortality to his seventy-nine volunteers. Their minds would be scanned at sub-neuronal resolution, with the resultant structures uploaded into invulnerable machines. Rather than just being static snapshots, Calvin’s Transmigrants would continue to think, to feel, once they’d been mapped into computer space. They would be true alpha-level simulations, their mental processes indistinguishable from those of a flesh-and-blood human being. The only catch was that the scanning process had to be performed with such rapidity, such fidelity, that it was destructive. The scanned mind was ripped apart layer by layer, until nothing lucid remained.

It wouldn’t have mattered if the procedure had worked. All had been well for a while, but shortly after the last volunteer had gone under - Calvin Sylveste had been the eightieth subject in his own experiment - problems began to emerge with the earliest subjects. Their simulations froze, or became locked in pathological loops, or regressed to levels of autistic disengagement from the outside universe. Some vital detail, some animating impulse, was missing from the design.

‘Do you believe in coincidence, Sparver?’

Sparver tapped one of the thruster controls. The rock had doubled in size, its wrinkled ash-grey surface details becoming more distinct. The potato-shaped asteroid was more than two kilometres wide at its fattest point.

‘Why d’you ask?’

‘Because I was already wondering why the Sylveste family kept coming up in this investigation. Now we’ve got another hit.’

‘They’re a big octopus. Sooner or later you’re bound to trip over another tentacle.’

‘So you don’t think there’s anything odd about this?’

‘The Sylvestes weren’t a charity. Only families with influence and money were able to buy themselves a slot in Cal’s experiment. And only families with influence and money can afford to hold on to rocks like this. The key here is the Nerval-Lermontovs, not the Sylvestes.’

‘They tried to take down the Sylvestes, didn’t they?’

‘Everyone tried. Everyone failed. This is their system. We just live in it.’

‘And the Nerval-Lermontovs? They’ve been quiet since the Eighty, haven’t they? They’re hardly big players any more. If they were, I’d have recognised the name sooner. So what the hell are they doing implicating themselves in the Ruskin-Sartorious affair?’

‘Maybe they were used. Maybe when we dig into this place, we’ll find it was just used to bounce signals from somewhere else.’

Dreyfus felt some of his earlier elation abate. Perhaps his cherished instincts had failed him this time. If necessary, they could go outside and read the message stack, just as they’d done with the Vanguard Six router. Sparver had sounded confident that the process was repeatable, but what if it wasn’t quite so easy to backtrack the signal a second time?

Dreyfus was musing on that theme when the rock launched its attack.

It came fast and without warning; it was only when the assault was over that he was able to piece together the approximate sequence of events. Across the face of the rock, small regions of the crust erupted outwards as if a dozen low-yield mines had just detonated, showering rubble and debris into space. The shattered material rained into the corvette, the noise like a thousand hammer blows against the hull.

Alarms began to shriek, damage reports cascading across the display surfaces. Dreyfus heard the whine as the corvette’s own weapons began to upgrade their readiness posture. Sparver grunted something unintelligible and began to coordinate the response with manual control inputs. But the attack had not really begun in earnest. The eruptions on the rock were merely caused by the emergence of concealed weapons, tucked under ten or twenty metres of camouflaging material. Dark-muzzled kinetic slug-launchers rolled out and spat their cargoes at the corvette. Dreyfus flinched as the walls of the corvette’s cabin appeared to ram inwards, before a cooler part of his mind reminded him that this was the corvette doing its best to protect the living organisms inside it. The wall flowed around his body, head to toe, forming an instant contoured cocoon. Then he felt the corvette swerve with what would have been bone-snapping acceleration under any other circumstances. With the little consciousness available to him, he hoped that the corvette had taken similar care of Sparver.

The swerve saved them. Otherwise, the first kinetic slug would have taken them nose-on, where the corvette’s armour was thinnest. As it was the slug still impacted, gouging a trench along the entire lateral line of the ship, taking out weapons and sensory modules in a roar of agonised matter that was still nerveshreddingly loud even through the cushioning of the cocoon. The ship swerved again, and then once more, harder this time. Two more slugs rammed into it. Then the corvette began to give back something of what it had taken.

Many of its weapons had been damaged by the slug impacts, or could not be brought to bear without presenting too much tempting cross section to the still-active slug launchers. But it was still able to respond with an awesome concentration of destructive force. Dreyfus felt rather than heard the subsonic drone of the Gatling guns. Another salvo of debris rained against the hull: that was the Gatling guns churning up the rock’s surface even more, kicking more material into space. Four sequenced shoves as the corvette deployed and then traded momentum with its missiles, spitting them out like hard pips. The foam-phase-tipped warheads selected their own targets, punching hundred-metre-wide craters in the crust.

The Gatling guns resumed firing.

Then, with disarming suddenness, all was silent save for the occasional clang as some small piece of debris knocked into the ship.

‘I am holding at maximum readiness condition,’ the corvette said, its voice dismayingly calm and unhurried, as if it was delivering a weather report. ‘Situational analysis indicates that the offensive object has been downgraded to threat status gamma. This analysis may be flawed. If you nonetheless wish me to stand down to moderate readiness, please issue an order.’

‘You can stand down,’ Dreyfus said.

The cocoon released him. He felt like a single man-sized bruise, with a headache to match. Nothing appeared broken, though, and he was at least alive.

‘I think this just stopped being a peripheral investigation,’ Sparver said.

Dreyfus spat blood. At some point during the attack he must have bitten his tongue. ‘How’s the ship doing?’ he enquired.

Sparver glanced at one of the status panes. ‘Good news is we’ve still got power, air and attitude control.’

‘And the bad news?’

‘Sensors are shot to hell and long-range comms don’t appear to be working either. I don’t think we’re going to be able to call home for help.’

The absurdity of their predicament rankled Dreyfus. They were still inside the Glitter Band, in the teeming thick of human civilisation, no more than a thousand kilometres from the nearest inhabited structure. And yet they might as well have been far beyond the system, drifting in interstellar space, for all the difference it made.

‘Can we reach anyone else?’ he asked. ‘We still have signalling lasers. If we can get a visual signal to a passing ship, we might be able to divert them.’

Sparver had already called up a navigation display showing all nearby traffic within a radius of five thousand kilometres. Dreyfus stared at it intently, but the spherical imaging surface kept malfunctioning, crowding with ghost signals caused by the damage the corvette had taken.

‘Not much out there,’ Sparver observed. ‘Certainly not within manual signalling range.’

Dreyfus jabbed a finger at a persistent echo in the display, an object on a slow course through the scanning volume. ‘That one’s real, and it looks close, too. What is it?’

‘Just a robot freighter, according to the transponder flag. Probably inbound from the high-energy manufactories on Marco’s Eye.’

‘It’ll pass within three thousand klicks of us. That’s almost nothing out here.’

‘But it won’t respond to us even if we score a direct hit with the laser. I don’t think we’ve got any option but to limp home, and hope no one runs into us.’

Dreyfus nodded ruefully. In the congested traffic flows of the Glitter Band, a ship with impaired sensor capability was a dangerous thing indeed. That went double for a ship that was stealthed to the point of near-invisibility.

‘How long will that take?’

Sparver closed his eyes as he ran the numbers. ‘Ninety minutes, maybe a little less.’

‘And then another hour before we can reasonably expect to get another ship out here; longer if it has to be reassigned from some other duty.’ Dreyfus shook his head. ‘Too long. Every instinct in my body says we don’t walk away.’

‘So we drop a surveillance drone. We’re carrying one.’

‘A drone won’t help us if someone decides to run as soon as we’re out of range.’

‘I don’t think there’s anyone down there.’

‘We don’t know that.’ Dreyfus unwebbed himself enough that he could soothe his back, sore after the corvette’s spine-jarring evasive swerves. ‘Which is why we need to take a look. Maybe we’ll find a transmitter when we’re down there. Then we can call in the big guns.’

Thalia ran a finger around her collar, stiffening it back into shape. She gathered her equipment and composed herself as the airlock cycled. Spine straight, chin up, eyes sharp. She might feel tired, she might feel embittered by what she had witnessed only a couple of hours earlier, but she was still on duty. The locals would neither know nor care that they were merely the last stop on a demanding itinerary, the last obstacle before sleep and rest and some grudging expression of gratitude from the seniors. She reminded herself that she was still well ahead of her anticipated schedule, and that if all went according to plan from now on she would be back inside Panoply barely a day and a half after she had departed.

The Chevelure-Sambuke Hourglass upgrade had gone flawlessly, but then she’d been detained while the locals had her sit in as a guest adjudicator in their impromptu tournament. It had turned out to be both unpleasant and draining, a combination of beauty pageant and gladiatorial combat, with the entrants all radically biomodified, none of them lacking in teeth and claws. She’d been assured that the most bloodied, humiliated or deceased participants would all be stitched back together again, but the entire experience had left her feeling soiled and manipulated.

Szlumper Oneill had been even worse, but for different reasons. Szlumper Oneill was a Voluntary Tyranny that had turned nasty, and nothing could be done about it.

Citizens in the Voluntary Tyrannies had no rights at all: no freedoms, no means of expression beyond what they could achieve through the usual voting channels. Their entire lives were under the authoritarian control of whatever regime held sway in their particular habitat. Typically, they’d be guaranteed the basic needs: food, water, heating, minimal medical care, somewhere to sleep, even access to sex and rudimentary forms of entertainment. In return they might have to perform some daily activity, however drudge-like and purposeless the work itself might be. They’d be stripped of identity, forced to dress alike, even - in the most extreme cases - compelled to undergo surgery to eradicate distinguishing features.

For some people - a small but not entirely insignificant fraction of the Glitter Band citizenry - life in a Voluntary Tyranny was perversely liberating because it allowed them to shut off an entire part of their minds that dealt with the usual anxieties of hierarchy and influence. They were looked after and told what to do. It was like becoming a child again, a regression to a state of dependence on the adult machinery of the state.

But sometimes the VTs went wrong.

No one was exactly sure what triggered the shift from benevolent-yet-rigid state to dystopian nightmare, but it had happened enough times that it had begun to look as inevitable as the radioactive decay of an unstable isotope. Something unspeakable would ooze from the social woodwork, a form of corrupting sap. Citizens who tried to resist or leave were rounded up and punished. Panoply could do nothing, since it had no remit to interfere in the government of a state unless the state’s citizens were being denied abstraction access and voting rights, or unless there was a majority mandate from the wider citizenry of the ten thousand.

Szlumper Oneill was an object lesson in how bad things could get. Representatives of the Interior Administration had escorted Thalia to the polling core, and they’d done their best to shield her from the populace. But she’d still seen enough to get the picture. While Thalia had been setting up her equipment at the core, an old man had broken through a cordon and rushed to plead with her. He’d fallen to his knees, clutching her trouser hems with knotted, arthritic fingers.

‘Prefect,’ he said, through toothless gums. ‘You can do something for us. Please do something, before it’s too late.’

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, barely able to speak. ‘I wish I could, but—’

‘Help us. Please.’

The police had arrived. They’d fired electrified barbs into the man and dragged him away, his body still palsied by the stun currents. He couldn’t speak, but he’d managed to keep his face directed at Thalia as he receded, his lips still forming a plea. As the cordon closed around him again, Thalia made out a blur of fists and sticks raining down on frail bones.

She’d completed the upgrade. She did not want to think about what had happened to the old man. She prayed that this next and final upgrade would go smoother, so that she could return to Panoply and wipe the mild taste of complicity from her mouth. She was glad now that she had left House Aubusson till last. It promised to be the simplest of the upgrades; the one that would place the least demands on her concentration.

The habitat had the form of a hollow cylinder with rounded ends, rotating slowly around its long axis to provide gravity. From a distance, just before she dozed off during transit, Thalia had seen a pale-green sausage banded by many sets of windows, their facets spangling as the habitat’s dreamily slow spin caused sunlight to flare off them. At the nearer end ticked the intricate clockwork of de-spun docking assemblies, where huge ships were reduced to microscopic details against the mind-numbing scale of the structure. The sausage was an entire world, sixty kilometres from end to end, more than eight kilometres across.

Weightlessness prevailed even after Thalia had disembarked from the cutter and passed through a series of rotating transfer locks. Instead of the teeming concourse she had been expecting, she found herself in a diplomatic receiving area. It was a zero-gravity sphere walled in pale-pink marble, inlaid with monochrome friezes depicting the early history of space colonisation: men in bulbous spacesuits covered in what looked like canvas; surface-to-orbit transports that resembled white fireworks lashed together; space stations so ramshackle in appearance that they looked as if they’d fall apart at the first breath of solar wind. Laughable, yes, Thalia thought: undoubtedly so. But without those canvas suits and firework rockets, without those treehouse space stations, Deputy Field Prefect Thalia Ng would not be floating in the marbled reception bay of a sixty-kilometre-long habitat, one of ten thousand other structures that carried a human freight of one hundred million souls, orbiting an inhabited world that happened to host the most dazzling, bejewelled city in human experience, a world that circled the sun of another solar system entirely, a system that formed the mercantile and cultural nexus of a human civilisation encompassing many such worlds, many stars, bound together by wonderful sleek ships that crossed the interstellar night in mere years of starflight.

This was the future, she thought. This was what it felt like to be alive in a time of miracles and wonders.

And she had the nerve to feel tired?

A servitor, resembling a mechanical owl assembled from sheets of hammered bronze, floated in the middle of the space. It spread its wing primaries and clacked open its hinged beak. It had the piping voice of a steam-age automaton.

‘Greetings, Deputy Field Prefect Ng. I am Miracle Bird. It is a pleasure to welcome you inside House Aubusson. A reception is waiting on the half-gravity landing stage. Please be so kind as to follow me.’

‘A reception,’ Thalia said, gritting her teeth. ‘That’ll be nice.’

The bronze bird led Thalia into an elevator carriage. The carriage’s windowless interior was covered in polished teak and dimpled maroon plush, offset with ivory Japan-work. The bird inverted itself and tucked its talons into hooks on what was evidently to become the ceiling. With a whirr of geared mechanics, its head spun around. ‘We will descend now. Please be so kind as to fold down the seat and secure yourself. Gravity will increase.’

Thalia took the cue and parked herself on the fold-out seat, tucking her equipment cylinder between her knees. She felt a rush of acceleration, blood pooling in the top of her head.

‘We are descending now,’ the bird informed her. ‘We have some distance to travel. Would you care to see the view on the way?’

‘If it isn’t too much trouble.’

The panel opposite Thalia morphed into transparency. She found herself looking down the length of House Aubusson, all sixty kilometres of it. She had boarded the elevator on the inner surface of one of the endcaps of the sausage-shaped habitat, and was now travelling from the pole of the endcap hemisphere towards the point where it joined the main cylinder of the structure. The elevator’s trajectory curved gradually from vertical to horizontal, even though the cabin remained at the same angle. They had been moving for some while already, yet the ground was still the better part of four kilometres below, enough to make even the nearest surface features appear small and toy-like. For now the sloping terrain whizzing past Thalia consisted of featureless white cladding and fused regolith mined from Marco’s Eye, interrupted here and there by some huge Art Deco chunk of environmental-regulation machinery.

Apart from the endcaps, the entire interior surface of the habitat was landscaped. Sixty kilometres away, atmospheric haze diluted detail and colour into a twinkling wash of pale blue, indistinguishable from ocean or sky. Nearer - until about halfway along the cylinder - it was still possible to make out the signatures of communities, grids or whorls embossed like thumbprints into clay. There were no huge cities, but there were dozens, even hundreds, of towns, villages and hamlets nestled amidst dense-packed greenery, curving around the shores of artificial seas and lakes and along the banks of man-made rivers and streams. There were hills, valleys, rock faces and waterfalls. There were sprays of mist shot through with rainbows. There were low-lying clouds, seemingly pasted onto the curving landscape. Nearer still, Thalia made out not merely communities, but individual buildings, marinas, plazas, parks, gardens and recreation grounds. Few of the buildings were more than a few hundred metres tall, as if they dared not violate the wide blue emptiness that made up most of the habitat’s volume. There was no interior illumination source, but from her descending vantage point Thalia easily made out the bands of windows she had seen before, from outside. Now that she was looking down the length of the interior of the habitat, they became a series of dark concentric rings, Thalia counting a dozen or more of them before perspective and haze made it difficult to separate one from the next. House Aubusson might pass into the shadow of Yellowstone during each ninety-minute orbit around the planet, but it was most unlikely that its citizens would live or work on anything other than the standard twenty-six-hour cycle of Chasm City time. Far above and below the ecliptic plane of the Glitter Band, client mirrors would steer illumination onto those windows even when the habitat was out of direct line of sight of Epsilon Eridani.

Thalia felt the elevator slowing.

‘We are arriving now,’ the metal owl said, just as the view outside switched from distant vistas to the interior of a windowed landing stage. The door opened; Thalia disembarked. Her legs felt like springy concertinas in the half-standard gravity. Across the platform, with their backs to the window, stood a motley-looking welcoming committee. There were about a dozen of them, men and women of all ages and appearances, dressed in what appeared to be civilian clothes. Thalia looked around helplessly, wondering who she should be talking at.

‘Hello, Prefect,’ said a plump woman with apple-red cheeks, stepping forward from the group. There was a nervous catch in her voice, as if she was not accustomed to public speaking. ‘Welcome to the halfway house. We’d have met you at the hub, but it’s been a long time since any of us were in zero-gravity.’

Thalia put down the cylinder. ‘It’s all right. I’m used to making my own way.’

A lanky, stooping man raised his hand. ‘Did Miracle Bird tell you everything you needed to know?’

‘Does the owl belong to you?’

‘Indeed,’ the man said, beaming. He raised an arm, bent at the elbow, and the owl flapped out of the elevator, crossed the space between Thalia and the party and made a precision touchdown on the man’s sleeve.

‘I’m an excellent bird,’ the owl said.

‘It’s my hobby,’ he said, stroking the creature under its segmented neck. ‘Making mechanical animals, using only techniques available to the PreCalvinists. Keeps me off the streets, my wife says.’

‘That’s nice for you,’ Thalia commented.

‘They were going to go with one of Bascombe’s automata until they remembered what happened the last time one of them malfunctioned. That’s when Miracle Bird got bumped to the top of the list.’

‘What list?’ Thalia looked at the peculiar gathering. There was nothing ragged or untidy about any of the individual members of the group - everyone was well dressed, colourful without being gaudy, well groomed, respectable in demeanour - but the cumulative effect was far from harmonious. Like a circus troupe, she thought, not a civic delegation. ‘Who are you people?’

‘We’re your reception committee,’ the plump woman said.

‘That’s what the owl told me.’

Another individual stepped forward to speak. He was a severe-looking gentleman in an ash-grey skin-tight suit with deep lines on either side of his mouth and a shock of stiff grey-white hair shaved close at the temples, his long-boned hands knitted together. ‘Perhaps one of us should explain. You are inside one of the most egalitarian states in the Glitter Band.’ He had a very low, very reassuring voice, one that made Thalia think of dark knotted wood, polished smooth by generations of hands. ‘Comparatively few states practise true Demarchist principles behind their own doors, in the sense of abolishing all governmental structures, all formalised institutions of social control. Yet that is absolutely the case in House Aubusson. Possibly you were expecting a formal reception, attended by dignitaries of varying rank and pomposity?’

‘I might have been,’ Thalia allowed.

‘In Aubusson, there are no dignitaries. There is no authority except the transparent government of the collective will. All citizens wield a similar amount of political power, leveraged through the machinery of democratic anarchy. You ask who we are. I’ll tell you, beginning with myself. I am Jules Caillebot, a landscape gardener. Most recently I worked on the redevelopment of the botanic gardens in the quarter adjoining the open-air theatre in Valloton, a community between the fifth and sixth windows.’ He gestured towards the plump woman who had been the first to speak.

‘I’m an utter nobody,’ she said, with a kind of cheery defiance, her earlier nervousness no longer apparent. ‘At least some people in Aubusson have heard of Jules, but no one knows me from Adam. I’m Paula Thory. I keep butterflies, and not even very rare or beautiful ones.’

‘Hello,’ Thalia said.

Paula Thory nudged the man who’d made the owl. ‘Go on, then,’ she said. ‘I know you’re itching to tell her.’

‘I’m Broderick Cuthbertson. I make mechanical animals. It’s my—’

‘Hobby, yes. You said.’ Thalia smiled nicely.

‘There’s an active subculture of automaton builders in Aubusson. I mean real automaton builders, obviously. Strictly PreCalvinist. Otherwise it’s just cheating.’

‘I can imagine.’

‘Meriel Redon,’ said a young, willowy-looking woman, raising a tentative hand. ‘I make furniture out of wood.’

‘Cyrus Parnasse,’ another man said, a beefy, red-faced farmer type with a burr to his voice who could have stepped out of the Middle Ages about five minutes ago. ‘I’m a curator in the Museum of Cybernetics.’

‘I thought the Museum of Cybernetics was in House Sylveste.’

‘Ours isn’t as big,’ Parnasse said. ‘Or as flashy or dumbed-down. But we like it.’

One by one the others introduced themselves, until the last of the twelve had spoken. As if obeying some process of collective decision-making that took place too subtly for Thalia to detect, they all turned to look at Jules Caillebot again.

‘We were selected randomly,’ he explained. ‘When it was known that an agent of Panoply was to visit, the polling core shuffled the names of all eight hundred thousand citizens and selected the twelve you see standing before you. Actually, there was a bit more to it than that. Our names were presented to the electorate, so that our fitness for the task could be certified by a majority. Most people voted “no objection”, but one of the original twelve was roundly rejected by a percentage of citizens too large for the core to ignore. Something of a philanderer, it seems. He’d made enough enemies that when his one shot at fame arose, he blew it.’

‘If you call this fame,’ Parnasse, the museum curator, said. ‘In a couple of hours you’ll be out of Aubusson, girl, and we’ll all have returned to deserved obscurity. It is that kind of visit, isn’t it? If this is a lockdown, no one warned us.’

‘No one ever warns you,’ Thalia said dryly, not taking to the grumpy undercurrent she had heard in the man’s voice. ‘But no, this isn’t a lockdown, just a routine polling core upgrade. And whether or not you think being part of this reception party is something to be proud of, I am grateful for the welcome.’ She picked up the cylinder, relishing its lightness before she returned to full gravity. ‘All I really need is someone to show me to the polling core, although I can locate it myself if you prefer. You can all stick around if you want, but it isn’t necessary.’

‘Do you want to go straight to the core?’ asked Jules Caillebot. ‘You can if you like. Or we can first take some tea, some refreshments, and then perhaps a leisurely stroll in one of the gardens.’

‘No prizes for guessing whose gardens,’ someone said, with a snigger.

Thalia raised a calming hand. ‘It’s kind of you to offer, but my bosses won’t be too happy if I’m late back at Panoply.’

‘We can be at the core in twenty minutes,’ Jules Caillebot said. ‘It’s just beyond the second window band. You can see it from here, in fact.’

Thalia had been expecting the core to be buried in the skin of the world, like a subcutaneous implant. ‘We can?’

‘Let me show you. The new housing’s rather elegant, even if I say so myself.’

‘That’s one opinion,’ Parnasse rumbled, just loud enough for Thalia to hear.

They led her to the window. The remaining two kilometres of the endcap curved away below her to merge with the level terrain of the main cylinder. Caillebot, the landscape gardener, stood next to her and pointed into the middle distance. ‘There,’ he said, whispering. ‘You see the first and second window bands? Now focus on the white bridge crossing the second band, close to that kidney-shaped lake. Follow the line of the bridge for a couple of kilometres, until you come to a ring of structures grouped around a single tall talk.’

‘I’ve got it,’ Thalia said. Since it lay directly ahead, the stalk was aligned with her local vertical too closely to be coincidence given the three-hundred-and-sixty-degree curvature of the habitat. She had presumably been directed down the appropriate elevator line for a visit to the polling core.

‘Remind you of anything?’ Caillebot asked.

‘I don’t know. Maybe. Milk splashing into milk, perhaps. That ring of stalks, with the little spheres on top of each one, and then the tall one in the middle—’

‘That’s exactly what it is,’ Parnasse said. ‘A perfect representation of a physical instant. That’s the original Museum of Cybernetics. Then the Civic Planning Committee got it into their heads that what it really needed was a gigantic single stalk rising from the middle, to house the polling core in the sphere on top. Completely ruined the purity of the original concept, needless to say. You can’t get a central stalk and a ring of stalks from a single splash, no matter how hard you try.’

‘Why did the core need a new housing?’

‘It didn’t,’ Parnasse said, before anyone else had a chance to contribute. ‘It worked fine the way it used to be, out of sight and out of mind. Then the Civic Planning Committee decided we needed to celebrate our embracing of true Demarchist principles by making the core a visible symbol that could be seen from anywhere in the habitat.’

‘Most people like the new arrangement,’ Caillebot said, with a strained smile.

Parnasse wasn’t having it. ‘You’re only saying that because they had to rip out the old gardens to accommodate the new stalk. The ones put in by your rival. You’d feel differently if you actually had to work there.’

Thalia coughed, deciding it was best not to take sides at this point. Moving a core was hardly routine, but Panoply would have been consulted, and if there had been any technical objection it would not have been permitted. ‘I need to see it close up, no matter what the controversies,’ she said.

‘We’ll be there in no time at all,’ Caillebot said, extending a hand back towards the wall where a row of elevator doors stood open. ‘Would you like some help with that equipment? It’ll be heavier on the surface.’

‘I’ll cope,’ Thalia said.

Miracle Bird opened its metal beak and emitted a raucous mechanical chime as it took flight and led the way towards the elevators.

CHAPTER 12

Dreyfus held his breath, still anticipating an attack despite the evidence from the scans. The corvette’s sensors had probed the rock’s embattled surface and revealed no further evidence of active weaponry, although he considered it likely that there were still guns buried in the other hemisphere. The same scans had pinpointed a likely entry point, what appeared to be an airlock leading to some kind of subsurface excavation. The scans could only hint at the depth and extent of the tunnel system. The corvette now lay with its dorsal lock positioned over the surface entry point, separated by only a couple of metres of clear space.

‘I can do this alone,’ Dreyfus said, ready to push himself through the suitwall. ‘We don’t both need to go inside.’

‘And I’m not babysitting the corvette while you have all the fun,’ Sparver replied.

‘All right,’ Dreyfus said. ‘But understand this: if something happens to one of us down there - whether it’s you or me - the other one gets out of there as fast as he can and concentrates on warning Panoply. Whatever we’re dealing with here, it’s bigger than the life of a single prefect.’

‘Message received,’ Sparver said. ‘See you on the other side.’

Dreyfus pushed himself through the grey surface of the suitwall. As always, he felt ticklish resistance as the suit formed around him, conjured into being from the very fabric of the suitwall. He turned around in time to observe Sparver’s emergence: seeing the edges of the suit blend into the exterior surface of the suitwall and then pucker free. For a moment, the details of Sparver’s suit were blurred and ill-defined, then snapped into sharpness.

The two prefects completed their checks, verifying that their suits were able to talk to each other, and then turned to face the waiting airlock that would allow entry into the rock. Nothing about it surprised Dreyfus, save the fact that it existed in the first place. It was a standard lock, built according to a rugged, inert-matter design. The lock had been hidden before the engagement, tucked away near the base of one of the slug cannons. A concealed shaft must have led down from the surface before the cannons deployed.

There was no need to invoke the manual operating procedure since the lock was still powered and functional. The outer door opened without hesitation, admitting Dreyfus and Sparver to the lock’s air-exchange chamber.

‘There’s pressure on the other side,’ Sparver said, indicating the standard-format read-out set into the opposite door. ‘There’s probably no one inside this thing, but there might be, so we can’t just blow it wide open.’

It was a complication Dreyfus could have done without, but he concurred with his deputy. They would need to seal the door behind them before they advanced further.

‘Close the outer door,’ Dreyfus said.

The lock finished pressurising. Dreyfus’s suit tasted the air and reported that it was cold but breathable, should the need arise.

He hoped it wouldn’t.

‘Stay sharp,’ he told Sparver. ‘We’re going deeper.’

Dreyfus waited for the inner door to seal itself before moving off. Common lock protocol dictated both inner and outer doors be closed against vacuum unless someone was transitioning through.

‘I can’t see a damn thing,’ he said, knowing that Sparver’s vision was at least as poor as his own. ‘I’m switching on my helmet lamp. We’ll see if that’s a good idea in about two seconds.’

‘I’m holding my breath.’

The helmet revealed that they had arrived in a storage area, a repository for tools and replacement machine parts. Dreyfus made out tunnelling gear, some spare airlock components, a couple of racked spacesuits of PreCalvinist design.

‘Want to take a guess at how long this junk’s been here?’ Sparver said, activating his own lamp.

‘Could be ten years, could be two hundred,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Hard to call.’

‘You don’t pressurise a place if you’re planning to mothball it. Waste of air and power.’

‘I agree. See anything here that looks like a transmitter, or that might send a signal?’

‘No joy.’ Sparver nodded his helmet lamp towards the far wall. ‘But if I’m not mistaken, that’s a doorway. Think we should take a look-see?’

‘We’re not exactly overwhelmed with choices, are we?’

Dreyfus kicked off from the wall and aimed himself at the far doorway, Sparver following just behind. Doubtless the rock’s gravity would eventually have tugged him there, but Dreyfus didn’t have time to wait for that. He reached the doorway and sailed on through into a narrow shaft furnished only with rails and flexible hand-grabs. When the air began to impede his forward drift, he grabbed the nearest handhold and started yanking himself forward. The shaft stretched on far ahead of him, pushing deeper into the heart of the rock. Maybe the shaft had been there for ever, he thought: sunk deep into the rock by prospecting Skyjacks, and someone had just come along and used it serendipitously. But the tunnelling equipment he’d already seen didn’t have the ramshackle, improvised look of Skyjack tools.

He was just pondering that when he caught sight of the end of the shaft.

‘I’m slowing down. Watch out behind me.’

Dreyfus reached the bottom and spun through one hundred and eighty degrees to bring his soles into contact with the surface at the base of the shaft. Up and down still had little meaning in the rock’s minimal gravity, but his instincts forced him to orient himself as if his feet were being tugged toward the middle.

He assessed his surroundings as Sparver arrived next to him. They’d come to an intersection with a second shaft that appeared to run horizontally in either direction, curving gently away until it was hidden beyond the limit of the illumination provided by their helmet lamps. The rust-brown tunnel wall was clad with segmented panels, thick braids of pipework and plumbing stapled to the sides. Every now and then the cladding was interrupted by a piece of machinery as rust-brown and ancient-looking as the rest of the tunnel.

‘We didn’t see deep enough to map this,’ Dreyfus said. ‘What do you make of it?’

‘Not much, to be frank.’

‘Judging by the curvature, we could be looking at a ring that goes right around the middle of the rock. We need to find out why it’s here.’

‘And if we get lost?’

Dreyfus used his suit to daub a luminous cross onto the wall next to their exit point. ‘We won’t. If the shaft’s circular, we’ll know when we come back to this point, even if something messes around with our inertial compasses.’

‘That’s me fully reassured, then.’

‘Good. Keep an eye out for anything we can use to squeeze a signal back to Panoply.’

Dreyfus started moving, the brown walls of the shaft drifting past him. His own shadow stalked courageously ahead of him, projected by the light from Sparver’s lamp. He glanced down at the suit’s inertial map, displayed just below his main facepatch overlay.

‘So do you have a theory as to what the Nerval-Lermontov family needs with this place?’ Sparver asked. ‘Because this is beginning to look like a lot more than a simple case of inter-habitat rivalry, at least from where I’m standing.’

‘It’s bigger, definitely. And now I’m wondering if the Sylveste family might have a part in this after all.’

‘We could always pay them a visit when we’re done here.’

‘We wouldn’t get very far. The family’s being run by beta-level caretakers. Calvin Sylveste’s dead, and his son’s out of the system. The last I heard, he’s not due back for at least another ten or fifteen years.’

‘But you still think there’s a Sylveste angle.’

‘I’m all for coincidence, Sparv, and I agree that the family has a lot of tentacles. But as soon as the Eighty popped up in our investigation, I got the feeling there was more to it than chance.’

After a pause, Sparver said, ‘Do you think the Nerval-Lermontovs are still around?’

‘Someone’s been here recently. A place feels different when it’s deserted, when no one’s visited it for a very long time. I’m not getting that feeling here.’

‘I was hoping it was just me,’ Sparver said.

Dreyfus set his jaw determinedly. ‘All the more reason to investigate, then.’

But in truth he felt no compulsion to continue further along the corridor. He also felt Sparver’s unease. There was nothing he would rather have done than return to the corvette and await back-up, however long it took to arrive.

They hadn’t gone more than a couple of hundred metres along the gently curving shaft when Sparver brought them to a halt next to a piece of equipment jutting from the wall. To Dreyfus it looked almost indistinguishable from the countless rust-coloured items of machinery they had already passed, but Sparver was paying it particular attention.

‘Something we can use?’ Dreyfus asked.

Sparver flipped aside a panel, revealing a matrix of tactile input controls and sockets. ‘It’s a tap-in point,’ he said. ‘No promises, but if this is hooked up to any kind of local network, I should be able to find my way to the transmitter and maybe open a two-way channel to Panoply.’

‘How long will it take?’

Sparver’s suit had been conjured with a standard toolkit. He dug into it and retrieved a strand of luminous cabling with a writhing, slug-shaped quickmatter universal adaptor at the end. ‘I should know within a few minutes,’ he said. ‘If it doesn’t work, we’ll move on.’

‘See what you can get out of it. I’ll be back here in five or ten minutes.’

Sparver’s eyes were wide behind his facepatch. ‘We should stay together.’

‘I’m just taking a look a little further along this shaft. We’ll remain in contact the whole time.’

Dreyfus left his deputy attending to the equipment, fiddling with adaptors and spools of differently coloured froptic and electrical cabling. He had no doubt that if there was a way to get a message to Panoply, Sparver would find it. But he could not afford to wait around for that to happen. Elsewhere in the rock, someone might be erasing evidence or preparing to make their escape via a hidden ship or lifepod.

Eventually Dreyfus looked back and saw that Sparver had vanished around the curve of the shaft.

‘How are you doing?’ he asked via the suit-to-suit comms channel.

‘Making slow progress, but I think it’s doable. The protocols are pretty archaic, but nothing I haven’t seen before.’

‘Good. Keep in touch. I’m pressing on.’

Dreyfus passed through a constriction in the cladding of the tunnel, tucking his elbows in to avoid banging them against the narrow flange where the walls pinched tighter. Looking back now, he could not even see the faint glow caused by the light spilling from Sparver’s helmet lamp. Psychologically, it felt as if they were kilometres apart rather than the hundreds of metres that was really the case.

Suddenly there came a bell-like clang, hard and metallic. Dreyfus’s gut tightened. He knew exactly what had happened, even before his conscious mind had processed the information. Where the constriction had been was now a solid wall of metal. A bulkhead door - part of an interior airlock system - had just slammed down between him and Sparver.

He returned to the door and checked the rim for manual controls, but found nothing. An automatic system had sealed the door, and the same automatic system would have to open it again.

‘Sparver?’

His deputy’s voice came through chopped and metallic. ‘Still reading you, but faintly. What just happened?’

‘I tripped a door,’ Dreyfus said, feeling sheepish. ‘It doesn’t want to open again.’

‘Stay where you are. I’ll see if I can work it from my side.’

‘Leave it for now. We made a plan and we’ll stick to it, even if I have to stay here until help arrives. If necessary I should be able to cut through with my whiphound, provided the door doesn’t incorporate any active quickmatter. In the meantime I’ll try circumnavigating and see if I can meet you from the other side.’

‘Try not to trip any more doors on the way.’

‘I will.’

‘You should think about conserving air,’ Sparver said, in a gently reminding tone. ‘These m-suits don’t recirculate, Boss. You’re only good for twenty-six hours.’

‘That’s about twenty-four hours longer than I expect to be here.’

‘Just saying we need to allow for all eventualities. I can make it back to the corvette; you may not be able to.’

‘Point taken,’ Dreyfus said.

The suit was indeed still assuring him that the air surrounding him was breathable. He clearly had little to lose by trusting it. He reached up and unlatched the helmet; the suit had been conjured in one piece, but it obliged by splitting into familiar components.

He sucked in his first lungful of cold, new air. After the initial shock of it hitting his system, he judged that it was tolerable, with little of the mustiness he’d been anticipating.

‘I’m breathing ambient air, Sparv. No ill effects so far.’

‘Good. All I’ve got to do now is kid this system that I’m a valid user, and then we should get ourselves a hotline to Panoply. I’ll be out of touch when I’m calling home - I’ll have to reassign the suit-to-suit channel to make this work.’

‘Whatever you have to do.’

Dreyfus pressed the helmet against his belt until it formed a cusp-like bond. He’d made perhaps another hundred metres of progress when he encountered a junction in the shaft. The main tunnel, the one he’d been following, continued unobstructed ahead, but now it was joined by another route, set at right angles and leading towards the centre of the rock.

‘Sparver,’ he said, ‘slight change of plan. While I’m not using suit air, I’m going to explore a sub-shaft I’ve just run into. It appears to head deeper. My guess is it leads to whatever this place is concealing.’

‘You be careful.’

‘As ever.’

The new shaft turned out to be much shorter than the one they’d descended from the surface, and within thirty metres he detected a widening at the far end. Dreyfus continued his approach, caution vying with curiosity, and emerged into a hemispherical chamber set with heavy glass facets. His helmet lamp played across the bolted and welded partitions between the window elements. Beyond the glass loomed a profound darkness, more absolute than space itself, as if the very heart of the rock had been cored out.

‘It’s hollow, an empty shell,’ he said to himself, as much in wonder as perplexity.

The hemispherical chamber was not just some kind of viewing gallery. One of the facets was covered with a sheet of burnished silver rather than glass, and next to that was a simple control panel set with tactile controls of old-fashioned design. Dreyfus propelled himself to the panel and appraised its contents. The chunky controls were designed to be used by someone wearing a spacesuit with thick gloves, and most of them were labelled in antiquated Canasian script. Most of the abbreviations meant nothing to Dreyfus, but he saw that one of the controls was marked with a stylised representation of a sunburst.

His hand moved to the control. At first it was so stiff that he feared it had seized into place. Then it budged with a resounding clunk, and vast banks of lights began to blaze on beyond the armoured glass.

He’d been wrong, he realised. The hollowed-out interior of the Nerval-Lermontov rock was not empty.

It contained a ship.

‘I’ve found something interesting,’ he told Sparver.

‘What I don’t understand,’ Thalia said as the train whisked the entourage across the first window band of House Aubusson, ‘is how this place pays for itself. No offence, but I’ve spoken to most of you by now and I’m puzzled. I assume you’re a representative slice of the citizenry, or you wouldn’t have been selected for the welcoming party. Yet none of you seem to be doing any work that’s marketable outside Aubusson. One of you breeds butterflies. Another designs gardens. Another one of you makes mechanical animals, for fun.’

‘There’s no law against hobbies,’ said Paula Thory, the plump butterfly-keeper.

‘I totally agree. But hobbies won’t pay for the upkeep of a sixty-kilometre-long habitat.’

‘We have a full-scale manufactory complex in the trailing endcap,’ Caillebot said. ‘We used to make ships. Lovely things, too: single-molecule hulls in ruby and emerald. It hasn’t run at anything like full capacity for decades, but smaller habitats occasionally contract us to build components and machines. The big enterprises on Marco’s Eye will always out-compete us when it comes to efficiency and economies of scale, but we don’t have to lift anything out of a gravity well, or pay Glitter Band import duties. That takes care of some of our finances.’

‘Not all of it, though,’ Thalia said. ‘Right?’

‘We vote,’ Thory said.

‘So does everyone,’ Thalia replied. ‘Except for Panoply.’

‘Not everyone votes the way we do. That’s the big difference. There are eight hundred thousand people in this habitat, and each and every one of us takes our voting rights very seriously indeed.’

‘Still won’t put food on your plates.’

‘It will if you vote often enough, and intelligently enough.’ Thory was looking at Thalia quite intently now, as the train whisked through a campus of low-lying buildings, all of which had the softened outlines and pastel coloration of candied marsh-mallows. ‘You’re Panoply. I presume you’re adequately familiar with the concept of vote weighting?’

‘I recall that the mechanism allows it, under certain circumstances. ’

Thory looked surprised. ‘You “recall”. Aren’t you supposed to be the expert here, Prefect?’

‘Ask me about security, or about polling core software, and I’ll keep you enthralled for hours. Vote processing is a different area. That’s not my remit.’ Thalia had her hands laced in her lap, with the cylinder between her knees. ‘So tell me how it works for Aubusson.’

‘It’s common knowledge that the apparatus logs every vote ever entered, across the entire Glitter Band,’ Thory said. ‘That’s at least a million transactions every second, going back two hundred years. What people don’t generally realise is that the system occasionally peers back into its own records and looks at voting patterns that shaped a particular outcome. Suppose, for instance, that a critical vote was put to the population of the entire Band, all hundred million of us. A hypothetical threat had been identified, one that could be met with a variety of responses ranging from a preemptive attack to the simple decision to do nothing at all. Suppose furthermore that the majority voted for one particular response out of the options available. Suppose also that action was taken based on that vote, and that with hindsight that action turned out to have been the wrong thing to do. The apparatus is intelligent enough to recognise democratic mistakes like that. It’s also intelligent enough to look back into the records and see who voted otherwise. Who, in other words, could be said to have been right, while the majority were wrong.’

Thalia nodded, recalling details she had once learned and then buried under more immediately relevant knowledge. ‘And then, having identified those voters as being of shrewd judgement, it attaches a weighting bias to any future votes they might cast.’

‘In essence, that’s how it works. In practice, it’s infinitely more subtle. The system keeps monitoring those individuals, constantly tuning the appropriate weighting factor. If they keep on voting shrewdly, then their weighting remains, or even increases. If they show a sustained streak of bad judgement, the system weights them back down to the default value.’

‘Why not just remove their voting rights entirely, if they’re that bad?’

‘Because then we wouldn’t be a democracy,’ Thory replied. ‘Everyone deserves a chance to mend their ways.’

‘And how does this work for Aubusson?’

‘It’s how we make our living. The citizenry here possesses a very high number of weighted votes, well above the Glitter Band mean. We’ve all worked hard for that, of course: it isn’t just a statistical fluctuation. I have a weighting index of one point nine, which means that every vote I cast has nearly double its normal efficacy. I’m almost equivalent to two people voting in lockstep on any issue. One point nine is high, but there are fifty-four people out there who have indices nudging three. These are people whom the system has identified as possessing an almost superhuman acumen. Most of us see the landscape of future events as a bewilderingly jumbled terrain, cloaked in a mist of ever-shifting possibilities. The Triples see a shining road, its junctions marked in blazing neon.’ Thory’s voice became reverential. ‘Somewhere out there, Prefect, is a being we call the Quadruple. We know he walks amongst us because the system says he is a citizen of House Aubusson. But the Quad has never revealed himself to any other citizen. Perhaps he fears a public stoning. His own wisdom must be a wonderful and terrifying gift, like the curse of Cassandra. Yet he still only carries four votes, in a population of a hundred million. Pebbles on an infinite beach.’

‘Tell me how you stay ahead of the curve,’ Thalia said.

‘With blood, sweat and toil. All of us take our issues seriously. That’s what citizenship in Aubusson entails. You don’t get to live here unless you can hold a weighted voting average above one point two five. That means we’re all required to think very seriously about the issues we vote on. Not just from a personal perspective, not just from the perspective of House Aubusson, but from the standpoint of the greater good of the entire Glitter Band. And it pays off for us, of course. It’s how we make our living - by trading on our prior shrewdness. Because our votes are disproportionately effective, we are very attractive to lobbyists from other communities. On marginal issues, they pay us to listen to what they have to say, knowing that a block vote from Aubusson may swing the result by a critical factor. That’s where the money comes from.’

‘Political bribes?’

‘Hardly. They buy our attention, our willingness to listen. That doesn’t guarantee that we will vote according to their wishes. If all we did was follow the money, our collective indices would ramp down to one before you could blink. Then we’d be no use to anyone.’

‘It’s a balancing act,’ put in Caillebot. ‘To remain useful to the lobbyists, we must maintain a degree of independence from them. This is the central paradox of our existence. But it is the paradox that allows me to spend my time designing gardens, and Paula to breed her butterflies.’

Thory leaned forward. ‘Since we’ve been on this train, I’ve already participated in two polling transactions. There’s a third coming up in two minutes. Minor issues, in the scheme of things - the kinds of things most citizens let their predictive routines take care of.’

‘I didn’t notice.’

‘You wouldn’t have. Most of us are so used to the process now that it’s almost autonomic, like blinking. But we take each and every vote as seriously as the last.’ Thory must have seen something amiss in Thalia’s expression, for she leaned forward concernedly. ‘Everything I’ve just described is completely legal, Prefect. Panoply wouldn’t allow it to happen otherwise.’

‘I know it’s legal. I just didn’t think it had become systematized, made the basis for a whole community.’

‘Does that distress you?’

‘No,’ Thalia answered truthfully. ‘If the system allows it, it’s fine by me. But it just reminds me how many surprises the Glitter Band still has in store.’

‘This is the most complex, variegated society in human history,’ Thory said. ‘It’s a machine for surprising people.’

Dreyfus studied the spectacle of the ship floating before him, pinned in the vivid blue lights at the core of the Nerval-Lermontov rock. It was a midnight-black form in a pitch-black cavern. He did not so much see the ship as detect the subtle gradation in darkness between its hull and the background surface of the rock’s hollowed-out heart. It was like an exercise in optical trickery, a perceptual mirage that kept slipping out of his cognitive grasp.

But he knew exactly what he was looking at. Though it was smaller than most, the vehicle was clearly a starship. It had the sleek, tapering hull of a lighthugger, and the two swept-back spars that held the complicated nacelles of its twin drives. He remembered the burning wreck of the Accompaniment of Shadows, its own engines snipped off to become prizes for other Ultras. But as soon as its shape stabilised in his imagination, he knew that this was no Ultra starship.

Dreyfus smiled to himself. He’d felt the scope of the investigation widening the moment a connection to the Eighty entered the frame. But nothing had prepared him for this shift in perspective.

‘Keep talking to me, Boss. I’m still on the line.’

‘There’s a Conjoiner ship here. It’s just sitting in the middle of the rock.’

Sparver paused before answering. Dreyfus could imagine him working through the ramifications of the discovery.

‘Remind me: what have Conjoiners got to do with our case?’

‘That’s what I’m very eager to find out.’

‘How did the ship get where it is?’

‘No idea. Can’t see any sign of a door in the chamber, and there definitely wasn’t one on the outside. Almost looks as if it’s been walled-up in here, encased in rock.’

‘You think the Conjoiners hid it here for a reason?’

Dreyfus brushed his hand over the control panel again. ‘I don’t think so. Apart from the ship itself, nothing in the rock looks Conjoiner. It’s more as if the ship’s being held here by someone else.’

‘Someone managed to capture and contain a Conjoiner ship? That’s a pretty good trick in anyone’s book.’

‘I agree,’ Dreyfus said.

‘Next question: why would anyone do that? What would they hope to gain?’

Dreyfus looked at the one facet in the chamber that was burnished silver and realised that it was a sealed door rather than an opaque panel in the bank of windows. The chamber’s illumination traced the ribbed tube of a docking connector, stretching across space from the door panel to meet the light-sucking hull of the ship.

‘That’s what I’m going to have to go aboard to find out.’

‘I don’t think that’s a good idea, Boss.’

Dreyfus turned to the panel again. Every cell in his body was screaming at him to leave. But the policeman in him had to know what was inside that ship; what secret was worth murdering to protect.

His hand alighted on another toggle control, this one marked {X} - the universal symbol for an airlock actuator. The silver panel whisked aside silently and smoothly. Sensing his intentions, lights came on in sequence along the connector. The golden band arced down until it vanished into a docking port on the side of the lighthugger.

Nothing now prevented him from boarding.

‘I’m going inside. Call me back as soon as you get through to Panoply.’

While Thalia had been talking with her House Aubusson companions, they had crossed another window band spanning a brief ocean of space and stars (most of which were in fact other habitats), and now the train was slowing as it neared its destination. They crossed a series of manicured lawns, skimming high above them on a filigreed wisp of a bridge, then descended back down to ground level. On either side, Thalia saw the tapering stalks of the Museum of Cybernetics, each structure rising at least a hundred metres into the air, each surmounted by a smooth blue-grey sphere, each sphere marked with a symbol from the hallowed history of information processing. There was the ampersand, which had once symbolised a primitive form of abstraction. There was an ever-tumbling hourglass, still the universal symbol for an active computational process. There was the apple with a chunk missing, which (so Thalia had been led to believe) commemorated the suicidal poisoning of the info-theorist Turing himself.

The train plunged into a tunnel, then slowed to a smooth halt in a plaza under the central stalk of the polling core. People came and went from trains parked at adjoining platforms, but Thalia’s party had an entire section of the station to themselves, screened off by servitors and glass barriers. They rode escalators into hazy daylight, surrounded by the ornamental gardens and rock pools clustering around the base of the main stalk. Nearby, a bright blue servitor was diligently trimming a hedge into the shape of a peacock, its cutting arms moving with lightning speed as it executed the three-dimensional template in its memory.

Thalia craned her head back to take in the entirety of the stalk. It rose from a gradually steepening skirt, climbing five or six hundred metres above the ground before tapering to a neck that appeared only just capable of supporting the main sphere. The sphere was much larger than those balanced on the smaller stalks, banded with tiny round windows where they were blank. Geometric shapes were in constant play on its surface, indicating - so Thalia guessed - the changing parameters of abstraction flow and voting patterns.

Thalia’s party walked into the shaded lobby of the stalk. The structure appeared to be hollow, its inward-leaning interior walls given over to towering murals, each of which depicted a great visionary of the PreCalvinist cybernetic era. A thick column rose up through the middle of the dizzying space, buttressed to the walls by filigreed arches. That had to be the main data conduit, Thalia judged, carrying abstraction services and voting packets to the polling core high above her head. The citizens here might not be as thoroughly integrated into abstraction as those in New Seattle-Tacoma, but their enthusiasm for the voting process would nonetheless ensure hefty data traffic. Thalia imagined the flow of information in the pipe, like high-pressure water searching for a loose rivet or leaky valve. Rising next to the column, but separated from it by a few metres of clear space, was the thinner tube of an elevator shaft, with a spiral walkway wrapped around it in ever-receding vertigo-inducing loops. The data conduit, elevator shaft and spiral staircase plunged through the ceiling at the top of the stalk, into the sphere that sat above it.

Thalia knew she was rubbernecking, that even this tower would have been considered unimpressive by Chasm City standards, but the locals looked happy that she was impressed.

‘It’s an ugly big bastard all right,’ Parnasse said, which was presumably his way of showing a fragment of civic pride.

‘We go up?’ Thalia asked.

Paula Thory nodded. ‘We go up. The elevator should already be waiting for us.’

‘Good,’ Thalia said. ‘Then let’s get this done so we can all go home.’

Not for the first time in his life, Sparver found himself cursing the inadequacy of his hands. It was not because there was anything wrong with them from a hyperpig’s point of view, but because he had to live in a world made for dextrous baseline humans, with long fingers and thumbs and an absurd volume of sensorimotor cortex dedicated to using them. The stubby, gauntleted fingers of his trotter-like hands kept pushing two keys at once, forcing him to backtrack and initiate the command sequence all over again. At last he succeeded, and heard a chirp in his helmet signifying that he was in contact with Panoply, albeit on a channel not normally used for field communications.

‘Internal Prefect Muang,’ a voice announced. ‘You have reached Panoply. How may I be of assistance?’

Sparver knew and liked Muang. A small, stocky man himself, with looks that were at best unconventional, he had no conspicuous problem with hyperpigs.

‘This is Sparver. Can you hear me?’

‘Loud and clear. Is something wrong?’

‘You could say that. Prefect Dreyfus and I were investigating a free-floating rock owned by Nerval-Lermontov, as part of a case we’re working. As we were making our final approach the rock opened fire on our corvette and took out our long-range communications.’

‘The rock attacked you?’

‘There were heavy anti-ship weapons concealed under its surface. They popped out and started shooting at us.’

‘My God.’

‘I know. Don’t you just hate it when that happens? Thing is, we could use some assistance out here.’

‘Where are you now?’

‘I’m patching in via a transmitter inside the rock itself, but I don’t know how long this link is going to hold up.’

‘Copy, Sparver. With luck we can rustle up a deep-system vehicle. Do you need a medical team? Are either of you injured?’

‘We’re separated from each other, but otherwise both okay. If I could put Dreyfus through, I would, but it’s all I can do to rig this connection from my own suit.’

‘Is your ship flightworthy?’

‘We could limp home if we had to, but it would be better if Panoply sent out a couple of heavy ships to pick over this place.’

‘Do you have orbital data for this rock?’

‘Aboard the ship. But all you have to do is check the assets of the Nerval-Lermontov family. We’re sitting on a two-kilometre-wide lump of unprocessed rock in the middle orbits. You should be able to image our corvette, even if you can’t pick out the debris cloud from the attack.’

‘Should narrow it down. Sit tight and I’ll get the wheels moving.’

‘Tell those ships to come in cautiously. And make sure they know Dreyfus and I are sitting inside this thing, in case anyone gets trigger-happy.’

‘I’ll get the message through immediately. You shouldn’t have to wait more than an hour.’

‘I’m not going anywhere,’ Sparver said.

He closed the link and re-established contact with Dreyfus, glad when he heard his laboured breathing coming through nice and regularly, as if Dreyfus was pulling himself along a docking connector.

‘I got through, Boss. Cavalry’s coming.’

‘Good.’

‘So now might be the time to rethink that plan of yours to board the ship.’

‘I’m nearly there. Might as well go all the way, after coming this far.’ Dreyfus took deep breaths between sentences. ‘There’s no telling what mechanisms might kick in to destroy evidence if the rock senses our intrusion.’

‘Or which might kick in to destroy us. That’s also a possibility.’

‘I’m still going in. I suggest you return to the corvette and await the back-up.’

That sounded like an excellent idea to Sparver as well, but he had no intention of abandoning Dreyfus inside the rock. Besides, what his boss had just said was equally applicable to the data stored in the rock’s router log.

It did not take very long, now that he knew his way around the architecture. But when the list of outgoing message addresses spilled across his facepatch, he assumed there must be some mistake. He’d been expecting hundreds, even thousands, of entries in the last hundred days. But there were only a few dozen. Whoever was controlling the Nerval-Lermontov rock had been very sparing with their usage.

Looking down the list, he recognised the address of the Ruskin-Sartorious sphere, with a timetag corresponding to just before the attack by the Accompaniment of Shadows. That was the message that had prompted Delphine to break off negotiations with Dravidian. Yet as pleasing as it was to see that in the log - confirmation that they’d been following the right leads - it was dismaying to see some of the other entries.

There were about a dozen different addresses Sparver didn’t recognise off the top of his head. But there were another dozen entries that were shockingly familiar.

They consisted of two different addresses, interspersed randomly. Apart from the last three digits, one was identical to the format he’d just used to contact Muang.

Someone had been using the Nerval-Lermontov rock to call Panoply.

But if anything it was the second of the two addresses that unnerved Sparver the most. He recognised it instantly, for it was still fresh in his mind from his most recent investigation. But it had no business being any part of this one.

It was the address of House Perigal.

‘This doesn’t make sense,’ he said, mouthing the words in something more than a whisper. ‘There’s no connection. The cases don’t belong together.’

But there was no mistake. The numbers weren’t going away.

‘You still there, Boss?’

‘I’m nearly at the airlock. What’s up?’

‘I don’t know. I’ve just discovered something that doesn’t make any sense.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Someone used this rock to contact House Perigal.’

‘You mean Ruskin-Sartorious,’ Dreyfus said testily.

‘No, I mean exactly what I just said. There’ve only been a handful of outgoing messages, but they include transmissions to both Panoply and House Perigal, in addition to Ruskin-Sartorious. That means there’s a connection between the two cases, and a Panoply connection.’

‘There can’t be,’ Dreyfus said.

‘The evidence is staring right back at me. There’s a link.’

‘But Perigal was an open-and-shut case of polling fraud. It has no bearing on the murder of Ruskin-Sartorious.’

‘Boss, we may not be able to understand the link, but I’m telling you it exists. We already know this case is bigger than a simple incident of revenge or assassination - we’d figured that much out before you went and found a Conjoiner ship buried inside this rock.’ Sparver paused: he could feel something behind his eyes trying to come into clarity, but not quite succeeding. ‘We went after Perigal because of voting fraud,’ he said. ‘We nailed her, too, and all along it felt too easy.’

‘Too much like a debt being settled,’ Dreyfus said, echoing Sparver’s tone.

‘Maybe what we should be focusing on is the consequence of that case. Not the fact that Perigal’s under lockdown, but the security hole it drew our attention to.’

He heard a silence on the end of the line. Then: ‘We’re closing that hole, Sparv. That’s what Thalia’s doing.’

‘That’s what we think she’s doing. But what if we’ve been led up the garden path?’

‘We can trust Thalia,’ Dreyfus said.

‘Boss, we don’t have time to think through all the implications. All we know is that something’s wrong, and that, knowingly or otherwise, Thalia may be a part of it.’

‘You’re right,’ Dreyfus said eventually. ‘I don’t like it, but . . . something doesn’t fit.’

‘Thalia’s still out there, isn’t she?’

‘As far as I know.’

‘We have to get a message to her. She has to stop those upgrades until we figure out what’s going on.’

‘Can you contact Panoply again?’

‘No reason why not,’ Sparver said. ‘But it’ll mean me dropping out of contact with you again until I’m done.’

‘Do it immediately. Call me back when you’ve got word to Thalia. Do it now, Sparv.’

He closed the connection with Dreyfus and re-established the jury-rigged link with Panoply.

‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you again so soon,’ Muang said, before Sparver could get a word in. ‘Good news is Jane expedited immediate retasking of a deep-system vehicle. It’s on high-burn as we speak. Should be on your position inside forty-five minutes.’

‘Good,’ Sparver said, barely hearing what Muang had to say. ‘Now listen to me. Has Deputy Field Ng returned from her mission?’

There was no need to elaborate. Everyone in Panoply knew of Jason Ng’s daughter.

‘I don’t know. I can check with Thyssen, but—’

‘Never mind, there isn’t time. Can you patch me through to Thalia? I need to talk to her urgently.’

‘Wait a moment. I’ll see what I can do.’

Sparver did not breathe. It could only have been tens of seconds before Muang spoke again, but it felt like hours. ‘She isn’t aboard her cutter, which is currently docked at House Aubusson. I’m trying to contact her through her bracelet, but if she’s out of range of the cutter, the transmission will have to be routed through the habitat’s own abstraction services. This may take a moment—’

‘No one’s going anywhere,’ Sparver said.

After another eternity, Muang said, ‘I’m picking up her bracelet, Deputy. It’s ringing. If she’s wearing it, she’ll hear you.’

Dreyfus slowed his passage along the tube, gripped by an almost overwhelming urge to turn back. But he focused his resolve and continued until he reached the black wall of the entry lock. There was no suggestion of a door. He touched the armour of the Conjoiner ship and felt it ease inwards under the pressure of his fingers. It was neither metal nor ordinary quickmatter.

The only visible controls consisted of a smaller version of the panel he had already used. It had been glued to the side of the hull, fixed into place by crusty dabs of bright green adhesive. There were only two toggles. Dreyfus reached for the one marked with the airlock symbol and gave it a hefty twist. After a moment, a luminous blue outline appeared in the black, defining the rectangular shape of a door. The outline thickened, and then the entire rectangular part pushed outwards and sideways, unassisted by any visible mechanisms or hinges.

Dreyfus pushed himself into the interior of the Conjoiner vehicle. He looked back, holding his breath until he was satisfied that the rectangular door was not going to seal him in. He followed a winding, throat-like corridor until he reached a junction. Five corridors converged on this point, arriving from different angles. Light - of a peculiar blue-green sickliness - was leaking down one of the routes. The others were singularly dark and uninviting, and appeared to feed back towards the rear of the ship.

He followed the light. When he estimated that he had moved twenty or thirty metres towards the bow, he found himself emerging into a very large room. The light, which had appeared bright from a distance, now revealed itself to be meagre, obscuring detail and scale. Dreyfus unfixed his helmet from its bonded connection with his belt and used the crown lamp to investigate his surroundings. His illumination glanced off steely surfaces, glass partitions and intricate tangles of plumbing.

That was when he felt something cold and sharp press against his naked throat.

‘There are lights, for emergency use,’ a woman’s voice said, speaking very calmly into his ear. ‘I shall bring them on now.’

Dreyfus kept very still. In his lower peripheral vision he could see the gauntleted knuckle of a hand. The hand was holding a blade. The blade was tight against his Adam’s apple.

The lights came on at full strength, yellow shading to pale green, and after a few moments of blinking in the sudden brightness Dreyfus saw a room full of sleepers, wired into complicated apparatus. There were dozens of them, eighty or ninety easily, maybe more. They’d been arranged in four long rows spaced equidistantly around an openwork catwalk. The sleepers did not lie in closed caskets, but rather on couches, to which they were bound by black restraining straps and webs of silver meshwork. Transparent lines ran in and out of their bodies, pulsing not just with what Dreyfus presumed to be blood and saline but with vividly coloured chemicals of obscure function. The sleepers were all naked and they were all breathing, yet so slowly that Dreyfus had to study the rise and fall of a single chest intently before he convinced himself that he was looking at anything other than a corpse. It was sleep dialled down almost all the way to death. He could make out nothing of their heads, for each sleeper wore a perfectly spherical black helmet sealed tight around the neck, which in turn sprouted a thick ribbed black cable from its crown, connected into a socket recessed into the adjoining wall. The impression of a room full of faceless human components, smaller parts plugged into a larger machine, was total.

The knife was still pressing against his throat.

‘Who are you?’ he asked, speaking quietly, fearful of moving his throat.

‘Who are you?’ the woman asked back.

There was no reason for subterfuge. ‘Field Prefect Tom Dreyfus, of Panoply.’

‘Don’t try anything rash, Prefect. This knife cuts very well. If you doubt me, take a look around you.’

‘At what?’

‘The sleepers. See what I’ve done to them.’

He followed her instruction. He saw what she meant.

Not all of the sleepers were whole.

The confusion of restraints, surgical lines and helmets had hidden the truth at first. But once Dreyfus had become accustomed to the fact of the sleepers, and the mechanisms that sustained them, he realised that many of them were incomplete. Some were missing hands and arms, others lower legs or the whole limb. Perhaps a third of the sleepers had suffered a loss of some kind. Dreyfus started thinking back to the wars the Conjoiners had been involved in - perhaps this ship had been carrying the injured from one of those engagements, waylaid on their passage to the Conjoiner equivalent of a hospital.

But that couldn’t be the answer. This ship had probably been here for decades, and yet the injuries looked fresh. Some form of turquoise salve had been spread over the wounds, but beneath the salve the stumps were still raw. The sleepers hadn’t even received basic field care, let alone the emergency regenerative medicine that the Conjoiners should have been able to utilize.

‘I don’t understand—’ he began.

‘I did it,’ the woman said. ‘I cut them. I cut them all.’

‘Why?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘To eat them,’ she said, sounding amazed at his question. ‘What other reason would there have been?’

CHAPTER 13

Thalia found herself once again confronting a waiting polling core. She was somewhere in the sphere: most likely on a floor about halfway up its hundred-metre diameter, judging by the spacious dimensions of the room housing the machinery. Large porthole-shaped windows ringed the enormous space. The beige walls were covered in mazelike white patterns derived from the designs of early integrated circuits. A number of chairs and tables had been provided for the comfort of the visitors. The furniture was all safely inert; no quickmatter was permitted near a polling core, save that essential for the functioning of the core itself. The core was a pearl-coloured cylinder rising from the middle of the floor and piercing the ceiling, surrounded by a low metal railing. Resting on a heavy-looking plinth just outside the railinged area was a glass-cased architectural model of the Museum of Cybernetics, rendered with sterile precision.

Thalia had already explained what she would have to do; that if everything went to plan she would be on her way within less than twenty minutes; that at most her guests could expect a subliminal interruption in their access to abstraction. She had already examined the core and satisfied herself that there would be no surprises once she had opened the access window. ‘Really,’ she said, in her best self-deprecating tone, ‘it’s not all that interesting. If it was serious, they wouldn’t entrust it to just one field prefect.’

‘I’m sure you’re understating your abilities,’ said Caillebot, lounging in a blocky blue chair, one leg hooked over the other.

‘All I’m saying is, if you don’t want to hang around and see me mutter a few boring incantations, I won’t be offended. I know my way down now. If you want to wait by those goldfish ponds, I can find you when I’m done.’

‘If it doesn’t inconvenience you, I think we’d all like to stay,’ Paula Thory said, looking to the others for support. ‘It’s not often we see the beating heart of the voting apparatus laid open for examination.’

Thalia scratched at her damp collar. ‘If you want to stick around, I have no problem with that. I’m about ready to begin.’

‘Do what you must, Prefect,’ Thory said.

She opened the cylinder, conscious of the eyes on her, and retrieved the last of the four one-time pads. ‘I’m going to read out three magic words here. They’ll give me access to the core for six hundred seconds. There’s no going back once I’ve initiated that window, so it’d be best if I’m not interrupted unless absolutely necessary. Of course, I’ll keep you informed about what’s happening.’

‘We appreciate the gesture. Please, continue your work and don’t pay any heed to us,’ Caillebot said.

Thalia stepped through a gap in the surrounding railing, placed her cylinder on the ground and faced the flickering pillar of the core. She cleared her throat. ‘This is Deputy Field Prefect Thalia Ng. Acknowledge security access override Hickory Crepuscule Ivory.’

‘Override confirmed,’ answered the core. ‘You now have six hundred seconds of clearance, Deputy Field Prefect Ng.’

Thalia removed the final upgrade diskette from her cylinder. ‘I’m going to insert this into the core,’ she said. ‘It contains new software instructions to cover a minor security loophole identified by Panoply.’

She had the core present a data-entry slot for her use. She pushed the thick diskette into the pillar, then stood back while the machine digested its contents. Thalia was anxious, but not nervous. She had run into difficulties in Carousel New Seattle-Tacoma, but all her instincts assured her that nothing like that would happen here.

‘The diskette contains a data fragment,’ the core said. ‘What do you wish me to do with this data fragment?’

Thalia started to answer, but at that moment her bracelet began chiming. She lifted her cuff and glared at it in irritation. What was Prefect Muang trying to reach her about, now of all times? Muang was not one of the bastards who gave her grief about her father, but he wasn’t Dreyfus or Sparver, or one of the senior prefects she was doing her best to impress. Whatever he was calling about, it could not possibly be that urgent. Certainly not urgent enough to interrupt a sensitive field upgrade, especially now that she’d actually opened the six-hundred-second access window.

She would call him back when she was done. The world wasn’t going to end because she kept Muang waiting for a few minutes.

‘I’m sorry,’ Thalia said, squeezing the suppress button.

The core repeated its enquiry. ‘The diskette contains a data fragment. What do you wish me to do with this data fragment?’

Thalia pulled down her cuff. ‘Use it to overwrite the contents of executable data segment alpha alpha five one six, please.’

‘Just a moment.’ Lights flashed while the pillar cogitated. ‘I am ready to execute the overwrite order. I anticipate that the operation will entail a brief loss of abstraction, not exceeding three microseconds. Please confirm that the overwrite order is to be executed.’

‘Confirm,’ Thalia said.

‘The executable data segment has now been overwritten. Abstraction was down for two point six eight microseconds. All affected transactions were buffered and have now been successfully reinstated. A level-one audit indicates no software conflicts have arisen as a result of this installation. Do you have further instructions for me?’

‘No,’ Thalia said. ‘That will be all.’

‘There are four hundred and eleven seconds remaining on your access window. Do you wish the window to remain open until its scheduled termination, or shall I invoke immediate closure?’

‘You can close. We’re done here.’

‘Access is now terminated. Thank you for your visit, Deputy Field Prefect Thalia Ng.’

‘It’s been a pleasure.’ After retrieving the upgrade diskette from the pillar, Thalia snapped it back into the cylinder and then sealed the cylinder itself. She tried to keep her composure, but now that she was done, she could not help but feel a giddy elation. It was a little like being drunk on an empty stomach. I did it! she thought. She had completed all four installations. All on her own, without Dreyfus looking over her shoulder, without even the benefit of another field agent to help her with the technical workload. If anyone had ever doubted her abilities, or wondered how well she would function outside a team context, this would silence them. I, Thalia Ng, not only designed the security plug, I field-installed it myself, by hand, with just a cutter for company.

Four habitats completed. The plan had been executed. And now that she had satisfied herself that the upgrade was robust by installing it in four worst-case examples, there was nothing to stop her going live across the entire Glitter Band, all ten thousand habitats.

Bring them on, Thalia thought, and then worked very hard to wipe the look of self-satisfaction from her face as she turned to her audience again, because it would be neither seemly nor dignified in a prefect.

‘Is there a problem?’ Jules Caillebot asked, still sitting in the blue armchair but no longer in the relaxed pose of a few minutes earlier.

‘Not from my end,’ Thalia said. ‘It all went like a dream. Thanks for your cooperation.’ Maybe Muang had been calling her to inform her of a temporary comms blackout, she thought. It happened sometimes. Nothing to worry about. ‘You know what? Now that we’re done, maybe I will take a walk in some of the gardens after all.’

‘Abstraction is down,’ Caillebot said quietly.

Thalia felt the first itch of wrongness. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘We have no abstraction. You said it would be off-line for a few microseconds, too short to notice. But it’s still down.’ His voice became firmer and louder. ‘Abstraction is down, Prefect. Abstraction is down.’

Thalia shook her head. ‘You’re mistaken. It can’t be down.’

‘There is no abstraction,’ Paula Thory said, standing up from her own chair. ‘We’re out of contact, Prefect. Something appears to have gone wrong.’

‘The system ran an audit on itself. It confirmed that abstraction had only been interrupted for an instant. The system doesn’t make mistakes.’

‘Then why were you here in the first place, if it wasn’t to correct a failing in the apparatus?’ asked Caillebot.

‘Maybe it’s just us,’ said Broderick Cuthbertson. His mechanical owl twitched its head in all directions, as if following the flight of an invisible wasp.

‘Your bird’s confused,’ Cyrus Parnasse said. ‘I’m guessing it depends on abstraction to orient itself.’

Cuthbertson comforted his creation with a finger-stroke. ‘Easy, boy.’

‘Then it’s at least everyone - everything - in this building,’ Thory said, colour draining from her cheeks. ‘What if it’s not just the building? What if we’re looking at a major outage across the whole campus?’

‘Let’s look out of the windows,’ said Meriel Redon. ‘We can see half of Aubusson from here.’

They were paying no attention to Thalia. She was just a detail in the room. For now. She walked behind them as they stood from their chairs and sofas and stools - those who weren’t already standing - and dashed to the row of portholes, two or three of them crowding behind each circular pane.

‘I can see people down in the park,’ said a clean-shaven young man whose name Thalia didn’t remember. He wore an electric-blue suit with frilled black cuffs. ‘They’re behaving oddly. Clumping together all of a sudden, as if they want to talk. Some of them are starting to run for the exits. They’re looking up, at us.’

‘They know there’s a problem,’ Thory said. ‘It’s no wonder they’re looking up at the polling core. They’re wondering what the hell’s happening.’

‘There’s a train stopped on the line,’ said a woman in a flame-red dress, standing at another porthole. ‘It’s the other side of the nearest window band. Whatever this is, it isn’t local. It isn’t just happening to us, or to the museum.’

‘There’s a volantor,’ someone else said. ‘It’s making an emergency landing on the roof of the Bailter Ziggurat. That’s two whole bands towards the leading cap. Nearly ten kilometres!’

‘It’s the whole habitat,’ Thory said, as if she’d just seen a fearful omen. ‘The whole of House Aubusson, all sixty kilometres of it. Eight hundred thousand people have just lost abstraction for the first time in their lives.’

‘This can’t be happening,’ Thalia whispered.

The knife was still hard against Dreyfus’s throat. He cursed himself for not donning the helmet when he’d had the chance. He tried to reason that the woman would have killed him by now if that was her intention, but he could think of a multitude of reasons why she might want to keep him talking now and kill him later.

‘What year is it?’ she asked, as if the question had just popped into her head.

‘What year?’

The pressure of the knife increased. ‘Is there a problem with my diction?’

‘No,’ Dreyfus said hastily. ‘Not at all. The year is two thousand, four hundred and twenty-seven. Why do you ask?’

‘Because I’ve been inside this place a very long time.’

‘Long enough to lose track of the year?’

‘Long enough to lose track of everything. I had my suspicions, though.’ He caught a note of proud defiance in her voice. ‘I wasn’t so very far off the mark.’

He’d still not seen her face, or any part of her save the gauntleted hand holding the knife. ‘Are you a member of the Nerval-Lermontov family?’ he asked.

‘Is that who you are looking for?’

‘I’m not looking for anyone in particular. I’m a policeman. I’m investigating a crime. My inquiries brought me to this asteroid.’

‘Alone?’

‘I came in a ship, with my deputy. We were attacked during our approach and the ship was damaged. We could have limped back to Panoply, but we decided to see if we could use the rock to get a message to them quicker. That’s what my deputy’s doing now. I also wanted to see what was worth attacking us to protect.’

The knife scratched against his skin. It felt cold. He wondered if it had drawn blood yet.

‘You’ve seen it now,’ the woman said, obviously meaning the ship in which they were floating. ‘Tell me what you make of it.’

‘It’s a Conjoiner spacecraft. That’s as much as I was able to tell from outside. I came aboard and I’ve seen this.’ He meant the room full of dismembered sleepers, the ones that the woman said she had been eating. ‘That’s all. Now are you going to tell me what this means?’

‘Try moving,’ she said. ‘Move an arm or a leg. I won’t stop you.’

Dreyfus tried, but although he could move his limbs, they encountered stiff resistance against the interior of his suit. He was effectively paralysed.

‘I can’t.’

‘I’ve reached into your suit and disabled its motor and communication functions. I can turn them on and off as easily as I can blink. With the suit immobilised like that, you won’t be able to move or remove it. You’ll starve here and die. It would take a long time and it would not be pleasant.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘So that you understand, Prefect. So that you grasp that I have complete control over you.’ The pressure from the knife eased. ‘So that you understand that I don’t need this to kill you.’

Her hand pulled away.

‘You must be a Conjoiner,’ he said. ‘No one else could perform a trick like that.’ When she offered neither confirmation nor denial, he said, ‘You must be from this ship. Am I right?’

‘So you are not completely incapable of deductive reasoning. For one of the retarded, you must be quite bright.’

‘I’m just a prefect trying to do my job. Are you being held captive here?’

‘What do you think?’ she asked, with acid sarcasm.

‘Let’s establish some ground rules. I’m not your enemy. If someone is keeping you here against your will, I want to find out who they are and why they’re doing it. We’re on the same side. We should be able to trust each other.’

‘Shall I tell you why I have difficulty trusting you, Prefect? A man like you came here already. He saw what was being done to us and did nothing.’

‘What do you mean, a man like me?’

‘He wore the same kind of suit.’

‘That doesn’t mean anything.’

‘I mean exactly the same kind. If a prefect is what you are, then this man was a prefect as well.’

‘That’s not possible,’ Dreyfus said. But even as he spoke he recalled the link that Sparver had found connecting this rock to Panoply. Could someone else have come here, making independent inquiries? Perhaps. But if so, how could Jane Aumonier not have known about it?

‘I saw him myself. There was no mistake. I could not see into his head, and I can’t see into yours. Your kind never carry neural implants, do they?’

His own voice sounded distant and strangulated. ‘This man . . . does he come on his own, or are there others?’

‘Only the man comes in person. But there are other visitors.’

‘You’re confusing me.’

‘That is because they confuse me. I know when the man comes because I sense the electromagnetic noise from the opening and closing of airlocks. I sense his suit, although I can never get close enough to paralyse him. But the others don’t arrive like that. Suddenly they are simply here, like a change in the wind. One in particular makes her presence very clear to me. She likes to walk in our heads, as if she is taking a stroll through an ornamental garden. She toys with us. She takes pleasure in our confinement, in our distress.’

‘You’re talking about an artificial intelligence, then. A beta-level simulation, something like that. A simulacrum that looks and acts like a real person, but has no interior life.’

‘No,’ the Conjoiner said carefully. ‘I am talking about something vastly more than that. A mind like a thundercloud, brimming with terrible lightning, terrible darkness. It was never a beta-level simulation. It has the structure of human consciousness, but warped, magnified, perverted. Like a mansion gone wrong, a great house turned evil.’

‘Does she have a name?’

‘One,’ the Conjoiner affirmed. ‘She professes to hide her true identity from us, but I have seen through her concealments. She is too vain to hide herself perfectly. She desires to be known, I think.’

Dreyfus hardly dared ask. ‘Tell me the name.’

‘She calls herself Aurora.’

‘I made no mistake,’ Thalia said. ‘I swear I did everything by the book.’

Thory’s eyes had shrunk to nasty little dots. ‘Then maybe the book is wrong. Every second that we don’t have abstraction will cost our standing with the lobbyists. You have no idea of the financial hurt I’m talking about. Each and every one of us is a stakeholder in Aubusson society. Damage the habitat’s finances and you damage us. That means me, personally.’

Thalia’s voice had become absurdly timid and small. She felt like a schoolgirl being required to explain late homework. ‘I don’t know what the problem is.’

‘Then perhaps you should start investigating!’ Thory glared at her with venomous intent. ‘You broke this, Prefect. It’s your responsibility to fix it. Why don’t you start, instead of just standing there like a petrified tree?’

‘I . . . don’t have access,’ Thalia said. Under her tunic she could feel a cold line of sweat trickling down her back. ‘They gave me a six-hundred-second window. I used it. There’s no way back in again.’

‘Then you’d better think of something else,’ Caillebot said. ‘And be fast about it.’

‘There’s nothing else to do. I can run some superficial tests on the pillar . . . but without core access, I can’t see into its guts. And this has to be a fundamental problem, something really deep-rooted. ’

It was Parnasse’s turn to speak. His voice was a low rumble, yet everyone listened to him. ‘They only gave you a single one-time pad, did they, girl?’

‘Just the one,’ Thalia said.

‘Then she’s right,’ he said, turning to the others. ‘I may not be a prefect, but I know a thing or two about the way these things work. She won’t get in again without a new pad.’

‘Then call home and get one,’ Thory said, hissing out the words.

‘Nice trick, without abstraction access,’ Parnasse replied. He looked at Thalia. ‘True, isn’t it? Your own comms piggyback abstraction services. You’d need it to be up and running before you can call Panoply.’

Thalia swallowed hard as the truth sank home. ‘That’s right. We depend on abstraction protocols as well. I’m out of contact with home.’

‘Try it, just to be sure,’ said Parnasse.

Thalia tried it. She attempted to return the call from Muang, the one she had ignored during the upgrade.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, when the bracelet failed to connect. ‘I can’t see Panoply. I can’t even see my ship.’

‘Oh, that’s clever!’ Thory said. ‘You gut us open and then you can’t even call for help! Whose clever bloody idea was that?’

‘It’s never caused us a problem before. If we take abstraction down, it’s on our terms.’

‘Until today,’ Thory said.

The mood of the gathering was swerving somewhere unpleasant. They’d been all smiles until she took their sweets away.

‘Look,’ Thalia said, trying to strike the right conciliatory note, ‘this is unacceptable, and you have my sincere apology for any inconvenience I may have caused. But I promise you it won’t last long. If the abstraction blackout is as wide as it looks, then that means an entire habitat has just dropped off the network. Not just any old hermit colony, either, but House Aubusson. You’ve already told me that the lobbyists are in almost constant contact with you. How long do you think it will take before they notice your absence? Probably not more than a few minutes. Maybe a few minutes more before they act on that absence and start calling Panoply, to find out what’s gone wrong.’ She took a deep breath. ‘My bosses will take this very, very seriously, even given the current crisis. At high-burn, a Heavy Technical Squad could be knocking on the door inside forty-five minutes. They’ll have new pads, maybe even an emergency field core, everything necessary to get abstraction back up and running. Honestly, you could be back on-line inside an hour, ninety minutes at the max.’

‘You talk as if ninety minutes is nothing,’ Thory said. ‘Maybe it isn’t for you. I know how it is for prefects. You’ve never experienced true abstraction. You have no idea what losing it means to us. Perhaps if your bosses had sent someone more experienced, someone who at least looked as if they knew what they were doing—’

Thalia felt something inside her snap, like a wishbone tearing in two. ‘Maybe I don’t know what losing abstraction means to you. But I’ll tell you this. A few days ago I was part of a lockdown party. It turned nasty. We had to euthanise. So don’t you dare talk to me as if I’m some wet-behind-the-ears apprentice who’s never got her hands dirty.’

‘If you think—’ Paula Thory began.

‘Wait,’ Thalia said. ‘I’m not done. I’m not remotely done. Since we got back from that lockdown - which was regarded as a successful operation, incidentally, despite the casualties - my boss has had to deal with the murder of more than nine hundred innocent people, not including the crew of a ship who were butchered and burnt for their perceived part in that crime, but who were in all likelihood innocent. My boss is still on that case. His boss is doing her best just to keep her head in one piece. The rest of Panoply’s trying to stop the whole Glitter Band sliding into war against the Ultras, while bracing itself for the civil war that’s probably going to follow when we find out who really torched Ruskin-Sartorious.’ Thalia stiffened the set of her jaw, making sure she looked at each member of the party in turn. ‘Maybe that isn’t a typical week in the life of Panoply, people, but it happens to be the week we’re dealing with right now. Perhaps you think the loss of ninety minutes of abstraction measures up to what’s already on our table. Fine if you do, that’s your call. But I’m here to tell you that, as far as I’m concerned, you are a bunch of self-pitying sonsofbitches who at this point in time are doing pretty fucking well just to be breathing.’

No one said anything. They were just looking at her, mouths open, as if she had frozen them all into silence.

Thalia smiled tightly. ‘Nothing personal, though. I guess I’d be pretty upset if someone had taken my toys from the pram as well. I’m just saying that right now we could all use a degree of perspective. Because this is not the end of the world.’

She relaxed her stance just enough to let them know that the dressing down was over, for the moment.

‘You,’ she said, pointing at the woman in the flame-red dress. ‘That train you saw earlier. Is it still stopped?’

‘Yes,’ the woman said, stammering out her answer. ‘I can still see it. It’s not going anywhere.’

‘I was hoping we could take the train back to the endcap. As I said, help’ll be on its way soon enough regardless, but if it would make any of you happier, I could use the transmitter on my ship to call Panoply.’

‘Would that work?’ asked a chastened Caillebot.

‘Absolutely. Since it’s outside Aubusson, it won’t have been affected by the abstraction outage. Looks like we’re stuck here for the duration, though, unless any of you knows another way to get to the docking hub.’

‘I’m not seeing any aerial traffic,’ said a man with a strangely comedic face. ‘All flights must have been grounded along with that volantor.’

‘We could walk,’ Parnasse said. ‘It’s less than ten kilometres to the endcap.’

‘Are you serious?’ Paula Thory asked.

‘No one’s saying you’d have to come with us.’ He nodded in Thalia’s direction. ‘I think the girl’s right: once word gets out, they’ll send help. But like she said, this is a sticky time for Panoply. We might be looking at a fair bit longer than an hour, or ninety minutes. Could be two hours, could be three, even longer.’

‘So what does walking accomplish?’ Thory asked.

Parnasse shrugged his broad farmer’s shoulders. He’d rolled up his sleeves, revealing hairy red arms knotted with muscle. ‘Not much, except it means we’d stand a chance of meeting the specialists when they come through the door. At least Thalia could fill them in on exactly what she was doing before the system went tits-up.’ He glanced at her. ‘Right, girl?’

‘It might save some time,’ she said. ‘If we can get to the hub, I can also talk to Panoply and give them some technical background before the squad arrives.’ The hypothetical squad, she reminded herself. The one she could not say for sure would actually be on its way. ‘Either way, it’s no worse than staying here. I can’t do a thing for the core now.’

‘People out there,’ Parnasse said, ‘are going to be just a tad upset if they see a Panoply uniform. You could be looking at an eight-hundred-thousand-strong lynch mob.’

‘They can fume and rage all they want,’ Thalia said, touching her whiphound for reassurance. ‘I’m the prefect here, not them. And if they want to find out what happens when one of them even thinks of laying a finger on me, they’re more than welcome.’

‘Fighting talk,’ Parnasse said, in little more than a mutter. ‘I like the sound of that.’

The gruff curator, Thalia realised, was the only one of them who was unequivocally on her side. Perhaps he had a grudging respect for her ability with cybernetic systems, in spite of all that had just befallen them, or maybe he was just prickly enough to defend her because everyone else wanted her hide.

‘We can cover ten kilometres in less than two hours,’ she said. ‘Provided we don’t have to detour to cross those window bands, of course.’

‘We won’t,’ Parnasse said. ‘Not much, anyway. We can use the pedestrian bridges under the rail line, and even if those are blocked for one reason or another, there are always the parkland connections. There’s a lot of greenery, a lot of cover.’

Thalia nodded: she’d seen where the window bands were bridged by tongues of parkland or tree-lined aqueducts and rail-line viaducts.

‘Of course,’ she said, ‘we’ll still have four kilometres to climb to the hub.’

‘Shouldn’t be a problem,’ said Cuthbertson, raising a tentative hand as he spoke. ‘Volantors depend on abstraction for nav services, same as Miracle Bird does. But elevators don’t. There isn’t a reason in the world why they shouldn’t work.’

‘And the trains?’ asked Thory. ‘Got an explanation for why they aren’t running?’

‘Someone panicked, that’s all. Activated the emergency stop.’

‘All over Aubusson?’ asked the woman in the red dress. ‘I’ve been looking out of this window for a long time now and can see far enough to make out six or seven lines. I’m damned if I’ve seen one moving train in all that time.’

Cuthbertson’s certainty had slipped a notch. ‘So a lot of people panicked. Or maybe Utility pulled the plug because they panicked.’

‘Could affect the elevators, in that case,’ the woman said.

‘I don’t know. I think the elevators run on a different supply, independent of Utility. Point is, we won’t lose anything by finding out.’ Cuthbertson turned to face Cyrus Parnasse. ‘I’m coming with you, Curator. Miracle Bird can act as look-out, in case we run into any mobs.’

‘That bird of yours can still fly, even when it’s twitching like that?’ asked Thalia.

‘It’ll manage. It’s adapting already.’ The mechanical owl turned its dish-like face to look at Cuthbertson. ‘Aren’t you, boy?’

‘I’m an excellent bird.’

‘So that’s three of us,’ Thalia said. ‘Not counting the owl. That’s a good number. If we encounter trouble, we shouldn’t be too conspicuous.’

‘I’m coming, too,’ said Caillebot. ‘If there’s anyone who knows the layout of the parks and gardens in this cylinder, it’s me.’

‘You can count me in as well,’ said Meriel Redon.

‘You sure?’ Thalia asked. ‘You’ll be safe and sound up here until the back-up squad arrives.’

‘I’ve made my mind up. I’ve never been one for sitting around when I could be walking. Makes me nervous.’

Thalia nodded heavily. ‘I think five is the limit, folks. Any more and we’ll be slower than we need to be. The rest of you can sit tight and wait until abstraction comes back up.’

‘Are you issuing orders now?’ Paula Thory asked.

Thalia thought about it for an instant. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Looks like I am. So start dealing with it, lady.’

Dreyfus absorbed the truth of the Conjoiner’s revelations, convinced in his heart that she had no reason to lie. ‘I think I know who Aurora is,’ he said slowly. ‘But she shouldn’t be here. She shouldn’t be anywhere. She should have died - she should have ended - fifty-five years ago.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Unless someone else is using the same name, we’re dealing with a dead girl. One of the Eighty, the group of human volunteers who took part in Calvin Sylveste’s immortality experiments. Do you know what I’m talking about?’

‘Of course. We learned of those experiments with horror and dismay. His methods were conceptually flawed. Failure was inevitable. ’

‘Except maybe it wasn’t,’ Dreyfus said, ‘because Aurora Nerval-Lermontov appears to be very much with us. At least one of the Transmigrants must have persisted, despite what the records say.’

‘You have no evidence of this.’

‘I know that her family owned this rock.’ By way of an afterthought, he added, ‘Do you think you’re ready to trust me yet?’

‘Turn around,’ she said after due consideration. ‘I have released my hold on your suit. Your communication functions are still disabled.’

He turned to look at her. She was wearing a suit herself, but of Conjoiner design. It had the glossy sheen of something moulded from luxury chocolate. For a moment he was looking at a featureless black oval instead of a head. Then her helmet melted back into the ruff-like collar of the neck ring.

He saw her face.

He’d seen stranger things in the Glitter Band. There was very little about her that wasn’t baseline human, at first glance. She was a woman of uncertain age - he’d have said forty or so, except that he knew she was probably much older than that, because Conjoiners were as long-lived as any human splinter faction. Piercingly intelligent eyes, coloured a very pale green; wide, freckled cheekbones; a jaw that some might have considered too strong, but which was actually exactly in proportion with the rest of her face. She was bald, the top of her skull rising to a sharp mottled ridge that began halfway up her brow, betraying the enlarged cranial cavity she must have needed for her supercharged, machine-clotted brain.

That was where her true strangeness lay: beneath the skin, beneath the bone. The people in the wilder habitats might employ Mixmasters to sculpt themselves into exotic forms, but they seldom did anything to the functional architecture of their minds. Even the people who were wired into extreme levels of abstraction were still human in the way they processed the data entering their brains. That couldn’t be said for the Conjoiner woman. She might be able to emulate human consciousness when it suited her, but her natural state of mind was something Dreyfus would never be able to grasp, any more than a horse could grasp algebra.

‘Do you want to tell me your name?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘For your purposes I will call myself Clepsydra. If this is problematic for you, you may call me Waterclock, or simply Clock.’

‘You sound as if that isn’t your real name.’

‘My real name would split your mind open like wood under an axe.’

‘Clepsydra it is, then. What exactly are you doing here, assuming you’re ready to tell me?’

‘Surviving. That has been enough, lately.’

‘Tell me about this ship. What’s it doing here? What use is it to Aurora?’

‘Our ship returned to this system nearly fifty years ago. We were experiencing difficulties. We’d encountered something in deep interstellar space: a machinelike entity of hostile nature. The ship had survived by sloughing part of itself, in the manner of a lizard shedding its tail. On the long return journey it had reorganised itself as best as it could, but it was still damaged. We were attempting to make contact with the Mother Nest, but our communications systems were not functioning properly.’ Clepsydra swallowed, a gesture that all of a sudden made her look helplessly human. ‘Aurora found us first. She lured us in with promises of help and then swallowed us inside this place. We have been inside it ever since: unable to escape, unable to contact the Nest.’

‘That still doesn’t tell me what Aurora wanted of you.’

‘That is more difficult to explain.’

‘Try me.’

‘Aurora wanted us to dream, Prefect. That is why she - why it - kept us here. Aurora made us dream the future. She desired our intelligence concerning future events. We prognosticated. And when we saw something in our prognostications that she didn’t like, Aurora punished us.’

‘No one can dream the future.’

‘We can,’ Clepsydra said blithely. ‘We have a machine that lets us. We call it Exordium.’

CHAPTER 14

Thalia’s walking party made their way to the elevator shaft that pierced the middle of the sphere from pole to pole. The high-capacity car was still waiting for them, exactly as they had left it, down to the pale-yellow watercolour panels of scenes from Yellowstone.

‘It’s powered up,’ Parnasse said. ‘That’s good. Shouldn’t be any problem getting down now.’

Thalia, the last of the five to enter, cleared the trelliswork doors. They scissored shut behind her.

‘It’s not moving. I’m asking it and it isn’t moving,’ Caillebot said.

‘That’s because it isn’t hearing you. Abstraction’s two-way,’ Parnasse said, with the weary air of a man who shouldn’t have to explain such things.

‘Then how do we get it to move? Are there manual controls?’

‘We don’t need them just yet. Do we, Thalia?’

‘He’s right,’ she said. ‘Panoply operatives need to be free to move wherever and whenever we want, even without abstraction. We distribute the voiceprint patterns of authorised personnel to all habitats as a matter of routine.’ She spoke up. ‘This is Deputy Field Prefect Thalia Ng. Recognise my voiceprint.’

‘Voiceprint recognised, Deputy Field Prefect Ng.’

Thalia breathed a little easier. ‘Please descend to ground level.’

There was an uncomfortable moment when nothing happened, and then the elevator began to descend.

‘Glad that worked,’ Thalia said under her breath. Parnasse glanced at her with a sly smile as if he’d overheard.

‘That’s good,’ Caillebot said. ‘I was beginning to wonder what would happen if we’d been stuck up there.’

‘We’d have taken the stairs,’ Parnasse said witheringly. ‘You’re familiar with the concept of stairs, right?’

Caillebot shot him a warning look but didn’t reply.

The elevator continued its smooth descent, passing through the neck connecting the sphere to the stalk. They were in the hollow atrium now. Far below, visible through the trellised glass windows on the outside of the car, the lobby lay completely deserted. Thalia had half-expected that at least some citizens would be converging on the polling core, demanding to know what was wrong and exactly when it would be fixed, but there was no sign of them. She couldn’t exactly say why, but something made her touch the whiphound again.

The car completed its descent, coming to a smooth halt at the lobby level, and the trelliswork doors clattered open. Again, Thalia was struck by the emptiness of the lobby. It felt even more still than when they had first passed through it, their footsteps echoing loudly.

‘Okay, people,’ she said, ‘let’s stick together. Like the man said, there could be some angry citizens out there, and we may be the ones they decide to take it out on.’

They walked into blue-hazed sunlight, shining down from the arc of the window band eight kilometres above. Around them stood ornamental ponds and lawns, crisscrossed by neatly tended gravel and marble pathways. Fountains were still burbling somewhere nearby. Everything looked utterly normal, exactly as Thalia had expected save for the absence of a rampaging mob. Perhaps she was doing the citizens of Aubusson a disservice. But then she recalled how quickly the reception committee had turned against her. If they were truly representative of the citizenry, then there was every reason to expect a similarly unpleasant reaction from the other eight hundred thousand of them.

‘I hear voices,’ Caillebot said suddenly. ‘I think they’re coming from the other side of the stalk.’

‘I hear them, too,’ Parnasse said, ‘but we’re not going that way. Straightest path is right ahead, though those trees, directly towards the endcap.’

‘Maybe I should speak to them,’ Thalia said. ‘Tell them what’s happened, how it won’t be long before things are sorted out.’

‘We had a plan, girl,’ Parnasse said. ‘The idea was to walk and stay out of trouble. Those voices don’t sound too happy, the way I’m hearing ’em.’

‘I agree,’ said Meriel Redon.

Thalia bit her lip. She could hear the voices as well, just above the burble of fountains. A lot of people, sounding agitated and angry. Shouts that were threatening to become screams.

Her hand tightened on the whiphound again. Something was wrong, she knew. That wasn’t the sound of a crowd high on its own fury and indignation, wanting the blood of whoever had taken down their precious abstraction.

That was the sound of frightened people.

‘Listen to me,’ Thalia said, fighting to keep the fear out of her own voice. ‘I need to see what’s happening. That’s my duty as a prefect. You four keep going, heading towards the endcap. I’ll catch you up.’

‘That’s not a pretty sound,’ Parnasse said.

‘I know. That’s why I need to check it out.’

‘It isn’t your problem,’ Caillebot said. ‘Our constables will take care of any civil unrest. That’s what they’re for.’

‘You have a standing police force?’

The gardener shook his head. ‘No, but the system will have called up a constabulary from the citizenry, the same way we were called up to form the reception party.’

‘There is no system,’ Parnasse said.

‘Then the people who were called up last time will resume their duties.’

‘When exactly was last time?’ Thalia asked. The agitated noise was growing louder. It sounded more like the whooping of excited wildfowl than any sound produced by people.

‘I don’t remember. A couple of years ago.’

‘It was more like ten,’ Meriel Redon said. ‘And even if the constables self-activate, how are they all going to get where they’re needed if the trains are down?’

‘We don’t have time to talk this over.’ Thalia unclipped her whiphound, tightening her hand around the heavy shaft of the handle. ‘I’m going to take a look.’

‘On your own?’ Redon asked.

‘I won’t have to get too close. The whiphound can give me an advance pair of eyes. In the meantime you keep walking along this path, towards that row of trees. I’ll find you.’

‘Wait,’ Cuthbertson said urgently. ‘We have Miracle Bird. Let’s use him.’

‘How?’ Thalia asked.

‘He can overfly the crowd and tell us what he sees when he returns. He doesn’t need abstraction for that. Do you, boy?’

Miracle Bird’s beak clacked in return. ‘I can fly,’ said the mechanical owl. ‘I’m an excellent bird.’

‘He doesn’t sound as bright as when he met me at the hub,’ Thalia said.

Cuthbertson raised his hand, Miracle Bird responding by unfolding and flexing his glittering alloy wings. ‘He knows what to do. Shall I release him?’

Thalia glanced at the whiphound. She might need its close-up surveillance mode later, but for now an aerial snapshot would be at least as useful.

‘Do it,’ she said.

Cuthbertson pushed his arm higher. Miracle Bird released its talons, its wings hauling it aloft with a whoosh of downthrust. Thalia watched it climb higher and recede, sun flaring off its foil-thin feathers with every wingbeat, until it vanished around the side of the stalk.

‘It’ll know to come back to us?’ Thalia asked.

‘Trust the bird,’ Cuthbertson said.

It was an uncomfortably long time before the owl reappeared, emerging around the other side of the stalk. It loitered above them, then spiralled down for an awkwardly executed landing on Cuthbertson’s sleeve. He whispered something to the bird; the bird whispered something back.

‘Did he get anything?’ Caillebot asked.

‘He recorded what he saw. He says he saw people and machines below.’

Caillebot narrowed his eyes. ‘Machines?’

‘Servitors, probably. But that’s all he can tell us himself. He’s a smart bird, but he’s still PreCalvinist.’

Caillebot looked disgusted. ‘Then we haven’t achieved anything, other than wasted time.’

‘Let’s find some shade. Then we’ll see what we achieved.’

‘What in Voi’s name do we need shade for?’ Caillebot snapped.

‘Find me some and I’ll show you.’ The automaton-maker tapped a finger against the owl’s delicate jewelled eyes. Thalia understood - the eyes looked very much like laser projectors - and started looking around, hoping they would not have to go back into the lobby.

‘Will that do?’ Meriel Redon asked, pointing to the shadow cast by an ornamental arch at the foot of one of the pond-spanning bridges.

‘Good work,’ Thalia said. They trooped over to the arch and made room for Cuthbertson to kneel down, bringing Miracle Bird’s head to within thirty centimetres of the dark marbled floor.

‘Start playback, boy,’ Cuthbertson said. ‘Everything you shot, from the moment I let you go.’

The owl looked down. A square of bright colour appeared on the dark-grey marble. Thalia saw faces and clothes, a huddle of people diminishing as the bird took flight. Its point of view shifted as it looked away from them. Blue haze, textured by the faint roads, parks and communities of the farside wall. Then the ivory-white spire of the polling core’s stalk filled the owl’s field of view. The stalk widened, then veered to the right as the owl swept past it. Now Miracle Bird’s point of view shifted smoothly downwards, tracking towards the ground beneath him. Geometric divisions of grass and water slid across the image square. One of the escalator ramps down to the train station. Then a larger green space dotted with the pale, foreshortened blobs of people, many dozens of them.

‘Hold it there,’ Cuthbertson said. ‘Freezeframe and zoom in picture centre, boy.’

The image enlarged. The blobs resolved into individuals. There were at least fifty or sixty people, Thalia judged; maybe more out of sight. They were not just standing around any more, nor had they assembled into the agitated clumps of a restless, bad-tempered crowd.

No. They had formed a single, tight-packed group, jammed closer together than normal social etiquette would have allowed. A thought started to form in Thalia’s mind, but Meriel Redon said it aloud.

‘They’re being herded,’ she said, very softly. ‘They’re being herded by machines.’

The furniture-maker was right, Thalia saw. The people had been shunted together by servitors, at least a dozen of them. Their squat forms were quite unmistakable, even from above. Some of them moved on wheels or tracks, some on slug-like pads, some on legs. She thought she recognised at least one of the bright blue gardening servitors that they had passed on the way to the polling core. She recalled the wicked gleam of its trimmer arms as it carved a peacock out of the hedge.

‘This isn’t good,’ Thalia said.

‘The constables must have tasked the servitors to assist them,’ Caillebot replied.

Parnasse pointed a stubby finger at the image, indicating the shoulder of a man wearing a bright orange armband. ‘Sorry to dampen your enthusiasm, but I think that is a constable. The machines seem to be treating him the same way they’re treating everyone else.’

‘Then he must be an impostor wearing a constable’s armband. The machines would only be acting under the supervision of the officially designated constables.’

‘Then where are they?’ Parnasse asked.

Caillebot looked irritated. ‘I don’t know. Sending instructions from somewhere else.’

Parnasse looked suitably unimpressed. ‘With no abstraction? What are they using, messenger pigeons?’

‘Maybe the machines are programmed to act this way when they sense a civil emergency,’ Redon said doubtfully. ‘They’re only doing what the constables would do if they were here.’

‘Has anything like this happened before?’ Thalia asked.

‘Not in my memory,’ Redon said.

‘There have been disturbances,’ Parnasse said. ‘Storms in a teacup. But the machines have never started acting like constables.’

‘Then I don’t think that’s what we’re looking at,’ Thalia said.

‘What, then?’ Parnasse asked.

He was starting to rankle her, but she kept her composure. ‘I’m starting to worry that this is something more sinister. I’m beginning to think that what we’re seeing here is some kind of takeover.’

‘By whom?’ asked Caillebot. ‘Another habitat?’

‘I don’t know. That’s why I need to see things with my own eyes. I want you four to stay here and keep quiet until I’m back. If you don’t hear from me inside five minutes, start making your way to the endcap.’

‘Are you insane?’ Redon asked.

‘No,’ Thalia said. ‘Just on duty. There are people in distress here. Since the local law enforcement appears to be failing them, they’ve become a matter for Panoply.’

‘But there’s just one of you.’

‘Then I’d better make myself count, hadn’t I?’ Sounding braver than she felt, Thalia tapped her sleeve. ‘Five minutes, people. I’m serious.’

She left the shade of the arch, crouching as she made her way from point to point, the whiphound gripped in her right hand like a truncheon. Away from the group, away from their demands and bickering, she found herself starting to think things through. Servitors were programmed with a degree of autonomy, but - unless they’d been uploaded with some very specialised new crowd-control routines - the kind of coordinated action they had seen via the owl implied that someone was pulling their strings from afar. That in turn meant that abstraction could not be down completely.

She remembered her glasses. Furious with herself for not using them sooner, she delved into her tunic pocket with her left hand and slipped them on. The view hardly changed, confirming that abstraction was absent or at least running at a very low level. But symbols were dancing in her lower-right field of view, indicating that the glasses were detecting signals that very much resembled servitor protocols. Someone was puppeting the machines after all. Abstraction wasn’t down; it was just that the people had been locked out.

It was all looking too damned coincidental for comfort. She’d been sent in to make a systems upgrade, and at the very moment when the upgrade had gone through, something had thrown a wrench into the system.

Thalia felt dizzy. She’d had a moment of clarity and it had felt like the thin skin of the world opening up beneath her feet.

She reined her thoughts in before they pulled her somewhere treacherous. Still crouched, moving from cover to cover as if evading a sniper, Thalia finally came in sight of the area of lawn where the machines were herding the citizens. She had the protection of a low hedge, just tall enough to shield her when she was crouching. It had been trained into a lattice pattern, offering diamond-shaped peepholes through to the other side. Thalia was grateful for her black uniform. A military-grade servitor would have spotted her already, using thermal imaging or any one of a dozen other sensors designed to sniff out concealed human prey. But these were servitors manufactured to tend formal gardens, not engage in search-and-destroy missions.

From this low angle, it was not easy to tell exactly what was going on. She could see the cordon of robots, with the humans crammed into a mass behind them. The machines had hemmed the people into a corner of the lawn, backed against the angle formed by two tall hedges. About a dozen servitors appeared to be involved in the herding operation. If someone tried to break free of the mass, they would only manage a few steps before one of the fast machines sped around to block their exit.

Most people were making no effort to escape, Thalia noticed. The crowd was more subdued than before. They were quieter, talking more than shouting, and a handful of people even looked quite relaxed. The physical size and mass of the machines was apparently enough of a deterrent against escape - some of the servitors were much taller than a person - but they also had makeshift weapons. Thalia had already seen the blades of the hedge-cutter, but that wasn’t all. Amongst their arsenal the servitors also had high-pressure water sprays, to keep the marble tiles clean. They had flails to trim the edges of lawns. They had manipulator arms to handle tools and materials.

Now that the crowd was quieter, she could hear a single voice dominating all others. It was measured, reassuring. It had an amplified edge that suggested it was coming from one of the servitors.

She whispered a command to the whiphound. ‘Forward surveillance mode. Advance twenty metres and hold for one hundred seconds before returning. Extreme stealth posture.’

She let go of the handle. With uncanny speed, the whiphound deployed its filament and slithered through one of the diamond-shaped gaps in the hedge. Thalia heard the merest hiss of disturbed foliage, then nothing. She touched a finger to the side of her glasses, opening a window that showed the whiphound’s point of view. The image remained level as the machine slinked to its surveillance point, directly ahead of the Thalia. Through the gaps in the hedge she could just see the thin cord of its filament, coiling along the ground with the handle only a few handwidths above the grass.

The machine reached its surveillance point. Nothing but grass stood between the whiphound and the outer cordon of servitors. It halted and slowly elevated its handle until the crowd came into view again. The image zoomed in, clicking through magnification factors. The whiphound had enough smarts to identify people and concentrate its attention on them. Thalia studied the faces, seeing fear and bewilderment on several, anger on others, but also a kind of trusting acceptance on many.

The whiphound’s audio pickup pushed an amplified voice into her earpiece. ‘. . . state of emergency is now in force,’ the voice said. ‘Although full information is not yet available, there is credible evidence that House Aubusson has suffered an attack by hostile parties. This incident is still in progress. In addition to the sabotaging of abstraction services, it is believed that an airborne neurotoxic agent has been introduced into the biosphere. Until the focus and extent of this agent have been determined, it is regrettably necessary to suspend normal freedom of movement and communication. In areas where constables cannot be activated or deployed, servitors have been tasked to provide the same function. This temporary measure has been instigated for your safety. Constables are now actively assessing the scale and threat of the attack. Panoply operatives have also been notified of the situation, and are now formulating an appropriate tactical response. In the meantime, please assist the constabulary by cooperating fully with locally designated operatives, be they human or servitor, so that habitat-wide resources can be targeted efficiently on the elimination of the threat. I thank you for your assistance at this difficult time.’ The voice fell silent, but only momentarily before what was clearly a recorded loop began again. ‘This is Constable Lucas Thesiger, speaking for the constabulary of House Aubusson, under the terms of the Civil Emergency Act. I regret to inform you that a state of emergency is now in force. Although full information is not yet available . . .’

The whiphound broke off its surveillance and commenced its return to Thalia. She snapped off the glasses, folded them and slid them back into her tunic pocket. With a rustle the whiphound emerged through the hedge. She spread the fingers of her right hand and allowed the handle to leap into her grasp, the filament retracting in the same instant.

She looked back the way she had come, plotting her route, and saw the moving form of a large six-wheeled servitor. Only the top half of the machine was visible, the rest of it obscured by the line of a hedge. It was an orange robot with a high-gloss shell, the claws and scoop of heavy-duty waste-collection apparatus just visible at the front. The machine was trundling along a gravel-lined path, crunching stones beneath its tyres. Thalia replayed the route she had followed and reckoned that the robot would be on her in fifteen or twenty seconds; sooner if she returned the way she had come.

It might do nothing. It might just rumble past her, on some preprogrammed errand.

She wasn’t going to take that chance.

She crouch-walked as fast as she dared, holding the whiphound tight. She reached a dead end where three sets of hedges converged, blocking her in. The servitor rumbled closer. She risked a glance back and saw blue-hazed sunlight flare off its shell. With the outspread axles of its six wheels, its claw-like waste-collection system and the dim-looking cluster of cameras tucked under the shell’s forward lip, there was something fierce and crablike about the advancing machine. An hour ago she would have walked past it without giving it a glance. Now it made her feel mortally frightened.

Thalia thumbed one of the heavy-duty controls set into the whiphound’s handle. Sword mode. The filament whisked out to a length of one metre, but stiffened to the rigidity of a laser beam. Gripping the thing in both hands, Thalia pushed the blade into the hedge. She sliced sideways, the whiphound automatically twisting the blade to bring the microscopic ablative mechanisms of the cutting edge into play. There was no detectable resistance. A downward swoop, a sweep across, a sweep up. She retracted the blade, then pushed against the cube of hedge she had cut free. It eased inwards, then flopped back onto the turf on the other side. With hindsight, she should have cut a wider hole.

She didn’t have time for hindsight.

She wriggled through. Her heels must have been clearing the gap when the robot rounded the final corner. Thalia crouched low and still. She had emerged onto an area of lawn bounding one of the ponds, out of sight of the other servitors. The pond was circular, with an ornamental fountain at its centre.

The machine approached, its progress silent save for the steady crunch of gravel under its wheels. Thalia tensed, convinced that the machine was going to slow or stop. It would see the hole, she thought; it would find her, then it would summon others. But the machine did not stop, even when it reached the cut in the hedge. Thalia remained as still as possible until the crunching noise had receded into the background sounds - the burble of the fountain, the distant voices of the herded crowd and the endlessly cycling message of reassurance from Constable Lucas Thesiger.

When at last she was certain that the machine was not about to return, she poked her head above the level of the hedge. No other servitors were nearby, or at least none large enough to see. The orange machine was turning, changing its course to proceed at ninety degrees to the hedge Thalia had cut, but not in a direction that would take it further away. She looked along the line of the hedge that the machine was traversing and spotted an opening at its far end, one she had missed on her first inspection. If the machine reached that spot and then turned in towards her, she would be exposed and obvious. Thalia stowed the whiphound. She returned through the hole she had cut, the gravel chips digging into the skin of her palms as she pushed herself up to a crouching position. Holding still again, she watched the orange servitor make its way to the end of the hedge and then turn into the enclosure around the pond. She had been right to dodge back through the hedge. Even if the machine carried only a rudimentary vision system, she would have been obvious.

Instinct told her to move while the machine was engaged in its business, but she forced herself to remain still. She had seen something slumped in the servitor’s waste scoop, something that had no business being there.

The machine trundled to the edge of the pond. It raised the scoop, shining pistons elongating. The angle of the scoop tilted down. The slumped thing Thalia had glimpsed slid free into the water. It was a body, a dead man clothed in the brown overalls of a park attendant. As the body entered the pond, limp enough to suggest that death had been recent, Thalia made out a vivid red gash across the man’s chest, where he had been cut through his clothes. Then he was gone. For a moment an elbow jutted out of the water, before disappearing under. The fountain laid a white froth over the surface of the pond, obscuring the body completely.

Thalia was shaking. She unclipped the whiphound again. She had not believed the recorded message from Lucas Thesiger, if there was such a person. But until that moment she had at least been prepared to believe that the servitors were acting under some dire-emergency protocol. Perhaps the truth was simply too unsettling to reveal to the citizenry, for fear of inciting panic.

But even in a state of emergency, you didn’t bury bodies in civic ponds.

‘There were a hundred of us once,’ Clepsydra said. ‘This room is where we slept, or at least rested our bodies, during interstellar flight. Most of us are still alive, connected via neural connections to the Exordium device.’

‘Where is it?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘Somewhere else in the ship.’

‘Can you show it to me?’

‘I could, but then I’d have to kill you.’

He couldn’t tell if that was an attempt at humour, or whether she was deadly serious.

In total, she’d told him as little about the technology as she could get away with. All Dreyfus was clear about was that Exordium was a kind of quantum periscope, peering into a murky, fog-shrouded sea of overlapping future states. What Clepsydra called the ‘retrocausal probability function’ was generated by future versions of the same dreamers, plugged into the Exordium machine further down the timeline. It took the minds of those selfsame dreamers to shape the nebulous Exordium data into coherent predictions about things yet to happen.

He looked at the wounded sleepers. ‘Please don’t tell me they’re conscious.’

‘It is a state of consciousness akin to lucid dreaming. Their minds have been enslaved for Aurora’s purposes, nothing more. With their minds given over to processing Exordium imagery, the sleepers have scarcely any spare capacity for what you might call normal thought. Aurora has made that impossible.’

‘And yet you escaped,’ Dreyfus said.

‘It was planned, with the full cooperation of the remaining sleepers. In the gaps between monitored thoughts we hatched a scheme. It took us years. We knew only one of us could escape. I was chosen at random, but any one of us would have sufficed.’

‘Why just one of you? Once you’d escaped, couldn’t you . . . free the others, or something?’

‘We had hopes that I might make it back to civilisation. That proved impossible.’

‘How long have you been free?’

‘A hundred days. A thousand. I’m not sure. Now at least you understand how I kept myself alive. I have a hiding place elsewhere in the rock, away from Aurora’s scrutiny. But I can’t stay there all the time. Periodically I must return here, to the ship, and harvest rations. I do it surgically, a little at a time. Just enough to keep me alive for a couple of days, but not enough to cause any additional complications in the donor. I take the harvested food back with me to my hideaway. I cook it as best I can, using a cauterizing tool.’ She looked at Dreyfus, her expression challenging him to judge her. ‘Then I eat it, slowly and gratefully. Then I return.’

‘It’s monstrous.’

‘It’s what we agreed.’

‘We?’

‘The other sleepers and I. Listen carefully, Dreyfus. This was always the plan. One of us would wake. One and only one. Aurora demanded a single thing of us: a steady stream of Exordium data. If we fell short, if we were perceived not to be performing to expectations, we would be punished. Our neural blockades are effective at neutralising physical pain, but they can do nothing against pain that is administered directly to the brain via cortical stimulation. That was how Aurora made us do what we were told.’

‘The helmets?’

‘A modification of our own equipment. They connect us to Exordium, but they also administer punishment.’

‘Did she hurt you?’

‘Aurora hurt all of us. But not by administering pain to the entire group of sleepers. Had Aurora done that, it might have engendered a sense of unity through suffering: a rebellious solidarity that might have given us the strength to refuse to dream. Aurora was cleverer than that.’

‘What did she do?’

‘Aurora’s way was to select one of us and make that sleeper suffer for our collective failure. Aurora picked on certain sleepers again and again. Because we are Conjoiners, we always felt something of the other sleeper’s pain: not its totality, but a reflection of it, enough to judge the degree of suffering.’

‘And that worked?’

‘We learned not to fail her. But by the same token we also strove to find a way to cheat. Aurora monitors our thoughts, but not infallibly. We sensed gaps in the flow of our group consciousness when her attention was elsewhere. In these gaps we devised our scheme.’

‘Surely Aurora would have noticed at some point?’

‘Aurora cares only about dreams and punishment. The mechanics of how the Exordium prognostications arrive are of little concern. Had I gone on to cause trouble . . . then perhaps things would have been different.’

‘How were you selected?’

‘The honour was bestowed randomly. There were some who thought the escapee should be one of the sleepers Aurora was prone to punish, but that would have risked drawing too much attention to our plan, when the time for the next punishment came around.’

‘I understand.’

‘The matter of escape was not simple. It required enormous preparation, artful distraction. I learned how to fool the helmet into thinking I was still in the dreaming consciousness state, while in fact being fully lucid, fully awake. I learned how to interfere with its mechanism, to release it, yet not trigger any alarms. All this required more than a year of preparation.’

Dreyfus reeled at the enormity of what he was hearing. ‘But once you escaped . . . wouldn’t there still have been an empty position?’

‘That was easily dealt with. I mentioned the accident that had already befallen our ship. There were corpses elsewhere on the vessel, due to be returned to the Mother Nest for component recycling. Before my absence was noted, I retrieved one of these corpses and plugged it into the dreaming apparatus. The life-support system kept the corpse animate. It was incapable of thought, but the other dreamers were able to conceal that from Aurora.’

Dreyfus shook his head, dumfounded, appalled and awed at what he had heard. Speech itself felt like a form of blasphemy, set against so much suffering. ‘But if you haven’t been able to escape . . . hasn’t all of this been for nothing?’

‘I was beginning to think so. So were the other sleepers. The idea was that I would use my talents to send a message to the Mother Nest, if it still existed. But the machinery in this place would not allow it. I can sense doors opening and closing, the arrival of ships and individuals. But the data architecture depends on optical circuitry, which my implants cannot manipulate.’

Dreyfus nodded grimly. ‘Aurora knew exactly which bars would hold you prisoner.’

‘Yes, she did. Perhaps your deputy will have more success, if he has the right equipment. But I was mute.’

‘But you didn’t give up.’

‘I shifted my efforts to constructing a transmitter of my own. The ship could grow me such a thing in hours if I sent the right commands to it. But if I did that, Aurora would sense the changes in the ship. She almost certainly knows that you are here, Prefect. I could not risk her killing the sleepers. I was forced to scavenge what I could from the surrounding structure. I have been piecing together parts and tools in my hiding place.’

‘How close are you to success?’

‘A hundred days, a thousand days.’ Then quietly she added, ‘Perhaps longer. Nothing is certain.’

‘How long could you last?’

‘In a few years, I would reach the limit of what could be harvested without causing death. Then difficult decisions would need to be made. I would have made them, without flinching. That is our way. But then something changed.’

‘Which was?’

‘You arrived, Prefect. And now things can start happening.’

Meriel Redon was waiting for Thalia as soon as she returned to the other four members of the escape party. ‘What did you see?’ she asked.

Thalia raised a hand until she caught her breath. Her back was aching from all the crouching she’d had to do.

‘It’s pretty much what I expected, based on what we saw from the bird.’ She kept her voice low, breaking off to take deep breaths. ‘But it’s not as bad as it looked at first. The servitors have been activated under an emergency protocol. I heard the voice of a constable explaining why everyone needs to stay calm.’

‘I thought there were no constables,’ said Caillebot. ‘Except for the one we saw in the crowd, being treated like all the other people.’

‘I don’t think he had the right to wear a constable’s armband,’ Thalia said, her mind racing ahead as she tried to anticipate the questions her party might ask. ‘The voice was coming from a servitor, anyway. It was broadcasting a looped statement from someone called Lucas Thesiger. Does the name mean anything to any of you?’

‘Thesiger was assigned to the constabulary during the Blow-Out Crisis,’ said Redon. ‘I remember seeing his face on the reports. He was commended for bravery after he saved some people who were stranded outside near the breach. A lot of us said he should be made a permanent constable, to be activated again the next time there was a crisis.’

‘Well, it looks like you got your wish. Thesiger’s calling the shots now, from somewhere else.’

Cuthbertson looked sceptical. ‘Why are the machines doing the work of the constables if the constables are still in charge?’

‘Constables can’t get everywhere at once,’ Thalia told the bird man. ‘And there are problems with communication. That’s why the machines have been tasked in some areas, like this one. The people are being told to sit tight and wait for the crisis to blow over.’

‘What crisis?’ Parnasse asked, so quietly that Thalia almost didn’t hear him.

‘It’s not clear. Thesiger says there are indications the habitat was attacked. The attack may even be ongoing. Something nasty might have been released into the air.’

The curator studied her with a look on his face that said Thalia might fool the others, but she wasn’t fooling him. ‘Then it was just coincidence that abstraction went down the moment you completed that upgrade?’

‘Difficult as it may be to believe, that’s what it looks like.’

‘That’s quite some coincidence.’

Thalia nodded earnestly. ‘I agree, but right now we don’t have time to dwell on that. What we have to focus on is surviving. Thesiger - whoever he is - is right to enforce martial rule to keep the citizenry from panicking too much. In his shoes, it’s exactly what I’d do - even if that meant tasking servitors to fill in for constables.’

‘But those machines weren’t just directing the people to safety,’ Cuthbertson said, a strained edge in his voice. ‘They were herding them. There was something wrong there.’

‘It’s okay. The servitors must have been tasked before Thesiger was able to get his recorded message out. Given what had already happened - abstraction going down, the loss of utilities - I can imagine that the people were pretty spooked when the robots started pushing them around. But the machines were just doing what they were instructed to do. Constables would have done it with a smile and a wave of encouragement, but it’s no different in the end. The crowd was a lot calmer once Thesiger explained what was happening.’

‘I think she’s right,’ Redon said. ‘I can’t hear the voices as much now.’

‘So what are you proposing?’ Caillebot asked. ‘That we go and join those people?’

Thalia took her biggest gamble. ‘You can if you want. I won’t stop you. But unlike those people, you happen to be under Panoply care already. That overrides any local security arrangements, including a habitat-wide curfew.’

‘But you mentioned something in the air,’ Redon said.

Thalia nodded. ‘Thesiger talked about a toxic agent. I’m guessing he has intelligence that says something like that was at least planned. But I think he may be overstating the danger, just to be on the safe side.’

‘You can’t know that,’ the furniture-maker said, her eyes widening with concern.

‘No,’ Thalia admitted. ‘I can’t. But I can tell you this. Thesiger wants to round people up to prevent panic, and for now that means holding them in the open air.’

‘The larger buildings are all airtight,’ Caillebot said, as if just realising it himself. ‘They’re designed to tolerate another blow-out. Why doesn’t he move them to the larger buildings?’

‘He’s probably going to as soon as he has large enough groups under sufficient control. Once one group of people seal themselves into a building, they’re not going to open the door to anyone else. And that will be bad news if the agent is real, and not everyone gets inside in time.’

‘But staying with you doesn’t help us,’ Redon said.

‘It does,’ Thalia said. ‘Our best strategy is to move, and keep moving. The whiphound has a chemosensor. It’ll detect harmful elements in the air long before they reach sufficient concentration to do harm.’

‘And then what?’ the woman asked.

‘We’ll seek shelter if we have to. But our main objective is to reach my ship. You’ll be safe there.’

‘What about the others, the people we left behind in the polling core?’

Thalia glanced up at the spherical structure high above them. ‘I can’t help them now. The sphere’s airtight, so they’ll be safe from any toxins. They’ll just have to sit it out up there until help arrives.’

Parnasse inhaled through his nose and nodded. ‘Then we keep walking, the way we were going before.’

‘At least we won’t have any mobs to worry about,’ Cuthbertson said, ‘if the machines are putting everyone else under protection—’

‘No, we won’t have to worry about mobs,’ Thalia told him. ‘But I don’t want to run into any tasked servitors either.’

‘Won’t they let us through when you explain that you’re Panoply? ’ Caillebot asked.

‘One would hope so, but I don’t want to have to put that to the test. Those machines aren’t reporting back to Thesiger every time they need to make a decision. They’re running a one-size-fits-all enforcement program designed to safeguard the mass populace.’

‘Then we’ll need to avoid machines,’ the gardener said. ‘That isn’t going to be easy, Prefect. Have you any idea how many servitors there are in this place?’

‘In the order of millions, I’d guess,’ Thalia said. ‘But we’ll just have to make do as best we can. The whiphound can move ahead of us, securing an area before we enter it.’ She unclipped the handle and allowed the whiphound to deploy its filament. ‘Beginning now. Forward scout mode. Twenty-metre secure zone. Proceed.’

The whiphound raced ahead, a squiggle moving almost too fast to be tracked by the eye.

‘We’re moving?’ Caillebot asked.

Thalia waited until the whiphound had turned back to her and nodded its laser-eye handle, indicating that it was safe to proceed. ‘We’re moving,’ she said. ‘Keep low and keep quiet. Do that, and we’ll be fine. One way or the other, we’re getting out of here.’

They proceeded along gravel- and marble-lined paths, all stooping to stay below the level of the hedges. Now and then the hedges widened out to enclose a small courtyard or ornamental pond. It was less than ten kilometres to the endcap, but ten kilometres like this was going to feel more like fifty. She just hoped they would be able to move more freely once they had cleared the manicured gardens around the museum campus and entered the denser foliage of wooded parklands. Ahead lay the line of trees they had been making for since leaving the stalk.

Parnasse sidled next to her. Short and stocky, he had the easiest time of all of them when it came to stooping down. ‘Very good work, girl,’ he said quietly.

‘Thank you,’ she replied through gritted teeth.

‘But what aren’t you telling us?’

‘Nothing.’

‘You came back from the other side of the stalk with a look on your face I haven’t seen in a long time. You saw something bad there, didn’t you? Something you’re frightened to tell us in case we lose it.’

‘Just keep moving, Cyrus.’

‘Was it true, about that speech from Thesiger?’

‘I told you what I heard.’

‘But you don’t believe a word of it.’

‘This is not the time for discussion. The priority now is to keep moving and keep quiet.’ She looked at him sharply. ‘Or did you miss that part?’

‘What’s happening to those people?’ Parnasse persisted. ‘Are the machines doing something bad to them?’

Ahead, the whiphound shook its handle from side to side. An instant later it flattened itself on the ground, looking just like a coil of discarded cable with a thickening at one end. Thalia raised a warning hand to her party.

‘Hold it,’ she breathed. ‘The whiphound can’t secure the area ahead of us. Something’s there.’

The four froze behind her. The whiphound remained deathly still on the ground. It had been securing the area around a circular pond crossed by a red-painted wooden Chinese bridge. Two other hedge-lined paths converged on the same pond.

‘I think we should retreat,’ Thalia whispered.

‘You think?’ Caillebot asked.

The whiphound offered no guidance. It was adopting a maximum stealth posture, which could only mean it sensed purposeful movement. Thalia breathed in deeply, forcing herself to make the right decision. If the area could not be secured, it could not be entered. They would be right to retreat, to return to the last junction, where they could explore an alternative route. ‘We go back,’ she said.

Two servitors emerged into the area around the pond, one from either side. To the left, a gold-carapaced machine moved on three pairs of articulated legs, with a mass of segmented tentacles emerging from its cowled front end. Some kind of general-utility servitor, Thalia decided. To the right, bouncing along on mechanized ostrich-legs, was a multi-limbed household model, its black and white cladding suggestive of a butler’s uniform.

Thalia held out her hand and barked a command. ‘Abandon stealth posture. Immediate return.’

The whiphound lashed into action, scattering gravel as it uncoiled and propelled itself, almost flying into the air. Thalia splayed her fingers. The whiphound raced across the twenty metres separating the party from the servitors. The handle flew into Thalia’s grasp, the filament retracting at the last instant. Her palm stung from the impact.

She knelt down, aiming the projected red laser spot at the two machines in turn, thumbing a stud each time. ‘Mark as hostile,’ she said twice. ‘Intercept and detain. Maximum necessary force.’

She flung the handle into the air as if throwing a grenade. The filament lashed out, coiling behind the handle as the whiphound oriented itself. The filament contacted the ground, formed a tractive coil and sped the handle in the direction of the bipedal robot, which the whiphound must have identified as the softer target. Gravel hissed and spat.

‘Now we run,’ Thalia told her four companions.

She looked back over her shoulder as, still crouching, they worked back the way they had come. Both servitors were now circumnavigating the pond, converging at the foot of the bridge nearest Thalia. The whiphound flung itself into the air at the last moment, then wrapped its filament around the legs of the bipedal robot. Momentum on its own was not enough to topple the machine, but the whiphound constricted its filament, drawing tight the coils it had placed around the robot’s legs.

The servitor took a juddering step, then lost its balance. It crashed to the dirt and immediately started trying to right itself. The whiphound resettled itself, then flexed its filament through one hundred and eighty degrees to bring the cutting edge into contact with the servitor’s legs. As it cut into the machine, blue fluid sprayed out at arterial pressure. The servitor’s upper limbs thrashed the ground, but the whiphound had the better of it. Sensing that the target was immobilised, it slithered free and focused its attention on the larger machine, the six-legged utility robot that was now increasing speed towards Thalia’s party. The segmented tentacles at the front were flailing the air, giving a convincing impression of a machine driven into a berserker-like rage. The whiphound flung itself into combat again, wrapping metres of sharp-edged filament around the roots of the flailing arms. Thalia kept up her running crouch, glancing back all the while. ‘Stay this side of the hedge,’ she shouted ahead.

The battle between whiphound and servitor had become a blur of furious metal. Thumb-sized pieces of severed machine parts sprayed in all directions. The whiphound must have impaired the servitor’s guidance system, for it was moving erratically now, swerving from side to side. A larger length of severed tentacle came spinning out of the maelstrom. The sound of the battle was like a hundred lashes being administered in unison against rusted steel. The servitor slowed, one of its legs severed. Blue-grey smoke belched from under the gold carapace.

Perhaps it was going to work, Thalia dared to think.

Then something dark came winging out of the chaos, flung aside by the tentacles. It was the handle of the whiphound, trailing a line of limp filament. It thudded at Thalia’s heels, a buzzing sound coming from the handle, the tail twitching spasmodically.

The servitor was still approaching.

Thalia slowed as a cold, clear thought shaped itself. The whiphound was damaged, useless as a weapon now except in one very terminal sense. Thalia stopped, spun on her heels and grabbed at the handle. There was a gash in the casing, exposing obscene layers of internal componentry, things she had never been meant to see. The handle was warm, and every time it buzzed she felt it tremor in her hands. The tail drooped in a plumb line.

Thalia twisted the knurled dials at the end of the handle, bringing two tiny red dots into alignment. The dots lit up and started pulsing.

Grenade mode. Minimum yield. Five-second fuse on release.

The tail sped back into the housing. The black handle was still buzzing in her hand, but the training slammed home with the icy clarity of something that had been burnt into muscle memory by agonising repetition.

She flung the whiphound. It left her hand, following a smooth arc towards the still-approaching servitor. She had aimed it to land just ahead of the machine, directly in its path. Too close and the manipulators would have time to pick it up and fling it aside. Too early, and it wouldn’t do enough damage. She’d have liked the luxury of requesting maximum yield, but while that would have taken care of the advancing machine, it wouldn’t have done wonders for Thalia or her party.

One second.

‘Get down!’ she shouted, preparing to fling herself against the ground.

Two seconds.

Suddenly the servitor wasn’t moving. The smoke was billowing out in greater intensity. It was fatally damaged, Thalia thought. The whiphound had done its job, and now she was going to waste it by having it blow up unnecessarily, when the servitor was already immobilised.

Three seconds.

‘Rescind!’ Thalia shouted. ‘Rescind!’

Four seconds. Then five. The whiphound lay still on the ground. Six seconds oozed into seven. The grenade order had been cancelled, but she could still not shake the sense that she had created a bomb, one that was now compelled to detonate, much as a sword must draw blood before it could be returned to its scabbard.

She crept back towards the whiphound, knees wobbling underneath her. The damaged servitor was still twitching its manipulator tentacles, brushing the gravel only a few centimetres from where the handle had fallen. The citizens were looking back, no doubt wondering what she was doing. Thalia knelt and reached out, fingers advancing gingerly towards the damaged whiphound. The servitor’s tentacles stirred and made one last-ditch effort to trap her, but Thalia was faster. Her hand closed around the warm handle of the whiphound and snatched it back. She almost fell on her haunches, before pushing herself to her feet. She quickly turned the arming dials back to their neutral settings.

‘What now?’ Caillebot asked, his hands on his hips. The party had stopped; they were all looking at her, not so much expecting guidance as demanding it.

Thalia clipped the damaged handle to her belt. It continued to buzz and tremble. ‘We can’t go on. It’ll be too risky with the whiphound the way it is.’

‘I say we just surrender ourselves to Thesiger’s constables,’ Caillebot said. ‘What do we care if they’re machines or people? They’ll look after us.’

‘Tell them,’ Parnasse said, nodding in Thalia’s direction.

Her mouth was dry. She wanted to be anywhere other than here, in this situation, with nothing to protect her or her party but one damaged whiphound.

‘Tell us what?’ Meriel Redon asked, fear staining her voice.

Thalia wiped gravel dust from her hands onto the hem of her tunic. It left grey finger smears. ‘We’re in trouble,’ she said. ‘Worse trouble than I wanted you to know. But Citizen Parnasse is right - I can’t keep it from you any longer.’

‘Keep what?’ Redon asked.

‘I don’t think Thesiger is in control. I think that’s just a ruse to get the citizens to accept the machines. My guess is Thesiger is either dead, already rounded up or fighting for his life. I don’t think there are any human constables active inside Aubusson.’

‘Meaning what?’ the woman persisted.

‘The machines are running things now. The servitors are the new authority. And they’ve started killing.’

‘You can’t know that.’

‘I can,’ Thalia said. She pushed sweat-damp hair back from her forehead. ‘I’ve seen where they bury the bodies. I saw a man . . . he was dead. He’d been killed by one of those things. Butchered by a machine. And he was being hidden somewhere we wouldn’t see him.’

Cuthbertson took a deep breath. ‘Then what we were doing . . . trying to get out of here . . . that was the right thing to try. Wasn’t it?

‘It was,’ Thalia said. ‘But now I see I was wrong. We’d never have made it with just one whiphound to protect us. It was a mistake. My mistake, and I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have left the stalk.’

They all looked back at the slender tower, with the windowed sphere of the polling core still gleaming against the blue-hazed pseudo-sky of the habitat’s opposite wall.

‘So what do we do now?’ Caillebot asked.

‘We get back up there,’ Thalia said, ‘as fast as we can, before more machines arrive. Then we secure it.’

If luck had been against them in their attempt to leave the museum campus, it held until they were back inside the cool, shadowed silence of the stalk’s lobby. No machines had arrived to block their way, or shepherd them to be detained with the prisoners on the lawn. On one level, it felt as if many hours had passed since the loss of abstraction and the first hints that this was more than just a technical failure. But when Thalia checked the time she was dismayed to see that less than forty minutes had passed since she had completed her upgrade. As far as Panoply was concerned, she wouldn’t even be overdue yet, let alone a matter for concern. Help might arrive eventually, but for now - and quite possibly for hours to come - Thalia was on her own.

As if to emphasize how little time had passed, the elevator car was still waiting in the lobby. Thalia beckoned the others inside, the doors snicking closed behind them. Her voice sounded ragged, on the slurred edge of exhaustion and burn-out.

‘This is Deputy Field Prefect Thalia Ng. Recognise my voiceprint.’

After an agonising wait - which could only have been a fraction of a second - the door answered her.

‘Voiceprint recognised, Deputy Field Prefect Ng.’

‘Take us up.’

Nothing happened. Thalia held her breath and waited for movement, that welcome surge as the floor pushed against her feet. Still nothing happened.

‘Is there a problem?’ Caillebot asked.

Thalia whirled on him with vicious speed, all her tiredness wiped away in an instant. ‘What does it look like? We’re not moving.’

‘Try again,’ Parnasse said calmly. ‘Could be it didn’t understand you the first time.’

‘This is Thalia Ng. Please ascend.’ But still the elevator refused to move. ‘This is Deputy Field Prefect Thalia Ng,’ she said again. ‘Recognise my voiceprint!’

This time the elevator stayed mute.

‘Something’s broken,’ Parnasse said, still keeping his voice low and disengaged, as if he was commenting on the action rather than participating in it. ‘I suggest we consider using the stairs instead.’

‘Good idea,’ Meriel Redon said. ‘I’m starting to feel locked in here—’

‘Try the doors,’ Parnasse said.

Thalia pressed her hand against the manual-control panel. Her palm was cut and bruised from her battle with the servitors, tiny chips of stone still embedded in her skin.

‘No dice. They aren’t opening.’

‘Try again.’

Thalia already had. ‘Nothing doing. I don’t suppose asking nicely’s going to help either.’

‘You could try.’

With a sense of futility, she said, ‘This is Thalia Ng. Open the doors.’ She hammered the panel again. ‘Open the doors. Open the fucking doors!’

‘Machines,’ Cuthbertson said.

They all followed his gaze, through the trelliswork doors, across the shadowed emptiness of the lobby to the daylight beyond, where a squad of servitors glinted and shone as they made a slow but deliberate approach towards the stalk. There were eight or nine of them, all of different designs, wheeling, perambulating or sliding, with manipulators and cutting tools raised high.

‘They’ve trapped us,’ Caillebot said, marvelling. ‘They let us get back here because they knew we’d take the elevator. That was another of your ideas, Prefect.’

‘Do you want to shut up now, or after I’ve rammed this down your throat?’ Thalia asked, unclipping the buzzing warm handle of her whiphound.

The leading machines had reached the shadow of the overhang sheltering the wide doorway leading into the lobby. Three marbled steps led up to the level of the main floor, where the lift was situated. The walking machines began ascending the steps with slow but deliberate intent.

Thalia felt the whiphound tremble in her grip, as if its heart was racing.

‘You already said it was damaged,’ Caillebot said. ‘How much use is it going to be against all those if it could barely hold back two?’

Thalia thumbed the heavy control that invoked sword mode and hoped that there was still enough functionality left in the whiphound to spool out and stiffen its filament. The handle buzzed like a trapped wasp; nothing happened. She thumbed the control again, willing the whiphound to respond.

The filament inched out, the buzzing intensifying. Ten centimetres, then fifteen. Twenty before it reached its limit. But it appeared to be rigid and straight.

Thalia sliced into the black metal trelliswork of the elevator doors. She felt more resistance than when she had cut through the hedge, but that was only to be expected. Keeping her cool, knowing that nothing would be gained from panicking, she worked her way methodically across and then down. She directed the whiphound blade back up to the point where she had started, the last few cuts taking almost as long as the dozen or so that had preceded them. Then the rectangle of trelliswork clattered outwards onto the marble floor. The servitors had already reached the top of the stairs and were beginning to cross the expanse of the lobby. Two of the ambulatory machines were even assisting one of the wheeled variants over the obstacle of the steps.

‘The stairs,’ Thalia said. ‘Run like hell, and don’t stop running until you get to the top.’

Thalia moved with the party, but kept herself between them and the machines. She walked backwards, facing the servitors, holding the damaged whiphound in front of her. She had turned the arming dials into alignment again, ready to throw the broken weapon as a grenade. But as her heels touched the stairs, something made her change her mind. Nothing would be gained from attacking these machines now; more would always follow.

Thalia clipped the whiphound back onto her belt and started climbing the stairs behind the others.

CHAPTER 15

Gaffney experienced a moment’s hesitation as he clipped the safe-distance line to his belt. How easy it would be to fail to secure the latch, so that the line snapped off just when he reached its maximum extension. Then he would sail on through the boundary of the exclusion volume, into the sphere of space around Jane Aumonier into which the scarab forbade the intrusion of all but the smallest of objects. Aumonier would have a second or two to register both the failure of the line and the Euclidean inevitability of Gaffney’s onward progress. No force in the universe could stop him from colliding with her.

How fast would it be? he wondered. How clean, how merciful? He’d pondered the literature concerning sudden, non-medical decapitation. It was confusing and contradictory. Very few subjects had survived to testify to their experiences. There’d be blood, certainly. Litres of it, at arterial pressure.

Blood did interesting, artistic things in weightlessness.

‘Prefects,’ Aumonier said as she became aware of the delegation’s presence. ‘I wasn’t expecting a visit. Is something the matter?’

‘You know what this is about, Jane,’ Gaffney said, beginning his drift into the chamber. Next to him, Crissel and Baudry fastened their own safe-distance tethers and kicked off from the wall. ‘Please don’t make it any more difficult than it already is.’

‘I’m not sure I understand.’

‘We’ve come to announce our decision,’ Crissel said, in a regretful tone of voice. ‘You must stand down for the duration, Jane. Until the present crisis is averted, and the nature of the change in the scarab has become clear to us.’

‘I can still do my job.’

Baudry spoke next. ‘No one’s doubting that,’ she said. ‘Whatever else this is about, it has absolutely nothing to do with your professional competence, now or at any time in the past.’

‘Then what the hell is it about?’ Aumonier snapped back.

‘Your continued well-being,’ Gaffney said. ‘I’m sorry, Jane, but you’re simply too valuable an asset to risk in this way. That may sound mercenary, but that’s just the way it is. Panoply wants to have you around next week, not just today.’

‘I’m managing fine, aren’t I?’

‘Demikhov and the other specialists feel that the scarab’s recent state-changes may have been triggered by alterations in your body’s biochemical equilibrium,’ Crissel said. ‘You could cope when all we had to deal with was the occasional lockdown, but with the possibility of all-out war between the Ultras and the Glitter Band—’

‘I’m coping, damn you.’ She looked Crissel hard in the eyes, doubtless trying to connect with the sympathetic ally she had always been able to count on in the past. ‘Michael, listen to me. The crisis is past its point of maximum severity.’

‘You can’t know that for sure.’

Aumonier nodded firmly. ‘I can. Dreyfus has a firm lead. He’s zeroing in on whoever murdered Ruskin-Sartorious and I expect to hear a name from him any time now. Once we have hard evidence, we’ll broadcast a statement to the entire Band, ordering calm. The Ultras will be exonerated.’

‘If he gives you a name,’ Crissel said.

‘I think Tom can be relied upon, don’t you?’ Then a subtle shift in mood revealed itself on her face. ‘Wait a minute. The fact that Tom isn’t here - the fact that he’s outside on field duty - isn’t in any way accidental, is it? You’ve timed this exquisitely.’

‘Dreyfus’s presence or absence is irrelevant,’ Gaffney said. ‘And so, it must be said, is your compliance. We have a majority vote, Jane. That means you must stand down, irrespective of your wishes. Must and will. You have no further say in the matter.’

‘Take a look around you,’ Jane Aumonier said. ‘A good, long look. This is my world. It’s all I’ve known for eleven years of uninterrupted consciousness. None of you can even begin to imagine what that means.’

‘It means you could use a good rest,’ Gaffney said. Then he raised his arm and spoke into his cuff. ‘Commence shutdown, please.’

One by one, habitat by habitat, the displays blanked out, leaving only the black interior surface of Aumonier’s office sphere. The blackness was soon absolute, with the entry door the only source of illumination in the space.

Jane Aumonier made a small clicking noise, as if she’d touched her tongue against the roof of her mouth. ‘This is an outrage,’ she said, her voice hardly raised above a whisper.

‘It’s necessary and you’ll thank us for it later,’ Gaffney replied. ‘As of now, your authority is suspended on medical grounds. As we’ve stressed, this action isn’t being taken on disciplinary grounds. You may not like us right now, but you still have our utmost respect and loyalty.’

‘Like hell I do.’

‘Get it out of your system now, Jane. We understand your rage. We’d be surprised if you weren’t angry with us.’

‘You didn’t have to take the habitats away from me.’ She was speaking slowly, with a kind of iron calm. ‘If you wanted to take me out of the command loop, all you had to do was remove my ability to give orders or offer guidance. You didn’t have to take the habitats away from me.’

‘But we did,’ Gaffney said. ‘You’re too much of a professional, Jane. Do you honestly think you’d stop worrying about the crisis just because we took away your authority? Do you honestly think you’d stop fretting, stop obsessing, every time a new piece of data comes in? Do you honestly think your stress levels wouldn’t actually get worse if we let you see but not act? I’m sorry, I know this is hard, but this is the way it has to be.’

‘We’ve discussed the matter with Demikhov,’ Baudry said. ‘He agrees that the present crisis poses an unacceptable risk to your mental well-being. He consented to this action.’

‘You’d have found a way to twist his advice to suit your purpose no matter what he said.’

‘That isn’t fair,’ Crissel said indignantly. ‘And we’re not going to leave you in the dark, so to speak. We can assign other inputs to the sphere. Historical feeds. Fictions. Puzzles. Enough to keep you occupied.’

‘Don’t even think of lecturing me about keeping occupied,’ Aumonier said to him, with genuine menace.

‘We’re just trying to help,’ Baudry said. ‘That’s all we’ve ever wanted to do.’

‘I wish you’d acknowledge the reasonableness of our actions,’ Gaffney said, ‘but your refusal to do so in no way alters what must be done. We’ll leave you now. Your usual medical care regime will of course continue unaffected. You may request any data feed, within reason. Access to the usual habitat-monitoring channels will of course be embargoed . . . and for the time being, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be able to tap into any of the news networks. Contact with Panoply personnel will also have to restricted—’

‘When Tom gets back—’ she began.

‘He’ll bow to our authority,’ Gaffney said.

Dreyfus and the Conjoiner woman exited the sleeping chamber and made their way out of the sinuous labyrinth of her ship. Dreyfus kept looking over his shoulder, wary that some restless and vengeful spirit might be following them from that house of abominations.

‘My trust in you is provisional,’ Clepsydra said, before reminding him that she still had control over the musculature of his suit. ‘If you can help me reach other Conjoiners, and bring help to save the rest, you shall have my gratitude. If I suspect that you are like the other man, the one who wears the same kind of suit, you shall discover the consequences of betraying me.’

Dreyfus decided not to dwell on her threat. He was simply glad to be out of the butcher’s theatre of the dismembered dreamers. ‘Can I call my deputy?’

‘You may, but I am detecting no incoming carrier signal.’

Dreyfus tried. Clepsydra was right. ‘He must still be attempting to contact Panoply for help.’

‘You’d better hope it comes quickly, in that case. Aurora almost certainly knows you’re here.’

‘Will she harm the sleepers?’

‘She may, if only to stop anyone else obtaining access to Exordium. ’ Clepsydra moved with panther-like speed and grace as they ascended the long thread of the docking connector. ‘But that would be the only reason. Lately she has bored of us. We’re a toy that won’t do what she wants.’

Dreyfus recalled something Clepsydra had told him earlier. ‘You said she punished you if you dreamed something she didn’t like. What did you mean by that?’

‘Aurora expected to glean certain truths from the future. When our prognostications conflicted with her expectations, she grew resentful, as if we were lying to her out of spite.’

‘Were you?’

‘No. What we told her was what we saw. She just didn’t like the message she was being given.’

‘Which was?’

‘That something bad is going to happen. Not today, not tomorrow. Not for years to come. But not so far in the future that it isn’t of concern to her. If I have learned one thing from the glimpses of her mind, it is that she is a cold and cunning strategist, profoundly concerned with her own long-term survival.’

‘And your message gave her something to be scared about?’

‘So it would appear,’ Clepsydra said.

‘Care to elaborate?’

‘Only to say that everything you cherish, everything you work for, everything you hold precious will have its end. You are very proud of this intricate little community of yours, with its ten thousand habitats, its ticking clockwork mechanisms of absolute democracy. And perhaps in your own small way you are entitled to some of that pride. But it won’t last for ever. One day, Prefect, there will be no Glitter Band. There will be no Panoply. There will be no prefects.’

They reached the viewing station where Dreyfus had first glimpsed the imprisoned ship. When they had both cleared the docking connector, he used the control panel to dim the lights and seal the silver door.

‘What disaster did you foresee?’

‘A time of plague,’ Clepsydra said.

Dreyfus shivered, as if someone had just walked over his grave. ‘What does Aurora think about that?’

‘It concerns her. In the thoughts that she lets slip, I’ve sensed a great plan being pushed towards reality. She fears the future we have shown her. She will fear it less if she controls it.’

‘In what way?’

‘For now she hides, flitting furtively from shadow to shadow, surviving by her wits. She lives in your world, but her influence over it is limited. I believe she means to change that. She means to become more powerful. She will rip control of human affairs from your fumbling hands.’

‘You’re talking about a takeover,’ Dreyfus said.

‘Call it what you will. You must be ready for her when she shows herself. She will move quickly, and you will not have much time to react.’

It did not take long to return to the sealed door, the one that had cut him off from Sparver and the corvette. It stood as intact and impervious as when he had left it.

‘This shaft goes all the way around the rock, doesn’t it?’

Clepsydra’s expression was blank. ‘Yes. Why?’

‘Because we’ll have to work our way around if we’re going to reach the shaft that leads to my ship. Assuming we don’t encounter any more obstructions on the way . . .’

Clepsydra closed her eyes, jamming them tight as if she was trying to remember the name of an old acquaintance. She raised her palm to the door, tensing the fingers slightly as if holding some fierce, slavering creature at bay.

Something clicked in the mechanism and the door hummed open.

‘I didn’t realise—’ Dreyfus began.

‘I said I could not tap into the optical architecture. I mentioned nothing of doors.’

‘I’m impressed. Can you all do stuff like that?’

‘Not all of us, no. Very small children need tuition before they have the necessary finesse.’

‘Very small children.’

‘It’s nothing for a Conjoiner. We feel the same way about talking to machines as fish do about swimming in water. We hardly notice we’re doing it.’ Then she cocked her head slightly. ‘There is a carrier signal now.’

‘Sparver?’ Dreyfus asked. ‘Are you reading me?’

‘Loud and clear. You must be closer than before.’

‘I’m on my way back up to the surface lock. I have a witness with me, so don’t be too surprised.’

‘I’m in the storage area just under the lock. I was coming back down to you with a plasma torch.’

‘No need now. You can meet us aboard the ship. Did you manage to get that message through to Thalia?’

‘I got a message through to Muang, but Thalia wasn’t answering.’

Dreyfus felt his spirits dip. ‘Did you tell him to keep trying?’

‘It’s worse than that.’ Sparver sounded genuinely sorry that he had to be the bearer of bad news. ‘Muang’s lost contact with her completely. He isn’t even receiving a signal from her bracelet.’

‘Did he have time to get any kind of message through to her?’

‘Nothing, Boss. But at least help’s on its way to us.’

‘Can you cope with a vacuum crossing?’ Dreyfus asked Clepsydra, preparing to fix his own helmet back into place. ‘Our ship isn’t mated with the exterior airlock. You’ll have to pass through a suitwall as well.’

‘I’d survive vacuum even if I didn’t have a suit. Worry about yourself before you worry about me.’

‘Just asking,’ Dreyfus said.

They were back aboard the corvette in less than five minutes. Sparver was waiting for them on the other side of the suitwall, his arms crossed in anticipation. Clepsydra’s suit stayed intact during its passage through the wall, but once she was inside the corvette she made a point of removing her helmet rather than simply folding it back into her suit, and pressed it against an adhesive area on the wall with a natural fluency that suggested she’d been on similar ships a thousand times before. Dreyfus could not help but interpret the gesture as indicative of Clepsydra’s provisional trust in her new hosts.

‘This is my partner, Deputy Field Prefect Bancal,’ Dreyfus told Clepsydra, introducing Sparver. ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard about hyperpigs, but there’s nothing you need fear from him.’

‘Nor does he have anything to fear from me,’ Clepsydra answered, her voice low and level.

‘Is she a guest or a prisoner?’ Sparver asked.

‘She’s a protected witness. She’s been through hell and now we have to safeguard both Clepsydra and her colleagues.’

‘How many more of them are there down there?’

‘A lot. But we can’t do anything for them right now, not until help arrives. I hope you impressed the seriousness of our situation on Muang.’

‘He got the message.’

‘There are nearly a hundred Conjoiners aboard that ship. When help arrives I’ll call Jane and get her to task some more assets. We’re going to need a Heavy Medical Squad as well. ETA, roughly?’

Sparver glanced through the flight deck passwall just as the console chimed. ‘Proximity alert,’ he said. ‘Guess that’s the help arriving. That was quick.’

‘Too bloody quick,’ Dreyfus said, a bad feeling brewing low in his gut.

Without seeking permission from either of her hosts, Clepsydra hauled herself across the cabin and through into the vacant flight deck. ‘This is the other vehicle from Panoply?’ she asked.

‘Hopefully,’ Sparver said.

‘Then why is it coming in on such a fast approach?’

‘Guess they’re in a bit of a hurry to get to us,’ Sparver said.

‘They’re in more than a hurry. Not even a Conjoiner vehicle could slow down from that kind of speed without pulping everyone aboard.’

‘Then maybe they’re planning to overshoot the rock and come back around on a second pass,’ Sparver answered.

‘They’re not overshooting,’ Clepsydra said. ‘If your tracking system is correct, the incoming ship is on a collision vector.’

Quickly Dreyfus pulled himself into the flight deck and checked the proximity display. He saw the icon of the approaching vehicle and recognised its identifier tag.

‘It’s not the deep-system vehicle we were hoping for,’ he said. ‘It’s the freighter from Marco’s Eye that we saw earlier.’

‘Aurora must have tapped into its navigation system, deviating it from its usual flight-path,’ Clepsydra said. ‘She is going to use it to ram you out of existence, and destroy the evidence of this rock.’

‘She’s that powerful?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘It would not take great power, merely great cunning and stealth.’

Sparver joined them. ‘How long have we got?’

‘Eighty-five seconds,’ Clepsydra said.

‘Then we’re in trouble,’ Sparver replied. ‘We can’t get this thing moving inside of a minute, and even then we wouldn’t get far enough away from the surface to make a difference.’

‘Seventy-five seconds.’

‘We can suit up, return to the rock. If we can get far enough underground—’

‘The rock will be destroyed,’ Clepsydra said, with stony detachment.

‘There isn’t time in any case,’ Dreyfus said. ‘It’d take too long to cycle through the airlock.’

‘We have less than a minute,’ said Clepsydra.

‘The countdown isn’t helping,’ Sparver replied. ‘Maybe we should start thinking about the pods. We’ve got enough for all three of us. We don’t have much time, but—’

‘Will they eject us away from the rock, or towards it?’ Clepsydra asked.

‘They’re dorsal pods. We’re belly-down now, so—’

‘They’ll eject us into space,’ Dreyfus finished.

‘We have thirty-eight seconds,’ Clepsydra said. ‘I suggest we adjourn to the pods.’

They were designed to be used in dire emergency, when every second counted, so there was little in the way of preliminaries to attend to. Even so, Dreyfus sensed that they were down to the last ten seconds before all three of them were safely ensconced in their own single-person pods.

‘The pods have transponders,’ he told Clepsydra, just before they sealed the door on her. ‘The deep-system vehicle will pick all of them up, but it may take some time.’

Five seconds later he was webbed into his own unit. He reached up over his forehead and tugged down the heavy red handle that triggered the pod’s escape system. Quickmatter erupted into the empty spaces to cocoon him against the coming acceleration. When it arrived, it still felt as if the bones of his spine were being compressed to the thickness of parchment.

Then he lost consciousness.

Thalia snapped on her glasses and peered into the gloom of the windowless chamber, while Cyrus Parnasse stood back with his veined, muscular hands planted on his hips, for all the world like a farmer surveying his crops. They were alone in a section of the polling core sphere located well below the viewing gallery where the other citizens were holed up. Boxy grey structures loomed out of the darkness, stretching away into the distance.

She tapped a finger against the side of the glasses, keying in additional amplification. ‘What am I looking at here, Citizen Parnasse? It just looks like a load of boxes and junk.’

‘Exactly what it is, girl. This is a storage room for the Museum of Cybernetics, full of stuff they haven’t got room for in the main exhibit areas. There’re hundreds of rooms like this, right across the campus. But this is the only one we can reach without going back down to the lobby.’

‘Oh.’

‘I reckoned we could use some of this stuff to barricade those stairs. What d’ya think?’

‘I didn’t think any of those machines would be able to get up the stairs.’

‘They won’t: too big, most of ’em, or with the wrong kind of design. But there are plenty of machines out there that’ll fit the bill. Now that they know we’re up here, how long do you think it’ll be before they arrive and start climbing?’

‘Not long,’ she said. ‘You’re right. I should have thought of that sooner.’

‘Don’t be too hard on yerself. Had a lot to think out in the last few hours, I dare say.’

True, Thalia thought. True but still entirely inexcusable. ‘You don’t think we’re too late, do you?’

‘Not if we get a shift on. There’s enough junk here to block the stairs, provided we get a chain movin’ it. We’ll need to take care of the elevator shaft as well.’

‘I hadn’t forgotten that, just didn’t think there was much we could do about it.’

The elevator was still at the bottom of the shaft, waiting in the lobby where they had abandoned it.

‘If that whip-thing of yours still works, we can cut a hole into the shaft and drop as much of this stuff down it as we can manage. That’s five hundred metres straight down. It won’t stop the machines for ever, if they’re really determined to get the elevator moving, but it’ll definitely put a dent in their plans.’

‘From where I’m standing, that sounds a lot better than nothing.’ But when she touched her whiphound, it responded by buzzing against her belt, giving off an acrid smell. They’d had to use it to cut through the locked door into the storage room and now it was protesting again. Thalia wondered how long it would last before giving out on her completely; it was already of limited utility as a weapon, unless employed as a one-off grenade.

‘We shouldn’t hang around,’ Parnasse said. ‘I’ll start moving boxes if you go and round up some help.’

‘I hope they’re in a mood to take orders.’

‘They will be if they think you know exactly what you’re doing.’

‘I don’t, Citizen Parnasse. That’s the problem.’ Thalia pulled off her glasses and slipped them into her pocket. ‘I’ve been putting a brave face on it, but I’m seriously out of my depth here. You saw what we had to deal with outside.’

‘I saw you coping, girl. You might not feel like it, but you look as if you’re doing a decent enough job.’ Thalia’s expression must have been sceptical, because he added: ‘You got us all back here alive, didn’t you?’

‘Right back where we started, Citizen Parnasse. My escape attempt didn’t actually achieve much, did it?’

‘It was the right thing to try. And we didn’t know about the servitors when we started off, did we?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘Think of it as a scouting expedition. We went out and gathered intelligence on our situation. We learned things we wouldn’t have learned if we’d just stayed up here, waitin’ for help to come.’

‘Put it like that, it almost sounds as if I knew what I was doing.’

‘You did know. You’ve convinced me already, girl. Now all you have to do is convince the others. And you know where that starts, don’t you?’

There was a heavy feeling in her stomach, but she forced herself to smile. ‘With me. I’ve got to start acting as if I know exactly what to do, or else the others aren’t going to listen.’

‘That’s the spirit.’

She looked into the darkness of the storage room. ‘Maybe we can block the stairs and the shaft. But what do we do afterwards? Sooner or later those machines are going to find a way to get to us, just like they’ve got to the other citizens outside. Everything we’ve seen says they’re being directed by an external intelligence, something with problem-solving capability.’ She thought of the way the citizens had been rounded up and pacified, cowed into submission by warnings of an attack against the habitat. ‘Something smart enough to lie.’

‘One step at a time,’ Parnasse said. ‘We deal with the barricades first. Then we worry about a dazzling encore.’

He made it sound so effortless, as if all they were talking about was the right way to cook an egg.

‘All right.’

‘You’re a prefect, girl. A lot might’ve changed since you dropped by today, but you’re still wearing the uniform. Make it count. The citizens are depending on you.’

CHAPTER 16

Dreyfus was still drowsing as the deep-system cruiser completed its docking, nudging home into its skeletal berthing rack. He’d slept all the way back to Panoply, from almost the moment when his escape pod was brought aboard the ship and he was reunited with Sparver and Clepsydra. He dreamed of reeking halls of raw human meat hanging from bloodstained hooks, and a woman gorging herself on muscle and sinew, her mouth a red-stained obscenity. When he woke and sifted through his memories of recent events, his experiences in the Nerval-Lermontov rock felt like something that had happened yesterday, rather than a handful of hours earlier. The rock itself no longer existed. The impact of the fully laden and fuelled freighter had pulverised it, so that nothing now remained of its secrets except a cloud of expanding rubble; a gritty sleet that would rain against the sticky collision shields of the Glitter Band habitats for many orbits. Even if Panoply had the resources, there’d have been little point in combing that debris cloud for forensic clues. Clepsydra was now Dreyfus’s only witness to the unspeakable crime that had been visited upon her crewmates.

But it wasn’t Clepsydra who was foremost in his thoughts.

As soon as he pushed through the cruiser’s suitwall, Dreyfus badgered Thyssen, the tired-looking dock attendant. ‘Thalia Ng, my deputy. When did she get in?’

The man glanced at his compad. He had red rings around his eyes, vivid as brands. ‘She’s still out there, Tom.’

‘On her way back?’

‘Not according to this.’ The man tapped his stylus against a line of text. ‘CTC haven’t logged her undocking from House Aubusson. Looks as if she’s still inside.’

‘How long since she docked there?’

‘According to this . . . eight hours.’

Dreyfus knew that Thalia had only had a six-hundred-second access window. No matter what obstacles she’d encountered, she should have been out of there by now.

‘Has anyone managed to get through to her since Deputy Sparver’s attempt?’

The man looked helpless. ‘I don’t have a record of that.’

‘She has one of your ships,’ Dreyfus snapped. ‘I’d say it was your duty to keep adequate tabs on her, wouldn’t you?’

‘I’m sorry, Prefect.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ Dreyfus growled. ‘Just do your job.’ He grabbed a handhold and pulled himself towards the exit.

‘If you think you’re having a shitty day,’ Sparver told Thyssen, ‘you should try ours on for size.’

The two prefects and their Conjoiner guest cleared the dock and transitioned through to one of the standard-gravity wheels. They detoured to the medical section and left Clepsydra in the care of one of the doctors, an impish man named Mercier whom Dreyfus trusted not to ask awkward questions. Mercier affected the appearance and manners of a bookish scholar of the natural sciences from some remote candlelit century. He dressed impeccably, with a white shirt and cravat, his eyes forever hidden behind green-tinted half-moon spectacles, and chose to surround himself with facsimiles of varnished wooden furniture, conjured museum-piece medical tools and gruesome illustrative devices. He had a perplexing attachment to paperwork, to the extent that he made many of his reports in inked handwriting, using a curious black stylus that he referred to as a ‘fountain pen’. Yet for all his eccentricities, he was no less competent than Dr Demikhov, his counterpart in the adjoining Sleep Lab.

‘This is my witness,’ Dreyfus explained. ‘She’s to be examined humanely, treated for malnutrition and dehydration and then left well alone. I’ll return in a few hours.’

Clepsydra cocked her crested bald egg of a head and narrowed her eyes. ‘Am I now to consider myself a prisoner again?’

‘No. Just a guest, under my protection. When the crisis is over, I’ll do all in my power to get you back to your people.’

‘I could call my people myself if you give me access to a medium-strength transmitter.’

‘Part of me would like nothing better. But someone was prepared to kill to keep you a secret. They succeeded in killing your compatriots. That means they’ll be more than prepared to kill again if they know you’re here.’

‘Then I should leave. Immediately.’

‘You’ll be safe here.’

‘I think I can trust you,’ Clepsydra said, her attention on Dreyfus, as if no one else was in the room. ‘But understand one thing: it is a significant thing for a Conjoiner to trust a baseline human being. People like you did terrible things to people like me, once. Many of them would do the same things again if the chance arose. Please do not give me cause to regret this.’

‘I won’t,’ Dreyfus said.

Dusk was falling in the long shaft of House Aubusson. The mirror-directed sunlight pouring through the window bands was being slowly dimmed as the bands lost their transparency. Soon the habitat would be dark even when its orbit brought it around to Yellowstone’s dayside.

From the curved viewing gallery of the polling core, more than five hundred metres above the ground, Thalia watched the shadows encroach like an army of stalking cats. She could still make out the pale-grey trajectory of the pathway they had tried to follow out of the formal gardens, towards the objective of the endcap wall. But the grey was darkening, losing definition as darkness won. Soon even the concentric black hoops of the window bands would be indistinguishable from the surrounding terrain. She would be able to make out neither the path nor the endcap. The attempted crossing, which had seemed achievable only hours earlier, now struck her as hopelessly misguided. It would have been ill-conceived if all they had to contend with was enraged and panicked citizenry looking for someone to mob. But now Thalia knew that the darkening landscape was in all likelihood crawling with dangerous machines, serving an agenda that definitely did not involve the preservation of human life.

But, she thought, seeking composure before she turned around, the citizens in her care must not see how frightened she was. She had come into their world bearing the authority of Panoply and that was the role she was obliged to continue playing. She had failed them once; twice if she included the mistake with the polling core that had created this mess in the first place. She could not let them down again.

‘So what’s the next step in your plan?’ Caillebot asked, with a sarcastic lilt that Thalia couldn’t help but detect.

‘The next step is we stay put,’ she said.

‘Up here?’

‘We’re safe here,’ she said, mentally deleting the ‘for now’ that she had been about to add. ‘This is as good a place to wait as anywhere we could have picked in the habitat.’

‘Wait for what, exactly?’ Caillebot asked.

She’d been expecting the gardener to start needling her as soon as they were inside the core. ‘For Panoply, Citizen. They’re on their way. There’ll be a deep-system cruiser docked with us before you can blink.’

‘It’ll take more than a few prefects to deal with those machines.’

Thalia touched the buzzing remains of her whiphound. It was uncomfortably hot against her thigh, like a metal bar cooling down from a furnace. ‘They’ll have the tools for the job, don’t you worry about that. All we have to do is hold out until they get here. That’s our part of the equation.’

‘“Hold out”,’ repeated Paula Thory mockingly. The plump woman was sitting on one of the inert-matter benches encircling the pearl-grey pillar of the polling core. ‘You make it sound so easy, like waiting for a train.’

Thalia walked over to the woman and knelt down to bring them face to face. ‘I’m not asking you to run a mile. We’re perfectly safe up here.’

‘Those barricades won’t hold for ever.’

‘They don’t have to.’

‘Well, isn’t that reassuring.’

Thalia fought to keep herself from snapping at the woman, or worse. Paula Thory had only joined the chain gang grudgingly, when she realised that she would be the only one refusing to assist in the work effort. It had been difficult and exhausting, but between them they must have shoved at least three tonnes of junk down the elevator shaft, and at least as much again down the winding spiral of the staircase. They’d created a barricade out of ancient dead servitors and decrepit computers and interface devices, many of which must have come to the Yellowstone system from Earth and were probably several hundred years old at the very least. There’d even been something huge and metal, a kind of open iron chassis crammed with cogs and ratchets. It had made a most impressive racket as it tumbled down the stairs.

Thalia had called for a rest period, but three citizens - Parnasse, Redon and Cuthbertson - were still shovelling junk down the lift shaft and stairs. Every now and then Thalia would hear a muffled crump as the material hit the bottom of the shaft, or a more drawn-out avalanche of sound as something tumbled down the stairs.

‘It doesn’t have to hold for ever because we’re not staying up here for ever,’ she said. ‘Help will arrive before the machines get through the barricades. And even if it doesn’t, we’re working on a contingency plan.’

Thory looked falsely interested. ‘Which would be?’

‘You’ll hear about it when all the pieces are in place. Until then all you have to do is sit tight and help with the barricades when you feel willing and able.’

If Paula Thory took that as a barb, she showed no evidence of it. ‘I think you’re keeping something from us, Prefect - the fact that you haven’t got a clue how we’re going to get out of this mess.’

‘You’re perfectly welcome to leave, in that case,’ Thalia said, with exaggerated niceness.

‘Look!’ Jules Caillebot called suddenly from his vantage point by the window.

Thalia stood up, grateful for any excuse not to have to deal with Thory.

‘What is it, Citizen?’ she said as she strolled over.

‘Big machines are moving in.’

Thalia looked out over the darkening panorama. Though it was becoming increasingly difficult to make out distinct objects anywhere in the habitat - nightfall had come with dismaying speed - the machines Caillebot spoke of were at least partially illuminated. As large as houses, they were moving in several slow processions through the civic grounds around the Museum of Cybernetics. They advanced on crawler tracks and huge lumbering wheels, crushing their way across walkways and through tree lines.

‘What are they?’ Thalia asked.

‘Heavy construction servitors, I think,’ Caillebot said. ‘There’s been a lot of building work going on lately, especially around the new marina at Radiant Point.’

Thalia wondered what kind of damage those machines could do to the stalk supporting the polling core. Although she had not voiced her thoughts to the others, she had convinced herself that the machines would not do anything that might damage the core itself. Abstraction might be down for the citizens, but as far as she could tell, the machines were still being coordinated via low-level data transmissions that were dependent on the core. But that was just her theory, not something she was in any mood to see put to the test.

‘They’re carrying stuff,’ Caillebot reported. ‘Look at the hopper on the back of that one.’

Thalia struggled to make out detail. She remembered her glasses and slipped them on, keying in both magnification and intensity-amplification. The view wobbled, then stabilised. She tracked along the procession until she identified the machine Caillebot had indicated. It was a huge wheeled servitor, thirty or forty metres long, with scoops at either end feeding the trapezium-shaped hopper it carried on its back. The hopper was piled high with debris: rubble, dirt, torn sheets of composite mesh, chunks of machined metal of unfathomable origin. Thalia moved her viewpoint along the procession and saw that there was at least one other servitor hauling a similar load.

‘You say those machines were working at the marina?’

‘I think so.’

‘If they’re being tasked to work elsewhere, why would they be carrying all that junk?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Me neither. Maybe it’s just debris left over from the work on the marina, and they just haven’t been sent a specific command to unload it before moving elsewhere.’

‘Possible,’ said Caillebot doubtfully, ‘but the marina wasn’t built on the remains of an older community. They’d have needed to landscape soil, but I can’t imagine there’d have been much in the way of actual debris to clear.’

Thalia snapped her focus to the head of the column. ‘The procession’s stopping,’ she said. The machines had reached the base of one of the stalks that formed the ring surrounding the Museum of Cybernetics, close to the point where Thalia’s party had emerged from the underground train station. ‘I don’t like this, Citizen Caillebot,’ she said, temporarily forgetting her promise to Cyrus Parnasse that she would look and act at all times as if she was confident both in her abilities and of shepherding the citizens to safety.

She’d lied when she said an escape plan was being hatched. In truth, they had progressed no further than working out their options for barricading the machines. Parnasse had tried to put an optimistic face on it, but they both knew those barricades wouldn’t hold for ever against determined brute force.

‘I don’t like it either,’ the landscape gardener said.

The procession broke up, with various machines moving slowly into position around the base of the stalk. Thalia had the eerie impression that she was watching some kind of abstract ballet. It all happened silently, for the windows of the polling sphere were both airtight and thoroughly soundproofed. The debris-carriers were standing back from the stalk, while what were clearly specialised demolition and earthmoving servitors brought their brutal-looking tools into play. The machines commenced their labours almost immediately. Shovels and claws began to dig into the flared base of the stalk, chipping away boulder-sized scabs of pale cladding. At the same time, a little further around the curve of the stalk, Thalia saw the sun-bright strobe of a high-energy cutting tool.

‘It doesn’t make any sense,’ she said, as much for her own benefit as Caillebot’s. ‘They’re attacking the wrong stalk. They know we’re not at the top of that one.’

‘Maybe attacking it isn’t the idea.’

She nodded. Caillebot had been on her case after the upgrade had failed, but now his tone of voice and body language suggested he was prepared to bury the hatchet, at least for now. ‘I think you’re right,’ she said. Then she tracked her glasses onto one of the other processions, at least a kilometre away, tilted gently towards her on the footslopes of the habitat’s curving wall. ‘Those machines are dismantling something as well. Can’t tell what it is.’

‘Mind if I take a look?’ Caillebot asked.

She passed him the glasses. He pressed them cautiously to his eyes. Prefects weren’t meant to share equipment like that, but she supposed if there was ever a time when the rules were meant to be bent, this was it.

‘That’s the open-air amphitheatre at Praxis Junction,’ the gardener said. ‘They’re tearing into that as well.’

‘Then it isn’t just us. Something’s going on here, Citizen Caillebot.’

He returned her glasses. ‘You notice anything about those lines of machines?’

‘Like what?’

‘They’re all moving in more or less the same direction. Maybe they didn’t come from the marina after all, but they’ve still come from the direction of the docking endcap, where you came in. It looks to me as if they’ve been working their way along the habitat, stopping to demolish anything that takes their fancy.’

‘How would machines cross the window panels?’

‘There’re roads and bridges for that kind of thing. Even if there weren’t, the glass could easily take the weight of one of those machines, even fully loaded. The panels wouldn’t have been an obstacle to them.’

‘Okay, then. If they’re headed away from the docking endcap, where are they likely to end up?’

‘After they’ve swept through the whole habitat? Only one place to go - the trailing endcap. No major docking facilities there, so it’s a dead end.’

‘But they can’t be carrying all that stuff for nothing. They must be gathering it for a reason.’

‘Well, there’s the manufactory complex, of course,’ he said offhandedly. ‘But that doesn’t make any sense either.’

Thalia experienced a premonitory chill. ‘Tell me about the manufactory complex, Citizen Caillebot.’

‘It’s practically dead, like I already told you. Hasn’t run at normal capacity for years. Decades. Longer than I can remember.’

Thalia nodded patiently. ‘But it’s still there. It hasn’t been removed, gutted, replaced or whatever?’

‘You think they’re going to crank it up again. Start making stuff on a big scale, feeding it with the junk the machines are collecting.’

‘It’s just an idea, Citizen Caillebot.’

‘Ships?’ he asked.

‘Not necessarily. If you can make single-molecule hulls, there’s nothing you can’t make.’ As an afterthought, she added: ‘Provided you have the construction blueprint, of course. The manufactory won’t be able to make anything unless it’s given the right instructions.’

‘You sound relieved.’

‘I probably shouldn’t be. It’s just that I was thinking of all the unpleasant things you could make with a manufactory if you had the right blueprints. But the point is the only blueprints in the public domain are for things you can’t hurt anyone with.’

‘You sound pretty sure of that.’

‘Try locating the construction blueprint for a space-to-space weapon, Citizen Caillebot, or an attack ship, or a military servitor. See how far you get before a prefect comes knocking.’

‘Panoply keeps tabs on that kind of thing?’

‘We don’t just keep tabs. We make sure that data isn’t out there. On the rare occasions when someone needs to make something nasty, they come to us for permission. We retrieve and unlock the files from our archives. We issue them and make damned sure they’re deleted afterwards.’

‘Then you’re certain nothing nasty can come out of that manufactory?’

‘Not without Panoply’s help,’ Thalia said bluntly.

Caillebot responded with a knowing nod. ‘A day ago, Prefect, I’d have found that statement almost entirely reassuring.’

Thalia turned back to the window, ruminating on what the gardener had just said. The machines were working with the manic industry of insects. They had chewed deep into the lowest part of the stalk, exposing the geodesic struts that formed the structure’s scaffolding. Judging by the rubble and remains being shovelled into a waiting hopper, the cutting tools were making short work of that as well.

‘It’s not going to last long,’ Thalia said. Then she turned around and looked at the polling core, hoping that she was right about the machines needing to keep it intact, and therefore being unable to launch an all-out attack on the stalk supporting the sphere in which they were sheltering.

She’d been wrong about several things already today.

She hoped this wasn’t another.

Dreyfus knew something was amiss as soon as he approached the passwall into Jane Aumonier’s sphere and saw the two internal prefects waiting on either side of it, whiphounds drawn, tethered by quick-release lines that ran from their belts to eyelets in the doorframe. The passwall itself was set to obstruct.

‘Is there a problem?’ Dreyfus asked mildly. He’d occasionally been barred from talking to Aumonier when she was engaged in some activity that exceeded his Pangolin clearance. But it had never required the presence of security guards, and Aumonier had generally given him fair warning.

‘Sorry, sir,’ said the younger of the two guards, ‘but no one’s allowed to speak to Prefect Aumonier at the moment.’

‘Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?’

‘Not without authorisation from the supreme prefect, sir.’

Dreyfus looked at the kid as if he was being asked to answer a deceptively simple riddle. ‘She is the supreme prefect.’

The young guard looked embarrassed. ‘Not presently, sir. Prefect Baudry is now acting supreme.’

‘On what grounds was Prefect Aumonier removed from her position?’ Dreyfus asked disbelievingly.

‘I’m authorised to tell you that the decision was taken on the basis of medical fitness, sir. I thought you’d been informed, but—’

‘I hadn’t.’ He was trying to keep his fury in check, not wanting to take out his anger on this kid the way he had abused Thyssen earlier. ‘But I still want to talk to Prefect Aumonier.’

‘Prefect Aumonier is in no fit state to talk to anyone,’ said a gruff male voice behind Dreyfus. He pushed himself around to see Gaffney floating towards him along the same corridor he’d just traversed. ‘I’m sorry, Field, but that’s just the way it is.’

‘Let me talk to Jane.’

Gaffney shook his head, looking genuinely regretful. ‘I hardly need impress on you how precarious her situation is. The last thing she needs right now is someone upsetting her unnecessarily.’

‘Jane isn’t going to be the one who’s upset if I don’t get to see her.’

‘Easy, Field. I know you’ve had a tough time today. But don’t use it as an excuse to lash out at your superiors.’

‘Did you have any part in removing Jane?’

‘She wasn’t “removed”. She was relieved of the burden of command at a time when it would have been an intolerable imposition for her to have continued.’

In his peripheral vision, Dreyfus saw that the two guards were looking straight ahead with resolutely neutral expressions, pretending that they were not party to this high-level scuffle. Neither man had summoned the senior prefect. Gaffney must have been lurking nearby, Dreyfus thought: waiting until he tried to visit Aumonier.

‘What’s your angle here?’ Dreyfus asked. ‘Lillian Baudry’s a good prefect when it comes to the details, but she doesn’t have Jane’s grasp of the big picture. You’re counting on her making a mistake, aren’t you?’

‘Why on Earth would I want Lillian to fail?’

‘Because with Jane out of the picture, you’re one step closer to becoming supreme prefect.’

‘I think you’ve said more than enough. If you had the slightest idea how ludicrous you sound, you’d stop now.’

‘Where’s Baudry?’

‘In the tactical room, no doubt. In case it’s escaped your attention, a crisis has been brewing while you’ve been pursuing your own interests.’

Dreyfus spoke into his bracelet. ‘Get me Baudry.’

She answered immediately. ‘Prefect Dreyfus. I was hoping to hear from you before too long.’

‘Let me talk to Jane.’

‘I’m afraid that wouldn’t be wise. But would you mind coming up to tactical immediately? There’s something we need to discuss.’

Gaffney looked on with a faint smile. ‘I was on my way there before I ran into you. Why don’t we go there together?’

Baudry, Crissel and Clearmountain were in attendance when Dreyfus and Gaffney arrived in the tactical room. The seniors were peering at the Solid Orrery from different angles. Dreyfus noticed that four habitats had been pulled out of the swirl of the ten thousand and enlarged until their structures were visible.

Crissel indicated a vacant position. ‘Take a seat, Field Prefect Dreyfus. We were hoping you could explain something to us.’

Dreyfus remained standing. ‘I understand you were part of the lynch mob that removed Jane from power while I was outside.’

‘If you insist on characterising events in those terms, then yes, I was party to that decision. Do you have a problem with it?’

‘Have a guess.’

Crissel stared at him equably, refusing to take the bait. ‘Perhaps you haven’t been paying attention, but there have been worrying changes in the state of the scarab, likely harbingers of something medically catastrophic.’

‘I’ve been paying plenty of attention.’

‘Then you’ll know that Demikhov is deeply concerned about Jane’s future prognosis. All that thing on her neck is waiting for is a trigger. When her stress hormones float above some arbitrary level, it’s going to snip her spine in two, or blow her to pieces.’

‘Right,’ Dreyfus said, as if he was seeing something clearly for the first time. ‘And you think removing her from office is the key to lowering her stress levels?’

‘She’s in the safest therapeutic regime we can devise. And when this is over, when the crisis is averted, we’ll look into a strategy for returning Jane to at least some level of functional responsibility.’

‘Is that what you told her? Or did you lie and say she could have her old job back when things have blown over?’

‘We don’t have time for this,’ Gaffney purred, the first time he had spoken since their mutual arrival. He’d taken a seat next to Lillian Baudry. His hands rested on the table, the fingers of one caressing the clenched fist of the other. ‘Take a look at the Solid Orrery, Field.’

‘I’ve seen it, thanks. It’s very pretty.’

‘Take a better look. Those four habitats - ring any bells?’

‘I don’t know.’ Dreyfus smiled sarcastically. ‘What about you, Senior Prefect Gaffney?’

‘Let me spell it out for you. You’re looking at New Seattle-Tacoma, Chevelure-Sambuke, Szlumper Oneill and House Aubusson. The four habitats Thalia Ng was scheduled to visit and upgrade.’

Dreyfus felt some of his certainty evaporate. ‘Go on.’

‘As of just over six hours ago, all four habitats have been unreachable. They’ve dropped off abstraction.’ Gaffney scrutinised Dreyfus’s reaction and nodded, as if to emphasize that matters were exactly as grave as they sounded. ‘All four habitats dropped off the net within sixty milliseconds of each other. That’s comfortably inside the light-crossing time for the Glitter Band, implying a pre-planned, coordinated event.’

‘You’ve always vouched for Thalia Ng,’ Crissel said. ‘Her promotion to field was fast-tracked on your recommendation. Beginning to look like a mistake now, isn’t it?’

‘I still have total faith in her.’

‘Touching, undoubtedly, but the fact is she’s visited four habitats and now they’ve all fallen silent. All she had to do was make a series of minor polling core upgrades. At the very least, doesn’t that suggest procedural incompetence?’

‘Not from where I’m standing.’

‘What, then?’ Crissel asked, fascinated.

‘I think it’s possible . . .’ But Dreyfus tailed off, feeling a sudden reluctance to state his theory openly. The seniors regarded him with stony-faced indifference. ‘The deep-system cruiser that rescued us - is it still flight-ready?’ he asked.

Baudry spoke now. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘Because the one way to settle this is to pay a visit to Aubusson. That’s where Thalia was due last. If one of my deputies is in trouble, I’d like to know about it.’

‘You’ve done enough gallivanting around for now,’ Gaffney said. ‘We’re in a state of emergency, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

Baudry coughed gently. ‘Let’s deal with the other matter, shall we? And please - sit down.’

‘What matter would that be?’ asked Dreyfus with exaggerated civility. But he took his seat as Baudry had requested.

‘You brought a Conjoiner into Panoply, in express contravention of protocol.’

Dreyfus shrugged. ‘Protocol can take a hike.’

‘She can read our goddamn machines, Tom.’ Baudry looked to the others for support. ‘She’s a walking surveillance system. Every operational secret in our core is hers for the taking, and you let her stroll into Panoply without even putting a Faraday cage around her skull.’

Dreyfus leaned closer. ‘Isn’t it written down somewhere that we look after victims and go after criminals?’

Crissel looked exasperated. ‘We’re not the law-enforcement agency you seem to think we are, Tom. We’re here to ensure that the democratic apparatus functions smoothly. We’re here to punish fraudulent voting. That’s it.’

‘My personal remit extends further than that, but you’re welcome to yours.’

‘Let’s focus on the matter at hand - the Conjoiner woman,’ Baudry said insistently. ‘She may already have done incalculable harm in the short time she’s been inside Panoply. That can’t be helped now. What we can do is make sure that she doesn’t do any more damage.’

‘Do you want me to throw her into space, or will you do it?’

‘Let’s be adult about this, shall we?’ Crissel said. ‘If the Spi- if the Conjoiner woman is a witness, then naturally she must be protected. But not at the expense of our operational secrets. She must be moved to a maximum-security holding facility.’

‘You mean an interrogation bubble.’

Crissel looked pained. ‘Call it what you like. She’ll be safer there. More importantly, so will we.’

‘She’ll be moved when Mercier says she’s well enough,’ Dreyfus said.

‘Is she breathing?’ When Dreyfus said nothing, Crissel looked satisfied. ‘Then she’s well enough to be moved. She isn’t going to die on us, Tom. She’s a survival machine. The human equivalent of a scorpion.’

‘Or a spider,’ Dreyfus said.

There was a gentle tap on the main doors. Crissel’s eyes flashed angrily to the widening gap. A low-ranking operative - a girl barely out of her teens, with a pageboy haircut - entered the room timidly. ‘Pardon, Seniors, but I was asked to bring this to your attention.’

‘It’d better be good,’ Crissel said.

‘CTC contacted us, sirs. They say they’re picking up reports about House Aubusson and the Chevelure-Sambuke Hourglass.’

‘They’re off the network. Yes. We know.’

‘It’s more than that, sir.’ The girl placed the compad on the table, next to Gaffney. He picked it up by one corner, inhaling slowly as he digested its message. Without a word he slid it to Crissel. He glanced at it, glanced again, then passed the compad to Baudry. She read it, her lips moving slowly as she did so, as if she needed the sound of her own voice to lend the report a degree of reality.

Then she slid the compad over to Dreyfus.

‘He doesn’t have authority,’ Crissel said.

‘His deputy’s inside Aubusson. He needs to see this.’

Dreyfus took the compad and read it for himself. His Pangolin boost was fading and it took more than the usual effort to read the words. At first he was convinced that he had made a mistake, despite the fears he was already nursing.

But there had been no error.

Two separate but similar incidents had occurred, within a few minutes of each other. One ship had been on final approach for docking at the Chevelure-Sambuke Hourglass when it was fired on by the habitat with what appeared to be normal anti-collision defences. The ship had sustained a near-fatal hull breach, too large to be patched by the intervention of quickmatter repair systems. The ship had abandoned its docking approach and put out an emergency distress signal, to which CTC had responded by redirecting two nearby vessels. The crew of the damaged ship had all survived, albeit with decompression injuries.

The second ship, on an approach to House Aubusson, had been less fortunate. The anti-collision defences had gored it open in an instant, spilling air and life into space. Its crew had died with merciful speed, but the ship itself had retained enough sentience to put out its own distress signal. CTC had again directed passing traffic to offer assistance, but this time there was nothing that could be done to save the victims.

All this had happened within the last eighteen minutes.

‘I think we can safely rule out coincidence,’ Dreyfus said, placing the compad back on the table.

‘What are we dealing with?’ Baudry asked with rigid composure. ‘A systemic defence-system malfunction triggered by the loss of abstraction? Could that be the answer?’

‘Everything I know about defence systems says that they can’t malfunction in this way,’ Crissel said.

‘Yet it rather looks as if someone doesn’t want anyone coming or going from those habitats,’ Gaffney observed, reading the CTC report again.

‘And the other two?’ Baudry asked. ‘What about those?’

‘They’re isolationist,’ Dreyfus said. ‘New Seattle-Tacoma is a haven for people who want their brains plugged into abstraction and don’t care what happens to their physical bodies. Szlumper Oneill is a Voluntary Tyranny gone sour. Either way, neither’s going to see much in- or outgoing traffic on a given day.’

‘He’s right,’ Crissel said, favouring Dreyfus with a conciliatory nod. He turned to the still-waiting operative. ‘You’re still in contact with CTC?’ Without waiting for an answer or conferring with the other seniors, he continued, ‘Have them identify four unmanned cargo drones currently passing near the four habitats. Then put them on normal docking trajectories, just as if they were on scheduled approaches. If these were malfunctions, then someone inside may have had time to disable the anti-collision systems by now. If they weren’t, we’ll have confirmation that we’re not dealing with one-off incidents.’

‘There’ll be hell to pay,’ Gaffney said, shaking his head. ‘Whatever those cargo drones are hauling, someone owns it.’

‘Then I hope they have good insurance,’ Crissel replied tersely. ‘CTC has the right to requisition any civilian traffic moving inside the Glitter Band, manned or otherwise. Just because that clause hasn’t been invoked in a century or so doesn’t mean it isn’t still valid.’

‘I agree,’ Dreyfus said. ‘This is the logical course of action. If you were still allowing Jane her rightful authority, she’d agree to it as well.’

The operative coughed awkwardly. ‘I’ll get on to CTC immediately, sir.’

Crissel nodded. ‘Tell them not to hang around. I don’t want to have to wait hours before finding out what we’re looking at here.’

An icy silence endured for many seconds after the girl had left the room. It fell to Dreyfus to break it. ‘Let’s not kid ourselves,’ he said. ‘We know exactly what’s going to happen to those drones.’

‘We still need confirmation,’ Crissel said.

‘Agreed. But we also need to start thinking about what we do once the news comes in.’

‘Hypothesise for a moment,’ Baudry said, a quaver in her voice that she could not quite conceal. ‘Could we be dealing with a breakaway movement? Four states that wish to secede from the umbrella of Panoply and the Glitter Band?’

‘If they wanted to, they’d be free to do so,’ Dreyfus said. ‘The mechanism already exists, and it doesn’t require shooting down approaching ships.’

‘Maybe they don’t want to secede on our terms,’ Baudry said, in the manner of one advancing the suggestion for debating’s sake rather than out of any deep personal conviction that it was likely.

Crissel nodded patiently. ‘Maybe they don’t. But once you’ve decided to opt out of Panoply’s protection, out of the democratic apparatus, what do you gain from staying inside the Glitter Band anyway?’

‘Not much,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Which is why this can’t be an attempt at secession.’

‘A hostage situation?’ Baudry speculated. ‘Fits the facts so far, doesn’t it?’

‘For now,’ Dreyfus allowed.

‘But you don’t think that’s what we’re looking at.’

‘You don’t take hostages unless there’s something you want that you don’t already have.’

Crissel looked pleased with himself. ‘Everyone wants to be richer.’

‘Maybe they do,’ Dreyfus answered, ‘but there’s no way hostage-taking is going to achieve that for you.’

‘So they’re not trying to become richer,’ Baudry said. ‘That still leaves a universe of possibilities. Suppose someone doesn’t just want to opt out of our system of government, but dismantle it completely?’

Dreyfus shook his head. ‘Why would they want to? If someone wants to experiment with a different social model, they’re welcome to do so. All they have to do is recruit enough willing collaborators to set up a new state. Provided they let their citizens have the vote, they can even stay within the apparatus. That’s why we have freak shows like the Voluntary Tyrannies. Someone somewhere decided they wanted to live in that kind of place.’

‘But like you said, they have to abide by certain core principles. Maybe they find even those basic strictures too stifling. Perhaps they want to force a single political model on the entire Glitter Band. Ideological zealots, for instance: political or religious extremists who won’t rest until they force everyone else to see things their way.’

‘You might have something if we weren’t looking at four completely disparate communities. Thalia’s habitats have almost nothing in common with each other.’

‘All right,’ Baudry said, clearly wearying of debate. ‘If it isn’t about forcing through a political end, what is it about?’

Once again Dreyfus thought back to the things he had learned inside the Nerval-Lermontov rock, including the possibility that not everyone in the room could necessarily be trusted. He had wanted more time to evaluate his position, more time in which to bring at least one of the other seniors around to his side and use them as leverage to put Aumonier back into the saddle. But the news concerning the latest attacks had forced his hand sooner than he would have wished. He had to say something or he would be guilty of withholding vital data from his own organisation.

‘The prisoner told me something,’ he said, choosing his words with exquisite care, like a man picking his way through a minefield. ‘Obviously, I can’t be certain that she was telling the truth, or that her isolation hadn’t turned her insane. But all my instincts - all my old policeman’s instincts, you might say - told me she was on the level.’

‘Then perhaps you’d better tell us,’ Gaffney said.

‘Clepsydra believes that some group or organisation within the Glitter Band has obtained intelligence concerning a coming crisis. Something worse than what we’re facing now, even given the latest news.’

‘What kind of crisis?’ Baudry asked.

‘Something catastrophic. Something in the order of a collapse of the entire social matrix, if not the end of the Glitter Band itself.’

‘Preposterous,’ Crissel said.

Gaffney raised a restraining hand. ‘No. Let’s hear him out.’

‘Clepsydra believes that this group or organisation has devised a plan for averting whatever disaster they’ve seen coming, even if that means denying us our usual liberties.’

Baudry nodded in the general direction of the Solid Orrery. ‘And the blackout, the hostile actions we’ve just heard about?’

‘I think we could be seeing the start of a takeover bid.’

‘Voi,’ Baudry answered sharply. ‘You’re not serious. Surely you’re not serious.’

‘Makes perfect sense to me,’ Dreyfus said. ‘If we couldn’t be trusted to guarantee the future security of the Glitter Band, what would you do?’

‘But only four habitats . . . there are ten thousand more out there that are still ours!’

‘I think Thalia was the key,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Unwittingly, of course. Her code was contaminated. It must have been tampered with to open a security loophole that didn’t exist before. Thalia was supposed to make that upgrade Bandwide, across the entire ten thousand, in one fell swoop.’

‘But she didn’t want to do that, I recall,’ said Baudry.

‘No,’ said Dreyfus. ‘She insisted on identifying four of the likely worst cases and running manual installations. That way she could correct errors in real-time, on the spot, and make sure no one was without their precious abstraction for more than a few minutes. Once she’d supervised those four installations, she could tweak the code to make sure the remaining ten thousand went without a hitch.’

‘But those habitats have been without abstraction for hours,’ Crissel said.

‘That isn’t Thalia’s fault. Her diligence didn’t cause this, Michael.

It prevented an even worse crisis. If Thalia had done the easy, obvious thing, we wouldn’t be looking at four habitats off abstraction, we’d be looking at ten thousand. The takeover would be complete. We’d have lost the Glitter Band.’

‘Now let’s not get carried away,’ Gaffney said, smiling at the others. ‘We have enough of a mess to deal with without indulging in apocalyptic fantasies.’

‘It isn’t a fantasy,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Someone wanted this to happen.’

‘Why, though?’ Crissel asked. ‘What group of people could possibly organise themselves to seize control of the entire Band? It’s one thing to take habitats off abstraction. But the citizens inside won’t just roll over and accept that. You’d need an armed militia to actually subjugate them. Thousands of people for each habitat, at the very least. We’d be looking at an invisible army ten million strong just to have a chance of making this work. If there was a movement that powerful, that coordinated, we’d have seen it coming years ago.’

‘Maybe it’s a different kind of takeover,’ Dreyfus said.

‘What did the Conjoiner say about the people behind this?’ asked Baudry.

‘Not much.’ Dreyfus hesitated, conscious that every divulgence carried a measurable risk. ‘I got a name. A figure called Aurora. She may have some connection to the Nerval-Lermontov family.’

Baudry peered at him. ‘They lost a daughter in the Eighty. Her name was Aurora, I believe. You’re not seriously suggesting—’

‘I’m not making any inferences. Maybe I can get more out of Clepsydra when she’s feeling stronger, and she’s certain she can trust us.’

‘You’re worried about her trusting us?’ Baudry said.

A knock at the door signalled the return of the operator. She entered the room with a trace less diffidence than before.

‘And?’ Gaffney asked.

‘The drones have been requisitioned, sirs. First is scheduled to dock at Szlumper Oneill in eleven minutes. Within twenty-two minutes, the remaining three will have completed approaches to their respective habitats.’

‘Very good,’ Gaffney allowed.

‘I’ve secured high-res visual feeds of all four habitats, sirs. I can pipe the observations through to the Solid Orrery, with your permission.’

Gaffney nodded. ‘Do it.’

The Solid Orrery reconfigured itself, allocating much of its quickmatter resources to providing scaled-up representations of the four silent communities. They swelled to the size of fruit, while the rest of the Glitter Band shrank down to a third of its former size. Tiny moving jewels signified the requisitioned drones, steered onto docking approaches. The prefects watched the spectacle wordlessly as the minutes oozed by.

Make me wrong, Dreyfus thought. Make all this turn out to be the deluded fabulation of a worn-out field prefect, resentful at the shabby treatment accorded his boss. Make Clepsydra’s testimony turn out to be the burblings of a mad woman, driven insane by years of isolation. Show us that Thalia Ng really did make mistakes, despite everything I know to the contrary. Show us that the first two attacks were accidents caused by hair-trigger defence systems twitching like headless snakes when abstraction went down.

But it wasn’t to be. Eleven minutes after the girl had spoken, the anti-collision systems of Szlumper Oneill opened fire on the approaching drone, destroying it utterly. If anything the fire was more concentrated, more purposeful, than on the previous two occasions. The jewel-like representation of the drone swelled to a thumb-sized smear of twinkling light, then reformed into the pulsing tetrahedral icon that symbolised an object of unknown status.

Three minutes later a second drone attempted to dock at House Aubusson, and met with precisely the same fate. Five minutes after that, a third drone was annihilated as it braked to engage with Carousel New Seattle-Tacoma. Three minutes after that, twenty-two minutes since the girl had spoken, the guns of the Chevelure-Sambuke Hourglass directed savage fire on the final drone.

The Solid Orrery reformed itself into its usual configuration. A brittle silence ensued.

‘So maybe it’s war after all,’ Baudry said eventually.

CHAPTER 17

The isolation chamber was clad in a honeycomb of identical interlocking grey panels, one of which functioned as a passwall. A handful of the panels were illuminated at any one time, but the pattern changed slowly and randomly, robbing the weightless prisoner of any fixed frame of reference. Clepsydra was floating, knees raised to her chest, arms linked around her shins. The patterns of lights erased all shadow, lending her the two-dimensional appearance of a cut-out. She appeared to be unconscious, but it was common knowledge that Conjoiners did not partake of anything resembling normal mammalian sleep.

Since his emergence through the passwall didn’t appear to have alerted her to his presence, Dreyfus cleared his throat gently. ‘Clepsydra, ’ he announced, ‘it’s me.’

She turned her crested skull in his direction, her eyes gleaming dully in the subdued light of the bubble. ‘How long has it been?’

The question took Dreyfus aback. ‘Since you were transferred from Mercier’s clinic? Only a few hours.’

‘I’m losing track of time again. If you had said “months” I might have believed you.’ She pulled a face. ‘I don’t like this room. It feels haunted.’

‘You must feel very cut off in here.’

‘I just don’t like this room. It’s so dead that I’m starting to imagine phantom presences. I keep seeing something out of the corner of my eye, then when I look it isn’t there. Even the inside of the rock wasn’t like this.’

‘I apologise,’ Dreyfus said. ‘I committed a procedural mistake in allowing you into Panoply without considering our operational secrets.’

Clepsydra unfolded herself with catlike slowness. In the sound-absorbing space, the acoustics of her voice had acquired a metallic timbre. ‘Will you get into trouble for that?’

He smiled at her concern. ‘Not likely. I’ve weathered worse storms than a procedural slip-up. Especially as no damage was done.’ He cocked his head. ‘No damage was done, I take it?’

‘I saw many things.’

‘I don’t doubt it.’

‘Many things that were of no interest to me,’ she added. ‘It may reassure you to know that I’ve buried those secrets far below conscious recall. I can’t simply forget them: forgetting isn’t a capacity we possess. But you may consider them as good as forgotten.’

‘Thank you, Clepsydra.’

‘But that won’t be the end of it, will it? You might believe me. The others won’t.’

‘I’ll see to it that they do. You’re a protected witness, not a prisoner.’

‘Except I’m not free to leave.’

‘We’re worried someone wants to kill you.’

‘That would be my problem, wouldn’t it?’

‘Not when we still think you can tell us something useful.’ Dreyfus had come to a halt a couple of metres from Clepsydra’s floating form, oriented the same way up. Before entering the bubble, he’d divested himself of all weapons and communications devices, including his whiphound. It occurred to him, in a way it had not before, that he was alone in a surveillance blind spot with an agile humanoid-machine hybrid that could easily kill him. Autopsies of dead Conjoiners had revealed muscle fibres derived from chimpanzee physiology, giving them five or six times normal human strength. Clepsydra might have been weakened, but he doubted that she’d have much trouble overpowering him, if she wished.

Some flicker of that unease must have showed on his face.

‘I still frighten you,’ she said, very quietly. ‘But you came unarmed, with not even a knife for protection.’

‘I’ve still got my acid wit.’

‘Now tell me exactly what it is I have to fear. Something’s happened, hasn’t it? Something very, very bad.’

‘It’s begun,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Aurora’s takeover. We’ve lost control of four habitats. Attempts to land ships on them have been met by hostile action.’

‘I didn’t think it would be so soon.’

‘When Sparver and I found you, she must have realised Panoply were closing in fast. She decided to go with just the four habitats that were already compromised rather than wait for the upgrade software to be installed across the entire ten thousand.’

Clepsydra looked puzzled. ‘What good will that do her? Even if you have lost control of those habitats now, you still have access to the resources of the rest of the Glitter Band, not to mention Panoply’s own capabilities. Aurora will not be able to hold out indefinitely.’

‘I’m guessing she assumes she can.’

‘All the times I sensed Aurora’s mind, I detected an intense strategic cunning; a constantly probing machinelike evaluation of shifting probabilities. This is not a mind capable of pointless gestures, or elementary lapses of judgement.’ Clepsydra paused. ‘Have you had any formal contact with her?’

‘Not a squeak. Other than our theory about the Nerval-Lermontovs, we still don’t really know who she is.’

‘You believe she was one of the Eighty?’

Dreyfus nodded. ‘But everything we know says that all of the Eighty failed. Aurora was one of the most famous cases. How can we have been wrong about that?’

‘What if there was something different about her simulation? Some essential detail that varied from the others? I told you that we were aware of Calvin Sylveste’s procedures. We know that he fine-tuned some of the neural-mapping and simulation parameters from one volunteer to the next. Superficially, it appeared to make no difference to the outcome. But what if it did?’

‘I don’t follow. She either died or she didn’t.’

‘Consider this, Prefect. After her Transmigration, Aurora was truly conscious in her alpha-level embodiment. She was aware of the other seventy-nine volunteers, in close contact with many of them. They’d hoped to form a community of minds, an immortal elite above the rest of corporeal humanity. But then Aurora saw the others failing: their simulations stalling, or locking into endless recursive loops. And she began to fear for herself, even as she suspected that she might be different, immune to whatever deficiency was stalking her comrades. But she was truly fearful for another reason.’

‘Which was?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘By the time the last of the Eighty was scanned, the true nature of what Calvin was attempting had begun to percolate through to the mass consciousness. What he had in mind was not simply a new form of immortality, to improve upon what was already available via drugs and surgery and medichines. Calvin sought the creation of an entirely new and superior stratum of existence. The Eighty wouldn’t just be invulnerable and ageless. They’d be faster, cleverer, almost limitless in their potentiality. They would make the Conjoiners seem almost Neanderthal. Can you guess what happened next, Prefect?’

‘A backlash, perhaps?’

‘Groups began to emerge, petitioning for tighter controls over the Eighty. They wanted Calvin’s subjects to be confined to firewall-shielded computational architectures - minds in cages, if you will. More hardline elements wanted the Eighty to be frozen, so that the implications of what they were could be studied exhaustively before they were allowed to resume simulated consciousness. Even more extreme factions wanted the Eighty to be deleted, as if their very patterns were a threat to civilised society.’

‘But they didn’t get their way.’

‘No, but the tide was growing. Had the Eighty not begun to fail of their own accord, there’s no telling how strong the anti-Transmigration movement might have become. Those of the Eighty who were still functioning must have seen the walls closing in.’

‘Aurora amongst them.’

‘It’s just a theory. But if she suspected that her kind were going to be hounded and persecuted, that her own existence was in danger even if she didn’t succumb to stasis or recursion, might she not have devised a scheme to ensure her own survival?’

‘Fake her own stasis, in other words. Leave a data corpse. But in the meantime the real Aurora was somewhere else. She must have escaped into the wider architecture of the entire Glitter Band, like a rat under the floorboards.’

‘I think there is a very real possibility that this is what happened.’

‘Were there other survivors?’

‘I don’t know. Possibly. But the only mind I ever sensed clearly was Aurora’s. Even if there are more, I think she is the strongest of them. The figurehead. The one with the dreams and plans.’

‘So here comes the big question,’ Dreyfus said. ‘If Aurora’s really behind the loss of those four habitats - and it’s starting to look as if she is - what does she want?’

‘The only thing that has ever mattered to her: her own long-term survival.’ Clepsydra smiled gravely. ‘Where you figure in that is another matter entirely.’

‘Me personally?’

‘I mean baseline humanity, Prefect.’

After a moment Dreyfus asked, ‘Would the Conjoiners help us if we were in trouble?’

‘As you helped us on Mars two hundred and twenty years ago?’

‘I thought we were over all that.’

‘Some of us have long memories. Perhaps we would help you, as you might help an animal caught in a trap. Lately, though, we have our own concerns.’

‘Even after everything Aurora did to you?’

‘Aurora poses no threat to the greater community of the Conjoined. You might as well take revenge on the sea for drowning someone.’

‘Then you’ll do nothing.’

He thought that was the end of it, but after a long silence she said, ‘I admit I would find . . . consolation in seeing her hurt.’

Dreyfus nodded approvingly. ‘Then you do feel something. You’ve notched down those old baseline human emotions, but you haven’t expunged them completely. She did something horrific to you and your crew, and part of you needs to hit back.’

‘Except there is nothing to hit.’

‘But if we could identify her vulnerabilities, find a way to make life difficult for her . . . would you help us?’

‘I wouldn’t hinder you.’

‘I know you looked deep into our data architecture before I brought you into this room. You told me you’d seen nothing of interest. But now that the damage is done, I want you to sift through that information again. It’s all in your head. Look at it from different angles. If you can find something, anything, no matter how apparently inconsequential, that sheds any light on Aurora’s location or nature, or how we might strike back, I need to know about it.’

‘There may be nothing.’

‘But there’s no harm in looking.’

A tightness appeared in her face. ‘It will take a while. Do not expect me to give you an answer immediately.’

‘That’s all right,’ Dreyfus said. ‘I’ve got another witness I need to speak to.’

Just when he thought they were done, that she had said everything she wanted to say to him, Clepsydra spoke again.

‘Dreyfus.’

‘Yes?’

‘I do not forgive your kind for what they did to us on Mars, or for the years of persecution that followed. It would be a betrayal of Galiana’s memory were I to do that.’ Then she looked him in the eyes, daring him not to reciprocate. ‘But you are not like those men. You have been kind to me.’

Dreyfus called by the Turbine hall and sought out Trajanova, the woman he’d spoken to after the earlier accident. He was gladdened to see that two of the four machines were now spinning again, even if they were obviously not operating at normal capacity. The machine nearest the destroyed unit was still stationary, with at least a dozen technicians visible inside the transparent casing. As for the destroyed machine itself, there was now little evidence that it had ever existed. The remains of the casing had been removed, leaving circular apertures in the floor and ceiling. Technicians crowded around both sites, directing heavy servitors to assist them in the slow process of installing a new unit.

‘You’ve obviously been busy,’ Dreyfus told Trajanova.

‘Field prefects aren’t the only ones who work hard in this organisation.’

‘I know. And my remark wasn’t intended as a slight. We’ve all been under pressure and I appreciate the work that’s gone on down here. I’ll make sure the supreme prefect hears about it.’

‘And which supreme prefect would that be?’

‘Jane Aumonier, of course. No disrespect to Lillian Baudry, but Jane’s the only one who matters in the long run.’

Trajanova looked sideways, not quite able to meet Dreyfus’s eyes. ‘For what it’s worth . . . I don’t agree with what happened. Down here we have a lot of respect for Jane.’

‘She’s earned it from all of us.’

There was an awkward silence. Across the room someone hammered at something.

‘What will happen now?’ Trajanova asked at length.

‘We work for Lillian, just as we worked for Jane. I don’t know what else you’ve heard, but we have a new crisis on our hands.’ Dreyfus chose to volunteer information, hoping it might calm some of the troubled water between them. ‘I need to resume interviews with my beta-level subjects: I’m hoping that they can shed some light on what’s going on and how we can stop it.’

Trajanova looked at the two spinning Search Turbines. ‘Those units are running at half-capacity. I can’t risk spinning them any faster. But I could prioritise your search queries, if that would help. You wouldn’t notice much difference.’

‘I can still run my recoverables?’

‘Yes, there’s more than enough capacity for that.’

‘Good work, Trajanova.’ After a moment, he said, ‘I know things didn’t work out between us when you were my deputy, but I’ve never had the slightest doubt concerning your professional competence down here.’

She considered his remark before answering. ‘Prefect . . .’ she began.

‘What is it?’

‘What you said before - the last time we spoke. About how you’d had the feeling your own query had triggered the accident?’

Dreyfus waved a dismissive hand. ‘It was foolish of me. These things happen.’

‘Not down here they don’t. I checked the search log and you were right. Of all the queries handled by the Turbines in the final second before the accident, yours was the last one to come in. You searched for priors on the Nerval-Lermontov family, correct?’

‘Yes,’ Dreyfus said cautiously.

‘Just after your query was shuffled into the process stack, the Turbine began to exceed its own maximum authorised spin rate. It spun itself apart in less than one quarter of a second.’

‘It must still have been a coincidence.’

‘Prefect, now I’m the one trying to convince you. Something went wrong, but I don’t believe it was coincidence. The operating logic of one of these things is complex, and much of the instruction core was lost when the Turbine failed. But if I could ever piece it back together, I think I know what I’d find. Your search query was a trigger. Someone had implanted a trap in the operating logic, waiting to be primed by your question.’

Dreyfus mulled over her hypothesis. It dovetailed with his suspicions, but it was another thing entirely to hear it from Trajanova’s lips.

‘You honestly think someone could have done that?’

‘I could have done it, if I’d had the mind to. For anyone else, it would have been a lot more difficult. Frankly, I don’t see how they could have done it without triggering high-level security flags. But somehow they managed.’

‘Thank you,’ Dreyfus said softly. ‘I appreciate your candour. Given what’s happened, are you satisfied that I won’t cause any more damage just by querying the system?’

‘I can’t promise anything, but I’ve installed manual overspeed limits on both operating Turbs. No matter what traps may still be lurking in the logic, I don’t think the Turbs will be able to self-destruct. Go ahead and ask whatever you need to ask.’

‘I will,’ Dreyfus said. ‘But I’ll tread ever so softly.’

Delphine Ruskin-Sartorious appraised him with her sea-green eyes, cool as ice. ‘You look very tired. More so than last time, and you already looked tired back then. Is something the matter?’

Dreyfus pressed a fat finger against the side of his brow, where a vein was throbbing. ‘Things have been busy.’

‘Have you made progress on the case?’

‘Sort of. I’ve an idea who may have been behind the murders but I’m still not seeing a motive. I was hoping you’d be able to join a few dots for me.’

Delphine pushed strands of dirty black hair under the cloth scarf she wore as a hairband. ‘You’ll have to join some for me first. Who is this suspect you’re thinking of?’

Dreyfus sipped from the bulb of coffee he’d conjured just before stepping into the room. ‘My deputy and I followed an evidence chain, trying to find out who called your habitat to put you off making the deal with Dravidian. The lead we followed brought us to the name of another family in the Glitter Band.’

Delphine’s eyes narrowed.

Genuine interest, Dreyfus thought.

‘Who?’ she asked.

Feeling as if he was treading across a minefield, he said, ‘The Nerval-Lermontovs. Do you know of them?’

Beneath the workstained white smock, her slight shoulders moved in an easy shrug. ‘I know of them. Who doesn’t? They were one of the big families, fifty or sixty years ago.’

‘What about a specific connection with your family?’

‘If there is one, I can’t think of it. We didn’t move in the same social orbits.’

‘Then there’s no specific reason you can think of why the Nerval-Lermontovs would want to hurt your family?’

‘None whatsoever. If you have a theory, I’d love to hear it.’

‘I don’t,’ Dreyfus said. ‘But I was hoping you might.’

‘It can’t be the answer,’ she said. ‘The trail you followed must have led you up a blind alley. The Nerval-Lermontovs would never have done something to my family. They’ve had their share of tragedy, but that doesn’t make them murderers.’

‘You mean Aurora?’

‘She was just a girl when it happened to her, Prefect. Calvin Sylveste’s machines ate her mind and spat out a clockwork zombie.’

‘So I heard.’

‘What are you not telling me?’

‘Suppose a member of the Nerval-Lermontov family was planning something.’

‘Such as?’

‘Like, say, a forced takeover of part of the Glitter Band.’

She nodded shrewdly. ‘Hypothetically, of course. If something like that was actually happening, you’d have told me, wouldn’t you?’

Dreyfus smiled tightly. ‘If it was, can you think of a reason why your family might have posed an obstacle to those plans?’

‘What kind of obstacle?’

‘All the evidence at my disposal says that someone connected with the Nerval-Lermontov family arranged for the torching of your habitat. Dravidian had nothing to do with it: he was set up, his ship and crew infiltrated by people who knew how to trigger a Conjoiner drive.’

‘Why?’

‘Wish I knew, Delphine. But here’s a guess: someone or something connected with the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble was considered a threat to those plans.’

‘I can’t imagine who or what,’ she said defiantly. ‘We were just minding our own business. Anthony Theobald was trying to marry me into a rich industrial combine. He had his friends, people who came to visit him, but they weren’t acquaintances of mine. Vernon just wanted to be with me, even if that meant being spurned by his family. I had my art...’

The second time he had invoked her, she had mentioned visitors to Anthony Theobald. When he’d pressed her for more information, she’d become reticent. A family secret, something she’d sworn not to talk about? Perhaps. He’d gone easy on her since then, earning her trust, but he knew that the matter could not be put off indefinitely.

He would have to come at it sideways.

‘Let’s talk about the art. Maybe there’s a clue there that we’re missing.’

‘But we’ve already been over that: the art was just a pretext, an excuse to disguise the true reason we were murdered.’

‘I wish I could convince myself of that, but there’s a connection that won’t stop surfacing. The family that did this to you had close ties with House Sylveste because of what happened to their daughter. And your breakthrough art - the pieces that started getting you attention - were inspired by Philip Lascaille’s journey into the Shroud. Lascaille was a “guest” of House Sylveste when he drowned in that fish pond.’

‘Is there an aspect of life in this system that those bloody people haven’t dug their claws into?’

‘Maybe not. But I’m still convinced there’s a link.’

She took so long to answer that for a while he thought she was ignoring the question, treating it with contempt. As if a policeman could have the slightest insight into the artistic process . . .

‘I told you how it happened. How one day I stepped back from a work in progress and felt that something had been guiding my hand, shaping the face to look like Lascaille.’

‘And?’

‘Well, there was a bit more to it than that. When I made that mental connection, it was as if a bolt of lightning had hit my brain. It wasn’t just a question of tackling Lascaille because I felt it was potentially interesting. It was about having no choice in the matter. The subject was demanding that I treat it, pulling me in like a magnetic field. From that moment on I could not ignore Philip Lascaille. I had to do his death justice, or die creatively.’

‘Almost as if Philip Lascaille was speaking through you, using you as a medium to communicate what he endured?’

She looked at him scornfully. ‘I don’t believe in the afterlife, Prefect.’

‘But figuratively, that’s how it felt to you. Right?’

‘I felt a compulsion,’ she said, as if this admission was the hardest thing she had ever had to do. ‘A need to see this through.’

‘As if you were speaking for Philip?’

‘No one had done that before,’ she said. ‘Not properly. If you want to call it speaking for the dead, so be it.’

‘I’ll call it whatever you call it. You were the artist.’

‘I am the artist, Prefect. No matter what you might think of me, I still feel the same creative impulse.’

‘Then if I gave you the means, a big piece of rock and a cutting torch, you’d still want to make art?’

‘Isn’t that what I just said?’

‘I’m sorry, Delphine. I’m not trying to pick a fight with you. It’s just that you’re the most assertive beta-level I’ve ever encountered.’

‘Almost as if there’s a person behind these eyes?’

‘Sometimes,’ Dreyfus admitted.

‘If your wife hadn’t died the way she did, you’d feel differently about me, wouldn’t you? You’d have no reason to disavow the right of a beta-level to call itself alive.’

‘Valery’s death changed nothing.’

‘You think that, but I’m not so sure. Look at yourself in a mirror one of these days. You’re a man with a wound. Whatever happened back then, there was more to it than what you told me.’

‘Why would I keep anything from you?’

‘Perhaps because there’s something you don’t want to face up to?’

‘I’ve faced up to everything. I loved Valery but now she’s gone. That was eleven years ago.’

‘The man who gave the order to kill those people, so that the Clockmaker would be stopped,’ Delphine prompted.

‘Supreme Prefect Dusollier.’

‘What was so abhorrent about that decision that he felt compelled to kill himself afterwards? Didn’t he do a brave and necessary thing? Didn’t he at least give those citizens a quick and painless death, as opposed to what would have happened if the Clockmaker had reached them?’

Dreyfus had lied to her before. Now he felt compelled to speak the truth, as if that was the only decent thing to do. He spoke slowly, his throat dry, as if he was the one under interrogation.

‘Dusollier left a suicide note. He said: “We made a mistake. We shouldn’t have done it. I’m sorry for what we did to those people. God help them all.”’

‘I still don’t understand. What was there to be sorry about? He had no other choice.’

‘That’s what I’ve been telling myself for eleven years.’

‘You think something else happened.’

‘There’s an anomaly. The official record says that the nukes were used almost immediately after Jane Aumonier was extracted. By then, Dusollier and his prefects knew there was no hope of rescuing the trapped citizens, and that it would only be a matter of time before the Clockmaker escaped to another habitat.’

‘And the nature of this anomaly?’

‘Six hours,’ Dreyfus said. ‘That was how long they actually waited before using the nukes. They tried to cover it up, but in an environment like the Glitter Band, wired to the teeth with monitors, you can’t hide a thing like that.’

‘But shouldn’t a prefect, of all people, be able to find out what happened during those missing hours?’

‘Pangolin privilege will only get you so far.’

‘Have you thought to ask anyone? Like Jane Aumonier, for instance?’

Dreyfus smiled at his own weakness. ‘Have you ever put your hand into a box when you don’t know what’s inside it? That’s how I feel about asking that question.’

‘Because you fear the answer.’

‘Yes.’

‘What is it that you fear? That something might have killed Valery before SIAM was destroyed?’

‘Partly, I suppose. There’s another thing, though. There was a ship called the Atalanta. It had been floating in the Glitter Band for decades, mothballed. Then Panoply moved it, at the same time as the crisis, to a holding position very close to SIAM.’

‘Why had the ship been mothballed?’

‘It was a white elephant, financed by a consortium of Demarchist states with a view to freeing themselves from any dependence on the Conjoiners. Problem was, its drive system didn’t work as well as it was meant to. It only ever made one interstellar flight, and then they abandoned any plans to make more of them.’

‘But you think it would have made an excellent lifeboat.’

‘It’s crossed my mind.’

‘You think Panoply tried to get those people off during those missing six hours. They brought in this abandoned ship, docked it with SIAM and evacuated the trapped citizens.’

‘Or they tried to,’ Dreyfus said.

‘But something must have gone wrong. Or else why would Dusollier have shown such remorse?’

‘All I know is that the Atalanta is part of the key. But that’s as much as I’ve been able to find out. Part of me doesn’t want to find out anything else.’

‘I can see why this is so hard for you,’ Delphine said. ‘To lose your wife is one thing. But to have this mystery hanging over her death . . . I’m truly sorry for you.’

‘I have another part of the key. I have this vivid picture of Valery in my head. She’s turning towards me, kneeling on soil, with flowers in her hand. She’s smiling at me. I think she recognises me. But there’s something wrong with the smile. It’s the mindless smile of a baby seeing the sun.’

‘Where does that memory come from?’

‘I don’t know,’ Dreyfus answered honestly. ‘It’s not as if Valery even liked gardening.’

‘Sometimes the mind plays tricks on us. It might be the memory of another woman.’

‘It’s Valery. I can see her so clearly.’

After an uncomfortably long pause, Delphine said, ‘I believe you. But I don’t think I can help you.’

‘It’s enough to talk about it.’

‘You haven’t discussed these things with your colleagues?’

‘They think I got over her death years ago. It would undermine their confidence in me to know otherwise. I can’t have that.’

There was a longer pause before she answered, ‘You think it might.’

Then her image seemed to twitch back a couple of seconds and she answered his question again with exactly the same words and inflection: ‘You think it might.’

‘Is something the matter?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Delphine. Look at me. Are you all right?’

Her image twitched back again. Rather than answering the question, she fixed Dreyfus with fearful eyes. ‘I feel strange.’

‘Something’s wrong with you.’

Her voice came through too quickly, speeded up as if on helium. ‘I feel strange. Something’s wrong with me.’

‘I think you’re corrupted,’ Dreyfus said. ‘It could be related to the problems we’ve had with the Search Turbines. I’m going to freeze your invocation and run a consistency check.’

‘I feel strange. I feel strange.’ Her voice accelerated, the words piling up on top of each other. ‘I feel strange I feel strange Ifeel-strangeIfeelstrange . . .’ Then she found a moment of lucidity, her voice and the speed of her speech returning to normal. ‘Help me. I don’t think this is . . . normal.’

Dreyfus raised his sleeve, tugging down his cuff. His lips shaped the beginning of the word ‘freeze’.

‘No,’ Delphine said. ‘Don’t freeze me. I’m frightened.’

‘I’ll retrieve you as soon as I’ve run a consistency check.’

‘I think I’m dying. I think something’s eating me. Help me, Prefect!’

‘Delphine, what’s happening?’

Her image simplified, losing detail. Her voice came through slow, sexless and bass-heavy. ‘Diagnostic traceback indicates that this beta-level is self-erasing. Progressive block overwipe is now in progress in partitions one through fifty.’

‘Delphine!’ he shouted.

Her voice was treacle-slow, almost subsonically deep. ‘Help me, Tom Dreyfus.’

‘Delphine, listen to me. The only way I can help you is by bringing your murderer to justice. But for that to happen you have to answer one last question.’

‘Help me, Tom.’

‘You mentioned people who came to visit Anthony Theobald. Who were these people?’

‘Help me, Tom.’

‘Who were the people? Why did they come to visit?’

‘Anthony Theobald said . . .’

She stalled.

‘Talk to me, Delphine.’

‘Anthony Theobald said . . . we had a guest. A guest that lived downstairs. And that I wasn’t to ask questions.’

He spoke into his bracelet. ‘Freeze invocation.’

‘Help, Tom.’

What was left of her became motionless and silent.

Dreyfus called Trajanova. She was flustered, not happy to be distracted from the work at hand. She appeared to be squeezed into the shaft of one of her Turbines, suspended in a weightless sling with her back against the curved glass tube that encased the machinery.

‘It’s important,’ Dreyfus said. ‘I just invoked one of my beta-levels. She crashed on me halfway through the interview.’

Trajanova transferred a tool from one hand to the other, via her mouth. ‘Did you re-invoke?’

‘I tried, but nothing happened. The system said the beta-level image was irrevocably corrupted.’

Trajanova grunted and eased sideways to find a more comfortable position. ‘That isn’t possible. You got a stable invocation until halfway through your interview?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then the base image can’t have been damaged.’

‘My subject appeared to be aware that something was corrupting her. She said she felt as if she was being eaten. It was as if she could feel her core personality being erased segment by segment.’

‘That isn’t possible either.’ Then a troubling thought made her frown. ‘Unless, of course—’

‘Unless what?’

‘Could someone have introduced some kind of data weapon into your beta-level?’

‘Hypothetically, I suppose so. But when we pulled those recoverables out of Ruskin-Sartorious, they were subjected to all the usual tests and filters we normally run before invocation. They were badly damaged as well. I had Thalia working overtime just to stitch the pieces back together. If there’d been a data weapon - or any kind of self-destruct function - Thalia would’ve seen it.’

‘And she reported nothing unusual to you?’

‘She told me she’d only been able to get three clean recoveries. That was all.’

‘And we can trust Thalia not to have missed anything?’

‘I’d swear on it.’

‘Then there’s only one answer: someone must have got to the beta-level after it entered Panoply. From a technical standpoint, it wouldn’t have been all that difficult. All they’d have needed to do was find some data weapon in the archives and embed it in the beta-level. It could have been programmed to start eating the recoverable as soon as you invoked, or maybe it was keyed to a phrase or gesture.’

‘My God,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Then the others . . . I want to talk to them as well.’

‘It could be too dangerous if the same code has been embedded. You’ll lose your other two witnesses.’

‘What do you mean, lose? Don’t I get a back-up?’

‘There is no back-up, Tom. We lost all duplicate images when the Turb blew.’

‘This was all engineered.’

‘Listen,’ Trajanova said, with sudden intensity, ‘I’m going to be stuck in here for a few more hours. I have to get this Turb back up to speed before I do anything else. But as soon as I’m done I’ll look at the recoverables. I’ll see if I can salvage anything from the one that crashed, and look for a data weapon embedded in the other two. Until then, whatever you do, don’t invoke them.’

‘I won’t,’ Dreyfus said.

‘I’ll call you when I’m done.’

It was only when he had finished speaking with Trajanova that Dreyfus paused to examine his state of mind. What he found was both unexpected and shocking. Only a few days ago, he would have regarded the loss of a beta-level witness as akin to the destruction of some potentially incriminating forensic evidence. He would have been irritated, even angered, but his feelings would have arisen solely because an investigation had been hampered. He would have felt no emotional sentimentality concerning the loss of the artefact itself, because an artefact was all that it was.

That wasn’t how he felt now. He kept seeing Delphine’s face in those final moments, when she had still retained enough sentience to recognise the inevitability of her own death.

But if beta-levels were never alive, how could they ever die?

Gaffney’s first thought was that Clepsydra was dead, or at least comatose. He experienced a moment of relief, thinking that he would be spared the burden of another death, before the truth revealed itself. The Conjoiner woman was still breathing; her deathlike composure was merely her natural state of repose when no one was in attendance. Her sharp-boned face was already turning towards him, moving with the smoothness of a missile launcher locking on to a target, her eyes widening from drowsy slits.

‘I was not expecting you to come back so quickly,’ she said, ‘but perhaps the timing is fortuitous. I’ve been thinking about our previous conversation—’

‘Good,’ Gaffney said.

There was a measurable pause before she spoke again. ‘I was expecting Dreyfus.’

‘Dreyfus couldn’t make it. Otherwise detained.’ Gaffney came to rest in the bubble, having judged his momentum with expert precision. ‘That’s not a problem, is it?’

He felt Clepsydra’s attention pierce the skin of his face, mapping the bones under the skin. His skull itched. He had never felt so intensely looked at in all his life.

‘I can guess why you are here,’ she said. ‘Before you kill me, though, you should be aware that I know who you are.’

The statement unnerved him. Perhaps it was bluff, perhaps not. If she had truly looked into Panoply’s archives, then she might have seen employee records. It didn’t matter. She could scream out his name and the world wouldn’t hear her.

‘Who said anything about killing?’ he asked mildly.

‘Dreyfus came unarmed.’

‘More fool him. I wouldn’t enter a room with a Conjoiner inside unless I was carrying a weapon. Or would you have me believe that you couldn’t kill me in an eyeblink?’

‘I had no intention of killing you, Prefect. Until now.’

Gaffney spread his arms. ‘Go ahead, then. Or rather, tell me what you were going to tell Dreyfus. Then kill me.’

‘Why do I need to tell you? You know everything.’

‘Well, maybe not everything.’ Gaffney unclipped his whiphound and thumbed it to readiness. ‘Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to let you leave this place alive and be reunited with your people. Voi knows you deserve it. Voi knows you’ve earned the right to some reward for the service you’ve provided. But it just can’t happen. Because if I let you out of here, you’d endanger the state of affairs that must now come into being. And if you did that, you’d be indirectly responsible for the terrible things your people dreamed were coming, the terrible things I’m striving to avert.’ He thumbed another stud, causing the whiphound to spool out its filament and move to full attack posture. In the weightless sphere of the bubble, the filament swayed back and forth like a tendril stirred by languid sea currents.

‘You have no idea what we saw in Exordium,’ Clepsydra said.

‘I don’t need to. That’s Aurora’s business.’

‘Do you know what Aurora is, Gaffney?’

He hoped that she did not catch the subliminal hesitation in his response. More than likely she did. Very little was subliminal to Conjoiners. ‘I know everything I need to know.’

‘Aurora is not a human being.’

‘She looked pretty human to me when we met.’

‘In person?’

‘Not exactly,’ he admitted.

‘Aurora was a person once upon a time. But that was a long time ago. Now Aurora is something else. She is a life form that has never truly existed before, except fleetingly. Being human is something she remembers the same way you remember sucking your thumb. It’s a part of her, a necessary phase in her development, but one now so remote that she can barely comprehend that she was ever that small, that vulnerable, that ineffective. She is the closest thing to a goddess that has ever existed, and she will only get stronger.’ Clepsydra flashed him a smile that did not quite belong on her face. ‘And you feel comfortable entrusting the future fate of the Glitter Band to this creature?’

‘Aurora’s plan is about the continued existence of the human species around Yellowstone,’ Gaffney said dogmatically. ‘Taking the long view, she sees that our little cultural hub is critical to the wider human diaspora. If the hub fails, the wheel will splinter itself apart. Take out Yellowstone and the Ultras lose their most lucrative stopover. Interstellar trade will wither. The other Demarchist colonies will fall like dominoes. It might take decades, centuries, even, but it will happen. That’s why we need to think about survival now.’

Clepsydra formed a convincing sneer. ‘Her plan is about her survival, not yours. At the moment she is letting you tag along for the ride. When you are no longer useful - and that will come to pass - I would make sure you have a very good escape plan.’

‘Thank you for the advice.’ His hand tightened on the whiphound. ‘I’m puzzled, Clepsydra. You know that I can kill you with this thing. I also know that you can influence it, to a degree.’

‘You’re wondering why I haven’t turned it against you.’

‘Crossed my mind.’

‘Because I know that the gesture would be futile.’ She nodded at his wrist. ‘Your hand is gloved, for instance. It could be that you wish to avoid forensic contamination of the weapon, but I think there must be more to it than that. The glove extends into your sleeve. I presume it merges with some kind of lightweight armour under your uniform.’

‘Good guess. It’s training armour, the kind recruits wear when they’re learning to use whiphounds. Hyperdiamond cross-weave, edged on the microscopic scale to blunt and clog the cutting mechanisms on the sharp side of the filament. Even if you could bend the tail around towards me, it wouldn’t be able to slice through my arm. Still, I’m surprised you didn’t try it anyway.’

‘I was resigned to death the moment I saw that you were not Prefect Dreyfus.’

‘Here’s the deal,’ he said. ‘I know that Conjoiners can shut off pain when they need to. But I’m willing to bet you’d still choose a quick death over a slow one. Especially here. Especially when you’re all alone, far from your friends.’

‘Death is death. And I can die precisely as quickly as I choose, not you.’

‘All the same, I’ll make you a proposition. I know you looked deep into our files. Minor confession: I was prepared to let that happen because I knew I was going to have to kill you anyway. I thought you might turn something up that I could use.’

‘I did.’

‘I’m not talking about Aurora. I mean the Clockmaker.’

‘I have no idea what you mean.’

He guessed that she was lying. Even if she’d had no knowledge of the Clockmaker prior to her arrival in Panoply - and the Exordium dreamers hadn’t been totally isolated from information concerning events in the outside world - she would surely have found out about it during her uninvited rummage through Panoply’s records.

He rolled the whiphound handle in his palm. ‘I’ll let you in on a little secret. Officially, it was nuked out of existence when Panoply destroyed the Sylveste Institute for Artificial Mentation.’ He lowered his voice, even though he knew there could be no eaves-droppers. ‘But that’s not what really happened. SIAM was only nuked after Panoply had already gone inside to extract intelligence and hardware. They believed that they’d destroyed the Clockmaker, true enough. They found what appeared to be its remains. But they kept the relics, the clocks and musical boxes and all the nasty little booby traps. And one of those relics turned out to be . . . well, just as bad as the thing itself. Worse, in some respects. It was the Clockmaker.’

‘No one would have been that stupid,’ Clepsydra said.

‘Less a question of stupidity, I think, than of overweening intellectual vanity. Which isn’t to say they haven’t been clever. Just to have pulled this off, just to have kept it hidden for eleven years . . . that took some doing, some guile.’

‘Why are you interested in the Clockmaker? Are you so foolish as to think you can use it as well? Or is Aurora the foolish one?’

Gaffney shook his head knowingly. ‘No, Aurora wouldn’t make that kind of mistake. But now the Clockmaker is a very real concern to her. Her intelligence networks have determined that it wasn’t destroyed. She knows that a cell working inside Panoply kept it under study in the same place for most of the last eleven years. Aurora fears that the Clockmaker could undo all her good work, at the eleventh hour. Therefore it must be located and destroyed, before the cell has a chance to activate it.’

‘Have you already made an attempt to destroy it? Perhaps in the last few days?’

He looked at her wonderingly. ‘Oh, you’re good. You’re very, very good.’

‘Ruskin-Sartorious,’ Clepsydra said, enunciating the syllables with particular care. ‘I saw it in your files. That’s where you expected to find the Clockmaker. That’s why that habitat had to be destroyed. Except you were too late, weren’t you?’

‘I can only guess that Aurora had probed around that secret a little too incautiously, and somebody had got nervous. The question is: where did they move it to?’

‘Why don’t you torture someone useful and find out?’

Gaffney smiled at that. ‘Don’t think I didn’t try. Trouble was the old boy turned out not to know very much after all. I kept my word to him, though: left him with enough of a brain to do some gardening. I’m not a monster, you see.’

‘I cannot help you either.’

‘Oh, but I think you can. Don’t be coy, Clepsydra: I know how transparent our archives must have been to you, how childishly ineffective our security measures, how laughable our attempts at obfuscation and misdirection. You only had access to those files for the brief time you were in Mercier’s clinic, and you still worked out what happened to Ruskin-Sartorious.’

‘I saw nothing concerning the current location of the Clockmaker. ’

‘Tell me you didn’t see a hint of the cell. Feints and mirrors in the architecture. Faultlines and schisms in the flow of data. Something that would have been nigh-on impossible for a baseline human to spot, even a high-grade Panoply operative. But not necessarily beyond the discernment of a Conjoiner.’

‘I saw nothing.’

‘Do you want to give that a bit more thought?’ He injected a tone of conciliatory reasonableness into his voice. ‘We can come to an arrangement, if you like. I can leave you alive, with a modicum of neural functionality. If you help me.’

‘You had better not leave me alive, Gaffney. Not if you want to sleep at night.’

‘I’ll take that as a “no”, I suppose.’ He smiled nicely. ‘No point asking again, is there?’

‘None at all.’

‘Then I guess we’re done here.’

The whiphound felt heavy and solid in his hands, like a blunt instrument. He spooled the filament back into the handle and then clipped it to his belt, for now.

‘I thought—’ Clepsydra began.

‘I was never going to kill you with the whiphound. Too damned risky if you managed to sink your mental claws into it.’ Gaffney reached into his pocket and retrieved the gun he had intended to use all along. It was an ancient thing, devoid of any components that could be influenced by Conjoiner mind-trickery. It relied on oiled steel mechanisms and simple pyrotechnic chemistry. Like a crossbow, or a bayonet, it was an outdated weapon for which there were still certain niche applications.

It only took one shot. He drilled Clepsydra through the forehead, just under the start of her cranial crest, leaving an exit wound in the back of her skull large enough to put three fingers through. Brain and bone splattered the rear wall of the interrogation bubble. He paddled closer to examine the residue. In addition to the expected smell of cordite, there was a vile stench of burnt electrical componentry. The pink and grey mess had the texture of porridge, intermingled with bits of broken earthenware and torn fabric. There was something else in there, too: tiny glinting things, silver-grey and bronze, some of them linked together by fine gold wires, some with little lights still blinking. He watched, fascinated, as the lights slowly stopped flashing, as if he was observing a neon-lit city fading into blackout. Some part of her, smeared against that wall, had still been thinking.

Clepsydra was dead now, no doubt about that. Conjoiners were superhuman but they weren’t invulnerable. She was floating quite limply, her eyes still open, elevated and turned slightly together as if - as ludicrous as it might appear - she had been tracking the path of the bullet just before it entered her forehead. The look on her face was strangely serene, with the merest hint of a coquettish smile. Gaffney wasn’t bothered by that. He’d had enough experience with corpses to know how deceptive their expressions could be. Freezeframe the onset of a scream and it could easily resemble laughter, or delight, or joyous anticipation.

He was nearly done. He returned the gun to his pocket and spoke aloud, very clearly and slowly. ‘Gallium, paper, basalt. Gallium, paper, basalt. Reveal. Reveal. Reveal.’

It took a moment, just long enough to stretch his nerves. But he needn’t have worried. The nonvelope flickered into existence off to his right, revealing itself as a chromed sphere reflecting back the patterning of wall tiles in convex curves. Gaffney paddled over and cracked the nonvelope open along its hemispherical divide. He removed the forensic clean-up kit he had placed in the nonvelope earlier and for a couple of minutes busied himself removing the immediate evidence of Clepsydra’s death from the walls. Had they been made of quickmatter, they would have absorbed the evidence themselves, but the interrogation bubble’s cladding was resolutely dumb. Fortunately the clean-up did not need to be a thorough job, and the fact that there would still be microscopic traces of blood and tissue located away from the splatter point - let alone dispersed through the air - was of no concern to him.

He used the clean-up kit to remove forensic traces from both the weapon and his training glove, then packed the gun and the kit back into the nonvelope. He then turned his attention to Clepsydra. The weightless environment made it no simple matter to persuade her inert form into the restrictive volume of the nonvelope, but Gaffney accomplished the task without having to resort to the cutting capabilities of the whiphound. He resealed the nonvelope and ordered it to return to invisibility. In the moment after it had flicked into concealment mode, he fancied that he could just discern its outline, as a pencil-thin circle looming before him. But when he glanced away and then returned his gaze to the spot where the nonvelope had been, he could not see it at all.

He slipped on his glasses, keying in sonar mode. The nonvelope did its best to absorb the sound pulses he was sending it, but it had been optimised for invisibility in vacuum, not atmosphere. The glasses picked it out easily. He reached out a hand and touched the cold, smooth curve of the sphere, which drifted to one side under his finger pressure. He pushed it towards the wall. It was a squeeze getting it through the twin passwalls, but it had made the journey once so it could make it again. Gaffney’s only concern was meeting someone coming the other way: Dreyfus, for instance. Two people could easily pass each other, but the nonvelope presented an obstruction too wide to wriggle around.

His luck - or what Gaffney preferred to think of as his calculated access window - continued to hold. He reached the much wider trunk corridor that accessed the interrogation chamber’s outer airlock without incident, where there was sufficient room for the nonvelope to hide itself, moving out of the way of passers-by when necessary. He abandoned the sphere to its own detection-avoidance programming. Gaffney was snatching off his glasses when a nameless operative came around the bend in the corridor, pulling himself along by handholds. He was hauling a bundle of shrink-wrapped uniforms from one part of Panoply to another.

‘Senior Prefect,’ the operative said, touching a deferential hand to the side of his head.

Gaffney nodded back, fumbling the glasses into his pocket. ‘Keep up the good work, son,’ he said, sounding just a touch more flustered than he would have liked.

CHAPTER 18

Dreyfus pinched the skin at the corners of his eyes until the gemmed lights of the Solid Orrery moved into sluggish focus. For a long while he had been fighting exhaustion, slipping into instants of treacherous microsleep where his thoughts spun off into day-dreams and wish-fulfilment fantasy. Seniors, field prefects and supernumerary operatives were coming and going from the tactical room, murmuring intelligence and rumour, pausing to consult compads or run enlargements and simulations on the Solid Orrery itself. Occasionally Dreyfus was allowed to be party to what was discussed, even to add his thoughts, but the other seniors made it abundantly clear that he was there on their terms, not his. Exasperatedly, he’d listened while the next response was formulated. After much debate, the seniors had decided to send four cutters, one to each silent habitat, each of which would be carrying three Panoply operatives equipped at the same level as a lockdown party.

‘That’s not enough,’ Dreyfus said. ‘All you’ll have to show for it is four wrecked ships and twelve dead prefects. We can’t afford to lose the ships and we damned well can’t afford to lose the prefects.’

‘It’s the logical next step in an escalating response,’ Crissel pointed out.

Dreyfus shook his head in dismay. ‘This isn’t about logical next steps. They’ve already shown us that any approaching ships will be treated as hostile.’

‘So what do you propose?’

‘We need four deep-system cruisers, more if we can spare them. They can carry hundreds of prefects. They’ll also stand a chance of fighting all the way into the four habitats and making a forced hard dock.’

‘To me,’ Crissel said, looking pleased with himself, ‘that sounds very much like putting all our eggs in one basket.’

‘Whereas you’d prefer to keep throwing the eggs one a time, until we run out?’

‘That isn’t it at all. I’m talking about an appropriate reaction, rather than a sledgehammer strike with all our resources—’

Dreyfus cut him off. ‘If you want to recover those habitats, the time to act is now. Whoever’s inside them is probably struggling to control the citizenry, enough that they may still be vulnerable to an assault by a small but coordinated squad of prefects. We have a window here, one that’s closing on us fast.’

Gaffney had returned to the room - he’d been off on some errand elsewhere. Dreyfus noticed an uncharacteristic sheen of sweat on his forehead, and the fact that he was wearing the heavy black glove and sleeve of whiphound training armour.

‘At the risk of endorsing melodrama,’ Gaffney said, looking only at the other seniors, ‘Dreyfus may have a point. We can’t commit four cruisers, or even two. But we do have one on launch standby. We can put fifty field prefects inside it within ten minutes, more if we move some shifts around.’

‘They’ll need tactical armour and extreme-contingency weapons, ’ Crissel said.

‘The armour isn’t a problem. But the weapons are still under wraps.’ Gaffney looked apologetic. ‘This crisis has caught up with us so quickly that we haven’t polled for permission to use them.’

‘Jane would have polled already,’ Dreyfus said. ‘I’m sure she was planning it when I left.’

‘It’s not too late,’ Baudry said. ‘I’ll force through an emergency poll using the statutory process. We can get a return on it inside twenty minutes. That’ll still give us time to equip the cruiser.’

‘If they don’t turn us down,’ Dreyfus said.

‘They won’t. I’ll make it abundantly clear that we need those weapons.’

‘And spark off even more unrest into the bargain?’ Gaffney asked, head tilted at a sceptical angle. ‘Be very careful how you play this one. If the citizenry get even a whiff that we’re dealing with something worse than a squabble with the Ultras, we’ll have our hands tied just containing the panic.’

‘I’ll be sure to exercise due discretion,’ Baudry said, speaking with fierce self-control.

‘I hope the vote goes our way,’ Dreyfus said. ‘But even if it does, one cruiser won’t be anywhere near enough.’

‘It’s all we can spare at the moment,’ Gaffney said. ‘You’ll just have to take it or leave it.’

‘I’ll take it,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Provided I’m allowed to lead the assault team.’

For a moment no one said anything. Dreyfus sensed the conflicted impulses of the other prefects. None of them would have wanted to be on that ship when it got close to House Aubusson.

‘It’ll be dangerous,’ Gaffney said.

‘I know.’

Baudry studied Dreyfus with knowing concentration. ‘And I presume House Aubusson will be your first port of call?’

He didn’t even blink. ‘It’s the softest target. The one we have the best chance of taking.’

‘And if Thalia Ng were elsewhere?’

‘She isn’t,’ Dreyfus said.

Across the Glitter Band, a singular event was taking place, one that had not happened for eleven years, and for more than thirty before that. With the exception of the four that had already been lost, it was happening in all ten thousand habitats, irrespective of their status or social organisation. Where citizens were wired into a high degree of abstraction, whether it was inside the Bezile Solipsist State, Dreamhaven, Carousel New Jakarta or one of a hundred similar habitats, they simply found their local reality - however baroque, however impenetrably bizarre - being rudely interrupted to make way for an unscheduled announcement from the mundane depths of baseline reality. In the many mainstream Demarchist states, citizens felt the intrusion of a new presence into their minds, one that momentarily suppressed the usual nervous chatter of endless polling. In more moderate states, where abstraction was not adopted to the same degree, citizens received warning chimes from bracelets, or found windows appearing in the visual fields provided by optic implants, lenses, monocles or glasses. They paused to pay heed. In states where extreme biomodifications were in vogue, citizens were alerted by changes in their own physiology, or the physiologies of those around them. Skin patterns shifted to accommodate two-dimensional video displays. Entire bodily structures morphed to form living sculptures capable of delivering a message. In the Voluntary Tyrannies, citizens paused to look up at murals on the sides of the buildings that had suddenly flicked over to show the face of an unfamiliar woman rather than the locally designated tyrant.

‘This,’ said the woman, ‘is Senior Prefect Baudry, speaking for Panoply. I am invoking statutory process to table an emergency poll. Please be assured that normal polling will resume after this interruption.’ Baudry paused, cleared her throat and proceeded to speak with the slow and solemn gravity of the practised orator. ‘As is well known, it is the democratic wish of the peoples of the Glitter Band that Panoply operatives be denied the day-to-day right to carry weapons, beyond those specified in the operational mandate. Panoply has always respected this decision, even when it has meant placing its own prefects at risk. During the last year alone, eleven field prefects have died in the line of duty because they carried no weapon more effective than a simple autonomous whip. And yet each and every one of them walked into danger knowing only that they had a duty to perform.’ Having made her point, Baudry paused again before continuing. ‘But it is part of the mandate that, when circumstances dictate, Panoply has the means to return to the citizenry and request the temporary right - a period specified as exactly one hundred and thirty hours, not a minute longer - to arm its agents with those weapons that remain in our arsenal, designated for use under extreme circumstances. I need hardly add that such a request is not issued lightly, nor in any expectation of automatic affirmation. It is, nonetheless, my unfortunate duty to issue such a request now. For matters of operational security, I regret that I cannot specify the exact nature of the crisis, other than to say that it is of a severity we have very rarely encountered, and that the future safety of the entire Glitter Band may depend on our actions. As you are doubtless aware, tensions between the Glitter Band and the Ultras have reached an unacceptable level in the last few days. Because of this situation, Panoply operatives are already facing heightened risks to their personal safety. In addition, Panoply’s usual resources - people and machines both - are overworked and overstretched. I would therefore respectfully issue two requests at this point. The first is to urge calm, for - despite what some of you may have heard - all the information presently in Panoply’s possession indicates that there has been no act of hostile intention from the Ultras. The second request is to grant my agents the right to carry those weapons that they now need to perform their duties. Polling on this issue will commence immediately. Please give this matter your utmost attention. This is Senior Prefect Baudry, speaking for Panoply, asking for your help.’

The deep-system cruiser Universal Suffrage sat in its berthing cradle, ready to be pushed out of the hangar into space. Final preparations were under way, with just the latter phases of fuelling and armament still to be completed. The midnight-black wedge of the ninety-metre-long vehicle was offset by the luminous markings delineating general instructions and warnings, power and fuel umbilical sockets, sensor panels, airlocks and weapons and thruster vents. Only when the cruiser was under way would these lines and inscriptions fade back into the absolute blackness of the rest of the hull. Conferring with the pilot, Dreyfus had already worked out an approach strategy. They would come in fast, tail-first, and execute a last-minute high-burn deceleration. It would be bone-crushingly hard, but the cruiser was built to tolerate it and the prefects would be protected by quickmatter cocoons. A slower approach would give Aubusson’s anti-collision weapons too great a chance of achieving a target lock.

Satisfied with the status of the ship, Dreyfus pushed his way out of the observation gallery into the armoury, where the other prefects were being issued with Model B whiphounds. He checked the time. Any minute now, the polling results should be in. He’d listened to Baudry’s speech and didn’t think anyone could have made a better case without galvanising the entire Glitter Band into mass panic. She’d walked a delicate line with commendable skill.

But sometimes the best case wasn’t good enough.

Set into one wall was a wide glass panel, oval in shape, with burnished silver pads on either side of it. Behind the panel, set into padded recesses and arranged like museum pieces, was a small selection of the weapons Panoply agents were no longer permitted to carry. There were vastly more weapons hidden from view, waiting to be rolled into place. All were matt-black and angular, devoid of ornamentation or aesthetic fripperies. Some of them were handguns scarcely more lethal than whiphounds. The heaviest weapons, Dreyfus knew, were fully capable of cutting through the skin of a typical habitat.

Baudry and Crissel had just arrived, stationing themselves at either side of the oval window. They each carried one of a pair of heavy keys that needed to be inserted into the pads on either side of the window and then turned simultaneously. Only seniors carried the keys, and it took two seniors to unlock the extreme-contingencies weapons.

‘The vote’s in?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘Just a few seconds,’ Baudry told him. Most of the field prefects had filed out of the room now, to take their positions aboard the Universal Suffrage. Only a handful were still dealing with their armour, or waiting to receive weapons. ‘Here it comes,’ she said, the set of her jaw tensing in anticipation.

Dreyfus glanced down at the summary data spilling across his bracelet read-out, but it wasn’t necessary to see the result for himself. Baudry’s expression told him all he needed to know.

‘Voi,’ Crissel said, shaking his head in dismay. ‘I can’t believe this!’

‘There’s got to be a mistake,’ Baudry said, mumbling the words as if in a trance.

‘There isn’t. Forty-one per cent against, forty per cent for, nineteen per cent abstentions. We lost by one per cent!’

Dreyfus checked the numbers on his bracelet. There had been no error. Panoply had been refused the right to bear arms. ‘There was always a chance,’ he said. ‘If House Aubusson hadn’t dropped off the network, they might even have swung it for us.’

‘I’ll go back to the people,’ Baudry said. ‘The statutes say I can table another poll.’

‘It won’t make any difference. You made your point excellently the first time. No one could have argued our case more effectively without inciting system-wide panic.’

‘I say we just dispense them,’ Crissel said. ‘There’s no technical reason why we need a majority vote. The keys will still work.’

Dreyfus saw the tendons on the back of Crissel’s hand standing proud as he readied himself to twist the key.

‘Maybe you’re right,’ Baudry said. There was a kind of awestruck horror in her voice, as if she was contemplating the execution of a glamorous crime. ‘These are exceptional circumstances, after all. We’ve lost four habitats. We can’t rule out wider polling anomalies, either. We’d be within our rights to disregard that poll.’

‘Then why did you bother tabling it?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘Because I had to,’ Baudry said.

‘Then you have to do what the people say, too. And the people say no guns.’

Crissel was almost pleading now. ‘But these are exceptional times. Rules can be waived.’

Dreyfus shook his head at the senior. ‘No, they can’t. The reason this organisation exists in the first place is to make sure the democratic apparatus functions smoothly, without error, bias or fraud. Those are the rules we hold everyone else accountable to. We’d better make damn sure we hold ourselves to the same standards.’

Baudry tilted her head in the direction of the Universal Suffrage. ‘Even if it means going out there with nothing but whiphounds?’

Dreyfus nodded solemnly. ‘Even that.’

‘Now I understand why Jane never promoted you above field,’ Baudry said, before shooting a conspiratorial glance at Crissel. ‘But you’re outranked here, Tom. Michael and I have the keys, not you. On three.’

‘On three,’ Crissel said. ‘One . . . two . . . and turn.’

Their hands twisted in unison. A mechanism clunked behind the wall and the oval window slid ponderously aside. The visible weapons emerged from their recessed partitions, pushed out on chromed metal rods. Crissel retrieved a medium-size rifle, sighted along its slab-sided, vent-perforated flanks and then propelled it through the air to Dreyfus.

Dreyfus caught it easily. The weapon felt both reassuring and totally wrong. ‘I can’t do this,’ he said.

‘It isn’t your call. Senior prefects have just issued you with appropriate ordnance.’

‘But the vote—’

‘The vote went our way,’ Crissel said. ‘That’s what I’m telling you now. I’m expressly instructing you to disregard any information you might have received to the contrary.’

‘This is wrong.’

‘And you’ve said your piece,’ Baudry said, ‘stated your fine and noble principles. Now take the damned weapons. Even if you won’t carry one, Tom, you can at least equip those other prefects. We’ll take the fall for this when the dust settles. Not you.’

The weapon felt snug in his hands, solid and trustworthy. Take it, a small voice implored. For the sake of the other prefects, and the hostages in House Aubusson. How likely is it that the eight hundred thousand people in House Aubusson give a damn about democratic principles now?

‘I’ll—’ Dreyfus began.

But he was cut off by the arrival of a new voice. ‘Let go of the weapon, please. Let it float away from you.’

It was Gaffney, accompanied by a phalanx of Internal Security prefects, all of whom were wearing an unusual amount of body armour, with whiphounds unclipped and partially deployed.

‘What’s this about?’

‘Easy, Tom. Just let the weapon go. Then we can talk.’

‘Talk about what?’

‘The weapon, Tom. Nice and easy.’

Dreyfus had no use for the rifle. Even if there had been an ammo-cell clipped into it, he was hardly going to open fire so close to the docking bay. But it still took a measure of self-control to let it drift out of his fingers.

‘What’s going on?’ Baudry asked.

Gaffney clicked his gloved fingers at the pair of field prefects still waiting to clear the armoury. ‘Get aboard the ship,’ he said.

‘She asked a civil question,’ Dreyfus said.

‘Field Prefect Tom Dreyfus,’ Gaffney said, before the stragglers had cleared the room, ‘you are under arrest. Please surrender your whiphound.’

Dreyfus didn’t move. ‘State the terms of my arrest,’ he said.

‘Your whiphound, Tom. Then we can talk.’

‘My name’s Dreyfus, you sonofabitch.’ But he still unclipped the whiphound and let it drift after the rifle.

‘I think you’d better explain,’ Crissel said.

Gaffney appeared to have trouble clearing his throat. His eyes were wide, pugnacious, brimming with an almost religious rage. ‘He’s let the prisoner escape.’

Baudry’s look sharpened. ‘You mean Clepsydra, the Conjoiner woman?’

‘Prefect Bancal visited her cell about ten minutes ago and found the cell empty. Mercier was called immediately: Bancal assumed that the doctor had moved her back to the clinic for medical reasons. Mercier hadn’t, though. She’s gone.’

‘I want her found, and fast,’ Crissel said. ‘But I don’t see why Dreyfus is automatically assumed—’

‘I checked the access logs,’ Gaffney said. ‘Dreyfus was the last one to see her before she vanished.’

‘I didn’t release her,’ Dreyfus said, directing his answer at the other two seniors, not Gaffney. ‘And how could I have got her out of that room even if I’d wanted to?’

‘We’ll figure that out in due course,’ Gaffney said. ‘What matters is that you weren’t happy about her being locked up in there, were you?’

‘She’s a witness, not a prisoner.’

‘A witness who can see through walls. That makes a difference, don’t you think?’

‘Where could she be?’ Baudry asked.

‘She has to be still inside Panoply. No ships have come or gone since Dreyfus’s return. Needless to say, I’ve initiated a level-one search. We’ll find her soon enough.’ Gaffney touched a hand to his sweat-tangled hair. ‘She may be a Conjoiner, but she sure as hell isn’t invisible.’

‘You’re wrong about this,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Clepsydra was there when I left her. I sent Sparver to check on her. Why would I do that if I’d set her free?’

‘We can worry about the how and why of it later,’ Gaffney answered. ‘The access logs leave no doubt that Dreyfus was the last one in her cell before she disappeared.’

‘I want a forensic search of that room.’

‘I insist on it,’ Gaffney said. ‘Now, are you going to make a scene, or can we do this like responsible adults?’

‘It’s you,’ Dreyfus said, with the feeling that he’d just got the punchline to a long, drawn-out joke, hours after everyone else.

‘Me?’ Gaffney asked, looking perplexed.

‘The mole. The traitor. The man Clepsydra spoke about. You’re working for Aurora, aren’t you? You sabotaged the Search Turbines. You corrupted my beta-level witness.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Talk to Trajanova. See what she says.’

‘Oh dear,’ Gaffney said, biting his lower lip. ‘Haven’t you heard?’

‘Haven’t I heard what?’

‘Trajanova’s dead,’ Baudry said. ‘I’m sorry, Tom. I thought you knew.’

Dreyfus stared at her in numb disbelief. ‘What do you mean, she’s dead?’

‘It was a dreadful accident,’ Baudry said. ‘Trajanova was working inside the casing of one of the Search Turbines when it began to spin up. It appears that some safety interlock had been disabled . . . we can only imagine that Trajanova herself must have done it, because she was in a hurry to get the Turbs back up—’

‘It wasn’t an accident.’ Dreyfus was looking at Gaffney now. ‘You made this happen, didn’t you?’

‘Wait,’ Gaffney said, unfazed. ‘Isn’t this the same Trajanova you used to have issues with? The deputy you fired, the one you could barely speak to without the two of you shooting daggers at each other?’

‘We got over that.’

‘Well, isn’t that convenient.’ Gaffney looked quickly to the others. ‘Does this make any sense to anyone? Quite apart from these slanderous accusations of murder, I don’t recall Dreyfus mentioning a mole until now. Maybe if he had it would lend this outburst a bit more credibility.’ He gave Dreyfus a pitying look. ‘I can’t begin to tell you how undignified this all sounds. I expected better of you, frankly.’

‘He mentioned the mole to me.’ They turned as one to see Sparver hovering at the threshold of the chamber.

‘This is no business of yours, Deputy Field,’ said Gaffney.

‘The moment you shot off your mouth about Dreyfus it became my business. Let him go.’

‘Escort the deputy out of here,’ Gaffney instructed two of his internals. ‘Pacify him if he makes trouble.’

‘You’re making a mistake,’ Sparver said.

‘Tell you what,’ Gaffney said. ‘Why don’t you dump him in an interrogation bubble until he cools off? Got to keep a lid on that temper, son. I know it’s hard, not having a fully developed frontal cortex, but you could make an effort.’

‘There’s a line,’ Sparver said quietly. ‘You just crossed it.’

‘Not before you did.’ Gaffney’s hand hovered over his whiphound, a tacit warning. ‘Now get out of here before one of us does something he might have cause to regret.’

‘Go,’ Dreyfus mouthed to Sparver. Then, louder: ‘Find Clepsydra. Before Gaffney’s people do. She’s in danger.’

Sparver touched his hand to the side of his head, enough of a salute to let Dreyfus know he still had an ally.

‘Well,’ Gaffney said, ‘looks like you got an exemption from the rescue mission, at least. Or were you counting on that?’

Dreyfus just looked at him, not even dignifying the statement with a response.

‘I’ll take his place,’ Crissel said.

It fell to Baudry to break the silence that fell after his words. ‘No, Michael,’ she said. ‘You don’t have to do this. You’re a senior, not a field. This is where we need you.’

Crissel plucked the rifle from the air where it had come to rest. His hands closed around it with probing unfamiliarity, as if he wasn’t quite sure which end was which. ‘I’ll get suited-up and have the rest of the weapons issued,’ he said, with a confidence that sounded ice-thin. ‘We can launch inside five minutes.’

‘You’re not ready for this,’ Baudry said.

‘Dreyfus was prepared to put his neck on the line. Regardless of what’s just happened, we can’t simply abandon those kids aboard the Universal Suffrage.’

‘When was the last time you left Panoply on field duty, as opposed to pleasure?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘Only a few months ago,’ Crissel said quickly. ‘Six at the most. Definitely within the last year.’

‘Did you carry a whiphound?’

Crissel blinked as he retrieved the memories of the trip. Dreyfus wondered how far back he was digging. ‘We didn’t need them. The risk assessment was low.’

‘So hardly comparable to what we’re facing now.’

‘No one’s ever faced anything like this, Tom. It’s new to all of us.’

‘I’ll give you that,’ Dreyfus said. ‘And I’ll give you the fact that you were once an outstanding field. But that was a long time ago, Michael. You’ve been staring into the Solid Orrery too long.’

‘I’m still field-certified.’

‘I can still go,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Overrule Gaffney. You have my word that I’ll submit to his arrest order as soon as I return from House Aubusson.’

‘That would suit you just fine, wouldn’t it?’ Gaffney said. ‘Dying in the line of duty. Going out in a blaze of glory, never having to face an internal tribunal. Not gonna happen, I’m afraid.’

‘He’s right,’ Baudry said. ‘Until this is resolved, you can’t leave Panoply. That’s the way we do things. I’m sorry, Tom.’

‘Take him down,’ Gaffney said.

It was the middle of the night in House Aubusson. Thalia already felt as if she had spent half a lifetime in the place, when in fact it was still less than fifteen hours since she had docked her cutter at the hub. But she had not rested in all that time, and now she was pacing back and forth determinedly, fiercely intent on staying both awake and alert, knowing that it would be fatal to sit down with the other citizens and succumb to her tiredness.

‘No sign of that rescue of yours, I take it,’ Paula Thory said, for about the twentieth time.

‘We’ve only been cut off for half a day,’ Thalia replied, pausing to lean against the transparent casing covering the architectural model of the Museum of Cybernetics. ‘I didn’t promise they’d arrive bang on schedule.’

‘You said we might be isolated for a few hours. It’s been considerably longer than that.’

‘Yes,’ Thalia said. ‘But thanks to the good citizens of the Glitter Band, a civil emergency was in force when I left. My organisation was doing everything it could to prevent all-out war between the habitats and the Ultras.’

‘You think they’re still dealing with that, is that it?’ asked Caillebot, reasonably enough.

She nodded at the landscape gardener, glad that he had given up some of his earlier outrage. ‘That’s my best guess. I’m long overdue by now, and they’ll be able to see that my ship’s still docked with Aubusson. If they could spare the resources to get here, they would.’ She swallowed hard, striving to find some of that confidence Parnasse had told her she needed to assert. ‘But you can bet we’re getting near the top of their list. They’ll be here before sunrise.’

‘Sunrise is still a long way off,’ Thory observed. ‘And those machines aren’t slowing down.’

‘But they’re not touching the main stalk,’ Thalia replied. ‘Who-ever’s operating them needs to send instructions through this structure, which means they can’t risk damaging it just to get rid of us.’

By now it was clear that the construction servitors were engaged in nothing less than the systematic dismantling of the habitat’s human buildings and infrastructure. Throughout the night, Thalia had watched - sometimes alone, sometimes with Parnasse, Redon or one of the other citizens - as the robots bulldozed and ripped their way through the outlying structures of the Museum of Cybernetics. They had already torn down the ring of secondary stalks, shovelling the pulverised remains onto the backs of massive debris-carriers. Kilometres away, in illuminated clusters of huddled activity, other groups of machines were engaged in similar demolition work. The machines tackling the museum must already have gathered tens of thousands of tonnes of rubble. Across the entire interior of House Aubusson, they must have gathered dozens or hundreds of times as much. And all that raw material - millions of tonnes of it, in Thalia’s estimation - was being conveyed in one direction, toward the great manufactory complex at the habitat’s far end. It was feedstock, so that those mighty mills could turn again.

In fact, they were already turning. Though no sound reached Thalia and her cadre of citizens through the airtight windows of the polling core, they had all felt the tremor of distant industrial processes starting up. Near the endcap that rumble must have been thunderous. The manufactories were making something. Whatever it was, they were being cranked up to full capacity.

‘Thalia,’ called Parnasse, poking his head above the top of the spiral staircase that led to the lower level. ‘I need your help with something, when you’ve got a moment.’

Thalia tensed. That was Parnasse’s way of telling her they had a problem without alarming the others unduly. She crossed to the staircase and followed him down to the administrative level, with its unlit offices and storage rooms. Three of the citizens were still working on the barricade detail, collecting equipment and junk from wherever they could find it and then toppling it down the stairs and lift shaft.

‘What is it, Cyrus?’ she asked quietly, the two of them standing far enough away from the work gang that their conversation would not be overhead.

‘They’re getting tired, and they’ve only been on this shift for forty-five minutes. They may be able to last until the end of it, but I’m not sure if they’re going to be much use to us by the time they’re up for duty again. We’re getting worn out down here.’

‘Maybe it’s time Thory weighed in.’

‘She’d be more hindrance than help, with all her moaning. The team getting tired isn’t the main problem, though. We’re going to start running out of barricade material pretty soon. If not before the end of this shift, then definitely before the end of the next one. Things ain’t looking too good. Just thought you should know.’

‘Maybe the existing barricade will hold.’

‘Maybe.’

‘You don’t think so.’

‘When it’s quiet up here, I can hear activity below. The machines are working at the far end of it, clearing it as fast as we can pour new stuff down from our end. That’s why the barricade keeps settling down. They’re removing the debris at the base.’

‘And if we don’t keep topping it up—’

‘They’ll be breaking through before you know it.’

‘We need options,’ Thalia said. ‘I’ve told the other citizens that we’re working on a contingency plan. It’s about time we had one, before someone calls me on it.’

‘I wish I had an idea.’

‘Let’s focus on the barricade, since that’s all we have right now. If we’re running out of material, we’ll need to find another supply.’

‘We’ve already cleaned out all the rooms along this corridor. Anything that we can move, and that isn’t too large to fit down the holes, we’ve already thrown.’

‘But we’ve still got the building itself,’ Thalia said. ‘The walls, the partitions between the rooms . . . it’s all ours, if we want it.’

‘Unfortunately, none of us thought to bring demolition tools to the civic reception,’ Parnasse said.

Thalia unclipped the buzzing handle of her whiphound. ‘Then it’s a good job I did. This thing might be damaged, but it can still just about function in sword mode. If I can start cutting away material—’

Parnasse looked at the whiphound dubiously. ‘What will that thing cut through?’

It was almost too hot to hold now. ‘Just about any material that isn’t actively reinforced, like hyperdiamond.’

‘There’s nothing like that in this building. I know, I saw the blueprints before she went up. But you’d better not cut the first thing you see. There are structural spars running right through this thing.’

‘Then we’ll start with something that clearly isn’t structural,’ Thalia said, remembering the item she had been resting against before Parnasse summoned her below.

‘Like what?’

‘Right above me, on the next level. That architectural model.’

‘We’ll need more than that for barricade material, girl. That model’s about as substantial as a soap bubble.’

‘I was thinking of the plinth - it looked like granite to me. If we could cut that into manageable chunks . . . there’s got to be three or four tonnes of rock there. That would make a difference, surely?’

‘Maybe not enough to save us,’ he said, scratching his chin, ‘but beggars can’t be choosers, can they? Let’s see if that little toy of yours will hold up for us.’

Thalia clipped the whiphound back to her belt, then rubbed her sore palm against her trousers. Leaving the work gang to their duty, she ascended the staircase to the main level, Parnasse following immediately behind her.

‘People,’ she called, ‘I need some help here. It’ll only take a couple of minutes, then you can go back and rest.’

‘What do you want?’ asked the young man in the electric-blue suit, rubbing a stiff forearm.

Thalia strode to the side of the architectural model and patted the transparent casing. ‘We need to remove this thing so I can get at the plinth. I could use my whiphound to cut it up, but I’d rather save it for stuff we can’t break apart with our hands.’

The transparent casing was a boxlike shell resting in place by virtue of its weight alone. Thalia squeezed her fingers under one end of it, wincing as she caught a broken nail. The young man worked his fingers under the far end, and between them they heaved the casing into the air, exposing the delicate model underneath. They shuffled sideways until they’d reached a clear spot of floor and were able to lower the casing. They would work out what to do with it later.

‘Now this part,’ Thalia said, getting a grip under the heavy, flat sheet on which the model had been constructed. This time it took three of them before the model even budged, with Caillebot taking one of the corners. The delicately formed representation of the museum might have been insubstantial, but that could not be said for its foundations. ‘Harder,’ Thalia grunted, as Parnasse added to the effort.

The sheet budged again, tilting upwards from the underlying plinth. ‘Steady,’ Thalia said, gritting her teeth with the effort. ‘Let’s put it down over there, on top of the casing.’

She had already participated in the destruction of several tonnes of museum property, including items that might well have been priceless relics from the history of computing. But there was something about the model that made her unwilling to see it damaged. Perhaps it was because of her suspicion that it had been made by hand, laboriously, over many hundreds of hours. ‘Easy,’ she said as they reached the casing.

They’d almost made it when the young man yelped and let go as some nerve or muscle in his already strained forearm gave way. The remaining three of them might have been able to take the weight, but they were in the wrong positions. The model crashed to one side, one corner smashing its way through the casing. The impact was enough to dislodge the sphere of the polling core, sending it toppling from the tip of the stalk. The silver-white ball bounced off the tilted landscape and went trundling across the room, until it was lost in the darkness.

Thalia fell to the floor, landing hard on her knees.

‘Sorry,’ the young man said.

She bit back tears of pain. ‘It’s just a model. The plinth is what matters.’

‘Let’s see how that granite holds up,’ Parnasse said, helping Thalia to her feet.

Hobbling back towards the plinth, Thalia touched her whiphound and almost flinched from the contact. It felt white-hot now, as if it had just been spat out of a furnace.

‘If anyone has one,’ she said, ‘I could use a glove.’

Sparver knew he had been lucky not to find himself in a detention cell, but that did not mean he was going to avoid confrontation with Gaffney just to stay out of trouble. The last thing Dreyfus had told him to do was to find Clepsydra, and like Dreyfus he believed that she must still be somewhere inside Panoply. He reasoned that the place to begin his search was the interrogation bubble where Dreyfus had last spoken to the Conjoiner. No matter how cunning or stealthy she might have been, he did not think it likely that she could have travelled a very great distance from the bubble; certainly not as far as one of the centrifuge rings. It might have been in Clepsydra’s gift to blind and confuse surveillance systems, but classes were in session now and Sparver doubted that she would find it easy to pass through a bottleneck of prefects and cadets waiting to transition between the weightless and standard-gee sections. In his mind’s eye he could see several possible places she might have hidden; his intention was to search them before Internal Security and attempt to reassure Clepsydra so that he could protect her from any rogue elements within the organisation.

But when he reached the passwall into the now empty interrogation bubble, his way was blocked by a couple of Gaffney’s goons. Sparver tried to reason with them, without effect. He was certain that the Internal Security operatives were acting sincerely, in the genuine belief that Gaffney was to be trusted, but that did not make them any easier to persuade. He was still trying when Gaffney himself showed up.

‘I thought we came to an agreement, Prefect Bancal. You keep your snout out of my business, I’ll keep my nose out of yours, and we’ll get along famously.’

‘When your business becomes mine, I stick my snout wherever I like. It’s a nice snout, too, don’t you think?’

Gaffney lowered his voice to a dangerous purr. ‘Don’t push your luck, Bancal. You’re only here on sufferance. Dreyfus may like to keep a pet pig around for show, but Dreyfus isn’t going to be part of this organisation for much longer. If you want to find a role for yourself, I’d start making new friends.’

‘Friends like you, you mean?’

‘Just saying, times are changing. We’ve all got to adapt. Even those of us not exactly equipped for mental agility. How’s that frontal cortex working out for you, anyway?’

‘Dreyfus didn’t have anything to do with Clepsydra disappearing, ’ Sparver said levelly. ‘Either you made her disappear, or she’s hiding because she knows you’d rather she was dead.’

‘Beginning to flail around a bit there, son. Are you accusing me of something or not?’

‘If you did something to her, you’ll pay for it.’

‘I’m looking for her. Do you think I’d go to all this trouble if I had anything to hide? Come on. It’s not that much of a conundrum, even for the likes of you.’

‘We’re not done, Gaffney, you and me. Not by a long stretch.’

‘Go and count your fingers,’ Gaffney said. ‘Call me when you reach double figures.’

CHAPTER 19

Michael Crissel scrutinised himself in the mirrored surface of the cubicle, anxious that no trace of his true state of mind should be apparent when he emerged. His skin was as pale as a reptile’s belly, his bloodshot eyes verging on the albinotic. He told himself that his pallor was just as likely to be a function of the cruiser’s dehumidified atmospheric mix as his bout of retching, but that was scant consolation. The sickness had come on him hard and fast, with barely enough warning to let him scuttle to the cubicle.

‘Get a grip,’ he told himself.

He exited the cubicle and moved up through the ship, past the weapons bays and crew quarters, into the main assembly area where the other prefects were waiting, suited and armoured, buckled into deceleration webbing, jammed together like gloss-black toy soldiers, weapons secured between their knees. Not just whiphounds, but the big guns that, technically speaking, the democratic vote had forbidden them. When all this was over, when the people had full access to the information, they’d see that Panoply had done the right thing in disregarding that vote. They’d even applaud when they knew what was really at stake.

The fields watched him as he propelled himself along the gangway, hand over hand in the weightless fall of the Universal Suffrage’s cruise phase. None of them had yet snapped down their visors. He could see their faces, feel their eyes tracking him as he passed. He didn’t recognise any of them. Even their names, stencilled onto the inert-matter armour of their suits, triggered only glimmers of recognition.

The pressure of their attention demanded a response from him, some rousing, rallying speech. His mouth was raw, filled with the aftertaste of his retching session. Dreyfus would surely have said something, Crissel thought. It didn’t need to be much. Just a word or two of encouragement. He brought himself to a halt and turned around slowly, nodding at the young men and women filling those black lobster-like suits.

‘None of us are under the illusion that this is going to be easy,’ Crissel said, instantly dismayed at how quavery and ineffectual his own voice sounded. ‘They’ll have the hub airlocks well guarded and we’ll more than likely be meeting opposition as soon as we reach the interior. It’s quite probable that we’ll be outnumbered. But we do have the advantage of training and equipment. Remember, you are Panoply operatives. You have right on your side.’

The reaction was not what he had been expecting, or hoping for. The prefects just looked bewildered and fearful, as if his words had robbed them of the exact measure of morale he had hoped to bolster. ‘When I say it won’t be easy,’ he continued, ‘I don’t mean we won’t succeed. Of course not. I just mean—’

A girl with almond-coloured eyes and a heart-shaped face asked, ‘How will we distinguish hostiles from locals, sir?’

He tapped the crown of his own helmet. ‘Tactical drop-down will overlay all citizens known to the polling apparatus. Anyone you see who isn’t recognised by the overlay must be assumed a non-indigent hostile.’ He flashed her an overconfident smile. ‘Naturally, you have authorisation to euthanise.’

‘Pardon me, sir,’ said a young man with a day’s growth of chin stubble, ‘but we were informed that we’d probably be operating in an environment without local abstraction.’

‘That’s correct,’ Crissel said, nodding. If Aubusson had dropped off the external abstraction, there was every reason to believe its internal systems had gone into blackout as well.

‘Then how will the tactical overlays know who is who?’ the girl asked, with the tone of someone who genuinely expected a reasonable answer.

Crissel opened his mouth to respond, then felt ominous mental trap doors opening. He’d made a mistake. There could be no guarantee that the overlays would work at all.

‘The hostiles will be the ones . . . being hostile,’ he said.

The prefects just stared at him. If they’d mocked him, or even fired back another question, it would have been preferable to that dumb, expectant staring, as if what he had told them made perfect operational sense.

Something stirred in the dry embers of his gut again. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, preparing to turn and make his way back to the cubicle. But just as he spoke, the pilot emerged from the flight deck into the assembly area, holding headphones against his skull. ‘Visual on Aubusson, sir. Thought you’d like to see it.’

‘Thank you,’ Crissel said.

He entered the cruiser’s spacious flight deck with a shaming sense of relief. House Aubusson looked frighteningly close on the allocated display panes, but that was deceptive; they were still thousands of kilometres away, and the habitat’s anti-collision systems would not yet have picked out the approaching cruiser from the confusion of general Glitter Band traffic moving on similar vectors.

‘Looks normal enough,’ Crissel commented as the end-on view zoomed to reveal the small-scale details of the docking hub, where a handful of spacecraft were still attached. ‘I take it there hasn’t been any significant change since we left Panoply?’

‘Nothing that will affect our approach,’ the pilot said. ‘But there’s something you should know about.’ He opened windows over the main view, illustrating side-on views of the habitat captured by some other distant vehicle or camera platform. ‘Visible light,’ he said. ‘Six hours apart. The view on the right is the most recent.’

‘They look the same.’

The pilot nodded, confirming Crissel’s judgement. ‘Now look at the same snapshots in infrared. Anything jump out at you?’

One end of the habitat was a smear of thermal emissions, where it had been cool before. The overlay shaded structures in a gradation of colours, ranging from brick red to fiery orange.

‘Judging by those cooling foils, she’s putting out a lot of heat all of a sudden.’

The pilot made an affirmative noise. ‘Started up in the last four hours, as far as we can tell.’

Crissel risked a silly question. ‘Which end is that?’

‘Not the one we’re intending to dock at. The docking hub’s still as cool as it ever was, apart from some small hotspots around the weapons, dumping the waste heat after they fired.’

Weapons, Crissel thought. How easy it was to switch from thinking of the anti-collision systems as instruments for the preservation of life to machines designed to terminate it.

‘So what’s happening? Why is she getting hotter at that end?’

‘Guesswork so far, but one explanation could be that the manufactories have started up.’

‘I didn’t know Aubusson had manufacturing capability.’

‘Years back she was a bigger player, apparently,’ the pilot said, tapping a finger against a text summary on his fold-up armrest pane. ‘Never as large as any of the heavy manufactories, but still putting out a few hundred thousand tonnes a year. High-value, low-bulk products. Construction servitors, mainly, for use in setting up the new industrial centres on the Eye. Good business for a while, but once the lunar manufacturies were up to speed, places like Aubusson lost their business.’

Old history, Crissel thought. Marco’s Eye had been the main industrial supplier in the system for more than a century. ‘So what happened to the manufactory?’

‘They kept the infrastructure. Must have been betting against a time when they’d be able to compete against the Eye, for one reason or another. Judging by that thermal output, they’ve got the factory wheels spinning again.’

‘But they’ve only had control of Aubusson for half a day. They can’t have started up the manufactory so quickly. It isn’t humanly possible.’

‘Like I said,’ the pilot said defensively, ‘just guesswork.’

‘This doesn’t affect our mission,’ Crissel said shakily. ‘If anything it makes it more urgent that we get in there and secure the place for Panoply.’

‘Just thought you ought to know, sir.’

‘You were right to bring it to my attention.’ After an uncomfortable pause, during which he was uncertain as to whether his presence on the flight deck was appropriate or not, Crissel said: ‘How soon now?’

‘We’ll be entering the habitat’s collision-avoidance volume in six minutes. The cargo drones were intercepted when they were two hundred kilometres into that volume, or about one hundred kilometres from the hub.’ The pilot drew his attention to another read-out, crammed with tactical summary data. ‘But we’ll be ready to target the anti-collision weapons with our guns long before then. We already have positive firing solutions for half of them.’

The back of Crissel’s neck bristled. ‘Then why don’t we fire? If it isn’t a stupid question.’

‘They’d see us then. We’re presenting a highly stealthed cross section now, but as soon as we launch missiles, the enemy aiming systems’ll be able to backtrack from our missiles’ exhaust vectors.’

‘We’re talking about anti-collision systems, Pilot, not military hardware. They’re programmed to recognise incoming foreign objects, not to extrapolate back from missile exhausts.’

There was a reticence in the pilot’s voice. ‘Prefect Dreyfus said we have to assume they’ve been uploaded with new software.’

Crissel coughed. ‘Rightly so, of course. Although the likelihood of that being the case . . . But are you sure we can’t just fire and take out all the weapons in one hit?’

‘Can’t guarantee it, sir. Best strategy is to hold fire until we have clear solutions on all the weapons, which’ll mean suspending our attack until just before we initiate the braking phase.’

‘Right. I just needed to be clear on that. And how far outside the avoidance volume will we be at that point?’

‘Thirty kilometres inside it,’ the pilot said.

Crissel nodded as if the matter were fully settled and need not be raised again. ‘Keep on this vector, Pilot. I’m going back to speak to the prefects.’

‘You’ll need to secure yourself in five minutes, sir. Things will get bumpy, especially if we have to dodge return fire.’

Crissel clambered out of the cool, clinical sanctuary of the flight deck back into the assembly area. The majority of the prefects had now donned their helmets, and of that number more than half had lowered and sealed their visors.

‘Pilot informs me that we shall commence braking phase in just over five minutes,’ Crissel said, holding himself in position by a padded handrail as he surveyed the massed black ranks. ‘Make no mistake, this isn’t just a lockdown or disciplinary action. There are more than eight hundred thousand people inside House Aubusson, and each and every one of them is counting on our help. There may be times when the agents of Panoply are feared and hated. There isn’t a field in the organisation who doesn’t know how that feels. I’ve been there, too. I know what it’s like to be despised. But today those people will be praying for the sight of someone in Panoply black. And they’ll be expecting us to get the job done. We can do it, too. In all likelihood, we’ll be encountering an armed and efficient takeover force. But remember this: no matter how numerous the enemy, no matter how agile or aggressive, we’ll have eight hundred thousand grateful citizens on our side. Panoply will prevail today. I have never been more certain of anything in my life.’ He raised his fist, clenched in the manner of Panoply’s symbol, and drew a cautious roar of approval.

Satisfied with their response, conscious that to push them further might be to risk chastening humiliation, Crissel returned to the flight deck.

‘Status, please, Pilot.’

‘Braking in four minutes, Prefect. One hundred and twenty-two kilometres to outer edge of avoidance volume. You’d better secure yourself.’

‘About those anti-collision systems - you have a clearer view of them now, I take it?’

‘Refining all the time.’

‘And there’s been no change in the tactical situation? We still can’t guarantee a clean take-out at this range?’

‘Can’t promise it, sir.’

But he picked up a nuance in the pilot’s voice. ‘But the odds have improved in our favour?’

‘Slightly, sir.’

‘Do you have firing solutions locked in already?’

‘Ready to go, sir, as soon as we hit thirty kilometres inside the volume. Which will be in three minutes, thirty-three seconds.’

‘I’m securing for braking phase. Do likewise, Pilot.’ He turned to the rest of the flight-deck crew. ‘Listen, all of you. We’re moving the battle plan forward. I want to hit those weapons sooner, while we still have some distance to play with. You have my permission to commence missile strikes in sixty seconds.’

The pilot opened his mouth, as if he was about to frame an objection.

Crissel asked, pleasantly enough: ‘Is there a problem with that?’

‘It’s a change of plan, sir.’

‘Nothing’s set in stone. We’re simply adapting to improved intelligence.’

‘We may not take out all the weapons.’

‘And we may not take them all out even when we’re closer. This is war, Pilot. It involves an element of risk. Kindly execute my revised order at the appropriate time.’

He caught a moment of hesitation as the flight crew glanced at each other. A moment that teetered on the edge of mutiny, before pulling itself back.

‘Solutions holding,’ the pilot murmured. ‘Missiles away in thirty-five seconds.’

Crissel returned to the assembly area and slotted himself into his allocated position. He locked his helmet into place at the last moment, feeling the pressure-tight latch engage at exactly the same moment as a series of sequenced thumps announced the cruiser’s missiles darting away from their rapid-deployment launching racks. Until that instant there wouldn’t have been a single external clue that the Universal Suffrage was about to show her claws.

Crissel had already instructed his helmet to layer a representation of the external situation, compiled from the cruiser’s own cams, sensors and battle-management systems, over his normal view of the waiting prefects. He saw the intensely detailed grey disc of Aubusson, the end-on view of the cylinder. The missiles were invisible save for the blue-white hyphens of their fusion exhausts, turned at various angles as they followed different target selections. Green status boxes tracked each missile, filled with tumbling numbers that meant nothing to Crissel. Red crosses marked the intended impact points on the grey disc. Cross hairs, bull’s-eyes and vectors slid across the view in a dance of hypnotic complexity, accompanied by their own cryptic digits and symbols.

‘Status, please,’ Crissel said.

‘Missiles are ten seconds from impact,’ the pilot’s voice buzzed back. ‘Commencing braking phase.’

Quickmatter cocoons expanded to wrap the prefects, including Crissel, and then the deceleration burn kicked in with savage force. Now that the Universal Suffrage had released its missiles and was directing its exhaust towards House Aubusson, it had become a conspicuous target. The tactical display showed return fire springing up from the anti-collision slug-launchers. The cruiser plotted the trajectories of the slugs, computing and executing high-burn evasive swerves that would allow the slugs to pass by harmlessly. Crissel found himself biting down hard as the gee-force intensified. The angle of his seat was constantly adjusting itself to optimise blood flow to his brain, but he still felt his mental processes growing choppy and interrupted. The hyphenated streaks of the missile exhausts had now diminished to tiny blue-white sparks, almost lost against the looming face of Aubusson. The ten seconds since the pilot had last spoken felt like unendurable hours.

They began to hit home. Crissel didn’t need the tactical data to see that the missiles were reaching Aubusson. They damped their fusion fires at the last instant, so as not to trigger a thermonuclear explosion upon impact. Kinetic energy was still enough to do visible harm. Grey-white spheres of expanding debris swelled with dreamlike slowness, cored with hot orange fire. When the spheres had dissipated, each had left a perfect hemispherical crater, cutting tens of metres into Aubusson’s crust. They’d have felt that inside, Crissel thought. Not just the thunder of the impacts, loud as those would have been, but the earthquake-like concussion wave as the energy was dissipated along the sixty-kilometre length of the habitat. No matter what was going on inside Aubusson, the beleaguered citizens would know that someone was knocking on the door.

As the braking phase continued, the habitat’s rate of approach diminished. The bulging disc of the endcap now covered half the sky. Most of the impact debris had cleared, revealing the full extent of the damage. The return fire had abated, suggesting that the missiles had indeed neutralised the anti-collision systems in one clean strike. Crissel was also gratified to see that the docking assembly had been spared any visible harm, with the attached vessels still intact.

The gee-force slackened. The cruiser had completed the intense phase of deceleration and was no longer obliged to dodge incoming fire. The cocoon did not relinquish its hold, but Crissel at last found the clarity of mind to manage a sentence.

‘Excellent work, Pilot,’ he said. ‘Complete forced hard docking at your leisure.’

When the incoming fire resumed, it arrived from three points on the outer rim of the endcap, three points which should never have held anti-collision systems of any kind. No missiles had been directed against those sites because the blueprints had shown nothing there that required neutralising.

The Universal Suffrage was still at maximum defensive status. It tracked the emerging slugs and evaluated an optimum course of action. Guns sprang out of its hull and began to lay down intercepting fire. Three more missiles were locked on and launched. At the same time, the engines struggled to shove the cruiser out of harm’s way, striving to find an open path between the scissoring lines of incoming slugs. With ruthless efficiency, it computed which collision would be the least likely to inflict fatal damage on either itself or its passengers. Crissel felt the swerve, and then the barrage of hammer blows as the slugs chewed into the Universal Suffrage’s armour.

Aubusson wheeled to one side as the cruiser lost lateral control and entered a slow tumble. Crissel felt the shove as the steering jets tried to recover stability. The border of his facepatch started flashing red. An emergency siren sounded in his ears, loud enough to be audible but not so loud as to drown out other voices.

‘We’re going down,’ he heard the pilot say.

The three missiles sneaked through the streams of rushing slugs and found their targets. The incoming fire ceased as abruptly as it had begun. Aubusson floated back into the centre of Crissel’s facepatch, the docking hub reaching towards them like an eager groping hand, ships nibbling at its fingers. Debris from the latest assault had dislodged a couple of transatmospheric shuttles, which were now drifting away from their berths. One instant they were safely distant, fragile-looking things, harmless as moths. The next they were huge, dangerous-looking obstacles tumbling through space towards the cruiser. The Universal Suffrage swerved again and clipped the starboard wing of one of the transatmospherics. Crissel felt the impact rattle down his spine. Everything went dark, the cam view dying in scribbles of ebbing light.

‘Pilot?’ Crissel said into the silence.

The quickmatter cocoon flowed away and left him unprotected save for his suit. The assembly area was dark, the other prefects all but invisible. Crissel activated his helmet lamp just as three or four of the other suited figures did likewise. He appraised the scene and concluded that no one appeared to have suffered any injury.

Then came a hard thump, too solid and final to be caused by debris knocking against the cruiser. It felt as if they’d hit a landmass, something that didn’t yield in the slightest. The hard docking, Crissel thought, amazed. The pilot had brought them in, despite all the odds. He switched to the general suit-to-suit channel.

‘I’m going up front to see what our situation is,’ he said, releasing his restraints. ‘Remain here but be ready to board as soon as I return. The mission is still go. We took more fire coming in than we expected, but the cruiser did its job. Remember, we don’t need it to get back. If we go in there and secure Aubusson, we’ll have all the time in the world to wait for Panoply to send another ship.’

But as he prepared to enter the flight deck, he was barred from stepping through the connecting passwall. It had detected a pressure loss on the other side. Hard vacuum, if the indicators were to be believed. He tried raising the pilot and flight crew, but this time all he got was the flat warble of a carrier signal.

He looked back at the suited prefects. ‘Everyone airtight? Then hold on, because I’m blowing our air.’ Crissel moved to the side lock, braced himself, slid up an armoured glass panel and then tugged down on the bright yellow and black bee-striped handle that controlled the atmospheric dump vents. The slats opened almost immediately, allowing the air to gust out in six different directions. No safety interlocks, no cautious queries. Crissel stabilised himself as the air roared and then whistled out. His helmet indicators flicked over to register that he was now in a hard-vacuum environment.

This time, nothing prevented him from accessing the flight deck. But as he stepped through the now-yielding passwall, Crissel found himself looking out through a gaping wound where the front of the Universal Suffrage had been. He could see space, the too-bright stars of other habitats, the waxy yellow curve of Yellowstone’s nearest horizon. The hull ended in strips of ragged laminate, still twitching from aborted repair processes, oozing with the tarlike slime of quickmatter. Jutting into the space formerly occupied by the flight deck was a metre-thick spar that presumably belonged to the docking hub. All but one of the flight crews’ positions had been ripped clean away. The pilot was still there, but impaled on a forking appendage of the docking spar.

The Universal Suffrage hadn’t achieved the hard docking he had hoped for. But it had come in tantalisingly close. The habitat’s own airlock was visible only a few metres beyond the ragged end of the hull. They could reach it easily enough by clambering along the spar. Blanking the predicament of the impaled pilot, confident that it would return to haunt him in due course, Crissel scrambled back into the assembly bay.

‘We’ve lost the flight crew,’ he said. ‘It’s messy ahead, but there’s a way into the habitat. We still have a mission to complete, people. Follow me and be prepared to meet resistance as soon as we clear the lock.’

The prefects followed him like a massed black tide, moving with the ease of those well practised in weightless conditions. They divided into two quickly moving formations, traversing the spar like two lines of black ants until they reached the lock ahead of them.

While they worked to open the lock, Crissel at last found the mental breathing space to review what had just happened. The blueprints in Panoply’s possession should have included every change made to the habitat since its construction. It was possible that House Aubusson had installed the rim-mounted slug launchers secretively, in covert violation of the legal limit on defensive systems for a habitat of that size. Yet of all the places Crissel could think of, Aubusson was one of the least likely to indulge in that kind of furtive upgrading.

Which left a much less palatable explanation. If the manufactories were truly up and running, and if the fabricators had access to sufficient blueprints and raw matter, then the habitat had the means to create almost anything it needed. Forging and installing additional anti-collision systems would not have taxed even a modest facility - it would only require dealing with a few hundred tonnes of new matter. Installing the guns would have been the difficult part, but even that wouldn’t have been insurmountable if one could hijack at least part of the general servitor workforce. The manufactories had been running hot since the cruiser departed Panoply, but they could have been operating for some time before it became necessary to dump that waste heat so visibly. In fact, if all the manufactories had to do was create the new guns, they’d hardly have broken a sweat.

So something else was being made in there.

It did not take long for the prefects to persuade the door to open. It slid into its heavy buttressed frame to reveal the wide mouth of a high-capacity docking connection. It was illuminated, belching pressure into space. A passenger liner could disembark a hundred people down that tube inside a minute, without anyone grazing elbows.

The prefects poured into the empty docking tunnel. Conveyor bands ran the length of the tunnel, moving in both directions. The prefects touched the adhesive bands with one hand and allowed themselves to be hauled toward the far end, as if they had done it a million times before. Crissel followed their lead, but had to press his palm against the band twice before the adhesive bond took hold with enough strength to overcome the momentum of his body and suit. Then he was moving, speeding past a succession of bright, animated advertisements designed to entice the newcomer with deep pockets.

Slowly he became aware of something coming through on the suit-to-suit. It was a small, distant voice, saying something over and over again. The voice, Crissel realised, of a woman.

‘Quiet,’ he said, silencing what little communication there was. ‘I can hear something on our channel.’

‘Got it too, sir,’ said one of the fields, possibly the girl who had spoken to Crissel earlier. ‘It’s someone using Panoply protocols, sir.’

Crissel strained to pick out the voice. Somewhere around the third or fourth repetition, the sense of the words suddenly clicked into place.

‘. . . is Thalia Ng, for Panoply. I am recording these words five hours after the end of abstraction. I will keep them on repeat transmission until my bracelet runs out of power. I have secured the polling core, where I’m holding out at the top of the stalk with a small number of survivors. Outside . . . we’ve seen the machines rounding up people. They’ve started killing them. We don’t know who’s behind this, but they’ve managed to take complete control of the local servitors. Please send immediate assistance. I don’t know how long we can last up here before the machines find a way through to us.’ There was a pause, then the message resumed. ‘This is Thalia Ng, for Panoply. I am recording these words five hours after the end of abstraction . . .’

‘Thalia,’ he said. ‘Can you hear me? This is Senior Prefect Michael Crissel. Repeat, this is Michael Crissel. Please respond.’

There was nothing, only her endlessly looped message. Crissel repeated his statement, listened again, then shook his head in defeat. ‘No good,’ he said. ‘She obviously isn’t—’

‘Sir,’ came a faint but rushed voice. ‘This is Thalia. I’m hearing you. Did you get my message?’

‘We got your message, Thalia. Your signal’s weak, but audible. We’re in the docking complex. Are you still in the polling core?’

‘Still holding out, sir.’ Her relief was obvious. ‘I’m so glad you’ve arrived. I don’t know how much longer we can stand. The machines are getting cleverer, more adaptable—’

Crissel recalled the map of the interior he had committed to memory before leaving Panoply. ‘Thalia, listen carefully. We’re still a long way from you: many kilometres, even after we make it through the locks.’

‘But you’re here, sir! I think we can hold out until you get to the stalk, now that we know help’s on its way. How many ships have you brought?’

‘Just the one, I’m afraid.’

‘One?’ Disbelief and anger vied in her voice.

‘And the ship isn’t in too good a state, unfortunately. We have a small force of fields, the best we could muster at short notice. We have weapons and we’re ready for a fight.’ He made an effort to rally his own spirits. ‘We came to take back House Aubusson, and that’s what we’re going to do. You just hold in there, Thalia, and you’ll be right as rain.’

‘Sir,’ Thalia said, ‘I have to sign off now, sir. Not much juice left on my bracelet, and I’d like to conserve what I have.’

‘Before you go - something you said back there?’

‘Sir?’

‘About the machines, Thalia. About the servitors. I presume we’re talking about some kind of limited malfunction here? A few machines under the control of an invading party? Not, as you made it sound, a full-scale machine uprising?’

He might have mistaken the hesitation for a failure in the bracelet’s transmission if he hadn’t known her better.

‘No, sir. That’s exactly what I mean. The machines have taken over. There is no invading party, as far as we can tell. No one new has arrived in House Aubusson. It’s just the machines, sir. They’ve gone berserk.’

‘But abstraction is down. How can machines function without abstraction?’

‘There’s enough of it left to control or coordinate them. But we still don’t know who’s doing it. Sir, I’m scared.’

‘No need, Thalia. You’ve done excellently to protect any survivors until now.’

‘That’s not what I mean, sir. I’m scared that I brought this about. That I played a part in it. I think someone used me, and I was too stupid or naive or vain to notice it. And now it’s too late and we’re all paying for it, all of us here in Aubusson.’

‘Then you don’t know,’ Crissel said carefully.

‘Don’t know what, sir?’

‘It isn’t just Aubusson. We’ve lost contact with all four habitats you visited. They all dropped off the network at the same time.’

‘Oh, God.’

‘We can’t get near any of them. They shoot down any ship that comes close. That’s why we had such a devil of a time getting the Universal Suffrage as close in as we managed.’

‘What’s happening, sir?’

‘We don’t know. All we do know is that Aubusson’s manufactories are running at maximum capacity. And now you’ve told us something else we didn’t know, which is that the machines are part of it.’

Thalia’s voice faded and returned. ‘I really have to go now, sir. The machines keep trying to get up the stalk. We’ve barricaded as best we can, but we have to keep fighting them back.’

‘We’re on our way. Good luck, Thalia. You have nothing to fear, and nothing to be ashamed of.’

‘Sir - I’m about to sign off. But I forgot to ask - when help came, I was expecting Prefect Dreyfus to be a part of it.’ The tone of her voice became anxious and childlike. ‘He’s okay, isn’t he? Please tell me nothing’s happened to him.’

‘He’s fine,’ Crissel said. ‘And I’ll make sure he hears that you’re in one piece. Something came up in Panoply and he had to stay.’

‘What kind of something, sir?’

‘I’m afraid that’s all I can tell you right now.’

The transmission ceased. Thalia must have terminated the endlessly cycling message now that it had reached someone. While he was speaking to her, Crissel and his party of prefects had travelled almost the entire length of the docking tunnel. The conveyor strip ended, losing its adhesive retention at the last moment. In the tunnel’s perfect vacuum, Crissel sped on hopelessly until he was grabbed by one of the prefects who had arrived before him, just in time to stop him crashing into the bulkhead at the tunnel’s limit. Normally the passengers would have glided to a gentle halt, arrested by the resistance of normal atmospheric pressure.

They were facing a heavy armoured door, stencilled with nymphs and faeries.

‘There’s air on the other side,’ one of the prefects reported. ‘Safeties on this door are pretty heavy, and it knows we’re in vacuum here.’

‘Can you shoot through?’

‘Possible, sir. But if there are hostages on the other side, and they aren’t wearing suits—’

‘Point taken, Prefect. What are our other options?’

‘None, sir, except pressurising this part of the tunnel. If we close the door at the other end, the safeties should allow this one to open.’

‘Can you do that from here?’ Crissel asked.

‘Not a problem, sir. We wired a remote trigger on it as we came through. Just wanted to check with you first. It’ll mean blocking our exit route.’

‘But you can reopen the other door if you have to?’

‘Absolutely, sir. It’ll only take a few seconds.’

‘Go ahead, then,’ Crissel told him.

Crissel was braced and ready when the door opened and air slammed into the vacuum of the tunnel. Beyond lay a much larger space, a free-fall customs volume at the point of convergence of dozens of docking corridors. Advertisements were still running. The spherical space was hung with wire-stiffened free-fall banners in bright silks, some of which had torn free in the draught. Huge iron sculptures of seahorses and seadragons supported a bewildering tangle of colour-coded conveyor bands looping through the open space. Crissel tried to imagine thousands of passengers riding those bands, unselfconsciously gaudy even without their entoptic plumage, an endless flow of twinkling human jewels. He’d seldom visited such a place, seldom felt himself part of the true arterial flow of Glitter Band society. For a moment he regretted the austere trajectory Panoply had forced upon his life.

‘The red conveyor will take us straight through,’ he said, crushing the thought. ‘Let’s get moving.’

That was when the machines revealed themselves. They’d been in the volume all along, but hidden amongst the black complexity of the ironwork sculptures. When they emerged, Crissel almost laughed. Amusement, a wry sense of having been bettered, was the only human response to a fatal and inescapable ambush.

‘Hostiles,’ he said. ‘Servitors. Target them. Maximum force. Fire at will.’

But even as he spoke the words, he knew there were too many machines, too few field prefects. The squad had already opened fire; had already destroyed a handful of the approaching servitors. But the machines just kept coming. They were everywhere, oozing out of shadow and darkness, flying through the air or picking their way along the curving lines of the conveyors. Even more were scuttling out of some of the other tunnels that connected with the customs space.

Crissel was used to servitors, so accustomed to their presence that he scarcely noticed them under normal circumstances. Yet these machines did not move like ordinary servitors. Their motions were quick, with something of the speeded-up, slapstick quality of insect activity. As a whole, their efforts were coordinated and deliberate. Individually it was chaotic, with some machines getting trampled under the relentless march of the others or even flung aside when they proved too slow or clumsy. They had no weapons in the usual sense, but every limb, manipulator or probe now served an aggressive function. Some of the attachments even appeared to have been modified to make them more effective: claws sharpened to glinting edges, arms terminating in vicious curved scythes or impaling spikes. It was a killing army. And yet the machines still carried the cheerful colours and logos of their former duties: a domestic machine here, a gardener or kindly medical servitor there. A beetle-backed multi-legged nursery supervisor even had the red and black shell of a ladybird, with a happy face painted on the front.

The prefects unleashed the full force of their guns, but it was only enough to slow the advance, not repel it. Most of the machines were so lightly armoured that they blew apart under a direct hit. But those that followed quickly grabbed the pieces of their shattered comrades and employed the broken body parts as shields or clubs. Then it became more difficult to kill any of them.

Crissel almost failed to notice the first human casualties. As the servitors fell upon the armour-suited prefects, it became difficult to tell the difference between people and machines. There was just a thrash and flail of limbs, a squeal of metal and ceramic on armour. It was only when he saw two headless bodies tumble into the open space between the ironwork sculptures, jetting banners of blood from the open circles of their neck rings, that he knew the servitors had begun to murder.

‘Fall back,’ Crissel called above the din of battle, the clash of armour and servitor, the panicked shouts of his team. ‘Return to the ship! We’re outnumbered!’

But even as he spoke the words, Crissel felt himself being pulled to one side by strong metal limbs. He resisted, but it did no good. Then the servitors were upon him, picking apart the puzzle of his armour with the frantic excitement of children trying to get into a parcel.

They were fast about it. He had to give them that.

CHAPTER 20

The holding cell where Dreyfus was detained was not a weightless sphere like the one in which Clepsydra had been imprisoned, but it had the same feeling of deadening impregnability. They had taken away his shoes and bracelet. His only concession had been to loosen his collar so that it didn’t chafe so much against his unshaven jowls. In the room’s silence he had no way of telling what was happening outside, or of confidently judging the passage of time. He was too alert, too fearful, to begin to feel bored. His mind spun with wild mental permutations, trying to guess what had happened to Clepsydra, and what was now happening to the mission to House Aubusson. What was happening to Thalia. More than likely it was his imagination that had supplied the distant thump as the Universal Suffrage detached from its docking cradle.

Dreyfus had put people into cells enough times to have indulged in idle speculation as to what it would feel like to be on the other side of the door when it closed. He realised now that he had never come close to imagining the utter draining hopelessness, or the shame. He had done nothing wrong, he told himself; nothing that merited the slightest degree of self-reproach. But the shame would not listen. The mere fact of confinement was enough.

After what Dreyfus judged to be the passage of two or three hours, the passwall formed the outline of a door. Baudry entered, alone, and had the wall revert to obstruct. She carried no visible weaponry.

‘I wasn’t expecting another visit. What’s the news? Have you heard anything from Thalia?’

She ignored his question. ‘If you did this, Tom, now is the time to tell me.’ She stood by his bunk, hands folded, the hem of her skirt spilling around her heels like the wax from a thin, black candle.

‘You know I didn’t do it.’

‘Gaffney says you were the last person to see Clepsydra. Did she say or hint at anything that might have indicated she was planning to escape?’

Dreyfus rubbed his eyes. ‘No. She didn’t have any reason to, because I told her we’d take care of her and make sure she got back to her people.’

‘But she left.’

‘Or was taken. You’ve considered that alternative, surely?’

‘Gaffney says no one entered that room after you until Sparver went in and found her gone.’

‘Did Gaffney catch me leaving with Clepsydra?’

‘He speculates that you may have tampered with the passwall settings so that she could make her own way out after you’d gone.’

‘I wouldn’t know where to start. And even if she did leave, why didn’t anyone see her? Why didn’t she show up on our internal surveillance?’

‘We still don’t know the full extent of Conjoiner skills,’ Baudry said.

Dreyfus buried his face in his hands. ‘They’re smarter than us, but they can’t do magic. If she left her cell, someone would have seen her.’

‘She may have chosen her moment of escape well. You could have advised her as to when there would be the least chance of detection.’

Dreyfus laughed hollowly. ‘And the cameras?’

‘Perhaps she was able to influence them, to erase her own image from the recordings.’

‘She’d still have needed somewhere to hide. Sooner or later she’d have run into people, otherwise.’

‘Gaffney speculates that you provided her with sanctuary. That you may still be providing her with sanctuary.’

‘You know, I’m hearing the name “Gaffney” a lot here. Don’t you think there might be something in that?’

Baudry set her mouth disapprovingly. ‘Gaffney’s position naturally brings him to the fore in any matter of internal security. And you have no evidence that he has committed any wrongdoing.’

‘Would you give a damn if I did?’

‘I know we’ve had our differences, Tom, and I know you didn’t like what we had to do to Jane. I respect that, truly I do. But I assure you that our actions were taken in the best interests of Panoply. And I’ll be the first in line to swear allegiance to Jane when she’s reinstated to full operational authority, as I believe she will be.’ She studied him with quizzical eyes. ‘You don’t believe me. You believe Jane’s removal was motivated by self-interest. Or something else.’

‘I think Crissel was just too cowardly to stand up to the two of you.’

‘And me?’

‘You can’t tell me self-interest didn’t come into it.’

For the first time he saw the hard gold glint of real anger flash in her eyes. ‘See it from my position, Tom. I respect Jane. Always have. I was behind her every inch of the way when the Clockmaker made life difficult for us. But she should never have been allowed to stay in power all this time. There’s no way that thing hasn’t damaged her, mentally or physically.’

‘Some might say it’s made her the best supreme prefect we could ever have asked for.’

‘But the point is, Tom, we’ve never had any way of knowing for sure. Crissel and I . . . and Gaffney, yes, I’ll admit it - we’ve given this organisation our best years, and all we’ve got to show for it is white hairs and wrinkles, while we wait in Jane’s shadow. None of us is going to live for ever!’

‘Nor will Jane. You could always wait your damned turn.’

Baudry exhaled. Something in her had relented. ‘So I wanted her out of the way. But that doesn’t mean it was right for her to stay in command. It doesn’t mean we still didn’t do the right thing by Panoply.’

‘Do you believe that, in your heart of hearts? Look at me when you answer.’

‘Yes,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye after a long moment.

He nodded, giving nothing away. Let her stew, let her wonder whether he believed her or not. ‘You still have to stop Gaffney. He’s out of control.’

‘Do you want to tell me about the name you mentioned earlier? Aurora, wasn’t it?’

‘I think we’re dealing with Aurora Nerval-Lermontov, who was one of the Eighty.’

‘She died, Tom. They all died.’

‘I don’t think she did. She’s out there somewhere, and she’s been biding her time for fifty-five years.’

‘Just hiding?’

‘Until something forced her hand. She learned something from Clepsydra, something that scared her badly. Everything that’s happened is Aurora’s response to a perceived threat. I think she’s taking control because she doesn’t trust us to do the job.’

‘Clepsydra was her accomplice?’

‘Not exactly. Aurora was using the Conjoiners, squeezing them for intelligence.’

‘And now the only one of them left’s gone missing.’

‘I didn’t let her out of that room,’ Dreyfus said. ‘I’ve made some questionable decisions in my career, but that wasn’t one of them.’

‘Then who did?’

‘You know who.’

‘He wouldn’t betray us, Tom. He’s a good man, Panoply to the core. He’s given his soul to this organisation. There’s nothing he cares about more than the security of the Glitter Band.’

‘Maybe he believes that. But whatever he thinks, he’s working for Aurora. Trajanova knew that whoever sabotaged the Turbines and corrupted my beta-level had to have high-level security access. She was only one step away from fingering Gaffney herself. That’s why she had to go.’

Baudry shook her head once, as if she was trying to clear out a bad thought buzzing around between her ears. ‘I don’t believe Gaffney would act against us. More pertinently, why would he ever want Clepsydra outside of that room?’

‘Because she knows things he doesn’t want us to find out.’ Dreyfus craned forward on the bunk. ‘Baudry, listen to me. I think Gaffney wants her dead. I think he’s going to find her and kill her, if he hasn’t done so already. You have to get to her first.’

‘We don’t know where she is.’

‘So start looking. Gaffney controls internal security, but you control Panoply. There are still hundreds of prefects he doesn’t have an armlock on.’

‘Sandra Voi, Tom. Are you seriously proposing all-out war inside Panoply?’

‘It doesn’t have to be war. Move now and you can stamp down on Gaffney, erase his authority. Security owe him loyalty, but they’re loyal to you as well.’

For a moment he had the impression that she was at least considering the idea, giving it house room. Then her face froze, and she offered him only blank denial.

‘I can’t do that.’

‘At the very least, get to Clepsydra before he does.’

‘That may not be easy, especially if she doesn’t want to be found.’ Baudry’s bracelet chose that moment to chime, emitting a shrill tone that had no place in the cloistered greyness of the cell. She glanced down, irritated, then lifted the display closer to her face. Dreyfus saw her eyelids grow heavy.

‘What is it?’

‘The Universal Suffrage.’ Her voice sounded ghostly, distant. ‘We’ve lost contact with them, during their final approach phase to House Aubusson. Just when the habitat’s defences would have fallen within range of their own weapons.’

Dreyfus nodded. He knew that the plan had been to pick off the anti-collision systems with the cruiser’s long-range ordnance. ‘All comms, or just tactical telemetry?’

‘Everything. There’s no signal.’ She paused, as if she dared not state what was so obviously the case. ‘I think we’ve lost them. I think they’re all dead. Crissel, all those young prefects.’ Then she looked at Dreyfus with a kind of slow-burning dread. ‘What should we do next?’

‘Confirm that the ship’s really lost,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Then start pulling in every asset we have elsewhere in the system, no matter what duty it’s on. Every cutter, every corvette, every deep-system cruiser.’

‘We can’t ignore the state of crisis between the Ultras and the Glitter Band.’

‘You can,’ Dreyfus said, ‘because it doesn’t matter any more. That wasn’t ever a crisis. A distraction, maybe, to take our eyes off the real business. Worked, too, didn’t it? What fools we were.’

‘We were only ever doing our best,’ Baudry said sadly.

‘It wasn’t good enough. Now we have to up our game. The real crisis starts here.’

‘I’m frightened, Tom. They took out a fully armed deep-system cruiser. That isn’t supposed to happen.’

‘I’m frightened, too,’ Dreyfus said, ‘but we’re not finished yet. Find Clepsydra. And make sure you go back to the polls. You can lay it on the line this time. We need those guns. And right now I don’t care who gets upset about it.’

Gaffney stared at the surreal spectacle with what he trusted was the appropriate combination of shock and disgust. He stood with his booted feet slightly apart, his back straight, his hands behind his back. His own reaction might be synthetic, but there was no doubting the authenticity of the expressions on the faces of the other internal prefects assembled in Dreyfus’s private quarters. Nor was there any doubt concerning the feelings of Senior Prefect Lillian Baudry.

‘This can’t be right,’ she said, shaking her head as if that might clear her vision and reveal the scene to be a psychological mirage. ‘I know Dreyfus. We’ve crossed swords in the past, but he would never have done this. Not to one of his own witnesses.’

‘There’s never any telling what people will do when they go off the rails,’ Gaffney said, with a kind of lofty regret, as if this was a truth he had privately acknowledged many years ago. ‘Dreyfus always appeared stable to me as well. But recent events have obviously conspired to push him over the edge.’

‘But killing her . . . Sandra Voi. It makes no sense, Sheridan.’

‘Perhaps the witness knew more than she was letting on,’ Gaffney mused. ‘None of us really knows exactly what went on inside that rock. It could be that she knew things that would be damaging to Dreyfus’s reputation.’

‘Why in Voi’s name did he bring her back, in that case?’

‘Formality, I assume. Perhaps Sparver’s presence made it difficult for him not to?’

‘And all the while he planned to kill her?’

‘Look at the evidence,’ Gaffney said, with a humble shrug. ‘Speaks for itself, doesn’t it?’

Clepsydra had died by a shot to the head. That much at least was obvious to any observer, as was the probable point of entry of the ballistic device that had ended her life.

‘Some kind of slug-gun, not a beam weapon,’ Gaffney said. ‘There’s no scorching or cauterisation around the entry wound.’

‘Where do you think she was killed?’

Gaffney looked equivocal. ‘If he shot her in here, the quickmatter architecture will more than likely have soaked up and processed any traces of blood or larger remains splattered on the walls. There’ll be nothing left of it now. If she died a few hours ago, the pieces of her that the room has already absorbed will also have been broken down into their component elements and recycled throughout Panoply by now.’ He touched a finger to his lips. ‘Have you eaten lately?’

‘No,’ Baudry said, with a puzzled expression. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

‘You might want to avoid the dispensers for a little while. If the idea of eating recycled Conjoiner upsets you, that is. If it doesn’t, tuck right in.’

Baudry paled. ‘You’re not serious.’

‘That’s the way the recycling system works. It’s not programmed to distinguish between human residue and normal domestic waste. There aren’t supposed to be murders inside Panoply.’

Baudry glanced down at what was left of the body. ‘Why wasn’t she absorbed completely?’

‘Indigestion, I suppose. Quickmatter has a throughput capacity; it can’t absorb too much in one go without blocking up.’ He forced a pained expression. ‘This definitely counts as too much.’

Clepsydra’s dead body had been half-absorbed into the floor before the quickmatter had choked and curtailed its efforts to process her. The effect was of a sculpture abandoned: a woman’s body half-embedded in smooth black marble. Her crested head and upper torso, her shoulders and upper arms were exposed. Her lower arms, belly and hips gave the impression of being submerged beneath the floorline. The four fingers of her right hand pushed up through the surface like stone sentinels, stiff in death. Her left leg emerged from the floor, rose to the arch of her knee, then plunged back into the absorbing surface.

‘Is this . . . all that’s left?’ Baudry asked.

‘I’m afraid so. Your mind insists that there must be an intact body under the floor, like a corpse smothered in quicksand. But really there’s nothing there. The protruding parts are disconnected. ’ Gaffney pushed the toe of his boot against the arch formed by Clepsydra’s visible leg, toppling it over. Baudry glanced sharply away, then allowed her gaze to return to the spectacle. Where the leg had been in contact with the floor, it had left two circular depressions. Stringy fibres of partially processed organic matter trailed from the leg to the floor.

‘She deserved better than this,’ Baudry said. ‘There’ll be hell to pay when the other Conjoiners find out that she died in custody.’

‘We didn’t kill her,’ Gaffney said gently. ‘This is on Dreyfus’s shoulders, not ours.’

‘I still don’t see why he would have done this, let alone how. To get a body from one part of the station to another, without any of us seeing a thing - how did Dreyfus manage that?’

‘It isn’t any old body, Lillian. It’s the body of Dreyfus’s prisoner, held in Dreyfus’s room. He’s the last person known to have seen her alive. That’s reason enough to close the vice, in my view.’

‘And what kind of vice would that be?’

Gaffney fingered the black shaft of his whiphound, still clipped to his belt. ‘We need answers, and we need them fast. Dreyfus may not be inclined to give much away without a little encouragement.’

‘I’ll talk to him, see what he has to say.’

‘No disrespect, but Dreyfus isn’t going to just roll over and confess, even if you present him with a body. You saw how eager he was to implicate me.’

Baudry looked down at the atrocity on the floor. ‘I still can’t see Dreyfus having any part in this. Everything I know about him says he isn’t a murderer, or a traitor.’

‘It’s always the quiet ones.’ Gaffney sensed some agonised decision-making churning behind the smooth surface of her brow.

‘I don’t like the way this is going. But this is a state of emergency. I’ll consider issuing a trawl order, if you think it necessary. A minimally invasive scan only. I don’t want him hurt or distressed in any way.’

‘Too many unknowns here, Lillian. Trawling wouldn’t be the tool of choice in this instance.’

‘Then what do you recommend?’

‘There are other methods in our toolkit. Do you want me to be more specific?’

‘Please tell me you’re not talking about torture.’

Gaffney winced. ‘Old term, not really applicable in a modern context. Torture is needles under the fingernails, electrodes to the genitals. Messy and imprecise. The new intelligence-extraction methods are a lot more refined. Really, it’s like comparing trepanning to modern brain surgery. Of course, if you’d rather I went in with a deep-cortex trawl—’

Baudry turned away. ‘I don’t want to hear any of this.’

‘You don’t have to,’ Gaffney said, offering her a reassuring smile. ‘You can just sit back and wait for the results.’

‘He’s one of us,’ she said.

Gaffney tapped the whiphound. ‘And I’ll see that he’s treated with the appropriate respect.’

Though she had been scrupulous in concealing her suspicions from the others, Thalia had come to the private conclusion that there would be no rescue, at least not at the hands of Senior Prefect Crissel. Five hours had now passed since they had spoken, and there had been no sign of his promised boarding party. Crissel had warned her that it would take time to reach her, but she knew that she should have seen some evidence of his arrival by now. She had been looking through the windows of the polling core, down the darkened tube of House Aubusson towards the equally dark endcap where she had arrived a lifetime ago. She had detected no trace of human activity, not even the moving lights of the endcap elevators. Nor had there been any further communication from Crissel or any of his deputies. For a little while she had allowed herself to believe that they had met with unexpected resistance, and had pulled back to wait for reinforcements from Panoply. But over the course of those five hours her hopes had steadily eroded. She did not think it likely that Crissel or any of his prefects had survived long after their conversation. More than likely the rogue machines had taken them as soon as they entered Aubusson.

Throughout those five hours, she had watched the external activity continue apace, with no evidence that Crissel’s arrival had affected the schedule to any meaningful degree. Construction servitors had worked tirelessly, tearing down the buildings, roads and bridges that had once served the habitat’s human population. As Aubusson’s night began to give way to a cool, grey dawn, Thalia surveyed a landscape of utter desolation. The stalk of the polling core was the only large structure still standing for kilometres in any direction. The surrounding buildings had been reduced to powdered rubble, sifted of anything that might prove useful for the manufactories. Grey dust had settled on the grass and trees and water. It was difficult to reconcile the scoured, lifeless waste-land with her memories of Aubusson as it had appeared less than a day earlier. A landscape this desolate should only be the product of years of warfare, not hours of mechanised industry.

Crissel’s absence was not the only thing sharpening her anxieties. After she had finished cutting up the granite plinth to provide more barricade material, she had resumed her watch by the window. Not long after Crissel’s call, she had seen one of the construction servitors pass close to the base of the stalk. It had been one of the open-topped carriers, but instead of rubble it had been carrying a different, infinitely more disturbing cargo. The machine had been full to the brim with human bodies, piled ten or twenty deep. There must have been thousands of them in just that one load, tossed into the container like so much recovered scrap. And that was just what they were, Thalia realised. The machine carrying the bodies was heading in the same direction as all the others, carrying raw material to the manufactories. The dead people would be processed, stripped down, reutilised. Even if their meat bodies yielded nothing of value, there were useful metals, semiconductors, superconductors and organic compounds inside their skulls, courtesy of their Demarchist implants.

Until that moment she had believed that the machines were only imposing totalitarian rule. She had seen bodies being dumped into the ornamental fountain, but had convinced herself that these had been people who’d disobeyed in some fashion. Now she knew that the servitors were engaged in systematic mass murder. The people she had seen outside, being rounded up and lectured to, were not being herded together to make them easier to police, easier to subdue. They were being rounded up so that they could be euthanised and fed to the manufactories.

Thalia had no way of knowing how many of the eight hundred thousand citizens inside House Aubusson had met a similar fate. But she did not think it likely that there were many exceptions. The servitors had assumed control with startling speed, and the constables had unwittingly abetted them by advising the people to remain calm and follow the directives of Lucas Thesiger. But Thesiger could quite easily have been one of those carelessly stacked bodies.

Thalia knew then that she did not have much time left. The only reason the machines had not torn the stalk down already was that the servitors could not risk damaging the polling core. But they would find a way eventually. Whatever intelligence was guiding them, it was cleverer than any individual servitor. And that intelligence, Thalia was certain, knew all about her and her little party of survivors. Even now, it would be working out a way to kill them. If the machines didn’t get through the barricade (and she wasn’t optimistic about it keeping them out for much longer) then they would explore alternative approaches. Thalia had one deterrent, which was that she could destroy or at least incapacitate the core. But if she played that hand and the machines somehow kept coming, she had nothing else to offer.

‘They’re getting louder,’ Parnasse said quietly, joining her by the little round window.

‘What are, Cyrus?’

‘The machines on the other side of the barricade. They’re working their way through it piece by piece, getting closer and closer to the top. I doubt there’s more than ten or fifteen metres of obstruction between us and them. I’ve tried to play it down, but the others are starting to notice.’

Thalia was mindful to keep her expression fixed, betraying nothing that would upset the nervous disposition of the other citizens. ‘How long?’

‘It’s coming up close to dawn now. We’ve still got some junk we can throw down the stairs, but most of the heavy stuff’s already gone. The barricade may hold until noon, but I’d say we’ll be doing extraordinarily well if it’s still up by sundown.’

‘Cyrus, I need to tell you something. I’ve seen something very bad out there.’ When he said nothing, she continued softly, ‘I didn’t mention it earlier because you had enough to be thinking about. But now you need to know.’

‘The bodies? Being carried away?’

She looked at him sharply. ‘You knew already?’

‘I saw several loads move through while you were cutting up the plinth. I didn’t think you needed anything else to worry about. But you’re right. It isn’t good news.’

‘When the machines break through, they’ll kill us all.’

He put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I reckon you’re right. But we’re doing everything we can to buy enough time until rescue arrives.’

‘I don’t think we can count on Panoply to help us,’ Thalia said hesitantly. ‘I’ve been putting a brave face on it, but ever since Crissel failed to show . . . I don’t know what’s going on, Cyrus. Crissel said we weren’t the only habitat to go silent. But even so, I can’t see why it should have taken Panoply so long to reinstate control. I think we have to assume we’re on our own in here.’

‘Then it’s up to us to find a way to survive. I agree, girl. But short of holding out up here, I don’t really see what our options are.’

‘We have to find a way out,’ she said.

‘There isn’t one. Even if there was another way out of the stalk, do you think any of us would last long out there, with all those machines crawling around? That whiphound of yours might have one more fight in it, if we’re lucky. It’ll take more than that to get us to the endcap, even if there’s a ship to take us away when we get there.’

‘But we have to do something. I don’t know about you, but I don’t particularly want to die in here.’

He looked at her sadly. ‘Wish I could wave a magic wand and get us all somewhere safe. But all we’ve got is that barricade, and we’re running out of stuff to reinforce it.’

Thalia looked across the floor, to the place where the plinth had been. The architectural model rested to one side of it, minus the sphere that had broken off the top of the stalk. Unaccountably, she flashed back to the way it had rolled across the floor when they’d dropped the model. She had paid it no heed at the time, intent only on exposing the granite plinth so that she could hack it into pieces.

‘Cyrus,’ she said, ‘if there was a way to get us out of here, even if it was dangerous, even if it was borderline suicidal, would you risk it, if the only alternative was waiting for those machines to get us?’

‘Is that a hypothetical question, girl?’

‘I don’t know,’ she answered. ‘It depends. But answer my question first.’

‘I’d risk it. Wouldn’t you?’

‘In a flash,’ Thalia said.

Dreyfus looked up as Senior Prefect Gaffney stepped through the passwall. He sat upright on the bed, unable to judge how much time had passed since his last visitor. Through a fog of tiredness and apprehension, a sour taste in his mouth, he nonetheless produced a laconic smile. ‘Nice of you to drop by. I was wondering when you’d favour me with a visit.’

Behind Gaffney the passwall sealed itself into impermeability.

‘You’re very talkative all of a sudden. Let’s see how long you can keep it up.’

Dreyfus rubbed a finger along the furred line of his unbrushed teeth. ‘I guess the cat’s come to torment the mouse while everyone else is looking the other way?’

‘On the contrary. I’ve come to interview you, with full Panoply sanction. Baudry gave me her personal blessing.’

Dreyfus looked down to see if Gaffney was carrying anything. ‘No field trawl,’ he observed. ‘What’s wrong: worried that it might reveal some truths you’d rather remained hidden?’

‘On the contrary. Worried that it wouldn’t give us the hard data we need fast enough. There’s a crisis going on out there, Dreyfus. The question is: are you a part of whatever’s happening, or did you just kill the prisoner because she looked at you the wrong way?’

‘I hear we lost the Universal Suffrage.’

‘Too bad. There were some good rookies on that ship.’

‘Not to mention Senior Prefect Crissel.’

‘Worse ways to go than fighting for a cause.’

‘This is all about a cause, isn’t it? For you, anyway. I’ve followed your career, Sheridan. I know what makes you tick. You’re the most selflessly driven prefect I’ve ever known. You eat, sleep and breathe security. Nothing matters more to you than guaranteeing the safety of the Glitter Band.’

Gaffney appeared surprised by this outburst of praise. ‘If the cap fits.’

‘Oh, it does. It fits too well. You’re a machine, Sheridan. You’re like a wind-up toy, an automaton consumed by a single idea. You’ve let that cause swallow you whole. It’s all you know, all you’re capable of thinking about.’

‘You think security doesn’t matter?’

‘Oh, it matters all right. The problem is, in your personal universe it trumps all other concerns. You’ll consider any action, contemplate crossing any line, if you feel your precious security is in danger of being compromised. Let’s tick the boxes, shall we? Murder of a witness. Betrayal of fellow Panoply operatives. You’re about to add torture to the list. And you haven’t even really got going yet. What’s next on the menu, Sheridan: full-scale genocide?’

‘What I do - what we all do - is about the preservation of life, not the destruction of it.’

‘That may be the way it looks in your warped worldview.’

‘There’s nothing warped about it, Tom.’ Gaffney tapped a finger against the side of his head. ‘I’m sorry - are we on first-name terms now? It’s just that you took offence the last time I used yours. “Sonofabitch” was the phrase, I think.’

‘Whatever makes you happy, Sheridan.’

‘You’ve got me all wrong. You’re the loose cannon in this organisation, Tom. I didn’t bring the Spider bitch inside Panoply and let her riffle through our operational secrets. I didn’t kill her when I realised my mistake.’

‘They’ll find out I didn’t kill her.’

‘There’s half a body in your quarters, Tom. It didn’t teleport there.’

‘Maybe she walked there, with you telling her everything was going to be fine.’

‘No, she didn’t walk. Forensics found tissue traces in the bubble. That’s where she was shot. Whoever killed her didn’t hang around to clean up too well. But you’d know that, wouldn’t you?’

‘How would I have got her from the interrogation bubble to my room without you knowing about it?’

‘That’s a damned good question. One I’m hoping you can answer.’

‘If I wanted to move a body, if I wanted to tamper with access records to hide my own entry into the bubble, being head of Internal Security would certainly make life easier. But even then, I’m not sure how you did it.’

‘Why would I have killed a key witness?’

‘Because she knew you were working for Aurora. Because there was a chance she could have discovered Aurora’s vulnerabilities, given us a clue as to how to take her down.’

Gaffney pointed his finger at Dreyfus. ‘Right. That name again.’

‘What’s she got on you, Sheridan?’

Gaffney looked bored. ‘I think we’ve pretty much covered the preliminaries.’

‘And now you’re going to kill me,’ Dreyfus surmised.

‘I’m going to use intelligence-extraction methods on you, Tom, that’s all. Nothing you won’t get over given time and rest.’

‘You know that there isn’t a truth to extract. I’m not going to start confessing to crimes I never committed.’

‘We’ll just have to see what pops out, shan’t we?’

‘I understand now,’ Dreyfus said. ‘This is the only way out for you, isn’t it? I must die under interrogation. You’ll have some explaining to do, but I’m sure you’ve thought that through already. How’s it going to happen? Whiphound malfunction? I hear there’ve been some quality-assurance issues with those Model Cs.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Gaffney said as he unclipped his whiphound and thumbed it on. ‘I’ve come to interview you, not kill you. How would that go down? I’m not a butcher.’

He ran out the filament and allowed it to find traction against the floor, then relinquished his hold on the handle. For an instant the whiphound stayed where it was, just turning its shaft to shine the red laser of its eye on Dreyfus’s face. Then it began to advance, its filament making a slow hissing sound as it scraped its coils against the floor. The handle was tipped down slightly, like the head of a cobra.

Dreyfus knew that there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. But he could not help shrinking back against the wall, dragging his legs up onto the bunk as if the corner might provide some sanctuary from the questing machine.

Gaffney stood back, his arms folded across his chest. ‘Guess you know the drill, Tom. No point pretending this is going to be pleasant. But tell me what I need to know and it’ll all be over with very quickly. Why did you kill Clepsydra, and how did you get the body to your room?’

‘You killed her, not me. She was still alive when I left her.’

The whiphound slinked onto the bunk, the elevation of its handle never altering. The red glare of its laser made Dreyfus squint and hold a hand up to his face. It came nearer, until he could hear a shrill electronic buzzing. He edged deeper into the corner, drawing his knees high against his chest. The whiphound continued its advance, bringing the blunt end of the handle to within a hand’s-width of Dreyfus’s face. The brightness of the laser and the electronic humming combined with hypnotic effect. Around the trembling shield of his hand he saw the filament’s tip rise up and quest the air. It began to curl, ready to wrap itself around Dreyfus. Part of him wanted to reach out and grab it, to try to stop it finding a way behind his back. A more sensible part of him knew how futile that would be, and what the attempt would do to his fingers.

‘They’ll find out what you did,’ he said. ‘They’re better than you, Gaffney. You won’t be able to hide from Panoply for ever.’

Then he felt the filament whip around him. It wrapped itself around him twice, constricting him with its blunt edge. His arms were pinned to his sides, his knees jammed hard against his ribcage. The handle remained pointed at his face, its laser eye washing the world into scarlet.

‘The whiphound’s going to insert the tip of its tail into your mouth,’ Gaffney said, ‘but we can go with any orifice you like. Your call, Tom.’

Dreyfus closed his mouth, biting down so hard that he tasted salty wetness gush from his tongue. The filament tapped against the portcullis of his teeth, as if asking permission to enter. Dreyfus produced a senseless groan of defiance. The whiphound tapped again. He felt the filament tighten its coils.

‘Open wide,’ Gaffney said, cheerily encouraging. ‘Easy does it.’

The whiphound tapped twice more against his teeth, then withdrew the tip of the filament. Dreyfus wondered if it was going to try to force its way in through a different orifice now that he had barred it from slithering in through his mouth.

He felt the coils loosen. Breathing was no longer difficult. The handle held its gaze on him for a second, and then rotated slowly around until it was directing the horizontal glare of its scanning laser eye onto Gaffney’s face rather than Dreyfus’s. The coil released Dreyfus completely. He took a grateful breath and slumped against the wall, feeling a stripe of cold sweat ooze down the valley of his spine. The whiphound moved stealthily off the bunk, never releasing its visual lock on Gaffney.

‘Stand down,’ Gaffney said, keeping the panic from his voice for the moment. ‘Stand down. Revert to defence posture one.’

The whiphound showed no sign of having heard or recognised his order and kept on slithering. The filament pushed the handle higher, so that it was level with the standing man’s face. Gaffney took a hesitant step backwards, then another, until his back bumped into the wall.

‘Stand down,’ he repeated, louder this time. ‘This is Senior Prefect Gaffney ordering you to stand down and switch to standby mode. You have developed a fault. Repeat, you have developed a fault.’

‘It doesn’t appear to be listening,’ Dreyfus said.

Gaffney raised a shaky hand. ‘Stand down!’

‘I wouldn’t touch it if I were you. It’ll have your fingers off.’

The whiphound pressed Gaffney hard against the wall, the filament spooled out to its maximum extension. The handle made an emphatic nodding motion.

‘I think it wants you to kneel,’ Dreyfus said.

CHAPTER 21

The assembled seniors, internals and supernumerary analysts looked away from the Solid Orrery as the heavy doors of the tactical room swung open. For a second their expressions were as one, conveying a shared sense of indignation that their secret session had been interrupted, and without even the courtesy of a knock. Then they saw that the man stepping through the door was Senior Prefect Sheridan Gaffney and their collective mood changed from one of annoyance to mild puzzlement. Gaffney was perfectly entitled to enter the tactical room, his presence at least as welcome as that of anyone else there. But even Gaffney would normally have had the good manners to announce his arrival before barging in. The head of Internal Security was nothing if not a stickler for observation of the niceties.

‘Is there a problem, Senior?’ Baudry asked, speaking for the assembled party.

But it was not Gaffney who answered the query. Gaffney himself appeared strangely dumbstruck, incapable of formulating a response. Ten centimetres of black cylinder jutted from his mouth, as if he had been trying to swallow a thick candle. His eyes bulged as if he was seeking to squeeze all meaning through them.

The honour of replying fell instead to Dreyfus, who was following only a couple of paces behind the other man. There was an understandable measure of consternation at this development. Everyone in the room was aware that Dreyfus was under detention, unavoidably implicated in the murder of the Conjoiner woman. A smaller number of those present knew that Gaffney had been tasked to interview Dreyfus, and an even smaller number knew which methods that interview was likely to employ. The thought must have occurred to at least some of the party that Dreyfus had overpowered Gaffney and must now be holding him at knife- or gunpoint. Further inspection, however, revealed the presence of no recognisable weapon about the person of the field prefect. He was not even wearing shoes.

‘Actually,’ Dreyfus said, ‘there is a bit of a problem.’

‘Why are you not in your cell?’ Baudry asked, her attention flicking from Dreyfus to Gaffney and back again. ‘What’s happened? What’s wrong with Sheridan? What’s that thing in his mouth?’

Gaffney’s posture was almost rigidly upright, as if he was hanging from an invisible coat rack. When he had walked into the room, he had moved with tiny shuffling footsteps, like a man with his laces tied together. He kept his arms glued to his sides. The thing lodged in his mouth forced him to keep his head at an unusual angle - it was as if he had developed a crick in his neck while looking up at the ceiling. There was a bulge in the skin of his throat, distending the collar of his tunic, that was more than Adam’s apple. He appeared unwilling to make the slightest unnecessary bodily movement.

‘The thing in his mouth is a whiphound,’ Dreyfus said. ‘He came to interrogate me with a Model C. We were getting on famously when it just turned on him.’

‘That’s not possible. A whiphound isn’t meant to do that.’ Baudry looked at Dreyfus with an appalled expression. ‘You didn’t do this, did you, Tom? You didn’t push that thing into him?’

‘If I’d have touched it, I wouldn’t have any fingers left. No, it did it all by itself. Actually, Gaffney helped a bit with the final insertion.’

‘I don’t understand. Why on Earth would he help?’

‘He didn’t have a lot of choice. It all happened very slowly, very precisely. Have you ever seen a snake swallowing an egg? It pushed the filament into his mouth, then reached down into his stomach. You know how the interrogation mode works on those things: it locates major organs then threatens to slice them in two from inside.’

‘What do you mean: interrogation mode? There’s no such thing.’

‘There is now. It’s one of the new features Gaffney had built into the Model Cs. Of course, it has some innocuous-sounding name: enhanced compliance facilitation, or something similar.’

‘He could have called for help.’

Dreyfus shook his head. ‘Not a hope. It would have sliced him into six or seven pieces before he could say his name into his bracelet.’

‘But why did he help it finish what it was doing to him?’

‘It was hurting him, letting him know that if he didn’t help by pushing the handle into his mouth, it was going to do something really unpleasant.’

Baudry stared at Gaffney with renewed comprehension. The handle of a model A or B whiphound would have been too thick to enter the human throat. But a Model C was thinner, sleeker, altogether nastier. A whiphound handle jammed partway down Gaffney’s gullet would certainly explain his stiff-necked posture, his unwillingness to compromise what must have already been a very congested windpipe.

‘We have to get it out of him,’ she said.

‘I don’t think it wants you to do that,’ Dreyfus said.

‘It doesn’t want anything. It’s malfunctioning, obviously.’

‘I wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ Dreyfus said, looking around the party, at the documents and compads on the table. ‘But perhaps Gaffney has an opinion on the matter. He can’t speak right now, obviously, but he can still use his hands. Can’t you?’

Gaffney shuffled around. His eyes were two bulging eggs, ready to pop out of their sockets. His cheeks were the colour of beetroot. He didn’t so much nod as make a microscopic twitching suggestion of one.

‘I think he needs something to write with,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Can anyone spare a compad and a stylus?’

‘Take mine,’ Baudry said, skidding the item across the table. One of the analysts took the compad, unclipped the stylus and passed them both to Gaffney. His arms unlocked from the sides of his body, articulating with painful slowness as if the bones themselves had fused. His hands were shaking. He took the compad in his left hand and fumbled for the stylus with his right. It fell to the floor. The analyst knelt down and gently placed it in his palm.

‘I don’t see—’ Baudry began.

‘Tell them what happened to Clepsydra,’ Dreyfus said.

Gaffney scratched the stylus across the writing surface of the compad. His movements were pained and childlike, as if he had seldom held a stylus before, let alone written with one. But laboriously he formed recognisable letters, scratching them out in agonised strokes.

He shuffled forward to the edge of the table and dropped the compad.

Baudry picked it up. She studied the scrawl upon it. ‘“I killed her”,’ she mouthed. ‘That’s what it says: “I killed her.” She looked up at Gaffney. ‘Is this true, Sheridan? Did you really kill the prisoner? ’

Again that twitch of a nod, a movement so subtle that the assembled seniors would never have seen it had they not been watching for it.

She handed him back the compad. ‘Why?’

He scratched out another answer.

‘“Knew too much”,’ Baudry read. ‘Knew too much about what, Sheridan? What secret did she have to die to protect?’

Gaffney scribbled again. His trembling was growing worse, and it took longer to spell out one word than it had taken him to spell out three the last time.

‘“Aurora”,’ Baudry read. ‘That name again. Is it true, Sheridan? Is she really one of the Eighty?’

But when she handed him the compad, all he wrote on it this time was: ‘Help me.’

‘I think it might be best to save further questioning for later,’ Dreyfus said.

‘Why is it doing this to him?’ Baudry asked. ‘I’ve heard about the difficulties with the Model Cs, but nothing like this has ever happened.’

‘He must have switched on the whiphound in Clepsydra’s presence, ’ Dreyfus said. ‘Very silly thing to do around a Conjoiner, but I guess he couldn’t resist tormenting her. She couldn’t stop him killing her - he used a gun for that - but she was still able to tamper with the whiphound.’

‘She wouldn’t have had time.’

‘I doubt it took her more than a second. For a Conjoiner, it would have been about as difficult as blinking.’

‘But the programming is hard-coded.’

‘Nothing’s hard-coded to a Conjoiner. There’s always a way in, always a back door. She’d have found it if she knew she was about to die and this was her only way of getting a message through. Right, Sheridan?’

Gaffney twitched another affirmative. Some kind of whitish foam or drool was beginning to erupt around the black plug filling his mouth. The quickening tempo of his breathing was now audible to everyone in the room.

‘We still have to get it out of him,’ Baudry said. ‘Sheridan: I want you to stay very, very calm. No matter what you’ve done, no matter what’s happened, we’re going to help you.’ She lifted her arm and spoke into her bracelet with a voice on the trembling edge of panic. ‘Doctor Demikhov? Oh good, you’re awake. Yes, very well, thank you. I know this is unorthodox and that you’re mandated to focus only on the Aumonier case but . . . something’s come up. Something that requires your expertise very, very urgently.’

Dr Demikhov conjured a quickmatter partition, closing off one end of the tactical room to allow him and the other medical technicians to work on Gaffney in privacy. The last clear view Dreyfus had of the senior prefect was of him being gently lowered onto a couch tipped at forty-five degrees to the floor, handled as if he was a bomb that might detonate at any instant. Through the partition’s smoky opacity, the team became vaguely outlined pale ghosts, huddled around an indistinct black form. Then the indistinct black form started thrashing, blurred limbs flailing the air.

‘Do you think they’ll get it out of him?’ Baudry asked, breaking the uncanny silence.

‘I don’t think Clepsydra was interested in killing him,’ Dreyfus said. ‘She could have achieved that already by embedding a different set of instructions into the whiphound. I think she wanted him to talk instead.’

‘He was in no state to tell us anything reliable.’

‘He told us enough,’ Dreyfus said. ‘We can get more out of him when Demikhov’s finished.’ He eased himself into one of the seats around the table, opposite Baudry. ‘I’m taking something of a liberty here, but is it safe to assume that I’m no longer the prime suspect in Clepsydra’s murder?’

Baudry swallowed hard. ‘I was prepared to believe that you’d been framed, Tom, but I couldn’t accept your accusations about Gaffney. He was one of us, for Voi’s sake. I had to believe that you were wrong: that you were either striking out against him for personal reasons, or someone was framing Gaffney as well.’

‘And now?’

‘Following that little spectacle, I think we can safely assume that we know who murdered Clepsydra, and that he was probably acting alone.’ Baudry cast a wary glance at the smoky partition, but the huddle of shapes beyond the quickmatter was now too concentrated to separate into individuals. ‘Which means you were right, and I was wrong, and I ignored you when I should have trusted you. I’m sorry about that.’

‘Don’t apologise,’ Dreyfus said. ‘You had a crisis to contain and you took the best decision you could given the evidence available to you.’

‘There’s more,’ Baudry said. She played with her fingers nervously, as if she was trying to dismantle her hands. ‘I see now that Gaffney wanted Jane removed from command. Not because he was concerned for her, or even for Panoply, but because he feared she’d put two and two together before very long.’

‘So she had to go,’ Dreyfus said.

Baudry’s attention flicked to the partition. ‘When Demikhov’s finished . . . I need to talk to him about Jane. Do you think she’s strong enough to resume command?’

‘Whether she is or not, we need her.’

‘Like a circuit needs a fuse, even though it might blow at any time.’ Baudry shuddered at the thought. ‘Can we do this? Can we subject Jane to something that might kill her?’

‘Let Jane decide.’

‘Crissel and I didn’t want her removed for the same reasons as Gaffney,’ she said, apparently oblivious to the other people in the tactical room. ‘But that doesn’t make what we did any more excusable.’

‘Whatever Crissel did wrong, he made it right when he got on that deep-system cruiser.’

‘And me?’

‘Reinstate Jane, clear me of any suspicion of wrongdoing and I think you’ll have made a decent start.’

It was as if she hadn’t heard him. ‘Perhaps I should resign. I’ve let down the supreme prefect, allowed myself to be hoodwinked and manipulated by another senior . . . failed to trust the one man I should have placed my faith in. In most organisations, what I’ve done would be punished by instant dismissal.’

‘Sorry, Lillian, but you don’t get out of it that easily,’ Dreyfus said. ‘It takes more than a few bad judgement calls to erase a lifetime’s loyal service to Panoply. You were an outstanding senior a week ago. From where I’m sitting, not much has changed.’

‘That’s . . . generous of you,’ she allowed.

‘I’m only thinking of the organisation. We lost a good man in Crissel. That’s why we need Jane Aumonier. That’s why we need Lillian Baudry.’

‘And Tom Dreyfus,’ she added. ‘And yes, you can consider yourself free of suspicion.’

‘I hope that goes for Sparver as well.’

‘Of course. He did nothing wrong except support a fellow prefect, and he deserves my personal apology.’

‘I want him to start digging into the archives, to find everything he can on Aurora Nerval-Lermontov and the other alpha-levels.’

‘I’ll make sure he has all the resources, all the clearance he needs. You honestly think this is the same woman?’

Dreyfus nodded at the partition. ‘We heard it from the horse’s mouth. In a manner of speaking, at least. We’re dealing with a ghost in the machine. Now all we need is a ghost-killer.’

The world came back to Jane Aumonier without warning, without ceremony. She had decided, after much deliberation, that she preferred darkness and silence to the limited range of entertainments Gaffney and the others had left her with when they removed her executive authority. That left her alone with only the scarab for company, but in the eleven years since it had attached itself to her neck she had found that she could, when circumstances required it, retreat to a private corner of her own mind, a fortified place where even the scarab could not intrude. She had never been able to stay within that mental bastion for very long, but it had always been there when she needed it. In her place of sanctuary she played glacially cold, achingly melancholy piano pieces. She had often played the piano before the scarab came. Now it would not even allow the small bulk of a holoclavier in her presence, let alone a full-bodied keyboard. Yet she still remembered how to play, and when she was in full retreat her fingers moved in silent echo of the composition she was reciting in her head, ten million parsecs from the chamber in which she floated. The hidden music was the one thing the scarab had never been able to steal from her.

She had her eyes closed when the chamber began to light up of its own volition. It was hazardous to close her eyes for too long, for that invited the spectre of sleep to take a step nearer. But there was a more profound, calmer darkness when her eyes were closed, even in the absolute blackness of the unlit chamber.

‘I didn’t—’ Aumonier began, squinting against the sudden intrusion of brightness, colour and movement. The music shattered into irrecoverable pieces.

‘It’s all right,’ said a voice, coming from somewhere to her right. ‘You’re getting back everything they took away, Jane.’

She twisted her head towards the voice. The figure was dark on dark, standing in the black aperture of the passwall. ‘Tom?’

‘In the flesh. Minus shoes, unfortunately.’

The feeds were popping on all around her, gradually filling the interior surface of the sphere. The configuration, the preference given to views of certain habitats over others, was recognisable as one of her usual settings. The Glitter Band, she realised, was still out there. She felt an odd flicker of resentment that her empire had continued running itself while she had been ousted from her throne.

‘Where have you been?’ she asked as the dark figure fastened on a safe-distance tether and crossed the airspace towards her.

‘How much did anyone tell you?’ Dreyfus asked as the mounting illumination cast shifting blue highlights on his face. He looked puffy and somehow dishevelled.

‘They told me nothing.’

‘You’re back in command,’ Dreyfus said. ‘If you want it, of course.’

In the absence of visitors, she’d had little recent practice speaking. The words came out with mushy edges, as if she had just woken. ‘What about Crissel, Gaffney, Clearmountain? What about Baudry? They can’t have agreed to this.’

‘Let’s just say the command landscape has changed. The chances are very good that Michael Crissel is dead. Gaffney - who turned out to be a traitor - is being operated on as we speak. I’ve just had to talk Baudry out of handing in her resignation. I think she’s realised the serious mistake she made in ousting you.’

‘Wait,’ Aumonier said. ‘What happened to Crissel?’

‘We lost contact with him as he was attempting to enter House Aubusson along with a squad of field prefects. We’ve also lost contact with that entire habitat, along with three others.’

‘No one told me,’ she said.

‘We’re talking about the same four habitats that Thalia was visiting to upgrade their polling cores. Looks as if we were set up, Jane. Thalia’s installation may have closed one security hole, but it blew open a much wider one. Wide enough to let a militant faction seize control of those habitats.’

‘Do you think Thalia was part of this conspiracy?’

‘No, she was set up like the rest of us. I wanted to be on the ship that Crissel took to Aubusson but Gaffney had other ideas.’ Dreyfus’s expression was one of gloomy resignation. ‘Not that it would have made much difference.’

‘What about Gaffney?’

‘He was working for the enemy faction, from within Panoply. Chances are it was Gaffney who manipulated Thalia’s upgrade to make it work the way it did.’

Aumonier shook her head in amazement. ‘I never had Sheridan down as a traitor.’

‘My guess is he feels he was doing the right and necessary thing, even if that meant going against his own organisation. From his point of view we’re the traitors, letting down the Glitter Band by not taking our duties as seriously as he deems necessary.’

‘If you’re right then we’re at least partially culpable.’

‘How so?’

‘The organisation moulds men like Gaffney. An effective prefect is only one degree from being a monster in the first place. Most of us stay the right side of the line. But we can hardly blame one of us when he strays across it.’

‘He’s still got some explaining to do,’ Dreyfus said.

‘I’m sure you’re right.’ Aumonier breathed in, composing herself. ‘Now tell me who we’re up against. Do you have a name?’

‘The figure behind the takeovers is Aurora Nerval-Lermontov. She was one of the Eighty, Jane. That means she’s dead; that she doesn’t exist any more except as a set of disembodied patterns stored in the memory of a machine. Patterns that are supposedly frozen, as if they were written down in ink.’

Aumonier digested that, sifting her memories to verify that the Nerval-Lermontovs had indeed been one of the families sponsoring Calvin Sylveste’s experiments in mind-uploading. Fifty-five years ago, she thought. But the horror of the Eighty still burnt as brightly in the public imagination as at any time in the last half-century.

‘Even if I accept this . . . how do we know Aurora’s behind it all?’

‘A witness told me. She was being held hostage inside a rock owned by Aurora’s family. My witness reported coming into contact with an entity called Aurora.’

‘This witness—’

‘Was a Conjoiner woman named Clepsydra. This is where it gets complicated.’

‘Go for it.’

‘Clepsydra was one of the survivors aboard an entire ship that was being held captive inside that rock, deep enough underground that there was no chance of them contacting other Conjoiners.’

‘With you so far.’

Dreyfus smiled. ‘There was advanced technology aboard that ship - a Conjoiner device called Exordium that lets them see into the future.’

‘If I was hearing this from anyone other than Tom Dreyfus, I’d get Mercier up here with a full psychiatric renormalisation kit.’

‘The Conjoiners have to be in a kind of dream-state just to interpret what it shows them. It’s imprecise, but a hell of an improvement on not being able to see into the future at all.’

‘I’d buy one like a shot.’

‘Not for sale, apparently. Which is why Aurora needed to kidnap the Conjoiners and get them to run Exordium for her. That’s what they’ve been doing in that rock all the while: looking into the future on Aurora’s behalf. Seeing things she can’t see.’

‘And what did they see, Tom?’

‘The end of the world. A time of plagues, Clepsydra said. Beyond that, the dreamers couldn’t see anything. Aurora kept trying to persuade them to interpret the dreams differently. When they didn’t show her what she wanted, she turned the screws on them.’

‘I need to speak to this Clepsydra,’ Aumonier said. ‘The scarab may not like her being in this room, but she doesn’t have to be physically present - I only need a voice and a face.’

‘I wish you could speak to her,’ Dreyfus answered heavily. ‘Gaffney killed her, then tried to pin it on me. Given the knowledge she’d already sucked out of our records, there was a very real threat of her being able to pin down Aurora’s location, maybe even isolate some weakness we could use against her. That’s why she had to go. But it turns out Clepsydra had the last laugh after all.’

‘Then what about Gaffney? If he’s working for Aurora, we must be able to get something useful out of him?’

‘I sincerely hope so. I’m going to find out everything he knows. Then we can start formulating a response. I want those habitats back. I particularly want my deputy field back.’

‘You realise Thalia may already be dead, Tom? I’m sorry, but someone has to say it. Better that you start dealing with the possibility now rather than later.’

‘She’s dead when we recover her body,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Until then she’s behind enemy lines.’

‘I fully approve of that sentiment, but don’t raise your hopes, that’s all I’m saying.’ Aumonier closed her eyes and took a deep, cleansing breath before reopening them. ‘Now let’s talk about me, shall we? You said I am being reinstated to full status.’

‘If you want it.’

‘Of course I damned well want it. This is what keeps me alive.’

‘It could be what kills you. Things aren’t going to get any less tense around here any time soon. Are you sure you’re ready for that? There isn’t anyone I’d sooner see running the organisation in a time of crisis, but you’ve given Panoply more than enough in the last eleven years. No one would hold it against you if you decided to sit this one out.’

‘I’m in command.’

‘Good,’ called another voice from the still-open passwall. Aumonier recognised the hovering form of Baudry.

‘Hello, Lillian,’ Aumonier said guardedly.

Baudry attached her own safe-distance tether and drifted out until she flanked Dreyfus, stabilising herself to the same local vertical. ‘There’s something I need to say, Supreme Prefect. I let you down. I can’t speak for Michael Crissel, but I should never have been party to what happened in this room.’

‘Prefect Dreyfus tells me you’ve considered resignation.’

‘That’s correct. And I will resign, too, if you wish it.’

Aumonier let the other woman wait, until the silence had become as electrically potent as the air before a thunderstorm. ‘I don’t approve of what you did, Lillian. Gaffney may have played a part in the decision to remove me from power, but you should still have resisted him. It’s to your discredit that you failed to do so.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Baudry mouthed.

‘You should be. Crissel as well, were he still with us.’

‘We thought we were doing the right thing.’

‘And the fact that I expressly requested to be allowed to stay in power - that didn’t mean anything to you?’

‘Gaffney said we should ignore your pleas, that secretly you would be craving permission to step down.’ A little defiance returned to Baudry now. ‘We were doing our best. I’ve told you already that I’m ashamed of what happened. But at the time I did not have the luxury of hindsight, of knowing what we now do about Sheridan.’

‘Enough,’ Aumonier said, raising a calming hand. She thought about all the testing years that Lillian Baudry, a good, loyal senior prefect, had spent in her shadow. Never once being able to demonstrate true effectiveness, true leadership, never once having the temerity to question or undermine a single one of Aumonier’s decisions. ‘What’s done is done. At least now we both know where we stand. Don’t we?’

‘I have apologised. I am ready and waiting for either a resignation order or new commands.’

‘Both of you might want to take a look at that feed,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Before you make any rash decisions, that is.’

‘What feed?’ Baudry asked.

‘He means the long-range surveillance of House Aubusson, I think,’ Aumonier said. ‘Something’s happening there, isn’t it?’

Dreyfus nodded. ‘It started while we were speaking.’

‘We’ve been monitoring the thermal output from the four habitats for a number of hours,’ Baudry said, shifting effortlessly back into the detached tones of neutral professionalism. ‘Two of them, Aubusson and Szlumper Oneill, show evidence of activity in their manufactories. It’s as if the assembler plants have been cranked back up to full operating strength since Aurora’s takeover. So far, we’ve only been able to speculate as to what that means. What we do know is that Crissel’s ship was hit by more weapons than we can account for based on the Aubusson blueprints filed with Panoply. One theory, therefore, is that the factories are producing new defence systems, to further consolidate Aurora’s hold on the habitats.’

‘How long would it take to create and install new weapons if those manufactories were running at standard capacity?’ Aumonier asked.

‘Allowing for ready provision of raw materials and blueprints, no more than six to eight hours,’ Baudry answered. ‘It’s entirely feasible, given the timescales we’re looking at.’

‘But now it looks as if they’re not just making weapons,’ Dreyfus said.

The image of House Aubusson was a three-quarters view captured at long-range by a surveillance cam well outside the attack volume of the habitat’s anti-collision weapons. It showed the factory end of the cylinder, not the docking hub where Crissel had presumably met his demise. Vast petal-like structures, curved doors many kilometres long, were opening in the domed endcap, revealing through a star-shaped aperture the blue-gold luminance of intense, frenzied industry.

‘Those doors . . . are they part of the habitat’s original design?’ Aumonier asked.

Baudry nodded. ‘Back when the habitat had the capacity and the client base to grow entire ships, they needed those doors to launch them into space. But our records say they haven’t opened in over a century.’

‘Then why are they opening now?’

‘That’s why,’ Dreyfus said.

Something was spilling through the gaps between the fingerlike doors, billowing out in a gauzy black mass, like an eruption of wasps. It was a cloud composed of thousands of individual elements.

Simultaneously, Dreyfus and Baudry’s bracelets started chiming.

‘Someone else has noticed,’ Baudry said.

‘What are we looking at?’ asked Aumonier, a queasy feeling in her stomach. Up to this point, her crisis parameters had consisted of a hostage scenario in which Panoply might lose control of four habitats. Four was inexcusable, the worst disaster in eleven years, but it was still negligible compared to the mind-numbing immensity of the ten thousand. Containable, she thought. And yet that emerging black cloud said otherwise. She did not yet know what it was, but she knew with piercing certainty that it was not good news, and that the crisis she had imagined Panoply to be facing was as nothing compared to the one that was now blossoming.

‘We need to know what that . . . froth is,’ she said, fighting to keep her voice from faltering. ‘We need numbers and tech assessments. We need to know what it’s for and where it’s headed.’

‘Doors are opening in Szlumper Oneill,’ Baudry said, reading a text summary on her bracelet. As she spoke, a window enlarged itself, squeezing others aside as it filled with a long-range view of the other habitat. A black cloud was boiling out of elongated slots near one of the polar docking complexes, smothering detail as it expanded.

‘I think it’s the same stuff,’ Aumonier said.

‘Has to be,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Question is, what about the other two habitats?’

‘No excess thermal activity in either Carousel New Seattle-Tacoma or the Chevelure-Sambuke Hourglass,’ Baudry said. ‘But according to our data, neither of those habitats has any kind of manufacturing capacity.’

Dreyfus scratched at the back of his collar. ‘Thalia’s upgrade may have been contaminated, but I’m pretty sure she chose those four habitats herself, based on her own selection criteria.’

‘Meaning what?’ Aumonier asked.

‘Meaning Aurora may not have had any influence over which habitats she got control of. Given four, the chances were good that at least one of them was going to have some kind of manufacturing capability. But it wasn’t guaranteed. Looks like two of the four were duds, in any case. She’s captured them, but right now she can’t make them work for her.’

‘I’m not taking my eye off any of these habitats.’

‘I agree. But it shows us that Aurora isn’t pulling all the strings here. She had to work with the hand Thalia dealt her.’ Dreyfus flashed a bleak smile. ‘I won’t say it gladdens my heart, but—’

‘Problem is we may already have done the work she needs.’

‘I’m hoping that isn’t the case.’ But Dreyfus still nodded, letting Aumonier know that he shared her fears. ‘You’re right, though. We need a closer look at whatever those factories are spewing out. How fast would you say that stuff is emerging?’

‘I don’t know. Judging by the scale . . . hundreds of metres a second, maybe faster.’

‘I concur,’ Baudry said.

‘That’s what I was thinking,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Pretty damned fast, anyway. I’ll need to look at the Solid Orrery, but given the mean spacing between habitats, it isn’t going to take very long before the swarm reaches another one. Let’s assume the closest neighbour to Aubusson is sixty or seventy kilometres away, in the same orbit. Even if that stuff is only moving at ten metres a second, we’re not looking at much more than two hours. Of course, I hope I’m wrong.’

‘You’re hardly ever wrong,’ Aumonier said. ‘That’s what worries me.’

Dreyfus glanced at Baudry. ‘We need to task ships for a close fly-by of one of those clouds. Automated, if possible, but manned if that’s all we can manage in the time available.’

‘I’ll get on it. We have a deep-system cruiser - the Democratic Circus - inbound from the Parking Swarm. I’ve already asked Captain Pell to swing by Aubusson, to see if he can image the remains of the Universal Suffrage, sweep for survivors and get a better look at those weapons emplacements.’

‘Tell them to take care,’ Dreyfus said.

Baudry said, ‘I already did. Now I’ll tell them to take even more.’

‘The scope of this crisis is now greater than the four lost habitats,’ Dreyfus said, directing his words back at Aumonier. ‘I’ll run the Orrery immediately, but in the meantime I think we should consider an appropriate statement. We’ve buffered the citizenry so far, but now it may be time to start alerting the wider Glitter Band to the real nature of the crisis.’

Aumonier swallowed hard. ‘I don’t want mass panic. What should we tell them?’

Dreyfus looked pragmatic. ‘Frankly, mass panic may be the least of our worries.’

‘Even so . . . we still don’t know what we’re dealing with, what Aurora wants, what she’s doing with those habitats when she gains control of them.’

‘Tell them something’s trying to take over,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Tell them that it has nothing to do with the Ultras, and that we’ll phase in mass euthanisation if we even suspect that someone’s trying to settle an old score with the Swarm. Tell them that Panoply is declaring a Bandwide state of emergency, and that this time we really need a vote in favour of utilizing heavy weapons.’

‘We don’t have it already?’ Aumonier asked.

‘I dropped the ball,’ Baudry said. ‘I went to the polls, stressed that we had a crisis on our hands, but didn’t spell out the true severity of the situation. I didn’t lie, but I let them think I was just talking about the crisis with the Ultras.’

‘Because you didn’t want panic?’

‘Exactly so,’ she said.

‘Then you probably did exactly what I’d have done.’ Aumonier held Lillian Baudry’s gaze for a long moment, signalling to her that, whatever the other woman had done, her professional conduct in Aumonier’s absence was not in doubt. She needed allies around her now, people who knew they had her confidence and trust. ‘But Tom’s right,’ she added. ‘We need that vote. As a matter of fact, I’ll table a request for every emergency privilege in the book. Up to and including mass lockdowns and the curtailing of Bandwide abstraction and polling services.’

‘We haven’t had to do that in—’ Baudry began.

Aumonier nodded. ‘I know. Eleven years. And doesn’t it feel like yesterday?’

CHAPTER 22

Dreyfus had asked to be alerted the instant Sheridan Gaffney regained consciousness. Mercier - who was now handling the patient following the fraught operation that had been mainly supervised by Demikhov - was predictably reluctant to let Dreyfus anywhere near the recuperating senior prefect.

‘If you had any idea of the severity of the procedure he’s just gone through, the extent of the internal damage caused by the whiphound,’ Mercier said, waving his hands graphically, his treasured fountain pen clutched like a dagger as he guarded the entrance to the medical centre.

Dreyfus looked at the doctor obligingly. He’d always had a good relationship with Mercier and was reluctant to jeopardise it now. ‘I understand your concerns. They’re admirable. All I need to know is, can he talk?’

‘He’s suffered severe laceration of the trachea. He has a damaged larynx. About all he can manage right now is a croak, and even that causes him great pain. Please, Tom. No matter what this man did, but he’s still a patient.’

‘If we could wait, we would,’ Dreyfus said, ‘but right now we’re in a situation where even an hour is too long. Gaffney has information vital to the security of the Glitter Band. I need to speak to him immediately.’

Mercier wilted, clearly aware that this was not a battle he could hope to win. ‘You can force this through, can’t you?’

‘I have Jane’s authority. Baudry’s, too, as if Jane’s isn’t enough. Please, Doctor. Minutes are ticking by while you and I debate the health of a man who was quite happy to murder another of your patients.’

Mercier looked disappointed. ‘You think I didn’t put two and two together, Tom? I’m not that stupid. I guessed exactly what Gaffney did. But he’s still a sick man, no matter what he did to Clepsydra.’

Dreyfus placed a hand on Mercier’s green-sleeved forearm. ‘I need to do this. Please don’t make it any harder.’

Mercier stepped aside. ‘Do whatever you have to do. Then get out of my clinic, Tom. The next time you come here, you’d better be the one seeking medical help.’

Dreyfus stepped through into the recovery room. It was a spartan cube lit only by thin blue strips set into the upper walls. Gaffney was in a bed at one end of the cube, attended by a single medical servitor with a swooping white swan’s neck. The transparent passwall sealed itself behind Dreyfus, subtly changing the acoustics of the room. He walked to the bedside, then conjured his usual chair out of the floor. Gaffney’s face was an impassive mask, almost deathlike, but his eyes betrayed alertness. They tracked Dreyfus with reptilian intensity.

‘No flowers?’ Gaffney said, scratching the words out. ‘That’s a surprise.’

‘You’re more talkative than Mercier led me to expect.’

‘What’s the use in not being talkative? You’re going to make me speak one way or another.’ The words emerged dry as charcoal, each one forced out separately. Something horrible rattled down in his lungs.

Dreyfus tucked his hands together in his lap. ‘We have a situation, Sheridan. I thought you might be able to shed some more light on it.’

‘I told you everything I know.’

‘We have a handle on Aurora now, but there’s still a lot more we’d like to know.’ He checked his bracelet. ‘Thirty minutes ago, House Aubusson and Szlumper Oneill began releasing clouds of manufactured entities into Glitter Band space. We’re still not sure what those entities are yet, but at least now we have some idea of where they’re headed. They’re not expanding in all directions. They’re moving in two directed flows, like wasps following a scent trail. In less than two hours, those flows will come into contact with two other habitats with combined populations exceeding six hundred and fifty thousand citizens. Do you want to speculate about what might happen when those flows touch the habitats?’

Gaffney’s expression hadn’t changed since Dreyfus had entered the room. His mask of a face was still fixated on the ceiling. ‘If you’re so worried, why don’t you move the habitats?’

‘You know we can’t change the orbit of a fifty-million-tonne structure just by clicking our fingers. We can’t stop the arrival of the flow of entities either: the individual elements might be vulnerable, but there are just too many of them. The best we can do is alert those habitats, get them to prepare their defences and initiate whatever kind of evacuation programme they have in place. We’ve already done that, of course, but given the time available, we’ll be lucky to offload more than ten thousand citizens by the time the flows hit.’ Dreyfus leaned closer to the bedside. ‘That’s why I’d really like to know what’s going to happen, Sheridan.’

‘Then you’re shit out of luck, Tommy-boy.’

‘I’m disappointed, Sheridan. You know better than any of us that there’s no sense in withholding information. We’ll get it out of you eventually, by hook or by crook. I have the authorisation to run a deep-cortex trawl, for one. Or I could go with one of those Model Cs so dear to your heart. See how you like a dose of enhanced subject compliance.’

‘In my condition, how long do you think I’d last?’

‘That’s a fair point,’ Dreyfus conceded. ‘So perhaps the trawl would be a safer bet. What would you go for, just out of interest?’

‘I’m old-fashioned. Never could get on with trawls.’

Dreyfus nodded. ‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I run a whiphound on you, you die before you spill your guts, end of story.’

‘I could think of worse outcomes.’

Dreyfus unlaced his hands and tapped a finger against the side of his brow. ‘Here’s what I don’t get, Sheridan. You’re a solid Panoply man, as good a prefect as any of us. What exactly did Aurora have on you that made you turn traitor?’

At last the mask fashioned a grimace-like smile. ‘You’re the traitor, Tom, not me. You and all the other cowards who turn a blind eye to what’s really going on in the Glitter Band. It’s been clear to me since we walked away from Hell-Five. The people voted us the power to protect them. Problem is we abdicated that responsibility years ago. We let the people down.’

‘That’s not quite the way it looks from where I’m sitting,’ Dreyfus said.

‘If only you saw the bigger picture, you’d understand.’

‘Enlighten me, Sheridan. Tell me what I’m not seeing. Would Aurora’s glimpse into the future have anything to do with it?’

After a while Gaffney said, ‘You know about Exordium, then.’

‘Enough to know where to start trawling if you don’t tell me about it now.’

‘Aurora saw the end of everything we hold precious, Tom. We’ve created something wonderful around Yellowstone, something glorious, something unheralded in all the human history that’s come before us. Something fit to last a thousand years, or ten thousand. And yet it ends. Less than a hundred years from now, all this is over. Humanity opened a window into paradise, and in eighty or ninety years it closes. The Garden of Eden isn’t some ancient Biblical story about the fall of paradise thousands of years ago. It’s a premonition.’

‘How does it end?’

‘Everything goes, in a matter of hours and days. Aurora walked amongst their dreams. She saw habitats burning, she saw people screaming in agony, she saw Chasm City turning against its own inhabitants, becoming something monstrous.’

‘A time of plague,’ Dreyfus said.

‘No one sees it coming. There’s no time to prepare. It hits us when we feel at our least vulnerable, in our highest, brightest hour.’ Gaffney halted and caught his breath, the air rasping in and out of his lungs. ‘Aurora couldn’t let that happen, Tom. She believes the Glitter Band deserves better than to crash and burn.’

‘But we’re still talking about something eighty or ninety years in the future. Why is she taking action now?’

‘Prudence,’ Gaffney said. ‘Aurora believes the content of the Exordium prognostications, but not necessarily the detail. She’s worried that the Conjoiners were wrong about the timeline, that perhaps it might happen sooner than they predicted. There’s no time to wait for warning signals. If action is to be taken to ensure the future survival of the Glitter Band, we must move now, not in twenty years, or fifty years. Only then can she be certain of success.’

‘And this action?’ Dreyfus ventured, wondering how much Gaffney was going to give up without coercion.

But Gaffney looked disappointed. ‘Isn’t it obvious? A benign takeover. The installation of a new authority that will ensure the Glitter Band’s security for time immemorial.’

‘She could have just come to us, if she had reasonable concerns.’

‘And how do you think Panoply would have reacted?’ Gaffney asked. ‘Not by taking the necessary measures, that’s for certain. We’ve already let the people take our guns away. Do you think that kind of ready submission implies an organisation with the necessary spine to take difficult, unpopular action, just because it happens to be in the public good?’

‘I think you answered that question for yourself.’

‘I love this organisation,’ Gaffney said. ‘I’ve given it my life. But little by little I’ve watched it allow the citizenry to erode its power. We were complicit in that, no question about it. We rolled over and handed the people back the very tools they’d given us to do our work. We’ve reached the point now where we have to beg for the right to arm our agents. And what happens when we finally issue that request? The people spit it back in our faces. They love the idea of a police force, Tom. Just not one with the teeth to actually do anything.’

‘Maybe taking guns off us wasn’t such a bad idea.’

‘It’s not just the guns. When we perform a lockdown, we spend the next year defending our actions. They’ll take lockdown authority from us next. Before you know it, we won’t even be allowed near our own polling cores. Aurora saw this coming. She knew that Panoply’s usefulness was always going to be limited, and that if the people were really to be protected, someone else was going to have to do it for them.’

‘This someone else being Aurora, and whoever’s with her,’ Dreyfus said quietly.

‘She’s no tyrant, if that’s what you’re thinking.’

‘A takeover sounds more than a little tyrannical, frankly.’

‘It won’t be like that. Aurora merely envisages a state of affairs in which the people are protected from the consequences of their own worst actions. Under Aurora’s regime, life in the habitats will continue exactly as it does now. The citizenry will still have access to the same technologies they’ve grown to depend upon. No one will be denied longevity treatments, or any other medicines they need. The people will continue to enjoy the same luxuries as they do now, and on a day-to-day level their societies will look much the same. The artists will still work.’

Dreyfus cocked his head. ‘Then I’m missing something. What will have changed?’

‘Only those things strictly essential for our future security. Needless to say, the Glitter Band will have to be isolated from the rest of human society. That’ll mean an end to commerce with the Ultras, and Chasm City. We can’t run the risk that some outside agent introduced to the Glitter Band causes its ultimate downfall.’

‘You think it will be something internal, something we do to ourselves?’

‘We can’t know that for certain, so we have to take reasonable precautions against other possibilities. That’s only right and proper, isn’t it?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘Likewise, travel between habitats will have to be curtailed. If the destabilising factor arises within the Glitter Band, we can at least stop it spreading.’

‘So no one ever gets to leave home.’

Gaffney appeared genuinely perplexed by Dreyfus’s point. ‘But why would they ever want to, Tom? They’ll have everything handed to them on a plate: every amenity, every luxury.’

‘Except personal freedom.’

‘It’s overrated. How often do people exercise it, anyway? It’s only ever the minority that test the real limits of a society. Reasonable men don’t make history, Dreyfus. Most people are content with their lot, content to do today what they did yesterday. They’ll still have almost every old freedom within a given habitat.’

‘But they won’t be able to leave. They won’t be able to visit loved ones or friends in other habitats.’

‘It won’t come to that. Once Aurora has control of the ten thousand, she’ll allow a grace period before the strictures come into force. People will be permitted to move around as they wish until they’ve settled on their permanent place of residence. Only then will the gates be closed.’

‘There’ll always be some people who regret the choice they made,’ Dreyfus said. ‘But I suppose you’re about to tell me they can always use abstraction to simulate physical travel.’

Gaffney looked almost apologetic. ‘Well, actually . . . abstraction will need to be policed as well.’

‘By which you mean . . .’

‘A downgrading of the current provisions. For the sake of security, of course. It could be that the destabilising agent gains a foothold as a consequence of the data networks, you see. Aurora can’t take that risk. The habitats will need to be isolated from each other.’

‘The cure’s beginning to sound worse than the disease,’ Dreyfus said.

‘Oh, don’t make it sound worse than it really is. The habitats will still be running internal abstraction services. For many citizens, that’s already enough. And the data infrastructure will remain in place, so that Aurora can continue to supervise and assist the ten thousand.’

‘So let’s get this straight,’ Dreyfus said. ‘We’re talking about a state of curfew, in which no one can move, no one can communicate and in which no one has a democratic say in their own destiny?’

Gaffney winced: Dreyfus couldn’t tell if it was because of his injuries, or because of what Dreyfus had just said. ‘But they’ll be safe, Tom. Not just today, not just tomorrow, but for the next ninety years and beyond. Under Aurora’s regime, the destabilising event will not be allowed to happen. The Glitter Band will persist.’

‘In chains.’

‘We’re talking about an interim security measure, not something that will have to remain in place in perpetuity. As the years roll on, Aurora will strive to identify the likely focus of the agent. Once the risk is quantified, the people can be handed back their own destiny.’ Gaffney peered intently into the depths of the ceiling, as if searching for inspiration. ‘Look at it this way, Tom,’ he said reasonably, as if the two of them were only a hair’s breadth from agreement. ‘A man is carrying a sharp instrument in a crowded space. He’s about to suffer an epileptic seizure. He could hurt himself, or those around him, if he is not unburdened of that instrument and perhaps restrained. What do you do? Do you sit back and respect his rights? Or do you take the action that will guarantee not only his safety, but that of everyone nearby?’

‘I ask him nicely to drop the sharp instrument.’

‘And you scare him in the process. He grips the instrument more tightly than ever. Now what?’

‘I disarm him.’

‘It’s too late. He cuts you anyway. Then the seizure kicks in and he starts hacking away at everyone else. Democracy is that sharp instrument, Tom. It’s the final weapon of the people, and sometimes they just can’t be trusted with it.’

‘And you can.’

‘Not me, not you. But Aurora?’ Gaffney shook his head: not in denial, but in an awed inability to express whatever was running through his mind. ‘She’s bigger than us. Faster and cleverer. I’d have my doubts, too, if I hadn’t been in her presence. But from the moment I first encountered Aurora, I’ve never had the slightest doubt that she’s the one to lead us forward, the one to guide us into the light.’

Dreyfus stood up and conjured the chair back into the floor. ‘Thanks, Sheridan.’

‘We’re done?’

‘I think I’ve learned everything that you’re willing to tell me without coercion. You genuinely think this can’t be stopped, don’t you? That’s why you’re so content to tell me what Aurora has in mind.’

‘It was touch and go for a while back there,’ Gaffney said, confidingly. ‘And I’ll admit that matters were pre-empted by your discovery of Clepsydra. Aurora had been hoping not to have to move until she had complete control of the entire Glitter Band.’

‘You mean when Thalia made the upgrade to the entire ten thousand?’

‘That was the idea. One second the ten thousand would have been in the hands of the citizenry, the next they would have been Aurora’s. It would have been the ultimate bloodless revolution, Tom. No one would have been hurt or inconvenienced. Human distress would have been kept to an absolute minimum.’

‘Then I’m sorry I threw a wrench into her plans by doing my job.’

‘It wasn’t much of a wrench, all told. Aurora had always been mindful that it might be necessary to begin the takeover in a piecemeal fashion, habitat by habitat. It really won’t make much difference in the long run, though. Those clouds of manufactured entities you mentioned earlier? You’re still in the dark about them, aren’t you?’

Dreyfus remained impassive, but something in his expression must have given the game away.

‘The machines are mass-produced weevil-class war robots,’ Gaffney said. ‘Very simple, very rugged, with just enough autonomy to cross space between habitats. By itself, a single weevil can’t do much damage. But the manufactories are spewing them out by the hundreds of thousands. That’s a lot of weevils, Tom. Weight of numbers’ll get you in the end. Always does.’

‘What will the weevils do when they reach the other habitats? Cut their way inside and kill everyone?’

‘Given that the objective here is to preserve human life, that would be rather counterproductive, don’t you think?’

‘So what, then?’

‘The weevils are carrying copies of the same upgrade Thalia already installed in the first four habitats. Once they reach the target habitats, they’ll work their way inside and infect their cores with the same security hole. Aurora will then have complete control of six habitats, not four.’

‘Your weevils will have to reach the polling cores first. The local citizenry are already standing by to protect them.’

‘They’ll slow the weevils, but not stop them. There’ll always be more weevils. The manufactories won’t stop making them. And once Aurora gains control of another manufactory-equipped habitat, she’ll start producing weevils there as well.’

‘So we shut down the polling cores. Destroy them, even. Same with the manufactories.’

Again Gaffney looked apologetic, like someone who kept winning against a weaker opponent and was beginning to feel sorry for them. ‘Won’t work, either. Weevils are more than warriors. They’re general-purpose construction servitors. Can’t replicate, but there isn’t much else they can’t do. Build and integrate a new polling core? Matter of hours. I gave them the necessary blueprints. Repair a scuttled manufactory? Six hours. Maybe twelve. Ditto on the blueprints. Aurora’s covered all the bases, Tom. Why do you think I’d be telling you all this otherwise?’

‘I guess you may have a point there,’ Dreyfus said. Then he lifted up the cuff of his sleeve to reveal his bracelet. ‘Jane?’ he asked.

‘Aumonier,’ she replied, her voice reduced to a doll-like buzz.

‘The machines are weevil-class war robots. Someone needs to see what we have on them in the archive. Instruct the Democratic Circus to proceed with maximum caution. If they can bring one in intact, they should do so, but I don’t want to lose another deep-system cruiser without good reason.’

‘Copy, Tom,’ Jane Aumonier said.

He cuffed down his sleeve and surveyed the man on the bed. ‘Of course, if I find you were lying about any of that—’

‘I wasn’t lying. And that was spoken like a true leader, by the way. You should have heard yourself. Anyone would have thought you were the supreme prefect the way you dished out instructions to Jane.’

‘We have a good understanding. It’s called mutual respect.’

‘Sounded more like the natural assumption of authority to me. Perhaps you covet her job the same way Baudry and Crissel did?’

‘We weren’t talking about Jane.’ Dreyfus reached behind his back and unclipped the whiphound he had been keeping there, out of Gaffney’s line of sight. He brought it around in front of him and let the other man see what he was holding.

‘Oh, now that’s low. Did Doctor Mercier see you come in with that thing?’

Dreyfus whipped out the filament, letting it hiss against the floor. It sliced the quickmatter like a rapier through water, the floor material healing behind it almost instantly. ‘Don’t worry. It isn’t a Model C. Doesn’t have any of those fancy new features you were so keen to see installed.’

‘Are you going to kill me now?’

‘No. I’ll leave killing prisoners to the experts. I want you alive, Sheridan, so I can run a deep-cortex trawl while you still have some brain cells.’

‘Trawl me now. See how far it gets you.’

‘Sword mode,’ Dreyfus said, almost under his breath. The filament flicked to immediate rigidity. He swept it over Gaffney’s recumbent form, hard and fast enough to raise a whoosh of parted air. ‘I’ll spare you the sales pitch. You know what one of these can do in the wrong hands.’

‘I’ve told you everything.’

‘No, you haven’t. There’s an elephant in this room that you’re trying very hard to ignore, Sheridan. It’s called Ruskin-Sartorious. You set up the execution of that habitat, didn’t you?’

‘You know the Ultras were behind that.’

‘No,’ Dreyfus said patiently. ‘That’s what you wanted us to think. It had to look like an act of spite so we wouldn’t go nosing around trying to find the real reason. Dravidian and his crew were used, weren’t they? You got someone aboard their ship who knew how to manipulate the engines.’

‘Ridiculous.’

‘They would have needed expert insider knowledge of Conjoiner systems, but given that you already had a shipload of Conjoiners to torture, that wouldn’t have been insurmountable. The question is, why? What was it about Ruskin-Sartorious that mattered to you so much? Why did it have to burn?’ Dreyfus lowered the blade of the whiphound until it was almost touching the bruised skin of Gaffney’s throat. ‘Talk to me, Sheridan. Tell me why that had to happen.’

Gaffney said nothing. Dreyfus let the whiphound touch his skin until it drew a beetle-sized drop of blood.

‘Feel that, Sheridan?’ he asked. ‘It would only take a twitch of my hand to sever your windpipe.’

‘Fuck you, Dreyfus.’ But as he spoke, he appeared to submerge himself even further into the embrace of the bed, trying to lower his throat as far as possible from the whiphound’s blade.

‘You had those people executed for a reason. Here’s my shot at why. There was something about Ruskin-Sartorious, something about that family, or even about that habitat, that was threatening to Aurora. Something that she considered worth mass murder to get rid of. It must have been a major threat or she wouldn’t have risked drawing attention to herself when her plans were nearly in place.’ He let the whiphound bite deeper, drawing multiple droplets of blood. ‘How am I doing? Hot, cold, in the middle?’

‘Bring the fucking trawl,’ Gaffney said, his voice strangulated as he squeezed his neck even further into the bed. ‘See how far it gets you.’

Dreyfus let the filament skim back into the handle, cleansing itself of tiny droplets of blood as it did so. ‘You know what?’ he said as the fine pink fog settled back towards Gaffney. ‘That’s an excellent idea. I never did have the stomach for torture.’

Silver-grey daylight penetrated the dust-covered window bands of House Aubusson. Standing at one of the viewing portholes, Thalia contemplated an ashen landscape, utterly ravaged by machines. In contrast to the activity that had been evident through much of the night, all was still now. It had been many hours since she had last seen any kind of robot or construction servitor. The machines must have completed their work, picking the habitat clean of anything that might conceivably be useful for the churning manufactories in the endcap. Structures, vehicles, people: nothing of any utility had been left untouched, save for the polling core itself. Perhaps the servitors were even dismantling themselves now that the hardest work was over.

She picked grit out of the corner of her eye. How long did they have left now? She might not have seen any machines outside, but that didn’t mean they’d gone away. The barricade was still holding, but the servitors in the stalk were slowly dismantling it from the other side, working methodically and with a calmness that was somehow more frightening than if they’d come ripping through it at speed. No one could be certain how much of the barricade now remained, but Parnasse thought it unlikely that there was more than ten metres of obstruction left, and perhaps a lot less than that. They’ll be through in a matter of hours, Thalia thought. She was beginning to think it had been tempting fate to hope they could make it until the end of another day.

‘Well?’ she asked, as Parnasse joined her. ‘Have you looked into what we discussed?’

He pulled a disagreeable face. ‘I looked into it, like I said I would. And the more I looked, the less I liked it. I said I’d consider anything, even if it was near-suicidal. But this isn’t near-suicidal, girl. It’s the real deal.’

She spoke through clenched teeth, hardly moving her lips. She didn’t want anyone else to guess what they were talking about, even if they saw her expression reflected in the glass. ‘The machines are going to kill us, Cyrus. That’s guaranteed. At least this way we’d have a fighting chance.’

‘We haven’t even taken down the polling core,’ he said. ‘Shouldn’t we attempt that first, and see what happens? Maybe the machines will stop being a problem.’

‘And maybe they’ve acquired enough autonomy now that they can keep coming without receiving instructions. Face it: we don’t really know what their capabilities are.’

‘Can you take down the core?’

‘I think I can damage it,’ she said, nodding at her whiphound, which was waiting on a nearby chair. ‘But that may not be enough to stop all abstraction packets getting through. There’s a lot of self-repairing quickmatter in a core. It isn’t like cutting dumb matter.’

‘And to be sure?’

‘I’d have to blow it up. Problem is we only have one shot at that.’

His expression conveyed a mixture of exasperation and admiration. ‘And you want to keep the grenade mode for later, don’t you?’

‘Ignore the likelihood of our survival for the moment,’ she answered. ‘Just give me the facts concerning the technical side of the problem. Can we weaken the structural members sufficiently if all we have is the whiphound?’

‘You said it’ll cut just about anything, short of hyperdiamond?’

Thalia nodded. ‘Of course, it isn’t working as well as it should. But provided the filament stays rigid, it ought to be okay. It coped with granite, after all.’

‘Then you can probably do it, provided you follow through with a big bang, in exactly the right place.’

‘I don’t think the big bang’s going to be a problem.’

Parnasse scratched under his collar, looking conflicted. ‘Then if we get down into the base of the sphere we can reach what we need to cut. If we weaken the right members, and position the whiphound in exactly the right place, we can probably force the sphere to topple in the right direction. Emphasis on “probably”, girl.’

‘I’ll take what I’m given. And then? Will she hold, from a structural standpoint?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine.’

‘Everyone in here will need to be braced, lashed down. We need to plan for that now or there are going to be a lot of broken bones.’

‘Girl, I think broken bones will be the least of our worries.’

‘We need to start bringing some of the others in on the plan,’ Thalia said. When Parnasse said nothing, she added, ‘So that they can start making preparations.’

‘Girl, we haven’t agreed to this. We haven’t discussed it, or put it to the vote.’

‘We’re not putting it to the vote. We’re just doing it.’

‘Whatever happened to democracy?’

‘Democracy took a hike.’ She stared at him with fierce intent, brooking no dissent. ‘You know we have to do this, Cyrus. You know there’s no other choice.’

‘I know it, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.’

‘Even so.’

He closed his eyes, reaching some troubled conclusion. ‘Redon. She’s pretty reasonable. If we can bring her in, she can smooth it with the others, get them to see sense. Then maybe she can start explaining it to me.’

‘Talk to her,’ Thalia said, nodding at the sleeping, exhausted-looking woman. Meriel Redon was resting after having worked on the barricade shift and would probably not welcome being woken prematurely.

‘How much do you want me to tell her?’

‘The lot. But tell her to keep it to herself until we’ve made the preparations.’

‘Let’s hope she’s in an optimistic frame of mind.’

‘Just a second,’ Thalia said distractedly.

Parnasse narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you looking at?’

For the first time since the coming of day, movement in the landscape had caught her eye. She squinted for a moment, wondering if she’d imagined it, but just when she was ready to conclude that her mind was playing tricks on her she caught it again. She’d seen something dark move along what had once been the perimeter of the Museum of the Cybernetics, the motion furtive and scurrying. She thought of Crissel and his boarding party, of the black tactical armour of field prefects, and for a cruel instant she let herself imagine they were being rescued. Then she snapped the glasses to her face and zoomed in on the movement, and saw that it had nothing to do with prefects. She was looking at an advancing column of low, beetle-like machines, many dozens of them. They moved faster than any civilian servitor she had ever seen, tearing through or gliding over obstacles like a line of black ink running down a page.

‘What is it?’

‘Something bad,’ Thalia answered.

They were not civilian servitors, she realised. They were some kind of war machine, and they were working their way inexorably towards the polling core.

Terror nestled tighter in her stomach, as if it was making itself even more at home.

‘Tell me, girl.’

‘Military-grade servitors,’ she said. ‘I’m pretty sure, anyway.’

‘Must be some mistake. There was nothing like that here before.’

‘I know. It would have been a lockdown offence even to own the construction files.’

‘So where have they come from?’

‘I think we already know,’ she said. ‘They’ve been made overnight. There are probably bits of people in them.’

‘The manufactories?’

‘I think so. I can’t believe these are the only thing they’re spewing out - there’d have been enough material to make millions of them, which is obviously absurd. But at least we know what part of the production flow was meant for.’

‘And the rest?’

‘I’m too scared to think about it.’

Thalia turned back to the polling core. Perhaps Parnasse was right, that the time had now come to destroy it. The option had been at the back of her mind all along, after all. She believed that the core was playing a vital part in coordinating the activities of the machines via the low-level signals she had already detected. That was why the servitors had not already demolished the stalk, something that she knew would have been well within their capabilities. But she would not risk putting that theory to the test until she took the core out of action. If the machines were somehow able to keep running afterwards, it would all have been for nothing. She had not been prepared to take that risk until now, but the spectacle of the advancing war machines had changed everything.

She walked to the nearest chair and picked up her whiphound. It had become too hot to wear clipped to her belt and she could only tolerate holding it if she had a scarf wrapped around her palm. She let the filament extend and stiffen itself in sword mode, ignoring the buzzing protestation from the handle.

‘Are you going to do it?’ Parnasse asked.

‘I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s time.’

He steadied her trembling hand. ‘And maybe it isn’t. Like you said, girl - if chopping at this thing doesn’t do the job, we’d better have a pretty good back-up plan in place. Put the sword away for now. I’m going to test the water with Redon.’

CHAPTER 23

A portion of the Solid Orrery had been reassigned to emulate the three-dimensional form of a weevil-class war robot. The one-tenth-scale representation rotated slowly, the light of the room appearing to gleam off its angled black surfaces. In its space-travel/ atmospheric-entry configuration, the machine’s multiple legs and manipulators were tucked hard against its shell, as if it had died and shrivelled up. Its binocular sensor packages were contained in two grilled domes that bore an uncanny resemblance to the compound eyes of an insect.

‘They’re as nasty as they look,’ Baudry commented to the assembled prefects. ‘Banned under seven or eight conventions of war, last seen in action more than a hundred and twenty years ago. Most war robots are designed to kill other war robots. Weevils were engineered to do that and kill humans. They carry detailed files on human anatomy. They know our weak points, what makes us hurt, what makes us break.’ As she spoke, reams of dense technical data scrolled down the walls. ‘In and of themselves, weevils are containable. We have techniques and weapons that would be effective against them in both vacuum stand-off situations and in close-quarters combat in and around habitats. The problem is the number, not the machines themselves. According to the Democratic Circus, House Aubusson has already manufactured and launched two hundred and sixty thousand units, and the flow isn’t showing any signs of stopping. A weevil only weighs five hundred kilograms, and most of the materials required to make one would be commonplace inside a habitat like Aubusson. If the servitors inside the habitat work efficiently, they can easily supply all the feed materials necessary to build more just by dismantling and recycling existing structures inside the cylinder. We could be looking at an output of millions of weevils before the manufactories need to start eating into the structural fabric of the habitat. Then the numbers become unthinkable.’

‘Do we know for a fact that we’re dealing with weevils?’ Dreyfus asked.

Baudry nodded. ‘The Circus hasn’t secured a sample yet, but the scans are all on the nose. These are weevils, just as Gaffney told us. There’s no reason to doubt that they’re carrying the Thalia code.’

‘What about the rest of what Gaffney revealed?’ asked the projected head of Jane Aumonier, imaged on a curving pane of glass supported above an empty chair. ‘Do we believe that weevils are capable of hijacking a second habitat?’

Baudry faced her superior. ‘If Aurora has embarked on this strategy, chances are she has a high expectation of success. She already has intimate knowledge of security holes in the polling apparatus. There’s every reason to think she has the ability to seize another habitat if she can get weevils into it.’ All of a sudden Baudry looked shattered, as if the crisis had notched past some personal threshold of endurance. ‘I think we must assume the worst.’

The wall displays froze abruptly. Bracelets chorused in unison. The Solid Orrery consumed the weevil and sprang up an enlarged representation of one of the two threatened habitats, a hubless wheel. ‘That’s Carousel New Brazilia,’ Baudry said. ‘Anti-collision systems have begun to engage the incoming flow of weevils. We can expect House Flammarion to begin similar engagements within the next fifteen minutes.’

‘How are our assets coping?’ Aumonier asked.

‘We only had time to place three corvette-class vehicles close enough to Brazilia to make a difference,’ Baudry said. ‘Frankly, their pinpoint weapons are next to useless against the scale of the flow. Even if we dropped a nuke into the middle of it, it would only take out a few thousand units. It’s like trying to stop a tsunami with a spoon.’

Aumonier answered calmly: ‘Then we need an alternative strategy.’

‘Our corvettes are standing by to concentrate their fire on the weevils once they make groundfall on the habitat. The war robots will need time to cut through or force their way in via docking apertures.’

‘Let’s assume we don’t stop them all. What happens if we lose Brazilia and Flammarion?’

‘Both habitats have manufacturies of their own,’ Dreyfus said, looking up from his compad. ‘If Aurora takes them, she’ll have two new sites of weevil production. From there she can start leapfrogging to new habitats.’

‘I’ve prepared a simulation on the Orrery,’ Baudry said. ‘There’s a lot of guesswork fed into it, obviously, but I can show you how things might progress under some reasonable assumptions.’

‘Go ahead,’ Aumonier said.

Baudry shrank the image of Carousel New Brazilia back down to its former size, so that it became simply one gemlike point moving in the stately swirl of the Glitter Band. With another gesture she turned all the points of light to the same emerald green, save for four scattered points of ruby.

‘These are the habitats Aurora now controls,’ Baudry said, before two more red points lit up, each located close to one of the other four points. ‘These are Brazilia and Flammarion, under the assumption that Aurora attains control. I now assume that both these new habitats become weevil-production centres with an output flow similar to what we’ve already seen. I assume also that each habitat concentrates its weevil output on one other habitat not yet in Aurora’s control, in accordance with what we’ve seen so far. I further assume that in twenty-six hours, a habitat can be attacked by weevils, brought under Aurora’s control and direct its own weevil flow against a designated target, crossing space until they make contact.’

‘Continue,’ Aumonier said.

‘In one day, we’ll have already gone from two compromised habitats to four. Those four habitats will each infect another neighbouring state, giving us eight infection sites by the end of the second day.’ As she spoke, the number of red lights increased in geometric fashion. ‘At the end of the third day, sixteen habitats. Thirty-two by the end of the fourth day. Sixty-four by the fifth. One hundred and twenty-eight by the end of the sixth: that’s more than one per cent of the entire Glitter Band.’

There were now too many red lights to count. They were still overwhelmed by the green lights, but the inevitability of the process was now painfully apparent.

‘How long . . .?’ Aumonier asked, voicing the question none of them wanted answering.

‘Fewer than half the states in the Glitter Band retain any kind of manufacturing capacity,’ Baudry said, ‘but that’s still over four thousand habitats. Aurora will have taken them all a few hours into the twelfth day. Even if we still hold the remainder by then, we’ll lose them very quickly. Aurora will have over four thousand weevil-production sites to turn against us. I doubt that we’d retain a single habitat by the end of the thirteenth day.’ She swallowed heavily. ‘That includes Panoply.’

‘And that assumption of twenty-six hours—’ Dreyfus began.

‘It’s guesswork, a number I pulled out of the air. Perhaps it’ll take longer than that. But even if it takes four days to leapfrog from one habitat to the next, she’ll still have beaten us within two months. It’s anyone’s guess how long Chasm City will be able to hold out, but I wouldn’t put odds on it lasting much longer than the Glitter Band.’

‘We can do something, though, surely,’ Aumonier said.

Baudry’s expression was that of someone burdened with terrible news. She reminded Dreyfus of a doctor about to deliver the most devastating of verdicts. ‘We can do something, yes. Now, while Aurora is still gaining a foothold, and before her efforts touch us. Let’s rewind the simulation back to day zero, today.’

Now there were just four habitats highlighted in red. ‘The weevil flows have reached Brazilia, and will make contact with Flammarion any minute now.’ Baudry glanced uneasily at her bracelet. ‘But for the next few hours - maybe even as long as a day - we’re only looking at four points of potential spread, if we assume the new habitats can be geared up to weevil production.’ Baudry tightened her fingers against each other. ‘Aurora is at her most vulnerable now. She has revealed herself, and therefore already played the element of surprise. But she has not yet consolidated enough territory to truly overwhelm us.’

‘I thought you said we were already overwhelmed by the weevils,’ said Senior Prefect Clearmountain.

‘I’m not talking about dealing with the weevils,’ Baudry answered. ‘I’m talking about taking out the production centres.’

Clearmountain looked unimpressed. ‘This isn’t surgery,’ he said, looking around the table at the others. ‘You can’t just take out a manufactory and somehow leave the rest of the habitat intact.’

‘I’m aware of that,’ Baudry said, with icy control.

He blinked. ‘Then you’re talking about—’

‘Mass euthanisation, yes. We nuke the infected habitats. If this was the easy option, do you honestly think I’d have waited until now before raising it?’

‘It’s murder.’

‘We’d be sacrificing a certain number of lives to ensure the survival of vastly more. You saw that simulation I just ran, Senior. Within two months we’ll have lost everything. She could be all over us in as little as thirteen days if my earlier assessment was correct. Maybe we don’t even have that long. That’s one hundred million lives. If we target both Brazilia and Flammarion now, we’ll only be losing six hundred and fifty thousand people. Include Szlumper Oneill and House Aubusson and we’re still talking about less than two per cent of the total number of citizens in our care.’

‘You’re talking as if two per cent is a blip,’ said Clearmountain incredulously.

‘With all due respect,’ Baudry answered, ‘this is war. There isn’t a general in history who wouldn’t snatch at the possibility of victory if it could be guaranteed with less than one casualty for every fifty combatants.’

‘But they’re not combatants,’ Dreyfus said testily. ‘They’re citizens, and they didn’t sign up to be part of anyone’s war.’

‘The balance of numbers still holds,’ Baudry said. ‘Strike now and we’ll be saving many tens of millions of lives. We have to consider this, ladies and gentlemen. We’re in dereliction of duty if we don’t.’

‘It’s monstrous,’ Clearmountain said.

‘So is the prospect of losing the ten thousand,’ Baudry replied.

‘But would we necessarily be losing one hundred million lives?’ asked Aumonier. ‘Gaffney told Dreyfus that Aurora was interested in a benign takeover. The life-support systems in Aubusson and the three other habitats are still running: we’d have seen the evidence otherwise. That suggests to me that Aurora has at least the intention of keeping her subjects alive and healthy.’

‘Human shields aren’t much use unless they’re alive,’ Baudry said.

‘But we still have to consider the possibility that she intends to keep her subjects alive for ever. If her stated goal is to ensure the long-term survival of the Glitter Band, she’s not going to start murdering people.’ Aumonier’s eyes became glazed, as if she was looking at something far beyond the room. ‘Oh, wait,’ said her floating head. ‘Something’s coming in from Flammarion. They’ve made contact.’

Bracelets started chiming. The prefects silenced them and studied the Solid Orrery as it enlarged a thimble-shaped representation of House Flammarion.

‘Status on Brazilia?’ Dreyfus asked.

Aumonier glanced away, then back at him. ‘The anti-collision guns have been picking off one weevil in ten. The rest are getting through more or less undamaged. They’ve established six bridge-heads on the outer skin of the wheel. Our assets have been concentrating fire, but some weevils appear to be making it through into the underlying structure.’

‘Pressure containment?’

‘Still holding. It looks as if the machines are at least programmed to break inside without compromising biosphere integrity.’

It would go the same way with Flammarion, Dreyfus knew. The concentration of weevils might not be exactly the same, the anti-collision systems might prove more or less successful at intercepting the arriving forces, but it would make no practical difference in the long run. It would only take a handful of those war robots to storm their way through the citizenry, scything a bloody path to the polling core. And then they would open a door and Aurora, or some facet of Aurora, could pass through.

‘How many did we get off Brazilia?’

‘Eleven thousand on the commercial shuttles that were already docked. Three from Flammarion.’

‘Aurora’s reliant on data networks to hop into those habitats,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Before we start nuking our own citizens, can we block her progress by taking down part of the network?’

Baudry grimaced. ‘It’s all or nothing, Tom.’

‘Then we take the whole damned thing down.’

‘We don’t know for sure that that would stop Aurora, but it would definitely hurt us. We need the apparatus to track Aurora’s spread, to coordinate evacuation operations and the deployment of our own assets.’

‘Nonetheless,’ Aumonier said, ‘Tom is right. Taking down Bandwide abstraction is something we have to consider. In fact, I’ve been considering it ever since I became aware of the crisis. We shouldn’t underestimate the risks, though. We may slow Aurora, but we’ll more than likely blind ourselves in the process.’

‘Use the nukes and we end this now,’ Baudry said. ‘Aurora may not be intending to kill people, but she definitely intends to take their freedom from them.’

Dreyfus clutched his stylus so tightly that the nib pushed into his palm and drew blood. ‘There’s another option, while we still have the apparatus. A given habitat may not be able to fight off the weevils, but at the moment we still have the resources of the entire Glitter Band to call upon.’

‘I’m not with you, Tom,’ Baudry said.

‘I say we table an emergency poll with the people. We request permission to draft and mobilise a temporary militia from across the entire Glitter Band.’

‘Define “militia”.’

‘I mean millions of citizens, armed and equipped with whatever weapons their manufactories can produce in the next thirteen hours. They already have the ships, so moving them around won’t be a problem. If we can supply them with weapons blueprints, then place enough of them into the compromised habitats, and into the habitats we think Aurora will go for next, together with military-grade servitors under our control, we may be able to break her back without using nukes.’

Baudry looked regretful. ‘You’re talking about citizens, Tom, not soldiers.’

‘You were the one calling them combatants, not me.’

‘They have no training, no equipment—’

‘The manufactories’ll give them equipment. Eidetics will give them training. Prefects can lead small units of drafted citizens.’

‘There are a hundred million citizens out there, Tom, ninety-eight per cent of whom face no immediate threat from Aurora. Do you honestly think many of them are going to race to throw themselves against those weevils?’

‘I think we should at least give them the choice. We won’t be proposing to draft the entire citizenry. Ten million would give us an overwhelming advantage, especially if they’re backed up by servitors. That’s only one citizen in ten, Lillian. The majority can agree to our draft safe in the knowledge that they’re not likely to be called up.’

‘Do you want to put some numbers on casualty estimates?’ Baudry asked. ‘One in ten, two in ten? Worse than that?’

Dreyfus tapped his stylus against the table. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Lose two million and you’ll have killed more people than if we go in now with nukes.’

‘But it would be two million people who chose to put themselves on the line, for the greater good of the Glitter Band, rather than two million we press the button on just because some simulation says so.’

‘Maybe we can come to some kind of compromise,’ Aumonier said, her crystal-clear voice cutting through the tension between Dreyfus and Baudry. ‘We all find the idea of nuking habitats abhorrent, even if we differ on the necessity of doing so.’

‘Agreed,’ Baudry said cautiously.

‘Which criteria did you use to identify Aurora’s next targets?’ Aumonier asked.

‘Proximity and usefulness, with allowance for varying distances due to differential orbital velocities. I reasoned that Aurora would concentrate her efforts on the nearest habitats with manufacturing capability.’

‘Sounds reasonable to me,’ Aumonier said. ‘The question is, can we get the people out of those habitats before the weevils arrive from those that are now under assault?’

‘You mean evacuate and then nuke?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘If we can do it, we’ll be clearing a line in a forest. Aurora’s weevils may well be able to cross that line and leapfrog to even further habitats, but at least it’ll have bought us time, with no expenditure of human lives.’

‘If we get them out in time,’ Clearmountain said.

‘We can’t be certain which habitats she’ll go for,’ Baudry said, pointing at the Solid Orrery. ‘I selected likely candidates, but I couldn’t be precise.’

‘Then we’ll have to cover more bases.’ Aumonier said. ‘I’m going to initiate an emergency evacuation order for ten probable targets.’

Dreyfus said, ‘I suggest we concentrate any enforcement activities on one habitat, just to show we mean business. The others will hopefully assume we’re capable of dishing out the same treatment to them.’

‘I agree,’ Aumonier replied. ‘The one thing the people mustn’t suspect is that we’re overstretched. As for assistance in the evacuation effort, I’ll go through CTC. They can requisition and re-route all spaceborne traffic without the need for a poll. We’ll be limited by ship capacity and docking hub throughput, but we’ll just have to do the best we can.’ She looked directly at Baudry. ‘I want the names of ten habitats, Lillian. Immediately.’

‘I’d like to re-run the simulation, varying the parameters a little,’ Baudry said.

‘There isn’t time. Just give me those names.’

Baudry’s mouth fell open, as if she was about to say something but the words had suddenly escaped her. She reached for her stylus and compad and started compiling the list, her hand shaking with the momentous enormity of what she was doing.

‘How long are you going to give them?’ Dreyfus asked. ‘Before you go in with the nukes, I mean.’

‘We can’t wait a day,’ Aumonier said. ‘That would be too long, too risky. I think thirteen hours is a reasonable compromise, don’t you?’

She knew that it could not be done, Dreyfus thought. Save for the tiniest family-run microstates, there was no habitat in the Glitter Band that could be emptied of people that quickly. Even if evacuation vehicles were docked and ready, even if the citizens were briefed and prepared, ready to leave their world in an orderly and calm fashion, a world that many of them would have spent their entire lives in.

It just couldn’t be done. But at least those people would have a chance of getting out, rather than none at all. That was all Jane was counting on.

‘I have those names,’ Baudry said.

Aumonier floated rock-still, anchored in space at the epicentre of her own sensory universe. Most of her feeds were blanked out, leaving a bright equatorial strip focusing only on those twenty-five or thirty habitats at immediate or peripheral risk from Aurora’s takeover. The views kept shuffling, playing havoc with Dreyfus’s sense of his own orientation.

‘We’re going to lose Brazilia and Flammarion,’ she said, by way of acknowledging his presence. ‘Weevils are deep inside both habitats and the local citizenry can’t hold them back. They’ve already taken appalling losses, and all they’ve done is slow their approach to the polling cores.’

Dreyfus said nothing, sensing that Aumonier was not finished. Eventually she asked: ‘Did they get anything out of Gaffney?’

‘Not much. I’ve just read the initial summary from the trawl squad.’

‘And?’

‘They’ve cleared up at least one mystery. We know how he moved Clepsydra from the bubble to my quarters. He used a nonvelope.’

‘I’m not familiar with the term,’ Aumonier said.

‘It’s an invisibility device. A shell of quickmatter with a degree of autonomy and the ability to conceal itself from superficial observation. You put something in it you don’t want people to find.’

‘Sounds like exactly the sort of thing that should be banned by any right-thinking society. How did he get hold of it?’

‘From Anthony Theobald Ruskin-Sartorious, apparently. Anthony Theobald must have procured it through his black-market arms contacts. He used the nonvelope to escape from his habitat just before it was torched by Dravidian’s ship.’

Aumonier frowned slightly. ‘But Anthony Theobald didn’t escape. All you had to interview was his beta-level copy.’

‘Gaffney knew differently, apparently. He intercepted the nonvelope before it fell into the hands of Anthony Theobald’s allies.’

‘And then what?’

‘He cracked it open. Then he ran a trawl on Anthony Theobald to see if he could find out where the thing Ruskin-Sartorious was sheltering had got to.’

‘Voi. Gaffney trawled him?’ Reading her expression, Dreyfus could imagine what was going through her mind. It was one thing to be trawled inside Panoply, where strict rules were in force. It was another to receive the same treatment elsewhere, inflicted by a man acting outside the bounds of the law who cared nothing for the consequences of his actions.

‘He didn’t get as much information as he was hoping for, unfortunately. ’

‘I presume he kept digging until he’d burnt away Anthony Theobald’s brain?’

‘That’s the odd thing,’ Dreyfus said. ‘He appears to have held back at the last. He got something out of the man, enough for him to stop before he burnt him out completely.’

‘Why didn’t he go all the way if he thought there was something more to gain?’

‘Because Gaffney doesn’t see himself as a monster. He’s a prefect, still doing his job, still sticking to his principles while the rest of us betray the cause. He killed Clepsydra because he had no other option. He killed the people in Ruskin-Sartorious for the same reason. But he’s not an indiscriminate murderer. He’s still thinking about the tens of millions he’s going to save.’

‘What else did he get?’

‘That was where the trawl team hit resistance. Gaffney really didn’t want to give up whatever he had learned from Anthony Theobald. But they got a word.’

‘Tell me.’

‘Firebrand.’

Aumonier nodded very slowly. She said the word herself, as if testing how it sounded coming from her own lips. ‘Did the summary team have anything to say about this word?’

‘To them it was meaningless noise. Firebrand could be a weapon, a ship, an agent, anything. Or it could be the name of the puppy he owned when he was five.’

‘Do you have any theories?’

‘I’m inclined to think it’s just noise: either noise that came out of Anthony Theobald, which Gaffney assumed was significant, or noise that came out of Gaffney. I ran a search on the word. Lots of priors, but nothing that raised any flags.’

‘There wouldn’t have been any,’ Aumonier said.

Dreyfus heard something in her tone of voice that he hadn’t been expecting. ‘Because it’s meaningless?’

‘No. It’s anything but. Firebrand has a very specific meaning, especially in a Panoply context.’

Dreyfus shook his head emphatically. ‘Nothing came up, Jane.’

‘That’s because we’re talking about an operational secret so highly classified that even Gaffney wouldn’t have known about it. It’s superblack, screened from all possible scrutiny even within the organisation.’

‘Are you going to enlighten me?’

‘Firebrand was a cell within Panoply,’ Aumonier said. ‘It was created eleven years ago to study and exploit any remaining artefacts connected with the Clockmaker affair.’

‘You mean the clocks, the musical boxes?’

She answered with superhuman calm, taking no pleasure in contradicting him. ‘More than that. The Clockmaker created other things during its spree. The public record holds that none of these artefacts survived, but in reality a handful of them were recovered. They were small things, of unknown purpose, but because they had been made by the Clockmaker, they were considered too unique to destroy. At least not until we’d studied them, worked out what they were and how we could apply that data to the future security of the Glitter Band.’ Before he could get a word in, she said: ‘Don’t hate us for doing that, Tom. We had a duty to learn everything we could. We didn’t know where the Clockmaker had come from. Because we didn’t understand it, we couldn’t rule out the possibility of another one arising. If that ever happened, we owed it to the citizenry to be prepared.’

‘And?’ he asked. ‘Are we?’

‘I instigated Firebrand. The cell was answerable only to me, and for a couple of years I permitted it to operate in absolute secrecy within Panoply.’

‘How come Gaffney didn’t know about it?’

‘Gaffney’s predecessor knew - we couldn’t have set it up without some cooperation from Security - but when he handed over the reins there was no need to inform Gaffney. By then the cell was self-sufficient, operating within Panoply but completely isolated from the usual mechanisms of oversight and surveillance. And that was how things continued for a couple of years.’

‘What happened then?’

‘There was an accident: one of the seemingly dead artefacts reactivated itself. It killed half the cell before the rest brought it under control. When the news reached me, I took the decision to shut down Firebrand. I realised then that no benefits could outweigh the risks of allowing those artefacts to remain in existence. I ordered all the remains to be destroyed, all the records to be deleted and the cell itself to be disbanded. Those involved were dispersed back to normal duties, resuming the jobs they’d never officially left.’

‘And?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘Shortly after, I received confirmation that my orders had been implemented. The cell was no more. The artefacts had been destroyed.’

‘But that was nine years ago. Why would Firebrand come up again now?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Someone’s stirring up old ghosts, Jane. If Firebrand is really connected with Panoply, how did Anthony Theobald know about it?’

‘We don’t know for sure that he did. That could be a rogue inference from the trawl.’

‘Or it could explain why Gaffney was so interested in the Ruskin-Sartorious family,’ Dreyfus said. ‘You shut down that cell, Jane. But what if the cell had other ideas?’

Her eyes flashed nervously. ‘I’m not with you.’

‘Try this on for size. The people running that cell decided their work was too important to be closed down, no matter what you thought. They told you it was all over for Firebrand. But what if they just relocated their efforts?’

‘I’d have known.’

‘You already told me this cell was damn near untraceable,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Can you really be sure they couldn’t have kept it running without your knowledge?’

‘They’d never have done such a thing.’

‘But what if they believed they were acting in the right? You clearly thought there was a justification for Firebrand when you started it. What if the people inside thought those reasons were still valid, even after you tried to kill it?’

‘They were loyal to me,’ Aumonier said.

‘I don’t doubt it. But you’d already set a bad example, Jane. You’d shown them that deception was acceptable, in the interests of the common good. What if they decided that they had to deceive you, to keep the cell operational?’

For a long moment Aumonier said nothing, as if Dreyfus’s words had not just stunned her, but undermined her every certainty. ‘I told them to put a stop to it,’ she said, so quietly that Dreyfus would not have caught the words had he not already attuned himself to her voice. ‘I ordered them to end Firebrand.’

‘It appears they thought differently.’

‘But why would all this surface now, Tom? What does any of this have to do with Anthony Theobald, or Gaffney, or Aurora?’

‘There was something in the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble that had to be destroyed,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Something that even we didn’t realise was there, but which Aurora considered an impediment to her plans, something that had to be removed before she could begin the takeover.’

‘You think Firebrand relocated to the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble nine years ago.’

‘If you’d pulled the plug on the cell, it would have been too difficult for them to remain operational inside Panoply, especially if something went wrong again. Too risky to relocate elsewhere in the system, either, since that would have involved travel they couldn’t easily explain away as routine Panoply business. So why not another habitat? Somewhere close enough to be easily reachable, but still discreet enough to contain something so secret even we didn’t know about it?’

‘What would Anthony Theobald’s involvement have been?’

‘I don’t know,’ Dreyfus said, still getting things straight in his head. ‘Did he have any prior connection with Firebrand?’

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Then he was probably just told to keep his mouth shut in return for certain favours. Whatever those favours were, it looks as if he was prepared to screw his own family to safeguard them. He was the only one who bailed out, just before the Bubble was destroyed. I’m assuming your cell had ready access to funds, without going through the usual channels?’

‘Like I said, it was superblack. If they needed something - resources, equipment, expertise - they got it, no questions asked.’

‘Then I imagine they could have made someone like Anthony Theobald very comfortable indeed.’

‘He must have had advance warning that the Bubble was going to be hit,’ Aumonier said.

‘Or he was good at putting two and two together. According to Gaffney’s trawl, Firebrand moved out of the Bubble at the last minute. They must have received intelligence that someone was closing in on them, trying to hunt down the Clockmaker artefacts.’

‘Aurora,’ Aumonier said.

‘Almost certainly. Whatever it was was enough to scare them out of hiding. Maybe they tipped off Anthony Theobald: get your family out of here now, while you can, that kind of thing. Then change your identities and lie low for a couple of centuries, until the trail goes cold. But Anthony Theobald obviously decided to prioritise the saving of his own neck instead.’

‘Except Gaffney was cleverer.’

‘We need to find out who’s still running Firebrand, Jane. Something they were holding in that Bubble scared Aurora really badly. For obvious reasons I’m interested in finding out what it was.’

‘If it still exists.’

‘They didn’t destroy it nine years ago. Chances are they didn’t destroy it this time, either. They moved it somewhere. Find someone with ties to Firebrand and we’ll have a shot at getting hold of the artefacts.’

‘That might not be easy.’

‘It’s all we have. I need names, Jane. Everyone who was part of the original Firebrand cell, when you closed it down. You remember, don’t you?’

‘Of course,’ she said, apparently dismayed that he even had to ask. ‘I committed them to memory. What are you going to do with them?’

‘Ask hard questions,’ Dreyfus said.

Thalia and Parnasse were alone beneath the lowest public level of the polling core sphere. They’d been down to these corridors and rooms once before, scouting for barricade material, but the expedition had been largely fruitless. Thalia had not expected to be making a return trip into the unwelcoming space, and certainly not with the destructive intention that was now occupying her thoughts. She was grateful that Parnasse knew his way around. Although it was now full daylight outside, very little of that light reached these gloomily lit sub-levels.

‘Now we go deeper,’ he said, pausing to lever up a floor hatch that Thalia would never have noticed. ‘Gonna be a bit dusty and dark down here, but you’ll cope. Just try not to make too much noise. The elevator, polling core conduit and stairwell rise right through this part of the sphere, and there’s only a few centimetres of material between us and them. I don’t think the machines have got this high yet, but we don’t want to take chances, do we, girl?’

‘If they get this high,’ Thalia said, ‘what’s to stop them breaking through the walls and bypassing our barricade completely?’

‘Nothing, if they get the idea into their thick metal heads. That’s why it might be an idea for us not to make too much noise.’ He lowered himself into the underfloor space, then extended a hand to help Thalia down.

‘How did Meriel Redon take it, by the way?’ she asked as she pushed her legs into the darkness.

‘She thought I was taking the piss.’

Thalia’s feet touched metal flooring. ‘And afterwards, when you explained it was my idea?’

‘She changed her mind. She thought you were taking the piss. But I think I brought her round in the end. Like you say, it’s not as if we really want to take our chances with those servitors.’

‘No,’ Thalia said, grimly resigned. ‘That we don’t. Did you see any sign that anyone else has noticed the military-grade machines?’

He kept his voice low. ‘I don’t think so. Cuthbertson started nosing around the windows, but I managed to steer him away before he saw anything.’

‘That’s good. The citizens are spooked enough as it is, without having to deal with the thought of war robots. I don’t expect I have to tell you what those machines would be capable of doing to unarmed civilians.’

‘No, got enough of an imagination on me for that,’ Parnasse said, taking a kind of grim pleasure in the remark. ‘What do you think they’re going to do - try coming up the inside, like the others?’

‘No need. These machines are designed for assault and infiltration. They wouldn’t need to climb the stairs to reach the polling core. They can come up the outside, even if they have to form a siege tower with their own bodies.’

‘They don’t seem to have started climbing yet.’

‘Must be evaluating the situation, working out how to take us down as quickly as possible. But we can’t count on them dithering for ever. You’d better show me where to cut.’

‘This way,’ Parnasse whispered, pushing Thalia’s head down so that she did not knock it against a ceiling strut. ‘You might want to put those glasses of yours on,’ he added.

‘What about you?’

‘I know my way. You just take care of yourself.’

Thalia slipped the glasses on. The image amplifier threw grainy shapes against her eyes. She clicked in the infrared overlay and locked on to Parnasse’s blob-like form, following his every move as if they were passing through a minefield. As silently as they could, they negotiated a forest of crisscrossing struts and utility ducts, descending slowly until they reached the trunk-like intrusion of the three service shafts Parnasse had already described. Thalia had a clear sense that they’d reached the base of the sphere, for she could see where the curve of the outer skin met the top of the stalk. Surrounding the cluster of service shafts was a series of heavy-looking buttresses, arcing back over Thalia’s head into the depths of the chamber. Wordlessly, Parnasse touched a finger against one of the spoke-like buttresses. It was as thick as her thigh.

‘That’s what I have to cut?’ she asked.

‘Not just this one,’ he whispered back. ‘There are eighteen of these, and you’re going to have to take care of at least nine if we’re to have a hope of toppling.’

‘Nine!’ she hissed back.

He raised a shushing finger to his lips. ‘I didn’t say you had to cut through ’em all. You cut through four or five, say two on either side of this fellow, and you cut partway through another two on either side, and that should be enough. We want to make damned sure the sphere topples in the right direction.’

‘I know,’ Thalia said, resenting the fact that he felt she needed reminding.

‘You want that magic sword of yours?’

‘No time like the present.’

Parnasse passed her the thick bundle he’d made of the whiphound. Between them, they unwrapped the insulating layers, then re-wrapped the cool outer part around the scorching-hot shaft of the handle. Her hands trembling as they had done before, Thalia took the damaged weapon and prayed that the filament would extend for her one more time.

Then she started cutting.

Not for the first time, Jane Aumonier found herself both awed and frightened by the submarine processes of her own mind. She had scarcely given the names of the Firebrand operatives more than a second’s thought in nine years, but the process of recall was as automatic and swift as some well-engineered dispensing machine. She dictated the names to Dreyfus while he scratched them into a compad, floating at the end of the safe-distance tether. He always looked awkward when writing, as if it was a skill his hands had not quite evolved for.

When he was done he left her alone, the past amok in her head, while the weevil-class war robots rampaged through the gilded plazas of Carousel New Brazilia.

Many public data feeds had been severed, but the habitat would not be completely isolated until the weevils reached the polling core. The cams would maintain their dispassionate vigilance until that final moment of transmission, even as the streets turned slippery with citizens’ blood, congealing too thickly to be absorbed by the municipal quickmatter. The war robots moved very fast once they were inside the airtight environment of the wheel-shaped structure. They tumbled out of doorways and ramps in a slurry of dark armour, their traction legs a furious grey-black blur. They whisked through plazas and atria in a rampaging column of thrashing metal, as if lumpy black tar was being poured along the alleys and boulevards of the habitat’s great public spaces, a tar that ate and dissolved people as it swept over them. It looked disorganised, almost random, until Aumonier slowed down the time rate and studied the invasion in the accelerated frame of machine perception. Then she saw how fiercely systematic the invaders were, how efficient and regimented. They cut down the citizens with brutal precision, but only when they were directly opposed. Bystanders, or those running in panic, were left quite alone provided they offered no immediate obstruction to the weevils. Local constables, recognisable by their armbands and activated from amongst the citizenry under the usual emergency measures, were taking the brunt of the casualties. The constables’ non-lethal weapons were hopelessly ineffective against the war machines, but still they tried to slow down the invading force, spraying the weevils with immobilising foam or sticky netting. Using their special constabulory authority, they tried to conjure barricades out of the ambient quickmatter, but their efforts were panicked and ineffective. The weevils barged through the obstacles as if they were no more substantial than cobwebs. Most of the constables ran for cover as soon as they’d used their weapons or conjured obstacles, but a few stood their ground and paid a predictable price. Death, when it came, was always mercifully quick - Aumonier remembered what Baudry had told them about the weevils carrying anatomical knowledge - but while there appeared to be no specific cruelty in the machines’ actions, that did not make the process of invasion any less horrific.

The polling core in Carousel New Brazilia lay at the heart of a dizzying multi-tiered atrium crisscrossed by railingless pedestrian bridges. Here the constables had converged from all over the wheel, ready for a courageous last stand. They’d taken up defensive positions around the core, covering the endpoints of all the bridges. In addition to their usual non-lethal weapons, some of them now carried heavier armaments dispensed under the emergency provisions. Aumonier watched as a trio of constables tried to assemble some kind of tripod-mounted cannon, two of them arguing over the right way to attach the angled blast screen. By the time they had the cannon operational, the weevils were already crossing the bridges from the surrounding galleries. The constables opened fire, their gun chugging silently as it spewed out low-velocity munitions, trailing banners of pink smoke. It made no practical difference. Weevils were constructed for the rigours of vacuum warfare, hardened to withstand direct hits from high-energy pulses or penetrating slugs. The constables managed to dislodge a couple of the robots, sending them plummeting from the bridges, but it was as nothing compared to the numbers still crossing. Belatedly, some of the constables realised that they had the authority to conjure gaps in the bridges, and a couple of them ran bravely out into the middle to issue the necessary close-proximity commands. The bridges puckered apart, like strands of toffee being pulled too hard.

But by then it was much too late. The weevils bridged the openings with their own bodies, locking together while other machines flowed over them. They flung the retreating constables aside, into the open space of the atrium. The constables fell with silent screams.

Then the weevils were at the polling core. Aumonier watched until the last bitter instant, until the cam feeds greyed out, filling with static and cascading error messages.

Panoply had just lost Carousel New Brazilia. Aurora now held five habitats.

Aumonier switched her attention to House Flammarion, where the weevils were only just beginning to reach the interior. Something compelled her to watch, as if the futile but dignified resistance of the constables demanded a witness, even though she could do nothing to affect the outcome.

Before very long Aurora held her sixth prize.

CHAPTER 24

It was the first time Dreyfus had returned to his quarters since his release from detention. He knew that the forensics team had worked the place over with their customary thoroughness, removing every atom of Clepsydra that had not already been digested by the quickmatter. And yet he could not shake the sense that this temporarily allocated space - it was now functioning as his living room - remained unclean, materially despoiled by the act of her murder. Death had visited in his absence, stroked his furniture, made himself at home and left a sour mortuary smell that mostly lingered just below conscious detection.

Dreyfus conjured thick, hot coffee and enveloped himself in a cloud of bitter aroma. He sat back in his usual chair and brought the compad to life. He had not looked at the names until this moment since Jane had dictated them to him, and even now he angled the compad steeply to his chest, as if someone might be looking over his shoulder. It was a pointless gesture - it made no more sense than the smell - but he was equally incapable of suppressing it. Even though he was engaged on Panoply business, even though the names had been divulged by the supreme prefect herself, he felt a furtive sense of wrongness.

He sipped the coffee. It rushed down his throat, acrid and black, and for a moment he forgot Clepsydra.

There were eight names. He had no doubt that these were the eight original members of Firebrand, assuming that Aumonier herself was not to be counted amongst them. He recognised all of the names, too, and could even put faces to some of them. Panoply’s compartmentalised structure, with each field prefect being assigned a tightly knit team of deputies, ensured that there was only limited communication between field units. Units with very different field assignments might go years before their members met.

And yet he knew these eight names and could put faces - blurred, admittedly - to five of them.

He read them again, just to make sure he wasn’t missing something obvious:

Lansing Chen (FPIII)

Xavier Valloton (DFPIII)

Eloise Dassault (DFPIII)

Riyoko Chadwick (FPI)

Murray Vos (FPII)

Simon Veitch (FPII)

Paula Saavedra (FPIII)

Gilbert Knerr (DFPII)

But there’d been no mistake, and the more he thought about the names the more he convinced himself he could put at least sketchy faces to all of them, not just the five he’d thought of first. Veitch in particular - that name loomed larger in his memory than the others for some reason. But he couldn’t think of a case or training exercise where he’d worked with any of them. The faces, such as they were, hung in contextless limbo, like portraits where the background had only been roughed-in.

What now? he wondered. Save the flicker of recognition he’d felt upon seeing Veitch’s name, there was no single prefect who jumped out at him as an obvious starting point. But it would definitely help his cause if at least some of them were actually inside Panoply at the moment.

Using Pangolin clearance, Dreyfus pinged the locations of all eight names. Bracelets tracked prefects inside Panoply, and duty schedules and flight plans dictated what they were up to when they were outside. It wasn’t foolproof - Gaffney had proved that - but it was the only tool available, and Dreyfus had to trust that Gaffney’s replacement was working for the organisation, not against it.

The pings came back almost instantly, together with recent images and bio snapshots.

Six of the eight, including Veitch, were indeed outside Panoply, on what appeared to be plausible errands. Nothing too fishy about that: they were field prefects, after all. The other two - Lansing Chen and Paula Saavedra - were supposedly somewhere inside the rock, on normal downtime between duties. Dreyfus used additional Pangolin clearance to dig through Chen and Saavedra’s duty schedules for the last few days. No surprises there: like most prefects who weren’t already tied to high-priority assignments, they’d been outside fighting fires between the Glitter Band and the Parking Swarm. Pulling triple shifts, too. Dreyfus couldn’t speak for these two in particular, but most of the prefects who’d returned to Panoply were in need of that downtime.

Pangolin clearance gave him sleep schedules. Chen and Saavedra were both meant to be awake by now. Again using Pangolin, but this time running an appreciably greater risk of detection, Dreyfus had the system locate the two prefects. He’d been hoping to catch them alone, but that wasn’t to be. The two were apparently sitting together in the main refectory. It was as good a place to start as any.

Dreyfus finished his coffee and slugged the cup back into the floor.

Dreyfus paused at the entrance to the refectory, casting his gaze over the assembled prefects gathered there to eat, drink, exchange professional gossip and simply pass the time of day between shifts. The tables, mostly unoccupied, bent upwards in long, low lines, following the gentle curvature of the floor. As was the case in the refectory during certain shift cycles, the lights had been dimmed to a drowsy, candlelit level of illumination. Prefects, all of whom were wearing their uniforms, were gathered in clots of blackness, most of them sitting in groups at the tables. Some were returning from the serving hatches with trays and cups. Others were standing in ones and twos at the display panes that smothered the refectory’s walls. At any other time they’d have been reading case summaries and ongoing investigation reports, getting a feel for the work their colleagues were engaged in, but now the panes had been given over to a running analysis of the Aurora crisis. They were filled with multiple images of the six habitats she had now taken, all external views since there were no longer any active internal feeds. Other panes showed images and diagrams of weevils, coupled with views of the spaceborne containment effort. Few of the prefects in this room knew more than the basic details of the crisis - Aurora’s identity was still a Pangolin-only operational secret - but all of them were aware of the severity of the situation.

Including Chen and Saavedra. He found them sitting together in the far corner of the room, at the very end of a row of tables, a long way from any other prefects. They were facing each other, leaning together in a worried, conspiratorial manner that left Dreyfus in no doubt that he was looking at two elements of Firebrand. The other prefects were concerned, no doubt about it, but they were also animated and enthused by the exigencies of the crisis. It was giving them a chance to prove themselves, to compete for promotional favours. But Chen and Saavedra just looked scared, like a pair of illicit lovers convinced they were about to be found out.

Dreyfus moved through the room to the nearest vacant serving slot. The aproned human orderly behind the slot was a deliberate touch. People came to the refectory because they had some profound psychological need not to eat alone or be served by a machine. The food might have been created using the same quickmatter processes utilised elsewhere, but at least it was handed over on a warm china plate, by a living person.

But Dreyfus just asked for an apple and a glass of water. As he strolled away from the slot, he polished the apple against the fabric of his trousers. He ambled between the tables, acknowledging those prefects who looked up or spoke to him, but offering nothing more than a distracted nod in return.

Chen and Saavedra still hadn’t noticed his approach. What had looked like a lovers’ tiff from a distance revealed itself to be a full-blown, heated argument as he neared. They were conducting the argument in whispers, but their expressions and the tension in their gestures gave them away. At first he wondered why they’d chosen to meet in the refectory rather than in the seclusion of their rooms. But if they’d been called upon to explain their meeting, at least the refectory allowed the possibility of an accidental encounter.

He rounded the end of one of the tables. Now he was closer to the two than anyone else in the room. He raised his apple and took a crunching bite through the emerald-green skin of the perfectly spherical fruit. Chen looked up, registering less surprise than mild affront that Dreyfus should dare to invade their privacy. Lansing Chen was still a youthful man with a broad, high-cheekboned face and thick black hair that he wore carefully parted.

‘Prefect,’ he said, friendly enough, but not in such a way as to sound as if he was inviting Dreyfus to sit down with them.

‘Lansing,’ Dreyfus said, taking another bite from the apple. ‘Mind if I join you?’

The woman, Paula Saavedra, flashed unmasked animosity in Dreyfus’s direction. She was thin and bony, like the articulated wooden dolls artists used instead of human models. Everything about her was pale, washed out, as if she’d spent too long under very bright lights. Even her eyes were colourless, as if the ink in them had faded from whatever colour it had once been.

‘Actually, Prefect—’ she began.

That was when Dreyfus heard footsteps behind him and felt a hand land on his shoulder. ‘Tom,’ he heard a voice say. ‘I’m glad I found you. Had to invoke Pangolin. I almost didn’t believe it when it said you were in the refectory. This was about the last place I expected you to be.’

Dreyfus snapped around, prepared to be angered until he saw that the man who had spoken was the lantern-jawed Demikhov. ‘Doctor,’ he said quietly. ‘Actually, would you mind . . . I’m in the middle of something right now.’

Demikhov nodded understandingly. ‘So are we all, Tom. But you and I need to talk right now. Trust me on this, okay?’

Dreyfus studied the doctor’s fatigue-mapped face. He’d never once known Demikhov overstate the seriousness of an issue. Whatever the man wanted to discuss, it was clearly urgent.

‘What’s it about?’ Dreyfus asked, still keeping his voice low.

‘Have a guess, Tom.’

‘Jane?’

‘There’s been a development. Not a good one. We have to make a very difficult decision and I need your input. Immediately, Tom. Can you come down to the Sleep Lab?’

‘It’s okay, Prefect,’ Lansing Chen said, standing up from the table with a scrape of chair against floor. ‘Paula and I were just leaving anyway.’

‘I’d like to see you back here in an hour,’ Dreyfus said, tapping his bracelet.

‘Is something the matter, Field Prefect Dreyfus?’ Chen asked innocently, but obviously reminding Dreyfus that they shared exactly the same rank.

‘Yeah. Something’s the matter. And in sixty minutes we’re going to have a chat about it.’ He turned his attention to the woman. ‘You too, Field Prefect Saavedra.’ He watched them flounce out of the refectory, leaving their trays and food on the table.

‘I’m sorry to have interrupted you,’ Demikhov said, while Dreyfus swigged down the water and threw the remains of the apple onto Chen’s dinner tray. ‘But please believe me - I wouldn’t have disturbed you were it not regarding an issue of the utmost concern.’

In the Sleep Lab Demikhov said, ‘How was Jane the last time you spoke to her?’

Dreyfus rubbed at the back of his neck. ‘Compared to what?’

‘The time before. Or how she was last week.’

‘She wasn’t too happy. Understandably, since she’d been removed from power.’ He raised a reassuring hand. ‘Don’t worry, Doctor. I don’t hold you responsible for that. You were just doing your job, looking after Jane’s ultimate health. I can guess how manipulative Gaffney must have been.’

‘It wasn’t just Gaffney. It was Crissel and Baudry, too.’

‘Well, Crissel got to make amends. And while I might not approve of the decisions Baudry says we have to make, I can see that she’s just trying to discharge her obligations.’

‘Back to Jane - did you notice anything else? Did she appear to be under a higher degree of stress than usual?’

‘Well, let’s review the situation. We’ve now lost control of six habitats, four of which have weevil-manufacturing capacity. The agency that now has control of them is poised to grab another four habitats inside the next twenty-six hours, maybe sooner. We’ll soon be in double figures, and then it won’t be long before we hit triple figures. We’re running a mass-evacuation programme to clear a fire break around the infected habitats so that we can nuke the very structures we’re supposed to protect. There are probably still going to be people inside those structures when we push the button. Meanwhile, we’re losing agents and machines faster than we can think. So - all told - yeah, I’d say Jane’s under a bit more stress than usual.’

Demikhov batted aside Dreyfus’s sarcasm like a man shooing a fly. ‘I think the time has come to intervene.’

‘Not now. Not until we’re done with Aurora.’

‘There’s been another change in the scarab. Did Jane tell you?’

‘No,’ Dreyfus said warily.

‘It’s pushed one of its prongs deeper into her neck. It’s applying pressure to her spinal cord. She can feel it.’

Dreyfus thought back to his last conversation with Aumonier. ‘She didn’t appear to be in pain.’

‘Then she was doing a good job of hiding it from you. It’s not agony - yet. But the scarab’s been changing faster and faster lately. It’s sending us a warning, Tom. We don’t have much time.’

‘But it’s only been a few days since the last time we talked. You didn’t have a strategy then; nothing that would get it off her in under four-tenths of a second. Are you telling me you’ve come up with something new since then?’

Demikhov could not quite meet his eyes. ‘I’ve not been entirely truthful with you, Tom. There’s always been a strategy, one that we’re confident can remove the scarab before it has time to retaliate. It’s just that we wanted to make sure all other options were exhausted first.’

Dreyfus shook his head. ‘Tango was your best option. Yet it still wasn’t down to four-tenths or less.’

‘There’s always been something faster than Tango. We’ve held it in reserve, barely discussed it since the groundwork was put in place. We always hoped we’d come up with something better in the meantime. But we haven’t. And now there isn’t any more time. Which leaves us three choices, Tom.’

‘Which are?’

‘Option one is we do nothing and hope that the scarab never triggers. Option two is we go with Tango. All the sims - incorporating the work we’ve put in during the last week - say that Tango will achieve scarab extraction in point four nine six seconds. The sims also estimate that that isn’t quite enough time for the scarab to do anything.’

‘But there’s not much of a margin of error.’ They’d agreed long ago that no action would be taken until the extraction could be achieved in under point four seconds. Warily, Dreyfus asked, ‘What’s the third option?’

‘We call it Zulu. It’s the last resort.’

‘Which is?’

‘Decapitation,’ Demikhov said.

‘You’re not serious.’

‘It’s been analysed into the ground. We have a plan, and we think it will work.’

‘You think?’

‘Nothing’s guaranteed here, Tom. We’re talking about operating on a patient we haven’t been able to get within seven and half metres of for eleven years.’

Dreyfus realised that he was taking out his exasperation on the hapless Demikhov, a man who had selflessly dedicated the last eleven years of his life to finding a way to help Jane Aumonier. ‘All right. Tell me what’s involved. How does cutting her head off score over just shooting the scarab right now? And how are you going to get a surgical team in there to decapitate her, anyway?’

Demikhov steered Dreyfus towards one of the partitions that divided the central area of the Sleep Lab, bright with diagrams and images of both the patient and the thing clamped to her neck. ‘Let’s deal with one thing at a time. We’ve considered forced removal of the scarab - shooting it off, if you like - since day one. But we’ve always been concerned that there might be something in it that can still hurt Jane even if it isn’t physically connected to her.’

They’d been over this before, but Dreyfus still needed his memory jogging. ‘Like what?’

‘An explosive device, for instance. We’re confident the Clockmaker couldn’t have got antimatter inside it, but there might be conventional explosives or spring-loaded cutting mechanisms concealed in the structures we haven’t been able to map.’

‘Enough to hurt Jane?’

‘Easily. You’ve seen what it managed to build into some of those clocks. If we can get the scarab on the other side of some kind of blast screen, no harm will befall the patient. That’s how we’ll kill two birds, Tom.’

‘Two birds? I’m not sure what you mean.’

Demikhov tapped a finger against one of the diagrams. Dreyfus had the vague impression that he’d seen this picture a hundred times without ever paying it due attention. It was a cross section of the chamber in which Jane floated.

‘You’ll have noted this ring-shaped duct running around the bubble,’ Demikhov said.

‘I assumed . . .’ But Dreyfus trailed off. He hadn’t assumed anything, beyond the fact that the ring-shaped structure was nothing to do with the bubble itself.

‘We installed that duct, Tom. We opened up that space because one day we feared we might need to proceed with Zulu.’

‘What’s in it now?’

‘Nothing: it’s just an empty ring encircling the bubble. But everything we need to install in it is stored elsewhere in Panoply, ready to go.’

‘Show me.’

Demikhov tapped a finger and the diagram tilted around so that they were looking down on the bubble and the ring instead of seeing them in cross section. A series of modular structures were shown being inserted into the ring through a single opening, then pushed around until they joined up to form a kind of thick, barbed necklace.

‘What is it?’

‘A guillotine,’ Demikhov said, matter-of-factly. ‘When the structures are in place, they’ll project those bladed segments through the wall of the sphere. We’ve weakened the outer wall where they need to cut through, so there’s no need to do anything on the inside of the bubble. It’ll happen very quickly. The segments will close in and bisect the chamber in two-tenths of a second: well inside our margin of error.’

The diagram flipped back around to cross-sectional form. A figure appeared, floating in the middle of the chamber. A red line bisected the figure’s neck. The blades sprang through the wall, severing the figure’s head from its body. The head floated up into one half of the bisected space. The decapitated body floated down into the other half.

‘We cut high enough to remove the scarab,’ Demikhov said. ‘We bisect between the submaxillary triangle and the hyoid bone. If we’re lucky, we get a clean separation of the third and fourth cervical vertebra. The scarab goes into the lower half. Even if it blows up, the blades will have interlocked to form a blastproof shield.’

‘What about Jane’s body?’ Dreyfus said.

‘We don’t care about the body. We’ll grow her a new one, or fix any damage the old one sustains. Then we reattach the head. But the head’s the most important thing. Provided we get a clean decapitation, she’ll live.’

Dreyfus knew he was missing something. ‘But you still need to get a surgical team in there somehow. She needs to be prepped for the procedure.’

‘No, she doesn’t.’

‘I’m not following.’

‘We don’t prep Jane, Tom, because we can’t. We can’t anaesthetize her because that’s exactly what the scarab’s waiting for. And if she knows what’s coming her stress levels are going to shoot through the roof. The only way this will work is if we go in fast, without warning.’ Demikhov nodded at Dreyfus’s reaction. ‘You see it now, I think. You understand why this has only ever been an option of last resort.’

‘This is a nightmare. This can’t be happening.’

‘Listen to me,’ Demikhov said urgently. ‘Jane’s had eleven years of living hell inside that chamber. Nothing we can do to her to get rid of the scarab even begins to stack up against that. She’ll have no warning, and therefore she’ll have no time to get scared. When the blades close, the upper half of the chamber is ours. Then we send in a crash surgical team, ready to stabilise Jane and put her under.’

‘How long?’

‘Before the team goes in? Seconds. That’s all. We’ll just need confirmation that the hemisphere’s really clear, that the scarab hasn’t left any surprises, and in we go.’

‘Jane will still be conscious at that point, won’t she?’

The question troubled Demikhov visibly. ‘There’s anecdotal evidence . . . but I really wouldn’t put too much store by it. The shock of blood loss is just as likely to plunge her into deep unconsciousness within five to seven seconds. Clinical death, if you like.’

‘But you can’t guarantee that. You can’t promise me that she won’t have awareness after those blades have closed.’

‘No,’ Demikhov said. ‘I can’t.’

‘She has to be told, Doctor.’

‘She’s always made it clear that we don’t need her consent to attempt an extraction.’

‘But this isn’t the same as sending in a servitor to disarm the scarab,’ Dreyfus protested. ‘This is a completely different form of intervention, one that’ll probably involve pain and distress above and beyond anything Jane’s ever expected to endure.’

‘I agree wholeheartedly. I also think that’s exactly why we can’t breathe a word of this to her.’

Dreyfus looked at the diagram again. He recalled the red line cutting through Jane’s neck, just above the point where the scarab was attached. ‘The position of those blades is fixed, right? You can’t steer them if she’s not floating at the right height?’

‘That’s correct.’

‘So how will you be able to cut in the right place?’

‘We mount a laser on the door. It’s small enough that she won’t notice it. The laser draws a line across Jane, indicating where the blades will pass.’

‘Cut. That’s the word you’re looking for.’

‘Thank you, but I’m fully aware of what we’re contemplating here. I’m not taking any of this lightly.’

‘And what happens if the line doesn’t hit her in the right spot?’

‘We wait,’ Demikhov said. ‘She bobs up and down. Sometimes she does it herself, paddling the air. Sometimes it’s just currents in the chamber, pushing her around. But sooner or later that line’s going to touch the right spot.’ He looked hard at Dreyfus. ‘My hand will be on a trigger. It’ll be my call as to when the blades go in, not some machine’s. I have to feel it’s the right moment.’

‘What about the crash team?’

‘I’ve arranged for three shifts. There’ll always be one team on stand-by.’

Dreyfus felt numb. He could see the logic. He didn’t have to like it.

‘Have you spoken to the other seniors?’

‘They’ve been informed. I have their consent to proceed.’

‘Then you don’t need mine.’

‘I don’t need it, but I want it. You’re closer to Jane than anyone else in the organisation, Tom. Even me. From the word go it’s always been clear to me that I’d need your permission before I go ahead with this. She trusts you like an only son. How many other field prefects have Pangolin?’

‘To my knowledge, none,’ Dreyfus said candidly.

‘You’re the one she’d want to have the final say-so, Tom.’ Demikhov shrugged resignedly, as if he’d done all he could. ‘I’ve stated the medical case. If you give me the nod, we can install the blades in thirteen hours. She could be out of that room and stable in thirteen hours, ten minutes.’

‘And if I say no?’

‘We’ll run with Tango. I can’t risk doing nothing. That would be true negligence.’

‘I need time to deal with this,’ Dreyfus said. ‘You should have told me about this years ago, so I’d have had time to think it over.’

‘Do you think it would have helped? You’d have listened to me, agreed how unpleasant it was and then shoved the whole matter to the back of your mind because you didn’t need to deal with it there and then.’

Dreyfus wanted to argue but he knew that Demikhov was right. There were some horrors it was pointless spying on the horizon. You had to deal with them at close range.

‘I still need time. Give me an hour. Then you can start installing the equipment.’

‘I lied to you,’ Demikhov said softly. ‘We’ve already started. But you still have your hour, Tom.’ He turned away and picked up one of the dismantled plastic scarab models, distracted by some waxy grey internal component, a snail-shaped thing he’d apparently only just noticed. ‘You know where to find me. I’ll be awake, just like Jane.’

CHAPTER 25

Dreyfus was leaving the Sleep Lab when his bracelet chimed. It was Sparver.

‘Think you need to drop by the nose, Boss. Caught a couple of fish trying to swim away.’

‘Thank you,’ Dreyfus said, glad that he’d taken the initiative to have Sparver shadow Chen and Saavedra. ‘I’ll be there immediately. ’

Sparver had detained them in the docking bay that formed the nose of Panoply’s pumpkin-face, the bay that handled cutters and corvettes as opposed to civilian vehicles or deep-system cruisers. As field prefects, the Firebrand operatives were regular users of both light- and medium-enforcement vehicles and would have been familiar faces to the technical staff manning the bay. Although they did not have clearance to take a ship, they had managed to talk their way aboard a cutter that had just come in for refuelling and re-armament and had been well advanced in pre-flight checks when Sparver blocked their escape by closing the main bay doors. Dreyfus would have to reprimand the staff who had allowed the prefects aboard the ship without the right clearance, but for now his only concern was extracting information from the two unsuccessful fugitives. They were still aboard the cutter, the ship still poised on its launching rack, with the doors blocking its egress.

‘I had a hard time tailing them,’ Sparver said, floating next to the cutter’s suitwall, inside the air-filled connecting tube. Two internal prefects flanked him, whiphounds drawn. ‘For run-of-the-mill fields, these two knew a few tricks.’

‘They’re not exactly field prefects,’ Dreyfus said. ‘That’s just an operational cover for what they really do. They’re specialists, assigned to a superblack cell called Firebrand. Jane pulled the plug on the cell, but the cell had other ideas. They’ve been carrying on without her authority for nine years.’

‘Now that’s just naughty.’

‘Naughtier than you think. Firebrand has to take some of the responsibility for what happened to Ruskin-Sartorious.’ Dreyfus unclipped his whiphound and motioned for Sparver to do likewise. ‘Let’s get them off the vehicle. We can’t keep these bay doors closed for ever.’

They set the passwall to yield and entered, Dreyfus leading with Sparver just to his rear. Dreyfus sealed the passwall behind them, with the internals keeping guard on the other side so that there was no possibility of the Firebrand agents escaping back into Panoply.

Like all cutters, it was a small vehicle with a limited number of hiding places. It was powered, but the cabin illumination was dimmed almost to darkness. Dreyfus fumbled in his pocket for his glasses, but he’d left them in his room before he went to the refectory.

He called into the cutter’s depths. ‘This is Tom Dreyfus. You both know me by reputation. You’re not going anywhere, so let’s talk civilly.’

There was no answer.

Dreyfus tried again. ‘You don’t have anything to fear from me. I know about Firebrand. I know about your operational mandate. I understand that you did what you did because you thought you were doing the right thing by Panoply.’

Again there was no reply. Dreyfus glanced back at Sparver, then pushed further into the ship, in the direction of the flight deck. He made out the watery blue glow of instrumentation seeping around the corner of the bulkhead that separated the flight deck from the adjoining compartment.

‘I haven’t come to punish you for the consequences of any actions you may have taken that you believed to be in the best interests of the Band.’ Dreyfus paused heavily. ‘But I do need to know the facts. I know that Firebrand was using Ruskin-Sartorious until just before the Bubble was destroyed. At some point, you’re all going to have to answer for the mistake of hiding your activities inside that habitat. It was a mistake, a bad one, but no one’s accusing you of premeditated murder. All I’m interested in is why that habitat had to die. Panoply needs whatever Aurora was scared of, and it needs it now.’

At last a voice emerged from the direction of that blueish glow. ‘You have no idea, Dreyfus. No idea at all.’ It was a woman’s voice - so Saavedra, not Chen.

‘Then it’s up to you to put me right. Go ahead. I’m ready and waiting.’

‘We weren’t just working with relics,’ Paula Saavedra said. ‘We were working with the Clockmaker itself.’

Dreyfus recalled everything that Jane Aumonier had told him. ‘The Clockmaker doesn’t exist any more.’

‘Everyone believes that the Clockmaker was destroyed,’ Saavedra said. ‘But it left relics of itself. Souvenirs, like the clocks in the Sleep Lab and the thing clamped to Jane. And other things, too. We got to study them. We thought they were toys, puzzles, vicious little trinkets. Mostly, they were. But not the one we opened nine years ago.’

‘What was it?’

‘The Clockmaker had encapsulated itself, squeezed its essence down into one of the relics. It knew Panoply was closing in on it eleven years ago, so it survived by tricking us. It compressed itself into a seed and waited for us to find it.’ Before Dreyfus could frame an objection, she continued: ‘It had to discard much of itself, accept a weakening of both its intellectual and physical capabilities. It did so willingly because it knew it had no other option. And also because it knew it could rebuild all that it lost at some point in the future.’

Dreyfus pushed himself closer to the flight deck. ‘And you - we - helped it?’

‘It was a mistake. But when we reactivated the Clockmaker, it was still weak, still ineffectual compared to its former embodiment. Even so, it still nearly won.’

‘How much of this did Jane know?’ Dreyfus asked, beginning to wonder why Lansing Chen wasn’t contributing to the conversation.

‘She was informed that one of the relics had run amok. She was never told that it was the Clockmaker itself that had come back from the grave. It was felt that the news would have been too upsetting.’

‘But she still closed you down.’

‘Perhaps she was right. Needless to say, we didn’t agree. Although Firebrand had taken grave losses, we felt that we had come closer than ever before to learning something of the Clockmaker’s true nature. We who survived were convinced that the future security of the Glitter Band depended on the discovery of that nature. We had to know what it was, where it had come from, so that we could ensure nothing like it ever emerged again. That was our moral imperative, Prefect Dreyfus. So we decided to remain operational. We were already superblack; it took very little effort to submerge ourselves to an even deeper level of secrecy, beyond even Jane’s oversight.’

‘And what did you learn, Paula?’

‘Don’t come any closer, Prefect Dreyfus.’

But Dreyfus was already within view of the flight deck by the time she finished her sentence. The connecting door was open. Blood droplets formed a cloud of little scarlet balloons, pulled into perfect spheres by surface tension. Lansing Chen was dead. He was buckled into the right-hand command seat, his head lolling at an unnatural angle, swaying slowly from side to side as the air shifted. His neck had been gashed open with the whiphound Paula Saavedra was still holding. She was buckled into the left-hand chair, rotated around to face Dreyfus and Sparver. She had one leg hooked higher than the other. She held the whiphound in her right hand, while her left hovered above one of the luminous blue controls on the console.

‘You didn’t have to kill Chen,’ Dreyfus said, tightening his grip on his own whiphound.

Behind, he heard Sparver speak into his bracelet. ‘Get me Mercier. We need a crash team at the nose. This is a medical emergency.’

‘I didn’t want to kill him,’ Saavedra said, with real menace. ‘Chen was a good man, Prefect. He served Firebrand well, until the end. It’s not his fault that he’s been having doubts.’

‘What kind of doubts?’

‘None of us liked what happened to Ruskin-Sartorious, but most of us saw it as an unfortunate but unavoidable occurrence. A casualty of war, Prefect. Not Chen, though. He felt we’d gone too far; that nine hundred and sixty lives were too high a price to pay for security. He felt it was time to blow our cover.’

‘He’d have been right.’

The tip of her whiphound gleamed dark red. ‘No, he wouldn’t. Nothing matters more now than keeping the Clockmaker’s new location hidden.’

‘I agree wholeheartedly. Aurora mustn’t learn of the Clockmaker’s whereabouts. But Panoply needs that information more than ever.’

‘Ordinarily, I might have agreed you. But Panoply is compromised. Someone’s been sniffing around Firebrand for days. Probably the same someone who helped arrange the attack on Ruskin-Sartorious.’

‘That was Senior Prefect Gaffney. He’s out of the picture now. I took care of that myself, so you can start trusting me.’

‘Can I, really? You’ve done very well to track us down, Prefect. How do I know you aren’t just following up on Gaffney’s unfinished business?’

‘I am, in a way - I had to find you. Why’d you have to kill Chen, Paula?’

‘I told you - he got cold feet at the last moment. Decided he’d rather stay here and face the music. I couldn’t let that happen, Prefect. Just as I can’t let you keep me here now.’

‘Nothing bad will happen to you,’ Dreyfus said. But if he’d meant it earlier, it was an empty promise now. Nothing could excuse the murder of a fellow prefect.

‘Even if killed myself, you’d trawl my corpse to get the location of the Clockmaker. Therefore I must leave. Can you see my left hand, Prefect?’

Dreyfus nodded. ‘I guess you’re holding it there for a reason.’

‘When I boarded this ship, I brought four whiphounds with me. They’re set to grenade mode, maximum yield, keyed to this console. Don’t go looking for them - they’re well hidden.’

‘Whiphounds won’t detonate inside Panoply. There’s a positional safeguard.’

‘Which I overrode, without difficulty.’ She shook her head disappointedly. ‘I’m Firebrand, Prefect. Can you imagine the lengths we’ve had to go to to maintain our effectiveness and secrecy over the last nine years? There isn’t a trick in the book we don’t know.’

‘Don’t do it, Paula. We need this bay in one piece.’

‘I won’t do it unless you prevent me from leaving. But if you try to prevent me, I won’t hesitate. The blast won’t do significant damage to Panoply - it might put this bay out of action, true - but it definitely won’t leave enough of me for you to trawl.’

‘I need to know where the Clockmaker is,’ Dreyfus insisted.

‘I can’t take the risk of telling you. As far as I’m concerned, Panoply is already compromised. Firebrand is the only remaining part of the organisation capable of handling things from now on.’

‘If you think I can’t be trusted, why did you tell me that the Clockmaker’s still alive?’

‘I told you nothing Aurora won’t already know. Now leave the cutter, Prefects.’

‘We’ll track you. Wherever you go. You’re just prolonging the inevitable.’

‘There isn’t a ship in Panoply that can be prepped and launched in time to follow me.’ She allowed a glint of self-satisfaction to shine through. ‘I know: I checked. And you won’t be able to track me. This cutter is CTC-dark. Maybe if there wasn’t a Bandwide crisis going down, stretching all our resources, you might have a chance. But you don’t, so you may as well not even bother. I’m dropping off the map. You won’t hear from me again.’

‘You might hear from me,’ Dreyfus said.

‘Get off this ship. Then make sure those bay doors are opened. You’ve got two minutes.’

‘Give us Chen’s body.’

‘So you can run a post-mortem trawl to find out what he knew about the Clockmaker? Nice try.’

No, Dreyfus thought: not for that reason at all. He’d never counted on extracting anything useful from the dead. But he was sure Demikhov’s crash team would welcome some practice at stabilising a severed head before they had to do it for real.

‘Have it your way, Paula.’ Dreyfus looked back at Sparver. ‘We’re leaving. She may be bluffing about those whiphounds, but we can’t take the chance.’

‘Boss,’ Sparver said quietly, ‘I already have her marked. I can put my own whiphound on her in under a second.’

‘Try it,’ Saavedra said. ‘If you’re feeling lucky. You have about ninety seconds now, by the way.’

‘You’re making a terrible mistake, Paula,’ Dreyfus said.

‘So are you. Get off the ship.’

Dreyfus nodded at Sparver and the two of them retreated back into the docking connector. The airlock closed, isolating the ship. Dreyfus cuffed his bracelet and called through to Thyssen, the officer in charge of bay operations. ‘This is Dreyfus. Open the doors. Let her go.’

‘Prefect, we can’t afford to lose that cutter,’ Thyssen said.

‘We lose the bay if we don’t lose the cutter. Open the doors.’

Thyssen didn’t need to be told twice. A moment later the vast jaws of the armoured doors began to ease wide, interlocking teeth pulling away from each other to reveal a sea of false stars and the darkside curve of Yellowstone, cusped by a line of indigo. The launching rack pushed out on pistons, shoving Saavedra’s cutter into open space. Engines kicked in, spiking out needle-thin thrust lines. The cutter surged away at maximum burn.

‘Can we get another ship out there?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘Not fast enough to intercept,’ Thyssen said. ‘We’ll track her as best we can, but I can’t promise anything.’

Through the window of the docking connector, Dreyfus watched Saavedra’s ship fall into the sea of stars, following it by eye until he could no longer distinguish it from the lights of distant habitats.

‘It’s very, very bad,’ Jane Aumonier’s hovering face told Dreyfus and the assembled seniors, while the Solid Orrery displayed six red lights amidst a sea of twinkling emerald. ‘Weevils penetrated and occupied Carousel New Brazilia nine hours, thirty minutes ago. We detected manufactory warm-up two hours ago. Eighteen minutes ago, the doors opened and newly minted weevils began to emerge. Squadron density and flow throughput is consistent with what we’ve already seen in Aubusson and Szlumper Oneill.’ She paused, allowing that to sink in before delivering the grim remainder of her summary. ‘We lost Flammarion not long after Brazilia. The manufactories are on-line there as well. Based on what we’ve observed in the other habitats, we can expect weevil output to commence in ten to fifteen minutes. We’ve failed to contain the outflow from Aubusson and Szlumper Oneill, but we were at least able to reduce the number of weevils, which must have had some measurable effect on Aurora’s rate of spread. Now we’ll have no chance, short of nuclear intervention at the production sites. Of course, that won’t stop any weevils that have already departed.’

‘Which habitats are the new weevils targeting?’ asked Clearmountain.

‘If there’s one crumb of comfort to extract from any of this,’ Aumonier said, ‘it’s that Lillian’s simulation appears to accurately predict Aurora’s intentions. That may change in the future if Aurora realises that we’re guessing her movements, but for the moment it does at least allow us to concentrate our evacuation efforts where they’re most useful. The weevil flow from Brazilia is aimed at the Toriyuma-Murchison Spindle, one of the ten habitats we’ve already prioritised.’

‘How are we doing, evacuation-wise?’ asked Dreyfus, rubbing at his eyes.

‘If I might . . .’ Baudry began, clutching a compad as if it was the only thing in the universe she could depend on. ‘The Toriyuma-Murchison Spindle contains ... contained ... five hundred and eleven thousand citizens. According to docking staff, we’ve now processed four hundred and sixty thousand, leaving a surplus of—’

‘Fifty-one thousand,’ Dreyfus said, before Baudry could finish. ‘How long until we get them out?’

‘Local constables report a non-compliance level of one per cent. I’m afraid we’ll just have to abandon them - we don’t have time to argue with people if they really don’t want saving. As for those still awaiting transport, our current estimate predicts complete evacuation within four hours, twenty minutes, assuming we can get the liners in and out without incident.’

‘There’s a liner docked now?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘Not a high-capacity vehicle. The biggest ship we have on-station is the medium-capacity liner High Catherine. She can carry six thousand at a time, but she takes a long time to load. The larger ship we’ve been using, the Bellatrix, can take ten thousand, but we’re also using her to offload people from the Persistent Vegetative State.’

‘Why are we risking the lives of living citizens to save a bunch of self-induced coma-cases?’ Clearmountain asked.

‘Because they’re citizens as well,’ Aumonier snapped. ‘No one gets priority treatment here. Not on my watch.’

‘It’s a moot point in any case,’ Baudry said, for Clearmountain’s benefit. ‘Even if we reassigned the Bellatrix to deal solely with the evacuees from the Toriyuma-Murchison Spindle, we still wouldn’t get them all out in time.’

‘Correct,’ Aumonier said. ‘Weevil contact is anticipated in . . . fifty-five minutes, eleven seconds. With local constables tasked to assist in the evacuation at the docking hubs, the weevils will have a clear run to the polling core. If events follow the pattern we’ve already seen, the Toriyuma-Murchison manufactory is scheduled to start weevil production in under ten hours.’

‘Then the evacuees still have all that time,’ Dreyfus said. ‘We can get them out.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Aumonier said, her image looking at him as if no one else was in the room, ‘but what we’re dealing with here is akin to a state of plague. So far as we know, Aurora can seize control of habitats by reaching their polling cores. What we don’t know is what other capabilities she might have up her sleeve if we give her the chance to try them out. I cannot run the risk of letting her hop from habitat to habitat by another means. And that includes evacuation vehicles.’

‘But Jane—’

‘We keep moving them out until the absolute last moment,’ she said. ‘But the instant weevils make groundfall on Toriyuma-Murchison, I’m pulling out the liners.’ Just to be absolutely clear to all concerned, she added: ‘Even if there are still people in the docking tubes.’

‘And then what?’ Dreyfus asked, even though he knew what she was going to say.

‘We nuke. We remove one of Aurora’s stepping stones.’

‘There’ll still be tens of thousands of people inside the Spindle.’

‘About thirty-five thousand, if the Bellatrix can get in and out one more time. But there’s no other way, Tom. We’ll target the manufactory first, of course, but we’ll have to hit it so hard to take it out completely that we might as well be attacking the entire habitat. We’ll have ships standing by in case, but I’m not expecting survivors.’

‘There must be another way.’

‘There is. We could nuke the six habitats Aurora already holds, and the two she’s about to take. That would stop her. But then we’d be talking about killing several million people, not just tens of thousands.’

‘Taking out that one habitat won’t necessarily stop her.’

‘It’ll inconvenience her. I’ll settle for that for now.’

‘This is bigger than Panoply,’ Dreyfus said desperately. ‘We need to call in assistance. Anyone who has a ship and can help.’

‘I’ve issued requests for help through the usual channels. Maybe something will arrive, but I’m not counting on it.’ She hesitated, her attention still fixed only on him. Dreyfus had the feeling that he was participating in a private conversation, to the exclusion of everyone else in the room. ‘Tom, there’s something else.’

‘What?’ he asked.

‘I’m going to have to take down polling and abstraction services, Bandwide. There’s just too much danger of Aurora utilising the network for her own purposes.’

‘She spreads by weevil.’

‘The weevils are her main agents, but we don’t know for sure that she isn’t using other channels to assist in her spread. I’ve already received a mandate to use all emergency powers at our disposal. That means authorisation to commit mass euthanisation if it means saving other lives. It also means I can take down the networks.’

‘We’ll need those networks to coordinate our own efforts.’

‘And we’ll retain skeletal data links for just that purpose. But everything else has to go. It’s the only way to be sure.’

Dreyfus examined his thoughts. It startled him to realise that he was less shocked by Aumonier’s planned use of nuclear weapons than he was by the idea of blacking out the entire Glitter Band. But the fact of the matter was that for most of the ten thousand habitats, life was continuing more or less as normally. Some of the citizens would be aware of the crisis, but many would be completely insulated from it, snug in the hermetic cocoons of their private fantasy universes. That wouldn’t necessarily change when Panoply started nuking. But no one - save the citizens of the Bezile Solipsist State, or the Persistent Vegetative State, or the harsher Voluntary Tyrannies - could fail to notice the withdrawal of Bandwide data services. Reality was about to give them a cold, hard slap in the face, whether they liked it or not.

The lights were about to go out across the Glitter Band. There was no choice: it had to be done.

‘Just do one thing for me,’ Dreyfus said, ‘before you pull the plug. Tell them Panoply isn’t giving up on them. Tell them that we’re going to be outside, fighting, and that we won’t let them down. Tell them not to forget that.’

‘I will,’ she said.

CHAPTER 26

Thalia’s trembling hands nearly dropped the whiphound as she finished weakening the final support spar in the sphere of the polling core. It had been agonisingly slow, and not just because the whiphound had grown too hot to hold for more than a minute at a time, even with a scarf wrapped around her palm. The weapon’s sword function had begun to falter, the filament occasionally losing its piezoelectrically maintained stiffness, the molecular cutting mechanisms losing some of their efficacy. The whiphound had ghosted through granite as if she was cutting air with a laser, but now towards the end she had to strain every muscle to persuade the filament to keep working its way through the structural members. The ninth had been the worst; it had taken nearly half an hour just to cut partially through, so that the strut would give way when she detonated the whiphound in grenade mode.

‘Is that enough?’ she whispered, even though the sound of the buzzing, crackling whiphound seemed loud enough to render whispering pointless.

‘It’d better be,’ Parnasse said. ‘I don’t think that thing of yours is good for much more cutting.’

Thalia retracted the filament. ‘No, I don’t think it is.’

‘I guess we’d best just thank Sandra Voi that that thing held out as long as it did. Only has to do one more thing for us now.’

‘Two things,’ Thalia said, remembering that she still intended to sabotage the polling core. ‘Show me where we have to place it, anyway.’

‘Anywhere around here should do the trick. A centimetre’s not going to make the difference between life and death.’

Thalia placed the bundled whiphound under one of the weakened spars. ‘Like here?’

‘That’ll do, girl.’

‘Good. I should be able to find this spot when I come down again.’

‘How does grenade mode work on that thing?’

Thalia eased aside the wrapping surrounding the shaft until she had revealed the whiphound’s twist-controls. ‘You twist that dial to set the yield. I’ll turn it to maximum, obviously. It’ll give us about point one to point two kilotonnes, depending on how much dust’s left in the power bubble.’

‘And time delay?’

‘Those two dials there, in combination.’

‘How long a delay will it give you?’

‘Long enough,’ Thalia said.

Parnasse nodded wordlessly. They had done what they could down there, and while it might have been possible to weaken one or two more struts, Thalia doubted that they had the time. The barricade teams were already reporting that the noise of the servitors was louder than it had ever been, suggesting that the machines were only metres from breaking through. Thalia had heard them while she had been cutting. They had begun to climb past the top of the stalk, into the sphere itself. We’ve probably get less than an hour, she thought. Even thirty minutes might be pushing it now. And that was without considering the war machines that she believed were planning to ascend the outside of the stalk, or even the inside of the elevator shaft.

Thalia and Parnasse climbed back through the forest of structural supports until they reached the ceiling door that led into the lowest inhabitable section of the sphere. A minute later they reached the floor of the polling core, where most of the party were now awake and nervous, aware that something was afoot but as yet ignorant of Thalia’s plan.

They had questions for her, but before she spoke to them, Thalia moved to the nearest window and looked down towards the very base of the stalk. She noted, with a knife-twist of apprehension in her stomach, that the concentration of military-grade servitors was now much less than it had been before. It could only mean that most of the machines were now ascending the stalk, working with methodical inevitability towards the level of the polling core.

‘Call off the work squad,’ she told Caillebot. ‘Tell them to drop what they’re doing and get back up here.’

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘What about the barricade? Someone needs to keep watch on it.’

‘Not now they don’t. It’s served us well but we won’t be needing it any more.’

‘But the machines are getting close.’

‘I know. That’s why it’s time we got out of here. Get the squad, Jules. We don’t have time to debate this.’

He stared at her, frozen as if on the verge of framing an objection, then turned and descended the short staircase down to the next level, where the current barricade team was still doing what they could to reinforce the obstruction.

‘What’s going to happen?’ asked Paula Thory, standing up from the sprawl of clothes that she had made into a makeshift bed.

‘We’re getting out of here,’ Thalia said.

‘How? You’re not expecting us to climb down those stairs, are you? We can’t very well fight our way past those machines.’

‘We won’t be fighting our way past anything. If all goes well, we won’t have to deal with a single servitor. Before you know it, we’ll be outside House Aubusson, in clear space, waiting to be rescued.’

‘What do you mean, in space? None of us have suits! We don’t have a ship. We don’t even have an escape pod!’

‘We don’t need an escape pod,’ Thalia said carefully. ‘We’re in one.’

Dreyfus noticed that Aumonier was clenching and unclenching her hands, her chest rising and falling with deep breaths. ‘I thought you’d appreciate some company,’ he said. ‘In person, I mean.’

‘Thank you, Tom. And yes, you’re right. I do appreciate it.’ She paused. ‘I just issued that statement, by the way - including your remarks.’

‘They needed reassurance.’

‘They did. You were right.’

‘Have we gone dark yet?’

‘No - I’m holding off on removing network services until we’ve finished with the Spindle. I want the citizens to know that we’re dealing with something bad, but that we’re doing all in our power to keep as many of them safe as we can.’

‘Won’t seeing the Spindle nuked to kingdom come scare them half to death?’

‘More than likely. But if it means they start listening to local constabulary, it’s a price worth paying.’

Dreyfus looked at the largest screen. ‘How long now?’

‘Three minutes.’

Three minutes until the weevil flow hit the Toriyuma-Murchison Spindle, he thought. Panoply ships had done what they could to thin or deflect the flow, but their efforts had proved almost entirely ineffectual. They were only holding station now in case there were survivors after the Democratic Circus had done her work.

The deep-system cruiser hovered aft of the Spindle, two missiles locked on target and armed, dialled to a yield high enough to take out the as-yet-dormant machinery of the habitat’s manufactory. Panoply had always had a contingency procedure in place for the act of destroying a habitat, and the crew would have run through such a scenario many times during training. The sequence, from the issuing of the command to the firing of the weapons, was supposedly immune to error. It required not just the authorisation of the supreme prefect, but also a majority of seniors. Mechanisms even existed to deal with the possibility of sudden changes in rank due to death or injury, so that the order could still be given even if there’d been a direct attack on Panoply.

And yet, Dreyfus thought, the crew wouldn’t have been human if they didn’t at least consider the possibility that the order was erroneous, or had originated through malicious action. They were being asked to do the one thing that cut against everything Panoply stood for. Like a surgeon putting out his hand to receive a scalpel, and being handed a gun instead.

But they’d do it, he thought. They’d allow themselves that one flicker of doubt, and then they’d get over it. The protocol was watertight. No mistake was possible: if the order had come in, then it was logically guaranteed that it had been issued by the supreme prefect herself, with the approval of her seniors.

The crew had no choice but to act upon it.

‘One minute thirty,’ Aumonier said. Then her tone shifted. ‘Tom: I’ve been meaning to ask you something.’

‘Go on.’

‘It may be a difficult question. You may be uncomfortable about answering it truthfully.’

‘Go on anyway.’

‘Is something happening? Something I don’t know about?’

‘What kind of something?’

‘I’ve been hearing sounds. I’ve been in this room for eleven years, Tom, so I’ve become quite astonishingly attuned to my surroundings. I’ve almost never heard any noises from elsewhere in Panoply, except for today.’

‘What kinds of noises?’

‘The kinds of noises people make when they’re trying very hard to do something without making any sound. Something that involves heavy machinery and tools.’ She faced him directly. ‘Is something going on?’

He’d never lied to her, in all the years they’d known each other. Never lied, or bent the truth, even when that would have been the kinder thing to do.

Today he chose to lie.

‘It’s the mouth bay,’ he said. ‘The launching rack was damaged when one of the cruisers came in too hard. They’ve been working around the clock to get it back into shape.’

‘The mouth bay is hundreds of metres away, Tom.’

‘They’re using heavy equipment.’

‘Look at me and say that.’

He met her gaze steadily. ‘It’s the bay. Why? What else do you think it might be?’

‘You know exactly what I think.’ She glanced away. He couldn’t tell whether he’d passed or failed the test of her scrutiny. ‘I’ve been trying to get Demikhov to talk to me. He’s using every excuse in the book not to return my calls.’

‘Demikhov’s been busy. That business with Gaffney—’

‘All right, so he’s been busy. But if you knew something was happening . . . if you knew they were planning something . . . you’d tell me, wouldn’t you?’

‘Absolutely,’ Dreyfus said.

Except now.

‘It’s time,’ she said, returning her attention to the display. ‘Weevil contact in three . . . two . . . one. Impact is confirmed. They’ve made groundfall.’ She raised her arm and spoke into her bracelet. ‘This is Aumonier. Detach the Bellatrix and instruct her to proceed at full-burn. Repeat, detach the Bellatrix.’

They still had cam feeds from the docking hub of the Toriyuma-Murchison Spindle. Hundreds of people were still crammed into the boarding tubes, being ushered aboard the waiting liner. Dozens of constables, marked by their armbands, were assisting in the boarding process. Dreyfus already knew that many constables had elected to remain inside the Spindle rather than leave on earlier evacuation flights. A few hours earlier they’d just been ordinary citizens, going about their daily lives.

‘Bellatrix is secured for space,’ Aumonier said, reading a text summary on her bracelet. ‘She’s moving, Tom. She’s undocking.’

The feed had locked on to a single boarding corridor. The viewpoint was from inside a transparent-walled tube filled with civilians, constables and servitors, floating in an unruly multicoloured jumble. The vast, white, porthole-sprinkled side of the Bellatrix loomed beyond the glass, huge and steep as a cliff. And the cliff was starting to move: pushing away from the tube with a dreamlike slowness. At the far end of the tube, hundreds of metres from the cam, Dreyfus made out a sudden puff of silvery white vapour escaping to vacuum. He presumed that the airlock doors had closed, but a small amount of air had been sacrificed into space.

The Bellatrix kept receding. He focused on the golden glow of her airlock. Formless debris spilled out. Something was wrong there, he realised. The liner’s outer doors should have closed by now.

‘Jane . . .’ he began.

‘They can’t close the doors,’ she said numbly. ‘The locks on the Bellatrix are jammed. Too many people are trying to squeeze through.’

‘It’s not just the liner,’ Dreyfus said.

Air was still rocketing into space from the end of the docking tube. But now it was carrying people with it, sucked out by the force of decompression. It started at the far end and then raced up the tube, towards the cam. Dreyfus watched in horror as the people nearest the cam realised what was coming. He saw them scream and reach for something to hold on to. Then it hit them and they were just gone, as if they’d been rammed down a syringe by an invisible plunger.

He watched them spill into space by the hundreds: civilians, constables, machines, clothes, possessions and toys. He watched the people-shaped things thrash and die.

The cam greyed out.

Another feed showed the Bellatrix turning, giving a view along its white flanks. The outrush from the open airlock had ceased. Interior doors must have closed.

‘She’s on drive,’ Dreyfus said. The liner’s quadruple engines cranked wide, spitting tongues of pink fire. The enormous vessel hardly appeared to move at first. Gradually, though, the slow but sure acceleration became apparent. The Bellatrix began to put distance between itself and the habitat. Departing from the Spindle’s forward docking hub, the liner would have the entire bulk of the habitat between it and the fusion explosion when the missiles hit home.

Aumonier lifted her bracelet again. ‘Connect me to the Democratic Circus,’ she said, barely breathing before speaking again. ‘Captain Pell: allow the Bellatrix to achieve ten kilometres. Then you may open fire on the habitat’s aft assembly.’

Since the Bellatrix was maintaining a steady half-gee of thrust, it took only sixty seconds for the liner to reach the designated safe distance. By then, all surrounding habitats - those that hadn’t already been taken by Aurora - were on a state of high defensive alertness, anticipating not just the electromagnetic pulse of each nuclear strike, but also the likely risk of impact debris. For Dreyfus the seconds slowed and then appeared to stall altogether. He knew that Aumonier would have preferred to give the liner more space, but she was mindful of the weevils escaping and doing more harm if they waited. The evacuees aboard the Bellatrix would just have to hope that the shielding between them and the engines would serve to protect them from the worst effects of the blast.

A voice, rendered small and reedy in transmission, spoke through her bracelet. ‘Pell, Supreme Prefect. Bellatrix has cleared safe-distance margin.’

‘You already have my authorisation to fire, Captain.’

‘I just wanted to be certain that nothing’d changed, Ma’am.’

‘Nothing’s changed. Do your job, Captain Pell.’

‘Missiles launched and running, Ma’am.’

The cam feed switched to a long-range view of the Toriyuma-Murchison Spindle. With distance foreshortened by the cam angle, the Bellatrix almost appeared to be still docked.

The missiles surged in, etching two bright streaks of exhaust fire, as if they’d gashed open space to reveal something luminous and clean behind it.

They detonated.

The nuclear explosion - the double bursts occurred too close in time to separate - whited out the cam view. There’d been no sense of the fireball expanding; it was just there, consuming everything in a single annihilating flash.

It happened in deathly silence.

All the displays in Jane’s room flickered momentarily as the electromagnetic pulse raced across the Glitter Band.

Then the whited-out view dulled through darkening reds until the background blackness was again visible, and something mangled and molten was drifting there, something that had once been a habitat, but which now resembled more the blackened, tattered remains of a spent firework. The nukes had destroyed the manufactory, but in doing so they’d blasted away at least a third of the habitat’s length, leaving the rest of the structure cracked open along structural fault lines. The air inside wouldn’t have had time to escape through those cracks before it became searingly hot. No one would have had time to suffocate, either. But they’d have had time to see the fire surging towards them, even as that fire burnt the eyes out of their sockets.

If only for an instant, they’d have known what had been done to them.

‘Status, Captain Pell,’ Aumonier said.

‘Initial indications suggest complete destruction of the manufactory. Bellatrix reporting minor damage, but no additional casualties. Likelihood of further survivors is . . . low.’

‘That’s what I expected,’ Aumonier said, with almost infinite resignation. ‘Destroy the rest of the habitat, Captain. I don’t want those weevils using it as a bridgehead even if they can’t make new copies of themselves.’

Dreyfus felt the weight of what they had just done squeeze in on him like a vice. In the time since he had last blinked, thirty-five thousand people had ceased to exist. He couldn’t focus on that kind of number, any more than he could focus on the nine hundred and sixty who had died in Ruskin-Sartorious. But he had seen the faces of the people in the Spindle’s docking tube; he’d seen their inexpressible terror when they knew that the air was going to suck them out into space and they were going to die, unpleasantly, with their lungs freezing into hard, cold husks before their hearts stopped beating. The face of one middle-aged woman came back to him now, even though she’d just been one of many people squeezed into the boarding tube. She’d been looking directly into the cam, looking - so it seemed to him now - directly at him, her expression one of quiet, dignified pleading, placing her utmost faith in him to do something about her predicament. He knew nothing of that woman, not even her name, but now she came to stand in his imagination for all the good and honest citizens who had just been erased from existence. He didn’t need to imagine her death multiplied by thirty-five thousand. The loss of one decent citizen was shame enough. That it had happened by Panoply’s hand made it all the more repellent.

But that didn’t mean Jane had been wrong to do it.

‘I never thought I’d have to do this,’ she said. ‘Now I’m wondering if I’ve just committed the worst crime in our history.’

‘You haven’t. You did the right thing.’

‘I killed those people.’

‘You did what you were meant to do: think of the majority.’

‘I haven’t saved them, Tom. I’ve just given them time.’

‘Then we’d better make it count, hadn’t we? If nothing else, we owe it to the citizens of the Spindle.’

‘I keep thinking: what if I’m wrong? What if they really will be better off under Aurora’s government?’

‘The people gave us the authority to protect them, Jane. That’s what we just did.’

Jane Aumonier said nothing. Together they watched as Captain Pell finished off the rest of the habitat. Now that there was no possibility of sparing survivors, the yields were dialled as high as they could go. The blasts snipped the remains of the Spindle out of existence.

Perhaps it was Dreyfus’s imagination, but he detected an easing in Aumonier’s mood when the evidence of her actions had finally been erased.

‘You know the hard part?’ she asked.

Dreyfus shook his head. ‘No.’

‘The hard part is we have to do exactly the same thing to the Persistent Vegetative State. By the end of the day I’ll be lucky if I have less than a hundred thousand dead on my hands.’

‘They’re not on your hands,’ Dreyfus said. ‘They’re on Aurora’s. Don’t ever forget that.’

She came to them shortly afterwards. Her transmission rode a secure Panoply-restricted data channel, one that remained active when the public networks were silenced and the citizens roused from the great dream of abstraction. The incoming data signal was subjected to ruthless scrutiny, but it was free of any hint of concealed subliminal influence or embedded weaponry. After consultation with the supreme prefect, it was concluded that nothing would be lost by displaying the image to the seniors gathered in the tactical room.

They found themselves looking at a girl: a child-woman on a throne wearing elaborate brocaded clothes. Her parted hair was reddish-brown, her expression watchful but not hostile.

‘It’s high time we spoke,’ Aurora said, in a strong, clear voice with excellent elocution.

‘State your demands,’ Jane Aumonier said, her projection addressing the image from her usual position at the table. ‘What do you want?’

‘I don’t want anything, Supreme Prefect, except your absolute capitulation.’

‘Keep her talking,’ Dreyfus mouthed. Panoply’s best network hounds were trying to backtrack the transmission all the way to Aurora herself, wherever she was hiding.

‘You must have demands,’ Aumonier persisted.

‘None,’ the child-woman said firmly, as if it was the answer to a parlour game. ‘Demands would imply that I need something from you. That is not the case.’

‘Then why have you contacted us?’ asked Lillian Baudry.

‘To make recommendations,’ Aurora replied. ‘To suggest a way in which this whole matter can be settled with the minimum of inconvenience to all parties, as swiftly and painlessly as possible. But make no mistake: I will succeed, with or without your cooperation. I am merely concerned that the citizenry should be subject to the least amount of disruption.’

‘You sound very confident of success,’ said Aumonier.

‘It is a strategic certainty. You have seen how easily I can take your habitats. Each is a stepping stone to another. You cannot stop the weevils, and you will not fire on your own citizens except as an absolute last resort. Ergo, my success is logically assured.’

‘Don’t be so sure of yourself,’ Aumonier replied. ‘You are still in a position of weakness, and I have no proof that you haven’t murdered all your hostages. Why shouldn’t I assume they’re all dead, and just destroy the habitats you now control?’

‘Be my guest, Supreme Prefect. Go ahead. Fire on those habitats.’

‘Give me proof that the citizens are still alive.’

‘What would be the point? You would rightly distrust anything I showed you. Conversely, even if I showed you a smoking ruin, the corpses of a million dead, you would suspect an ulterior motive, that I was encouraging you to attack for nefarious reasons of my own. You would still not fire.’

‘You’re wrong,’ Dreyfus said. ‘You can convince us that the people are alive in one very easy way. Let us speak to Thalia Ng. We’ll trust her testimony, even if we don’t trust yours.’

Something crossed her face - a moue of irritation, quickly suppressed.

‘You can’t,’ Aumonier said, ‘because you’ve either killed her, or she’s out of your control.’

One of the network analysts pushed a compad in Dreyfus’s direction. He glanced at the summary. They had narrowed down Aurora’s location to a locus of thirteen hundred possible habitats.

‘My concern is for the absolute welfare of the citizens,’ the child-woman said. ‘Under my care, no harm will come to any of them. Their future security will be guaranteed, for centuries to come. The transition to this new state of affairs can be as bloodless you wish. By the same token, all casualties incurred during the transition will be upon your conscience, not mine.’

‘Why do you care about people at all?’ Dreyfus enquired. ‘You’re a machine. An alpha-level intelligence.’

Her fingers tightened on the edges of her armrests. ‘I used to be alive. Do you think I’ve forgotten what it feels like?’

‘But you’ve been a disembodied intelligence for a lot longer than you were a little girl. Call me judgemental, but my instincts tell me your sympathies are far more likely to lie with machines than with flesh-and-blood mortals.’

‘Would you stop caring for the citizens if they were slower and weaker, stupider and frailer than yourself?’

‘We’d all still be people,’ Dreyfus countered. ‘Tell me something else, Aurora, now that you’ve confirmed your origin. Are there more of you? Were you the only one of the Eighty who survived?’

‘I have allies,’ she said cryptically. ‘You would be as unwise to underestimate their power as you would mine.’

‘But for all that power, there’s still something that scares you, isn’t there?’

‘Nothing frightens me, Prefect Dreyfus.’ She said his name with particular emphasis, making it clear that she knew of him.

‘I don’t believe you. We know about the Clockmaker, Aurora. We know how it keeps you from sleeping at night. It’s a machine intelligence stronger and quicker than you, even with your allies to back you up. If it got out, it would rip you to shreds, wouldn’t it?’

‘You overestimate its significance to me.’

‘It can’t be that insignificant. If you hadn’t destroyed Ruskin-Sartorious, none of us would have been any the wiser that you were planning this takeover. You’d have achieved your goal in one fell swoop, taking the entire ten thousand at a stroke. But you were prepared to risk everything to remove the Clockmaker. That doesn’t sound insignificant to me.’

The analyst drew his attention to the compad again. The locus of habitats had now shrunk to eight hundred candidates.

‘If you had control of the Clockmaker, you would have turned it against me already.’ She leaned forward slightly, her voice hardening. ‘In truth, you neither control nor understand it. Even if it was in your possession, you would fear to use it.’

‘That would depend on how much you provoked us,’ Aumonier said.

‘There has been no provocation. I have merely begun the process of relieving you of the burden of care of one hundred million citizens. I care about them more than you do.’

‘You murdered nearly a thousand people in Ruskin-Sartorious,’ Dreyfus answered. ‘You killed the prefects sent in to regain control of House Aubusson. That doesn’t sound like a very caring attitude to me.’

‘Their deaths were necessary, to safeguard the rest.’

‘And if it takes a million, or ten million? Would they be necessary deaths as well?’

‘All that matters is that no one else need suffer. We have already discussed the inevitability of my success. If you resist me, people will die. People will die anyway, because people panic and do irrational things and I cannot be held accountable for that. But there is a way to bring this to an immediate conclusion, with the absolute minimum of fatalities. You have my takeover code: it’s the instruction set your agent so helpfully installed in the first four habitats. Make it universal. Broadcast it to the rest of the ten thousand. I will have them all eventually; this way it will be with the least pain and bloodshed.’

‘You’re out of your mind,’ Aumonier said.

‘Then I shall give you an incentive. I am convinced that many millions of lives will be saved by speedy transition to my rule. So convinced, in fact, that I am prepared to sacrifice a certain number of citizens to underline my point. You have six hours, Supreme Prefect. Then I shall begin humane euthanisation of one in ten of the citizens already under my care.’ The child-woman eased back into her throne. ‘You may stop the deaths at any time by broadcasting the code to the ten thousand. If you choose not to, the deaths will continue. But my weevils will still give me the ten thousand, whatever you do.’

‘One hundred and thirty habitats,’ the analyst whispered in Dreyfus’s ear. ‘We’re zeroing in.’

‘Before I sign off,’ Aurora said, ‘let me assist you in one matter. Doubtless you are trying to localise the origin of this transmission. If you are employing your usual search methods, you will have narrowed the field down to between one hundred and one hundred and fifty habitats by the time I utter these words. Were I to stay on the line, you would locate my point of origin inside two minutes. I’ll spare you the trouble, shall I? You will localise me to Panoply. I’m sure it’s one of your candidates.’

Dreyfus looked at the analyst. The analyst nodded briefly, his face losing colour.

‘I’m not really in Panoply. It’s a mirror bounce; very difficult to crack in the time I’m giving you.’ Aurora smiled slightly. ‘Just in case you were thinking of turning those missiles on yourselves.’

It had never exactly been day in House Aubusson - the dust-smeared window panels hadn’t let in enough light for that - but now even that half-daylight was sliding back into twilight, and another machine-stalked night would soon be upon them. Thalia supposed they had done well to last this long, but she could extract no comfort from the realisation. They had pushed their luck, that was all. They would not see another dawn unless they left Aubusson, and there was only one way that was going to happen.

She refrained from more detailed elaboration until Jules Caillebot had returned with the barricade squad. Paula Thory was almost incandescent with rage and incomprehension, and her mood was beginning to rub off on some of the others. But Thalia held her ground, standing with her arms folded in front of her. Nothing would be gained by showing even the slightest trace of doubt now. She had to appear in absolute command, utterly certain of success.

‘We’re leaving,’ she said as soon as Parnasse and Redon managed to quieten the party. ‘Cyrus and I have already made the preparations. We either do this or wait for the servitors to arrive. No one’s going to rescue us in the meantime.’

‘We can’t leave,’ Thory said. ‘We’re in a building, Prefect. Buildings don’t move.’

Without answering her, Thalia walked to the architectural model. It was now resting on the flat, damaged surface of the transparent casing that had once covered it. Between them, Meriel Redon and Thalia had removed most of the structures surrounding the stalk, corresponding to the actual demolition work that had taken place overnight.

Thalia reached into her pocket and removed the white ball that represented the sphere of the polling core, dusted it against her thigh and placed it gently atop the stalk. ‘For the benefit of anyone who hasn’t been paying attention, this is us. Machines are trying to get at us through the stalk, and more than likely they’re climbing up the outside as well. So we have to leave. Here’s how it’s going to happen.’

She touched a finger against the side of the ball and toppled it from the stalk. It dropped to the side and rolled away across the denuded grounds of the Museum of Cybernetics until it ran off the edge of the model and fell to the floor.

‘Oh. My. God,’ Thory said. ‘You’re insane. This isn’t going to happen.’

‘That . . . doesn’t look survivable,’ said Jules Caillebot.

‘It’s not as bad as it looks,’ Thalia said. ‘For a start, we’re not going to just drop half a kilometre. We’re going to topple and roll. The sphere will travel down the side of the stalk, but it won’t ever hit the ground. The stalk widens near the base and then flares out until it’s almost horizontal. We’ll be moving fast, but there’s nothing to stop us rolling around the bend and continuing along a horizontal trajectory. It’s going to be bumpy, sure, but with the momentum we’ll have gained during the drop we should roll a long way, particularly as there isn’t much left out there to slow us down. We can thank the robots for that. If they’d left the surrounding stalks in place, we wouldn’t have a hope.’

‘Girl’s right,’ Parnasse said, standing next to Thalia with his arms folded and a look on his face that dared anyone to contradict him. ‘Structurally, the sphere’ll hold. We can expect to roll two, three kilometres before we run out of momentum.’

‘But surely we won’t be able to just roll off the stalk like that,’ said the young man in the electric-blue suit. ‘What do you want us to do? Run back and forth until we topple over?’

‘We’ve taken care of the rolling part,’ Thalia said. ‘Cyrus and I have weakened the connections between the stalk and the sphere. It’ll hold for another hundred years as it is, but I’m going to give it a little nudge in the right direction with my whiphound. I’ll set it to grenade mode, on maximum yield. It’ll give us a pretty big bang. It should sever the remaining connections and push us in the right direction. We’ll topple.’

‘We’ll be smashed around like eggs in a box,’ Caillebot said.

‘Not if we secure ourselves first.’ Thalia indicated the metal railings encircling the polling core. ‘You’re going to strap yourselves to these guards, as tight as you can. Meriel’s going to make sure everyone has enough clothing to do a good job. You’ll need to be secure during the roll. I don’t want anyone breaking loose when we end up upside down.’

‘Maybe I’m missing something,’ Caillebot said. ‘You talk of us rolling two or three kilometres.’

‘Correct,’ Parnasse said.

‘That isn’t going to help us much, is it? By the time we’ve unlashed ourselves, the robots will have caught up with us again.’

Parnasse glanced at Thalia. ‘I think you’d better tell them the rest, girl.’

‘The robots won’t be catching up with us,’ she said.

Caillebot frowned. ‘Why not?’

‘Because we’re not stopping. We said we could roll two or three kilometres. That should be enough to take us across the nearest window band.’

‘Oh no,’ Thory said, shaking her head. ‘Don’t even think—’

Thalia grimaced. She walked over to the woman and faced her down. ‘Here’s the deal, Citizen. I don’t have a fully functional whiphound any more. If I did, I’d run you through some of the more interesting things I can do with it. But I do have a pair of hands. If you make one more remark, if you open your mouth to speak, even if you so much as give me a funny look, I’m going to wrap those hands around that fat neck of yours and keep squeezing until your eyeballs pop into your lap.’

‘I think you’d better listen to the girl,’ Parnasse said.

Thalia stepped back and resumed her earlier position. ‘Thank you, Cyrus. Yes, we’re going to roll across the window band. The band’s pretty tough, I admit - it’s already holding back air at atmospheric pressure, and it’s designed to tolerate occasional stresses above and beyond its normal loading. It could withstand collision by a small ship, a volantor or a train coming off one of the bridges. But it isn’t designed to cope with something as substantial as the sphere. Parnasse and I both agree that the band will collapse under our weight, allowing us to drop into open space.’

‘Where we’ll suffocate and die,’ Caillebot said. ‘Followed quickly by everyone else still inside House Aubusson as the air rushes out through the hundred-metre-wide hole we’ll have just dropped through.’

‘There’s no one else to worry about,’ Thalia said. ‘We’ve kept it from you until now, but all the evidence at our disposal says that the machines have embarked on the systematic murder of all the other citizens. They’ve been rounded up, euthanised and shipped off to the manufactory to be stripped down and scavenged for useful elements.’

‘You can’t be certain that there are no other survivors,’ said the woman in the red dress, her face pale.

Thalia nodded. ‘No, we can’t. Some other groups may have held out for a while. But we’re the only party able to protect ourselves by virtue of being near the polling core. No one else will have had that security. There’ll have been nothing to stop the machines storming everyone else en masse.’

‘But what about us?’ asked Cuthbertson, his mechanical owl still perched on his shoulder. ‘We’ll still need air, even if everyone else is already dead!’

‘We’ve got it,’ Thalia said. ‘There’s enough air inside here to keep us alive until we’re rescued. It won’t be going anywhere because the sphere’s already airtight. Provided the portholes hold, we’ll be fine. Internal doors will stop the air leaking out of the bottom of the sphere, where it used to meet the stalk. If there’s a slow leak, we can live with it. Rescue should be on us within a few minutes of break-out, if my guess is right.’

‘You’re confident of that?’ Caillebot asked.

‘I’m even more confident that we won’t have a chance against those machines when they break through.’ Thalia planted a hand on her hip. ‘That good enough for you, or do you want it in writing?’

Meriel Redon coughed. ‘I know it sounds like madness, at first. That’s what I thought initially when they told me about this plan. But now that I’ve had time to think things through, I see that this is the only way we’re going to survive. It’s roll or die, people.’

‘How soon?’ Cuthbertson asked.

‘Very,’ Thalia said.

‘We need to think about it. We need time to talk it over, see if we can’t come up with another plan.’

‘You’ve got five seconds,’ Thalia said, looking at him belligerently. ‘Thought of anything? No, didn’t think so. Sorry, but this is the plan, and there’s no opt-out clause. I want you all to start securing yourselves. Anything you can’t do, I’ll help you with. But we haven’t got time for a debate on the matter.’

‘It’s going to work,’ Redon said, raising her arms to silence the party. ‘But we have to do it fast, or those machines are going to be through to us before we know it. Thalia’s given us a way out when we had nothing. Don’t think for one second that I’m thrilled about what we’re going to attempt, but I see that we have no choice.’

‘What about the polling core?’ Caillebot asked. ‘Have you forgotten about sabotaging it?’

Thalia produced the whiphound, gripping it in a glove-wrapped hand. ‘I’m going to take it down now. Then I’ll head downstairs to see if I can hear any activity behind the barricade. If I don’t, and there’s no sign of the machines trying to break in elsewhere, then I may reconsider our escape plan. But if I decide to go ahead, I won’t have time to come back up and tell you until we’re almost ready to roll. You’d better assume that’s what’s going to happen.’

She stepped through the gap in the railinged enclosure, extending and stiffening the whiphound’s filament. Without ceremony, she swung it into the polling core’s pillar at chest height, straining to push it deeper until the resistance was too much. The core flickered in protest at the damage she was inflicting, fingers of sharp-edged black radiating away from the wound. She withdrew the filament and came in again, slicing at a different angle. The whiphound buzzed fiercely, the handle throbbing in her hand. Thalia sweated. If she failed to disable the core and somehow incapacitated the whiphound’s grenade mode, it would all have been for nothing.

She removed the whiphound. Now most of the pillar was consumed by geometric black shapes. At some level it was still functioning - her glasses confirmed that there was still some low-level abstraction traffic - but she had certainly impaired it, perhaps to a degree where it would not be able to send coherent packets to the servitors. That would have to suffice. The marrow of quickmatter at the heart of the core would prove resilient against the whiphound, healing as the filament passed through it, and she could not risk overtaxing the weapon.

Thalia let the filament go limp and spool back into the handle. She had done all that she could.

‘Let’s see if we did any damage,’ she said to Parnasse.

She left the polling core level, glancing back to make sure the citizens were all engaged in securing themselves to the railings. She was pleased to see that they were, despite the ramshackle nature of some of their bindings. There was some grumbling going on, some indignation, but Meriel Redon was doing her best to make them understand that there was no other way.

Maybe it wouldn’t be necessary, she thought. Maybe taking down the polling core would be the end of it.

But when Thalia and Parnasse reached the top of the barricade, she knew that the machines were still alive. If anything they sounded louder and closer than ever. Thalia had the palpable impression that they were about to break through the obstruction at any second. The machines sounded enraged, their dim mechanical fury only doubled by what she had just attempted.

‘Roll it is,’ Parnasse said.

‘Looks like it.’

They started jogging away from the barricade, towards the next set of stairs.

‘Any idea why those things are still moving if we just took down the core?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine, Cyrus. Could be they were uploaded with enough autonomy to keep functioning even without direct supervision. Could be I didn’t damage the core enough. Could be they made another one, somewhere else. It isn’t that difficult if you know the protocols.’

They reached the next level down and arrived at the trap door in the floor, still open as they had left it. Parnasse rolled up his sleeves, moving to lower himself into the gap ahead of Thalia.

‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘I memorised the way pretty well the last time we came down here. You showed me where to place the whiphound. I’m sure I can find my way without you.’

‘All the same, girl, I’m coming with you.’

‘I’d rather you were back up with the others, Cyrus, making sure they do what they’re told.’

‘Redon’s got them under control. I think you convinced them there was no other choice.’

Thalia had been striving to maintain a façade of certainty, but all of a sudden doubts magnified inside her. ‘There isn’t, is there?’

‘Of course there isn’t.’

‘But what if I’m wrong?’

‘Nothing could be worse than waiting for those bastards to break through. Even if this doesn’t work, it’ll be a hell of an improvement on being ripped apart by killer robots. At least we’ll go out with style.’

‘Even though there’ll be no one to applaud our efforts?’

‘We’ll know, girl. That’s all that matters.’ He gave her an encouraging pinch on the arm. ‘Now let’s get that whiphound in place.’

They clambered through the tangle of intervening supports until they reached the area where the struts had already been weakened or cut through entirely.

‘Thank our lucky stars this isn’t quickmatter,’ Parnasse said, ‘or those cuts would have healed over by now. But the rules say you can’t have quickmatter anywhere near a polling core.’

‘I like rules,’ Thalia said. ‘Rules are good.’

‘Let’s unwrap the baby.’

Thalia removed the whiphound from its protective bundle. It was trembling, with parts of the casing beginning to melt from the heat. The smell of burning components hit her nose. ‘Okay,’ she said, twisting the first of the dials. ‘Setting yield to maximum. Looks as if it’s accepted the input. So far so good.’ She paused to let her fingers cool down.

‘Now the timer,’ Parnasse said.

She nodded. She twisted the first of the two dials necessary to input the setting. It was stiff, but eventually the dial moved under her fingers until it reached the limit of its rotation. The double-dial fail-safe existed to stop the whiphound being set to grenade mode accidentally. ‘Five minutes,’ she said.

‘It’ll start counting as soon as you twist the other dial?’

Thalia nodded. ‘It should give us enough time to get back upstairs and lashed down. If you want to go ahead now, to make sure—’

‘I’m not going anywhere without you. Set the timer.’

Thalia took hold of the end of the whiphound and began to twist the other dial. It moved easily compared to the other one, clicking around through its settings. Then it stopped, long before it had reached the correct limit. Thalia tried again, but the dial would not pass beyond the point where it had jammed.

‘Something’s the matter,’ she said. ‘I can’t get the second setting locked in. Both dials have to be reading three hundred seconds or it won’t start the countdown.’

‘Can I try?’

She passed him the whiphound. ‘Maybe you can force that dial past the blockage.’

He tried. He couldn’t.

‘It’s jammed pretty good, girl.’ Parnasse squinted at the tiny white digits marked next to the dial. ‘Looks like we’re stuck at one hundred seconds, or less.’

‘It isn’t enough,’ Thalia said. ‘We’d never get back up and lashed down in one hundred seconds.’

‘There’s no other way of setting that counter?’

‘None.’

Then something came over her, a kind of awesome calm, like the placidity of the sea after a great storm. She had never felt more serene, more purposeful, in her life. This was it, she knew. It was the point she had waited for, with guarded expectation, knowing it would arrive at some time in her career, but that she might not notice it unless she was both alert and open-minded. This was her opportunity to redeem whatever it was her father had done wrong.

‘Girl?’ Parnasse asked, for Thalia had fallen into a momentary trance.

‘It’s okay,’ she said. ‘We can still do this. I want you to leave now, Cyrus. Get back to the others and strap yourself down. Make sure you close all airtight doors on the way.’

‘And you?’

‘I’m going to wait a whole three hundred seconds. Then I’m going to complete what I came here to do.’

‘Which is?’

Her voice trembled. ‘Uphold the public good.’

‘Is that right?’ Parnasse said.

‘Yes,’ she answered.

‘I don’t think so, girl.’

She started to protest, started to raise her arm in defence, but Parnasse was faster and stronger. Whatever it was he did to her, she never saw it coming.

CHAPTER 27

Thyssen’s face was slit-eyed and puffy when it appeared on Dreyfus’s compad.

‘I know you’re meant to be sleeping now, and I apologise for disturbing your rest. But something’s been nagging at me and I need to talk to you about it.’ He neglected to tell Thyssen that the thing that had been bothering him had only revealed itself fully when he woke from his snooze.

‘Is this urgent, Prefect?’

‘Very.’

‘Then I’ll see you in the bay in five minutes.’

Thyssen looked surprisingly alert when Dreyfus arrived, feeling less than clearheaded himself. Thyssen was talking with his shift replacement Tezuka, the two of them peering through a window at the ongoing ship operations. Technicians were performing vacuum welds on the damaged hull of a cutter. Both men were sipping something from drinking bulbs.

‘Prefect Dreyfus,’ Thyssen said, breaking away from his conversation. ‘You look like you could use some of this.’ He offered Dreyfus the drinking bulb. Dreyfus declined.

‘The ship Saavedra took,’ Dreyfus said.

‘You mean Saavedra and Chen.’

Dreyfus nodded: he’d forgotten that Thyssen hadn’t been informed of Chen’s murder. ‘I’m just wondering why they took that one, out of all the choices they had. Am I correct in thinking that cutter was a Type B?’

‘Correct,’ Thyssen said. ‘Most of the new vehicles are Type C or D. They don’t have the—’

‘Transatmospheric capability,’ Dreyfus finished for him. ‘That’s what I reckoned.’

‘Since the segregation of security responsibilities between Chasm City and the Glitter Band—’

‘Prefects hardly ever need to take a ship into Yellowstone’s atmosphere. And all that aerodynamic bodywork makes for fuel-draining mass that we don’t need in normal duties. I know. But we still keep a small number of transat vehicles on readiness, in case we do need them.’

Something clicked behind Thyssen’s eyes. ‘You think they’ve gone to Yellowstone.’

‘It’s a possibility. I need you to look into your logs. I’m going to give you the names of some prefects and I want you to correlate those names against the vehicles they’ve signed out for routine duties. Can you do that for me?’

‘Yes. Immediately.’

‘Here are the names.’ Dreyfus handed Thyssen his compad, allowing him access to the area where he had input the identities of the eight Firebrand operatives. Thyssen retired to an office space, Dreyfus shadowing him, and transferred the names into his own compad with a finger stroke.

Thyssen chucked his bulb into the wall and conjured a console. ‘I’m checking the logs right now. How far back do you want me to go?’

Dreyfus thought of the likely activity that would have preceded the destruction of the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble. Moving the Clockmaker and its associated relics - including any equipment required to study them - would have certainly required more than one trip.

‘Two months should do it.’

‘Conjure yourself a coffee, Prefect. This is going to take a couple of minutes.’

Thalia woke with the worst headache she could remember, one that felt as if someone had driven an iron piton into the side of her skull. She was just beginning to speculate on the precise origin of that pain when she became aware of less intense discomfort afflicting almost her entire body. It was difficult to breathe, and her arms were tugged so far behind her back that she felt as if her shoulders had been dislocated. Something squeezed her chest. Something hard dug into her spine. She opened her eyes and looked around, wondering where she was and what had happened to her.

‘Easy,’ said Meriel Redon, who appeared to be bound in a similar position next to Thalia: sitting on the ground with her back against the railings that encircled the polling core, her arms crossed and bound behind one of the uprights. ‘You’re okay now, Prefect Ng. You took a bad bump on the head, but there’s no bleeding. We’ll get you checked as soon as we’re out of this.’

Through a curtain of pain, Thalia said, ‘I don’t remember. What happened?’

‘You were down in the basement, getting ready to set the timer on your whiphound.’

‘I was,’ Thalia said foggily. She had a groggy recollection that there had been some kind of problem with the whiphound, but the details refused to sharpen.

‘You banged your head on one of the struts, knocking yourself out.’

‘I banged my head?’

‘You were out cold. Citizen Parnasse carried you back up here on his own.’

The events began to come back to her. She remembered the second timing dial jamming, how she had come to the decision that she would have to detonate the whiphound manually. She remembered that awesome calm she had experienced, as if every trifling detail in her life had just been swept aside, leaving a breathtaking clarity of mind, as empty and full of possibility as the clear dawn sky. And then she remembered nothing at all, except waking up here.

‘Where is Parnasse?’

‘He went back down to set the timer,’ Redon said. ‘He said you’d shown him what to do.’

‘No—’ Thalia began.

‘We’re expecting him back any minute. He said he’d be able to tie himself down when he arrived.’

‘He isn’t coming back. There was a problem with the whiphound, with setting the five-minute fuse. I didn’t bang my head. Parnasse must have knocked me out.’

Redon looked puzzled. ‘Why would he have done that?’

‘Because I was going to set it off myself, while I was still down there. It was the only way. But he wouldn’t let me. He’s decided to do it himself.’

Comprehension came to Redon in horrified degrees. ‘You mean he’s going to die down there?’

‘He isn’t coming back up. I showed him how to set the whiphound. He knows exactly what to do.’

‘Someone has to go down there, tell him not to do it,’ Redon said. ‘He can’t kill himself to save us. He’s just a citizen, just one of us.’

‘When did he go?’

‘Quite a long time ago.’

‘He can’t set the fuse for longer than a hundred seconds. There’s no reason why he needs to wait that long, if he’s in place.’

‘You mean we could go any second?’

‘If the whiphound works. If the machines haven’t already broken through and stopped him.’ She knew she ought to feel gratitude, but instead she felt betrayed. ‘Damn him! He shouldn’t have brought me back up here. It wasted too much time!’

‘Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea if one of us—’

Redon never got to finish her sentence. Judging by the force of the blast, felt through Thalia’s spine as it transmitted itself through the fabric of the polling core sphere, the whiphound must have detonated at nearly its maximum theoretical yield. It had been a new unit, she remembered belatedly: she’d checked it out of the armoury only a couple of weeks ago. There would still have been a lot of energy left inside it, anxiously seeking release.

The sphere rocked appreciably: Thalia saw the landscape tilt and then settle again at its former angle. The blast had been very brief: a spike of intense sound followed by a few seconds of echoing repercussions. Now all was silent again. The sphere was still. The landscape outside was still.

‘It didn’t work,’ she said. ‘We’re not moving. It didn’t fucking work.’

‘Wait,’ Caillebot said quietly.

‘It didn’t work, Citizen. We’re not going anywhere. The blast wasn’t sufficient. I’ve failed you, used up our one chance.’

‘Wait,’ he said.

‘Something’s happening,’ Cuthbertson said. ‘I can hear it. It sounds like metal straining. Can’t you?’

‘We’re tilting,’ Redon said. ‘Look.’

Thalia craned her neck in time to see the white ball of the model polling core sphere roll across the floor, towards the window facing them.

From somewhere below there came a kind of twanging sound, as if the energy stored in a stretched spar had just been catastrophically released. The twanging sound was followed in quick succession by another, then a third, and then a volley of them too close together to count.

The tilt of the floor increased. Thalia felt her weight beginning to tug on the upright to which she was bound. The sphere must have been at ten or fifteen degrees to the horizontal already. She heard another series of metallic sounds: shearing and buckling noises, less like the failure of structural components than the cries of animals in distress.

The angle of the tilt reached twenty degrees and continued increasing.

‘We’re going over,’ she said. ‘It’s happening.’

Loose clothes and debris skittered across the floor, coming to rest along the curve of the outer wall. The architectural model slid noisily, then shattered itself to pieces. Thirty degrees, easy. Thalia felt an unpleasant tingling in her stomach. The landscape was tilting alarmingly. Through the windows, she could see aspects of the surrounding campus that had been obscured before. Suddenly it looked much further down than she had been imagining. Five hundred metres was a long way to fall. She remembered Caillebot’s reaction when she’d outlined the plan: That doesn’t look survivable.

Maybe he’d been right all along.

Now the tilt was increasing faster. Forty degrees, then forty-five. Thalia’s arms felt as if they were being wrenched out of their sockets, but it was only the effect of her bodyweight so far. When the sphere started rolling, it was going to get much worse. Fifty degrees. The lower extremity of the stalk was beginning to come into view through the windows. In one brief glimpse she knew she’d been right about the war machines. They covered it like a black mould, reaching as high up the shaft as it was possible to see. They must have been very close to the sphere itself.

Something gave way. Thalia felt the sphere drop several metres, as if the upper part of the stalk had crumbled or subsided under the changing load. And then suddenly they were rolling, pitching down the side of the stalk, the angle of tilt exceeding ninety degrees and then continuing to climb. The sphere shook and roared. There was no time to analyse the situation, or even judge how far down the stalk they had rolled. There was only room in Thalia’s head for a single, simple thought: It’s working . . . so far.

She felt a momentary increase in the forces tugging at her body and judged that the sphere had reached the base of the stalk and changed its direction of roll from the vertical to the horizontal. She tried to time the duration of each roll, hoping to judge the distance they had travelled and detect some evidence that the sphere was slowing. But it was hopeless trying to concentrate on such matters.

‘I think,’ she heard Caillebot call out, between grunts of discomfort, ‘that we’ve cleared the perimeter.’

‘Really?’ Thalia called back, raising her voice above the juggernaut rumble of their progress.

‘We’re still rolling pretty fast. I hope we don’t just bounce right over the window band.’

It was a possibility neither Thalia nor Parnasse had considered. They’d guessed that the sphere would have enough momentum to reach the edge of the band, but they had never thought about it moving so fast that it would skim right across, moving too quickly to stress the window enough to break. Now Thalia realised that they were open to the awful possibility that the sphere might traverse the entire window band and come to a rolling halt on the next stretch of solid ground.

‘Can you see the band yet?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ called out Meriel Redon. ‘I think I can. But something’s wrong.’

‘We’re coming in too fast?’

‘Not that. Shouldn’t we be rolling in a straight line?’

‘Yes,’ Thalia said. ‘Aren’t we?’

‘We seem to be curving. I can see the window band, but we’re approaching it obliquely.’

Thalia was confused and worried. They’d always assumed that the sphere would follow a straight course once it reached the base of the stalk, with only minor deviations caused by obstacles and friction. But now that she concentrated on the tumbling landscape and tried to make out the grey line that marked the edge of the window band, she knew that Redon was right. They were clearly off-course, at far too sharp an angle to be explained by the sphere crashing through the remains of the campus grounds.

‘I don’t understand,’ she said. ‘We went over this. It should be a straight roll all the way to the window band.’

‘We’re still going to hit the window band,’ Cuthbertson said, his voice reduced to a strangled approximation of itself. ‘You’ve just forgotten about Coriolis force.’

‘We should be moving in a straight line,’ Thalia said.

‘We are. But the habitat’s rotating, and it’s trying to get us to follow a helical trajectory instead. It’s all about reference frames, Prefect.’

‘Coriolis force,’ Thalia said. ‘Shit. After everything they taught me in Panoply, I forgot about Coriolis force. We’re not on a planet. We’re inside a fucking spinning tube.’

She’d become aware that the rate of roll was diminishing, the landscape cartwheeling around at half the speed from when they had begun the journey. She could begin to pick out details, landmarks that the Aubusson citizens had already noted.

‘We’ll be okay,’ Cuthbertson said. ‘We’re just going to hit a different part of the window band than we were expecting.’

‘Will that make any difference?’ she asked.

‘Don’t think so. We should break through as easily there as anywhere else.’

‘Any second now,’ Meriel Redon said. ‘We’re coming up on the band. Get ready, everyone. There’s going to be a jolt when we hit the edge of the land strip.’

Thalia braced herself, in so far as bracing was possible when she was already bound like a sacrificial offering. She felt a moment of giddy vertigo as the sphere rolled over the edge of the landscape strip and crashed down onto the vast glassy plain of the window band. The ride became eerily smooth as they trundled over the geometrically perfect surface. With little friction save air resistance, the rate of roll was holding more or less steady.

‘Break,’ Thalia whispered. ‘Please break. And please let us be airtight when it happens.’

Dreyfus knocked on the door to the tactical room before stepping through. A certain deference was advisable. Dreyfus knew that his Pangolin clearance put him on a level footing with the seniors in some respects, but he saw no point in rubbing salt into that particular wound.

‘Dreyfus,’ Baudry said, breaking off from whatever discussion she’d been having with the other seniors. ‘I’m afraid you’re too late. You’ve just missed the demise of the Persistent Vegetative State.’

Without sitting down, Dreyfus moved to a position close to the Solid Orrery. The number of red lights hadn’t changed since last time he’d seen it, but he could draw no consolation from that, knowing what it had cost just to slow Aurora’s advance. ‘How many’d we get out?’

‘One hundred and seventeen thousand, out of a total population of one hundred and thirty. Not bad, all things considered, especially as we were basically dealing with corpses.’

‘We’ve now concentrated our evacuation efforts on the targets we think Aurora will go for next,’ Clearmountain said. ‘Our monitors show that the weevil flows are already changing direction, now they know the Spindle and the PVS are out of the picture.’

‘You mean “nuked”,’ Dreyfus said.

‘Whatever. So far, though, we can’t say where the flows are most likely to hit next. There are a number of possible candidates. Unfortunately, none of them are habitats where we’ve already started evacuating. We’re starting from scratch.’

‘Where are the evacuees going?’

He could tell from their reactions that his question wasn’t a popular one. ‘In an ideal world, we’d ship them far across the Glitter Band, well beyond Aurora’s expansion front,’ Clearmountain said. ‘But even with the high-burn liners, that would involve an unacceptable round-trip delay. Our only practical strategy has been to move the citizens to relatively close habitats, so that the turnaround time can be minimised.’

‘Go on.’

Clearmountain cast a glance at the other seniors. ‘Unfortunately, Aurora’s projected front is now beginning to impinge on some of the habs where we’ve been moving people.’

‘I see.’

‘Which means that when we start evacuating those habs, we’re also going to have to shift the recent refugees. With our current resources the situation is borderline containable, but as the front expands, and the number of endangered habitats grows geometrically, the refugee burden will soon become the predominant limiting factor.’ Clearmountain offered his palms in a gesture of well-intentioned surrender. ‘Some tough calls may have to be made when that happens, Prefect Dreyfus.’

‘Today we nuked two occupied habitats. We’ve already made tough calls.’

‘What I mean,’ Clearmountain said, with a strained smile, ‘is that we may have to focus our activities where they can do the most good.’

‘Isn’t that exactly what we’re already doing?’

‘Not to the degree that may shortly become necessary. In the interests of maximising the number of citizens we can evacuate away from Aurora’s takeover front, we may have to prioritise assistance to those citizens least likely to hinder our efforts.’

‘I see where you’re going. You think we should leave the coma cases to die.’

‘It’s not as if they’ll know what hit them.’

‘All those citizens went into voluntary coma on the understanding that the PVS would be looking after them, and that Panoply would be standing by if the PVS failed in its care. That was a promise we made to those people.’

Clearmountain looked exasperated. ‘You’re worried about breaking a promise to a citizen with the brain functions of a cabbage?’

‘I’m just wondering where this ends. So the coma cases are inconvenient to us. Fine, we lose them. Who’s next? Citizens who can’t move as fast as the rest? Citizens we just don’t like the look of? Citizens who maybe didn’t vote the right way the last time there was a poll on Panoply’s right to arms?’

‘I think you’re being needlessly melodramatic,’ Clearmountain said. ‘There was a reason for this visit, wasn’t there, other than to cast doubts on an already complicated evacuation programme?’

‘Clearmountain’s right,’ Jane Aumonier said, her image speaking from her usual position at the table. ‘The coma cases are a blessed nuisance, and we’d have a much easier time of it if we just pulled life-support on the lot of them. They’re going to retard our evacuation programme and therefore increase the danger to the rest of the citizenry. But Tom’s even more right. If we cross this line just once - if we say these citizens matter less than those citizens - we may as well hand Aurora the keys to the kingdom. But we’re not going to do that. This is Panoply. Everything we stand for says we’re better than that.’

‘Thank you,’ Dreyfus said, his voice a hushed whisper.

‘But we can’t let the coma cases impose too heavy a drag on the evacuation programme,’ Aumonier continued. ‘That’s why I want them dealt with now, so we won’t have to worry about them in the future. I want them leapfrogged well ahead of the front - out of the Glitter Band, even, if we can identify a suitable holding point.’

‘That’ll tie up ships and manpower,’ Baudry said.

‘I know. But it has to be done. Do you have any suggestions, Lillian?’

‘We might consider an approach to Hospice Idlewild. They’re used to dealing with sudden influxes of incapacitated sleepers, so they should be able to handle the coma cases.’

‘Excellent proposal. Can you sort that out?’

‘I’ll get right on it.’ After a lengthy pause she said, ‘Supreme Prefect Aumonier . . .’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s been nearly six hours now. Since Aurora’s transmission.’

‘I’m well aware of that, thank you very much.’

‘I’m just saying . . . given what we now know of her capabilities . . . and the difficulties we’re having with the evacuation effort, and the finite number of nuclear devices in our arsenal—’

‘Yes, Lillian?’

‘I think it would be prudent at least to consider Aurora’s proposal. ’ Her words came out awkwardly, the strain written in her face. ‘If her success is guaranteed, then we have an onus to do everything we can to protect the citizenry during the transition phase. Aurora has threatened to start euthanising citizens in the habitats she already holds. I believe she will follow through on that threat unless we broadcast the takeover code to the rest of the ten thousand. If we wish to save as many lives as possible, we may have no choice but to comply with her demand.’ ‘I don’t think we’re quite ready to hand her the keys to the castle,’ Dreyfus said, before anyone else had time to respond to Baudry’s words.

‘With all due respect, Field Prefect Dreyfus—’ she began exasperatedly.

‘With all due respect, Senior Prefect Baudry, shut up.’ Dreyfus looked pointedly away from Baudry, to Clearmountain. ‘I dropped by for a reason, and it wasn’t to rubber-stamp our surrender. You have any objections if I commandeer the Orrery for a moment?’

‘If you need to run the Orrery, you have authorisation to conjure a duplicate in your quarters,’ Clearmountain said.

‘Let him run it,’ Aumonier said warningly. ‘What have you got for us, Tom?’

‘It may be nothing. On the other hand, it may be a clue to the present location of the Clockmaker.’

Aumonier lifted an eyebrow. He hadn’t briefed her in advance, so she was as much in the dark as everyone else in the room. ‘Then I think you should continue, with all haste.’

‘I’ll need to wind back a few hours. Everyone happy with that?’

‘Do what you need to do,’ Aumonier said.

Dreyfus began to spin back the Solid Orrery to the point when he had begun tracking Saavedra’s cutter. ‘Let’s remind ourselves what we’re looking at here,’ he said, as the timetag digits reversed themselves. ‘The Orrery’s more than just a real-time record of the disposition of the Glitter Band and its habitats. It also shows Yellowstone. That isn’t just some static representation of what the planet looks like from space. It’s a constantly changing three-dimensional image, pieced together from countless orbital viewpoints.’

‘We’re well aware of this,’ Clearmountain said.

‘Hear him out,’ purred Aumonier.

‘Everything that happens on Yellowstone, the Orrery keeps a record of it. Changes in the weather, the cloud colouration . . . it all goes into the memory. Even those rare occasions when the clouds clear to reveal the surface. But there’s more to it than that.’ The digits froze: the Orrery had wound back to the time of Saavedra’s flight. Dreyfus dabbed a finger into the jewelled disc of the Band. ‘Here’s Panoply.’ He moved his finger a few centimetres to the right. ‘Here’s the last known position of Saavedra’s vehicle before she dropped beyond our sensor horizon. In clear space we’d have been able to track her at a range of several light-seconds, even with her hull stealthing. But it’s hopeless in the thick of the Band, even more so with the present crisis, and Saavedra knew it.’

‘You said we lost her,’ Aumonier said. ‘Has something changed?’

‘Saavedra told me I had no hope of chasing her since there were no other ships ready to go. She was bluffing - maybe there were no other ships fast enough to catch her, but there were certainly other vehicles that had more fuel and heavier weapons loads.’ Dreyfus looked up from the Orrery. ‘So I did some nosing around. Turns out the Firebrand operatives - I presume you’ve all been briefed concerning Firebrand? - have been using a lot of transat vehicles lately, even signing them out for duties that wouldn’t require that capability. Now, why would they do that?’

‘You think they’ve moved the Clockmaker to Yellowstone,’ Aumonier said.

Dreyfus nodded. ‘That’s the way it’s looking. Of course, that’s not particularly useful data in and of itself. It’s a big planet with a lot of hiding places.’

‘So why didn’t they take the Clockmaker there first, instead of using the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble?’ Baudry asked.

‘Because it would have been much more risky,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Visiting the Clockmaker in the Bubble was so easy that they kept it up for nine years without any of us suspecting. But it’s a lot more difficult to conceal flights in and out of Yellowstone. They must have looked on it as a temporary holding point until they could prepare somewhere else in the Band. But then Aurora made her move.’

‘This is good work, Tom,’ Aumonier said. ‘But the point still holds. Neither Panoply nor the local enforcement agencies have the resources to comb the whole planet looking for a secret hideaway, especially not now.’

‘We don’t have to comb. I think I know exactly where they are.’ Dreyfus indicated the night-time face of Yellowstone in the Solid Orrery. It was almost entirely black, except for a cold blue flicker of frozen lightning at the southern pole. ‘Saavedra’s ship was stealthed, but nothing’s truly invisible, not even a nonvelope. To avoid being pinned down, Saavedra had to move quickly and exploit gaps in CTC’s tracking, just like any prefect on sensitive business.’

‘How does that help us?’

‘It means her options were limited when she hit atmosphere. I’m sure she’d have preferred to come in slowly, but that would have meant spending too much time in near-Yellowstone space. So she came in hard and fast, using the atmosphere itself as a brake.’

‘And we got a hit,’ Aumonier said.

Dreyfus smiled. Jane was one step ahead of him, but he liked it that way. He felt as if the two of them were a double act, feeding each other lines so that they both looked better before the other prefects. The others must have thought that the whole performance had been rehearsed.

‘The cams detected this flash,’ Dreyfus said, letting the Orrery scroll forward to the point he had tagged. A tiny pink spot of light waxed and waned near Yellowstone’s equator. ‘It matches the expected entry signature for a cutter-sized vehicle moving at about the same speed Saavedra had just before she dropped out of range. It’s her, Seniors.’

‘Ships are coming and going from Yellowstone all the time,’ Clearmountain said.

‘But not that fast. Most ships come in slow, settling down into the atmosphere on controlled thrust. And there’s hardly been any routine traffic since the supreme prefect polled for the use of emergency powers. People are keeping their heads down, hoping this will all blow over.’

‘But an entry point is just an entry point,’ Baudry said.

‘Agreed. I can’t rule out the possibility that Saavedra travelled a lot further within the atmosphere. But if she did, planetary traffic control didn’t pick her up. I think she came in hard and fast close to her destination.’

‘But there’s nothing there,’ Baudry said. She craned her head slightly. ‘I can see the weather pattern over Chasm City, on the sunward face. Unless my knowledge of Stoner geography’s seriously flawed, Saavedra came in thousands of kilometres from any other settlements.’

Dreyfus sent another command to the Orrery. ‘You’re right, Lillian. The nearest surface community would have been Loreanville, eight thousand kilometres to the west. But Firebrand wouldn’t have been interested in Loreanville, or any of the domed settlements: there’d have been too much local security for them to continue their activities.’

‘So where was she headed?’

‘Clear to surface,’ Dreyfus told the Orrery. The quickmatter envelope of the planet’s atmosphere dissipated in a puff, revealing the wrinkled terrain of Yellowstone’s crust. It was an icy landscape riven with fissures and ridges, spotted here and there with simmering cold lakes, lifeless save for the hardiest of organisms capable of enduring the toxic chemistry of the methane-ammonia atmosphere.

‘There’s still nothing there,’ Baudry said.

‘Not now. But there used to be.’ Dreyfus gave another command and the surface became dotted with a dozen or so vermilion symbols, each accompanied by a small textual annotation.

‘What are we looking at, Tom?’ Aumonier asked.

‘The sites of former Amerikano colonies or bases, predating the Demarchist era. Most of these structures and digs go back three hundred years. They’ve been ruins for more than two hundred.’ There was no need for him to labour the point: Saavedra’s entry trajectory had positioned her directly above one of the abandoned colonies. ‘Now, this could be coincidence, but I’m inclined to think otherwise.’

‘What is that place?’ Aumonier asked.

‘The Amerikanos called it Surface Operations Facility Nine, or Ops Nine. If they had another name for it, we have no record of it.’ Dreyfus shrugged. ‘It’s been a long time.’

‘But not so long that there isn’t still something there.’

‘Firebrand wouldn’t have needed a fully operational base, just somewhere to hide the Clockmaker and keep an eye on it. An abandoned facility would have served them adequately.’

‘But is there anything there at all, after all this time?’

‘Not much on the surface according to the terrain maps, but the old records say Ops Nine went down several levels. This is quite a stable area, geologically speaking. The subsurface areas may still be relatively intact: even to the extent that they’ll still be airtight.’

Clearmountain blew out slowly. ‘Then we’d better get a task force down there immediately. There may be nothing in this, but we can’t take that risk. Our top priority is to secure the Clockmaker.’

‘All due respect, Senior,’ Dreyfus said, ‘but I wouldn’t recommend any kind of visible response to this intelligence. Since nothing’s happened so far, we can be reasonably sure that Aurora hasn’t made the same deductions we have. But if we start retasking assets - sending deep-system vehicles into the atmosphere - Aurora’s going to see that and wonder what’s got us so interested in an abandoned Amerikano base.’

‘And I wouldn’t expect her to take long to put two and two together,’ Aumonier said. ‘No: Tom’s correct. We need to respond, but it has to be a covert approach. We need to secure and protect the Clockmaker before Aurora even has a hint as to what we’re up to. That rules out any mass concentration of assets or personnel.’ She paused heavily. ‘But someone will still have to go in. I’d volunteer to do it - I’ve already survived direct contact with the Clockmaker - but for obvious reasons my participation isn’t an option.’

‘We wouldn’t risk you anyway,’ Dreyfus said. ‘You were a field when you encountered the Clockmaker back then. It’s still a field’s job to go in now.’

‘But it doesn’t have to be you.’

‘This has been my case from the moment I spoke to that Ultra captain. I propose talking with it.’

‘It doesn’t talk. It kills.’

‘Then I’ll just have to find some common ground. A negotiating position.’

Clearmountain looked appalled. ‘Even if that means giving it something in return?’

‘Even if.’

‘I won’t permit it.’

‘Then I suggest you start looking into alternative career options. I don’t think Aurora’s going to have a lot of use for senior prefects when she takes over.’

Someone knocked at the door. Dreyfus recognised the girl - she was the operative who’d informed the tactical room of the hostile action taken by the first four habitats claimed by Aurora.

‘Bad news for us again?’ he asked.

‘Sirs, I’m not sure,’ she said, looking nervously at the strained faces of the seniors. ‘I was asked to bring this to your immediate attention. There’s been a development in the House Aubusson situation.’

‘What kind of development?’ Dreyfus asked, secretly dreading her answer.

‘Sirs, I have imagery obtained by the deep-system cruiser we have on monitoring standby near Aubusson.’ With shaking hands, she placed a compad on the table. ‘There’s been a pressure breach, a major one. Air’s blasting out through a hundred-metre-wide hole in one of the window bands.’

Dreyfus snatched the compad across the table, flipping it around to face him. He made out the sausage-shaped habitat, a jet of cold, grey air geysering out from its side.

‘The cause of this breach?’

She was facing Dreyfus now, answering him to the exclusion of everyone else present, even the supreme prefect herself. ‘Sir, it appears something crashed through the window band. The cruiser’s tracking a metal object, a sphere, moving on a slow free-fall trajectory away from the habitat.’

Dreyfus’s throat was very dry. ‘The nature of this object?’

‘Unknown, sir, but it doesn’t resemble any orthodox space vehicle or weapons system. The cruiser’s asking permission, sir.’

‘Permission for what?’

She blinked. ‘To fire, sir. To destroy the unknown object.’

‘Over my dead fucking body,’ Dreyfus said.

‘We can’t be too careful,’ Clearmountain replied. ‘This could be another part of Aurora’s takeover strategy.’

‘It’s Thalia.’

‘How can you be so sure? We don’t know what Aurora might have planned.’

‘She’s been using weevils to spread her influence from habitat to habitat,’ Dreyfus answered. ‘Why would she change, put all her eggs in one basket, when her existing strategy’s working just fine?’

‘We can’t guess what she has in mind.’

‘I can. She’s going to keep using force of numbers, the way she already has. Whatever this is, it isn’t part of her plan.’

‘Which doesn’t automatically mean it’s anything to do with Thalia Ng,’ Baudry said. ‘I’m sorry to remind you of this, but we have no evidence that she survived the initial takeover phase.’

‘If we think they’re all dead, why haven’t we nuked Aubusson already?’

‘Because there’s a chance, however small, that the citizenry may still be alive. But that doesn’t necessarily imply that Thalia is amongst the survivors.’ Baudry offered Dreyfus a sympathetic look. ‘I know this is tough on you, but we need to take the rational view. How likely is it that Thalia Ng is behind this development, whatever it represents? We don’t even know what the object is, let alone how it came to smash through the habitat. Thalia was just a single deputy field, Tom. She knew a lot about polling cores, and I don’t doubt that she’d have done her best to protect the citizens, but we have to be realistic about the chances of her succeeding. She had next to no experience in high-risk field situations. Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t it true that she’d only participated in a single lockdown before all this happened?’

‘I know Thalia,’ Dreyfus said. ‘She’d have done whatever it took.’

‘Tom, I know you mean well, but we can’t afford to let this foreign object—’

‘Put me through to the deep-system cruiser,’ Aumonier said, cutting over Baudry.

The operative touched settings on her bracelet. ‘Connection should be open, Supreme Prefect.’

‘This is Jane Aumonier,’ said the projected figure. ‘To whom am I speaking?’

A woman’s voice crackled across the room. ‘Captain Sarasota, Supreme Prefect. How may I be of assistance?’

‘I believe you’re tracking something, Captain, something that emerged from House Aubusson?’

‘We have a weapons lock on it, Supreme Prefect. We can fire at your command.’

‘I’d rather you didn’t do that, Captain. Maintain your maximum defensive posture, but approach the unidentified object close enough to sweep for infrared hotspots. I want to know if there are survivors aboard that thing.’

‘And if there are?’

‘Bring them in. As fast as you can.’

CHAPTER 28

Dreyfus fastened the safe-distance tether with an unshakeable conviction that this would be the last time he performed the action. Either he would not be coming back from Yellowstone, or Jane Aumonier would not be waiting for him here, in this weightless room, upon his return. The significance of either outcome caused his hands to shake as he locked the catch into place.

‘How long before you leave?’ Aumonier said as Dreyfus came to a halt.

‘Thyssen says there’ll be a ship fuelled and prepped within thirty minutes.’

‘A deep-system cruiser, I take it?’

‘No, I opted for a cutter. The amount of armament’s immaterial. All that matters is that we sneak in unobserved.’

‘We, Tom?’

‘Pell will fly me to the drop-off point. I’ll walk the rest of the way.’

‘Walk?’ she asked, frowning. ‘No one said anything about walking. ’

‘There’s no other way. Firebrand will have Ops Nine guarded against the approach of any unauthorised vehicle. But if Pell drops me over their sensor horizon, I should be able to walk in without triggering the perimeter defences.’

‘How will you know where their sensor horizon ends?’

‘They want to stay hidden, so their coverage will be necessarily limited. They won’t be floating drones up in the air to spy on someone approaching overland.’

‘You hope.’

‘I’ll take my chances. If you could clear the paperwork for a Breitenbach rifle, that would help.’

‘Take whatever you want from the armoury,’ Aumonier said dismissively. ‘If I could spare a nuke, I’d give you one of those as well.’

‘Not on my kit list, but would you really give me one if I asked?’

‘Probably, but with misgivings. The problem is we don’t have an inexhaustible supply, and we need to make sure we curtail all weevil production when we take out a habitat.’

‘How many nukes do you have left?’

Aumonier glanced away: he could tell that she’d rather he hadn’t asked that particular question. ‘We’re down to our last fifty warheads. For some of the larger habitats on the evacuation front we’ll have to use three or four to guarantee total destruction of all manufactory centres. It’s bad enough that we’re driven to this, Tom. But no one ever imagined Panoply would need more than a few dozen nukes, even in the worst crisis scenarios we ever imagined.’

Dreyfus smiled thinly. ‘Can we make more nukes?’

‘Not on a useful timescale. We’ve put in so many safeguards to stop people making these horrors that it’s going to take days of frantic red-tape cutting before we can even begin to utilise civilian manufactories. They won’t come through in time to help us, I’m afraid.’

‘If we had another weapon to use against the evacuated habitats, would we consider it?’

‘You mean something with the destructive potential of nukes?’ Aumonier shook her head sadly. ‘There just isn’t anything in our arsenal, I’m afraid. If we deployed every foam-phase warhead we have, we might be able to destroy a single habitat. But it would take hours, and we’d always run the risk of missing a chunk of functioning manufactory, something with the capacity to keep churning out weevils.’

‘I wasn’t thinking about our armoury,’ Dreyfus said. ‘I was thinking about the people we blamed for starting this whole thing in the first place.’

‘I’m not following you, Tom.’

‘The Ultras,’ Dreyfus said. ‘We’ve already had a comprehensive demonstration that one of their ships can destroy one of our habitats, no problem. Granted, Ruskin-Sartorious was one of the smaller states, but I think the principle still applies. They can help us, Jane.’

‘Will they go for it?’

‘We won’t know unless we ask,’ Dreyfus said.

She looked down, surveying her weightless form, the tips of her dangling feet. Dreyfus wondered if she had noticed the thin, red scratch of the laser that was now cutting across her body just below her neckline. If she had cause to raise a hand, she would notice it shining across her wrist. Demikhov’s guillotine was in place, the laser’s sub-millimetre accuracy good enough for surgical purposes, so Dreyfus had been informed. If the laser happened to transect her throat above the upper extremity of the scarab, and if all other physiological parameters were satisfactory, Demikhov would initiate the decapitation process. Demikhov had even argued against Dreyfus visiting Aumonier in person, for he would not trigger the blades while another prefect was in the same room. Dreyfus understood that, and that his presence was therefore not in Aumonier’s best interests. But he’d had an overwhelming need to see her before he left.

‘I don’t want to keep you, Tom,’ she said hesitantly. ‘But before you go—’

He cut her off, more out of nerves than intention. ‘There’s been no news from Captain Sarasota?’ he asked.

‘I’m still waiting. Her last report said that there appeared to be thermal signatures consistent with survivors, but they won’t know until they’ve docked with it and cut a boarding aperture. I’ve no idea what the hell that thing is, but I suppose we’ll find out soon enough.’

‘It’s not done anything hostile, has it?’

‘No. On that score your intuitions were correct.’

There was a silence. Dreyfus was conscious of the ship waiting for him down in the bay, almost ready for departure. As little desire as he had to be aboard it, he knew that he could not delay. It might take many hours to reach Ops Nine, but every minute was critical.

‘You were about to say something,’ he said. ‘Then I interrupted you.’

Aumonier could not meet his eyes. ‘This is difficult for me.’

‘Then save it for later. I’m not planning on staying down there.’

‘It can’t wait until later, unfortunately. This whole business with the Clockmaker has precipitated something I had hoped to avoid for a very long while. Perhaps for ever. I’ve had to make a very difficult decision, Tom. Even now, I don’t know if what I’m about to do, what I’m about to say to you, is the right thing.’

‘Perhaps you should just say it and see how things go.’

‘Before you board the ship, I’m going to make a document available to you. I’ll have it transferred onto your compad.’

‘You want me to read a document?’

‘It isn’t that simple. You have Pangolin clearance now, but this is a matter above Pangolin. You’ll need Manticore.’

‘I don’t have Manticore.’

‘But I can grant it to you. The choice will be yours as to whether you use it or not.’

‘Why should I hesitate?’

‘Because of what’s in that document, Tom. It probably won’t come as a great surprise if I tell you that it concerns the last Clockmaker crisis, and what happened to the Sylveste Institute for Artificial Mentation. By implication, it concerns Valery.’

‘I understand.’

She answered very gently. ‘No, you don’t. Not yet. Not until you’ve read the contents. Something happened back then, Tom, that was personally very difficult for you.’

‘I lost my wife. It doesn’t get any more difficult than that.’

Aumonier closed her eyes. He could sense the distress this was causing her. ‘What happened in SIAM was . . . not what was entered in the public record. There were good reasons for this. But you chose not to live with the facts as they were.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You were more closely involved in the Clockmaker affair than you have led yourself to believe these last eleven years. After the crisis, you were . . . troubled. You could no longer function as an effective prefect. You recognised this yourself and requested the appropriate remedial action.’

Though he was floating weightless, Dreyfus had the impression that he was falling down a deep, dark shaft, into invisible depths.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Selective amnesia was applied, Tom, at your request. Your memories of the Clockmaker crisis were forcibly suppressed.’

‘But the records say I was nowhere near SIAM,’ Dreyfus protested.

‘The records were incorrect. Since so much of what happened that day was destined to remain secret anyway, it was an easy matter to place you elsewhere. It was done with my full authorisation.’

Dreyfus knew she wasn’t lying. She had no reason to, not now. The stress of speaking the truth was almost ripping her in two.

‘And the missing six hours? What happened with the Atalanta?’

‘It’s all in the document. Take Manticore and you’ll understand why we had to lie. But understand that it was the truth that nearly broke you. I’ve spent eleven years protecting you from the memories you wanted suppressed. In return, I’ve got back the best field prefect I could ever have asked for. But now I have to give you the key, so you can unlock them again.’

‘Will digging up the past really help?’ Dreyfus asked, his own voice sounding small and childlike.

‘I don’t know. But I can’t let you go down there without knowing everything there is to know about the Clockmaker. Ultimately, though, the choice has to be yours.’

‘I understand.’

‘I’m sorry I have to do this to you, Tom. If there was any other way in the world . . .’

He looked at the thin red line etched across her throat like a premonitory scar. ‘You don’t have anything to apologise for.’

Captain Pell was talking to Thyssen when Dreyfus arrived in the pressurised observation platform overlooking the nose bay. Pell had already been briefed on the general nature of the mission, though not its precise objective.

‘We’ll make our approach into the atmosphere just like any other ship on its way to Chasm City,’ Dreyfus said. ‘But once we’re under cover of the clouds, you fly me to the other hemisphere. Can you do that without Aurora picking up our movement?’

‘Nothing’s guaranteed,’ Pell said. ‘If we go supersonic, and she happens to have sensors pointed down at the right part of the sky, she may see the disturbance in the atmosphere caused by our Mach cone.’

Dreyfus didn’t welcome the news, but he’d been expecting it. ‘Then we’ll have to hold subsonic. How long will that take?’

‘Eight, nine hours, depending on the trajectory. Too long for you?’

‘It’s still faster than using surface transportation, even if I could get closer than Loreanville.’

Pell tapped a stylus at the compad he held in the crook of his arm. ‘There are some deep canyon systems we can use for cover. I may be able to take us supersonic for brief periods, using the canyon walls to soak up most of our shockwave.’

‘Just give me the fastest approach you can consistent with our staying hidden from orbital surveillance.’

‘You want me to drop you right on the doorstep of that place?’

Dreyfus shook his head. ‘I’m not expecting a warm welcome when I get there. You’ll have to assess the terrain and put me down as close as you can without risking detection by anti-ship systems. If that means I have to walk twenty or thirty klicks overland, so be it.’

‘It’s your call, Prefect. I’ll try to pick a spot where you’ll have an easy approach.’

‘I know you’ll do your best, Captain, but I’m not expecting miracles.’ Dreyfus glanced through the nearest window at the waiting form of the cutter, a flint-like wedge of black poised on the end of its launch rack. ‘Are we good to go?’

Pell nodded. ‘We can move out as soon as we’re aboard and lashed down.’

‘There’s a surface suit aboard?’

‘Everything you asked for on the checklist, and as many weapons as Thyssen’s people could cram into the remaining space.’

‘I’m hoping it won’t come to a gunfight,’ Dreyfus said, ‘but I’ll take what I can get.’

He was about to board the ship when an internal prefect came rushing into the observation area, braking himself to a halt against a restraining strap.

‘Prefect Dreyfus!’ the man called. ‘I’m glad I caught you, sir. We were told you’re shipping out and that you’ll be out of comms range. But you need to hear this before you go.’

‘Is it about Thalia?’

The man smiled. ‘She’s alive, sir. She’s alive and well and she’s managed to get a whole party of Aubusson citizens out of that place.’

‘Thank God.’ Despite his nerves, Dreyfus couldn’t help smiling as well. ‘I want to speak to her. Is she back yet?’

‘Sorry, sir. We need that deep-system cruiser out there for the time being.’

‘But she’s okay?’

‘We have reports of minor injuries, sir, nothing worse than that. But Thalia had some bad news for us. It looks like there are no other survivors from Aubusson.’

‘None?’

‘It wasn’t the decompression, sir. According to Thalia the servitors inside the habitat have been rounding people up and killing them for hours. She doesn’t think anyone else made it through the night.’

‘Thank you,’ Dreyfus said. ‘You’ll make sure the supreme prefect is informed, won’t you? If Aubusson is depopulated, she needs to know. It could make all the difference.’

‘She already has the intelligence, sir. Is there anything else?’

‘Just this: I want you to pass on a message to Thalia Ng when she gets back to Panoply. Tell her I was very pleased to hear that she made it out in one piece. Tell her that I’m very proud of her actions. Tell her that she’s a credit to the organisation, and that I look forward to telling her that in person.’

‘I’ll see the message gets through, sir.’

Dreyfus nodded. ‘You do that for me.’

Pell boarded the cutter first, sealing the flight-deck passwall while Dreyfus attended to the organisation of his suit, weapons and equipment, satisfying himself that everything he had requested was present. It was a more complicated ensemble than could be created by a standard suitwall. There had been no oversights, he was glad to see. If anything, the technicians had stocked more armour and weapons than he could ever have hoped to carry. It was all lashed down or fixed into place via conjured restraints. He resisted the urge to suit-up now; there would be time enough for that during the long subsonic flight to the drop-off point, once they were safely inside Yellowstone’s atmosphere.

Dreyfus felt a tightness in his stomach. It was fear, moving back in like an old lodger.

He felt the cutter move on the rack. He buckled in for launch, wishing he had remembered to shave. His neck hairs rasped against his collar and he could smell his own sweat seeping out of his pores.

His bracelet chimed. It was Jane Aumonier, as he had anticipated.

‘They say we should remain out of contact once you’ve cleared Panoply,’ she said, ‘just in case Aurora can eavesdrop on our long-range comms.’

‘It’s a sensible precaution.’

‘Concerning the matter we discussed, Tom - the document is now available on your compad. There’s also a package under your seat. I had it loaded aboard before you arrived. You’ll know exactly what it is when you open it.’

‘I’ve made my decision,’ Dreyfus said. He was on the verge of adding something, feeling that he ought to wish Aumonier well, but he did not want to risk her guessing Demikhov’s intentions. ‘I’ll see you back in Panoply,’ he said.

The cutter surged forward. He waited until the vehicle had ramped up to full thrust and then carefully loosened his webbing. He reached under the seat and found the package Aumonier had mentioned. It came loose with a gentle tug. He settled the black box onto his lap, allowing the cutter’s thrust to hold it in place. The box was unfamiliar, but his fingers located a catch and the lid sprang open easily.

Dreyfus examined the contents.

The box contained six boosters of the same basic type that maintained his Pangolin clearance. He took one of them out. The label on the side read: Manticore clearance. To be self-administered by Senior Prefect Tom Dreyfus only. Unauthorised use may result in neurological injury or permanent irreversible death.

He felt as if he was holding a bomb in his hands, and the bomb had just stopped ticking.

‘Senior Prefect Dreyfus,’ he said, mouthing the words as if there must have been some mistake.

But he knew there hadn’t been.

The thrust sequence ended. The cutter was now in free fall and would remain so until it commenced its braking phase prior to atmospheric insertion. Through the window he’d sketched in the wall upon his arrival, Dreyfus saw that they had already cleared the main orbits of the Glitter Band. Habitats of all shapes and sizes crowded upon each other, sliding silently through space as if they were the ornamented, treasure-bedecked barques and argosies of some marvellous flotilla. The clear space between them, which he knew was at least fifty or sixty kilometres, looked too narrow to allow the passage of a single cutter. He could see now, with a forcefulness that had never really struck him when staring into the Solid Orrery, that it would be the simplest matter in the world for Aurora to spread her infection from state to state. Her weevils had almost no distance to cross. The habitats were stepping stones towards total dominion.

And yet nowhere in his line of sight was there the slightest evidence of the crisis itself. Even if it now encompassed thirty or fifty habitats, including those on the fringe of the evacuation effort, that was still much less than a hundredth of the total number of states under Panoply’s protection. The serene panorama before him looked startlingly normal, like a snapshot of the Glitter Band during the most routine of days. And yet he recalled the swiftness with which Lillian Baudry’s simulation had demonstrated the takeover could spread. No comfort could be extracted from this apparent normality.

Satisfied that the cutter would not be making any high-acceleration swerves for now, Dreyfus replaced the Manticore box beneath his seat and propelled himself through the cabin. He knocked quietly on the passwall before letting himself through into the flight deck.

‘Thanks for getting us away in good time, Captain Pell,’ he said, before his eyes took in the fact that Pell was not alone on the flight deck. Sitting behind and to his left, in one of the other flight positions, was Sparver.

‘Hi, Boss.’

Dreyfus was too stunned to feel anger, or even annoyance that his orders had been disobeyed. ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.

Sparver looked at Pell. ‘Now, I ask you - is that any way to talk to your deputy?’

Aumonier floated alone, striving to keep her thoughts on the matter at hand rather than Dreyfus’s mission to Yellowstone. She had cleared all but four display facets in her sphere, and had enlarged those until they filled almost the entire facing hemisphere. They showed the four habitats where Thalia Ng had performed the initial upgrade to the polling core software: Carousel New Seattle-Tacoma, the Chevelure-Sambuke Hourglass, Szlumper Oneill and House Aubusson. No contact had been made with any of these states since the installation of the core patch, more than twenty-six hours earlier. All along, Aumonier had assumed that the citizenry were alive and well, albeit under some new and possibly repressive system of government. She had always assumed that if Aurora wished to kill those people, she would achieve it the easy way, by depressurising the habitat or tampering with the life-support in some equally decisive fashion. It was only now that Aumonier realised the fatal flaw in her thinking. Aurora had indeed wanted those people dead: not because she hated them, not because they were capable of derailing her plans, but because they were of no conceivable use to her. And yet, as Thalia’s debriefing testimony made clear, Aurora had been at pains to conceal her murder of the citizenry from the outside world. It had to be done the old-fashioned way, the historical way: not with a single catastrophic release of air or heat, something that would have been detectable from afar, but with the apparatus of state: armed force, applied via her new army of servitors. The citizens had been rounded up, pacified with lies and then executed by machine. And then their remains had been shovelled into bigger machines and conveyed to the matter-consuming furnaces of the manufactories, where they were smelted down and made into parts for other machines.

Aumonier cursed the way Aurora had manipulated her unwillingness to strike against habitats that she still believed contained living citizens. But without Thalia’s escape with her tiny party of survivors, she would still not have known. There was probably no one left alive in any of those four habitats. Even if some survivors had managed to hide or hold out against the machines, Panoply could do nothing for them now.

Well, there was one thing, Aumonier reflected. It could end their torment now, before the machines reached them. It was not much of a kindness, but it was the only one she had left to give.

‘Captains Sarasota, Yokosuka, Ribeauville and Gilden. This is Jane Aumonier. You have my permission to open fire on your designated targets.’

This time there was no questioning of her order, no doubt that she meant what she had said.

‘Nukes deployed and running,’ Gilden said.

‘Deployed and running,’ Yokosuka reported.

‘Deployed and running,’ Sarasota and Ribeauville said, in near-unison.

Aumonier closed her eyes before the first flash reached her. Even though she was only seeing a monitor feed, the brilliance of the nuclear explosions - twelve in all, three per habitat - still pushed through her eyelids. She counted twelve pink flashes.

When she opened her eyes, nothing remained of the targets except four slowly expanding nebulae: the atomised, ionised remains of what had once been homes to more than two million of her citizens. There’d been beauty and misery in those habitats, wonder and sadness, every facet of human experience, history reaching back two hundred years. Between one breath and the next all that had been wiped out of existence, like a delirious dream that never happened.

‘Forgive us,’ she said to herself.

A little later, she received confirmation that the weevil flows from Aubusson and Szlumper Oneill had both been curtailed. The weevils that had been manufactured just before the attack were still crossing space, but their predicted destinations were already subjects of the evacuation effort. Aumonier knew that they would not clear all the citizens out in time, that they would be doing well to remove seventy per cent of them before the weevil contamination infected another habitat. Nothing more could be done, given the limiting bottlenecks of airlocks and ships and round-trip travel times. Her best people had been on the problem around the clock, and she had no doubt that they had already squeezed the last fraction of a percentile out of that figure. Attempts were now under way to mobilise enough ships to change the orbits of habitats lying beyond Aurora’s current expansion front, but the technical challenge of moving a billion-tonne city state was awesome, and Aumonier knew that this was not a solution she could count on in the long term. At best, it would just take the weevils a little longer to reach their targets.

Her bracelet chimed. She glanced down and saw that it was the call she had been hoping for.

‘This is Baudry, Supreme Prefect.’

‘Go ahead, Lillian.’

‘We’re receiving reports from CTC.’ Aumonier heard a catch in Baudry’s voice. ‘They’re tracking massive ship movements from the Parking Swarm. Dozens of Ultra vessels, Supreme Prefect. Lighthuggers leaving their assigned orbits in the Swarm.’

‘Are they leaving the system, Lillian?’

‘No.’ Baudry sounded flustered. ‘Some of them, yes. Most of them . . . no. Most of them appear to be on vectors that will bring them into the Glitter Band.’

‘How long until they arrive?’

‘Six to seven hours, Supreme Prefect, before the lead vehicles enter Glitter Band airspace. If we are to consider a tactical response, we need to start making arrangements now. Deep-system vehicles will need to be retasked, fuelled and weaponed in readiness—’

‘You consider this a hostile gesture?’

‘What else could it be? They’ve had designs on control of the Glitter Band for decades. Now that we’re facing a crisis, they’ve seen their moment. They’re going to use the Aurora emergency to stage a takeover of their own.’

‘I don’t believe so, Lillian. I actually requested assistance from the Ultras. I sent my plea to Harbourmaster Seraphim. I’d heard nothing from him since Dreyfus’s departure, so I assumed . . . but I assumed wrongly, I think.’ Aumonier paused, conscious that it had been a mistake not to inform the other seniors of her contact with Seraphim. ‘Have any attempts been made to speak to the incoming ships?’

‘Standard approach queries were transmitted, Supreme Prefect. No valid response has been received.’

‘That doesn’t mean anything. We’re dealing with Ultras here. They have their own way of doing things.’

‘But Supreme Prefect . . . we have to assume the worst.’

‘I’ll assume the worst when I have evidence of hostile intent. Until then, no one so much as fires a ranging laser on one of those ships. Is that clear?’

‘Clear,’ Baudry said sullenly.

‘Lillian, we have less than forty nuclear devices left in our arsenal. Do you honestly think we’d get very far if it came to open war against the Ultras?’

‘I’m just saying . . . we can’t trust them. We’ve never been able to trust them. That’s always been a cornerstone of our operational policy.’

‘Then maybe it’s time we got a new cornerstone. They’re people, Lillian. They might be people who make us uncomfortable, people with very different values from ours, but when we’re facing local extinction at the hands of a genocidal machine intelligence, I don’t think the differences between us look massively significant, do you?’

‘I’ll keep you informed,’ Baudry said.

‘You do that. I’m not having the best of days here, Lillian, and the one thing I’m sure of is that we really, really don’t want to add any new enemies to our list.’

She closed the connection with Baudry and allowed her hand to drift down from her mouth. As it did so, she saw the red scratch of the laser cut across her cuff. She had been aware of that thin line for some hours now, without allowing herself to be distracted by pondering its purpose. Now, however, there was a window in her schedule. The Ultra ships would not arrive for six or seven hours. Dreyfus would take even longer to reach Ops Nine.

She had time to ponder.

She raised the bracelet again and spoke softly. ‘Put me through to Doctor Demikhov.’

He answered almost immediately, almost as if he’d been watching her place the call. ‘Supreme Prefect. This is a surprise.’ Aumonier smiled: for all his talents, Demikhov was a poor liar. ‘I wasn’t expecting to hear from you.’

‘Doctor,’ she said, ‘perhaps I’m mistaken, but I can’t help feeling that you have something planned for me.’ She waited a handful of seconds, listening to his breathing. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? This laser, which wasn’t here yesterday. The noises Dreyfus did his best to explain away. What’s going to happen, Doctor?’

After a silence that made her wonder whether the link had been broken, Demikhov said, ‘It’s best if you don’t know.’

‘You’re probably right. It’s not as if I’ve ever had cause to doubt your clinical wisdom, after all. But I just wanted to say something.’

‘Go ahead,’ Demikhov answered.

‘I’ve done all I can for the next few hours. If you’re intending to remove the scarab, now might be the best time to try it.’

‘There’ll be risks.’

‘Just as there are risks in allowing it to remain clamped on my neck. I know the score, Doctor.’

‘After the procedure we have in mind,’ Demikhov said hesitantly, ‘there’s a possibility that you may be incapacitated.’

‘In which case Senior Prefect Clearmountain will assume temporary authority. But only until I’m fit to resume command. Don’t keep me out of it for too long, Doctor. All I need is a pair of eyes and a mouth to give orders. Understood?’

‘Understood,’ he answered.

‘Then I urge you to execute whatever plan you’ve been putting in place. You are good to go, aren’t you?’

‘We’re good to go.’

‘Then do your best, Doctor. I’m submitting myself to your care.’

‘If I fail—’ he began.

‘You’ll still have my undying gratitude. Now get this fucking thing off my neck.’

‘You’re in position,’ Demikhov said. ‘Please don’t move a muscle, Supreme Prefect. Not even to answer me.’

Jane Aumonier held her breath. She heard something go click.

CHAPTER 29

Doctor Demikhov watched events unfold with a curious sense of retardation, as if he was replaying one of his simulations at half normal speed. The blades pushed through the weakened part of the wall and raced together, their cutting edges forming a tightening circle with the supreme prefect at the precise centre. Aumonier floated motionlessly, her expression unchanging: she did not have time to react to the blades’ intrusion into her private space. They closed on her, reaching her throat and passing cleanly through, interlocking with micron precision as they met. Demikhov was now forced to take in two distinct views, captured from cams in the two isolated halves of the former sphere. In the upper hemisphere, the supreme prefect’s severed head began to drift away from the blades with almost imperceptible slowness. In the lower hemisphere, her body and the scarab drifted in the opposite direction. In the same decelerated timeframe, Demikhov saw the scarab react to the violent intrusion of a large foreign object into its volume of denial. The lower part of Aumonier’s neck, below the cut, puffed apart in a cloud of pink and grey. Blood continued to spurt from the neck in inky profusion. The heart was still pumping. The drifting remains of both the decapitated body and its damaged parasite were quickly obscured.

Demikhov’s attention flicked to the upper sphere. Time accelerated. The head’s slow drift became an ungainly tumble. The head was also leaking blood, albeit with much less ferocity than the body.

Servitors rushed into both chambers, moving too quickly for the eye to follow. The machines reached the scarab, detached it from the neck and encased it in a cocoon of blast-smothering quickmatter. In the upper chamber, machines reached the head and arrested its motion away from the shining floor formed by the blades.

‘Scarab is neutralised,’ reported one of Demikhov’s analysts. ‘Repeat, scarab is neutralised. Upper chamber is now secure for crash team.’

‘Go,’ Demikhov said, with all the urgency he could muster.

And then he too was moving as if his own life depended upon it.

He was only slightly behind the crash team when he arrived at the head. The servitors had braced it, pinning it gently in place between telescopic manipulators. There’d been a temptation to simply immerse the head in a vat of curative quickmatter, but Demikhov had resisted. The quickmatter would undoubtedly stabilise the head, flooding the brain to preserve neural structure, and would make a start on the necessary tissue-repair. The drawback was that the quickmatter would most likely wipe short-term memories and delay the return to full consciousness by many days. Demikhov had considered every angle and knew that this was a time when hard-won clinical judgement, the cumulated knowledge of his own eyes and experience, outweighed the easy option.

He meant only to look at the neck, to judge the accuracy of the cut and assess the damage to the major structures. He saw instantly that the blades had transected the cervical vertebrae between C3 and C4, as he had always hoped. The cut had been so accurate that only the cartilaginous disc between the bones had been destroyed. The carotid artery, internal and external jugular veins and vagus nerve had all been severed within a millimetre of his optimum cut points. Had he been looking at a simulation, Demikhov would have rejected it as unrealistically optimistic. But this was reality. Zulu - this stage, at least - had worked as well as he could have dreamed.

Then he looked at the face. He didn’t mean to. It was clinically irrelevant, and he’d told himself to pay no heed to any signs of apparent consciousness he saw behind Jane Aumonier’s eyes. But he couldn’t help it. And there was something there: a sharpness in her gaze, a sense that she was focusing on no one in the room but him, that she was utterly, shockingly aware of her condition.

Less than ten seconds had passed since the blades had gone in.

‘Begin stabilisation,’ Demikhov said. ‘Plan three-delta. We have a job to do here, people.’

He risked another look at the eyes. This time there was a fogged absence where a mind had been.

It took three hours to fall towards Yellowstone. The cutter could have made the journey in a third of the time, but then it would have appeared to be moving anomalously fast, running the risk of attracting Aurora’s attention. Dreyfus could not be certain of the extent of her surveillance, but it was likely that she would be alert to any traffic that appeared to be out of the ordinary, be it civilian or law-enforcement. As much as it pained him to watch the clock ticking, he knew that the slow and unobtrusive approach was necessary.

‘Captain says to buckle up,’ Sparver said, prompting Dreyfus to put aside the compad he’d been studying. ‘We’ll be slowing for atmosphere in about five minutes.’

Dreyfus nodded curtly. ‘You can tell him you passed on the message.’

Sparver had braced himself with an arm and a foot. ‘You still sore at me for sneaking aboard?’

‘What do you think?’

‘I had Jane’s blessing. Who else do you think put that stuff under your seat?’

‘I expressly requested that I go in alone,’ Dreyfus said.

Sparver shrugged, as if none of this was his fault, merely the outcome of a series of circumstances beyond his control. ‘Look, it’s done. I’m aboard. So make the most of me.’

‘I will. You can keep Pell company when he flies this cutter back to Panoply.’

‘Actually, I intend to keep you company during that little stroll you’ve got planned.’

‘Then it’s a pity we didn’t load two surface suits, isn’t it? I only requested one, I’m afraid. And it wouldn’t fit you anyway.’

‘Which is why I had a word with Thyssen and asked him to stow a spare,’ Sparver said. ‘The extra weapons were my idea as well. You didn’t think you were going to carry them all on your own, did you?’

Dreyfus sighed. He knew Sparver meant well, and that there was no other prefect he’d sooner have at his side than his own deputy. But he had resigned himself to going in alone. Now that he had crossed that mental Rubicon, he could not easily accept the idea of placing another’s life at risk.

‘Sparv, I appreciate the gesture. But like I said to you before, you’re one of the few people who have been following this investigation since the outset. I cannot in conscience accept that you should be placed at risk. Especially not—’

‘Save it for later, Boss,’ Sparver said. ‘There’s no secret now. Jane and the other senior prefects know everything we do. We’ve just become expendable again. And isn’t that a wonderful, liberating feeling?’

‘You’re right,’ Dreyfus answered forcefully. ‘We are expendable. And you know what? We probably won’t come back from this mission. If the Clockmaker doesn’t get us, Firebrand or Aurora will.’

Sparver lowered his voice. For once he was serious. ‘So why are you doing this, if it’s guaranteed to fail?’

‘Because there’s a chance it will succeed. Not much of one, but it’s better than any other option on the table.’

Sparver nodded at the compad. ‘Does that have anything to do with all this?’

‘I don’t know.’ Dreyfus turned the compad around so that Sparver could see the display, with its dyslexia-encrypted read-out. ‘This still makes as much sense to me as it does to you, and you don’t even have Pangolin, let alone Manticore.’

‘Did Jane give you Manticore?’

Dreyfus nodded humbly. ‘Not that it’s made any difference to me yet.’

But that was a lie, albeit a small one. Dreyfus had to stare hard at the scrambled text, but every now and then he’d feel a premonitory sense of something about to reveal itself, like a kind of mental hiccup that never quite arrived. The text was still illegible, but he recognised the feeling from his Pangolin exposure. The neural architecture necessary for the decoding stage was beginning to assemble. It might take another six or nine hours until it was fully functional, but the process was already beginning to affect his comprehension.

‘But it’ll come, eventually?’ Sparver asked.

‘That’s the idea.’

‘What does she want you to know, Boss?’

‘How should I know if I can’t read this yet?’ Dreyfus snapped.

‘She must have given you an idea.’

‘She did.’

‘It’s about the Clockmaker, I assume.’

‘Yes,’ Dreyfus said tersely. ‘It’s about the Clockmaker. Now would you mind leaving me alone with it so I at least have a chance of making some sense of this before we land?’

‘It’s all right,’ Sparver said, with more sympathy than Dreyfus felt he deserved. ‘I understand, Boss. If it’s about the Clockmaker, then it’s also about Valery, isn’t it?’

‘Valery died,’ Dreyfus said. ‘I’m over her death. Nothing in this is going to change that.’

Sparver had the good sense to leave him alone after that.

The braking phase commenced shortly, entailing several minutes at high burn. When it had subsided, Dreyfus was experiencing nearly full gravity and the cutter had already begun to ease its way into the upper atmosphere of Yellowstone. This was no fiery insertion, nothing like Paula Saavedra’s high-speed re-entry, but rather a progressive submergence into thicker and thicker air, with the cutter using its engines to avoid excessive aerodynamic friction. To a casual observer, they would look like one more passenger ship returning to Chasm City from the glitz and glamour of the orbital communities.

Dreyfus found himself dozing. It was something to do with Manticore making him sleepy while it worked on his mind. He did not feel markedly different when he woke, but when he resumed his perusal of the compad, he knew that he had taken another step closer to comprehension. Now whole phrases kept slipping in and out of clarity, like animals prowling behind tall grass. He saw:

Sylveste Institute for Artificial Mentation . . .

Emergency measures instituted during Clockmaker crisis . . .

Prototype ramscoop vehicle, mothballed but otherwise intact . . .

Heavy Technical Squad boarded and assumed command . . .

Ramliner Atalanta deemed functional . . .

Containment effect of magnetic field . . .

Risk of civilian casualties reduced, but not eliminated . . .

Unavoidable losses . . .

Assignment of emergency powers to Field Prefect Tom Dreyfus,

authorised by Supreme Prefect Albert Dusollier . . .

And then he felt something open in his mind, like a heavy trap door, one that had been shut and forgotten for eleven years. He saw Valery’s face, lit up with childlike delight, kneeling in soil, turning to him from the bed where she had been arranging flowers.

And he knew that he had done a very bad thing to his wife.

Mercier watched the proceedings from the elevated observation room overlooking Demikhov’s dedicated operating theatre. Though the theatre had been fully equipped since its inception, it had seen few occupants in all that time. Demikhov’s team had occasionally employed it to rehearse a surgical procedure, but they had usually done so under the assumption that the scarab would be removed by more conventional means, leaving Aumonier with only superficial injuries. It was only lately that the theatre had been staffed around the clock, with the crash team preparing for the increasingly likely eventuality that Zulu would have to be implemented.

When he wasn’t busy with his own patients, Mercier had sometimes watched the crash team working on eerily accurate medical dummies, using microsurgical techniques to reknit head and body. Sometimes the body had been intact below the neck, but they’d also worked under the assumption of varying severities of injury occasioned by the removal of the scarab. Now they were dealing with a real case that fell somewhere in the middle of their simulated outcomes. The head had been severed with superhuman precision, but the scarab had inflicted major damage to the three cervical vertebrae below the bisection point. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed - it wasn’t going to be necessary to grow the supreme prefect a new body - but there was a lot of restorative work to be done.

Little of the surgical activity was visible to Mercier. Pale-green medical servitors crowded over and around the body and head, which were currently situated on separate tables a metre apart. The hulking machines appeared clumsy until one focused on the speed with which their manipulators were knitting tissue back together. Secrets of the flesh lay obscured behind a flickering blur of antiseptic metal. Now and then one of the swan-necked servitors would whip around to swap one manipulator extremity for another, lending the whole scene the faintly comedic look of a recording on fast-forward. Demikhov’s human staff were situated several metres away from the whipping machines, gowned and masked but having no direct contact with their patient. They stood before pedestals, studying panes filled with anatomical images, not so much controlling the machines as offering advice and guidance when it was merited. They did not need to be in the same room, but they were all ready to intervene in the unlikely event of some catastrophic machine failure.

Mercier had a shrewd idea of what was happening. The machines were identifying severed nerve fibres, cross-matching them between the two detached body parts. Reverse-field trawls were being used to stimulate areas of Jane Aumonier’s brain, with particular focus on the sensorimotor cortex. When the machines identified the function of a particular nerve, they capped it with a microscopic cylinder primed with regenerative quickmatter. Myoelectric stimulation was being used to map the nerve bundles emerging from Aumonier’s body. When head and neck were rejoined, the two cylinders corresponding to a single nerve would identify each other and promote flawless tissue reconnection. Much would remain to be done - Aumonier could expect partial or complete paralysis for some time after the procedure - but Demikhov had been confident that basic life-support processes could be restored during the first phase of surgery.

Mercier watched until he was satisfied that everything was under control. Demikhov’s team were working urgently, but there was nothing about their movements that suggested anything untoward. They had prepared for this and did not appear to be encountering anything they had not anticipated.

Reluctantly Mercier turned from the spectacle. He wanted to see the moment of reunion, but he had his own matters to attend to. He’d learned about Thalia Ng’s escape from House Aubusson, accompanied by a party of local citizenry. There were no reports of serious injuries amongst that group, but they would all benefit from medical attention when the deep-system vehicle redocked at Panoply, even if the worst Mercier had to deal with was a few cuts and bruises.

He returned to his section of the infirmary. Through the windowed partition he made out the recumbent form of his only current patient, asleep on a bed. Mercier opened the partition. He stepped through and moved to the side of Gaffney’s bed, cradling a compad in the crook of his arm. He tapped a stylus and brought up a summary of Gaffney’s progress since the removal of the whiphound and his subsequent interrogation by trawl.

Mercier did not approve of the way Dreyfus had insisted upon his patient being scanned so soon after the fraught process of removing the object lodged in his throat. Gaffney had been medically fit, traumatised yet otherwise free of serious injury, but the principle of it still galled Mercier. Now, however, he was forced to admit that Gaffney had no need of further medical supervision. He could be transferred to a normal holding facility somewhere else in Panoply, freeing up space that could be used when Thalia’s party arrived.

‘Sheridan,’ he said softly. ‘Can you hear me? It’s time to wake up now.’

At first Gaffney didn’t stir. Mercier repeated his instruction. Gaffney mumbled something and opened his eyes with resentful slowness.

‘I was sound asleep, Doctor Mercier,’ he said, his voice still a painful croak.

‘I apologise. You still need rest.’ Mercier tapped the stylus again, bringing up a different set of diagnostic summaries. ‘Unfortunately, I’ve got a ship coming in with an unspecified number of injured citizens aboard. I can’t afford to tie up this bed for much longer.’

‘Are you discharging me?’ Gaffney croaked.

‘Not exactly. I’m still ordered to keep you under lock and key, but there’s no reason why you can’t be transferred to a normal detention cell.’

‘I’m surprised Dreyfus isn’t here to give you a helping hand.’

‘Dreyfus is outside,’ Mercier said.

‘That’s a shame. Can’t say I really miss his bedside manner, though. You didn’t hear where he was headed, by any chance?’

‘No,’ Mercier said, after a trace of hesitation.

‘Well, let’s hope he doesn’t come to grief, wherever it is. I think we still need to clear the air between us. Are you sure he didn’t put you up to this, Doctor?’

‘This has nothing to do with Dreyfus. I don’t approve of what you did, Sheridan, but that doesn’t mean I approve of the way you were treated, either.’

‘Aumonier, then? Did she issue the order?’

‘Jane’s in no fit state to issue any kind of order,’ Mercier said, and then regretted it instantly, for Gaffney had no need to know of the operation in progress.

‘What do you mean by that?’

‘I mean . . . I’ve said enough.’

‘Where is she?’ Gaffney cocked his head. ‘Has something happened, Doctor? Are they doing something to her? Come to think of it, this place has been a little quiet lately.’

‘Never mind Jane. I assure you that you won’t be any less comfortable in a holding cell than you are here, and you’ll be under constant machine observation. If you do experience any complications, someone can attend to you almost immediately.’

‘You put it like that,’ Gaffney said sarcastically, ‘how can I possibly refuse?’

‘I wish there was another way, Sheridan.’

‘Yeah. So do I, son.’ Gaffney set his face in a look of resigned determination. ‘But needs must when the devil calls. Can you help me out of this bed? I seem to have become a little stiff in my spine.’

Mercier put down the compad and stylus and leaned over to assist Gaffney to his feet. In a flash Gaffney was standing by his side, twisting Mercier’s right arm behind his back, pushing the stylus hard against the side of his throat. The stylus was blunt, but Gaffney was applying so much pressure that the pain was unpleasantly sharp.

‘Got to admit, I was feeling a bit stronger than I looked,’ Gaffney said. ‘Sorry about that, Doctor, but there’s no way you’re moving me to a holding cell.’

The pressure on his throat made it difficult for Mercier to answer. ‘You can’t get out of here.’

‘Let’s take a stroll to your office.’

With Gaffney still pressing the stylus into his neck, Mercier shuffle-walked sideways, his heart hammering and his breathing beginning to rocket. ‘My arm,’ Mercier protested.

‘Fuck your arm. Open the door.’

Mercier admitted the two of them into his administrative annexe. He held out a forlorn hope that there’d be someone in there who could pacify Gaffney or raise the alarm. But with all the other medical staff either participating in Demikhov’s operation or up in the bay awaiting the arrival of the deep-system cruiser, the medical centre was deserted.

‘Don’t even think about calling out,’ Gaffney warned. ‘Now move to your desk. Pull out the chair and sit down.’

Mercier’s office was all inert matter. The furniture was studiedly old-fashioned, the way he liked it. But even if he’d had the means to conjure one, he wouldn’t have had the necessary control or presence of mind to fashion a weapon or restraining device.

‘What do you want with me?’ he asked as he sat down in the chair, with Gaffney still jamming the stylus into his neck. ‘You’re going to dislocate my arm!’

‘That’s what happens to arms. Now open the desk drawer on your right.’

‘My drawer?’

Gaffney intensified the pressure on both the stylus and the arm. ‘I’m not really in the mood to say things twice, son.’

With his left arm, Mercier opened the drawer. ‘There’s nothing in here except papers,’ he said, tugging it open enough to demonstrate that this was the case.

‘You do like your paperwork,’ Gaffney commented. ‘Now reach all the way to the back of the drawer.’

‘There’s nothing at the back.’

‘Do it.’

Mercier started as his fingers brushed against something unfamiliar, lodged at the back of the drawer where it would not interfere with his beloved paperwork.

‘Pull it out,’ Gaffney said.

Mercier tugged and the item snapped loose. It felt heavy in his hand, like a bar of cold iron. Something about its shape was familiar, though he had never handled anything remotely like it. ‘This isn’t possible,’ he said. ‘There shouldn’t be—’

‘How many times have you had this office swept by Internal Security?’ Gaffney asked.

Mercier’s hand emerged from the drawer. He was clutching the black shaft of a whiphound. ‘How did—’

‘I put it there. I put them in a lot of places, wherever I felt I might need one. The possibility of my being exposed and arrested was not something I could ignore. Matter of fact, there’s one in that holding cell you were probably intending to take me to. Impossible, you say. Security would never have allowed it! Getting the picture now?’ Gaffney croaked out a guttural laugh. ‘Put the whiphound down on the table.’

Mercier dropped the whiphound. It clunked heavily on the table, denting the polished wood surface beneath his writing lamp. In a single fluid movement, Gaffney released Mercier’s arm, alleviated the pressure from the stylus and snatched up the whiphound.

He spooled out the filament.

‘You know what one of these can do in the wrong hands,’ he said. ‘So let’s not dick around, shall we?’

Pell brought the cutter to a halt on a ledge just under the rim of the canyon they had been following for the last twenty kilometres. He powered down the in-atmosphere engines, allowing the weight of the vehicle to settle onto its tripedal landing gear.

‘This is as close as I can get you.’

Dreyfus felt an unsettling crunching movement as the gear forced its way though the ice crusting the shelf.

‘Are you sure?’

Pell flipped up his goggles and nodded. ‘I’d caution against flying any closer, unless you have a burning desire to find out what kind of perimeter defences Firebrand have managed to get their hands on.’

‘Fair enough.’ Dreyfus knew better than to debate the point with Pell, who he knew would have done the best possible job. ‘How long a stroll are we looking at?’

Pell indicated a contour map conjured onto his flight-deck console. ‘You’re here,’ he said, stabbing his finger at the head of the canyon. ‘Ops Nine is here.’ He moved his finger a few centimetres to the right. ‘Ten or eleven kilometres as the crow flies. Good news is that the terrain’s pretty level between here and there, with only one crevasse you’ll want to avoid, so your route should be less than fifteen kilometres. Those surface suits have amplification, don’t they? I hope so, given the size of those rifles. With power-assist, I’m guessing you can keep to three or four klicks per hour. Say, four or five hours to the nearest entry point.’

‘If that’s the good news,’ Sparver said, ‘what’s the bad?’

‘You’ll have limited cover, which is the reason we can’t fly any closer. You’ll have to stay low and avoid exposed ground. If something paints you, hunker down and don’t move for at least thirty minutes. The perimeter system may just assume it picked up a scavenger drone, wandering the surface looking for Amerikano trinkets.’

‘What about our way in?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘Imagery points to several possible entry points. I don’t recommend going in through the front door.’ Pell moved his finger slightly. ‘If you approach the way I’m suggesting, you should hit some kind of secondary access ramp about here. It’s all locked into your suits, so don’t worry about that.’

‘We won’t,’ Dreyfus said.

‘That’s about all I have to say. You can get off the ledge easily enough: there’s a dried-up river bed that climbs up onto the plateau. Keep low once you’re up there, and exploit whatever natural features you can find for cover. You’ve got a good shot at getting to Ops Nine by sundown. I suggest you aim to achieve that objective.’

‘If we don’t?’ Sparver asked.

‘It cools down pretty fast here. In infrared, those suits of yours are going to light up the landscape like a pair of beacons.’

‘Then we should move out right now,’ Dreyfus said, readying his suit for exposure to Yellowstone’s atmosphere. He picked up the heavy bulk of the Breitenbach rifle and slung it over his shoulder. ‘Thank you for the ride, Captain. I appreciate the risk you took in bringing us this close.’

‘I’m not the one taking the risk here.’ Pell touched a control on this console then studied a read-out for a moment. ‘We’re stable. You’re free to cycle through.’

Dreyfus nodded at Sparver and the two of them moved towards the cutter’s suitwall.

‘One thing I forgot to mention,’ Pell said. ‘When you were suiting up, word came through from Panoply.’

‘They weren’t supposed to contact us.’

‘They didn’t, not specifically. It was a general broadcast, to all assets. It sounded like a code. It meant nothing to me, but I thought you might know better.’

‘Tell me,’ Dreyfus said, swallowing hard against the tightness in his throat.

‘The message was, “Zulu has occurred. Repeat, Zulu has occurred.”’ Pell shrugged. ‘That was all.’

Dreyfus moved to snap down his faceplate. ‘You’re right. It does mean something.’

‘Good or bad?’

‘Too soon to tell,’ he answered.

CHAPTER 30

Gaffney held the stiffened filament of the whiphound against Mercier’s throat in much the same way that Dreyfus had held the whiphound against his own. They were standing outside the operating theatre where the Zulu team were still at work.

‘I can’t let you in there, Sheridan.’

Gaffney let the sharp edge of the filament draw a dab of blood. ‘It’s not a question of “can’t”, I’m afraid. You’re going to do it, or they’re going to have another head to reattach when they’re done with Jane.’

‘I can’t allow you to hurt the Supreme Prefect.’

Gaffney’s thumb caressed the handle of the whiphound. ‘Open the door. I won’t ask again.’

Mercier palmed the door, ignoring the signs warning him against entry. The door slid open, revealing the gowned backs of Demikhov’s crash team standing at their pedestals with the medical servitors beyond them. For a moment all was deceptively normal. Mercier heard the urgent but calm voices of the surgeons discussing the progress so far; he saw gloved fingers reach out towards data panes, switching between display options. Then one of the gowned figures became aware that the door had opened. She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes widening as she took in the spectacle of Gaffney holding Mercier hostage.

‘Is there a problem?’ Demikhov asked.

‘What does it look like, shit-for-brains?’

‘We’re in the middle of a delicate procedure here,’ Demikhov said, still keeping admirably cool. ‘If you’ve got a problem, if there’s something you want, I suggest you take it up with Senior Prefect Clearmountain.’

‘Tell your staff to suspend the machines and step away from their pedestals.’

‘I’m afraid that’s not possible.’

‘I’ll kill Mercier if you don’t.’

‘We’re trying to save the life of the supreme prefect. In case you haven’t been informed, her head and body were separated when we removed the scarab.’

‘I don’t like repeating myself. Tell your staff to do what I just said.’

‘Whatever you want, whatever demands you might have, we can’t give it to you.’

‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Gaffney let the whiphound bite deeper, until blood began to trickle down Mercier’s throat in a continuous flow. ‘I won’t ask again. Do what I say and I promise that neither Mercier nor the supreme prefect will come to harm. Fuck with me and you’re going to be mopping up into the middle of next week.’

‘Please,’ Mercier said.

Demikhov breathed in deeply and nodded to his staff. Gloved fingers touched panes. The surgical robots halted.

‘Now step away from the pedestals,’ Gaffney said. ‘As far as you can go.’

The staff shuffled back until they had all taken at least ten paces. Gaffney pushed Mercier forward, keeping the whiphound in place. They walked between the pedestals, then eased past the poised medical servitors to stand by the patient. Since Mercier had last viewed the scene, the two tables had been brought closer so that the gap between head and neck was only ten centimetres. The complexity of the operation was even more humbling in close-up. Aumonier’s head rested in a padded cradle, with constantly swivelling trawl probes arranged around her shaven scalp in a barbed halo. Oxygenation of the head was being maintained by a tangle of arterial shunts inserted into the skin of the neck or up through the stump itself. A handful of nerves had already been rejoined across the divide, using jumper cables to bridge the gap between the quickmatter cylinders that tipped the end of each nerve.

‘You’re a doctor,’ Gaffney told Mercier. ‘How long do you think she can last without those lines running into her head?’

‘Without blood? Not very long.’

‘Put some numbers on that for me. How many minutes are we talking about? Three? Five? Six?’

‘Four at the most. Why?’

‘Four it is, then. Snap off your bracelet and hold it up to my mouth.’

Mercier did as he was told, fumbling as he released his bracelet.

‘Put me through to Clearmountain,’ Gaffney said.

The acting supreme prefect answered almost immediately. ‘This is Clearmountain. Is something the matter, Doctor—’

‘This isn’t Mercier. It’s Gaffney.’

Clearmountain comprehended the implications quickly enough. ‘This is unexpected, Sheridan.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m not staying around.’

‘Where are you?’

‘I’m down with Demikhov, in the theatre. I’m standing right next to Jane. Nice work he’s done so far.’

‘Don’t lay a finger on Aumonier,’ Clearmountain said.

‘Jane’s going to be just dandy. That is, provided you don’t do anything to annoy me.’

‘I’m sure we can work something out.’

‘Actually, I’m sure we can’t. I’m finished here. I’ve burnt my bridges. It might surprise you, but I’m a rational man. I did everything I did because I believed it was the right thing for the citizenry. I still believe that. I love this goddamn organisation, or at least what it used to stand for. But I know I have no future unless Aurora wins against Panoply.’

‘She’s a machine, Sheridan. You’ve been working for an alpha-level intelligence, the ghost of a girl who should have died fifty-five years ago.’

‘Aurora’s nature is irrelevant. It’s her intentions that count.’

‘She’s a mass murderer. We’ve received direct confirmation that all the citizens inside House Aubusson were murdered shortly after the takeover.’

‘Nice try,’ Gaffney said.

‘It’s the truth.’

Mercier thought he caught a twitch of hesitation before Gaffney answered. ‘She wants to protect people. She’d hardly start murdering them if that was her objective.’

‘Listen to me, I’m begging you. Aurora is not what you think she is. Her only goal is her own survival.’

‘You know,’ Gaffney said, ‘I really think you could have tried a bit harder than that. I mean, honestly. Do you think I’m going to drop everything and roll over like a puppy just because you tell me some people have been murdered?’

‘I’ll show you,’ Clearmountain said. ‘I’ll let you interview Prefect Ng as soon as she returns to Panoply.’

‘Sorry, but I’m not planning on staying that long.’ Without warning, he released his hold on Mercier, pushing him away with such force that the doctor tripped over his own feet and fell backwards against one of the servitors, toppling it noisily. ‘Join the others,’ he said.

‘Sheridan?’ Clearmountain said.

‘Still here.’ Gaffney had snatched Mercier’s bracelet as he pushed him away. He snapped it around his own wrist and continued speaking. ‘I’m leaving, but not before you’ve done a couple of things for me. You can begin by telling me where Dreyfus is.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘I’m standing less than a metre from the supreme prefect, with a whiphound. Do you want to rethink your response?’

Clearmountain answered after a pause. ‘Dreyfus is somewhere else in the Glitter Band. I can give you the coordinates in a moment—’

Mercier pulled himself to his feet, bruised but otherwise unhurt. He touched a hand to the drying scab on his throat, judging that the wound was superficial.

‘Oh, nice try,’ Gaffney said. ‘Let’s have a little look here, shall we?’ He reached down and tugged at one of the lines running into Aumonier’s neck until it popped out. ‘I’ve just pulled something free. I don’t know if it was important or not.’

‘Sheridan—’

‘I’ll ask again. Where is Dreyfus? Don’t lie to me, Clearmountain. I’ve spent my entire professional life spotting liars.’

‘A secure holding facility on Marco’s Eye—’

‘Oh, please. I wonder what this one does? A bit of blood squirting out there. Okay, you get one more try. I’d give this one a lot of thought, if I were you.’

‘He’s gone to Yellowstone.’

Gaffney cocked his head and nodded. ‘Like it so far, Prefect. Where on Yellowstone? Don’t tell me they moved it to Chasm City?’

‘It’s in Ops Nine.’

‘Mm. Going to have to jog my memory on that one.’

Clearmountain’s voice was flat with defeat. ‘A disused Amerikano research station.’

‘Good, now we’re getting somewhere. That sounds plausible. Do you think you can spare a ship, Gaston? I’m thinking something like a corvette, one with transat capability. I’ll want a full fuel and weps load, and the coordinates of Ops Nine programmed into the autopilot.’

‘I can’t give you that,’ Clearmountain said.

‘Oh dear, there goes another tube. The liquid’s kind of watery this time. What does cerebrospinal fluid look like, anyone?’

‘We don’t have a corvette on the rack. They’re all out.’

‘I’ll settle for a cutter, then, but I’m not budging on the fuel and weps. Throw in a surface suit while you’re at it.’

‘I’ll . . . talk to Thyssen.’

‘Better make it quick. I’m on my way up to the cutter bay. And I’m bringing some insurance with me.’ Gaffney started tugging out the rest of the wires and nerve shunts. ‘I’d say you’ve got about four minutes.’

He tugged Jane Aumonier’s severed head free of its support cradle.

Dreyfus and Sparver walked across an undulating landscape of frozen methane-ammonia ice. Their shadows lengthened ahead of them as the orange smear of Epsilon Eridani lowered towards the horizon to their rear, burning through ochre-brown clouds that had been tugged into weird anatomical shapes by high-altitude winds. The sky ahead of them was an ominous purple, palpitating with distant electrical storms. Above, it was coloured and knotted like old wood, curdled like bad milk.

‘Do you want to talk about what was in that document now?’ Sparver asked.

‘Not really.’

Dreyfus altered his course to exploit the shadowing effect of a natural boulder formation. They had covered seven kilometres from the touchdown point; approximately the same distance remained to be traversed. With the power-assisted suits, the physical effort was minimal. But the continuous chore of choosing a safe route, one that would avoid unstable ground and keep them low enough to avoid being detected by Firebrand, was itself taxing.

‘Boss, you’ve hardly said a word since we left Pell. Aren’t you happy that Thalia got out okay?’

‘Of course I’m happy. I’m just not really in the mood for banter. I didn’t ask for company, remember.’

‘But now you’ve got it. Was that document something to do with the Clockmaker?’

‘Have a guess.’

‘Okay, so what was so earth-shattering about it? What did you read that you find so personally difficult to deal with?’

‘That’s between me and the document.’

‘And I’m your deputy. We share things.’

‘Do you have Manticore clearance?’

‘No. But I’ve never had Pangolin, either, and that hasn’t stopped you from feeding me the occasional crumb of restricted information. ’

‘This is different.’

‘Because it concerns the Clockmaker? Or because it concerns Tom Dreyfus?’

‘We should talk less.’

‘They’re not going to hear our conversation.’

‘I mean we should concentrate on walking. If you fall though ice, I’m not stopping to haul you out.’

‘Nice to know you care.’

They trudged on, zigzagging around a labyrinth of crevasses and deadfalls. After at least a kilometre, Dreyfus said, ‘I found out something about myself I didn’t know. I’ve always believed that I played no part in that day’s events, but now I know I was there. I was in SIAM, directly involved in the unfolding of the Clockmaker crisis. I must have been nearby when it broke loose. I was probably visiting Valery, or on my way from visiting her.’

‘You don’t remember?’

‘I had the memories blocked. They’re becoming clearer now that I’ve seen the document, but I still feel as if I’m looking at them through thick glass.’

‘Why would you have had the memories blocked? Was that a security thing?’

‘Not exactly. I wouldn’t have been allowed to function as a field with the knowledge I gained that day, but that wouldn’t have been an issue if they’d promoted me to senior, which is what they wanted to do. That’s not why I had the memories blocked, though. I made a decision that day, Sparver. It fell to me. But I couldn’t live with what I’d done afterwards.’

‘What kind of decision?’

‘I worked out a way to save the people in SIAM, the ones that the Clockmaker hadn’t got to already. That’s why there was a delay. I’ve always wondered about the six hours between Jane’s release and us going in with the nukes. Now I know what happened.’

‘Did you succeed?’ Sparver asked.

Dreyfus walked on. After a dozen paces he turned and said, ‘Yes, I succeeded. I saved them all. Including Valery.’

There was a coldness beyond cold, and then a light. Aumonier felt weightless and the thought formed itself in her mind that after everything they had failed, that she was back in the room with the scarab. For an instant the prospect was intolerable and she sought to crawl back into the unconsciousness from which she had just emerged. But then she became aware that she could no longer feel the scarab. Its absence was so profound that it almost felt like a negative image of the thing itself.

‘Open your eyes,’ Doctor Demikhov said softly. ‘Everything’s all right. You’re going to be fine.’

‘I was sleeping, wasn’t I?’

‘Yes. You were asleep, after all these years. I’m sorry it was necessary to wake you.’

Demikhov was leaning over her, green gown and mask against a tiled backdrop of sterile green walling. She tried speaking, but the words wouldn’t form. Instead she heard a harsh-sounding imitation of her own voice, as if someone standing next to her had anticipated exactly what she wished to say. ‘Where am I?’

‘In post-operative. Do you remember anything?’

‘I remember calling you. I remember that we were discussing your plans for me.’

‘And afterwards?’

‘Nothing. What’s wrong with my voice?’

‘We’re reading your intentions with a trawl. Don’t be alarmed; it’s only a temporary measure.’

By degrees, Aumonier became aware that she had scant sensation below the neck. She could move her eyes, but little else. Her head was fixed in place, unable to tilt from side to side.

‘Show me what you’ve done, Doctor.’

‘I’ve done something quite drastic, but there’s no cause for alarm. You’re going to be up on your feet in no time at all.’

‘Show me,’ she said, the simulated voice picking up her insistence.

Demikhov motioned to one side. A gloved hand passed him a mirror. He held it before Aumonier so that she could see her face, pinched tight in a padded restraint.

‘I haven’t seen my face in eleven years. No one could get a mirror close to me, but that wasn’t the point. I didn’t want to see the scarab, even accidentally. Now I look so old and thin.’

‘It’s nothing time won’t put right.’

‘Tilt the mirror.’

Her neck came into view. It appeared to have been stapled to her body, the wound still raw. Cables and wires plunged into her skin, or into the gap between the two edges of skin.

‘You understand what we had to do?’ Demikhov said.

‘How did you . . .?’ she began.

‘It took a lot of planning but the process itself was very quick. You had a few seconds of consciousness before the crash team reached you, but I doubt you remember much of that.’

She realised, in an instant of comprehension, that it was very important to her that she not remember. But she did. She remembered bright lights and a concerned, lantern-jawed face looking at her with clinical intensity, and the face had belonged to Demikhov. She remembered a cold beyond cold, as if the interstellar vacuum itself was groping its way up her neck, reaching freezing fingers into the empty cavity of her skull.

Demikhov didn’t need nightmares for the rest of his life.

‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘I don’t.’

‘The damage to your body was severe but treatable. We neutralised the remains of the scarab and my intention was to keep you under until your head and body were fully reunited. There was a minor complication, however.’

‘With me?’

‘Not exactly. I’ll explain things later, but all you need to know right now is that Gaffney managed to escape from Panoply. He took a cutter and went after Dreyfus.’

She had a thousand questions, but most of them would have to wait. ‘How did he know where to go? Surely nobody told him about Ops Nine.’

‘Gaffney was . . . persuasive,’ Demikhov said. ‘Clearmountain had no option but to reveal the suspected location of the Clockmaker. In his shoes, I’d have done exactly the same thing.’

‘Is there any word from Dreyfus?’

‘Nothing. But given the anticipated timing, we can assume he’s making his way by foot from the drop-off point.’ Demikhov returned the mirror to his aide. ‘That’s not why I had you brought to consciousness, though. As you can see, the process of reuniting your head and body is only partially complete, but we were making good progress. Once you’ve dealt with the matter at hand, I have every confidence of being able to reinstate full control.’

‘The matter at hand, Doctor?’

‘Perhaps it would be better if Acting Supreme Prefect Clearmountain explained.’ Demikhov gestured at the wall, turning part of it into a display pane. From her inclined position, Aumonier could see it without difficulty. Clearmountain was looking at her from the tactical room, the edge of the Solid Orrery peeping into view behind him.

‘Can I talk to her?’ he asked.

‘She’s perfectly lucid,’ Demikhov replied.

‘Supreme Prefect Aumonier,’ Clearmountain said, trepidation in his voice, ‘I am sorry that this was necessary. I assured them that you had delegated authority to me, but they wouldn’t listen.’

‘Who wouldn’t listen?’ Aumonier asked.

‘They’re still waiting to talk to you. They won’t take orders from anyone else.’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘I can put them through, if you wish.’

‘If this is why you woke me up, that would be a very good idea.’

Clearmountain vanished. He was replaced by the visage of a monster, a man who had once been human but who now faced the world through a mask of leathery, radiation-hardened skin and articulated metal plating embossed with florid bronze patterning. His eyes were two telescopic cameras, emerging from skull sockets like a pair of cannon. Glue-stiffened dreadlocks spiked back from his scalp.

‘This is Captain Tengiz, of the lighthugger Wrath Ascending. We stand ready to assist you.’

‘Thank you,’ Aumonier said.

The image switched. Now she was looking at the vastly magnified head of a praying mantis, or something very like one, emerging from the ring-shaped neck of an ancient spacesuit. The mantis’s mouthparts opened, revealing teeth and tongue of human semblance.

‘This is Captain Rethimnon, of the lighthugger Frost Wind. We stand ready to assist you.’

‘Thank you.’

The image changed again. Another face, more recognisably human this time, despite the absence of a nose. ‘This is Captain Grong, of the lighthugger Stasis in Darkness. We stand ready to assist you.’

She started to answer, but the image had already changed.

‘This is Captain Katsuura of the lighthugger Pharaoh’s Daughter. We stand ready to assist you.’

‘This is Captain Nkhata, of the lighthugger Black Narcissus. We stand ready to assist you.’

‘This is Captain Vanderlin, of the lighthugger Dawnrazor. We stand ready to assist you.’

‘This is Captain Teague . . .’

‘Captain Voightlander . . .’

The roll-call continued; a dozen ships, then a dozen more, until she had lost count.

‘Thank you, Captains,’ she said, when the last Ultra had spoken. ‘I am grateful that you have responded to my request for help. You can, I think, provide a decisive contribution. I must warn you - though I am sure you already appreciate as much - that you will be placing your ships and crew in grave danger.’

The face of Tengiz, the first Ultra to speak, reappeared on the pane. ‘I have been tasked to speak for the other ships, Supreme Prefect Aumonier. Rest assured that we are fully aware of the risks. It is still our intention to help.’

‘I’m grateful.’

‘Tell us what you want us to do.’

‘You can be of benefit to me in two ways,’ Aumonier said. ‘Your ships have a capacity exceeding anything in the Glitter Band, even the largest in-system liners. If you can start taking aboard evacuees, that will be incalculably helpful to us.’

‘We will do what we can. How else may we help?’

‘Doubtless you’ve witnessed our efforts to contain Aurora’s expansion by destroying those habitats contaminated by her war machines. Unfortunately, we’re running out of nuclear weapons. If there was any other way—’

‘You wish us to intervene.’

‘Yes.’

‘In a military sense.’

‘I don’t doubt that you have the means, Captain. At the risk of opening an old wound, we all saw what Captain Dravidian’s ship was capable of doing. And his vessel wasn’t even armed.’

‘Tell us where and when,’ Tengiz said.

‘I’d dearly like to. Unfortunately - as you’re probably aware - I’m somewhat indisposed right now and need further surgery. I appreciate your insistence on speaking only to me, but it would simplify matters enormously if you would allow me to designate Prefect Clearmountain to speak for me.’

Tengiz looked at her with his blank telescopic eyes. She couldn’t read a single human emotion in the mongrel collision of machine and flesh that was his face.

‘Do you have confidence in Clearmountain?’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Absolute confidence. You have my word, Captain. Allow Clearmountain to speak for me.’

Tengiz paused, then nodded. ‘So be it.’

‘I’m going to sleep again now, if that’s all right with you. Good luck, Captain. To you and all the others.’

‘We’ll do what we can. As for you . . .’ Tengiz halted. For the first time she sensed indecision. ‘We have long been aware of your predicament, Supreme Prefect Aumonier.’

‘I never imagined I was of the slightest interest to Ultras.’

‘You were wrong. We knew of you. We knew of you and . . . you’ve long had our respect. You would have made an excellent captain.’

Dreyfus and Sparver surmounted the last rise and found themselves looking out across a shallow depression in the terrain, like an old crater that had been gradually eroded and filled in by slow and mindless processes of weather and geochemistry. Yet there was something out of place at the base of the depression, even though Dreyfus nearly missed it on his first glancing survey. It was a ramp, sloping down into the ground, its walls and sides fashioned from some kind of fused construction material with the ebony lustre of burnt sugar. It had cracked and distorted in places, evidence of shifts in the underlying landscape, but it was still remarkably intact for something that had been out there for more than two hundred years. The ramp angled down into the ground and vanished into a flat-roofed tunnel, the lip of which had formed a portcullis of dagger-like ammonia-ice stalactites or icicles. Dreyfus pointed to the middle part of the opening, where a number of the spikes had been broken off at head height.

‘Someone’s been here recently,’ he said. But without knowing how long it had taken for the stalactites to form, he knew he could have been talking about a visitation that had happened days, years or even decades ago.

‘Let’s take a look-see inside,’ Sparver said. ‘There’s nothing I like better than unwelcoming tunnels leading underground.’

If a surveillance system had detected their arrival, there was no sign of it. They crunched across the last few metres of surface ice until they were standing at the top of the ramp, and then began a cautious descent towards the portcullis. The ground was slippery under their feet. Dreyfus stooped to avoid dislodging any more stalactites; Sparver only needed to nod his head slightly. Beyond the opening, the ramp continued to slope down into unseen depths. The suit’s acoustic pick-up conveyed the sounds of trickling, dripping liquids to Dreyfus’s ears. As the gloom deepened, he angled his helmet lamp down, mindful of treacherous cracks in the flooring. He supposed that this must once have been an entry point for vehicles, though it was clear that nothing large had come down here in a long time.

After fifty or sixty metres, the ramp terminated in a black wall set with a single wide door. The door consisted of a set of hinged panels that would have rolled down from a mechanism in the ceiling. It had stopped half a metre short of the floor, above an airtight slot into which the lowest part of the door must have been intended to lock.

‘Someone was careless,’ Sparver said.

‘Or in a hurry. You think we can squeeze under that?’

Sparver was already on his knees. He undid some of his equipment and weaponry and slid it through ahead of him. Then he lowered onto all fours and scraped through the gap. ‘It’s clear,’ he told Dreyfus, grunting as he stood up. ‘Send me through what you can.’

Dreyfus unclipped the bulkier pieces of his kit and passed them to his deputy. Then he lowered himself to the cracked black floor and squeezed under the door, scraping his backpack in the process. Something jammed, and for a horrible instant he thought he was trapped, pinned in place with vicelike pressure. Then whatever it was worked loose and he was through, standing up next to Sparver. His suit reported no damage, but had the door been a couple more centimetres lower, he wouldn’t have been able to get through wearing it.

Dreyfus reattached his equipment and hoped silently that he wouldn’t be sliding under any more doors. They had arrived in what was clearly a cargo airlock, designed to allow vehicles and heavy equipment to pass between Ops Nine and the outside world. A similar door to the one they’d just crawled under faced them on the opposite wall, but this one was sealed down tight.

‘We can cut through,’ Sparver said, tapping a glove against the torch on his belt. ‘Or we can try opening it. Either way, if there’s a single soul alive in this place they’ll know about it. Your call, Boss.’

‘See if you can get it to open. I’ll try to close the other one. I’d rather not flood the place with Yellowstone air if we can avoid it.’

‘Because you’re feeling charitable towards Saavedra and her friends?’ Sparver asked sceptically.

‘They committed crimes against Panoply. I’d like them alive to answer for that.’

Dreyfus brushed icy yellow caulk off a raised panel next to the door they had just crawled under. The panel contained a simple arrangement of manual controls labelled with Amerikano script. He pushed the stud with a downward-pointing arrow and heard a laboured whine of buried machinery. The door began to inch its way towards the floor, spitting chunks of yellow ice out of its tracks as it descended.

‘Looks like someone’s been paying their power bills,’ Sparver said.

Dreyfus nodded. If he’d harboured lingering doubts that Ops Nine was truly where Firebrand had gone to ground, they had just been thoroughly dispelled. The facility was powered and functional, at least on a spartan basis. Amerikano technology was robust, but not robust enough to open doors after two hundred years.

Dreyfus flinched as slats rattled open in the walls without warning. Red lights stammered on behind ceiling grilles and he heard the roar of powerful fans. The environment sensor on his suit began to record the change of gas mixture and pressure as the air in the room was swapped for breathable atmosphere. The process took less than three minutes. The fans died down and the slats clattered shut again.

‘I think I can open the door now,’ Sparver said.

Nothing would be gained by waiting, Dreyfus knew. ‘Do it,’ he said, mentally preparing himself for whatever was on the other side. Sparver hit the control, then moved to stand next to Dreyfus, his Breitenbach rifle held doubled-handed. But as the door rose, it became clear that there was no one waiting for them on the other side. Dreyfus allowed the muzzle of his own weapon to dip slightly, but remained alert. The two prefects stepped over the threshold.

A curving corridor, triangular in cross section, walled and floored with metallic grille, stretched away to either side. An illuminated red strip ran the length of the corridor at the apex of the two angled walls. Behind the grilles snaked corroded and mould-caked piping and machinery, much of it eaten away, probably by rats. Steam jetted from ruptured lines, hot enough to scald if they hadn’t been wearing suits. But Dreyfus noticed that some of the plumbing was shiny and new. Firebrand must have done just enough to make this facility habitable again. They hadn’t been intending to make it comfortable, or homely.

‘You want me to toss a coin?’ Sparver asked.

‘Clockwise,’ Dreyfus said, leading the way.

The grilled flooring clattered heavily under their boots, the din echoing around the curve of the corridor. Dreyfus had no good idea of the dimensions of the facility, but it wasn’t difficult to imagine that noise reaching far enough to alert someone of their arrival, if that hypothetical person hadn’t already been notified by the airlock activity. Since his suit assured him that the ambient air was now breathable, Dreyfus reached up and risked removing his helmet. He attached it to his belt, just as he’d had cause to regret doing in the Nerval-Lermontov rock when Clepsydra touched her knife against his throat. But he didn’t think knives were going to be the problem now.

‘Yeah, getting kind of stuffy in here,’ Sparver said, undoing his own helmet. He took a deep breath, sucking in the same cold, metallic air Dreyfus had just tasted. ‘Feels better already.’

‘Watch out for those steam jets,’ Dreyfus said. ‘And be ready to jam your lid on again.’

They continued walking, following the slow curve of the corridor until they arrived at a junction. They paused to decide which way to go, while pink-tinged steam snorted in dragon-like exhalations from a severed pipeline. Dreyfus shone his light on a burnished metal panel stencilled with Amerikano text. ‘Central operations is this way,’ he said, raising his voice above the angry snort of the steam jet. ‘Sounds like the right place to start, doesn’t it?’

‘Or the right place to stay a long way away from.’

‘Nothing I’d like better. But we came here to do a job, Field.’

After a moment Sparver said, ‘Don’t you mean “deputy”, Boss?’

‘I mean field. Jane just promoted me to senior, so I don’t see why I shouldn’t elevate my deputy to full field status. How does it feel, Field Prefect Bancal?’

‘It feels great. Though I imagined it might happen under different circumstances.’

Dreyfus smiled to himself. ‘You mean slightly less suicidal ones?’

‘Now that you mention it . . .’

‘That’s exactly the same way I felt when I got my promotion, so that makes two of us.’

‘But it’s still a promotion. I mean, that’s what it’ll say in my obituary, right?’

‘It would,’ Dreyfus affirmed. ‘Only problem is, I’m the only one who knows about it. Apart from you, obviously.’

‘So it would really help if one of us survives, is what you’re saying.’

‘Yes. Me, preferably.’

‘Why you, Boss, and not me?’

‘Because if you survived, you wouldn’t be needing an obituary, would you?’

‘That makes sense,’ Sparver said, sounding only the tiniest bit puzzled.

Dreyfus tightened his grip on the Breitenbach rifle. ‘There’s something ahead,’ he said, lowering his voice.

Pale-blue light was leaking around the curve of the corridor, highlighting the hexagonal meshwork of the grilles. Dreyfus judged that they were approaching the central operations section. Conscious that there was little they could do to quieten their approach, he nonetheless slowed his walk and edged closer to the angled wall on the inside of the curve, hoping to use it for cover until the last moment. As he crept forward, he saw that the corridor terminated in a hollowed-out cavern that extended several storeys below their present level. The blue illumination originated from a grid of lights suspended from the bare rock ceiling that arched ten or twelve metres above them. The corridor brought them out onto a railinged balcony that encircled the entire cavern. Doors were set into the smooth-panelled wall at regular intervals, marked with spray-painted numbers and cryptic symbols that must have once referred to different administrative and functional departments of the facility. Dreyfus looked over the railing, down to the floor of the chamber. It was a kind of atrium, he realised. Tiled walkways encircled what might once have been flower beds or small ponds. The flower beds now contained only grey-black ash, the ponds nothing but dust. There were even a couple of benches, cut from solid rock. Rising from the ground in the middle of the atrium was a complicated-looking metal sculpture whose design he couldn’t easily fathom from this angle, but which almost resembled an iron cactus.

Dreyfus realised that he’d had preconceptions about the people who’d lived here originally. The Amerikano culture might have felt distant from his own, its values foreign, but the inhabitants of this place had still needed a place to relax and mingle, away from the pressures of their duties. In its way, this place would not have felt very different from his own place of work. He wondered what kinds of ghosts would haunt Panoply, two hundred years after he was gone.

He pulled back from the railing with a tingle of disquiet. Sparver was already a quarter of the way around the balcony, testing each door as he passed. So far they had all been locked, but as Dreyfus watched, Sparver reached a door that was ajar. He nudged it with the muzzle of his rifle, then beckoned Dreyfus forward. Glancing occasionally down at the atrium, Dreyfus approached the newly promoted field and examined what Sparver had discovered.

‘I guess you were right about Firebrand, Boss.’

The room would once have been the personal quarters of one of the Amerikano staff. Now it had been converted into makeshift accommodation for one of Saavedra’s people. A sleeping hammock had been strung between two walls. On an equipment crate, Dreyfus saw part of a Panoply uniform, a belt and whiphound clip, minus the whiphound itself. He found a coffee bulb that still had coffee in it, albeit cold. There was no dust on any of the items.

They continued their inspection of the upper level, pausing to investigate those rooms that were not locked. They found more personal effects and equipment, even a pair of compads. The compads were still operational, but when Dreyfus activated one he could not decipher the contents, even with Manticore. The Firebrand unit must have had its own security protocol.

Sparver and Dreyfus descended to the next level via a staircase, negotiating it slowly in their suits and armour. They found another ring of rooms, but most of these were larger and appeared to have served an administrative or laboratory function. There was even a medical complex, a series of glass-partitioned rooms still illuminated by pale-green secondary lighting. Old-fashioned equipment formed abstract, vaguely threatening shapes under a drapery of plastic dust sheets. The sheets had brittled and yellowed with age, but the machines under them showed little sign of decay.

‘What happened to the people who used to live here?’ Sparver asked, in little more than a whisper.

‘Didn’t they teach you anything in school?’

‘Cut me some slack. Even fifty years is ancient history from a pig’s point of view.’

‘They went insane,’ Dreyfus said. ‘They were brought here in the bellies of robots, as fertilised eggs. The robots gave birth to them, and raised them to be happy, well-adjusted human beings. What they got was happy, well-adjusted psychopaths.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m simplifying. But children don’t grow up right without other normal people around, so that they can imprint on reasonable social behaviour. By the time the second generation was being raised, some nasty pathologies were bubbling to the surface. It got messy.’

‘How messy?’

‘Axes through doors messy.’

‘But they couldn’t all have been insane.’

‘They weren’t. But there weren’t nearly enough stable cases to hold the society together.’

Another staircase brought them to the lowest level of the atrium, where the pathway ambled between dried pools and ashen flower beds. Dreyfus speculated that it might once have been an agreeable place to pass time, at least in comparison with the claustrophobic confinement of the rest of the facility. But now he felt like an intruder breaking the stillness of a crypt. He told himself that the Firebrand agents had violated the sanctity of the place before Sparver and he had arrived, but the sense of being unwelcome did not abate.

Rooms, all of them larger than any they had seen on the upper levels, ringed the atrium space, cut back into the rock for many tens of metres. Corridors plunged even deeper, curving away to other parts of Ops Nine. At the far end of one, Dreyfus saw the daylit glow of what he presumed was another atrium space, perhaps at least as large as the one they were in. Several corridors ramped down into the ground, suggesting that there were further levels of habitation beneath. Dreyfus paused, unsure which route to take. He had expected to encounter someone in the central operations area, or at least find a clue as to where everyone had gone. But apart from the Panoply items they had already seen, there was no evidence of immediate human presence.

He was about to debate their next move when Sparver made an odd clicking noise, as if he’d got something lodged in his throat. Dreyfus snapped around to look at his deputy.

‘Sparv?’

‘Check out the sculpture, Boss.’

Dreyfus had paid little attention to the metal object since arriving on the lowest level. He’d appraised it just enough to see that it was indeed what it had appeared to be from above: a spiky black structure fashioned from something like wrought iron, suggestive of a cactus, anemone or angular palm tree, but equally likely to be a purely abstract form. It towered three or four metres over his head, throwing jagged shadows across the flooring. It consisted of dozens of sharp bladelike leaves radiating out from a central core, most of which were angled towards the ceiling. What he hadn’t noticed - but which had not escaped Sparver’s attention - was that there was a human skeleton at the base of the sculpture.

Despite all his years as a prefect, Dreyfus still flinched at the sight. He had seen corpses, but not many of those. He had seen even fewer skeletons. But the shock subsided as he realised that the skeleton could not have belonged to someone who had died recently. Most of the flesh had been consumed, leaving only a few grey-black scraps attached here and there. The bones, those that had not crumbled, were mottled and dark. Of clothes, and whatever else the corpse had been wearing, no visible trace remained.

The hapless victim must have been tossed from the high balcony, or perhaps dropped from some makeshift bridge stretched across the atrium, to fall on one of the larger spikes. The skeleton lay at its very base, the spike having rammed apart its ribcage. The skull lolled to one side, empty eye sockets regarding Dreyfus, the lopsided tilt of the jaw conveying incongruous amusement, as if it was taking a ghastly posthumous delight in the horror it caused.

But the real horror, Dreyfus decided, was not that someone had been murdered here. Dreyfus hardly approved of summary justice, but at this remove there was no telling what the victim might have done to deserve this brutal end. The horror was that the agents of Firebrand had not seen fit to do something with the bones. They had gone about their business, equipping this base for rehabitation, as if the skeleton was merely an unavoidable part of the decor.

Dreyfus knew then that he was dealing with more than one kind of monster.

‘Put down your weapons,’ a voice said.

Dreyfus and Sparver spun around, but it was already too late. The muzzle of another Breitenbach rifle was aimed down at them from the intermediate-level balcony. With the weapon on maximum beam dispersal, Dreyfus knew, it could take out both of them with a single pulse.

‘Hello, Paula,’ Dreyfus said.

‘Put down the weapons,’ Saavedra repeated. ‘Do it immediately, or I will kill you.’

Dreyfus worked the sling of the rifle over his shoulder and set the weapon down on the ground. With obvious reluctance, Sparver followed his lead.

‘Step away from the guns,’ Saavedra said. She began to walk around the balcony, keeping the muzzle of her rifle trained on them all the while. Reaching the staircase, she began to descend. She wore Panoply trousers, but her upper body was clothed only in a sleeveless black tunic. It made her look thinner, more doll-like, than when Dreyfus had confronted her in the refectory. Yet she cradled the rifle as if it weighed nothing. The muscles that moved under her skin looked as hard and sleek as tempered steel.

‘I haven’t come to kill you,’ Dreyfus said, as her booted feet clattered down the stairs. ‘You’ll have to answer for what you did to Chen, and Firebrand will have to explain its part in the death of the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble. But I have no difficulty believing you acted out of a sense of duty; that you thought you were doing the right thing in sheltering the Clockmaker. A tribunal will see both sides, Paula. You have nothing to fear from justice.’

She reached the floor and started walking towards them. ‘You finished?’

‘I’ve said my piece. Let me walk out of here with the Clockmaker and I’ll do all I can to make things easier for you.’

Saavedra kicked the rifles aside. ‘Why are you so interested in the Clockmaker, Dreyfus? What does it mean to you?’

‘I won’t know until I’ve got it.’

‘But you’re interested in it.’

‘I’m not the only one, am I?’

‘You mentioned Ruskin-Sartorious. Do you know why we had to move the Clockmaker?’

‘I presume someone was sniffing around.’

‘And who would that someone have been, I wonder? Who was so concerned to locate it, after all the years it had been hidden? Who is still concerned?’

‘Gaffney was working for Aurora. She’s the one who wanted to locate and destroy the Clockmaker, because she perceived it as a threat.’

‘And you think it’s safe?’

‘Aurora was afraid of it. That’s good enough for me.’

‘Thing is, Dreyfus, I don’t have any proof that you’re not lying to me.’

‘How about this? If I wanted to destroy the Clockmaker, I could have dropped a missile on this whole facility thirteen hours ago. Instead, my partner and I have walked in with the intention of negotiating.’

‘It’s true,’ Sparver said. ‘We just want access to the Clockmaker. You’ve kept it all this time because you thought it might be useful one day. Well, guess what? This is the day.’

‘I really don’t know much about Aurora,’ Saavedra answered. ‘Yes, I’m aware of the crisis in orbit, the loss of the habitats, the evacuation effort. But I still don’t have a clear picture of who’s behind it. Can you enlighten me?’

‘Is anything we say going to make you point that gun elsewhere?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘Let’s see how you get on.’

Dreyfus took a deep breath, as much to calm his nerves as to prepare to speak. ‘We think we know what Aurora is. She’s a rogue alpha-level; one of the original Eighty. Unlike the others, she didn’t fade or loop. She just made it look that way. In reality, she’d moved on, become stronger and faster.’

Saavedra’s lip twitched derisively. ‘So where’s she been for the last fifty years, or however long it’s been?’

‘Fifty-five. And we don’t know where she’s been all that time, except that she’s been planning something for much of it. The takeover is just the start. She wants complete control of the Glitter Band. Humans won’t be allowed to live in it any more. It’ll just be one vast support infrastructure for an immortal mind.’

‘Why the sudden megalomaniacal intentions if she’s lived happily enough under our noses all this time?’

‘Because she thinks we’re going to do something bad to the Glitter Band, something that will make it impossible for even an evolved alpha-level intelligence to remain safe.’

Again that lip-twitch. ‘Something bad?’

‘The point is, she’s convinced herself that we can’t be trusted with the safekeeping of the infrastructure she needs to stay alive, so we have to be removed from the equation. It isn’t a takeover, since there isn’t going to be anyone left alive under her regime - unless you count the handful of human slaves she’ll need to fix the servitors when they break down. It’s mass genocide, Paula.’

‘And why does she fear the Clockmaker?’

‘I think it’s because the Clockmaker’s the only thing in the system with an intelligence even approaching her own. It may even be cleverer. That means it’s a threat to her sovereignty. That means she has to remove it.’

‘That’s what she was trying to do when she took out Ruskin-Sartorious, ’ Sparver put in. ‘Gaffney set that up, but it was Aurora pulling the strings all the time. Only problem was, she was too late. You’d sensed her interest and moved the Clockmaker here.’

‘Which is a pity, given that nine hundred and sixty people died because of false data,’ Dreyfus said.

‘Those people - the inhabitants of the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble - were not meant to die,’ Saavedra said.

‘Then you regret their deaths?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘Of course.’ She snarled her answer back at him. ‘Don’t you think we’d rather it hadn’t happened? We assumed that whoever had shown interest had backed away. The relocation was a precaution. We didn’t think there’d be consequences.’

‘I’m prepared to believe that,’ Dreyfus said.

‘Believe what you like.’

‘I also believe that a portion of the blame must be placed on Anthony Theobald’s doorstep. He must have known he was endangering the lives of his family, even if he didn’t know exactly what he was giving houseroom to.’

‘He didn’t need to know. None of them needed to know. None of them did know, right until the end.’

‘One of them came close, though.’

She looked at him with sharp eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Delphine Ruskin-Sartorious. The daughter. The artist of the family. Or didn’t you realise?’

‘Realise what?’

‘She was in contact with the Clockmaker. It was something of a one-way dialogue, but it was contact all the same.’

She looked at him for a moment, then shook her head in flat dismissal. ‘No, that wouldn’t have been possible. Delphine was never allowed anywhere near it. Nor were any of the family members, including Anthony Theobald. It was kept inside an armoured cell, locked away unless we wanted to communicate with it. Not only could it not escape from the cell, it couldn’t send a signal beyond it, either.’

‘It still found a way to reach her.’

‘Impossible.’

‘Like it or not, it happened. My guess is that the cell wasn’t as data-secure as you thought it was. Or maybe the Clockmaker slipped a signal through when you were talking to it, or whatever it was you did during your visits.’

‘A signal needs a receiver,’ Saavedra pointed out.

‘Delphine had one. It was in her head. Like any good Demarchist citizen, she had a skull full of implants. She used them to direct the machines that helped her with her art. The Clockmaker found out how to manipulate one or more of those implants to place imagery in Delphine’s mind and shape her artwork.’

Now Saavedra tilted her head sceptically. Dreyfus knew that he had some way to go before she was convinced, but he had certainly succeeded in intriguing her. ‘Imagery?’

‘The Clockmaker used her as medium, expressing itself through her work. She thought she’d tapped a seam of miraculous self-inspiration, but in truth she’d just become a conduit for the Clockmaker.’

‘Ridiculous,’ she said, but not with quite enough conviction.

‘Maybe that’s what attracted Aurora in the first place,’ Dreyfus said, the idea occurring to him more or less at that moment. ‘Of course, for the threat of the Clockmaker to have impinged on her consciousness, she must have a good idea of what the Clockmaker actually is.’

‘And what is it? Seeing as you appear to have all the answers.’

Dreyfus couldn’t help smiling. ‘You mean you really don’t know? After all this time?’

‘And you, presumably, do?’

‘I’ve got an inkling.’

‘Nice try, Dreyfus, but if you think you’re going to bluff your way out of this one—’

‘A crime was committed,’ he said. ‘It all goes back to a single, simple deed: the murder of an innocent man. The Clockmaker is a direct consequence of that.’

‘Who was murdered?’

‘Point that gun elsewhere and I might tell you. Better yet, why don’t you show me the Clockmaker?’

‘Remove your suits,’ she said. ‘I want to check that you’re not carrying any other weapons. If I even think you’re about to trick me, I’ll kill you.’

Dreyfus glanced at Sparver. ‘Better do as she says.’

They removed their armour and suits, laying them out in neat piles before them. Under the suits, they both wore standard-issue Panoply uniforms.

‘Turn around,’ Saavedra instructed.

They turned their backs to her.

‘Now turn to face me. Remove your whiphounds. Do not activate them.’

Dreyfus and Sparver unclipped their whiphounds and tossed the handles to the ground.

‘Kick them to me.’

They did as they were told. Still training the rifle on them, Saavedra knelt down and clipped the whiphounds to her own belt. Then she single-handedly unclipped her own unit, a Model C, and deployed the filament. It hissed against the floor, its sharp edge a coiling scratch of bright silver. Deftly flipping the haft in her hand to turn the laser eye towards Dreyfus and Sparver, she marked them both then released the handle.

‘Confirm target acquisition,’ she said; the whiphound nodded its handle in reply. ‘Maintain target surveillance. If targets approach within five metres of me, or move more than ten metres from me, intercept and detain both subjects with maximum lethal force. Indicate compliance.’

The whiphound nodded.

‘I think we’re clear on the ground rules,’ Dreyfus said.

Saavedra moved to the rifles she had told them to discard, put down her own weapon and removed the ammo cells from the other two guns. She clipped the cells to her belt, next to the two captured whiphounds. Then she collected her own rifle and shrugged it back over her shoulder, the muzzle aimed at the ceiling.

‘This is called a gesture of trust. Don’t abuse it.’

‘We’re cool with not abusing it,’ Sparver said.

‘Follow me, and remember what I just told the whiphound. I’ll show you the Clockmaker, if you really want to see it.’

CHAPTER 31

Saavedra led them deeper into Ops Nine, down one of the sloping ramps that Dreyfus had already noticed leading away from the atrium. Her whiphound slinked along behind the party, constantly triangulating the distance between Saavedra and her guests, waiting for one of them to transgress the parameters she had laid down. Dreyfus was relieved not to have a gun aimed at him, but the whiphound was only a marginal improvement. If he had been concerned about dying because of a twitch from Saavedra’s finger, now he had to worry about the inflexible thought processes of a machine that really wasn’t much brighter than a guard dog. Not that he had any intention of deliberately violating the rules, but what if he tripped, or accidentally crossed the five-metre line?

‘I will show it to you,’ she said, ‘but you can forget any idea of negotiating with it. It is not a rational intellect.’

‘It doesn’t have to be rational to understand that Aurora wants it dead,’ Dreyfus replied.

‘You think that will give you leverage?’

‘It’s all I’ve got. Better make the most of it.’

‘How did you manage to install a containment facility down here at such short notice?’ Sparver asked.

‘We didn’t. There was only just time to clear out of Ruskin-Sartorious before it was destroyed. Fortunately, there was a kind of cage already here. It needed some alterations, but nothing beyond our resources.’

‘You’re talking about the tokamak,’ Dreyfus said, wonderingly.

‘The what?’ Sparver asked.

‘He means the fusion reactor that would have powered this facility during the Amerikano era,’ Saavedra said loftily. ‘And he’s right. That’s exactly what we used. It’s one large magnetic containment bottle. Hideously inefficient compared to the portable generators we brought with us, but it has its uses. It needed to be checked, and the field geometry adjusted, but none of that was particularly taxing. It was much easier than installing our own containment equipment: we’d have needed to hollow out another cavern for that.’

‘I hope you trust Amerikano engineering,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Keeping a psychopathic machine prisoner wasn’t exactly in the design specs.’

‘I trust it not to fail. Do you think I’d have come here if I didn’t?’

‘Where’s everyone else?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘The rest of Firebrand? Apart from Simon Veitch, I’m the only one down here.’

Dreyfus remembered that name from the list of Firebrand members Jane had given him. It had impressed itself on his memory for a reason.

‘Where are the others?’

‘Wherever their duties require them to be. Since Jane pulled the plug on us, we’ve all had to live dual lives. How do you imagine we managed to maintain Firebrand while we also had our regular duties to attend to?’

‘I did wonder.’

‘The same therapeutic regime designed to keep Aumonier awake proved equally useful to the agents of Firebrand. Most of us have been getting by on only a few hours of sleep a week.’ Saavedra lifted her arm and spoke into the bracelet clamped around the pale stick of her wrist. ‘Simon? I’ve found the intruders.’ She paused, listening to Veitch’s reply. ‘Yes, just the two. I’m bringing them down to the reactor.’ She paused again. ‘Yes, I have them under control. Why else would I have allowed them to live?’

The tunnel levelled out. They passed along a corridor lined with equipment storage rooms, then emerged onto a balcony overlooking a chamber only slightly smaller than the atrium they’d left behind. There was enough room for all three of them on the balcony without triggering the whiphound into action. The reactor filled most of the chamber, squatting on shockproof supports like an enormous magic cauldron. It was painted a pale green, with faint lines of rust along panel joints. A handful of panels and parts shone like chrome. Other than that it appeared superficially intact. Dreyfus guessed that little repair had been necessary before its magnetic generators were coaxed back to strength.

A catwalk girdled the reactor at its fattest point. A figure, dressed in black, was attending a monitor panel next to a dark observation window. The figure looked around and up, a grimace on his face. Veitch was as thin and cadaverous-looking as Saavedra, but conveyed the same impression of wiry strength.

‘You should have killed them,’ he said, raising his voice above the low hum of the reactor.

‘They have information about the Clockmaker,’ she said. ‘Dreyfus says he knows where it came from. I’d like to hear what he has to tell us.’

Veitch looked irritated. ‘We know where it came from. They made it in SIAM. That’s where it ran amok.’

‘But it didn’t begin there,’ Dreyfus said. ‘It came of age in SIAM, reached its true potential there, but it originated somewhere else entirely.’

‘Descend the stairs,’ Saavedra snapped.

‘You can call the whiphound off now,’ Dreyfus said. ‘I’m not going to hurt you.’

‘Just descend the stairs. I’ll worry about the whiphound.’

Dreyfus and Sparver edged past Saavedra, taking care not to come closer to her than five metres. They clattered down the stairs and crossed the chamber’s equipment-cluttered floor until the reactor was looming over them.

‘Climb to the observation deck,’ Saavedra said, ‘and tell Veitch why you want the Clockmaker.’

Looking up at Veitch, Dreyfus reiterated the argument he had already presented to Saavedra - that the Clockmaker was now the only effective weapon against Aurora.

‘So what are you proposing? That we just let it loose and hope it crawls back to us when it’s done?’

Dreyfus placed a hand on the railing and began to climb the stairs to the observation deck, Sparver immediately behind him.

‘I’m hoping we won’t have to let it loose at all. It’s a matter of self-preservation. If I can impress upon it how much Aurora wants to destroy it, I can make it see the sense in defeating her. It will help us by helping itself.’

‘From inside the cage?’

‘It’s a form of machine intelligence,’ Dreyfus said. ‘So is Aurora, no matter what she started out as.’

‘How does that help us?’

‘Aurora isn’t a disembodied intelligence. She’s a collection of software routines emulating the structure of an individual human brain. But she’s nothing unless she has a physical architecture to run on.’

Above him, Veitch nodded impatiently. ‘And your point is?’

‘Somewhere out there, a machine has to be simulating her. More than likely she’s controlling her takeover from within a single habitat. It probably isn’t one of those she’s already taken over, since she wouldn’t want to risk being wiped out by one of our nukes. Unfortunately, that leaves almost ten thousand other candidates to consider. If we had all the time in the world, we could comb through network traffic records and pin her down. But we don’t have all the time in the world. We have a few days.’

‘You think she has free roam of the networks?’

‘Almost certainly. She’s stayed under our radar for fifty-five years, which means she can move herself from point to point without difficulty. But she can’t duplicate herself. That’s a limitation embedded in the deep structure of alpha-level simulations by Cal Sylveste himself. They cannot be copied, or even backed-up.’

‘Perhaps she’s got around that one by now.’

‘I don’t think so. If she could copy herself, she wouldn’t be so concerned about safeguarding her own survival. She’s scared precisely because there’s only one of her.’

‘But the notion of “machine” is nebulous, Prefect. Aurora might not be able to copy herself, but there’s surely nothing to prevent her from spreading herself thinly, using thousands of habitats instead of one.’

‘There is,’ Dreyfus said, puffing as he reached the observation deck. ‘It’s called execution speed. The more distributed she is, the more she has to contend with light-speed timelag between processor centres. If part of her was running on one side of the Glitter Band, and another part on the far side of the Band, she could be afflicted by unacceptable latencies, whole fractions of a second. She’d still be just as clever as she is now, but the clock rate of her consciousness would have slowed by an intolerable factor. And that’s her problem. Being clever isn’t good enough on its own, especially when she’s trying to win a war on ten thousand fronts. She has to be fast as well.’

‘There’s a lot of supposition there,’ Veitch said as Dreyfus approached him cautiously, Sparver, Saavedra and her whiphound close behind.

‘I agree, but I think it’s watertight. Aurora can’t afford to be spread out, therefore she has to be running on a single machine, inside a single habitat. And that means she’s vulnerable to a counterstrike if that habitat can be identified.’

‘And you’re hoping the Clockmaker can pin her down?’

‘Something along those lines.’

Veitch looked puzzled, as if he knew he was missing something obvious. ‘It would need access to the networks.’

‘I know.’

‘You’re insane. What if it escapes, loses itself in the networks the same way Aurora did?’

‘There’d be a risk of that, but it’s one I’m prepared to take given the alternative. I’d rather have a monster on the loose if it’s a choice between that or dying under Aurora.’

‘Do you have any idea what the Clockmaker did to its victims?’

Dreyfus thought of everything he had learned since gaining Manticore. Examining those new, fresh memories was like opening a wound that had just begun to scab over. ‘I know it did bad things. But it wasn’t indiscriminate. It spared more than it killed. Aurora won’t spare a soul.’

‘Show him what it is,’ Saavedra said. ‘He may as well know what he’s talking about letting loose.’

‘You’ve searched him for weapons?’

‘He’s clean. Show him the window.’

Veitch stood back from the monitor panel. ‘Take a look for yourself, Prefect.’

‘It’s on the other side of this glass?’

‘Nearly. We usually keep it away from the window. I’ll rotate the magnets to bring it into view for a few moments.’

Dreyfus glanced back at Saavedra, waiting for her permission to move. She nodded. He joined Veitch and stepped onto the small pedestal beneath the viewing window. Two upright handrails provided support on either side of the armoured porthole. Dreyfus touched the pale-green skin of the reactor and felt it tremble under his hands. The tremor was irregular, with powerful surges.

‘How did you get it in here?’

‘There’s a door on the other side, for swapping out the magnets. We kept the Clockmaker in a portable confinement rig while we moved it from Ruskin-Sartorious. We had to move fast, since the rig’s only good for about six hours. The Clockmaker was testing it all the time, flexing its muscles, trying to break out, even though we did our best to stun it before the relocation.’

‘Stun it how?’ Dreyfus asked.

‘With a heavy electromagnetic pulse. It doesn’t put it under completely, but it does subdue it. But by the time we arrived here, it was back up to full strength. We got it inside and locked down with the big magnets just in time. You know how a tokamak works?’

‘More or less.’

‘Normally the magnets trap a ring-shaped plasma, steering it away from the walls. You heat and squeeze the plasma to a few hundred million degrees, until you get fusion. There’s no fusion going on inside there now. Just hard vacuum, and the Clockmaker. We had to adjust the magnets to create a localised bottle, but it wasn’t too difficult.’

‘It’s still trying to get out, isn’t it?’ He touched a hand to the reactor’s throbbing skin again. He was feeling the Clockmaker’s exertions as it tested the resilience of those magnetic shackles.

‘It never stops trying.’

Dreyfus looked through the window. At first he saw nothing save a deep-blue darkness. Then he became aware of a faint pink glow encroaching on the darkness from his right. The glow flickered and intensified. To his left, Veitch made delicate adjustments to the configuration of the trapping magnets. The pink became a halo of flickering silver. The silver brightened to incandescent white.

‘Why does it glow?’

‘The field’s stripping ions off its outer layer, a kind of plasma cocoon. When we collapse the field, the Clockmaker appears to suck the plasma back into itself. It doesn’t suffer any net mass loss as far as we can tell.’

‘I can see it now,’ Dreyfus said, very quietly.

‘It’s beautiful, isn’t it?’

Dreyfus said nothing. He wasn’t exactly sure how he felt. He had thought of the Clockmaker many times since losing Valery, but the appearance of the thing had never been something he dwelled upon. He had been concerned only with its effects, not its nature. He knew from the victims’ testimonies that the Clockmaker was amorphous, capable of shifting its shape with fluid ease, or at least of conveying that impression. He knew also that some of the survivors had spoken of a humanoid form underpinning its quick-silver transformations, like a stable attractor at the heart of a chaotic process. But those accounts had barely registered. It was only now that he truly appreciated that this was no ordinary machine, but something more like an angel, rendered in glowing white metal.

It hung in the tokamak, pinned in place by magnetic fields fierce enough to boil the electrons off hydrogen. Any normal machine, anything forged from orthodox matter - be it inert or quick - would have been simultaneously shredded and vaporised by those wrenching stresses. And yet the Clockmaker endured, with only that silver-pink halo conveying the extreme physical conditions in which it floated. It had the vague shape of a man: a torso, arms and legs, the suggestion of a head - but the humanoid form was elongated and spectral. The details shimmered and blurred, layers phasing in and out of clarity. For a moment the Clockmaker was a thing of jointed armour, recognisable mechanisms. Then it became a smooth-surfaced, mercurial form.

‘He’s seen enough,’ Saavedra said. ‘Move it away from the window before it breaks confinement.’

Veitch worked the controls. Dreyfus watched the Clockmaker recede from view. He was glad when it had gone. Though its face was featureless, he’d had the overwhelming impression that it was looking straight at him, marking him as a subject for future attention.

‘That’s my side of the arrangement,’ Saavedra said. ‘Now tell me what you know about it.’

‘If I do, will you let me talk to it?’

‘Just tell us what you know. We’ll worry about the other stuff later.’

‘I only came down here for one reason. The longer we delay, the harder it’s going to be to stop Aurora. People are dying up there while we hesitate.’

‘Tell us where it came from, like you promised. Then we’ll talk.’

‘It didn’t come from SIAM,’ Dreyfus said. ‘It was created somewhere else, more than ten years earlier.’

‘Could you try to be less cryptic?’ Veitch said.

‘Does the name Philip Lascaille mean anything to you?’ Dreyfus asked rhetorically. ‘Of course it does. You’re educated prefects. You know your history.’

‘What does Lascaille have to do with anything?’ Saavedra asked.

‘Everything. He became the Clockmaker.’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ Veitch said, looking away with a dismissive smile on his lips. ‘Lascaille went mad after he got back from the Shroud. He died years ago.’

Dreyfus nodded patiently. ‘As you’ll doubtless recall, he was found drowned in the Sylveste Institute for Shrouder Studies. It was always assumed that he’d committed suicide, that the madness he came back with had finally caught up with him. But that wasn’t the only explanation for his death. He’d been silent for years, but just before his death he’d opened up to Dan, the scion of the family. He’d imparted clues that allowed Dan to go off on his own expedition to the Shrouders, confident of success where others had failed. People concluded that Lascaille, having relieved himself of this enormous burden of knowledge, had viewed his life’s work as being complete. Either way, it was still suicide.’

‘You don’t think it was,’ Saavedra said, curiosity vying with suspicion in her voice.

‘Like I said, a man was murdered. I think that’s where this all began.’

‘But why?’ she said. ‘He was already mad. If people were worried about what he might say to Dan, the time to kill him would have been before they spoke, not after.’

‘That’s not the reason he died,’ Dreyfus said. ‘He wasn’t killed because certain people were worried about the knowledge inside his head. He was killed because certain people wanted to get at that knowledge more than anything else in the universe. And killing him was the only way they knew to reach it.’

‘You’re not making much sense,’ Veitch said.

‘He’s talking about alpha-level scanning,’ Saavedra said, with dawning comprehension. ‘Lascaille had to die because the process was fatal. Right, Dreyfus?’

‘They wanted the patterns in his head, the structures left behind when he returned from the Shroud. They thought that if they could understand those structures, they’d have another shot at understanding the Shrouders. But to scan at the necessary resolution meant cooking his mind alive.’

‘But things have improved since the Eighty,’ Veitch said.

‘Not by the time Lascaille died. All this took place thirty years after the Eighty, but for most of that time there’d been a moratorium concerning that kind of technology. They took him and did it anyway. They burnt his brains out, but they got their alpha-level scan. Then they took his body and dumped it in the fish pond. He was known to be insane, so no questions were asked when it looked as if he’d drowned himself.’

‘Who would have done this?’

Dreyfus shrugged at Saavedra’s question. He hadn’t got that far yet, and his mind was freewheeling with the possibilities. ‘I don’t know. It would have needed to be someone high up in the Sylveste organisation. I doubt that it was Dan himself - it would have been against his own interests since he already had an insight into how to contact the Shrouders. But who’s to say he didn’t have a rival, a spy in the clan, interested in beating him to the prize?’

‘But you’ll go looking, won’t you?’ she said.

‘I can’t let a murder go uninvestigated. Of course, there are a couple of matters we need to deal with first. Surviving the next fifty-two hours would be a good start.’ Dreyfus turned his attention to Veitch. ‘Which is why we need the Clockmaker. I’ve stated my case as best I can. Now I want you to show me how to communicate with it.’

‘It’s an interesting theory you have, concerning its origin,’ Veitch said. ‘It may even be true. But that doesn’t mean it makes any sense to let it loose now.’

‘I’m not talking about letting it loose,’ Dreyfus replied patiently. ‘I’m talking about—’

‘You think it makes a scrap of difference to the Clockmaker whether you open that cage or give it a hotline to the networks?’

Dreyfus felt a powerful wave of exhaustion crash over him. He had done his best. He had explained things to Saavedra and Veitch as clearly as he could, trusting that they would see his sincerity and understand that the Clockmaker really was the only effective weapon against Aurora, as unpalatable a prospect as that undoubtedly was. And it hadn’t worked. Perhaps Saavedra had begun to come around, or at least believe that he had not come to destroy it. With time she could have been turned. But Veitch was showing no inclination to see things Dreyfus’s way.

‘I came here to negotiate,’ he said, offering his hands in surrender. ‘I could have had you killed, you and the Clockmaker. A single nuke would have done it. Do you think I’d have come here if I felt there was another option?’

‘Prefect, listen to me,’ Veitch said. ‘No matter how bad things are up there, no matter how desperate they look, nothing can possibly be bad enough to justify giving the Clockmaker an angstrom of freedom. This is pure fucking evil incarnate, understand? It’s the devil in chrome.’

‘I know.’

‘You can’t know. No one really knows unless they’ve had direct experience with it, day after day, year after year, the way we have.’

‘I was there,’ Dreyfus said calmly.

‘What do you mean, you were there?’

‘When we went into SIAM. I was one of the prefects who went inside, before it was nuked out of existence.’

Veitch shot a nervous glance at Saavedra. Dreyfus recognised the look. They thought he was losing it. He looked at Sparver and saw the same expression on the face of his former deputy, though only Dreyfus would have recognised it.

‘Prefect, we have clearance that exceeds Pangolin, clearance that exceeds even Manticore,’ Veitch answered, in tones of slow reasonableness. ‘We know everything that happened that day, to the last minute. We know who was involved, where they were, what they were doing.’

‘Except the facts were changed,’ Dreyfus said. ‘My involvement was expunged from the record, from all documents except those intended for the eyes of Jane Aumonier alone. But I was there. I just didn’t remember much about it until now.’

‘He’s losing it,’ Veitch said.

‘Dusollier committed suicide shortly after the Clockmaker crisis,’ Dreyfus continued, ‘but it wasn’t because of decisions he took for himself. He killed himself rather than deal with the consequences of the actions I initiated, acting with Dusollier’s blessing.’

‘What do you mean, actions you initiated?’

‘There was no prefect of higher rank in the vicinity of the crisis. The Clockmaker had already reached Jane. She was out of the equation. Dusollier authorised me to go in and use whatever measures were necessary to save the people still inside SIAM.’

‘Then you failed,’ Veitch said.

‘No, I succeeded. I saved most of them.’ Dreyfus paused. He found the words difficult to say out loud. It had been one thing to read the account of what he had done that day. But it was only now that he was speaking of his deeds that he felt he was really internalising what had happened. ‘They survived. They’re still alive.’

‘No one survived,’ Saavedra said. ‘We nuked SIAM.’

‘Yes, but not until six hours after Jane was pulled out, with the scarab on her neck. What happened in that gap? Why was it expunged from the public record? I’ve always wondered.’ Dreyfus smiled weakly. ‘Now I know.’

‘Just come back to you, has it?’ Saavedra asked snidely.

‘Jane felt it might be tactically useful for me to recover the memories of my previous encounter with the Clockmaker. She knew it would be painful for me, given everything else that came with that baggage. But she was right to do it.’

‘I agree with Veitch - you’re losing it,’ Saavedra replied.

‘There was a ship orbiting nearby,’ Dreyfus said quietly, ‘a type of starship built by the Demarchists in an effort to lessen their dependence on the Conjoiners. It was a prototype, built around Fand. It used a different drive system, one that owed nothing to Conjoiner science. It had made one flight to our system and then been mothballed because it was too expensive, too slow, too clumsy. It was being stored against the day when even a ship like that became economical.’

‘What was the name of this ship?’ Saavedra asked.

‘Atalanta,’ Dreyfus replied.

‘There was a ship with that name,’ Veitch said, frowning. ‘I remember that they wanted to rip it apart for scrap.’

‘They did. It doesn’t exist any more.’

‘Tell us what happened,’ Saavedra said.

‘Yeah, you do that,’ Sparver said.

Dreyfus was about to speak when two bracelets began to chime in unison. Saavedra and Veitch stared down in what was at first irritation and then alarm.

‘Are the surface guns online?’ Saavedra asked Veitch.

He nodded. ‘They’ve acquired, but they won’t open fire until it’s closer.’

‘Until what’s closer?’ Dreyfus asked.

Saavedra’s eyes snapped to him. ‘There’s a ship coming in from space. It’s making a direct insertion from orbit, at high-burn. It’s not even attempting to conceal itself. Do you know anything about this, Dreyfus?’

‘I went out of my way not to draw attention to your location. I didn’t want Aurora following me to you.’

‘But only Panoply knows we’re here.’

‘Then something must have happened,’ Dreyfus said. ‘It’s a fair bet that whoever’s flying that ship wants to put the Clockmaker out of action.’

‘Let’s get to operations,’ Saavedra said. She fixed Dreyfus with a warning look. ‘I’m calling off the whiphound now, but you know how quick these things are. I can put it back on you before you can blink.’ She turned to Veitch. ‘Is the containment stable?’

‘Steady as a rock.’ He flipped an armoured cover across the viewing window, secured it with a heavy latch, then followed the other three along the catwalk and down to the reactor floor. Saavedra’s whiphound was now clipped to her belt again, but Dreyfus was under no illusions that he had gained her unequivocal trust. She was accepting his story provisionally, until he slipped up or circumstances changed.

‘It could be Gaffney,’ he said as they ascended the sloping tunnel back to the main habitation and operations level. ‘The last time I saw him he was lying on his back recovering from surgery. But he wasn’t dead. Maybe that was my big mistake.’

‘Presumably he was under guard, though?’ Saavedra said, looking back over her shoulder as they jogged up the slope.

‘He was, but perhaps that wasn’t enough. Gaffney was already able to sabotage the Search Turbines and murder both Clepsydra and Trajanova. He was clever, and he had the entire security apparatus at his fingertips, but he’s not superhuman. I think Aurora may have been helping him, even inside Panoply.’

‘And now she’s helped him escape?’

‘Possibly, but regardless, this feels like Gaffney. Did I hear you mention guns?’

‘Portable self-burrowing anti-ship emplacements,’ Veitch said. ‘We installed them in case anyone came snooping without an invitation. You’d have found out if you hadn’t come overland.’

‘I’m glad we did. The walk did me good.’

Firebrand’s operations centre had been set up in what must once have been a conference room when the facility was under Amerikano control. The walls were covered in monochrome photographs of scenic panoramas with only shallow three-dimensionality. One wall showed a deep canyon, possibly taken on Mars. Another showed a horseshoe-shaped waterfall. A third showed a rock face carved with enormous stone likenesses: eight vast heads, the fifth and seventh of which were women.

A cluster of display panes rested on the table, arranged hexagonally so that they formed a makeshift holographic tank. Veitch sent a gestural command to the apparatus, causing it to fill with luminous green wireframe graphics. Dreyfus recognised the contoured landscape of Ops Nine and its surrounding terrain. Markers signified the placement of weapons and tracking devices. An arrowhead symbol high above the landscape indicated the incoming craft.

‘Signature matches a light-enforcement vehicle,’ Veitch said, peering at the numbers accompanying the symbol. ‘Would Gaffney be able to fly one of those?’

‘He’d have the necessary experience,’ Dreyfus said.

‘It’s not good news. It may be a cutter, but it could easily be carrying nukes.’

‘Only if Jane had any left,’ Dreyfus said. ‘And if she did, they were probably already outside Panoply aboard deep-system cruisers, ready to be deployed as and when they were required. I don’t think Gaffney would have been able to get his hands on one. More than likely it was all he could do to escape from Panoply.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Veitch said.

‘I hope your guns are good. When will they open fire?’

‘Not until he’s below about thirty klicks,’ Saavedra replied. ‘The guns know the kinds of evasive routines and countermeasures a cutter has up its sleeve. Unless the cutter shoots first, they won’t waste a shot until they have a chance of making a difference.’

Dreyfus saw that the cutter was still more than one hundred and twenty kilometres above them, but falling fast enough that it would pass below the weapon ceiling in only a couple of minutes. ‘Gaffney wouldn’t come unless he thought he could do damage,’ he said. ‘He’ll be expecting to meet anti-ship fire.’

‘I could take our cutter,’ Saavedra said doubtfully. ‘It still has enough fuel to get me airborne.’

‘You wouldn’t last five seconds against Gaffney,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Even if you could get up in time.’

She stared at the display, mesmerised by the falling arrow. ‘He can damage the complex if he has foam-phase weapons, but he won’t be able to touch the Clockmaker, inside the tokamak. He must know that.’ A thought drained colour from her face. ‘Voi, maybe he does have a nuke after all.’

‘If he does, it’ll be clean and fast for all of us,’ Dreyfus told her. ‘But I don’t think he’s intending to take out the Clockmaker in one hit. He must be planning to flush it out, then pick it off on the surface. It can’t fly, can it?’

‘If you gave it enough time,’ Veitch said, ‘I don’t think there’s much it couldn’t do.’ Then he studied the tank again. ‘At present rate of descent, weapons will engage in . . . forty-five seconds.’ He looked anxiously at the others. ‘There isn’t much more we can do here. Maybe we should get below again?’

‘Missile inbound,’ Saavedra said, with dreamlike calm.

The display showed the missile streaking down from the cutter, leaping though the intervening atmosphere with ferocious acceleration. Any faster and friction would have incinerated the warhead before it reached its target.

‘Guns retargeting,’ Saavedra reported. ‘Engaging.’

The room tremored. Dreyfus heard a low, rolling report, like distant thunder. He shuddered to think of the energy that had just been dissipated only a few hundred metres over his head. The weapons would have blasted their way out of concealed bunkers, just like the guns buried in the Nerval-Lermontov rock. But that had taken place in vacuum, not under a smothering methane-ammonia atmosphere. On the planet’s surface, it would have looked like a series of choreographed volcanic eruptions, as if fists of molten fire had punched through the very crust of the world.

‘Missile intercepted,’ Saavedra said, though they could all see the result for themselves. ‘Second incoming. Third incoming. Guns responding.’

The room tremored again, the earthquake-like rumble longer than before. There was a moment of silence as the guns retargeted to intercept the third missile, then the noise recommenced. ‘Second missile destroyed. Partial intercept on third,’ Saavedra announced. The room shook again, but Dreyfus knew that the guns would struggle to shoot down the third missile on the second attempt. It had been damaged, but it was still arcing down towards the facility.

‘Brace,’ Veitch said.

The missile’s impact came a fraction of a second later. Dreyfus felt the shockwave slam through his bones. There was a roar louder than the guns, loud enough that it felt as if he was out there, standing under Yellowstone’s poison sky with his eardrums naked to the air. He felt a violent shove, as if the room and all its contents had just lurched several centimetres to one side.

‘One emplacement out,’ Saavedra said as the appropriate icon pulsed red and faded to black. ‘Fourth missile inbound. Guns acquiring.’

The roar of the anti-ship weapons sounded more distant now: Dreyfus guessed that the disabled emplacement had been the nearest one, taken out in a direct hit by the damaged missile.

‘Tell me you have an intercept,’ Dreyfus said.

‘Partial,’ Saavedra said. ‘Attempting recontact.’

The guns droned. The room shook. The sense of helplessness Dreyfus felt was suffocating. Machines were running his life now: machines and software. The system running the anti-ship emplacements was locking antlers with the system controlling the cutter’s onboard weapons. Like familiar adversaries, the systems had a thorough understanding of their mutual capabilities. In all likelihood, his survival could already be ascribed a fixed mathematical probability. One participant knew it would eventually lose, but was still going through the motions for the sake of formality.

The fourth missile had lost much of its effectiveness when it struck home, but still retained enough potency to do real damage. The noise was a continuous deafening avalanche of sound. The room shuddered, chunks of ceiling material crashing down. A deep crack jagged its way down one wall, dividing the eight carved heads. The room’s illumination failed, leaving only the pale-green glow from the holographic display, which was itself faltering.

‘Generator complex is down,’ Veitch said, with grim resignation. ‘We should have buried it deeper. I said we should have buried it deeper.’ He began to tap instructions into his bracelet. ‘Back-up generator should have kicked in automatically. Why isn’t it working?’

‘Fifth missile inbound,’ Saavedra said as the holographic display flickered. ‘Guns attempting to acquire. Two emplacements down. What about that back-up generator, Veitch?’

‘I’m doing the best I can,’ he said through gritted teeth.

The roar of anti-ship guns was like a distant avalanche.

‘Intercept?’ Veitch queried.

‘Partial,’ Saavedra said.

Dreyfus was about to ask something when the fifth missile came slamming in. There was no sound this time; it was too loud to register as noise. It felt like a cosh to the skull. Deafened, but with scarcely a moment to register the fact, Dreyfus observed events compress themselves into a single frantic instant. The room darkened, filling with choking black dust, scouring eyes and skin, burning throat and lungs. His last glimpse gave the impression of the ceiling bowing down, riven with cracks. He saw a similar crack rip through the already damaged wall. And then there was neither light, nor sound, nor consciousness.

CHAPTER 32

Dreyfus came round to a world coloured in degrees of pain. He was cognisant of the pain map of his body, traced in his mind’s eye by a flickering green mesh. There was a knot somewhere around his lower right leg, the contours bunching together until they formed an angry little eye. There was another knot in his chest, to the left of his sternum. A third on his upper right arm. The rest of him was merely aflame with discomfort. His throat felt as if it had been etched with acid. When he breathed, it was as if the lining of his lungs had been replaced by powdered glass.

And yet he was breathing. That was more than he’d expected to be doing.

He remembered the attack, but had no sense of how much time had passed since the arrival of the final missile. Everything was very still now. Not exactly silent, for his ears were ringing, but when he moved slightly he could hear his own groans of discomfort, so he had not been entirely deafened. He must have screamed at the end, he thought. He lay still, breathing heavily, ignoring the stab of pain that accompanied each breath, until he had regained some clarity of thought.

He forced his eyes open. At first he could see nothing, but then he became conscious of a faint glow. One of the holographic panes was still flickering, casting insipid green light around the wreckage-strewn room. Most of the dust and debris appeared to have settled, suggesting that more than a few minutes had passed since the assault. His eyes were stinging, watering, but slowly Dreyfus became accustomed to the gloom and began to pick out details of his surroundings. He was lying on his back on the floor, with his legs and hips pinned under the table, which had collapsed when the ceiling thrust down upon it. As the table gave way, the cluster of display panes had toppled to the floor to Dreyfus’s right, including the one unit that was still aglow. He was trapped, and he could only speculate as to the true extent of his injuries, but he knew that he was very lucky to be alive at all. Had the table not shielded him, he would have been killed by the rubble that had crashed in through the ceiling. He tried moving his right arm again. The knot of pain had died down slightly, and as the arm moved he drew some comfort from the fact that it was probably not broken. He flexed his fingers, watching them move like pale wormlike things, seemingly disconnected from his own body. His left arm felt intact, but he could not reach the edge of the table from where he was pinned. Groaning again, pain flaring in his chest, he tried to move his right arm enough to begin to lever the table, hoping to lift it away from his trapped lower half. But as soon as he applied pressure, he knew it was hopeless. The pain in his arm intensified, and the table did not move at all. Dreyfus realised that he would not be able to escape unassisted.

He looked to his side, trying to distinguish between rubble and bodies. He began to fear that the others had been killed in the attack. But slowly he realised that the only other body in the room belonged to Simon Veitch. Of Sparver and Saavedra there was no sign.

‘Veitch?’ Dreyfus called, barely hearing his own voice over the ringing in his head.

Veitch answered almost immediately. ‘Prefect,’ he said, sounding as if there was a thick layer of insulating glass between the two men. ‘You’re alive, then.’

Dreyfus paused to recover strength before speaking again. Each word cost him more energy than he felt he could spare. ‘I’m trapped under this table. I think I’ve broken a rib, maybe a leg. What about you?’

‘Worse than that. Can’t you see?’

Dreyfus could see, now that his eyes were finally adjusting to the minimal light. A silvery pipe, probably one of those installed by Firebrand when they were reactivating the facility, had buckled down from the ceiling to plunge through Veitch’s thigh.

‘Are you losing blood?’

‘I hope so.’

Dreyfus coughed and tasted his own blood. ‘What does that mean?’

‘It means I think I have a chance of dying before it finds us.’

‘Then it’s loose?’

‘The back-up generator should have activated immediately to ensure a smooth handover. It didn’t. Containment failed.’

‘But we don’t know for sure that it’s loose. Not until someone goes down there . . .’

Veitch laughed. It was the vilest, most inhuman sound Dreyfus had ever heard coming from another person. ‘It’s out, Prefect. Don’t worry about that. It’s just a question of how long it takes to find us. Because you can bet your life it’s looking.’

‘Or maybe it’s already run away, trying to hide itself.’

‘You don’t know the Clockmaker. I do.’

‘And you hope you’re going to die before it gets here.’

Veitch touched a hand to his thigh. In the green glow his fingers came up tipped with something wet and dark, like melted chocolate. ‘I think I’ve got a shot. How about you? You could always try holding your breath, see how far that gets you.’

‘Tell me something, Veitch,’ Dreyfus said, in the tone of a man changing the subject of a conversation that had begun to weary him.

‘What?’

‘When Jane gave me the list of Firebrand operatives, your name was familiar to me for some reason.’

‘I get around.’

‘It was more than that. It struck an old chord. It just took me a little while to remember the rest.’

‘Meaning what?’

‘You were involved in the case against Jason Ng, weren’t you?’

The silence that followed was enough of an answer for Dreyfus. ‘Simon?’ he asked.

‘Still here.’

‘You’re going to die soon. More than likely so am I. But let’s clear this one up, shall we? Thalia’s father was innocent. His only mistake was to get too close to your operation. He was investigating Firebrand, long after Firebrand had supposedly been shut down, and you had to do something about it.’

‘Looks like you’ve already made your case.’

‘I’m just putting pieces together. You concocted a case against Jason Ng to protect the operational integrity of Firebrand, didn’t you? You fabricated evidence and watched a good man go down. And then you had him murdered, making it look like suicide, because you couldn’t risk his testimony coming out in a Panoply tribunal. Which makes you no better than the people who murdered Philip Lascaille, does it? In fact, I’d put you on about the same moral pedestal.’

‘Fuck you, Dreyfus. Fuck you and fuck Panoply.’

‘I’ll take your views into consideration. Before you die on me, answer one last question. Where are the others?’

Veitch’s answer came more slowly this time, his words slurred. He sounded like a man on the edge of unconsciousness. ‘I woke up once and your pig was still here. Saavedra was already gone. When I came around the second time, the pig was gone as well. Before I passed out the first time, he said something about taking care of Gaffney.’

Dreyfus absorbed that. As gladdened as he was to hear that Sparver was alive, he was troubled by the other prefect’s intentions. ‘Where did Saavedra go?’

‘I don’t know. Why don’t you go and ask her?’

‘Veitch?’ Dreyfus asked, a little later.

But this time there was no answer.

‘Good for you,’ Dreyfus said, under his breath.

It was dark when Sparver finally found his way to the surface again, his suit donned hastily, sacrificing the armour he would have needed assistance to lock into place. Much of Ops Nine had collapsed during the attack, but the sloping tunnel by which he and Dreyfus had entered was still intact, and with care he had been able to ascend through the facility and squeeze past the obstructions on his way, using his suit’s power to force open the surface doors. For once being a hyperpig had been to his advantage; he doubted very much that a fully armoured and suited baseline human would have been able to navigate some of the crawlspaces he’d had to pass through, especially not while dragging a Breitenbach rifle.

When he’d first regained consciousness, Saavedra had been about to leave the collapsed room, intending to find a way to restore the Clockmaker’s containment. Sparver knew then that he had to get out of that room, even if it meant abandoning Dreyfus for the time being. He’d talked Saavedra into handing over the ammo cells she had confiscated earlier and clipped to her belt, telling her that he would attempt to take down Gaffney - or whoever it was - on his own. Saavedra obviously hadn’t liked the idea of giving him access to weapons, but she presumably liked the idea of the attacker going unpunished even less. Eventually she’d relented and Sparver had taken the cells, watched Saavedra go and then lain very still while the room suddenly resettled, filling with pale dust and pinning him temporarily again before he worked loose and made his exit. He’d found the suit and weapon near the sculpture on the atrium level, right where he and Dreyfus had been ambushed what felt like a lifetime ago.

He emerged from the sloping ramp, crouching low as he passed through the toothlike formation of icicles. Overhead, the sky surged with the unbridled energy of a storm, clouds billowing and flickering with electrical discharges and strange, seething shifts in local atmospheric chemistry. Yet above the roar of the wind and thunder, his suit was conveying another sound to his ears. It was high-pitched and steady: the shrill whine of engines. Still using the upper slope of the ramp for cover, he knelt with the rifle between his knees and scanned the howling dark sky. It was not very long before he made out the hovering form of the cutter, poised nose-down like a stabbing dagger, with its hull-mounted weapons deployed and ready. Sparver guessed that Gaffney was loitering over the remains of Ops Nine with the intention of catching the Clockmaker making its escape. Whatever firepower had yet to be discharged would be directed in a single berserk frenzy of concentrated destruction. Perhaps Gaffney had no real expectation of killing the Clockmaker, but he would certainly be hoping to maim it.

Sparver flipped open the Breitenbach’s weather cover, exposing the muzzle with its delicate battery of plasma emitters and laser-confinement optics. He powered-up the weapon, mindful that the cutter might be sniffing the local electromagnetic environment. The weapon ran through its start-up cycle, then signalled readiness. Sparver settled the long barrel of the rifle onto his shoulder, bazooka-style. A portion of his faceplate filled with a sighting reticle, superimposed over a view of the rifle’s current target. Sparver eased back on his haunches until the hovering cutter bobbed into the middle of the reticle. He squeezed a stud on the side of the primary grip, telling the weapon to lock on to this target. A red bracket pulsed around the cutter, signifying target acquisition. Instantly Sparver felt the suit stiffen and adjust his posture for him. The rifle had assumed command of the power-assisted suit; it was using it as an aiming platform, with Sparver just going along for the ride.

The cutter’s engine note shifted. Sparver watched the ship rotate and then start to drift in his direction. Its weapons slewed slowly towards him, like a nest of snakes moving in unison. The cutter must have detected him. Gaffney was scouting closer, not wanting to discharge his weapons against a false target. The rifle, tracking the moving ship, made Sparver’s suit adjust his position. A stutter of light erupted from the side of the hull. A rain of slugs tore into the upper lip of the ramp entrance, dislodging the icicles just before the lip crumbled away entirely. Sparver took a hit above one knee, a glancing shot that must have ricocheted off the ground. The impact nearly floored him, but his suit wasn’t holed.

He fired the rifle, squeezing off three closely spaced pulses before regaining control of his suit and falling back into cover. Confirmed hit, the weapon informed him.

He peered back over the rim. The cutter was still airborne, but it wasn’t doing any more shooting. The engine note had become erratic. The weapons were jerking around haphazardly, locking on to dozens of false targets. Sparver resettled the rifle on his shoulder and fired another three shots, this time relying on his own aiming ability. Crimson light poured from the hole he’d blown in the side of Gaffney’s ship. The engine note quietened to silence.

The cutter dropped.

A second or so later, Sparver felt the impact slam through the ground. He braced, but there was no explosion. He waited a decent interval, then hauled himself from the cover of the shattered ramp and made his way across the pulverised ground, keeping the rifle aimed nervously ahead of him. The cutter had come down a kilometre away, close to the main entrance point to Ops Nine, where Saavedra would have docked and hidden her own ship. When Sparver reached it he found that the cutter had buried the front three metres of its nose in the frost, urine-coloured rivulets of melted methane-ammonia snow dribbling away from the impact point. The airlock was open, the outer door blasted off and lying to one side some metres away. The inner door was also open, revealing the faintly glowing interior of the crashed vehicle. Sparver’s suit started warning him that radiation levels were above tolerable norms. He ignored its protestations and used a handy boulder to climb into the shell. He pointed the rifle into the interior, using its sighting facility to see around the corner. But it only took a glance to confirm that the cutter was empty.

Gaffney was missing.

‘Even for a cockroach, you take a lot of killing,’ Sparver said.

Dreyfus snapped to consciousness again. He had no recollection of sliding back under, although he did remember that he had been about to make another attempt to free himself of the table. Perhaps the pain, or simply the exertion, had been enough to loosen his hold on the waking world. Either way, once more he had no clear idea of how much time had elapsed; whether it was seconds or minutes or hours.

‘Stay still,’ a woman’s voice told him. ‘You’re safe now.’

He realised that he wasn’t pinned under the table any more, and that the overall blanket of pain had dampened to a vague numbness. His ears were still ringing, his eyes still watering, but he did not feel any worse off than when he had been speaking with Veitch.

‘Paula?’ he asked, recognising the voice as Saavedra’s, and that she was standing to one side of the bed or couch upon which he was resting. ‘What happened? Where am I?’

‘I rescued you from the collapsed room. You’re in a different part of the facility, deep enough that it escaped the damage.’

Saavedra was almost lost in the shadows, with only dull red highlights tracing her form. She stood demurely, her hands linked before her, against the ruddy glow from a wall panel.

‘Did you check Veitch?’

She nodded stiffly. ‘He was already dead when I got back.’

Dreyfus moved his head enough to survey his body. It was difficult, since there was hardly any light in the room. The lower part of his right leg was covered with dried blood, but there was no sign of any bones sticking through the fabric. The pain had eased now: his uniform would have begun secreting topical antiseptic and painkillers as soon as it detected his injury, and by now they’d had time to take effect. His right arm was still sore - the uniform was allowing him to feel just enough pain to remind him not to hurt himself further - but again the injury could have been much worse.

‘I don’t know what’s happened to Gaffney, but we should probably think about getting out of here,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Before he lost consciousness, Veitch told me that there’d been a containment breakdown. He was convinced that the Clockmaker would have escaped.’

‘Do you think there’d be any point in running from it?’

‘I’d rather run than sit here waiting for an audience.’

‘Well, you don’t need to worry just yet. Containment failed, but not long enough for the Clockmaker to escape. It’s still inside the tokamak. The back-up generators won’t keep it there for ever, but we’re safe for an hour or so.’

‘I’m glad. But you should still be thinking about getting out of here now.’

She cocked her head, puzzled by his response. ‘Me, Dreyfus? After all that’s happened?’

‘You came here by ship, Paula. Find Sparver, then collect your cutter. If you have fuel to reach orbit, do so. Otherwise get back to Chasm City and contact the authorities. If there’s anything left of Panoply, they can probably put you in touch.’

‘And then what?’

‘Tell them what I told you concerning the Clockmaker. Make sure someone finds out about it. If Jane Aumonier is still alive, tell Jane.’

‘How will that knowledge help matters?’

‘Maybe it’ll come in useful when they have to put the Clockmaker back in the bottle.’

‘You are not seriously injured, Dreyfus. You don’t have to die down here.’

‘Someone has to go down to the tokamak. Someone still has to talk to the thing and persuade it to do what it can to turn back Aurora.’

‘You think you can persuade the Clockmaker?’

‘I’ll give it a shot.’

‘How? You don’t even know how to communicate with it.’

‘I’ll find a way. Even if I have to open the tokamak and let it out.’

‘It would almost certainly kill you.’

‘But it might want to talk first. I’ll have to count on that. If I can make it see what a threat Aurora presents . . . if it hasn’t already worked that out for itself, of course.’

Saavedra unclasped her hands. She touched one index finger to her lips, studiedly conveying thoughtfulness. ‘I made a mistake in not trusting you when you arrived, didn’t I? I should have listened to you properly; learned everything I could about Aurora.’

‘You can make amends by getting through to Panoply.’

‘I’ll do what needs to be done. But first I need to know more about Aurora, not just the Clockmaker. You said she was one of the original Eighty, didn’t you?’

Dreyfus nodded wearily. It seemed unnecessary to rake over this again, given what he had already told Saavedra. ‘My colleague knows about as much as I do.’

‘But I’m asking you, not your deputy. What was her full name?’

‘Aurora Nerval-Lermontov. She was just a girl when they scanned her. I don’t think she was a monster then. Maybe it was society’s hatred and fear that drove her to become what she is, when they knew what Calvin Sylveste had brought into existence. Or maybe she always had it in her, like a seed waiting to flourish. Maybe she was a sick little girl from the moment she was born. Either way, she has to be stopped, wiped out of existence, before she takes over the entire Glitter Band. She won’t stop there, either.’

‘Where is she located?’

‘We’ve been over this, Paula. We don’t know. There’s about ten thousand habitats up there, any one of which could be hosting her unawares.’

‘Could she distribute herself, like a program executing on a massively parallel architecture? A piece of herself running on thousands of habitats, so that the loss of any one processing centre would not be catastrophic?’

‘Like I said, she won’t do that because the timelag would slow her thought processes down to a crawl.’

‘All the same. If she is to coordinate a takeover, she must make use of the network infrastructure to send commands and receive intelligence.’

‘Yes, but she’s obviously become expert at concealing herself. We just don’t have the overview to pick out the signal from the noise.’

‘Whereas you think the Clockmaker may be able to.’

‘That’s the idea.’ He was growing increasingly irritated at having to repeat the argument he’d already presented to Saavedra and Veitch. ‘Paula, why are we going over this again? We don’t have time. Either you agree or you don’t.’

‘I do agree,’ she said, so quietly that he almost didn’t catch the reply. ‘It’s your only hope of survival. Put one alpha-level mind against another. What could be more logical?’

That was when Dreyfus had the first tingling suspicion that something was very wrong.

‘Paula?’ he asked.

She turned away from him so that he was looking at her face in profile. Silhouetted against the illuminated wall, her body held the erect pose of a dancer about to begin some demanding routine. Dreyfus saw that there was something attached to the back of her head, neck and spine. It was like a thick metal caterpillar, a segmented thing with many legs. Her sleeveless black vest had been gashed open from neck to coccyx. As she turned even more, he saw that this was also true of her skin. He could see her backbone, grinning white through meat and muscle. The caterpillar had dug its needle-tipped feet through to her spinal nerve column.

Quite without warning, she dropped to the floor.

Dreyfus lay perfectly still, paralysed by the horror of what he had just witnessed. It must have found her, tortured or tricked her just enough to extract the basic details of Dreyfus’s mission. Then it had slashed her open and made her into a meat puppet.

Now it was done with the puppet. On the floor, Saavedra twitched and spasmed like a fish out of water.

‘You’re here,’ he said, finding the strength to speak. ‘You’re with me, aren’t you? In this room. You did escape after all.’

There’d been a humming sound all along, but it was only now that his ringing ears became fully attuned to it. Moving his neck by the tiniest of degrees, he looked around to face the other side of the bed, opposite where Saavedra had been standing. That side of the room was dark, but he was still aware of the form waiting there. It was larger than a man, towering towards the ceiling, stooping over to fit into the confined space. The red light gleamed off a dripping chrome ribcage, off the sickle-shaped fingers of a huge metallic hand, off the hammerhead width of a huge eyeless skull. The humming intensified. To Dreyfus, it became the most malevolent sound in the universe.

‘What do you want with me?’ he asked, expecting no answer.

But the Clockmaker spoke. Its voice was surprisingly soft, surprisingly avuncular. ‘It was very brave of you to come here, to find me. Did you expect that it would end like this?’

‘I didn’t know what to expect. I had no other choice.’

‘You expected to persuade me to help you?’

Dreyfus licked his lips. They felt as dry as clay. His heart was trying to tunnel its way out of his chest. ‘I only wanted to show you the way things are.’

‘With Aurora?’

‘Yes. She won’t stop. You’re the only thing that can touch her. Therefore she has to destroy you. And she will, sooner or later. Unless you destroy her first.’

‘Aurora will murder all of you.’

‘I know.’

‘What makes you think I’m any better?’

‘Because you didn’t kill everyone in SIAM.’

The Clockmaker sounded amused. ‘And that gives you hope? That makes you think I’m the lesser of two evils?’

‘I don’t think you’re evil. Not really. I think you’re furious and driven, like an avenging angel. You’ve been hurt and you want to give back some of that hurt. I think that makes you bad. But I don’t think it makes you evil.’

The Clockmaker contorted itself even more, bending at the middle to lower its upper chest and head to only a metre above Dreyfus. Still he could see only highlights, where the red light caught a sleek metal edge. The head, which had appeared hammer-like only a moment ago, now had the form of an anvil.

‘You presume to know what I am?’

‘I know who you are,’ Dreyfus said, each word feeling as if it might be his last. ‘I know what they did to you, Philip.’

The Clockmaker did not answer. But something sliced through the air, one of its arms moving so quickly that the motion became a scything blur of darkness and shadow. The whipping arm touched Dreyfus’s forehead. His skin felt suddenly cold. Something trickled into his eye, warm and stinging.

‘I know what they did to you,’ he repeated. ‘They took you and burnt out your mind, trying to extract an alpha-level simulation. Then they dumped your body in a fish pond and made it look like suicide. They only wanted those alpha-level patterns for one thing, Philip. Not to give you immortality, but to help them program a machine that could travel into the Shroud without being ripped apart. You’d survived, where others hadn’t. They made a robot and loaded your alpha-level simulation into it, in the hope that something in those brain patterns would make a difference.’

The Clockmaker was listening. It hadn’t killed him yet. Perhaps it was planning something worse than death, some ingenious new cruelty that would make even Jane Aumonier’s eleven years of sleeplessness seem like a kindness.

‘They must have sent you into a Shroud,’ Dreyfus continued. ‘One within a few light-years of Yellowstone, so that you had time to go there and back before you showed up in SIAM. That’s what happened, isn’t it? You were sent into the Shroud as a machine running Philip Lascaille’s alpha-level simulation, and you came back . . . changed, just the way Philip had all those years before. Something inside the Shroud had remade you. You were still a machine, but now you were a machine with alien components. And you were angry. You were worse than angry. You were a machine that knew its soul had been stolen from an innocent man, a man who’d already been driven half-mad by the things he’d seen inside the Shroud.’

Still the Clockmaker loomed over him, the mantra-like rhythm of its humming beginning to fill his brain, squeezing out rational thought. Dreyfus swore he could feel its breath, a cold, metallic exhalation like a steel breeze. But machines didn’t breathe, he told himself.

‘I don’t know how you ended up in SIAM,’ Dreyfus went on, ‘but I’d guess you were in a state of dormancy when you returned from the Shroud. The people who’d sent you there didn’t really know what to make of you. They knew they’d got back something strange, but they couldn’t begin to comprehend your true origin, your capabilities, what was driving you. So they transferred you to the people in the Sylveste organisation best suited to probe the nature of an artificial intelligence. More than likely, the scientists in SIAM had no inkling of where you’d come from. They were fed a story, led to think that you were the product of another research department in the institute itself. And at first you were very obliging, weren’t you? You were like a newborn baby. You made them happy with the clever things you made. But all along you were recovering memories of your true nature. The fury was welling up inside you, looking for a release valve. You’d been birthed in pain and terror. You naturally assumed that pain and terror were what you were meant to give back to the world. So you did. You began your spree.’

After a silence that stretched on for centuries, the Clockmaker spoke again. ‘Philip Lascaille is dead.’

‘But you remember, don’t you? You remember how it felt to be him. You remember what you saw in the Shroud, the first time.’

‘How would you know?’

‘Because I recognised your face in Delphine’s sculpture. You were communicating through her art, finding a channel to the outside world even when you were a prisoner.’

‘Did you know Delphine?’

‘I knew her after she was murdered, via her beta-level simulation.’

‘Why was she murdered?’

‘Aurora did it. She was trying to destroy you. Delphine and her family got in the way.’

The humming became slower, ruminative. ‘And the beta-level simulation?’

‘Aurora found a way to get to that as well.’

‘Then she has murdered Delphine twice.’

‘Yes,’ Dreyfus said, surprised that the truth of that had never really occurred to him before.

‘Then another crime has been committed. Is that why you came here, to solve a crime?’

Dreyfus thought about everything that happened to him since he first learned of the destruction of the Ruskin-Sartorious Bubble. With each step the case had opened wider, until he was embroiled in a full-blown emergency, a crisis upon which the future existence of the Glitter Band rested. It was difficult now to remember how parochial he’d expected the outcome of the inquiry to be. A simple case of revenge or spite. How laughably wrong he’d been.

But the Clockmaker was right. The path that had brought him here had begun with a simple murder investigation, albeit one that encompassed nine hundred and sixty victims.

‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘Aurora would have needed an accomplice. Who did her bidding?’

‘A man called Gaffney. A prefect, like me. He’s the one attacking this facility, trying to get to you.’

‘A bad man?’

‘A man who believes bad things.’

‘I should very much like to meet this Gaffney.’ The Clockmaker’s tone was momentarily pensive, as if it was daydreaming. ‘What will happen to you now, Prefect?’

Dreyfus almost laughed. ‘I don’t think that’s really in my hands, is it?’

‘You’re right, it isn’t. I could kill you now, or do something to you that you would find infinitely worse than death. But I could also let you leave.’

Dreyfus thought of the way cats toyed with birds before finishing them off. ‘Why would you do that?’

‘Murders have been committed, Prefect. Isn’t it your duty to investigate those murders, to bring those responsible to justice?’

‘That’s part of it.’

‘How far would you go to see justice served?’

‘As far as it takes.’

‘Do you believe that, in your heart of hearts? Be careful how you answer me. Your skull is a stained-glass window, an open book revealing the processes of your mind. I can tell a lie from the truth.’

‘I believe it,’ Dreyfus said. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’

He saw the great fist rise high and then descend, dropping towards his skull like a chrome-plated pile driver.

Gaffney halted at the sight of the figure ahead of him. Her thin form stood silhouetted against the glowing wall to her rear. She had one hand on her hip, her head at an angle. There was something almost coquettish about that stance, as if she’d been waiting for him, like a lover keeping an assignation.

‘As you can see,’ he said, his voice booming out beyond the suit, amplified to monstrous proportions, ‘I’m unarmed.’

‘As you can see,’ the woman said, ‘so am I. You can put down that weapon now, Prefect Gaffney. You have nothing to fear from me.’

‘It’s more a case of what you have to fear from me. Saavedra, isn’t it?’

‘Got it in one. Should I be flattered that you know of me?’

‘You can if you want to be.’ Gaffney stepped closer. He was limping. He had been injured in the crash and the power-assist of his suit was beginning to malfunction. ‘I only want one thing from you. You’ve got the Clockmaker down here.’

‘It’s already escaped,’ Saavedra said. ‘You’re too late. Go home.’

‘What if I said I didn’t believe you?’

‘Then I’d have to prove it to you, wouldn’t I?’

‘How would you do that?’

Still holding that coquettish pose, still mostly in shadow, the woman said, ‘I could show you the reactor, the tokamak we were using to contain it. You know about magnetic fields and the Clockmaker, don’t you?’

‘Of course.’

‘We had it pinned down until you showed up. If you hadn’t attacked us, you could have infiltrated our facility and then worked out a way to destroy it.’

‘Like you wish I’d done that. Where’s Dreyfus?’

‘You killed Dreyfus in your attack.’

‘So the day hasn’t been a complete waste of time.’

‘Did you hate him that much, Prefect Gaffney? Did you hate him enough to want him dead?’ Only now did she adjust the tilt of her head, moving it with the stiffness of a puppet that needed oiling. Something about the movement triggered a profound unease on Gaffney’s part, but he suppressed his qualms. ‘Did you hate him the way you hated Delphine?’

‘Delphine was a detail that got in the way. She had to go.’ He waved the muzzle of his rifle. ‘Do you want to become a detail as well?’

‘Not really.’

‘Then show me the tokamak. I want concrete evidence that the thing’s escaped. Then you’re going to help me locate it, before it gets off-planet.’

‘Are you going to kill it as well?’

‘That’s the idea.’

‘You’re a very determined man,’ she said, with a note of admiration he hadn’t been expecting.

‘I get things done.’

‘You know, so do I. Maybe the two of us have more in common than we might have imagined.’ Her hand moved on her hip. Her arms were stick-thin, less like limbs than jointed sword sheaths. She pivoted on her heels, turning with the eerie smoothness of a battleship turret. Gaffney blinked, thinking he’d seen something on her back, tracing the course of her spine.

‘I’d like to see where you had it hidden.’

‘I’ll show you that and more. I can prove to you that it escaped.’ She beckoned him forward. ‘Would you like that?’

‘Very much so,’ he said.

CHAPTER 33

Dreyfus came around for the third time that day. He was still lying where the Clockmaker had left him, his head still ringing with that last fateful moment when the machine’s fist had come crashing down. He’d been expecting to die then, more certain of it than anything in the universe. Yet here he was, looking up at Sparver.

‘I . . . ‘ he began.

‘Easy, Boss. Save the questions for later. We’ve got to get you suited and out of here. Whole place is starting to cave in.’ Sparver had his helmet cradled in his arm but was otherwise suited, a Breitenbach rifle slung over his shoulder.

‘My leg’s hurt,’ Dreyfus said, his throat still raw. ‘I’m going to have trouble walking.’

‘You made it here. How did you get out of that collapsed room?’

‘I didn’t. I was brought out while I was unconscious.’

‘By whom? When I left, Saavedra was gone and Veitch was out cold. I tried shifting that table but I couldn’t manage it on my own. Veitch was in a bad way. I don’t think he was in any shape to help you.’

‘It wasn’t Veitch.’ Dreyfus paused, sucking in his pain while Sparver helped him off the couch. ‘I came around in here, and I was talking to Paula Saavedra. But it wasn’t her. It was the Clockmaker, Sparv. I was in the same room as it. It was talking to me, speaking through her body.’

‘You sure you weren’t hallucinating?’

‘Later I saw it for what it was. It revealed itself to me when I guessed what was going on. I thought it was going to kill me. But it didn’t. I woke up and I’m looking at you instead.’ As the pain ebbed, Dreyfus was struck by an unpleasant possibility. ‘It had time to do something to me, Sparv. Is there anything on me? Anything missing?’

Sparver inspected him. ‘You look the same way you did when I left you, Boss. The only difference is that thing on your leg.’

Dreyfus looked down with apprehension. ‘What thing?’

‘It’s just a splint, Boss. Nothing to be alarmed by.’

There was a thin metal cage wrapped around his lower right leg made up of a series of thin chrome shafts, bracing his leg at several contact points. The metal shafts had a still-molten quality about them, as if they were formed from elongated beads of mercury that might quiver back to liquid form at any instant. The longer Dreyfus studied it, the more clearly it looked like the work of the Clockmaker, rather than any human artificer.

‘I thought it was going to kill me, or do something worse,’ he said, in a kind of awed shock. ‘Instead it did this.’

‘That doesn’t mean we misjudged it,’ Sparver said, ‘just that it has nice days.’

‘I don’t think that’s why it did this. It just wants me kept alive so I can serve a purpose.’

Sparver helped him to begin hobbling towards the door. ‘Which purpose would that be?’

‘The usual one,’ Dreyfus said. Then another troubling thought crystallised in his head. ‘Gaffney,’ he said. ‘Veitch said—’

‘I took care of Gaffney. He isn’t a problem any more.’

‘You killed him?’

‘I shot down his ship. He survived the crash and escaped into Ops Nine before I had a chance to finish him off. But he isn’t an issue any more.’

‘How do you know?’

‘Because I passed him on the way down to fetch you,’ Sparver said, taking the bulk of Dreyfus’s weight as they started ascending stairs. ‘Most of him, anyway.’

With Dreyfus suited, an outcome that was somehow achieved despite the cumbersome bulk of his splint, they made their way to the surface, taking a different route than the one Sparver had used earlier. Although there were some tight squeezes along the way, neither of them was wearing tactical armour and Sparver discarded the rifle after a while on the assumption that it would prove inadequate against the only foe they stood a chance of encountering.

‘It’s gone,’ Dreyfus said, attempting to reassure his deputy. ‘You won’t be seeing it again.’

‘I didn’t see it the first time.’

‘Figure of speech.’

‘Anyway, what do you mean I won’t be seeing it?’

‘Wherever it’s gone, wherever it ends up, I think it’ll be keeping its eye on me,’ Dreyfus said. ‘That’s why it left me alive. It wants me to see that justice is served.’

‘Justice for what?’

‘The murder of Philip Lascaille. It was a long time ago, but some of the people involved may still be in the system, maybe even still working for House Sylveste.’

‘You’re talking about avenging the Clockmaker?’

‘It still has a right to justice. I don’t deny that it’s a perversion of whatever Philip Lascaille once was. They took the mind of a man who’d been driven insane by the Shrouders and then fed the mind of that man - terrified even more because he knew he was going to die - into a machine for making contact. What they got back was an angel of vengeance, forged in a strange and alien place. I’m not saying the thing has my sympathies. But the earlier crime still stands.’

‘And you’d be the man to look into it?’

‘I don’t care who wants justice, Sparv. It’s a thing unto itself, irrespective of the moral worth of the wronged party. The Clockmaker may have committed atrocities, but it was still wronged. I’ll do what I can to put that right.’

‘And then what?’

Dreyfus grimaced as a spike of pain shot up his leg. ‘Then I’ll go after the Clockmaker, of course. Just because it was wronged doesn’t mean it gets an exemption.’

‘Presupposing, of course, that this minor business with Aurora blows over. Or had that slipped your mind?’

‘I’m not too worried about Aurora any more.’

‘Maybe you should be. The last time I checked, we were getting a whipping up there.’

‘The Clockmaker interrogated me,’ Dreyfus said. ‘It grilled me on her capabilities, her nature. It wanted to know exactly what she was. Then it escaped. Doesn’t that tell you something?’

‘It’s going after her.’

‘It’s at least as smart as she is, Sparv. Maybe smarter. And it has a very good reason to take her out of the picture.’

‘At which point we’ll be left with the Clockmaker to deal with, instead of Aurora. Is that really an improvement?’

‘It wants vengeance, not genocide. I’m not saying any of us are going to sleep easy with that thing out there, but at least we’ll be sleeping. That wouldn’t have been an option under Aurora.’

Dreyfus and Sparver completed the last stage of their ascent. They passed through the collapsed remains of a subterranean landing area where Saavedra’s cutter was still parked and waiting. A ceiling spar from the sliding weather cover that concealed the landing deck had pinned the ship to the ground. Sparver went aboard and tried to communicate with Panoply, but the cutter was dead.

‘Don’t worry,’ Dreyfus said. ‘They’ll come for us.’

By the time they arrived on the surface, the storm had abated. The starless sky was a moving vault of poisonous black, but according to Sparver it had nothing of the howling ferocity of earlier. Unafraid now to stand on high ground, Dreyfus activated his helmet lamp and surveyed the fractured dark landscape, picking out suggestive details that made him flinch until he saw that they were merely conjunctions of ice and rock, light and shade, rather than the furtive presence of the Clockmaker. He sensed that it had left this place, putting as much distance as it could between itself and the magnetic prison of the tokamak.

‘It must still be out there somewhere,’ Sparver commented.

‘I don’t know about that.’

‘It can’t have left the planet. It’s a machine, not a ship.’

‘It can take whatever form it wants to,’ Dreyfus replied. ‘What’s to say it can’t change itself into anything it needs to be? I watched it manipulate its form right in front of me. Now that it’s free of the cage, I wonder if there’s anything it can’t do.’

‘It’s still a thing. It can be tracked, located, recaptured.’

‘Maybe.’

‘What are you thinking?’ Sparver asked.

‘Maybe it will have taken a leaf out of Aurora’s book. An alpha-level intelligence is easy to contain if it confines itself to a single machine, a single platform. But it doesn’t have to be like that. Aurora worked out how to move herself around, to embody herself wherever it suited her needs. What’s to say the Clockmaker won’t do likewise?’

‘To meet her on her own terms, you mean?’

‘If I was it, and I thought she wanted to kill me, that’s what I’d do.’

‘That would also make it more difficult for us to kill it, wouldn’t it?’

‘There’d be that as well,’ Dreyfus admitted.

They stood in silence, waiting for something to come out of the sky and rescue them. Occasionally a strobing flash pushed through the darkness: evidence of lightning or - perhaps - something taking orbit around Yellowstone, something that had nothing to do with weather.

After a long while, Dreyfus started speaking again. ‘I had a simple choice, Sparv. The nukes were available and ready to go. They’d have destroyed SIAM and taken out the Clockmaker. We’d already got Jane out, so we knew what it was capable of. We knew the things it could do to people even if it didn’t kill them. And we knew there were still survivors inside that structure, people it hadn’t got to yet. Including Valery.’

‘You don’t have to talk about this now, Boss. It can wait.’

‘It’s waited eleven years,’ Dreyfus said. ‘I think that’s long enough, don’t you?’

‘I’m just saying . . . I pushed you earlier. But I had no idea what I was doing.’

‘There was something else, of course. We still needed to know what we’d been dealing with. If we nuked SIAM without gaining any further intelligence on the Clockmaker, we’d never know what to do to stop something like it happening again. That was vital, Sparv. As a prefect, I couldn’t ignore my responsibility to the future security of the Glitter Band.’

‘So what happened?’

‘From the technical data we’d already recovered, and Jane’s testimony, we knew that the Clockmaker was susceptible to intense magnetic fields. Nothing else - no physical barrier or conventional weapon - seemed able to stop or slow it. I realised that if we could pin the Clockmaker down, if we could freeze it, we could get the surviving citizens out alive. That’s when I knew we had to power up the Atalanta.’

‘The Atalanta,’ Sparver echoed.

‘It was a ship designed to undercut the Conjoiners in the starship-building business. Thing is, although it worked, it never worked well enough to make it economical. So they mothballed it, left it in orbit around Yellowstone while they worked out what to do with it. It’d been there for decades but was still perfectly intact, exactly the way it had been when it was last powered down.’

‘What was so special about this ship?’

‘It was a ramscoop,’ Dreyfus said. ‘A starship built around a single massive engine designed to suck in interstellar hydrogen and use it for reaction mass. Because it didn’t have to carry its own fuel around, it could go almost as fast as it liked, right up to the edge of light-speed. That was the idea, anyway. But the drive system was cumbersome, and the intake field generated so much friction that the ship was never as fast as its designers had hoped. But that didn’t matter to me. I didn’t want the ship to move. I just wanted its intake. The scoop generator was fifteen kilometres across, Sparv: a swallowing mouth wide enough to encompass SIAM in its entirety.’

‘A magnetic field,’ Sparver said.

‘I sent a Heavy Technical Squad aboard the Atalanta. We attached high-burn tugs to shift its orbit, to bring it close to SIAM. We couldn’t get its reactors back on line fast enough, so we jump-started the ramscoop using the engines on our corvettes. In an hour the field was building strength. In two we had it positioned around SIAM.’ Dreyfus paused, the words suddenly drying up in his mouth. ‘We knew there was a risk. The human survivors in SIAM were going to be exposed to that same magnetic field. There was no telling what it would do to their nervous systems, let alone the implants most of them were carrying. The best we could do was to try to focus the field on the area where we’d last pinpointed the Clockmaker, and try to hold the field strength as low as possible elsewhere.’

‘It was better than just nuking. At least you gave them a chance.’

‘Yes,’ Dreyfus said.

‘You said they survived. When you told me about it earlier.’

‘They did. But the effects of the field had been . . . worse than we feared. We froze the Clockmaker, recovered its relics, studied it as best we could and then retreated with the survivors. That took the rest of the six hours. Then we nuked. We thought we’d destroyed the Clockmaker, of course. In truth, it’d had packed itself down into one of the relics, waiting to be reopened like a jack-in-the-box. ’

‘And the survivors?’ Sparver asked eventually.

It took Dreyfus an equally long time to answer. ‘They were all taken care of. Including Valery.’

‘They’re still alive?’

‘All of them. In Hospice Idlewild. The Mendicants were asked to look after a consignment of brain-damaged sleepers. They were never told where those people really came from.’

‘Valery’s with them, isn’t she?’

Dreyfus’s eyes were beginning to sting. ‘I visited her once, Sparv. Just after the crisis, when it had all blown over. I thought I could live with what she’d become. But when I saw her, when I saw how little of my wife was left, I knew I couldn’t. She was tending the gardens, kneeling in soil. She had flowers in her hand. When she looked at me, she smiled. But she didn’t really know who I was.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘That was when I went back to Jane. I told her I couldn’t live with what I’d done to them. So she authorised the memory block.’

‘And Valery?’

‘I never went back to see her. Not in eleven years.’

Presently Dreyfus became aware of a rising sound, louder than the wind. He looked up in time to see a large ship come slamming through the clouds, its hull still glowing from a high-speed re-entry. He recognised it immediately as a deep-system cruiser, although he could not identify the ship itself. It circled overhead, landing gear clawing down from its reptile-smooth belly, weapons erupting through the hull as if they were the retractile spines of some poisonous fish. The pilot selected a patch of level ground large enough to accommodate the ninety-metre-long vehicle and descended slowly, using brief coughs of steering thrust to manage the descent.

Dreyfus and Sparver raised their hands in salute and started walking towards the parked ship, Dreyfus’s stiff right leg dragging in the ice. A ramp lowered from the belly. Almost immediately, a suited figure began walking down it, picking its way cautiously down the cleated surface. The figure’s small stature, the way she walked, told Dreyfus exactly who she was.

‘Thalia,’ he called out, delighted. ‘It is you, isn’t it?’

She answered on the suit-to-suit channel. ‘Are you okay, sir?’

‘I’ll mend, thanks to Sparver. What are you doing here?’

‘As soon as Prefect Gaffney got to you, we knew there was no point in concealing this location from Aurora. We would have come sooner, but we’ve been tied up with evacuees.’

‘I understand completely. You came quickly enough as it is.’

Thalia walked across the rough ground until they were only a few metres from each other. ‘I’m sorry about what happened, sir.’

‘Sorry about what?’

‘I screwed up, sir. The upgrades . . . I was unprepared.’

‘It wasn’t your fault.’

‘But maybe if I hadn’t gone in alone, if I’d had a back-up squad with me . . . things might have been different.’

‘I very much doubt it. Aurora had already considered every possible eventuality. She’d have found a way through no matter what precautions you took. It might have taken longer, but it would still have happened. Don’t cut yourself up about it, Deputy.’ Dreyfus extended a hand, inviting her closer. She crossed the remaining ground and let her suit touch his. Dreyfus held one of her arms, Sparver the other. ‘I’m glad I got you back in one piece,’ he said.

‘I wish I could have done something for all the other people.’

‘You saved some. And you got word back to us that Aurora had no intention of keeping anyone alive once she was in control. You did good, Thalia. I’m not displeased.’

‘That’s praise,’ Sparver said. ‘I’d take it if I were you.’

‘What about Gaffney, sir?’

‘Gaffney’s gone,’ Dreyfus answered.

‘And the rest of Firebrand? The Clockmaker?’

‘You’ve been well briefed, I see. I thought you’d have wanted to rest.’

‘Well, sir?’

‘Veitch and Saavedra are dead. The Clockmaker escaped.’

Behind her faceplate, Thalia nodded. ‘We did wonder, sir.’

‘Why?’

‘Something’s happening. We could only assume it had some connection with the Clockmaker, that you’d managed to persuade it to act against Aurora.’

‘I wouldn’t exactly say I persuaded it.’ But Dreyfus was encouraged by this information. ‘What’s been happening, Thalia?’

‘We’re not really sure. The good news is that the Ultras have been contributing to the evacuation effort and helping with the destruction of contaminated habitats. Overnight we’ve cleared and evacuated another six along Aurora’s expansion front.’

‘Total evacuations?’ Dreyfus probed.

‘No, sir,’ she said, hesitantly. ‘Some people were still left aboard at the end. But a lot less than before.’

‘I guess we can’t expect miracles.’

‘Sir, there’s something else. A couple of hours ago, weevil flows reached two habitats before we were in place with nukes or lighthuggers. We’d got most of the citizenry out, but local constables were still assisting with the evacuation when the weevils broke through.’

‘Go on,’ he pushed.

‘The constables started encountering the expected weevil resistance. They were doing their best to slow the weevils as they worked their way to the polling core, but they were taking heavy casualties. Then the weevils started behaving strangely. They became uncoordinated, erratic. They stopped their advance. The surviving constables managed to deploy heavy guns and started inflicting losses on the weevils.’

‘But there’d still have been millions more in the flow, even if there was a local malfunction at the head of the assault.’

Thalia shook her head urgently. ‘It wasn’t a local malfunction, sir. It’s started happening everywhere, wherever there are weevils. They have a degree of autonomous programming, like any servitor, but whatever controlling influence was guiding them appears to be absent, or at least distracted.’

‘As if Aurora’s mind’s on other things.’

‘That’s what it looks like. Which is why we assumed you must have had some success with the Clockmaker.’

‘It’s already engaged her,’ Dreyfus said marvellingly, as if he’d just witnessed some staggering phenomenon of nature. ‘It knew it couldn’t afford to wait very long. Even though Gaffney hadn’t succeeded, Aurora would have found another way to destroy this facility. It had to leave.’

‘We should probably be leaving as well,’ Thalia said. ‘Unless you still want to admire the scenery, that is.’

‘I’ve had enough scenery,’ Dreyfus replied. ‘I’m not really a planet person.’

‘Me neither, sir.’

‘Thalia,’ he said gently. ‘There’s something else you need to know. It’s about your father.’

‘Sir?’ she asked, cautiously.

‘It’s good news,’ Dreyfus said.

When Dreyfus returned to Panoply, even before Mercier had attended to his injuries, his first port of call was the tactical room. There he found Clearmountain and Baudry engrossed in study of the Solid Orrery, running it back and forth through time under different assumptions. As the outcomes of their simulations varied, so did the number and distribution of the red points of light in the emerald swirl of the Glitter Band. Sometimes there were dozens of red glints, but never the hundreds or thousands that had figured in the earlier forecasts, when Aurora’s expansion had appeared unstoppable.

‘Dreyfus,’ Clearmountain purred. ‘Welcome back to Panoply. I understand you now have senior status?’

‘That’s what it said on the Manticore booster. You’ll have to talk to Jane to see whether it’s a permanent status change.’

‘You received the message, I take it?’ Baudry asked him sharply. ‘Demikhov went ahead with Zulu.’

‘I heard.’

‘There were . . . complications, but when I last spoke to him, Demikhov was optimistic that Jane will make a complete recovery.’ She shot an awkward glance at Clearmountain. ‘There’ll be no reason for her not to resume her duties.’

‘After she’s had a long rest,’ Dreyfus said forcefully. ‘She deserves that, no matter what she says.’

‘Yes. No one would begrudge her that,’ Baudry replied.

‘I lost the Clockmaker.’

Clearmountain nodded at Dreyfus. ‘From what we heard, it was tactically unavoidable. We could have nuked Ops Nine, but then we’d still be fighting Aurora on our own. You did well, Senior Dreyfus.’

‘Thank you.’ Dreyfus rubbed at the sore spot on his arm. ‘Concerning Aurora . . . I heard from Thalia that there’ve been some changes. Is this correct?’

Baudry answered him. ‘The picture still isn’t completely clear. All we know is that weevil activity has now become much less organised, much less systematic. We’re still not able to seriously affect the flows before they reach target habitats, even with the assistance of the Ultras. But constables and field prefects are making real strides in preventing the weevils from reaching the cores once they achieve habitat penetration.’

‘Enough to mean you don’t need to nuke any more?’

‘That’s a possibility. For now, it should at least give us time to complete the evacuations before we sterilise. In the longer term, once the current flows are exhausted, we should see a total cessation of all weevil activity. We’ll have halted Aurora.’

‘She may just have stalled, not gone away for good.’

‘We’re mindful of that,’ Baudry said. ‘We’ll continue evacuating well beyond her current expansion front, even if it means emptying fifty or a hundred habitats. We’ll have nukes and lighthuggers in place to incinerate those habitats if we see renewed weevil activity.’ She laced her fingers together. ‘It should be enough, Senior. The emergency could be over in two to three days.’

‘How many habitats will we have sacrificed by then?’

‘Forty-five, most likely,’ Baudry answered automatically. ‘Twenty-five in the best-case scenario, more than a hundred and twenty in the worst.’

‘Civilian losses?’

‘Assuming that we can move to complete evacuation for the remaining occupied habitats within twenty-six hours, we’d be looking at total casualties in the range of two to three million citizens.’

‘Just over a thirtieth of the entire citizenry,’ Clearmountain said. ‘It’s a catastrophe, no doubt about it. But we have to thank our stars we’re talking about millions, not tens of millions. And if we get out of this and we’ve lost forty-five habitats . . . it’s nothing against the ten thousand, Dreyfus.’

‘I wouldn’t say it’s nothing, but I take your point.’

‘The citizenry will get over it,’ Baudry said. ‘They’ll move on with their lives, choosing to forget how close we came to disaster. For some of them, the forgetting will be quite literal. At the moment we’re in the middle of an emergency. In a few days, if all goes well, it’ll have been reduced to the status of a crisis. This time next year, we’ll look back on it as an incident. Ten years from now, it’ll be something no one outside of Panoply remembers, something our new recruits learn about with bored indifference.’

‘Not if I get my way,’ said Dreyfus. ‘What about Aurora’s prognostication? The time of plagues?’

‘We’ll keep a weather eye open,’ Clearmountain said.

Baudry looked at Dreyfus with interest. ‘Do you have plans, Senior?’

‘We haven’t won,’ he told her. ‘We’ve just postponed the day of reckoning. If it isn’t Aurora, we’ll be facing the Clockmaker.’

‘There is such a thing as the lesser of two evils,’ Clearmountain observed.

‘I’ll remind you of that when it crawls out of the woodwork again.’

‘Where do you think they are?’ asked Baudry.

‘Dispersed,’ Dreyfus said. ‘Spread out over the network, two alpha-level intelligences smeared as thin as they can go before they stop being conscious entities at all.’

‘How can you be so certain?’

‘Because it’s the only way for them to survive. If Aurora concentrates herself in one habitat, the Clockmaker will find a way to engage and destroy her in a single attack. The same applies to the Clockmaker. But distributed, spread out across the entire Glitter Band, they’re almost invulnerable.’

‘Why didn’t Aurora adopt such a strategy already?’

‘Because there’s a cost. The speed of her thought processes depends on the distance between processing nodes. The Clockmaker’s forced her to spread out just to survive. The downside for her is that she can’t think quickly enough to defeat us.’

‘But we can’t kill her either,’ Clearmountain said.

‘No. Finding her would be almost impossible now. Maybe if we listen to network traffic long enough, we’ll see the tiny slow-down caused by Aurora’s presence. But that still wouldn’t help us destroy her. We’d have to take out thousands of nodes, thousands of habitats, before we began to hurt her.’

‘And by then we’d have hurt ourselves even more,’ Baudry said, nodding as she understood what Dreyfus was driving at. ‘So what you’re saying, if I get you rightly, is that there’s nothing we can do. We just have to sit back while these two monsters slug it out in slow motion, parasiting our network infrastructure.’

‘That’s right,’ Dreyfus said. ‘But I wouldn’t worry unduly. If they’ve been slowed down as much as I think they have, it’s going to be a long time before one of them emerges as victor. You’re talking about a chess match between two opponents of almost limitless intelligence and guile. The only problem is they only get to make one move a year.’

‘I hope you’re right,’ Clearmountain said.

Dreyfus smiled. ‘So do I. In the meantime, we still have jobs to do. We can’t dwell on the gods fighting over our heads.’

‘Gods will be gods,’ Baudry said.

‘But that doesn’t mean I’m finished with this case,’ Dreyfus continued. ‘With the permission of the acting supreme prefect, I’d like authorisation to dig into the murder of Philip Lascaille. If there’s still a body, I want it exhumed for analysis. I want to see if there’s any evidence that his brain was subjected to alpha-level scanning.’

‘You have my permission, of course,’ Clearmountain said. ‘I don’t doubt that Jane would give it to you. But you should realise what you’re getting yourself into, digging into ancient history like that. You’ll be going up against the legal apparatus of House Sylveste. That’s an organisation that protects its secrets even more zealously than we do. It isn’t to be trifled with.’

‘With respect,’ Dreyfus said, standing up, ‘neither is Panoply.’

A little while later he called upon Demikhov. The man resembled a spectral shadow of his former self, spent beyond exhaustion.

‘I heard that there were complications,’ Dreyfus said.

‘Nothing medical, you’ll be glad to hear. The cut was as clean as a guillotine. Nerve reconnection could not have been less problematic. The only difficulty was occasioned by the intervention of your former colleague.’ Demikhov shrugged philosophically, bony shoulders moving under the green fabric of his surgical gown. ‘It was undignified, what he did to her. But at least she was unconscious throughout the whole sorry escapade.’

Dreyfus had no idea what he was talking about. He assumed he would learn all about it later.

‘And now?’

‘I completed partial reattachment, then brought her round to talk to the Ultras. She was lucid and comfortable. I then put her under again to complete the procedure.’

‘How did it go?’

‘She’s whole again. It would take a better doctor than me to tell that Zulu ever happened.’

‘Then she’ll be fine?’

‘Yes, but it’s not going to happen overnight. At the moment she can breathe for herself and make some limited body movements, but it’ll be a while before she can walk. Having the wiring back in place doesn’t mean her brain’s ready to use it again.’

‘I’d like to see her,’ Dreyfus said.

‘She’s sleeping. I’d like to keep her that way until there’s another emergency.’

‘I’d still like to see her.’

‘Then you’d better follow me,’ Demikhov answered with a heavy sigh, standing up to lead the way.

He brought Dreyfus to the quiet green room where the supreme prefect was recuperating. Jane Aumonier lay under bedsheets, sleeping normally. Aside from her thinness, the baldness of her skull and the grey pallor of her skin, there was nothing to hint at what she had endured, either in the last day or the last eleven years. She looked peaceful, serenely restful.

Dreyfus moved to her bedside. ‘I won’t wake her,’ he whispered.

‘You wouldn’t be able to. I’ve put her under for her own good. It’s quite safe to talk normally.’

Dreyfus touched the back of his hand against the side of Jane Aumonier’s face. Despite all the time they had known each other, this was the first moment of physical contact between them.

‘I’m going now,’ Dreyfus said. ‘There’s something I need to attend to, before I put it off any longer. I have to go to Hospice Idlewild. There’s someone there I need to see, someone I haven’t seen in a very long while. I probably won’t be in Panoply when you come around, but I want you to know that I’m going to be with you every step you take. If you need a hand to hold, you can count on mine.’

‘I’ll tell her what you said,’ Demikhov said.

‘I mean it. I don’t break my promises.’

Demikhov was about to usher Dreyfus from the room when he paused. ‘Prefect . . . there’s something I should show you. I think it’s rather wonderful.’

Dreyfus nodded at the sleeping figure. ‘This is enough for me, Doctor.’

‘I’ll show it to you anyway. Look at the wall.’

Demikhov conjured a pane into existence, filled with trembling neon-blue lines whose meaning Dreyfus couldn’t fathom.

‘What am I looking at?’ he asked.

‘Dreams,’ Demikhov said. ‘Beautiful human dreams.’

A Gollancz eBook

Copyright © Alistair Reynolds 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2006, 2007

All rights reserved.

The right of Alistair Reynolds to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

First published in Great Britain in 2000, 2001, 2002, 2003, 2006, 2007 by

Gollancz

The Orion Publishing Group Ltd

Orion House

5 Upper Saint Martin's Lane

London, WC2H 9EA

An Hachette UK Company

This eBook first published in 2011 by Gollancz.

A CIP catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library.

ISBN 978 0 575 12908 5

All characters and events in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

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

www.alastairreynolds.com

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Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Praise for Alastair Reynolds

About the Author

Also By Alastair Reynolds

Revelation Space

Cover

Title Page

Contents

ONE - Mantell Sector, North Nekhebet, Resurgam, Delta Pavonis system, 2551

TWO - Aboard a lighthugger, interstellar space, 2543

THREE - Cuvier, Resurgam, 2561

FOUR - Carousel New Brazilia, Yellowstone, Epsilon Eridani, 2546

FIVE - Carousel New Brazilia, Yellowstone, Epsilon Eridani, 2546

SIX - En Route to Delta Pavonis, 2546

SEVEN - En Route to Delta Pavonis, 2546

EIGHT - En Route to Delta Pavonis, 2546

NINE - Mantell, North Nekhebet, Resurgam, 2566

TEN - Approaching Delta Pavonis, 2564

ELEVEN - Approaching Delta Pavonis, 2565

TWELVE - Sky’s Edge, 61 Cygni-A, 2483 (simulated)

THIRTEEN - Resurgam Orbit, 2566

FOURTEEN - Mantell, North Nekhebet, Resurgam, 2566

FIFTEEN - Mantell, North Nekhebet, 2566

SIXTEEN - North Nekhebet, 2566

SEVENTEEN - Rendezvous Point, Resurgam, 2566

EIGHTEEN - Resurgam Orbit, 2566

NINETEEN - Delta Pavonis system, 2566

TWENTY - Approaching Cerberus/Hades, 2566

TWENTY-ONE - Approaching Cerberus/Hades, 2566

TWENTY-TWO - Cerberus/Hades Orbit, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-THREE - Cerberus/Hades Orbit, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-FOUR - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-FIVE - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-SIX - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-SEVEN - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-EIGHT - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

TWENTY-NINE - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

THIRTY - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

THIRTY-ONE - Cerberus/Hades, Delta Pavonis Heliopause, 2566

THIRTY-TWO - Approaching Cerberus Surface, 2566

THIRTY-THREE - Cerberus/Hades Orbit, 2566

THIRTY-FOUR - Cerberus/Hades Orbit, 2566

THIRTY-FIVE - Cerberus, Interior, 2567

THIRTY-SIX - Cerberus/Hades Orbit, 2567

THIRTY-SEVEN - Cerberus Interior, 2567

THIRTY-EIGHT - Cerberus Interior, 2567

THIRTY-NINE - Cerberus Interior, Final Chamber, 2567

Chasm City

Cover

Title Page

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

FORTY-ONE

FORTY-TWO

EPILOGUE

Redemption Ark

Cover

Title Page

Contents

PROLOGUE

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

TWENTY-FOUR

TWENTY-FIVE

TWENTY-SIX

TWENTY-SEVEN

TWENTY-EIGHT

TWENTY-NINE

THIRTY

THIRTY-ONE

THIRTY-TWO

THIRTY-THREE

THIRTY-FOUR

THIRTY-FIVE

THIRTY-SIX

THIRTY-SEVEN

THIRTY-EIGHT

THIRTY-NINE

FORTY

EPILOGUE

Absolution Gap

Cover

Title Page

Contents

Dedication

PROLOGUE

ONE - Ararat, p Eridani A System, 2675

TWO - Lighthugger Gnostic Ascension, Interstellar Space, 2615

THREE - Lighthugger Gnostic Ascension, Interstellar Space, 2615

FOUR - Ararat, 2675

FIVE - Ararat, 2675

SIX - Ararat, 2675

SEVEN - Approaching Hela, 2615

EIGHT - Hela, 2727

NINE - Hela Surface, 2615

TEN - Hela, 2615

ELEVEN - Hela, 2727

TWELVE - Hela, 2727

THIRTEEN - Ararat, 2675

FOURTEEN - Ararat, 2675

FIFTEEN - Ararat, 2675

SIXTEEN - Ararat, 2675

SEVENTEEN - Hela, 2727

EIGHTEEN - Ararat, 2675

NINETEEN - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY - Hela, 2727

TWENTY-ONE - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY-TWO - p Eridani 40, 2675

TWENTY-THREE - Hela, 2727

TWENTY-FOUR - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY-FIVE - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY-SIX - Hela, 2727

TWENTY-SEVEN - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY-EIGHT - Ararat, 2675

TWENTY-NINE - Ararat, 2675

THIRTY - Ararat, 2675

THIRTY-ONE - Near Ararat, 2675

THIRTY-TWO - Hela, 2727

THIRTY-THREE - Near Ararat, 2675

THIRTY-FOUR - Interstellar Space, Near p Eridani 40, 2675

THIRTY-FIVE - Hela, 2727

THIRTY-SIX - Interstellar Space, Near Epsilon Eridani, 2698

THIRTY-SEVEN - Interstellar Space, Epsilon Eridani, 2698

THIRTY-EIGHT - Hela, 2727

THIRTY-NINE - Hela Surface, 2727

FORTY - Hela Surface, 2727

FORTY-ONE - Hela, 2727

FORTY-TWO - Hela, 2727

FORTY-THREE

FORTY-FOUR

FORTY-FIVE

FORTY-SIX

FORTY-SEVEN

FORTY-EIGHT

FORTY-NINE

FIFTY

EPILOGUE

Diamond Dogs, Turquoise Days

Cover

Title Page

Contents

Dedication

DIAMOND DOGS

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

TURQUOISE DAYS

ONE

TWO

THREE

Galactic North

Cover

Title Page

Contents

Dedication

GREAT WALL OF MARS

GLACIAL

A SPY IN EUROPA

WEATHER

DILATION SLEEP

GRAFENWALDER’S BESTIARY

NIGHTINGALE

GALACTIC NORTH

AFTERWORD

The Prefect

Cover

Title Page

Contents

Dedication

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

CHAPTER 32

CHAPTER 33

Copyright